Latest Posts by ffushiquro - Page 2

ANYONE BUT YOU

synopsis: there are certain things that katsuki wouldn't allow for anyone but you.

warning(s): underage (highschool) drinking, switched between first and second pov in the third segment sorry, not well-proofread

a/n: wrote this for unofficialbf!katsuki again like duh!

"FUCKING DUNCE FACE! HOW ARE YOU THIS FUCKING STUPID?!" bakugo screamed, smoke literally flowing from his head as he hit kaminari's head repeatedly with a ruler.

"hey, man, if you keep doing that, it'll make him even stupider!" kirishima protested on kaminari's behalf, who already looked like he was seeing the light from above.

"like i care! he needs to learn a lesson! or anything, for that matter! we were taught this shit back in middle school!" bakugo hissed, crossing his arms and collapsing back on his seat.

"wait, but bakugo, i also kind of need some help with that.." mina said, trailing off when bakugo sent her a withering death glare. "actually, maybe i'll go ask yaomomo."

he huffed. "how are people this fucking stupid? like seriously, it's not that fucking hard."

"..katsuki? i need help with this question." you interjected a bit anxiously, showing him your paper.

he’d deny the way his eyes softened immediately. "tch. we learned this in middle school, you know." he said gruffly, giving your forehead a very gentle flick.

"i know, but i forgot. will you help? please?" you pleaded.

he sighed. "fine, c'mere. so for this step.."

as he taught you the material in a (GASP) normal tone of voice, kirishima and kaminari whispered off to the side.

"seriously?! that's the same question i didn't get." kaminari whined.

"i know! he's always so nice to her! it's crazy!"

"if he was half as nice to us as he is to her, i'd have at least a C!"

"i know, right? man, i want that special treatment, too!"

-

"..you fucking idiots."

tsu had called bakugo and deku to mina's room where they were having a girl's night. mina had managed to sneak some vodka in, so they were all having fun getting drunk and talking. however, by the end of the night, you, mina, and ochaco were wasted. luckily, mina would be ok, seeing as she was already in her room, but tsu had decided to ship off you and ochaco to katsuki and deku, as she was drunk herself and didn't feel like she could take proper care of the both of you.

"all of you are already fucking idiots. alcohol kills off your brain cells! you tryna get even dumber or something, huh?!" katsuki grumbled.

"kacchan! it's fine, really. come on, uraraka, let's go." deku scolded before helping ochaco out the door and back to her room.

"don't.. hic! be a buzzkill, bakugo. girls just wanna have fun!" mina slurred. katsuki could feel his eyebrows furrowing more and more as his irritation grew. he swore he was one more drunken idiot statement away from walking away right then and there.

sure enough, though, another drunken idiot statement quickly followed.

"katsuki! you're here! ..when did you get here?" you quipped excitedly, clearly not in your right mind.

katsuki ran a hand through his hair. "i've been here, idiot. for the past 5 fuckin' minutes."

you scrambled off of mina's bed where you were sitting and made your way to him, albeit with many more steps needed to get there from all of the stumbling you were doing. you jumped onto him as best you could, and he easily caught you. despite his grumbles, there was an undeniable softness in his eyes.

"missed you, kats.." you mumbled, nuzzling in to his neck with an affection you’d be humiliated by if you were just a tad bit more sober. he tensed a bit under your touch, but still adjusted you so you could cling onto him more comfortably.

"yeah, yeah. let's go." he muttered, quickly turning and leaving, trying to keep from snapping as you giggled and waved goodbye to your friends, wriggling in his grasp.

as he walked down the hall with you securely in his arms, katsuki listened to all your drunk rambling with never-before-seen patience.

"'nd then ochaco finally admitted to liking midoriya! i mean, we all knew, but it was so crazy that she finally admitted it!"

"did you know that kirishima's natural hair is black? mina told us! 'pparently there was some incident with a villain that totally changed him, so he dyed his hair red! isn't that crazy?! what if one day he can't dye it anymore because his hair is so damaged? his name is red riot!"

"if two people who have mind-reading quirks read each other's minds at the same time, whose mind would they be reading?"

amazingly, katsuki didn't snap at you at all amidst your rambles. he listened to your drunk babbling with incredible silence, simply dutifully carrying you down to your dorm.

at some point, though, the rambles stopped, and katsuki heard you.. sniffling? were you crying? he immediately stopped and lowered you in his arms to see your face, and sure enough, there were fat tears rolling down your puffed-up cheeks.

"y/n, what? you cryin'? why?" he asked gently, though panic evident in his voice. ever since childhood, one of his least favorite things was when you cried.

"kats," you sniffled, "'m i annoying? d'you not liking being with me?"

katsuki’s eyes widened. he knew you were just extra emotional from the alcohol, but he still never wanted you to think that.

"hey, look at me." he said softly. "i'd never spend time with ya if i didn't wanna, so never think that."

your face brightened comedically fast, and you were quick to squeeze him tight, giggling. "awee, you're so cute! 'nd sweet!"

katsuki rolled his eyes, but his eyes softened at the sound of your giggles. he'd never admit it, but it was his favorite sound in the world.

"come on, loser. let's get you to bed."

-

"TOUCH ME AND FUCKING DIE!" were words that had been roared by katsuki to just about everyone that had ever come within a four-meter radius of the boy. whether it was an arm slung over his shoulder in celebration, a high five, a pat on the back, or even someone trying to help him up or tend to his wounds, katsuki was very clear that the only reason someone should ever, ever, ever come into contact with him was to get blasted by his explosions and die at his hands.

so, the reactions of the red and yellow-haired (ba ba ba BA ba i'm lovin' it) boys at the sight in front of them was pretty justified.

"no way," kirishima whispered, a hand over both his and denki's mouths. "this cannot be real."

before them, they saw a peacefully asleep y/n on top of bakugo. on top. of bakugo. the bakugo. the "i don't care that my life is in danger and i need treatment! don't fuckin' touch me!" bakugo.

and that bakugo was.. playing with her hair? and rubbing a hand up and down her back? underneath her shirt? and upon closer inspection, wait.. is she wearing his shirt?!

the two watched silently as you began to stir awake, eyes fluttering open. you were greeted by katsuki's looking down at you, a certain fondness in his eyes. you mumbled a hi with a sleepy smile, to which he grinned (like a real, genuine smile not a demonic feral chihuahua smirk) at and ruffled your hair gently.

"mornin', dumbass. you sleep well?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"mhm!" you beamed before returning your head to its rightful place on katsuki's chest. you nuzzled into him happily, mumbling a sleepy "so warm.."

his cheeks tinted pink and he scoffed, but he still wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. he gave your head a quick, gentle peck and pulled out his phone to scroll for a bit, his grip never once loosening as he massaged your scalp and nape.

you melted at his touch, an blissful expression on your face. "such a sweetie pie!" you giggled sleepily.

he rolled his eyes and gave your neck a quick scribble, his eyes dilating at the sound of your increased laughter. "i gotta stop spoilin' ya.." he grumbled, though there wasn't even a hint of maliciousness in his voice, his lips quirked up slightly.

you giggled again. "love you, kats!"

"..love you too, loser."

(kirishima and kaminari, who were still watching on the side could do nothing but sit there in stunned silence. they contemplated if maybe you'd done something amazing to curry his favor that they, too, could do, but they both arrived at the same conclusion: no matter what favors they could do or feats they could accomplish, there are simply certain things that the explosive boy would die before allowing for anyone but you.)

masterlist

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: everything's going good, amazing actually. your baby girls happy, healthy, and turning one. your co-parenting relationship with sukuna has never been better, you smile a little more and fight less. yet despite all of the progress you've made, you continue to be unaware of anger and resentment that continues to build up inside of him.

genre: hidden child trope, toxic relationships, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, emotional cheating

part three | part four | part five

notes: again, tag list is closed! this part is also 9.3k words, so u may want to split it up or save it for later ❤️

Sukuna’s house is different from yours– it’s sharper, darker, colder. It’s devoid of warmth, a stark contrast from yours, yet there’s a certain calm in the air when you wake up there in the morning. It could just be the fact that there's no random toys laying around, something you don’t get to wake up to much often. 

Or maybe the fact that you actually got to sleep in for once in your life since Sukuna was the one who kept an eye on the baby monitor– waiting for any sign that Sayomi was starting to wake up. The goal was to catch her before she started crying so you could sleep in. 

Maybe this was your gift for keeping a little human alive and happy for an entire year— a full night of uninterrupted sleep and waking up at 10:00 am. 

You weren’t sure why he was so adamant on having you two sleep over the night before her birthday, but after a whole week of him practically begging you without giving a real reason why, you finally said yes. 

It made sense when he surprised you with Yomi’s very own room. He wasn’t sure what to get her for her birthday and decided it would’ve been perfect since she didn’t have one at his house in the first place. The room itself was the complete opposite from the rest of the house, filled with different shades of pink and soft textures– very cottage fairy vibes.

You avoided saying that though, only because he would’ve made fun of you for wording it that way. But it was beautiful, it became the one spot in Sukuna’s dark home that the sun had shone on.

He also revamped the room that was next to hers for you, just in case you didn’t feel completely comfortable with letting her spend the night there alone. He didn’t have to go that far, you would’ve stayed in any room or even the couch, but you appreciated the extra effort. Your room definitely wasn’t as fancy as Ms. Sayomi’s, but you could tell he had you in mind when decorating it. Soft white linen sheets, some art pieces hung up on the wall and a couple of plants laying around. It had a similar vibe to your home.

The party isn’t until Saturday, but you still wanted the day of her actual birthday to be special. You took the day off from work and Sukuna took the day off from practice. Some close family will be coming over a little later for an early dinner. It’ll be your parents, along with Jin, Yuji, his other brother Choso and Choso’s long time girlfriend, Yuki. 

You haven’t met Yuki yet, but you’re fine with having her around your daughter. She’s been with Choso since their freshman year of highschool. Just from what you’ve heard so far, you get the feeling that she won’t be someone temporary in Yomi’s life— something you won’t outwardly say to Sukuna, at least not in that same exact wording. The last thing you need is him getting offended that you still don’t want him to introduce her to Yorozu. 

They’ve been official for a little over three months now, you told yourself that you’ll allow it once they reach the one year mark. And no, you don’t think you’re being harsh on the timeframe, you hold yourself to the same standard as well. You want Sayomi to meet a future step-parent, not a girlfriend or boyfriend. 

You take one last look at your phone before heading downstairs. The closer you get to the staircase, the more your daughter’s laughter fills the air. She’s grown to be quite the daddy’s girl, Sukuna really doesn’t have to do much and she’s already smiling at him. 

“Mm!! Hi mama!” She excitedly greets you when you come into view, it’s the one sentence she can say just about perfectly.

Sukuna’s feeding her breakfast and you're pretty sure he was just eating her food as a “joke”, hence the laughter. 

“Good morning, birthday girl!” You lean down and give her several kisses on the cheek. “Are you eating breakfast with your dad?” 

She tilts her head when she looks at you and babbles some random sequence of words that are only known to her, then finishes it off strong by saying “dada”. 

“Sounds fun babe!” You enthusiastically say, it’s always better to just act like you know. Sukuna ends up laughing, having no idea what the hell she just said either but he likes the passion behind it. 

“Did you sleep good?” He asks in place of a normal greeting, continuing to feed Yomi the rest of her oatmeal. 

“I actually did.” You say, brushing some of the baby’s hair off of her forehead. You’re a little afraid to look anywhere else, Sukuna’s in nothing but a pair of short rugby shorts. You try to not think that everything’s about you, but you’re seriously having a hard time believing he didn’t do this on purpose. 

Whether it was on purpose or not, the one thing you know for sure is that this man is not above accusing others of lusting over him and trying to objectify him– all it takes is a glance while Sukuna’s in a silly goofy mood.

“What about you two? Did she wake up super early today?” 

“She woke up so fucking early,” he sighs and complains. “She got up at 5:00 am, so I gave her a bottle–”

“Did you measure it correctly?”

“Who knows, she’ll survive.” He waves off your concerns and continues. “Anyways, I gave her a bottle and took her back to my room. We both fell back asleep, then she woke me up at 8:00 am by picking my fuckin’ nose.” 

“That’s so gross Yomi, he has germs up there.” You squish her cheeks and tease her. 

“She would not be here right now if you thought I had germs.” He murmurs, feeding her the last spoonful of her food. 

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” 

The day goes by slowly. You end up having to go back to your house real quick to grab a couple things, like makeup since you forgot it for some reason. Other than you brief trip home, the three of you lounged around up until family members started showing up. 

The first to arrive was Sukuna’s side. As always, Yuji’s excited to see his baby cousin. No introductions were needed for Jin and Choso since you’ve already met them, so you introduce yourself to Yuki and spend some time getting to know her.

She was also nice enough to bring a smash cake for Sayomi, something that you and Sukuna slightly felt guilty about since you both completely forgot a cake and candles. 

You don’t even know how it slipped your mind– probably happened because her actual party is on a different day and this is literally your first time celebrating your child’s birthday. 

You quickly let it go after Sukuna told you a lot of kids in this world don’t get to have cake on their birthdays. In that moment you truly understood why he is the way he is.

Your parents arrive around an hour later. They don’t bother providing an explanation, even with Sukuna glaring at them as he patiently waited for one. Ever since they retired, they’ve started to run off of their own time, a.k.a it’s not 6:00 pm unless they say it is.

It’s kind of funny when you think about it, but you still feel bad for the people that have actual appointments with them. The only reason why your mom shows up to her workout classes on time is because they threatened to kick her out for constantly showing up late. 

Well deserved in your opinion, but you kept it to yourself. 

Even with how.. particular your parents can be, everyone gets along surprisingly well. As expected, they really liked Jin, but it was Choso that ended up capturing their hearts. They even made a comment about how they’d adopt him if they could.

Unfortunately Sukuna, who was already drinking, overheard that.

It’s one of those days where you’re not sure if he’s being serious or not. You were leaning towards him being serious since they gushed over all the guests, except him. He also started listing off reasons why he’s better than all of them, and since it’s Sukuna, he never ran out of reasons. 

It’s impressive how obsessed he is with himself.

“Do you guys want a refill?” Choso gestured at your parent’s empty glasses, interrupting Sukuna and giving him another reason in his head. 

“On top of that, I don’t interrupt others, especially when it comes to proving to others that I respect my elders.” Sukuna continues to ramble, he was also way more fucked up than he was when he first started. “Which is ageist, or however the fuck you pronounce it. Listen– mom, dad– I don’t care about how old someone is, there is no age limit to getting your ass beat.”

“Did you just call me an elder, Sukuna?” Your dad asks, deciding that getting called old was far more concerning than Sukuna basically saying his hands were rated E for everyone. 

“Me? Never!” He tries not to laugh as he begins to twist the narrative. “Choso said that shit, not me.”

“I never said that!” Choso defends himself. But it’s too late, Sukuna was going to win this argument by any means necessary. 

“You didn’t have to say it, you showed them that you thought they were old by offering to refill their drinks.” He turns away from your parents and smirks at his brother who was just trying to be nice. “They’re strong, independent people. Their arms aren’t go to break off by pouring themselves a well deserved drink for being the best grandparents in the world.” 

“Wow.” You turn to look at your parents who are floored by how he just doesn’t shut up when he’s drunk. “He holds you guys in such high regard yet you couldn’t even buy him his first pair of earrings.”

“Don’t you start with us now too.” Your dad says, you couldn’t tell if it was a warning or plea. 

“God forbid women have hobbies.” 

“Giving your father a headache is not a hobby.” He scolds you, he doesn’t get too far since you start laughing. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop, I’m done.” 

“Good ‘cause I was just getting started.” You already know who said this.

After chugging two massive glasses of water and listening to his daughter have a meltdown that he’s convinced was for fucking fun, Sukuna sobers up. You all decide it’s the perfect time to do a test run for the smash cake. She’s going to eat some of course, but everyone’s more interested in seeing how Sayomi would react to a group of people singing happy birthday to her. It might not be the most accurate result since there will be almost a hundred people at your house on Saturday, but it doesn’t hurt to try. 

So you guys give it a try. She’s slumped back in her high chair, staring at the cake like it’s more of an inconvenience than it is a delectable treat. Sukuna tries to tickle her neck and she just frowns and slaps his hand away.

But no tears. This is good. 

Her expression changes when you light the candle on top, making her a little more interested than before.

“Mama no?” She asks and you nod. 

“That’s right babe, no.” 

She points at the lit candle, “no?”

“No.” You say again, she seems to get it. Even if she didn’t and eventually tried to grab at it, you were close enough to stop her. “No touching, that’ll give you an ouchie.”

After fully explaining why fire was bad and doubting she understood or even listened, you moved on to the moment everyone’s been waiting for— the singing.

It’s kind of ridiculous how far you all would go to see what her emotional limit is, but you’re left with no other choice. On any other day, it’d be fine— cry your fucking heart out. But it’s her first birthday party, you’d rather not bring her to the point where she gets in one of her moods and then sleeps for the entirety of the day. If it’s something avoidable like not singing happy birthday or keeping balloons away from you, you’ll do it. 

It goes well at first, she doesn’t seem to care, but something bothers you. 

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“Can you sing along with everyone?”

“No.” He responds stubbornly, crossing his arms as if it’d prove a point. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t like singing.”

“You’re singing happy birthday,” you scoff at him. “You don’t have to hit Mariah Carey notes to properly sing it.” 

“I don’t care. I gave her a room that’s bigger than some peoples homes, the fuck does she need me to sing to her for?” 

…

Not only did Sukuna sing beautifully, but Sayomi also didn’t cry for all the 12 times you’ve rehearsed the song. She even smiled at one point, so you have high hopes for Saturday. Everyone was quick to go home after that, which is understandable. You all had lost track of time, it was already pushing 9:00 pm when you brought the cake out.

You were the last to leave since you had to pack up all the stuff you had brought for the overnight stay, but there was no rush. Yomi was already fast asleep in Sukuna’s arms, so you were able to take your time making sure you didn’t forget anything important.

“You sure you two can’t spend the night again?” He asks as you walk toward the driveway. 

“I can’t, my parents are staying with me for two nights.” You remind him once again, too tired to even get frustrated at having to repeat yourself. 

He most likely does remember and just thinks he can talk you into it.

“So?” He chuckles, genuinely not understanding why that’s an issue.

“They’re staying with me because they want to spend that time with her.” You hold back a smile from how you actually have to break it down for him. “They want to see her at night before she sleeps and they want to eat their breakfast with her in the mornings. I doubt they’d stay if the house was empty.”

“That’s dumb but alright.” He mutters, placing a kiss on Yomi’s head right after. “Gonna feel empty here.”

“Are you still tipsy?” You ask, looking at him with slight disbelief.

“Maybe.” He says in response, yet the long pause beforehand tells you yes. “I’ve said worse than saying my house feels empty while drunk.”

“I believe that.” You end up smiling when thinking about how he tried to turn your parents and Choso into enemies. “I’m surprised you’re saying that in the first place. I doubt it’ll feel empty here if you invited your girlfriend over.” 

The suggestion brings genuine laughter to the man, eventually having to cover his mouth for a moment because Yomi began fussing around in his arms. 

“Say her name.” 

“Why would you want me to do that?” You immediately shoot him an annoyed look.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say her name before.” The smile on his face is way too warm for someone that’s just realized something like that. “It’s always ‘your girlfriend’ or just her pronouns.” 

“I think you’re thinking too much into it.” You laugh with him. “I wouldn’t even know how to confirm or deny that, it’s never crossed my mind.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, not caring that much if it were true or not. “But yeah, I could invite her over.”

“You should.”

“Definitely should.” He easily agrees. “Probably won’t though.”

“Don’t complain about being lonely then.” You softly scold him. The way you said it makes him realize hasn’t felt this much warmth from you in years. 

Having her here wouldn’t fix that. 

He probably shouldn’t say that. 

It’s not the same as having you two here.

He probably shouldn’t say that either. 

It would never make a difference in the way you see him. 

“I know.” He ends up saying, then forces out a low laugh. “I probably just need sleep.”

“I think so too.” You end up taking Yomi into your arms and begin walking to your car, he follows right behind out of habit. “You’re not used to someone waking you up so much in the morning.”

“M’not– I’ll get used to it though.” He says, watching you put her into the car seat. 

His chest tightens a little more than usual this time around as he watches you gentle secure the rest of the straps.

“It’s fine if you don’t, I never did.” You let out a little sigh after stepping away from the backseat. “It’s just easy to get over it because she’s cute.” 

“She's the cutest,” he chuckles and shuts the backseat door. “I might be a little busy tomorrow, so if I don’t get the chance to visit then I’ll just see you Saturday morning.”

“Sounds good. Have a goodnight.” You offer him a little smile before getting in the car.

“You too.” He can’t find it in himself to smile back right now, but allows his eyes to linger on you a little longer. It’s the one thing you don’t get on him for and hopes you continue to just let him have it. 

As pathetic as it sounds, it’s all he has left.

—

“Nice of you to come out the night before your daughter's party.” It’s one of the first things Suguru says after you finally sit down and look at the menus. 

It was a new restaurant in the area that has quickly gained popularity from their food and laid back ambiance. It was still fancier than most, but one you could definitely relax and enjoy your dinner in. 

“You have no idea how much I needed this.” You admit, sounding more than relieved to be here with him. “It’s been such a long week trying to get ahead with work just so I could take some extra days off for Yomi.” 

“I bet.” He chuckles. “How’s work been for you?” 

“It’s doing good! I have 2 potential clients that reached out this month. I'm considering hiring an intern for extra help and to see what having an employee would be like.” 

“Why an intern? Just so you can say goodbye without feeling bad if you end up not liking it?” 

“That’s exactly why.” You laugh with him. “It’d be good for them too, they’d be getting the experience and a nice letter of recommendation for wherever they’d want to go next.” 

“That would be good for them.” He agrees and takes a sip of his drink. He’s a whiskey on the rocks kind of guy and you don’t know how he does it. “I remember getting so stressed out trying to land a good internship while I was in college, I never want to go through that again.” 

“Did you end up getting a decent one?” 

“More than decent, it was one of the top ten financial firms in the country.” He reveals, acting a little shy about it. “But my manager was such a fucking dick.” 

“That sucks, I'm sorry. I feel like it’s more common than not. I had 2 during college and 1 right after and they were all really rude. I just stuck through it to fluff up my resume.” 

“Yeah, same here—“

“Here you go, Sir.” A waitress ends up interrupting the conversation to drop off your plates. “And here’s yours Ma’am. Was there anything I could get you two before I step away?” 

“Yeah, a refill on this please.” He says, sliding his empty glass over to her. “Want more wine?” 

“Yeah sure.” You smile and slide the empty glass over to her. “Same as the last one please.” 

“Of course, I’ll be back with those shortly.” 

The rest of the dinner is kind of just that— small talk with some personal stories sprinkled into the mix.

You try not to talk about your daughter too much during dates. You make it known that she's your everything, but you’ve found that it’s nice to take a break from talking about things like milestones and teething.

Or the crippling anxiety you get whenever you think about how dangerous the world can be, and that you can try your best to protect her from it, but you’ll reach a time where you can’t and that terrifies you. 

But that’s a conversation that you save for your family and therapist. 

Suguru isn’t the first guy you’ve gone on dates with, but the one thing that’s made him stand out from the others is how he doesn’t seem to care that you’re a mom. 

He knows you’re busy a lot of the time and isn’t pushy when it comes to seeing you. He’s never made any backhanded comments about your life being ruined, like a couple of men have said in the past. You also like that he asks questions about her and seems genuinely curious, instead of asking just to be nice. 

Are you trying to find Sayomi a stepdad? Not really. You’re just having fun. Going out on dates and having girls nights for a couple hours, 3-4 times a month has helped you feel like yourself again in a short amount of time. 

It’s not like you bring people home to meet your daughter, so there was no harm in having some nights out. 

As you both begin to walk through the dining room, Suguru takes your hand in his and it’s oddly nice. You’ve slept with him a couple times before, but your internal reaction to something as innocent as having your hand held made you realize how touch starved you truly were. 

But the night is young, you’ll have time later to sulk about how lonely you feel sometimes. 

The cold air immediately hits you when you two step outside. Springs deceiving as always— you find yourself sweating at some parts of the day, then barely able to talk from how violent you shiver at night. 

Except the usual feeling of wanting to run into a car with a heater on full blast fades away when you get a glimpse of pink hair and mass walking up to you from the corner of your eye. 

This man couldn’t sneak up on anybody no matter how hard he tried. 

The moment you turn to face him, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. When he first saw you walking out of the restaurant, he wasn’t quite sure if it was you or not. 

He hasn’t seen you dressed up in almost 2 years. The times that he actually has shouldn’t even count since he’d rip the clothes right off of you, leaving you bare for him to enjoy. 

Then you got a little closer. Instead of your words, he was able to hear only the sound of your voice. You obviously don’t use it on him because you don’t like him anymore— for whatever fucking reason— but you used to use that same exact tone with him. 

He doesn’t even completely realize what he’s doing until Yorozu’s following behind him, asking where he’s going— and he suddenly realizes he’s walking straight over to you. 

There’s no plan in mind, there’s barely any thoughts except for what are you doing here and who did you leave his little girl with. 

“Oh, Sukuna!” is all you can fucking come up with right now. You two obviously aren’t together but you can’t help but feel like you got caught doing something bad, especially with the way he was looking at you. “Surprised to see you here, have you been here bef—“

“Where the fuck is Sayomi?” He cuts you off with a question that sounded more like an accusation. He didn’t even bother to introduce the woman he’s with or introduce himself to the man you’re with. 

He doesn't give a fuck about either right now, all he can see right now is you as he began to seethe.

“At home?” You let out a light laugh, mainly from how uncomfortable you’ve become in record fucking time. He makes it seem like she’s all alone at home or waiting in the car for you while you finish your date. “She’s spending time with her grandparents right now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He continues to question you, looking back at Suguru once before going back to glare at you. He takes a small step forward and Yorozu lightly wraps her hand around his arm, you’re not sure if it’s an attempt to calm him down or hold him back. “I thought you were with her this whole time.”

“I didn’t know I had to.” You begin to defend yourself, but he just starts laughing, it makes it hard to continue speaking but you do anyway. People are starting to look and you don’t need him to cause a scene. “Are you mad? She’s safe at home right now.”

“Of course I’m fucking mad!” He begins to raise his voice, taking another step closer. “You didn’t fucking tell me other people were watching her tonight!”

“What do you mean other people?! They’re my parents!”

“That’s not fucking point! I thought you were with her this entire time!” There’s a strain in his voice as he begins to fully unload on you, it causes Suguru to step forward and hold his arm out in front of you. He doesn’t know what Sukuna’s like, you haven’t given him too many details, but with the way Sukuna’s looking at you right now, he’s fully prepared to block him from getting to you.

Seeing that pisses off Sukuna even more. 

“I don’t see the fucking issue, Sukuna!” You throw your arms out in defeat, “I don’t even see why I should be telling you where I’m going.”

“Babe, it's okay.” Yorozu steps in and tries to get him to relax, he drank a little bit before coming here, he could do anything right now. “I’m sure Sayomi’s safe.”

“No, no— YOU DON’T FUCKING GET IT!” He suddenly snaps at her, before pointing his finger at you. “Let’s get one thing straight, I don’t give a FUCK about what you do or where you go. What I care about is where MY DAUGHTER is and who she’s with. This whole fucking time I thought she was with her mother! I don’t care how simple it seems to you, I need to know that kind of shit!”

The whole street’s looking at this point and you swear you’ve never felt smaller. Sukuna continues to release years worth of anger on you, all while his girlfriend continues to try to soothe him while throwing little glares at you, and you just continue to shrink beside Suguru, who did not sign up for this shit tonight. 

“Jesus fucking christ– OKAY! I’m sorry, I’ll fucking tell you next time!” You yell back. “I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal.” 

“That’s his daughter, of course it’s a big deal.” Yorozu says, backing him up. Your eyes almost widen in surprise— you weren’t expecting her to say anything at all, now she’s trying to make you look worse than he already is. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. Are you fucking serious right now?” You grimace and take a step forward, but you end up getting stopped by Suguru who still has his arm out in defense. 

He wasn’t planning on saying anything, letting the parents sort this through and all, but even he reached his breaking point after seeing that the girlfriend was ready to go at it with you. Sukuna didn’t look like he was going to do anything about it anytime soon either. 

“Listen man.” Suguru turns to him, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “We get where you’re coming from, we understand. I can promise you she didn’t have any bad intentions behind this.”

Sukuna laughs then stares him dead in the eye, clearly not really to settle down just yet. “Who the fuck is we? ‘Cause last time I checked, it was her that hid a child from me for almost an entire fucking year and I doubt anything like that’s ever fucking happened to you. So tell me, do you actually fucking understand? NO.” He then turns back to you, “And now you’re keeping shit from me again, is this just who you fucking are?!” 

“No it’s not! I already said it wouldn’t happen again!” You cut him off in frustration and your eyes slowly become glossier and glossier. “I apologized, Sukuna! I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“It sounds like you’re just trying to get him to shut up!” Yorozu says. “You were defensive from the start and don’t sound remorseful at all.” 

“How do you expect me to act when it was him that immediately started attacking me?! He could’ve talked to me about this in private but he chose to yell at me in public.” 

“He wasn’t attacking you, he was worried about where his daughter was since you never told him you were leaving her with other people.” She refutes. 

“Okay ms. Sukuna whisperer,” you mutter and laugh. She literally just repeated everything he said. “I’m sure he’s real worried from how he’s letting his fucking girlfriend fight in his place.” 

“I’m my own fuckin’ person, sweetheart.” He chuckles, “no one’s fighting in my place.” 

“Coming to your defense then.” You roll your eyes as you correct yourself. “Something a grown fucking man does not need, yet here we are.” 

“That’s what couples do.” He says bitterly. 

“Oh, I’m sure. Tell me, do couples also blow up every others fucking phones when they don’t get a text within 5 minutes?”

“Or how about that one time you wanted to spend the day with Yomi after she got her ears pierced and you couldn’t because someone else was demanding your attention?”

“You couldn’t even use your phone because of how many calls you were getting back to back!”

Crickets.

“Nothing? Okay! I’ll let you two go then, so you can enjoy being a normal couple.” The look you give Suguru immediately tells him that you’re ready to go and begins to step back, waiting for you to take the lead. 

“Back to your boyfriend's house then, huh?” Sukuna continues to throw jabs, showing you once again that he just likes to fight.

You tried so hard to get away from him, so hard to avoid being on the receiving end of his anger, yet here you are. He doesn’t even let you walk away.

You were fucked since the moment he laid his eyes on you. 

You take one big deep breath, trying to get it together because Suguru had already seen enough. Sukuna and Yorozu have also had the pleasure of watching you lose your temper. The small attempt to calm yourself does nothing to soothe the burn in your eyes, you eventually blink away the tears that have slowly built up within the last 10 minutes and they steadily flow down your cheeks.

Fuck. 

If only they knew this was all from frustration and not fear or remorse. You don’t regret a thing you said. 

“No.” You finally respond to his question. “My mood’s ruined and I don’t feel like staying out and making it everyone else's problem, I’m not like you.”

“So now it’s my fault?” He asks, getting defensive all over again. 

“No.” Your voice slightly raises and you sniffle right after. “It’s mine– I don’t communicate enough, I hide things from you, I have the fucking audacity to defend myself when it comes to you. How dare I try to do that after all I’ve done to you?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“No, I don’t know, but I felt it.” Your voice slightly trembles. “You take any chance you can get to remind me how much of a piece of shit I am. Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like had I never left you and I don’t think it’d be any different from this.”

You finally begin to walk away from the two, with Suguru following along. Sukuna tried to say some other things to you, but it was all muffled out. Maybe it was from some of the wine you drank, or maybe it was just the pent up frustration you’ve been having since he came back into your life. Whatever it was, you didn’t hear a word he said, nor did you care anymore at this point. 

Suguru was the one that picked you up, but you decided to take an uber back home. The last thing you wanted to do was unpack everything that just happened on the car ride back. You were also just plain embarrassed, Suguru never knew about the full story of you hiding Yomi away from her father. 

The birthday party was less than 24 hours away, you needed the time alone to relax and prepare yourself to deal with all the people that were attending it.

—

As expected, the morning was hectic. The planner and her assistants got to your house at 9:00 A.M sharp and got to work decorating the main areas of the house and backyard. You didn’t even know what to expect, you told her to do whatever she pleased, so you’re in for just as much of a surprise as everyone else. 

Your only job for today was getting Sayomi fed and dressed in her frilly little birthday dress. She seemed to love it with the way she kept grabbing at it and smiling, but she hated the matching headband. You didn’t even bother putting it back on after she ripped it off, you ended up tying half of her hair up and adding a little accessory. 

When you finally walk back down the stairs, everything’s pretty much done— the balloon decorations, flower arrangements, snack tables, different food stations. You momentarily interrupt your moms conversation with her to quickly thank her for everything, god knows you could never transform a space the way she could. 

You didn’t even have the time for that.

The guests started rolling in at noon, with each person that arrived, the more you dreaded her Sukuna’s arrival. The good thing about him is that he doesn’t seem to tell his family much about the tumultuous relationship you’ve have the past three months, so you’re sure it’ll be easier to act normal around him with his brothers and Yuki around. 

The entire family shows up around 30 minutes after the party officially started and of course, your child’s father manages to steal all the attention.

He’s tall and built to begin with, imagine all the looks he got when he stepped into your home with a white button up, rolled up at the sleeves and the top buttons undone to show off his chains. On top of that, his grey slacks were perfectly tailored and his hair was neatly styled. You’d think it would all clash, but it somehow worked with his ear piercings and eyebrow slits. 

You don’t look for too long though, he was already getting enough attention from everyone else. You hardly acknowledge him at all, actually. 

The first one to greet you was Yuji. The sweet boy was already bouncing off the walls, ready to go outside and play with the other kids. But he also had manners, making sure to give you and Yomi a hug and kiss on the cheek. Next were Jin, Choso, and Yuki, which you greeted and gave a hug to in that exact same order. 

By the time you reached Yuki, Sukuna was looking at you expectantly, but you ended up turning back around and leading the three to where all the food was.

Peace doesn’t exist though when you have a child, your sweet baby girl proved that to you within those 10 minutes.

“Dada,” Yomi says to you and points at him, as you’re walking into the kitchen. 

“You wanna go to Dada?” You ask, moving some hair out of her face, not bothering to look up at him. 

“Mm.” She lightly nods, looking at Sukuna excitedly. 

“Okay.” You smile before side eyeing the man. “Here.” 

Without protest, he takes her. He’s honestly been waiting for you to hand her over, not completely sure if you’d say yes if he asked. He wasn’t even sure if you were going to allow him to come after last night, but figured it was alright since you never texted him telling him to fuck off. 

Sukuna spent the rest of the day being pulled away by a bunch of relatives and family friends– out of sight and mainly out of your mind. A lot of those who approached him tried to use the birthday girl as an excuse to go up to him, but you knew they just wanted to finally meet the mystery man that fathered her. A part of you wondered how some of those conversations went. The topic about who Sayomi’s father was is a topic that everyone avoided, even just asking about it was a big no-no. So you can imagine it to be a lot of mental gymnastics trying to talk about it, you never even gave people an explanation as to how or why he’s in her life now. 

It’s not until you have to sing Happy Birthday when you have to interact with him. You almost want to laugh when he turns the corner and you see how blissfully unaware your daughter is of what she’s about to have to deal with. 

You were able to set aside your differences for a minute when he also acknowledged how much she was going to hate this. She may not have reacted much on her actual birthday, but now she’s essentially in a room filled with strangers.

“Should one of us hold her while they sing it?” He asks, lightly bouncing her in his arm as if getting her in the best mood would make her fall from grace less steep. 

You shake your head, “that’s never stopped her from having a meltdown.” 

“Right.” 

He cautiously set her down into the high chair, where there’s a purple princess cake in front of her that’s waiting to be lit. She’s fine at first, her attention’s on the cake, not the crowd in front of her. 

It’s after only a few seconds of singing where she slowly drops her happy demeanor, her face turns into one you’d make if you were all alone in a room and something randomly moves.

Complete terror of the unknown. 

The worst is when she looks at you or her dad, she thinks crying is going to get her out of this situation so her bottom lip starts to quiver the longer you two go without getting her the hell out of there. 

Too bad Sukuna was determined to keep her in that goddamn chair, so he takes a little frosting off the top of the cake and quickly swipes it over her lips. 

Usually she’d be offended by something like that happening, but her mood quickly turns around when stops pouting and actually tries it. She eventually starts kicking her feet around and pointing at the dessert, asking for more. 

Singing happy birthday was a success, it ended with Yomi clapping her hands along with everyone else while chewing on her newest favorite food.

You gave her all the time in the world to eat however much of it she wanted, you were taking pictures after and needed her to look as happy as possible. 

And it all went fine, at least up until the very end. You were so worried about Sayomi this entire time that you never considered what were some of the things that could’ve gotten on your nerves today, aside from looking at Sukuna’s face.

“Okay, now let’s get a picture with both mom and dad!” Your dad’s sister, who’s never once in her life been able to read a room, exclaims. 

You try to look at anywhere else but Sukuna’s direction after hearing that, it was so painfully obvious to him, only because he’s the only one that knew about what went down last night.

After everything, he still wanted to take a photo together as a family, even though he’s starting to accept that the three of you will probably never truly be one, especially after what happened last night.

But still, he puts his pride aside.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, holding his arm out for you. 

You obviously go up to him, not wanting to give away any signs that there were issues between you two, allowing him to pull you into his side and throw his free arm around you. 

“Hi mama!” Your daughter flashes you a dopey grin– doesn’t matter if she hasn’t seen you in 2 minutes or 2 hours, she’s been greeting you each time she sees you and it makes your heart melt.

She makes the picture taking a little better, she’s more giddy than usual because of the sugar content that was in her cake— she’s probably in outerspace right now. Hopefully her energy crash isn’t that bad at bedtime, but it’s her birthday. She’ll do it if she wants to. 

Her pathetic father had some hopes that you’d rest your hand on his chest or something for the photo— just seems kind of natural to do so, but you take your daughter's hand instead. 

At least it made a cute photo. Sayomi will look back and never know just how cold and distant you felt in his arms at that moment.

—

The last people to leave your house are your parents. They love staying over and seeing Sayomi, but miss the peace and quiet of their own home, so they decided tonight's the night they finally go back home. 

Is a two day stay a lot? 

For them it is.

It’s not something to take personally, if you absolutely needed them, they’d be here for you in a heartbeat. 

It’s not until you walk into the cluttered kitchen and realized you’re not alone. You find Sukuna standing over the kitchen island, quietly trying to open a bottle of wine.

“Didn’t know you were still here.” You mutter, taking his attention off the stubborn cork. 

“Probably because you spent the whole day ignoring me.” He says while finally opening the damn thing. The room’s quiet as he pours you a glass and slides it over to you. “Can’t blame you though.” 

“You sure? You don’t seem to mind blaming me for everything else.” You say, taking a seat in front of him and pulling the wine glass closer to you. You’re not even taking jabs at him anymore, you genuinely meant it, which makes him feel worse.

He doesn’t respond to that out of guilt and leans forward on the counter. He doesn’t even know where to start right now, he was an asshole to everyone last night. But if he were to be completely honest, he doesn’t care much about how he made Suguru and Yorozu feel last night. He was out for blood the moment he saw you stepping out of the restaurant, he would’ve snapped on anyone. 

And since he’s being honest with himself right now, he wanted to hurt you. Right now he’s just trying to figure out if last night's anger was how he truly felt or if that was just his final straw to an already bad day. 

He didn’t even want to go out last, his girlfriend just wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. He was tired and wanted to rest up since he had planned on being here the entire day. Lately, Yorozu’s been taking his “no’s” as suggestions and it’s so much easier just giving in sometimes. 

He glances at you and you’re already looking at him, raising your brows at him. He knows it’s your nonverbal way of saying “fucking get on with it”. 

“After missing all that time with Yomi…” He begins to explain himself, carefully choosing his words because he wants you to understand. Right now he’d rather you understand why he reacted that way he did, instead of forgiving him. “Not knowing what’s going on with her triggers the fuck out of me. I don’t know.. I– when I was getting ready to go out and on my way to the restaurant, I had this idea that you two were at home together and realizing I was wrong made me lose it. I trust your parents, but if you told me you were going out, I would’ve cancelled my plans and hung out with her.”

“Are you saying you got mad because you got fomo?” 

He lightly chuckles at the word choice. “It sounds so stupid when you break it down in your own words, but yeah, that’s kinda what happened.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” You assure him, it’s probably hard enough having to explain himself after the scene he caused. “I would’ve asked, but you usually have date nights with Yorozu on Fridays, so I never thought to ask.” 

“I’d never choose a date night over spending time with Sayomi.” His voice drops an octave as says those words in all seriousness. “I’m also really sorry for the way she tried to get into our business like that.”

“Can’t blame her, you made it her business the moment you decided you were going to call me out in front of her. Same with Suguru.” 

Fair enough.

“Still shouldn’t have let her talk to you like that.”

“Did you even try to say something to her after I left?” You murmur, twisting the glass around by its stem. “Or does she think she can start arguing with me whenever we fight, because that’s what couples do?”

“We fought over that after you left.” He reveals, his expression grew a little more stressed as he continued. “I told her if she ever pulls some shit like that again, it’s over.” 

You were aware of how heated their arguments could get, so when he tells you they’re bad, you don’t take it lightly. You fully believe him when he says they stayed up until 1:00 am fighting over the fact that he never wanted her to speak to you like that again and how she constantly countered it by saying she was just defending him.

It barely got resolved, she just barely stopped arguing with him when he threatened to break up with her. 

He was so fed up at the end that he even called her an uber home, all he wanted at that point was to be alone— his head hurt, voice all raspy from yelling too. Yet he stayed up for another hour or two just staring at the ceiling and listening to nothing but the faint breeze outside, wondering what the fuck was he even doing with his life.

You hum in response, you’re not sure if his threat is overkill or not, but it makes you feel slightly better. Enough to be okay with her meeting your daughter after a year? Nope. 

“Well thanks, I guess.” You say nonetheless. 

“Yeah…” He takes a deep breath. “I really am sorry. I can apologize to your date too if you want.” 

You almost laugh at the suggestion, he sounds so remorseful, it’s not very fitting of him. “No need— he ended things with me.”

His jaw might as well be on the floor from how shocked he is to hear that. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Mhm.” You say, letting how bad he fucked up sink in for him.

“Fuck.” He puts his head down and lets out a low curse. “I’m so sorry… what did he say?”

“He texted me when I got home, saying something along the lines of how my situation was a lot to handle, and that I deserved someone that didn’t feel that way.” You finish the rest of the wine in the glass after saying that. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned. Heavy lids, brows slightly furrowed, he looks guilty as hell.

“Honestly… yeah. We only dated for three months, I only saw him a couple times a month too. I feel like he would’ve seen something else anyways and backed out.” You’d obviously like for Sukuna to feel bad about it for a while, but it’s the truth. You and Suguru wouldn’t have worked out to begin with. When you two first started talking, he thought that Yomi’s dad was out of the picture— a lot has changed since then. 

Then you bring in one of Sukuna’s record breaking meltdowns, you understand the guy.

Which also leads you to another thing. 

“Listen… you’re always going to have some sort of resentment towards me and I understand that.” You say, breaking the silence. “But I don’t want to spend the next seventeen years having you throw that in my face whenever I do something wrong. I think it’s time that we start thinking about splitting custody with her.”

You obviously haven’t had enough time to think about it, but it’d be easy, especially with how she has her own room at his house now. It’s not like he was bad at taking care of her anyways. If you stop breastfeeding her now, she could probably spend her weekends with him and be perfectly fine.

“What? No, I don’t want that.” He immediately rejects the suggestion, slightly hurt over it. “I don’t want to take her away from you, I’d rather just visit when I can.” 

“And what if I don’t want that?” You argue back. “The last thing I want is for you to teach her that it’s okay to treat me like that. I’ll admit that what I did was a thousand times worse, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a punching bag whenever you get triggered over something.”

“I’ve never done any of that in front of her!” He tries to reason with you, but deep down he knows it’s not enough.  

“There’s always the possibility that you will. Look, I’m trying to make it easier on all of us. If me not being around you helps you heal from all of this, then I’m glad to do it.” You continue to explain, but it just falls on deaf ears. 

Yeah, you two have your bad moments, but when it’s good, it’s really good. You two are able to laugh together, easily make decisions over Yomi together. He enjoys being with you— the both of you. 

“You make it seem like I get pissed at the sight or thought of you, I don’t! Last night was just a bad day, I didn’t even want to go out in the first place–” 

You cut him off from going on a rant. “I obviously don’t want you to have bad days, but that’s not my problem, you can’t just use that as fuel to lose your shit on me.”

“I know that.” He murmurs and sighs. 

“And I know that you feel bad and mean it when you apologize, but you need to work on yourself— whether it’s therapy or making some other life change. I can’t keep listening to you apologizing.” 

Therapy? 

You see the weary look he gives you for bringing that up, but he can’t even deny that it’s probably a good option at this point. He already had his own problems to begin with, having a child just makes it all worse. It doesn’t matter how good he is to Sayomi either, she’ll grow up to see how mad he gets when things don’t go his way, you don’t want her learning from that.

“So if I get therapy, you’ll…” He waits for you to finish the sentence. 

“Do nothing. We can keep doing what we're doing. It works, I just can’t have you treating me the way you did last night.” You lean back in the seat and cross your arms. 

He apprehensively looks at you for a bit, not sure if you’re telling the truth. You’re oddly calm for someone that just threatened to remove herself from his life if he didn’t get help.

He’d think you’d be a little bit more emotional about this, but then remembers you’re mentally and emotionally capable of leaving someone without a word. 

“I did all my crying last night.” You say, he just realized he’d muttered that last sentence to himself. 

“M’sorry about that too.” He easily apologizes again. “About all of it, I feel like a fuckin’ asshole.”

You look down at the empty wine glass, which he quickly fills up for you as a part of his final apology, and can’t help but feel guilty at how much remorse he’s showing right now.  

What are you so afraid of? 

It’s not like I’d hide her away from you.

At least now.

But he doesn’t know that, hiding her from him is all that he knows. If only you could be a little more selfless, allow him to make you feel the same way you made him feel at one point. 

An eye for an eye. 

You doubt it’d stop there, there’d be no truce— you’d destroy each other completely.

“Try not to be so hard on yourself.” You take another sip of the freshly filled glass, it makes looking him in the eye a little easier. “I made you this way.”

You absolutely fucking did, he refrains from saying and instead just looks at you back. He’s recently come to realize that this is something you struggle with too, you don’t say it but he sees it whenever he’s having a good time with Yomi. You look happy one minute, then the next you wipe the smile off your face. It’s almost as if you don’t allow yourself to have that experience with them, like you don’t deserve it. 

“We just need to find a way to move on from it.” You say, wrapping up the last of the words you had for him. 

“You’re right.” He’s been holding his breath enough that it’s shaky when he finally exhales. “I’ll uh– I’ll reach out to someone on Monday.”

“Okay.” It comes out so light, it’s almost a whisper. It’s a hard conversation to have, you weren’t expecting him to make it so easy. “Can I ask you something?”

Hearing the answer would probably make you feel worse, but it’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to ask him. 

“Does it have something to do with when we were together?”

“Yeah.” 

“It’s better if you don’t ask, you’re hard enough on yourself as is.” He says, giving you back your own advice. You already know you caused enough pain by jumping to your own conclusions about him, hearing the truth from him was just unnecessary at this point. “How were you supposed to know how I felt about you when I never told you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

The only times he's texted you back then were to see when you’d be free for him, you looked like a booty call on paper. It was stupid of him to think you’d stick around just because he was nice to you. He should’ve taken you out more, called you when he had free time, let you know he missed you whenever you weren’t around. 

It’s not that he was scared, he was just stupid. He genuinely thought you’d just feel it, but you clearly don’t trust your gut. He’ll always wish he told you he loved you, he’d probably be getting ready to go to bed with you right now if he said it all that time ago. 

He looks at his phone to check the time and realizes he’s overstayed his welcome. Not that he’s complaining, you two got somewhere from it. A mutual understanding almost. Maybe he’ll finally be able to have his first decent night of sleep since he saw you at the park that day.

But who is he kidding? 

Mutual understandings don’t mean shit to a man that is unfortunately in love. 

“Do you wanna sleep in the guest bedroom that’s here downstairs?” You suddenly offer after seeing him check the time. He didn’t live far, but it’d probably be nice if he skipped the driving for tonight. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks, skimming through his missed texts. 

“No. I’m sure Yomi would like seeing you in the morning too.”

He chuckles and puts his phone away. “I’d hope so.” 

He tried so hard to hate you, but the love he’s always had for you has sadly grown since being back in your life again. 

And no, you don’t try to deliberately hurt the people you love, like how he did last night. But like what you said, you made him this way, and now he’s stuck having to fix that part of himself. 

What’s worse is he’s happy to do it if that means he gets to stay around you, because you will never be too much for him to handle. He chose the baby in a heartbeat, if only you knew he’d choose you just as fast too.

His phone buzzes again once he’s finally comfortable in the guest bedroom you offered him. For once, he’s not annoyed when he checks it. 

[7:05 p.m] Yor: How did the birthday party go? 

[8:45 p.m] Yor: Did she give you a hard time over what happened last night?

[8:50 p.m] Sukuna: No

[8:55 p.m] Yor: That’s good. Can I come over? I wanted to talk about yesterday.

[8:58 p.m] Sukuna: I wanna be alone rn. ill talk to you tomorrow

notes:

i just wanted to leave this here and the direct quote below for anyone that’s a little confused/needs clarification on what sukuna got mad about during this chapter. he went almost a full year of not knowing he had a child, he has trauma from that. he’s fine with reader going out and doing whatever, he just wants to know where the baby is and who she left the baby with ‼️

“After missing all that time with Yomi…Not knowing what’s going on with her triggers the fuck out of me. I don’t know.. I– when I was getting ready to go out and on my way to the restaurant, I had this idea that you two were at home together and realizing I was wrong made me lose it.“

and also, read the warnings!!! the angst and toxic relationship warnings are there for a reason. i understand that it’s not for everyone, but don’t make that my issue by coming up in my comments and announcing your departure 😭

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=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- MDNI- Warnings- overuse/incorrect use of prescription meds, angsty asf in places, scene of a medical procedure, heavy subject matter, some sexual tension. Reader, 26, Dr. Gojo 34- Grey's vibes - this chap, fingering, teasing, tension like a mf, use of prescription drugs, a character with a medical condition, light angst =͟͟͞♡ WC this chap- 6.5k

♡ It's backkk- Reblogs and comments appreciated if you enjoy ♡

=͟͟͞♡ Part Six =͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist

Part Seven

It’s been a week now, since you’ve kissed Doctor Gojo, but he smiles at you every morning, his cerulean eyes drinking you in, he gets you a coffee and something for breakfast every morning. Every elevator ride he’s right next to you, shoulders brushing, hands aching to entwine. During surgeries with you he’s a calm guidance, a hand on your back to gently guide you as he leans over.

You can hardly handle not being with him, you can hardly handle not just kissing him again, especially after that night he took you home. You want to know more about him, about what made him how he is, a brilliant and damaged man, a man that you simultaneously admire and fear, for all he makes you feel.

“Good morning, intern.” He says now, it’s been seven days since you kissed those plump lips, seven days of longing to feel his fingers against your skin.

“Good morning, Doctor Gojo.” You say with a little smile, one that melts him completely.

It’s been seven days since Satoru got to kiss you, seven days since he ruined it all, since he ruined what was just starting. You’re constantly in his mind, he has to see you all day every day and not be able to touch you, kiss you, hold you. Miwa has already tried to hook up again, but Gojo turned her down flat, as he did anyone who even looks at him.

You may not be his, but you will be.

This morning he’s brought you a little breakfast sandwich, you smile gratefully at it, but he sees your dark circles worsening. “Getting any sleep?”

“Uh… no, I’m not.” You admit softly, sitting next to him at the cafeteria, surprising him then. Usually you sit just a little away, or run off to work, but you’re next to him, legs brushing over your scrubs, making his body tense. “Thank you for breakfast always, it’s very sweet.”

“It’s nothing, cafeteria food.” He says with a little smirk, and you sigh, giggling now, a sound that makes his heart falter.

“It’s thoughtful. I’ve been thinking, too, you know.”

“That’s dangerous.” You roll your eyes at him, Satoru sips his coffee, feeling his adderall kicking in, he’s been back to his normal dosages now, well what he considers normal. “Thinking of what, Miss Perfect?”

“I so am not that, stop it.” You nudge at him then, sighing and looking around noticing it’s relatively quiet in the hospital. “I was thinking I miss you.”

Satoru’s heart pounds in his chest now. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I see you every day and miss you, and it’s fucked.” You sigh now, shaking your head and running a hand through your hair, hair that Satoru longs to enwrap his hand in, pulling while he has you bent over. His thoughts are all over the place when it comes to you, some sweet, some lewd, some overwhelming.

You’re all he can think of.

“Of course you miss me.” He smirks and earns your glare, before he sighs, a serious look on his face, leaning close to you now. “What is it that you miss? Me touching your pretty body?” His whisper in your ear causes shivers to go down your spine, you’re trembling then with need. “Ah, that’s it.”

“You’re such an ass.” You say through gritted teeth, his laugh tickles your ear as he wraps an arm casually around the back of your chair.

“If you ask for something, anything? I’d give it to you.”

“Aside from decent answers and commitment?”

“Ouch.” He eases back, and you shake your head.

“I don’t know why I said anything.” You stand and he grabs your wrist, you look down at his big hand, veins pressing up from his thin, pale skin, thumb brushing on your inner wrist.

“I’m sorry, I do miss you too. In every way.” He looks up at you under snowy lashes, as you sigh now, looking away from his perfect face. “Every way.”

“Yeah?” You manage to breathe out, he nods just a bit. “Why do you have to look at me like that?”

“Like what, sweets?”

“Like all… intense Gojo like.” He snorts now, easing back his hand, leaning in the chair and looking up at you.

“Hard not to look at you.”

“These eye bags turning you on?” You tease, sitting back down, his hand comes to brush your lower back, making you gasp just a bit.

“Anything about you makes me insane.” You bite your lower lip, looking down at your lap, barely able to function around this man. “Especially love that shampoo you washed your hair with last night.”

“Strawberry really gets you going hmm?” 

You both laugh a bit then, so much unsaid and unknown lurking between you however, creating this… tension that’s so palpable.

“If you need me… you could utilize me you know.” You blink then.

“Utilize?”

“Mmhmm. Utilize my skills on your anatomy.”

“Jesus, Satoru.” He watches the color spark on your cheeks, smirking outwardly, but inside he’s dying for you, for any of you. “You think what, we could just… there’s no way.”

“If you need me I’m yours.”

“No chasing after infinity stones? At all?” Your eyes narrow a bit, assessing his face, which is far too serious for his teasing tone.

“None at all. I’d let you use me.” Your mind whirls, you shake your head quickly, sipping on your coffee, making your tummy flip with his images.

“You’re insane. Use you?”

“Mmhmm. Any way you wanted to. You work hard, you know.”

“I’m out.” You stand now, as he chuckles at you, mischievous little shit again, but you know there’s so much more, and his pull is irresistible. It’s not like you don’t know better, and it’s not like you’re giving in, but the idea of… cumming for him? You suddenly feel so hot you can’t take it.

He stands now too, walking with you to the elevator, god this elevator, where he stands too close, where his eyes get lidded, the first place you kissed. “Thoughts going through that pretty head?”

“You’re annoying, that’s the thoughts.”

“Hmm. And damaged.”

“Definitely.” You agree, earning his snort of amusement, as he turns and steps to you, backing you up until you’re against that elevator wall, his free hand on your waist, thumb brushing up, making you shiver. “You’re suggesting I what, fuck my frustration out on you? Where’s that lead?”

“I’d take any part of you, sweetheart.” His desperate words are your undoing, you yank him down, kissing him then, it’s desperate and messy and full of desire, before you pull back, as the elevator stops, and Satoru feels your heat against his thigh, pressed between yours.

“You’re the most toxic man.” You huff, shoving at him and stomping out, Satoru leans against the wall, head falling back, when you’re back inside, your coffee and sandwich not even in your hands somehow. The doors shut again, and you’re pressing the highest floor, shocking him. “You’d really just… get me off?”

“Oh I’d let you fuck my face any day baby.” You kiss him again, like a dam breaking, when he’s all over you, picking you up in his arms, your thighs are against his hips, making you grind eagerly as he groans, hand against the wall, holding you up as he nips your lower lips, pressing harder against you. Your cry makes your head fall back, his lips kissing up your throat.

“Fuck you, Satoru.” You grumble, gasping when he grabs your ass, pressing his cock against your eager cunt.

“Lemme make you cum.”

“Here!?”

“No… m’office…lemme feel her pulse around me, fuck.” You whimper then, breaths coming quicker and quicker.

“It doesn’t mean we’re good, though. I’m still m-mad. Just…”

“Be mad, but let me drink you.”

“Goddammit, ugh.” You’re eased down, dizzy as he presses the button to your floor, you try to compose yourself. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know.” Is all he says, softly now, brushing your hair back. “Meet me on break.”

He walks out and you’re shaking, he’s practically beaming, this ass of a man that you can’t stand, but also… love and want. Know he’s got issues out the ass, but fuck you want him, and could it just be sexual? You severely doubt it, not with how you feel as he kisses you, the energy altogether, but your pussy throbbing around nothing is trying to infiltrate your better judgement.

What a day it’s going to be.

“Someone just left a sandwich and coffee. Yum.” Maki says, her and Yuuta have split it in half, you can’t stop the laugh, an insane peal of laughter that makes half the hospital stare at you.

You’re losing your shit, aren’t you?

The day paces as it normally does, aside from stolen glances from a certain blue eyed ass of a man that was your boss. Was he really an ass, though? Or was he sweet, and damaged. But you’re not here to fix someone, not in that way, you want to fix people’s hands, their limbs, stitch them together, make them whole again. Not figuratively.

Literally.

You’re stitching up a patient as Maki walks in, pushing her glasses up just a bit on the bridge of her nose, observing. “You’re good at that now, damn.”

“Lots of suture duty.” You tease, rolling your eyes, smiling as you finish up and give the patient after care instructions. “How was it with Shoko?” You ask.

“Interesting, actually? I am surprised.” You both head to grab coffees, both failing to hold back your yawns.

“Right, I was so intrigued by it, too. Until…”

“Yeah, you’ve had a rough week.” She says, surprisingly soft, but she’s soft in places when it comes to her friends.

“It’s okay, I have to get through this. But thank you.” You hug her tightly, and then tense a bit when Satoru rounds the corner, some sugary concoction in his hand.

“How does he stay that thin?” She says, earning Gojo’s smirk.

“My ears are burning, talking about how handsome I am?” He says, brushing back his hair, back to his usual self, insufferable and cocky.

But you saw a different side of him, a side he clearly keeps hidden, and you hate how badly you want to unravel it, piece by piece, the mystery that is Doctor Gojo, that is Satoru. A carefree, unbothered and youthful man ninety percent of the time, a serious doctor nine percent, and one percent, a mess, vulnerable and distraught, tugging on your damn heart.

“Talking about how you have diabetes in your cup.” You tease then, and he gasps, hand to his chest.

“You two are like old ladies gossiping!”

“Says you.” You roll your eyes, and Maki looks between you both.

“I see something… over there.” She leaves you both now, and Satoru walks a little closer, sipping on his drink, you wipe off the little bit of foam on his lips, finger lingering too long.

“Messy.” You mumble, then he leans low, breath against your ear.

“You’re messy, from my very vivid memory.”

“Shush!” You’re heating up, when he pulls back, lips far too glossy and tempting, destroying you bit by bit.

“Office, meet me in ten.” He turns and walks off then, lanky body in those lavender scrubs and that white coat, you nervously look at your watch, noticing your heart rate is through the roof.

The moment you’re in there, the hunger just unleashes, his hands are all over, on your breasts over your scrubs and your bra, as you kiss him desperately, hand slipping under his scrub top, thumb along the soft white trail of his hair under his belly button. Hungry, desperate, devouring each other, until he’s picked you up, sitting you right on his desk, moaning

Satoru’s slipping his fingers under the stretchy waistband of your blue scrub pants, and once his finger brushes your soaked panties, you cry out softly, covering your mouth as he exhales, leaning further over you. “You’re soaked, sweetheart, you just stay this way?”

Around Satoru, yes, you do.

Your eyes roll back as his fingers brush up and down your panties, pressing even deeper. “G-god…” Is all you manage, letting your hand fall off your face to grip his white coat, pulling him so close. “F-feels so good…”

“Does it, baby?” He murmurs, slipping under them now, your breath is coming faster and faster, moaning softly when he finds your little clit, making your thighs tremble, your tummy clenching in desire. “Missed touching you, miss those pretty little moans.”

He kisses you as his finger rolls in circles, and when your lips connect it’s just too much, you feel too much for him, like something grabbing your heart, squeezing it like a vise. The tingles that shoot from his lips make you soak his fingers, long and cool pressing on your twitchy little clit, all while his mouth consumes you, his plush lips so pliant and hungry.

“Wanna cum f’me, pretty?” His husky words are too much, as you look into the swirling storms of those eyes, hips arching and rolling. But you’re too caught up then, as he slips a finger in, just looking at you.

Eyes that were black last week, dark and desolate, now so eager and bright, sparkling so brilliantly while he stretches you, one finger curling inside as he angles his arm. Eyes that filled with tears, the sadness as two tears had rolled down his cheeks, the desperation as those hands that are playing you gripped your face, mixing with all the pleasure he’s bringing.

“Look at you, fuck…” He’s whispering, and how he does look at you, like you’re everything and anything all at once.

“Satoru…” You’re tearing up as he makes you feel so good, kissing you again, you’re clinging to him while he’s kissing and licking up your neck to your ear, now pressing on the spongy little spot in your slick walls with two fingers. You hear it echoing in the office, how wet you are, as he nips your lower lip.

His cock is aching, tip leaking precum as he hears it, the squelching wetness of your overheated cunt on his fingers, your cheeks flushed so beautiful, eyes just glinting with tears. He pauses, breathless at the sight, all while you’re soaking his hand, his wrist even, as his other slips up the delicate curve of your back, watching you tremble, pressing your spot again and again.

“That’s it, let go for me.” He whispers, and you can’t then, you’re too invested, you’re too…

In love.

“Stop for a moment, please?” Satoru blinks snowy lashes in confusion for just a moment before he pulls back immediately, looking at you with concern.

“What is it, too rough?” He murmurs, so goddamn thoughtful it makes you cry more, and soon he’s panicking, as you’re shaking your head.

“God no, I want you so badly. It’s… I can’t do this casually. It’s too much, you’re so much.” You cup his face, watching the confusion as his fingers now rest on your waist once more, as he tries to control his breathing.

“Let me feel you cum, it’s all I need, we don’t have to sleep to-”

“No, it’s too much. Everything.” You take another breath, trailing a hand down his body, trying to calm your pounding heart, fingers brushing the soft material, your eyes lowering, sticky from tears.

“I’m sorry I said it. I am.” He whispers hoarsely, you shake your head then, taking a breath and resting your forehead on his chest.

“I forgive you, Satoru. I do.”

“Shit…” He exhales in relief, kissing you again, tiltitng your chin up, your head falls back as you cling to his shoulders, he drags you closer, until he’s right between your thighs. “You probably shouldn’t.”

“You just feel how you feel. I feel how I feel. It is different but…” Your hand cups his perfect face now, exhaling, breath tickling his lips, as he aches for you. “This deserves some sort of chance, but a real one. Not… me fucking you because I’m aching to. It can’t be that.”

“Do you want… more? To try for…”

“To try for you, yes. I want to. I want to… know you, Dr. Gojo, know every bit of you, not just what I have seen so far. I want the real you.” You say softly, as he feels his own emotions take hold of him.

Who has ever wanted to truly know Satoru Gojo, the man behind the pretty bright smile? Surely Suguru, but as for women, his experience has always been sexual, or just hateful in the case of Utahime. Friendship perhaps, but never the combination of friendship, of sex, of more, of you ripping open his soul with just a pretty look, god he just enjoyed hearing you breathe.

“Being without you is fucking torture.” He says softly, pulling you even more against him now, to where you can feel how much he wants you. “I’ll do anything for another chance, I’ll try… to open up.”

“That’s all I want, I don’t want to ‘fix you’ or change you, just know you.” You sniffle now, aching to speak those words, that you’re in love, but it’s insanity. “That's all I’ve wanted.”

“Then I promise, I’ll try to be… open. I promise. But… if you hate-”

“Shh.” You touch his lips with your fingertip now, shaking your head as you feel it, his insecurity, the most conceited man deep down is so terrified you will hate who he is. “It couldn’t be further from the truth of what I feel.”

Satoru’s left speechless at you, torn between making you cum, kissing you, holding you, fuck you have his head swimming, his mind whirling. “There’s a lot you don’t know, though. Or think you do.”

“And for me too. I… shit…” You feel it then, the stabbing pain that’s been blissfully gone, making you wince as he presses his fingers on it carefully, frowning at you.

“Hurting again? For how long?”

“Just this week. Not bad like before, more like… stabbing, ugh.”

“Hmm, stress probably doesn’t help. Stress like a pillhead doctor madly obsessed with you?”

“Satoru! Don’t call yourself that.” You whisper the words, head still throbbing, Satoru smiles just a bit. “No self deprecating humor.”

“None at all? Dick could help the headaches-”

“Satoru!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But it really could.” You glare as he chuckles, so happy to just have you in his arms, near him once more. “I can get you some more of that medicine if you need.”

“The one you shot in my ass cheek?” You raise a brow, and earn his more devious smile. “Actually it did help.”

“Still should scan it again soon, the tap should have helped longer.”

“I am under a lot of stress.” Both of your beepers go off then, and you two sigh, as he helps you down off the desk, now towering so tall over you, your head falls back to look at him while he caresses your lips longingly.

“A date, tonight, no matter what. Even if it’s three am. Promise me?” He asks softly, as your beepers go off again, but his arms are on either side of you, again his lips hovering. “You deserve one, a real one, not whatever we’ve been trying and failing royally at.”

“A real date, where we… talk.”

“Then-”

“Talk. We need to just talk, okay? Before…” You brush against him, making his nostrils flare, a teasing little smile under your lashes then. “Before more again.”

“Fuck. Yeah?”

“Yeah, better be a good date, been asking me all this time, hmm?” You dart away then, running out on him after a peck on his cheek, leaving him for just a few moments, trying to pull himself together.

This insane feeling for you, the fear of losing you, is all so much, he’s shaky when he grabs a bottle, hesitating just a bit. He doesn’t want to be fucked up tonight with you, he wants to be all there, but he knows he needs to have some, to be a perfect doctor, to help everyone in the best way he can.

Perfect Doctors can’t have shaky hands.

Perfect Doctors can’t have bad days.

Satoru Gojo is the perfect Doctor, and he can’t fuck up, but he doesn’t want to fuck up with you again, his heart can’t take it. He takes a xanax and puts it under his tongue rather than right up his nose, watching as his hands slowly stop shaking, as he slows his heart rate, the blood pressure dropping just a little, you have him so on edge and needy.

He sucks his fingers, just to taste more of you, that mixes with the sweet and bitter xanax, he’s not sure any two things really taste better, thoughts of snorting it right off your pussy fogging his damn brain. He smacks at his own cheek, shaking himself out of it, walking out to see you commanding a whole fucking room, you’re straddled right on a patient and pressing on their chest as the nurses wheel you.

God you’re fucking impeccable.

Satoru clears out of his obsession with you for just a moment, running in to help you, as your compressions tire your little arms out, you seem so small to him suddenly, on this huge guy pressing as quickly as you can. As they get him to the room you look at Satoru, face exhausted so clearly, he carefully touches your shoulder, fingers brushing against you.

“Let me take over, champ.”

“No I- oh look.” The patient is breathing now, blinking his eyes as he gasps, and sees you, his hands coming to your hips.

Satoru thinks of making his heart stop for good.

You blink rapidly, as the man relaxes, eyeing you with wide eyes then. “Oh my… I’m so sorry I… thank you!?”

“You’re welcome.” You smile softly, the man is probably as buff and probably as tall as Satoru if that’s possible, as you clear your throat and try to get his hands off your hips. “What’s your name, since we’re so personal now?”

He laughs just a bit, smile on his face so big, releasing you as Satoru helps you down, glaring at the patient that dares to try to rizz up his girl after almost dying, who the fuck is he. “Choso. I guess you’re now like my angel huh?”

“Oh no, not an angel.” You giggle a bit at him, at his sweet smile, feeling the absolute glare from Satoru at you as you put fingers to his pulse. “Choso, hmm, what happened? Do you remember?”

“I have a pretty bad heart, unfortunately.” He mumbles, slipping up his shirt to reveal his chest, with a line right down the center, making your own heart hurt for him, with his tired little smile. “It’s on borrowed time while I wait for another.”

“How young were you?” You touch his chest, and Satoru tries to observe you as a doctor, not as the girl he needs, so proud of you as you go over everything, fuck he barely even has direction for you.

You’re a perfect intern, already.

He wishes he was just a little more like you back when he interned, yeah you’re emotional, you are too invested, but he loves it about you, watching it all unfold as it unfortunately looks like the man is giving you heart eyes. Satoru switches to doctor mode, peering now at the medical records that get brought to him by Miwa, frowning then.

“You needed a heart a good two years ago.” Satoru murmurs softly, and you look over at him curiously, Choso smiles a bit, brushing back messy dark hair.

“I think your pretty intern is making my heart better.”

“Oh, no, stop that. Let’s get him on a heparin drip please?” You say to one of the nurses, who runs off while Satoru peers at his number on the list.

“He’s number two actually. So, you’ll have to get admitted, we should monitor this until one becomes available.” Satoru says, and Choso finally peels his violet eyes off you for a moment.

“It could be… too late though?”

“We’ll do everything we can to keep it beating until then. Let’s get a current ultrasound of his heart, see if there’s anything to prolong it.” You nod then, but Choso grabs your hand, and Satoru thinks of fucking his heart up for a split second, as you look down warmly at him.

“Can she do it?” He asks Satoru and he goes to say no, an ultrasound tech will, but you’re already speaking before his brain works.

“I can be here, if you want, but we do have ultrasound techs, they’re so amazing at it too.”

“Could you be?” You nod again, as you finally step out now, frowning as Satoru hands you the charts.

“Shit, he got this as a teen, no wonder. He’s… thirty. He’s so sweet, fuck I hope we can help him.”

“Sweet, huh?” He glares at you with those icy blue eyes, you laugh softly then, shaking your head as you further flip through the pages.

“Satoru, he’s just thankful I saved him. For now, at least.”

“Uh huh.”

“Silly.” You gently brush a hand up his arm, looking around at the bustling hospital, making his skin prick with goosebumps, looking at your pretty face, feeling so possessive he can’t stand it at the moment.

You’re not his.

Not yet.

Why would you choose him? What if someone comes along and promises the damn world to you, what if they want exactly as you do, would you leave him so far behind? How can he ask you to sacrifice so much, is he so selfish, truly, when it comes to you?

He is.

After getting the ultrasound, Satoru has you in his office for a much different reason than earlier, as you both study a teenage heart working overtime to pump through a grown man's body. “It's insane, it's still beating at this age, he clearly takes good care of his body.”

Satoru scowls at you, making you blink a bit and then snort at his statement. “Oh, you like his body huh?”

“You're cute when you’re jealous. Focus or no date, maybe I’ll go have a little dinner with-”

“You’re a brat, fine, intern you tell me the option I have here, because there’s really only one.” You sigh, standing in front of him, he rests his chin on your head, hands coming to your waist, possessively thinking of how only he should, as he inhales your sweet scent.

“An LAVD is his best option, it could give him up to a year or two? And with as high as he is on the list, it shouldn’t be too long. But then, all sorts of potential complications with the surgery.” Your fingers trace the ventricles, so tiny and dark on the scan, of the sweet man’s heart, hating this for him. “But you’ll do the surgery, right Satoru?”

“Of course I will.”

“If anyone can do it right, it’s you.” Your words make his heart falter, while he pulls you even tighter against him, enwrapping you.

“Of course I will, I’m not worried about the surgery, he also seems pretty tough, and a good will, that matters.”

“It’s not fair, though, is it?”

“None of it is, nothing that happens to anyone, sweetheart.” He kisses your temple, enjoying being near you again, how has something that just started become so special. “So, proceed with the LAVD? Or?”

“Monitor him for a couple of days first I think? Before the extreme.” You say softly, and Satoru nods then, pulling you tighter against him. “I’ll go over the options, he seems comfortable with me.”

“Very comfortable.” You laugh, shaking your head and turning around to look up at him, tapping at his pointy chin, then leaning up, hands slipping up his chest.

“He’s sweet and he needs something right now, if he’s comfortable with me, I’ll be there for him. But it doesn’t hurt to have a jealous Gojo.” You grin and wiggle your brows, gasping then as he grips you with his strong hands, leaning low.

“Should I show you how jealous?” He steps you until you’re against his wall, his thigh between yours, vivid images of you arched in his bed filling his mind.

“That date, remember? We have an hour until the shift ends, you gonna pick me up and everything from the house?”

“I sure will. Fine, go on and talk to him heartbreaker, I’ll see about having the staff order a device just in case he agrees. And then…” He kisses your lips again. “I’ll call you when I head to your house.”

“See you then, Doctor Gojo.” You smile as you slip off again, as he rests his head on the wall, the inner workings of his mind spinning in circles when you walk out, he pulls his bottle out of his jacket, wondering if he should have one more bar, but puts it back instead as Miwa walks in.

“Need anything before I head out, Doctor Gojo?” She asks, brightly bouncing up to him, he shakes his head, dismissing her with a little smile.

“I’m good, go home and relax.”

“Oh, I don’t mind helping… at all.” She trails her hand down Gojo’s stomach and he tenses, panicking as he looks over her shoulder, the door cracked open, how shitty would this even look. He grabs her wrist, noticing her flush of excitement.

“I said I’m good, Miwa.”

She pouts now. “You look so worked up, don’t you need a stress relief, you used to enjoy it.”

Satoru firmly takes her hand off, shaking his head. “I’m not interested.”

She looks like she’s about to cry then, irritating Gojo though he supposes he should feel… bad or something? He can’t bring himself to, maybe it’s the xanax but her tears don’t matter. “You’re not even with her though? The intern…”

“I will be.” He smiles then, sighing. “Keep it a secret but I’m in love.”

“In.. love!?”

“Mmm. Yeah shush though. Don’t ask again, mmkay sweets?” Satoru pats her head, firmly pushing her away, as gentle as he can. “Bye bye.” Satoru walks out, leaving her in tears, planning every damn detail of a real date with you as you go and talk to your intriguing new patient.

“Hello, angel.” You flush a bit at the handsome patient, clearly exhausted with dark circles, pale and drawn, but so bright and sweet.

“Well hello, Mr. Kamo.”

“Choso, please.”

“Choso, we have a couple options here. But I’m gonna be honest, they’re both a little risky.” You sit on the bed, just the edge of it near his hips, wires everywhere, monitors beeping with his weak heart. You try not to look as concerned as you feel for him.

“Be real with me, it’s a shitty heart.”’

“No! It did its job and more, but it’s past its prime. You took good care of it, I can tell.” You say with a little wink, earning his blush. “Lifting heavy?”

“Not too heavy, restricted in what I can do. But I try.”

“So, there’s something called an LAVD, a Left Ventricular assist device, basically it can help keep this heart here pumping until you get a transplant. It could be tomorrow, it could be months, you’re high up which is good!”

“But…”

“But, the surgery has got its own risk, we’d be operating on a weak heart.”

“And if I don’t?” You sigh, looking over at him, and he exhales. “Ah, it’s pretty bad huh?”

“It’s not great. Um… we have a few days of leeway at least if you stay and relax here for a bit, think of it, see if something comes.”

“So relaxing here.” He gestures to his wires, and you bite your lip, hating that something like this is happening.

“You’re so… positive.”

“Should I not be?” He smiles lazily, eyes on your lips for a moment, before they slide back up to your thigh. “Got the prettiest doctor ever.”

“You mean Doctor Gojo?” You tease.

“Not my type.” You both laugh, as he inhales from it, touching his chest, the monitor spiking just a bit.

“Flirting is making your heart race, Mr. Kamo.”

“Shit.” You both laugh softly again, you put your hand over his, covered in intricate tattoos.

“We will try everything to get you to live for the transplant, as best as we can, but it’s ultimately your decision. I’ll go over more with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sounds good, doc.”

“Mmm, weird not getting called ‘intern’. Have a good night, then, we’ll monitor you for now, try to get comfortable, okay?” You turn off the lights as dim as you can, handing him the remote. “There’s always Twilight Marathons on channel fifty five.”

“Oh shit, who doesn’t love that?”

You grin as he does. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Sure thing angel.” You roll your eyes, shutting the door quietly, as Satoru texts your phone, making it buzz.

Satoru: I’m off already, I’m going home to get ready. An hour sound good?

You: It’s actually happening!?!?

Satoru: Nothing’s stopping this shit.

You can’t stop the smile from hitting your lips, rushing to the locker room, and soon you’re throwing a million outfits all over the ground, as you yell out Maki’s name, she runs in, seeing you in just your panties whistling. “Damn baby, just stay home with me hmm?”

“Don’t tempt me, now.” You wink and then you both giggle, Yuuta and Toge walk by, and both blush and turn, but Toge runs off, earning you shaking your head and laughing softly.

“You’ll kill that poor boy with those titties.” Maki shuts the door thankfully, and you’re holding up several outfits. “The red top, it’s cold so wear that pretty puffy black jacket with the fur.”

“Oh god this is why I adore you.”

“Only good taste?” Maki sits in your chair, and you wiggle your bros.

“Love you for all sorts of reasons.”

“Ooh baby. No, that’s hot as fuck… those leggings… hmm what about thigh high boots?”

“Yes, shit! I was thinking it was too cold to be sexy, you’ve saved me.” Maki bends down to help you zip up, then you’re throwing the jacket as she dabs on a little makeup, some blush and gloss. 

“Damn you look good, like you slept four hours at least.”

“Bitch!” You both snort, as you work on brushing your hair, then hear the text, that Satoru is here. “Oh shit, I’m okay!?”

“You’re perfect. And hey…” She brushes your hair back carefully, serious Maki is here, not the joking and fun girl. You tense a bit at it, looking up curiously. “Just let yourself… know each other, okay? Sex is cool but…”

“No, I agree. I need to know him. We had sex so soon and…”

“I can’t blame you now.” She winks, and you blush, making your cheeks even brighter under the loose powder along your cheeks. “Allow yourself to feel, to have fun, but be careful.”

“Wise Maki, who knew!?”

“I am pretty amazing.” You hug her then, as the doorbell rings.

“You are. Shit, Toge may kill him, let me go!” You both dart down the stairs, as Toge scowls at Satoru, while he pats his head.

“Hey kiddo. And…” He pauses as you step down, exhaling at the sight of you, so gorgeous, you always are, but seeing you outside of scrubs addled him even further. Like some corny ass rom com from the nineties when you descend the old stairs of your home, leaving him breathless for a moment.

“Hey, Satoru. I’m ready.” You smile at him nervously, as he clears his throat, blush decorating the infamous ‘Dr. Hojo’s’ cheeks, as he opens his mouth and closes it, then opens it again.

“You look gorgeous, shit.” He manages, rubbing the back of his neck, as you shyly look down.

“Thank you, Satoru. You look handsome.” You take in his own appearance, so gorgeous as always, but he’s also got a thick winter coat over him, but it’s this fancy overcoat, looking so good on his lithe frame. His eyes sparkle, bright like you know them to, as he takes your hand, kissing the back of it. “All gentlemanly?”

“Trying to be, sweetheart. Are you ready?” You nod eagerly, as your friends watch you both a little cautiously, as you both walk out into the chilled snow night, nearly christmas, your house has little snowmen and lights, brightening the cool, clear night sky, as you see your breath while you walk to his car.

“It’s so warm, thank you!” You say once you’ve slid into the still running car, nice and toasty, he slides in, a hand on your thigh over your fleece leggings, leaning close to you, so close you taste his sweet breath.

“Are you ready for an actual date with me?” He teases, and you nod, when he eyes your glossy lips. “I need to know that flavor, for scientific purposes.”

“Oh, scientific?” You tease back, he just smirks, and you press a kiss, a quick one, that makes his arm wrap around you, hand at the small of your back, exhaling against them.

“Cherry vanilla.”

“You’re insane, yes!” He’s smirking a bit, big hand under your puffy jacket, pressing on the soft cotton of your sweater, as your arms wrap his neck. “So where is this date?”

“Surprise. Are you ready to go?” His thumb caresses your jaw, studying your heart wrenching beauty in the quiet car, humming with the motor, heat pouring on both of you, though the heat from your bodies far surpasses it.

“I’m ready, Dr. Gojo.”

To know him, to actually know him.

You’re more than ready.

And Satoru, with your taste on his lips, scent filling his car, the sight of you along with the feel of your thigh under his palm, and just how beautiful you are, you fill his every fucking sense. All he can think, over and over, is that he can’t fuck this up, he can’t fuck this chance at you up.

He has to be real, he has to open, finally, and hope that you’ll accept him, because he thinks it just might take him out if you don’t. Little does he know, the words of love threaten to spill with every breath, and you know it’s toxic, maybe bad patterns, but you’d take this man any damn way he was.

I am backkk, I know a few of you were really interested in this so I hope you enjoy where it goes. DON'T worry- Choso will be FINE he is a Denny Duquette reference (this is a Grey's AU aha) but a happy ending for him. I look forward to your comments and now these shouldn't be so far apart- I'm back on track hehe

Taglist #1 (open still!) @lost-resonance @lostfracturess @unfortunately-tia @allofffmypeaches @makingtimemine @antisocialinlw @meg3mis @zoeyflower @wstaley2 @bunheadusa @blue-musingss @ameliariddle @labelt-san @jkslaugh97 @shadeowz @gojo1228 @jaeminaur @httpstoyosi @angel1of-death @seeing-stars-alt @bol0-de-morang0 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @trishiepo0 @inthedarkshadows000 @gina239 @san-it-is-i-guess @pelicanpizza @gojo1228 @ducky1232 @inthedarkshadows000 @eclecticmentalitypersona @burguhndy @levislug @addehehe @sluttyofgojo @msniks @xixflower @ambiguouslady42 @kiaraandrea @jjknanamin @suguruscousin @silverfangmarks @atiny-99 @thatssoambs @kanekisheart @mahalsuya @aldebrana

=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- MDNI- NSFW- a little light angst hitting here now, it's still decently light hearted, an INTENSE sex scene, we are back at the hospital for most of this chap! Warnings- light violence, there is also some insinuation over overuse of prescription meds, smacking (during sex), rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving) teasing, prone bone, creampie. Reader, 26, Dr. Gojo 34- Grey's vibes ✨️

=͟͟͞♡ Word Count- this chap- 12k (longest by farrr)

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

♡ Reblogs and comments appreciated, LONG chap to make up for taking so long ♡

=͟͟͞♡ Part Four =͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist

Part Five

Maki is snickering into her hand, while you palm your forehead, watching Satoru Gojo, your… boyfriend/lover!?- knock your ex down like he is nothing. Satoru is straddling Mahito, laughing maniacally, pulling back and punching his face with a resounding thwack.

“Oooh! We need snacks, Yuta bring em baby.” Yuta eagerly yanks the chips and dip, they both start munching as you glare at them. “What?”

“My money is on Dr. Gojo.” Yuta says.

“Well duh, no bets here!”

“You guys…”

Toge watches with a small smile, coming to stand next to you now, hands in his pockets. “Are you betting too?”

“No.” He says simply, and Maki and Yuta are munching on the chips, as Satoru is punching Mahito again, who is rolling over and grimacing in pain.

“He wants ‘em both beat up.” Yuta says, Toge lets out a little laugh, surprising you, but it’s hard to focus on your chaotic ass roomies when Mahito is getting the breaks beat off him by your very tall, very strong boyfriend. You’d be lying if you didn’t get this flutter in your tummy from it, from how good he looks, the pure manliness of him.

“You’re simping so hard.” Maki teases.

“Shush!”

“Who the fuck are you… ah shit… fuck…” Mahito pulls out from under Satoru now, getting on top of him for just a minute, and you go to yank him off now, surprising him and making Satoru laugh, knuckles sprinkled with blood.

“Mahito what the fuck are you doing? You’re going to need a doctor if you don’t stop now.” You shove at him, he glares, grabbing your wrist.

“If you’d just talk to me, and stop running like you always do.”

“Ah-ah. Off her now.” Satoru goes to walk up, but you hold your hand up, shaking your head.

“We broke up, what more do you need?” He sighs, putting back on these big sad gray eyes, trying to step closer to you, but you step back.

“Sweetheart we just need to talk is all, I don’t want to give up on us, even if you clearly have a… mistake you’ve made.”

“Mistake!? We’ve been done for months! And he’s not a mistake.”

“He is, you just don’t know better. Just give me a moment and I’ll leave you alone forever-”

“Gaslighter.” Toge grumbles, Satoru, Maki and Yuta all laugh, your living room is pure chaos, now Satoru is eating snacks while shirtless and messy, you notice, shaking your head at the people surrounding you.

“Satoru is my boyfriend now, and it’s none of your business. We are done. Talking alone won’t change it.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” He whispers, leaning close, making you tense in disgust.

Fuck you had bad taste didn’t you?

“I am not doing anything to you, you’re the one coming here and punching my boyfriend, uninvited, crashing our party. I need you to leave.”

“Please just…” He grabs your shoulders, the entire room tenses, you wonder if he realizes everyone in here will beat the shit out of him. “Walk me to my car then, and give me just a minute.”

“No way.” Gojo says.

“No fucking way.” Maki says now.

“Fine.”

“What!?” Your friends all shout, even Toge, and you sigh.

“I’ll walk him out and we can get back to Friendsgiving. Okay?” You shake off his touch, walking next to him out of the door, Satoru pauses you, hand on your back.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

“Yes, I’ll be back in a minute.” You kiss his cheek, before stepping out into the evening, seeing your ex coughing just a bit, holding his ribs, you can’t help but feel a little satisfaction. “Listen…”

“No, you listen. I’m willing to forgive all your mistakes, take you back.” You blink at his audacity, while he caresses your cheek, your fingers itch to smack his hand off. “I love you enough to forgive you.”

“Mahito you never loved me, you only love yourself.”

“How can you say that? After all I did, after I stayed with you during all that schooling, during all that interning?”

“You didn’t support me, you just whined and were needy. Don’t even get me started on the rumors of you fucking around too.”

“I never-”

“Enough.” You cut him off again, shaking your head. “I have moved on, I admit I didn’t pay enough attention, but y’know med school is a bitch, and I was exhausted. I needed someone to just… be with me. Not demanding this, or that. I can’t deal with that anymore. Just let it go.”

“You’re such a cold bitch.” You glare then, smacking him right in the face, he glares right back, raising his hand to his cheek, stepping closer.

“Are you serious? No, I’m not cold, and you will not call me a bitch ever again. Literally, I’m done, you’re making a mutual breakup hell.”

“How can you leave me if you loved me?” 

“I… don’t think I did.” You start to let it sink in, what you felt the entire relationship wasn’t like one minute with Satoru, even the moment you met him, not that you can call it love yet, it’s too soon and scary.

But those feelings? Blow anything you’ve had out of the water.

“As I said you’re cold, and a-”

“If you call me a bitch one more time, I will dislocate your jaw and relocate it. You got me?” You ask with a pretty smile, and he steps back, going to his car door now and opening it.

“We’re not done with this conversation.”

“Yes we are.”

He speeds off, peeling tires, you roll your eyes, shaking when you step back into the house, Satoru has one of Yuuta’s shirts on now, it’s clinging to his muscles, way too small on his broad chest. They all look at you, Satoru holds up a glass of wine and you take it gratefully, while he pulls you against his side.

“You okay baby?” You nod, sipping the wine and sighing.

“Are you okay? He hit you.”

“Psh, that? Nah he didn’t do shit.” He taps his abdomen, when the stove starts beeping from the kitchen, you gasp when you see smoke, running over to it now, opening it and seeing the smoking turkey.

“Is it savable? Should I perform CPR?” Maki says worriedly, once the smoke clears however you have an only slightly darkened turkey, turning and grinning at them.

“It’s fine! A little well done.” You’re fanning it, and Satoru’s snorting in laughter.

“Your house is chaotic.” He says then.

Your heart hammers in your chest. Is it too much? He already doesn’t want commitment, and now you have baggage and-

“Love it.” Satoru puts his arms around Yuta and Maki's shoulders now. “I’m cutting the bird, daddy’s home you know.”

“Daddy’s home!?” Maki demands, snorting.

“Gojo I’m not calling you daddy.” He wiggles his brows, letting them go and then grabbing oven mits, helping you pull the turkey up and out, then leaning close after he shuts the oven door.

“Bet you will next time I get you alone.”

*****

Two days later

Friendsgiving turned out fun, but it’s back to work now, you’re getting changed into your scrubs, when your bra gets caught on your sweater. “Shit… Toge, could you help out?”

He’s the only one in there with you that you’re comfy with, but he turns bright red, just staring at your back. He then runs off, slamming his locker, leaving your upper half folded into the sweater, you curse internally, you’re already having a shitty morning. You found a zit on your face, you are a little hungover from too much wine, and you barely got sleep last night.

And now, you’re late, and Gojo hates when one of you is late, for someone so relaxed and late himself to shit, he seems to have no tolerance for it from his interns. You hastily keep trying to get out of your sweater until your arms are trapped, and you hear your name being called out, then a burst of laughter.

“Intern, ya need help?” Comes Satoru's amused voice, you glare into your sweater.

“Oh just do it!” He comes to you, quickly unlatching your bra, you free yourself, hair a mess, exhaling and looking at him, expecting amusement, but he's staring at your exposed breasts, eyes dilated. “Not gonna make fun of me?”

He gulps now, helping get the soft threads from the hooks of your bra strap. “Too pretty.”

You feel the heat on your cheeks from his praise. “Oh?”

“Oh. Turn around.” He clears his throat, you turn and he helps re snap your bra on, fingertips trailing down between your shoulder blades, making you tremble, when Dr. Nanami walks in suddenly, you step away, but Gojo’s fingertips stay.

“Satoru, seriously?” Nanami says. Satoru clears his throat now, looking at you when you turn, throwing the scrub top over your chest.

“Was helping her, she was… stuck.”

“That's what we're calling it?”

“I really was stuck, Doctor Nanami.” He shakes his head and sighs.

“Be more cautious.” He goes to his locker now, taking his jacket and shirt off, when you see him you're enamored for just a moment, earning Satoru standing in front of you.

“Are you checking him out!?”

“What!? No! I swear. No?” Nanami smiles just a bit, you swear you see him smirk, though you’re not sure if it’s your imagination.

“You'll make me jealous.” Satoru pouts and you giggle, looking around before giving him a little kiss.

“I love your body. He's just built like a whole action star, it threw me off. It's ridiculous how jacked he is.” You whisper, Satoru scoffs.

“I heard all of that, you know. You two calm down, get to work.” Nanami says, all dressed now and serious.

“Yes sir!” You both salute him, darting out now.

“You think he's hot!” Satoru huffs.

“Satoru really? Are you getting jealous?” He glares now, stomping away. “Really now?”

“You get to do charts, missy.” Satoru orders minutes later, as Maki and Yuta try to keep their laughter in, handing you stacks of them.

“What, I swear you're so immature!”

“Am not. Your turn for charts. Maki, wanna scrub in?” Maki grins.

“Sorry he's mad at you, but hell yeah.” You glare at the both of them, setting the charts down on the table with a sigh.

“Oh whatever. Go on then.” Satoru leans down over you as you plop down in the seat, breath tickling your ear, lips just a tease.

“You're my girlfriend and my intern.” You pause again, it makes you way too happy when he says it, damn near giddy. “Check him out with your mouth wide open again and I'll never let you out of paperwork.”

“My mouth was not open!” He just smirks and everyone runs off to their assignments.

Sleeping with your boss has the opposite of perks.

*****

Your hands are aching from paperwork, you’re stretching them as Satoru enters the elevator now, still glaring at you, you both are silent as the doors shut. You gently brush the backs of your fingers against his, thinking he’s so mad still he may pull away, but he brushes his back, looking down at you then with those eyes of his, the ones that ruin you.

“Satoru, I was just teasing, I think… well I think you’re the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, okay?” You say softly, he grins then, big wolfy grin.

“Knew it.”

“Oh god.” You roll your eyes, pulling your hand away, he turns and presses you against the wall now, making your breath catch. Your hands slid up his white lab coat, as his lips were just a breath away.

“I was jealous. I only want you looking at me.” He kisses you softly, a brush of his lips now.

“For someone who doesn’t ever want anything serious, you’re very serious about this.” He blinks, pulling back now, and you curse under your breath. “Sorry, I’ve been holding shit in I think.”

“About the no marriage thing? I thought you understood.” He eases back, you sigh, looking down at your shoes then.

“I understand just fine, but it’s nowhere near how I feel about relationships.”

“Are you so old fashioned?” He teases, you shrug, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess. Like I could maybe go without the paper, but I want to live with the person I end up in love with, I want kids.”

He blinks in confusion. “As a doctor?”

“Yes, as a doctor. I want a family of my own, I don’t really have one.” You break off a bit as it’s quiet now. “None of those things have to happen now, but they are things I will want in the future. I absolutely love being with you, but I don’t know if I can sacrifice that.” He blinks once more, opening his mouth and then closing it.

“Are you saying we’re done already?” He whispers, you shake your head then, a hand on his shoulder.

“Not at all. It’s just I don’t know what the future would be for us. I’m overthinking it, I know we’ve only hooked up and had like a couple dates. But…”

“I just can’t change overnight.” He says, breaking you now.

“I know. I don’t expect you to, but I had to get it out there, it’s been eating at me is all. For now, take it one day at a time?” He nods, leaning down and cupping your face, and you feel far too much.

“I respect what you want. Can you respect what I want?”

You nod, and he exhales again, kissing you, as the elevator dings, you both separate just in time, walking side by side, his kiss radiating off your lips. “I am sorry I threw that on you…” You murmur.

“Nah, it’s fine, intern.” He smiles just a bit. “How about another date, you need to make it up to me.”

“I can do that if you take me off chart duty.” He snorts, nodding then. “All right, date where?”

“Do you get motion sickness?” You giggle at the question, curiously shaking your head. “Alright then meet me after your shift.”

“Sounds good, Doctor Gojo.” You ache to kiss him then, you feel awful for having spilled all of that out, but he’s giving you a bright smile, so you hope everything will work itself out.

“Sutures now.”

“Really?” You glare, and he sticks his tongue out. Clearly he’s not done punishing you for the day.

You’re later sitting and stitching up a patient’s shoulder, when Maki walks in, all excited and waving her arms, breathless and excited. “Bitch we decannulated a fucking heart.”

“Oh go on, rub it in.” Yuta grumbles, the patient watches you all with amusement, you smile apologetically.

“Intern things.” You explain, when Toge comes in, glaring at you suddenly. “What are you so mad about?”

He says nothing, sitting down in a seat, as do Yuta and Maki, nibbling on snacks, the shift is finally almost done for the day. “You decannulate a heart and I was stuck on baby duty with Dr. Shoko.”

“Dr. Shoko is awesome though.” You counter, Yuta sighs.

“Sure, but I want to decannulate hearts. Who did you work under, Maki?”

“Dr. Gojo. Thanks for pissing him off babes.” She winks at you, the patient giggles now as you finish up.

“Have you angered your boyfriend?” They ask, you gasp, and Yuta and Maki snicker, but Toge still is glaring. “Or… is he your boyfriend?”

“Toge? No he’s my best friend, or he was. He’s mad at me.”

“Clearly.” The patient agrees, Toge stands then, glaring at you once more, walking right out, Maki and Yuta make an ‘oooh’ sound.

“What’s wrong this time?” You demand, and Yuta sighs, nibbling on his cookie and leaning back.

“You’re with Gojo, it’s got him upset. Plus I heard you got naked right in front of Toge this morning.”

“Whatever, I got stuck in my sweater and he ran. We all get naked, you know, it’s a locker room.” You’re using the antiseptic carefully, bandaging the patient up now. “How are you feeling?”

“The morphine is great.” You three snort in laughter now. “How’d you piss both your boyfriends off?”

“Oh god.” You lean back in your spin chair, yanking off your latex gloves and tossing them in the waste bin then. “I angered the one boyfriend by saying Dr. Nanami was hot.”

“You wanna bang the entire hospital.” Maki earns you throwing a paper cup in her direction. “What? It’s true.”

“Says you. Oh… they’re together, too.” You whisper to the patient, earning both of them blushing.

“No wonder Toge’s mad at you, you’re annoying.” Yuta sticks his tongue out now, and you smirk, wiggling your brows.

“Oh am I? Thought you all loved me!?”

“We do sometimes.” Yuta grins at you.

“Keep pissing him off please.” Maki says, standing and winking.

“Keep pissing who off?” Comes Doctor Gojo’s voice now, as he waltzes right into the room, and the patient gasps.

“Oh, no wonder, I’d date him too.” Gojo snorts, covering his face for a moment, as you’re a blushing mess now.

“Right? I’m the most handsome doctor, hmm?” He grins at the patient, who has to fan themselves then.

“Oh yes.”

“See? Maybe if you agreed you could have decannulated a heart.” Gojo says, and you sigh, standing up now.

“No date.”

“What!?”

You walk right past him, and soon Gojo has chased you down, you glare at him before shutting yourself in one of the bunk rooms, Satoru sneaks right in though, devious smirk still on his handsome face when he presses you against the door. Your breath catches, being alone with him always sets you on fire, the way his big hands slip under your scrub top.

Your body reacts when his hands press into your waist, sliding up the curve of it, thumbs under the swells of your breasts in your lacy bra. Your own hands glide up his chest, resting where his heart is thudding steadily, you see the glint in his pretty eyes, how they’re lidded, lashes casting shadows on his face in the dark little room.

“My intern is kind of a brat.” Gojo’s voice is husky, you giggle then, shaking your head. “Oh no? She’s been really bratty all day.”

“Maybe you should cheer her up a bit?” You tease, he moans softly, kissing you, tongues entwining as his hand slips down your tummy, it trembles when his fingers go under the waistband of your scrubs.

“Cheer you up, like this? Fuck…” He moans when he finds you, soaking wet against your panties, you whine out softly, covering your mouth then, when he rolls his finger in a little circle.

Gojo could say he did not want to date or even do anything but fuck, and you fear your body would go along with it. You’re crying out when you kiss him again, when he bends down and angles his arm just so, rubbing your clit side to side, pinching it with two long fingers. You’re rubbing him over his scrub pants then, feeling him thicken under your touch, he gasps against your neck.

“Fuck you’re so wet, baby. All for me, hmm?” You nod eagerly, as he nips your neck with sharp teeth. “Say it.”

“All f-for you-” Both of your pagers go off then, you curse, overheated, as does he, adjusting himself with a wince. “Dammit.”

“I know.” He cups your face with one hand gently, brushing back your hair gently, sending shivers down your spine at how good you feel when he looks at you. “Tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses you once more, then you both walk out, as an ambulance is waiting out front, carrying a woman on a stretcher, you both run out then together, Gojo starts asking questions as you get a look at her, covered in blood.

“Car accident?” He says, and the EMT nods.

“There is glass everywhere.” He takes his hand off where he’s applied pressure on her chest, you take over, placing your hand where there is blood gushing out, she smiles up at you as if she’s fine.

“You’re pretty.” She says, you smile softly then, as does Satoru.

“She is, isn’t she?” He says with a wink, as you all start walking her into the hospital and through the halls.

“You’re pretty too. Pretty doctors.” She muses with a giggle, you realize she’s so clearly in shock then.

“Right, we have all kinds of pretty doctors here.” You whisper, and now as you get into a room, Satoru starts ordering everyone, from the nurse’s assistant, to the nurses. They start hooking her up to an IV and oxygen, your hand is still pressed firmly against the wound, which is bleeding under your touch.

“Can you tell us your name, love?” Satoru asks, while everyone starts flitting around her, and Satoru is checking her stomach, seeing the wounds on her skin, but he maintains his calm and sweet demeanor, amazing you and everyone that ever watches him.

“Yes, my name is Michelle, pretty Doctor.” He smirks, you smile at her, while she finally looks down at where your hand is pressed.

“Call me Doctor Gojo. Alright Michelle?” 

“Doctor Gojo. And your name?” She repeats it, sighing then. “And you’re keeping me from bleeding out? You’re an angel.”

“She’s no angel.” Gojo teases, she laughs a bit then winces. “I know I’m hilarious but you’re not allowed to laugh, that’s an order.”

“Got it.” She takes a breath as Gojo gently takes your hand off her stomach.

“It stopped bleeding, that’s perfect. Good job intern.”

“I just put pressure, that’s all. Should I wrap her and get her to CT?”

“Perfect. After that give me the results so we can see our next step. Also, Miwa can you pump our lovely patient full of the good stuff?” He asks, earning Michelle’s grin when Miwa hits the button.

“Oh I’m in love with you Doctor.”

“Everyone is.” You roll your eyes and smile as he comes over to you then, leaning close to your ear. “We may be late for our date.”

“We can always rain check you know.” He peeks at his watch, humming to himself then.

“It’ll be too late for what I want to do when we finish, so let’s try tomorrow. Alright get to it, intern.”

You take Michelle to get a CT scan, and soon you’re in Doctor Gojo’s office, you’re so fatigued you can feel the day starting to creep on you, yawning as you hand him scan, he hangs it up on the board, turning on the light. You both stand over it, you feel a little dizzy, barely having eaten all day, like you’ll fall on your feet, but you push through.

 “Can I ask you something, intern?” Satoru’s voice makes you focus.

“Sure Doctor Gojo.”

“You want kids when you’re going on a seventeen hour shift?” He raises a thin white brow, you feel heat creeping up your cheeks at the question.

“I don’t want to stay doing trauma, Doctor Gojo.” Your admission has him confused, clearly.

“No?” He crosses his arms, looking at you curiously.

“No, I ideally would enjoy working for a cardiovascular office, but of course I have a lot to learn and go before I can do that.”

“So you’ll leave me when your internship ends?”

“I didn’t say all that. I think that if I had a family I’d need a more manageable schedule is all. But, why ask? I understand you won’t, and we are far, far from getting to anywhere like that anyway.”

“Did your ex want ‘em? Kids.”

“Yuck.” He snorts then. “Sure he did, but thank god I didn’t go there with him, what I felt for him…”

“Go on.”

“Satoru, we should focus.”

“What you felt for him?”

“It’s nothing like what I feel for you.” He exhales, eyes locking on yours, drifting to your lips. “Not even a tiny bit of what I feel, which is fucking scary.”

“It is scary, isn’t it? But you’re brave hmm?” His voice is like a caress that washes over you, as he steps so close to you, filling your nostrils with his expensive cologne, your body thrumming with want for him.

“I try to be.” Your voice is just a breath, really.

“I think you’re perfect for the trauma ward, I can’t convince you but I think you’d be bored doing anything else. And maybe I’ll convince you that you don’t want a little brat whining.” You glare at him, the spell he’s cast over.

“Satoru, you're the worst.” He’s chuckling now.

“I’ll make you work under Shoko all goddamn month, nothing but whiny babies slobbering all over your scrubs.”

“I love babies, so go for it.” He rolls his pretty blue eyes, shaking his head and pointing to her scan then.

“Sure you do. Alright, now take a look brat.”

“Brat!? You’re the brat here.” You lean forward, evaluating the scan, seeing her tummy then. “No internal bleeding whatsoever.”

“Mmhmm, she got lucky, what else do you see?”

“Aside from the nasty gash she had, just blunt abdominal trauma, of course her face also needs stitches in several areas from the airbag going off. Her spleen is a little swollen though?”

“So the best course of action?”

“Laparotomy.”

“Good girl.” You melt, and he knows it, leaning down and tapping your nose. “Wanna scrub in?”

“Is this our date!? Yes!” He pops a kiss on your nose now, the tension of your earlier conversations fading now.

Soon you’re scrubbing in with Satoru, masks on, he’s got his surgical glasses propped up on his nose as he starts drying his hands with you. “You know what we’re doing here, right?”

“Yes, I will follow your orders Daddy Gojo.” You wink and he snorts in laughter, leaning close to you for a moment.

“You make fun of that but just wait.”

“Mmhmm.”

You follow him into the O.R. which is freezing cold, goosebumps prick along your arms, the lights overhead glaring brightly, Michelle is already out. There are heat packs on her legs and arms when you start prepping her, Gojo’s hand is on your back when you are ready, giving you a gentle push forward, you blink in surprise then, looking at him.

“I’ll guide you through this one.” He murmurs, your heart thuds in your chest, as the surgical nurse starts handing you tools, you’re shaking internally but on the outside you are completely steady, so ready to show him what you can do.

The beeps of the monitors are a steady rhythm as you both work side by side, he is cutting into her skin with a scalpel, the smell of the disinfectant and antiseptic fill the room, but it mixes with Satoru’s scent. Gojo’s voice is calm, guiding you through the process, and you focus intently, not wanting to make a single mistake. This wasn’t a cadaver, it was a person.

Every movement is precise and careful, as you exhale into your mask, pressing down and separating the layer of fat over the spleen. “Perfect, you’re doing great.” He assures you, making the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Thank you Doctor.” Satoru begins to take over his incision, as you pack around it, watching his movements like a hawk, then you notice it, a faint little glimmer in several places on her spleen.

You look up at Gojo, and his eyes are narrowed, he’s frowning now. He leans in closer, looking at the area you’re working on.

“You’ve found something, haven’t you intern?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You whisper, and he takes the scalpel from your hand, making a small cut, and you see it, a tiny piece of glass embedded in the muscle. “A few pieces of glass, they don’t appear to be very big though.”

“Good catch intern. We’ll have to remove it carefully, we don’t want to cause more damage. So I think on this part you should watch me work my magic, hmm?” The nurses in the room sigh in adoration, you smile behind your mask at his overt confidence, but you love it actually.

“Yes of course, I’d love to watch.” You hand him the tools, watching as he works with the precision of a master sculptor, his hands work with effortless grace as he is carefully removing the shards of glass without causing any further harm. “You’re so precise.”

“You have to be, but it comes with practice. There.” The shards of glass make a little tink sound as he puts them in the metal dish.

The surgery continues, and you assist where you can, his hands guiding yours, showing you the right amount of pressure, the right angle to hold the tools. You’re lost in the rhythm of it, the focus so intense it’s almost meditative, it’s so comfortable working side by side with him, you try to absorb everything he’s showing you, hoping it all sinks into your brain.

You can’t even imagine being as good as he is, when he’s stitching her up, the sutures were absolutely perfect, but he gestures for you to come over when he’s stitching her skin. “Now, put those sutures to work, intern.” He teases, standing behind you.

“Is that why you had me on suture duty?” You whisper, taking the needle and thread, gently pulling.

“Nah, I was totally punishing you.” His words in your ear make you heat up, you shake it off, focusing, and as the time ticks by, the surgery is a success, you’re both exhausted but exhilarated. You step back, letting the nurses clean up, and Gojo turns to you, pulling down his mask.

“You did good, Intern.” He says, his voice tired but proud, and you feel a warm glow spread through your chest at his praise.

“Thank you Doctor Gojo.”

It’s only about an hour later than your shift, but your friends have already gone home, as you and Satoru get changed in the locker room. It’s so comfortable with him, everything, surgery, the quiet in the mornings and afternoons, it makes you wonder at the ease it is to just be with him.

He surprises you when you’re taking off your scrub top, his big hands grabbing at your waist, pressing kisses on the nape of your neck. “You know, if you want kids so bad, we could pretend that I’m knocking you up.”

The filthy thoughts he’s putting in your brain wreck you, you shove them down as best as you can. “You’re the worst, Hojo.”

He snorts, as you turn, his fingers caressing up and down your waist, you nervously peek around. “No baby I’m the best.”

You’re aching for him, for his fingers caressing your skin, wanting him so much you can’t stand it. All the memories of the other night fill you, remembering his lips, his touch. His…

“We shouldn’t.”

“Mmm, I know.” He kisses you then, mouth pressing against yours, your lips part in a gasp as his tongue overtakes your mouth, swirling with yours, as he presses your back against the locker. “Could fill you up with so much cum though, huh?”

“Shh.” You’re melting in his arms, as he’s slipping his hands down your hips, your back, gripping your ass over your jeans, your nipples press through your lacy bra against his hard chest, your hands entwining in his silky white locks. You feel your tummy clenching with desire when he pulls you against him.

“Come to my place for a bit.” He eases back as you both hear footsteps, Suguru walks in looking exhausted, smirking at the two of you then.

“The star intern, hmm? How’d the car accident surgery go?” He asks, heading to his locker and easing off his coat, Satoru covers your face then, you giggle.

“Stop it!”

“No I don’t need you ogling him, brat.” Suguru’s chuckle fills the room, you yank down his hand and Satoru’s face is directly in front of yours.

“Am I that attractive that you’re worried about me?” Suguru asks, you turn and slip your sweater on then.

“Sure are baby boy.” Satoru blows Suguru kisses.

“Ugh, you sure you wanna date this guy?” Suguru asks, you turn and find he’s already slipped on a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Of course she does, I’m amazing.” Satoru says, you finish getting your things together as Suguru, you and Satoru leave the hospital, all completely wiped.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow, lovebirds.” He says with a yawn, leaving Satoru and you by your giant old SUV.

“Why do you drive this ancient thing?” You glare at him.

“It’s my baby.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Well, I’m not coming over.”

He presses you against the car door, hands on either side of you. “Yeah you are, I’ll even let you stay the night.”

“You let girls stay the night? Isn’t that too much for a Hojo?” Satoru sighs, easing back just a bit as you take a breath.

“I liked cuddling with you, alright?” Your heart beats fast inside your chest at his soft confession. “You can wear one of my big shirts.”

“It’s sounding better and better… maybe.”

“I’ll make cocoa.”

“Sold. Follow you there?” With another kiss you’re back in your car, nerves hitting as you think of seeing his home, it’s not very far as you drive in the evening, right behind Satoru’s fancy little sports car.

When you pull up it’s about as beautiful as you imagined it would be, if not exceeding your expectations, the house is gorgeous and huge, but nothing as ostentatious as his parents mansion. It was a little more simple and modern, you step out of the car into the chilled air that’s rapidly cooling, making you shiver just a bit when he hops out of his car.

“It’s beautiful here.” You murmur, walking up to the porch now, Satoru unlocks the doors, ushering you in, you don’t know what you expect it to look like inside, but it’s so warm and inviting, the cream colored walls and polished wooden floors. The living room has a giant modern couch and a wall of windows showing the city skyline, black curtains pulled back just so.

“My humble abode.” You both take off your shoes then.

“Humble!? Nothing about you is humble.”

“Sure I am. I like your place too, you know.”

“Mine looks so trash now.”

“Nah, your place is just very lived in.” Your eyes dart around, it’s stupidly clean, aside from papers scattered across the dining room table, his kitchen is huge and has the newest stainless steel appliances, making your old oven and fridge look like shit honestly. But, it’s gorgeous, just like Doctor Gojo.

You eye a large black piano, a baby grand then, you have one of those collecting dust in the attic, it was your dad’s and it hurts too much to look at. But you remember playing next to him as he taught you, you remember loving it so much until he was gone, you wonder if you remember it, how to tap on the keys like you used to.

You realize you’re in a deep memory when his hands on your shoulders jolt you. “Like the piano or something?” He asks, you look away then, and he sees a glimmer in your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Just memories, sorry.” You brush your eyes, irritated at the emotions, looking away now.

“Why say sorry? What memories?”

“Just… I used to enjoy the piano. Do you play?” You ask, trying to keep your voice bright.

“A little, but it’s more for the aesthetic. Do you still play?”

“It’s been so long but, I was pretty good at it.” Your fingers run over the keys delicately.

“Would you play for me? I’ll make us that cocoa.” You feel your nerves as you nod, sitting down now.

“Let’s see if I remember anything.” The piano is well cared for, and the keys are smooth under your fingers as you start playing, the melody to a song you’ve had stuck in your head from a long time ago.

Satoru hears the melody then, and he watches you, enamored as he sees the way your fingers dance across the keys. You are clearly being modest because your level of experience seems ridiculous. Your brows go together in concentration, the soft lights overhead dancing across your pretty face, casting little shadows on your delicate features.

Fuck you’re pretty.

Your words earlier hurt him, to think he could lose you before he has even had a chance with you, somehow Satoru already misses you when he’s not in your presence, and it makes him ache. He knows he hurt you when he told you how he is, and that you could likely have anyone, just look at you, beautiful, smart, funny. Talented not just as an intern, but so much more.

He doesn’t know if he’s expressed just how much he cares, just how much he feels so quickly. You are smiling up at him, a little nervous he can tell, he should be making the cocoa but he’s frozen in place, as you don’t even look at the keys, fingers drifting across effortlessly. He’s seen your steady hands at work today, but now they glide perfectly, like you’re made to play.

You slow down then, finishing the melody, one he’s never heard, but it feels sweet and nostalgic somehow to him, it feels a bit like being with you. It was so easy to hold you in his arms, to watch that cute nose scrunch up when he taps it, it was easy to work with you. So easy it scares the fuck out of him.

But when he was inside of you? 

God that made it to where all he can think about is sinking inside your heat again, of burying his face between your thighs, lapping your juices up, and fuck there was so much, you get so wet for him. He’s never felt anything like his cock inside your perfect pussy, like your lips against his, there was nothing like when he’d cum inside you.

But you do want different things, and Satoru couldn’t give you that, could he? He couldn’t give you a ring and a wedding, and he’d never wanted kids. He’d want you to himself, he’d want you two to do anything and everything, and he wants these things insanely fast, a pace that terrifies him.

He gets jealous when men look at you already, and they all do, the beautiful intern with the sweet smile, even Nanami and Suguru had mentioned how pretty and sweet you were in passing. He had been angry before he even got with you, before he even felt you, before he even kissed you, even that day you had walked in for the first time.

He’d tried to ask you out, he honestly thought he’d love to fuck you, he didn’t date really, but you not were just hard to get, you intrigued him, your mind and how it works, the way you feel so passionately. You’re a little insane, you break the rules, you are competitive as fuck, he started admiring that all so much, along with your scent, your looks, your energy.

Satoru has it bad for you, in fact in his almost thirty four years he has never felt like this, he can’t think of anything but you. All the girls he’d messed with previously he’s had to firmly turn down, because just your kisses alone are better than anything they can do for him. You are something else, driving him to think of more, to question more, in the hospital and out of it.

But could you really handle all of him, the parts he has never shown anyone, aside from his best friends, the depression he hides behind jokes and smiles, the vices he has. Things he’d never share in a million fucking years with any woman, but he wants to share them with you, he wants you to know him, but when you really do, on top of your differences?

You’d probably leave him.

“You’re insanely good. How long has it been?” He asks then, your cheeks turn this cute shade, you’re biting your lower lip, hands falling off the keys nervously.

“Years, I guess the muscle memory is still there. Um… I played with my dad.” Satoru sits next to you on the bench then, his eyes on you are so intense it’s like he’s peering into your soul, you blush and look back down, continuing to play, feeling the emotions flow through your fingertips.

“Did he teach you?” Satoru asks softly.

“Yeah, he did. But I don’t think anyone was as good as him, he was a professional for sure. Now it’s gathering dust.” Satoru brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear as you finish and he’s quiet for a moment.

“That was beautiful, how you play.” He says, so softly you almost don’t hear it, but his words warm you up inside, making your heart flutter.

“Thank you, Satoru. Thank you.” You feel emotions hitting when he leans down, kissing you on the piano bench, so soft and sweet, not the hungry passionate kisses that you two have shared. It’s so gentle it breaks your heart, you pull back then, blinking tears back. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you, about your opinions. I respect them, I promise I don’t want to change you.”

He gulps then, thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I don’t want to change you either, I want to know you, know all of you.” His hands slip down to your waist now, pressing you against his side as he hugs you, resting his chin on your head. “Every bit, what makes you tick.”

“I want to know you.” You kiss up his throat now, earning a quiet little moan, pecking a trail up his sharp jaw, all the way to his ear. “I want to know what makes you tick, what makes you crazy.”

“You make me fucking crazy.” He lays you down then, right on the piano bench, kissing down your throat, your back arches, his hands slipping up your sweater. “You turn me on by suturing a spleen somehow.”

You giggle, breathless, he hovers over you, soft white hair falling just so, you brush it back as his swirling blue storms drink you in. “You’d turn me on more if I got to see you decannulate a heart.”

Satoru smirks, shaking his head. “You were a bad girl, maybe that will teach you, hmm?”

“Maybe it will. Maybe I need more lessons-ah!” Satoru snatches you up then, your legs are around his narrow hips, arms wrapping his neck, his hands gripping your ass over denim as he carries you through his stunning house, directly into his bedroom, spotless aside from rumpled sheets, he lays you down then, you hastily pull your top off, as he works your jeans.

He’s wiggling them down off your hips, leaving you in your bra and panties, you yank off his shirt, revealing his chiseled frame, the one that makes your pussy clench around nothing. Just looking at his hard body, when he’s down to just his black boxers, laying over you and yanking you by your hips, his hands press into your pelvis as his lips kiss down your tummy.

Satoru’s lapping at the lacy fabric covering your cunt now, tongue slathering the thin material, as he looks up at you, so sexy you can’t really explain, you can’t explain what it’s like to have Satoru Gojo between your thighs. He’s open mouth kissing you through your fabric, teasing you, as your wetness drools down, making your panties sticky and dewy.

“Please, Satoru…” He is looking up at you under his snowy lashes, lips turning up at one corner, toying with your panties now, a finger just barely brushing, your hips jerk, soaking him from a touch.

“Please what, baby?” Satoru asks, feigning innocence.

“Please take them off.” Your voice is hoarse, he kisses back up your tummy, now lavishing your nipples over the lace, your fingers grip his strong shoulders, head falling back in pleasure. “Take that off too.”

“So slutty for me, aren’t you? Desperate, whiny, almost pathetic for me, but not quite enough.” His words fuck you mentally then, you’re sputtering, trying to think of a damn thing to say when he’s biting your nipples over the lace.

“Please! Off, please, please off.” Soft cries echo in his quiet room, Satoru smirks then, leaning on one arm over you, the other rubbing your clit over your panties in little circles. “Satoru t-take em off.”

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” He cooes, smacking your pussy then, you yelp at it, making you ache, you go to slide them off and he grabs your wrists with one big hand.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good Satoru. Please.” You look up at him, tears of frustration in your eyes, he moans then, kissing you, slowly unsnapping your bra, tossing it on the floor, staring at your pretty titties hungrily.

“Look at you, fuck.” You’re pulling at him desperately, tugging him closer, until he’s got a thigh between yours, and you’re grinding your cunt on him. “So desperate you’ll hump my thigh?”

“Shh.” Is all you manage, cheeks flushed as you rub up and down, he’s kissing you, chuckling like the cocky asshole he is. “Need you, please.”

He pauses then at your words, leaning up and looking down at you, his expression going feral then, pupils shrunk to pinpoints. “Need me?”

“Need you now.” He groans, finally taking your panties off, but he rips the delicate fabric, shocking you as he reduces it to scraps.

You would complain about the expensive underwear, but he’s bent his head down between your thighs, diving his tongue deep into your tight little hole, spreading your lips wide as he drinks you. His hot wet muscle is fucking your walls, which convulse around it, his nose bumping your engorged clit, you’re jerking, hips rising up, his hands bruising your hips.

“Oh my God, oh my- ah!” Satoru moans against you, watching your every move, each way your body moves, pulling back and slipping two long fingers in you, crooking up just so. “F-fuck!”

“Your anatomy, it’s so perfect, so easy for me.” He whispers, lapping the tip of his tongue against your clit while his fingers curl, your juices flowing down his fingers, loud and sloppy in the room. “That’s it, you’re close aren’t you?”

You nod weakly, Satoru looks at you then, and you’re lost in him, how can he look at you that intensely, like you’re the only one he’s ever looked at. Your nails press into his shoulders when he works you so well, with his tongue, with his fingers, pressing you over and over the edge until you're falling.

You see white hot stars burst behind your eyes as your orgasm wrecks you, to the point you’re drooling while Satoru’s sucking and humming on your clit, body coated in a thin sheen of sweat when he leans up, kissing your tummy. You’re literally jerking as he exhales over your skin, sobbing out at how good every inch of you feels, he’s trailing fingertips up between your breasts, to your nipples.

“T-Toru…” You’re breathless when he’s leaning over you, hand under your chin, gripping it tightly.

“Toru?” His voice is soft, as he kisses your lower lip, teeth indentations from you biting it. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You’re messing my head up, don’t say things like that.” Your voice is hoarse and weak, he frowns then just a bit, eyes assessing your every feature.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. Let me call you beautiful.” You blink back emotions when you try to gather yourself, he kisses your lips, taking you over now, you taste your honeyed arousal all over his plump lips. “You are.”

“Bet you say it to all the girls.” You tease softly, he shakes his head, leaning back up and tracing your face with his thumb.

“No, I use terms like hot, or pretty, or cute. Beautiful applies to my very annoying little intern in my bed.” You melt fully for him, dragging him down, sighing at how good he feels as you arch your hips.

“Thank you, Satoru.”

“There, was it so hard?”

“It is pretty hard.” You reach down, stroking his length then, he sucks in a breath, pink tingeing his cheeks when you slide down his boxers over his firm ass, hands gripping it as you grin. “You have a bubble butt, Toru.”

“A what now?” He glares, but it doesn’t last long, not when you’re stroking his length from the base to the tip, rolling his pearly precum along the slit, sliding it up to your mouth, kitten licking it. “Fuck.”

At that he’s got your thigh up high, filling you with his cock in one stroke, you scream out, the last two times you all had played, you stayed moderately quiet, but you were all alone, and your cries are echoing in the room as he thrusts his cock in deeper. In just a couple thrusts, he’s shoved all his inches in you, and fuck there are so many, you’re pulsing around his length, whimpering.

“Fucking feel her, gripping me s’tight…” He’s huffing, pulling back, shoving his cock to the hilt, tip smashing your cervix, you’re convulsing around him, cunt drooling all the way down until it’s pooling down your ass, down to the blankets. “Hear your slutty pussy huh?”

“Mmhmm!” Your brain is fucked right along with your body while he pumps his cock inside you, stretching you so deliciously, skin burning now, you’re clinging to him when he flips you suddenly, taking your breath away.

He pulls your hips up, smacking your ass, you gasp at the sensation, when he’s inching back inside you. “Look at you, gonna leave handprints all over your pretty little ass.”

“Please.” Is all you manage, he moans, smacking each cheek again, you’ve never done anything like this, but you’re cumming when he shoves in fully, rolling his hips just so, his drooly tip pressing on your cervix. Your eyes roll back as he smacks your ass again, the stinging making you wetter.

“That’s it, feel you tryna milk me.” Satoru is so fucked out right with you, viewing your ass covered in his hand prints now, he takes your hand, putting one behind your back, gripping your delicate wrist. “This okay?”

“Y-yes, god yes.” You’re moaning into the pillows when he shoves both of  your arms behind your back, big hand holding them, fucking into you harder, each movement making your ass jiggle. “Ah!”

Satoru groans, feeling you pulsate around him, you’ve never been fucked so good, even the first time by him he was just a little easy on you, you almost think you can’t take it but you’re arching your ass back for more. You earn his satisfied groan as he slams into you over and over, grip on your wrists binding you to him, the feeling of him taking you over so addictive.

“Know how crazy y-you drive me, in those little s-scrubs?” He’s stuttering, his rhythm faltering as he lets your hands go, gripping your hips instead, thumbs pressing into the dimples at your back. Your fingers are gripping the satin black sheets of his bed, whining pathetically, shaking your head. “No, ya don’t know, hmm?”

He yanks you up by your hair now, the pull painful but just making your pussy so wet, Satoru in two times has somehow figured out your entire body, things you have never tried or would ever think. You’re cumming on his cock when he’s bending over you, chest against your back, dripping sweat as he works you so good, cock wrecking every sweet spot you have.

“Drive me fucking insane.” His voice is in your ear now, he’s completely bent over you, back bowed, using the hair by the nape of your neck to turn your head toward him, and how he looks at you then?

You’re so fucked.

You desperately kiss him when he slows inside of you, feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm squeezing him relentlessly. You whine into his mouth, he drinks them up, pulling back and then pressing you down on your tummy, prone over you. You’ve never done it like this, the intimacy overtakes you, his fingers entwining with one of your hands as his other braces himself on the bed.

“I’ve w-wanted you since… I first saw you.” You’re blinking back tears, hiccuping when his tip drags on that spongy spot in your gooey walls.

“Wh-what?” You whisper, confusion addling your fucked out brain, he moans then, kissing you deeply, drool falling down between your lips as your body tenses, feeling him thicken in you now.

“Since I saw you, I didn't know you’d feel this good, gripping me like that.” You’re whimpering, mumbling, mouth wide open in a slutty O, as Satoru fucks you so slow, hand wrapped around your throat under your chin, thumb pressing on your pulse point, feeling it flutter. “You’re never fucking anyone else.”

“Y-you’re stupid.” You grumble, earning his chuckle, his white grin and insane blue eyes, taking on some psychotic look he seems to get when he’s close, you can hardly stand to look, eyes fluttering shut.

“Stupid, huh? You know you won’t ever… fuck feel you… ever…” He’s burying his head against the crook of your neck now, squeezing your throat as he starts slamming into you so deep, you feel him in your tummy, feel him everywhere. “Ever be with anyone.”

How can he talk like that?

How can he say shit like that?

You know he doesn’t mean it.

“D-don’t fuck up my head, please. C-can’t handle it. Hurts too much.” He pauses then, his movements halted.

“Open your eyes.” You do as he commands, it’s so easy to follow his every word. “It’ll only be me inside you, got it?”

“Why?”

“Why?” He laughs then, shaking his head, hips jerking just so, thrusting his cock to the hilt as one arm wraps around you, dragging you down his length. “I want you to myself, all to myself.”

You want to say yes, but you pause, lips parting as you struggle to keep eye contact. “M’not gonna f-fuck anyone else.”

“Just me.”

“Just you.” You whisper, and he moans now, moving again, you see the veins of his forearms bulging as he presses against the bed, fucking you once more.

“Gonna fill you up s’good, gonna drip me at work tomorrow.”

“You’re c-crazy- mnh! Cumming!” You’re gasping, head falling back against his strong chest as his tip presses your cervix, then you shatter, feeling his hot gooey cum coating your walls, filling you so much he’s pulsing. You’re both whimpering then, mumbling, kissing each other sloppy.

“F-fuck, perfect pussy, takin’ me so well.” He’s pushing his cum further and further inside you, cock coated in your slick and his white ropes, which are getting pushed out by your muscles as you’re riding out your climax. “Oh my god…”

“Oh my god…” You both say at the same time, he exhales then, breath tickling the nape of your neck, pecking kisses along your shoulder blades.

It’s perfect, too perfect.

And you know it then, what you don’t want to be true.

You’re falling in love with him.

With Doctor Gojo, with Doctor Hojo, with Satoru. Your boss, your mentor, your very new boyfriend you’ve slept with twice. There’s no other explanation for the way his kisses make tears fall from your eyes then, for the way your heart clutches in your chest, as you think to yourself…

This will hurt you.

“Are you okay baby? Too rough? You’re tiny down there… Did I get carried away?” Satoru leaned up, easing out of you and turning you then, concern written all over his beautiful features.

And he’s caring?

He’s perfect aside from…

What future could you have, getting kicked out after a couple nights here and there, no engagement or wedding ever, just a situationship and a perpetual girlfriend? You never wanted that to be your future, but right now you can’t even focus on it, you’re too sucked into his gravity, into the way he’s looking at you, holding you like you’re so precious.

 “No it was perfect, I’m sorry.” You take several breaths, and he watches your face, the tears trailing down your cheeks, clenching his heart.

“Don’t apologize, what is it?” You shake your head, he can tell you’re holding in something, his mind is still reeling from you, from how good you feel, from how beautiful you look, from the intensity of being inside of you. His hands trail down the nip of your waist, the jut of your hips carefully.

“I feel too much too fast.” Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, he doesn’t wanna drag you down when you’re so bright and perfect. But to know you feel things like he does, like he has since he first met you?

“What’s wrong with feeling things, intern?” He asks carefully, you sniffle then, while he brushes tears from the apple of your cheek.

“Scary how much I do. It’s overwhelming. I swear I’m not such a crybaby.” He brushed his hand against your cheek again, feeling the softness of your skin under his touch, wondering what goes on in that brain of yours.

“You think I’m not feeling things?” He asks, and you sigh, shaking your head then and burying your face against his chest. “You don’t know me yet, though, what if you don’t like what you find out?” He asks, so vulnerable then it breaks your heart, you lean up on an elbow, cupping his face.

“I want to know you, good or bad. Don’t hold back with me.” His jaw tenses under your delicate touch, you watch him gulp, opening his lips then closing them. “One thing at a time, though.”

“One thing at a time.” He kisses across your forehead gently. “Want a shower, pretty?”

“Yes please. You also owe me cocoa.” He stands up off the bed up then, picking you up in his arms bridal style, you giggle, clinging to him.

“Hot shower then hot cocoa.” He carries you into his bathroom, which is even more lavish than you can imagine, it’s huge with an insane tile and glass shower, bigger than your entire bathroom and then some.

“Holy shit.” You murmur, he sits you down then, heading over to start the hot water, which starts steaming in the bathroom, smiling at you and cupping your face with both hands, pressing you into the sink just a bit as he kisses you again.

“I’ll get towels.” You smile, turning and looking in the mirror, seeing your bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the marks on your throat and chest from Satoru’s fingers and teeth, your lips swollen from his kisses. Your eyes catch all of the orange prescription bottles decorating the sink, then.

It’s not your place to care what he takes, but your eyes dart on multiple anxiety medications, with pretty high doses. Xanax, you narrow your eyes just a bit, it’s 2 mg bars three times a day, next to them are Klonopin, 1 mg two times a day, two benzos you have never seen mixed. He has several other things, Ambien to sleep, 12.5mg at night, and Aderrall, 20 mg twice a day.

It’s a whole fucking cocktail, you don’t even know how he functions and with so much energy, he should be some drooling zombie with this. You touch them tentatively, there’s Zoloft as well, though of course that is something you’re on, but the mix of everything is too much. It’s as if he has something to wake up, to keep himself blissful all day, then something to sleep.

He walks back in with two fluffy towels, you back up, smiling up at him, he brings you against him, naked bodies pressed against each other, kissing you over and over, his lips devouring yours. You have never even seen Satoru have dilated eyes, you think then, did he not take these? Were they just… there?

It’s not your business, right?

“Ready for a shower? I’ll wash your hair and everything. I bet I have way better shampoo than you.” He teases with a big grin.

Satoru Gojo, the happiest dude you’ve ever met, needs a million medications to be that way. What darkness lies behind his blinding grin? You want to know him, all of him, all the facets that compose of him, of the man that you’ve fallen for so quickly, head over fucking heels.

Satoru knows you saw it, but you smile sweetly at him, not mentioning anything, not immediately judging him or saying something. You just lean up on your tiptoes, kissing him softly, he wraps his arms around your bare body, which feels perfect in his embrace, better than any drug could ever make him feel.

There’s not one time of the day or night he’s not on something to function, to alleviate the way his brain runs constantly, to try to keep it calm while also making it run. His own cocktail of perfection, he’s found it, and he knows you saw it, he can feel what you’re holding back, maybe you’re too enamored, as he is.

You’re both under the hot spray when he’s running his hands in your damp hair, lathering it up, it feels too good with you, he wonders how long until he fucks up, how long until you decide you could do better. He’s wanted you since before he officially met you, since he chose you to be his intern based off of stats and scores alone, so curious who this brilliant girl was.

Brilliant, beautiful, sweet.

He didn’t expect to feel this much, for the first time ever. Having had the arranged marriage so young with Utahime, he never got to feel, to be. And when he was done, Satoru has since slept with hundreds of women, easily, mind numbing sex with girls he couldn’t remember their damn name, but nothing has ever come close to how you feel wrapped around him.

You’re addictive, aren’t you? But you don’t seem to know, when you turn and slip your hands up his body, eyes drinking every bit of him in slowly, he gasps when you get on your knees, thinking he must be in some ambien wet dream of you. Your blunt nails press against his slick thighs, as your eyes look up at him and break him, your tongue lapping at his tip.

“Fuck…” He moans, as you look up at him, sucking him deeper into your throat, watching his every reaction, how his muscles flex and tense under your touch, feeling his cock hit your throat, then he shocks you, picking you up right against the tile of the shower wall. “Need you again, baby.”

“I need you again.” You whisper, gasping when he sinks inside of you, and that night you never get hot cocoa, you two can’t stop fucking each other, licking each other, devouring each other. It’s heady and insane.

Satoru is addictive, you’re sure he knows this too.

*****

The next day

“Rough night, babes?” Maki asks, as you wince, lifting off your shirt and throwing on your scrub top. “Holy fuck, hickies!”

“Shush!” You cover her mouth with your hand, she’s laughing against it, lifting your top back up.

“Damn, is he a vampire or some shit?”

“He thinks so.”

“So that’s why you weren’t home last night.” She says, as Toge walks in, glaring at you again. You sigh, walking up to him, sitting on the bench, holding your hand to tug him to sit next to you.

“Toge, I need you to be my friend, stop being so mad at me?” You say softly, he sighs then, looking at you with violet eyes.

“Serious?” He asks, you blink then.

“Serious about Gojo?” He nods. “Yes, I think I am, but it’s only as serious as he’ll get.”

“Not good enough.” Toge says, standing then and leaving, you cover your face and grimace, as Maki sits next to you, hand on your back.

“He just wants what’s best for you. The whole no marriage thing? Kind of opposite of your old fashioned ass. Plus… do we know how serious he is?”

You look at her then. “Thought you wanted me to go for it?”

“I do, but getting head over heels so fast, you worry me. You… babe you have a shit track record with men. Not just Mahito, remember Naoya?”

“Oh fuck don’t remind me. But Gojo is nothing like them.” She hums to herself a bit.

“True, he’s nothing like those two, but you suck at picking men, so be careful is all. I’m not saying get with Toge, I know you’re just friends, but he has a point.” Your mind goes to what you saw that night, what you don’t know just yet. “I’m not trying to kill your buzz, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I love you.” You hug her tightly, when Satoru walks in, Toge and Yuta behind him, he smirks as he takes in your exhausted state, but Satoru looks fresh and bright, like you both hadn’t fucked all night.

“Morning, interns. Come on now, hop to it.” You yawn as you all line up behind him in the halls, he looks at you with a sadistic ass grin. “You tired, intern? Did you get no sleep?”

You just glare at him, Maki is snickering, Yuta is rolling his eyes, Toge is glaring at Satoru. “No sleep unfortunately, but I’ll go get lots of coffee.”

“That works. Maki, Yuta, you’re on Pit duty. Toge, you’re scrubbing in with me for surgery today.” Toge brightens up then. “And you, missy, you’re getting coffee, stat.”

“On it.” You walk by him, Satoru leans close against your ear, his hand just barely brushing your arm.

“Don’t slack on me intern, I won’t take it easy on you in bed or at work.” You scowl now, earning his laughter as you turn away, flicking him off before darting to the cafeteria.

Your pussy is throbbing, your body is sore like you worked out or something, arms like gelatin, and your eyes are trying to close on you. How the fuck even with Adderral can Satoru be that energetic? You try to not let Maki and Toge’s words get you, but you’re distracted when you’re getting coffee, and Suguru is there, saying your name and smiling at you.

“Rough night?” He asks.

“Do I look that bad!?” You peek at one of the windows to gauge your reflection.

“You’re still lovely, but your eye bags are rivalling Shoko’s.”

“Ugh but she can pull them off! Yes, a long night.”

“Uh huh.” You look at him then, as you both walk and sip on your hot cups of coffee.

“You’re Satoru’s best friend, right?”

“I am. He’s annoying as shit though.” You snort at that, he grabs two muffins, handing you one then. “You should eat after a fuck marathon.”

“Oh gosh, Suguru really!” You nibble the muffin though, chewing thoughtfully as you both walk out of the cafeteria and towards the elevators, he presses the buttons, leaving you both alone then. “How is he so energetic?”

Suguru frowns then, looking at his cup, his dark brows lowering over his eyes. “Satoru’s always been pretty annoyingly perky.”

“Yeah, I guess, but he got no sleep.”

“If you’re asking me something personal about him, he’s my best friend and I won’t share things like that. You’ll find out more in time if you’re serious.” You nod, biting your lip, eyes catching his dark violet ones.

“I get it, I don’t mean to pry. There’s a lot we have to learn, but… I already feel so much for him.”

Suguru smiles softly then. “That’s good, because he’s been borderline obsessed since you got here.”

“What!? No way. He’s a Hojo.”

Suguru chuckles once more, the sound warm and inviting, you just feel so comfortable with him all the time. He’s very much like Satoru in that way. “He is indeed a ‘Hojo’. But I’m glad maybe he’ll get someone good for him. He needs that.”

“Hmm. Mysterious, Suguru.”

“I have to keep a certain allure.” Suguru and you both step out now, he tilts his head to you. “So you know, wicked hickey your makeup isn’t covering.”

“Oh god!” He’s left you now with that information, you quickly shove your hair over your neck, as you see Satoru now, who jacks the rest of your muffin and chews on it.

“Tastes yummy.” He says, looking down at your body then.

“I have a hickey that’s not covered all the way!” You whisper.

“Multiple.”

“How are you so perky, hmm?” He blinks a bit then, tilting his head.

“I feel like you kind of know that answer, yeah?” You shake your head. “No clue at all?”

“Suguru says you’re annoyingly perky and hyper.”

“Hmm.”

You don’t want to ruin this, to burst this bubble of happiness, when you just don’t know anything yet, so you try to stop thinking of it, as he walks you further and further across the hospital.

“So, remember what I said yesterday?”

“Are you serious?” You ask later, as you’re standing next to the maternity ward, and Satoru places his hands on your shoulders.

“Give me a week with babies, tell me how you feel.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Mmm, well I really like you.” He tilts your chin up as Shoko comes, smiling at you.

“Ready to learn more than you will with this idiot?” She asks.

“Excuse me!?”

“Ready.” You agree, sticking your tongue out at Satoru.

“You’re both mean, mean women.” Before he leaves he captures your hand in his, kissing you so quick in the nearly empty hall.

“I’ll love it.” You assure him, a challenging look in your eyes.

“We’ll see. You should get sleep tonight by the way, your dark circles-”

“Fuck you, Satoru.” You can practically feel his stupid smirk and blue eyes burning a hole through your back.

“Pissed him off huh? He’s so petty. I hope you’ll love this though.” Shoko says later on, you smile at her.

“No I will love it, I’m eager to learn.”

The maternity ward, huh? You are eager to learn from her, you know she is the best in her field, and something else you want to figure out?

The mystery that is Dr. Gojo.Just who was the man you’re falling for?

A/N- this is OBVIOUSLY heavily inspired by Grey's lol! There is def some angst going on in the future, as hard as reader is falling Satoru and her have some INSANE differences, along with the overall exhaustion of being doctors and some issues they'll both have. I hope you enjoyed the long chap, sorry this one took a few weeks! can't wait to hear what you all think!

If you'd like to be added to the taglist please lmk

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@lost-resonance @lostfracturess @unfortunately-tia @allofffmypeaches @chiyokoemilia @makingtimemine @antisocialinlw @meg3mis @miizuzu @nanasukii28 @zoeyflower @wstaley2 @bunheadusa @blue-musingss @ameliariddle @labelt-san @moncher-ire @jkslaugh97 @shadeowz @gojo1228 @nanasukii28 @jaeminaur @httpstoyosi @angel1of-death @seeing-stars-alt @bol0-de-morang0 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @trishiepo0 @inthedarkshadows000 @gina239 @san-it-is-i-guess @pelicanpizza @gojo1228 @ducky1232 @inthedarkshadows000 @eclecticmentalitypersona @burguhndy @levislug @addehehe @sluttyofgojo @msniks @ambiguouslady42

THE THINGS HE DOESN'T KNOW

➛ back to main masterlist: click here

pairing: katsuki bakugo x female reader

synopsis: When you realize you're in love with your childhood best friend, but force you're feeling's down for the sake of your friendship.

meet y/n l/n: click here

background info: click here

tropes: friends to lovers, childhood best friends, slow burn, pining, unrequited love?, angst, jealousy as a catalyst, love triangle?

warning: swearing.

Story starting now, grab your 🍿 and take a seat

chapter 01 — a silent confession.

chapter 02 — now, why would I do that?

chapter 03 — why must it hurt so bad?

chapter 04 — desperate much?

chapter 05 — maybe he'll make me feel better.

chapter 06 — frosty’s?

chapter 07 — pinkie promise?

chapter 08 — she always has to be a bother.

chapter 09 — when the truth comes out.

chapter 010 — the things he does know.

epilogue 011 — coming soon...

a/n: sooo this was my first series, and wow, is it that good? Probably not. Posting times and consistency was terrible. Was low-key randomly thought up and then posted, yikes. This was honestly a trial run for what I want and what I don't within a story. Hopefully, the next one will be better peace out.

© 2025 shibuyablonde — All rights reserved. Don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: on the rare occasion that sukuna takes his nephew out to the park, he notices another kid with blush pink hair— a baby to be exact. he tries not to stare too much, but it’s hard not to, it’s a rare hair color. it’s not until the baby’s mother takes her out of the swing set and back into her stroller when he realizes why you ghosted him almost 2 years ago.

genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst, fluff, smut

master list

part one | part two

Sukuna wasn’t very obsessed with the thought of having children, that desire (or lack of) continued to dwindle after his nephew turned 4 and is now all over the fucking place. He doesn’t mind watching him, but with each year it's becoming more difficult trying to get the kid to focus and listen to him. 

“Yuji.” The man barks out, beginning to scold the boy because he immediately starts running across the street the moment the crosswalk sign turned on for them. Didn’t matter if it was a private neighbourhood, he’d speed through the signs as much as anyone else. “I told you to hold my fucking hand– get over here.”

“Oops, sorry!” Yuji starts to skip back. It’s almost insulting how unworried he is when it comes to Sukuna and his temper, but he’s used to it by now. He reaches out to hold his uncle’s hand– even having the audacity to swing it back and forth. Sukuna just lets him because he ends up feeling bad whenever he yells at Yuji while he’s happy. 

He guesses the one thing that’s gotten easier when it comes to watching the little crackhead is that he can now finally take him to the park. He’s able to run all that unnecessary excess energy off, making mid-afternoon to dinner time easier because he just eats and naps until Jin comes to pick him up. 

Yuji’s especially excited today, they're going to a new park that’s just down the street from Sukuna’s new house. It was a nice neighbourhood too, Sukuna already knew the place was going to be like Disneyland for the kid. 

“Uncle! Look!” Yuji yells out. 

He’s been looking this entire fucking time, why are children like this? Yuji’s slightly better than most, immediately flipping under the monkey bars like a pro after receiving his Uncle’s nod of approval. 

“Good job, Yuj.” He says in return. Jin should really take him to a parkour gym one of these days… maybe get him checked for adhd too while he’s at it. 

He continues to watch the boy until he suddenly hears some baby’s laughter on the other side of the playground. It reminded him of when Yuji was a baby, always squealing over something, even if it was something as simple as ripping a piece of paper in half. It was cute. 

He tried to drown out the noise, but this kid was having the time of their life, so he eventually looked in the direction of where the laughter was coming from. He’s genuinely surprised when he sees a little baby girl with fluffy pink hair. It’s a rare hair color and outside of his family, he’s only seen less than a handful of people that naturally had it in his entire 27 years of life. 

She couldn’t be older than a year old. Her mother– or nanny, this neighborhood has a ton of them, is kneeling in front of her and gently pushing the swing back. Everytime she pushes the swing back, the laughter gets louder.

The lady eventually picks the baby up and smothers her with kisses… the same way you used to smother him with kisses, almost 2 years ago. 

And the moment you turn around and place her back in her stroller, it becomes very apparent as to why you completely ghosted him 1 year and 7 months ago. 

Yes he’s kept track, you were the best fuck of his life. He’s been chasing that high after you practically vanished off the face of the earth, you even changed your phone number. For all he knew, you were dead.

Sure, he complained about Yuji here and there, but it couldn’t be that bad to the point where you decide not to tell him anything and just raise a baby completely on your own.

Maybe you weren’t all on your own to begin with. That thought makes him continue to mentally spiral, he’s honestly ready to fuck everyone up at this point.

“You fucking bitch.” He murmurs to himself as you begin to walk off with the child that is without a fucking doubt his. He quickly grabs his phone and calls a close friend, one that’s a little too good at finding people's personal information. 

“Hey what’s u–”

He immediately cuts Uraume off and cuts straight to the chase. “I need you to find someone’s address for me.”

---

“How’s the party planning going?” Your mother asks, trying to keep the conversation going, in hopes of her granddaughter waking up before you inevitably end the conversation. 

“It’s alright,” you vaguely answer. “I don't know, I’m not too worried about it. I told the planner to just make it pink and cute… and to trust her gut so she doesn’t bother me too much.”

“Honey!” She scolds you. “It’s your daughter's first birthday for christ sake, can you sound a little more excited about it?”

“I am excited,” you hiss back. “It just makes me sad to think about how fast time went by, I don’t want her to grow up.”

“I was sad about it too when I was planning your first birthday, but I was still included in the process.”

“Well that’s you.” You giggle as you finish wiping the kitchen counter. “It’s not that big of a deal, there’s party planners for a reason.”

“You’re going to look back one day and regret it.” She says, you can hear her shuffling around in the background. 

“Maybe.” You mumble, thinking about other things you’ll probably regret more than not being included in the process of planning a party. 

Like not telling Sayomi’s dad about her. 

You always wonder what his reaction would be if he were to ever find out. It’d most likely be one filled with rage, you’re just not sure if it would be towards having to be responsible for a little human being or towards the missed time. 

Probably the former. He was as irresponsible as they come, but so were you– at least at that time anyways.

You both were too busy in your careers to settle down, it’s why you never put a label on things. With anyone else, you would’ve put your foot down— if they’d didn’t claim you, you were gone. 

Not with Sukuna, he made you weak.

He made it so hard for you to put your foot down that you never even considered asking the dreaded “so what are we?”

He gave you just about everything during those meetups— he was fun to talk to, made you feel wanted, even the aftercare he gave you was unmatched. 

He fucked you like he loved you— slowly dragging his cock out of you, as if he wanted you to think about what you were missing in those few moments. All just so he can shove himself back into you, as a reminder that everything you needed was right there, on top of you. 

He’s a fucking asshole, but knew how to play the role of a loving boyfriend in the hours you visited him. 

Keyword: in those hours. Outside of that, he was practically none existent. But you couldn’t blame him, he was an up and coming rugby star. He spent his days training or strategizing with his teammates for the next game, he spent half of his year traveling. He didn’t have time for anyone but himself.

Eventually, you started ditching a condom all together. You swore your birth control would do the job— it fucking didn’t, and a part of you still wants to sue that company. 

But you don’t, because it wouldn’t hold up in court due to the 1% chance it won’t work, or whatever that percentage is. Plus, you don’t want your daughter getting on your case over it one day if she did find out. 

It’s not her, it’s the principle.

It was your fault at the end of the day. You were just straight up reckless with the way you let him.. ahem— begged— him to come inside of you each time he was all up in your guts. He’d taunt you for being weak, driving his dick inside of you even faster and harder whenever you showed signs that you were close, then encourage you to cum right on his cock that’d split you open each and everytime time you met up with him. 

You were so scared at first, going back and forth on how you should tell him– if you should tell him. A big part of you wanted the baby and convinced yourself he’d make you get an abortion out of fear that you might just be after money, so you never did. 

Yeah, you gaslit yourself.

But everything turned out better than you thought it’d be. Your parents were willing to set you up in a gated community just because it was safer for you and your daughter to live there. They pay the rent while you pay for everything else. 

You now run your own business managing multiple businesses’ social media accounts. It’s quite lucrative, so you’re able to afford a nanny while working from home.

Your parents love Sayomi and don’t hold back showing it. They don’t know who her father is, you won’t tell them… but she oddly looks like a well known rugby player that's from the region. 

It's a suspicion they keep to themselves though, they like spending time with her and would rather not start an argument with you after asking who the father is. It didn’t end well last time, so they just avoid the topic now. 

You’re suddenly pulled out of your thoughts after someone rang your doorbell, must be your neighbor that you became friends with shortly after moving here. She’s the typical neighbour that shows up at your door asking for sugar or eggs comically enough. 

“Can I call you back, mom? Someone’s at the door.” You kindly interrupt her. 

“Actually, we can continue this later.” She sighs, you can hear her keys jiggling. “I’m leaving for a yoga class right now.”

“Okay. Have fun!”

“Thank you sweetheart. Give Yomi a kiss for me when she wakes up.”

“I will, bye.” The doorbell rings again right after you hang up, which slightly annoys you since they haven’t been waiting that long. It’s like they think a second ring is gonna have you running to the door. 

It rings a third time and you hold your tongue, yelling back is just going to wake up the baby. 

You finally open the door and an immediate chill runs down your spine as you look up at a very angry Sukuna. He as tall as ever, presence as imposing as ever, and for the first time it is you that his anger is directed towards.

His eyes momentarily drift down to your chest before speaking. “We need to ta–.”

Completely terrified as to how he even found you, let alone get past security to even enter this neighborhood, you immediately slam the door in his face.

And you should be terrified, he begins to laugh before raising his voice. “I see you haven’t changed one bit.” He says— hoping you can hear him, hoping your back's up against the wall and panicking right now. “I haven’t changed either, sweetheart. Better open up before I show you I’m still crazy as fuck if you piss me off.”

You’ve seen it before, multiple times, just not towards you. Each time you saw it, you’d always pray that you’d never find yourself on the receiving end of the man's wrath. 

“You need to leave before I call the cops. You can’t just go around threatening people like that.” You say, powering through the shakiness of your voice. 

“And you can’t just hide a child from their father either. I saw you two at the park, let me see her.” His voice is still calm, but becoming more firm. He knows you're bluffing. “I’m giving you 10 seconds to open this door before I give you a reason to call the cops.”

There’s nothing but silence from your end, it’s infuriating to him. Each second that passes, he feels like he’s slowly being removed from his own body, being replaced by something that thrives off rage. 

And for you, you kind of wanna die right now, but unfortunately you can’t because you have a daughter to take care of. The sound of his voice ends up being drowned out by your own thoughts, thinking about the possibilities of what would happen if you opened that door. 

But before you know it, you’re quickly pulled back to reality as he ends his countdown and begins to bang on your door incessantly. 

“Open the door— I’m not fuckin’ around, open the FUCKING DOOR.” He yells out your name, pounding at the door so hard you’re sure he’ll break it off its hinges. “I’m not fucking leaving until you open up and let me see her! You should be glad I came here instead of going straight to my lawyer you piece of SHIT– OPEN THE FUCK UP.”

As if it couldn't have gotten any worse, your daughter wakes up from the ruckus. Her cries will always be ten times worse than Sukuna’s knocking, you’re convinced from the way she is screaming from the top of her lungs as if someone were hurting her.

“Fine just.. shut up! Please!” You finally snap and nearly beg from the overstimulation of listening to your daughter crying and a grown man literally barking at the same time. You begrudgingly swing the door open and he’s met with a set of tired, glossy eyes and decides to settle down. “I just put her down and it takes forever doing it.” You lightly complain.

He says nothing in the response, slightly stunned at how quick your mood changed. Not like he has much of a choice though, you storm off before he gets the chance too– being left to shut the front door on his own and awkwardly wait at the foyer because he doesn’t know where the hell you went off to. 

The house is nice, almost as big as his. But it’s also too big for just the two of you, leaving him to wonder again if you had a partner or something. Not that he’s one to talk. He lives alone, but he has his family and girlfriend over often since he has the space to entertain guests.

Fuck— he just asked if she wanted to make things official last month. She’s not gonna be happy about this.

His thoughts are quickly pushed away though when he hears the sounds of footsteps, whimpering, and you gently shushing them. 

You and the baby finally come into view, both frowning at him for different reasons. He was too far away earlier to see, but aside from your eyes and death glare, the girl looks just like him. 

Sayomi’s staring at him with a look that screams “what the fuck is this stranger doing in my house”, all while gently sniffling because she is rightfully pissed about being woken up. 

You can’t help but notice how stiff he is while looking at his carbon copy and decide to be the first one to speak up, by formally introducing him to her. 

“This is Sayomi and she’ll be 10 months old in a week.” It’s cuter when you say it to other people, their reactions are usually squishing her cheeks and raving about how adorable she is. Sukuna looks more shell shocked than anything. “...Do you wanna hold her?”

“I mean… yeah, but not if she’s just gonna get mad at me and start crying.” He says, while Sayomi continues to stare him down. Well, at least he respects boundaries, that’s sort of a good sign. 

“Lucky for you, she stares at things she finds interesting. If she didn’t want you to hold her, she’d have a death grip on to me right now with her face tucked into the crook of my neck.” 

He has a quick flashback of how he used to do the same with you whenever he was tired, but quickly shakes it off. Now’s not the time to start yearning for you or your touch all over again, he literally just got over you. 

“You sure about that?” He says, slightly hurt from the way she’s side eyeing him. 

“Positive.” You hold back a sigh at his hesitance. He was acting like he was going to murder you just 5 minutes ago, now he looks like he’s scared of an innocent baby. “Just take her please, my arms are starting to hurt.”

It’s one of the things that comes with having a child with a rugby player, they’re chunky. But you can’t complain too much, she’s very huggable. 

You end up handing her to him before he gets another chance to protest, not bothering to instruct him on how to hold her because you know all about how he’d watch Yuji. Even with your child being in the 90th percentile, she still looks miniature when being held by him. 

“Look at you, cheeks are all wet from cryin’.” He murmurs, beginning to wipe them off. She sniffles again and lets out a deep sigh in response– you both know it's a good sign, she’s finally settling down after getting ripped out of her sleep. “M’sorry, I just wanted to meet you.”

You talk to her normally too, so she usually babbles back to people in response, which is what she does in response to his words. It’s ridiculous(ly) (cute), watching her slowly open up to him just minutes after losing her shit— something she gets from her father. Each time she babbles out some incoherent sentence, he acts like he knows what she’s saying and she smiles a little more each time. 

“Mama.” She suddenly turns to you and says, pointing her finger at him. It's her little way of asking who he is since you always tell her the names of things she points at.

“That’s Dada.” You say in response. “Can you say Dada?”

“…Ada.” She confidently says.

Close enough. 

You avoid Sukuna’s gaze, you can just feel how annoyed he is at this point. “Has she said Dada before?”

“Mhm, last week.” You say enthusiastically, playing with Sayomi’s hand after she grabbed onto your thumb.

“Must’ve been her tryna manifest me. Probably thinking, ‘let me meet my dad, you conniving bitch’ or something.” He says in the same smooth tone.

“Watch it.” If he weren’t holding her right now, you would’ve smacked him for calling you that. 

“Did I lie?” He argues with you in a playful tone, then turns his attention back to his daughter who’s completely unaware of anything for obvious reasons. “‘Cause last time I checked, your Mama hid you from me.”

“Don’t do this in front of her.” You warn him.

“Fine.” He lets it go, after getting one last jab in. “Any other words that I missed out on?” 

“She also knows how to say no.” 

He chuckles, “sounds like my kid.” 

“Unfortunately.” You say under your breath. It wipes the smirk off of his face but you don’t notice it since you start to walk away from him, he quickly follows with little Sayomi in his arms. 

“How did you find me? Actually, how did you even get past security?” You ask, leading him to the living room.

“I know someone. I also live in the northern part of the neighborhood.” He not-so-humbly brags. That’s the area where you need to go through three different gates just to get to a house. “Just moved there last week.” 

No wonder why you haven’t seen him at the private grocery store yet.

“Well that’s… good.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

“I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even know what to think right now to completely tell you the truth.” You admit.

“Yeah? Imagine how I feel.” He scoffs, plopping down on the couch with the baby still in his arms. “Can she walk yet?”

“No, she’s able to pull herself up and stand for a couple seconds though.”

“Is that so?” He looks back at her, at this point her interest has moved on to something else— the little bunny plush on the other side of the couch that she’s pointing and humming at. 

You beat him to it and hand it to her before sitting down beside him, with a reasonable amount of space between you two. He’s taking this a lot better than you thought he would, probably because he wants to behave right now in front of her. 

“Why’d you do it?” He murmurs as he fiddles with the bunny’s ear while Sayomi continues to play with it. 

“Guess I was scared of your reaction,” you begin to pick at your cuticles— a bad habit that should’ve been dropped a long time ago. “Thought you’d make me get an abortion or something.”

“That wasn’t for you to decide.” He sighs, surprised that you thought that low of him. He wasn’t around a lot, but he was nice to you when he was. Not once did he ever raise his voice at you, never snapped at you. Even when he was ordering food delivery, he'd let you pick-- every single time. “It wasn’t for me to decide whether you wanted to keep her or not either.” 

“I know.” You sigh, leaning back out the couch and giving yourself a moment. “I was scared.” 

“You said that already.” He looks down at the kid then back up at you, unsure if he should just feel thankful that he’s here now or if he should just continue to be pissed. “That’ll never be a good enough answer for me.”

“For what it’s worth, it was something I’ve always regretted after giving birth to her.”

He only hums in response to that, trying his best to hold his tongue because it’s hard to believe. If you truly did regret it, you would’ve reached out to him. He’s convinced you would’ve gone the rest of your life without telling him. “Are you gonna let me be in her life now or am I gonna have to fight you over that too?”

“What does being in her life look like to you?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs, taking the time to think it through. He works a lot, travels a lot, parties a lot. “We’re technically neighbors, so how about I just start coming over to see her for now. I’ll figure the rest out later.”

“We can do that.” You cautiously say. 

Hopefully he keeps it fair, he has the upper hand already by being the good guy for once.

a/n: soooo do we think sukuna's gonna be a good boy?

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Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, abduction, forced proximity

Word Count: 4.4k

The skull-faced lieutenant takes you back to base. The two of you are forced to spend the night in the same space.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

The scream is a gunshot.

You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”

The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.

“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.

You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.

Danger. Danger.

“Hey.”

Another crack, followed by begging.

“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.

He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.

And Ghost never looks away. Not once.

Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.

A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.

Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.

A curiosity. Blooming.

But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.

Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You pass one armored truck. Then another.

“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.

We’re taking her with us.

“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.

Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.

Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.

“Wait!”

With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”

Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.

It’s a dumb fucking move.

Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.

Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.

Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”

He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.

But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.

“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.

Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.

“That’s not an option.”

From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.

Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.

You give one final attempt before you start swinging.

Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.

Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.

Sweet victory sings in your veins.

Men are all the same.

All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.

Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.

“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”

No. Fucking no.

This is your chance. Your one chance.

The world tilts, and you switch gears.

With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.

You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.

Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.

Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—

Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.

Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.

Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.

You immediately go limp.

It almost works.

Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.

Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.

You hit the ground. Hard.

With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.

“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.

Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.

A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”

You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.

“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”

Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.

His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.

“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”

“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”

“Wrong answer.”

With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.

This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.

But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.

As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.

“You have to bring him with us. Please.”

Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.

“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.

“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”

Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?

“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”

You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.

“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.

“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”

Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”

“Does that matter?”

Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”

“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”

“You could be lying to me.”

Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”

Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.

You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.

Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.

Panic. You’re panicking.

You’re fucking panicking.

Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.

Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.

“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.

You find the handle. Tug.

Nothing. It doesn’t budge.

“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”

He’s locked you in.

Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.

When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.

There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.

“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.

You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.

“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.

“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.

The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.

“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.

He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.

“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.

Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.

As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”

When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.

But you’ll be long gone.

Elsewhere. Somewhere.

Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.

You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.

The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.

It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.

There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.

After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.

How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?

These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.

The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.

“Base this is Bravo.”

A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.

“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”

“Returning. Ten minutes.”

“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”

To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”

Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”

Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”

Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.

“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.

You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.

In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.

You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.

“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.

It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.

Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.

You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.

It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.

The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.

You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.

“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.

He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.

“Soap! Ghost!”

“Captain!”

Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.

“Successful?”

“Brought three back for interrogation.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“Dead.”

“Good lad.”

Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.

Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.

“Who is that?”

The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.

Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.

Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.

Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”

“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.

“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”

“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.

“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”

“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”

Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”

“The mandate.”

All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.

Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”

Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”

Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.

“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”

Processing. Processing?

“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.

“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.

“No,” answers Ghost automatically.

Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”

“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.

There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.

Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.

“I’ll take her there now.”

Price nods. A dismissal.

The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”

You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Come with me then.”

Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.

Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.

Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.

The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.

Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”

“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”

“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.

“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”

“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”

You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.

The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.

Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“I have to pee.”

“Then pee.”

“With you in the room?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”

“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”

Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”

“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”

“True.”

“Then step out!”

“No.”

You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.

With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blown. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”

Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.

“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”

You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.

Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”

“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.

With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”

Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”

“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.

“What do you think, love?”

You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”

“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”

“Likely.”

“You—”

“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.

Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?

“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”

“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”

You freeze, staying perfectly still.

Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

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@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter One

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, threatening language, death of a minor character

Word Count: 4.6k

On a scavenging run, two unknown groups arrive unannounced. Through the gunfire, you’re separated, cornered, captured. A skull-faced Lieutenant makes a decision, changing your life forever.

Chapter Two

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Eden is a home.

It is a person. A place. A community

It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.

You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.

Preservation.

Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.

It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.

You are but one piece of a large whole.

“What are you doing here so early?”

You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.

Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”

“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.

Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”

“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”

“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”

“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”

Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”

You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”

“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”

“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”

“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.

Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”

“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”

“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.

Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”

With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.

As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.

“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.

“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.

You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”

“We’re going to need it.”

“For a small town?”

Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”

“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”

Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”

“No activity then?”

“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”

“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.

While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.

Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.

You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.

“And helping me haul books,” you add.

Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”

Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.

Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.

It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.

You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.

“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.

“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”

Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”

You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”

“No thank you,” he mutters.

The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.

“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.

The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.

“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”

All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.

While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.

Adrenaline surges within you.

A few wiggles.

And then—

Click.

Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.

“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”

Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.

Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”

“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.

Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”

You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”

“Sure. Got it. Understood.”

Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”

You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.

This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.

Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.

Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.

But you know better. You do.

Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.

Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.

Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.

“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.

Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.

Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.

Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.

You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.

Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.

Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.

Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“There are people outside,” he whispers.

That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.

You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”

Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”

“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”

Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.

We’re not getting out of this.

There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.

Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.

Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.

“Is that them?” you ask softly.

Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”

Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”

Two groups. Two different groups.

Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”

“Who are they?”

Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”

He pauses, gaze growing distant.

“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.

He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”

All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.

Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”

“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”

At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.

“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.

The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.

There is no one around. No one. And yet—

A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.

You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.

Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”

Horror floods your lungs.

Blood.

Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.

“Oh my god. Ben.”

You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.

“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”

Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.

Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”

He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”

With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.

“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.

You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.

It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.

“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”

You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.

Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.

In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.

It is everything.

With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.

The blow comes out of nowhere.

You witness a brief taste of freedom.

And then it’s yanked right from under you.

A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.

“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.

“Stop your fussing.”

A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.

 “Look at you,” he laughs.

It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.

“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”

His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.

With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.

“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”

A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.

The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”

You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.

“Told you not to fucking move.”

The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.

The stranger’s gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.

While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.

When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.

“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.

Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.

A small trio of them standing nearby turn.

The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.

He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”

Breeders.

You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.

Survival. Always survival.

He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”

Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”

You glower, and don’t comply.

He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.

“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”

“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.

The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”

You don’t like the implication.

“What’s this?”

A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.

The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”

All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.

Instead of an American flag, it’s a Union Jack.

His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are their numbers that low?”

“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.

“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.

Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”

“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”

Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”

You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”

“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.

“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”

Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.

“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.

You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”

Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed.

“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”

These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”

“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face.  “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”

Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”

“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.

Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”

So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.

“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”

The very idea sobers you.

“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.

Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.

Ben is not with them. Ben is—

Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.

“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”

Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.

“You’re riding with me.”

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@unclearblur @kurochan3

Forbidden Promises

Chapter 7 (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: Reader lowkey cries again, Misunderstandings resolved!! Finally!! Sukuna does kiss reader but consent is kind of implied. More drama ensues!! No Hana :(

Wc: 2.4k

Sukuna had always prided himself on being somewhat of a good actor, or at the very least masking his emotions better than anyone else. From a young age he learned the hard way that his emotions were to be suppressed, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything but anger and frustration. 

He can still remember his mothers disgusted face when Sukuna had taken barely a week to conform to the new rules set on him, distaste weighing heavy in her mouth as she pushed him away from her embrace.

“Don’t ever try that with me, Ryoumen. You will regret it.”

Her indifferent tone hit him like a bucket of cold water. The man couldn’t remember what happened next, Jin rushing in and comforting his younger twin as Sukuna held back tears.

That’s why he finds himself plastering a business smile on his face, masking the shock with a charming smile as he extended one arm out to Aoi, the other coming to wrap around your waist and pulling you closer,

“Ah it is good to meet you too…?”

He paused, letting Aoi introduce herself, shaking Sukuna’s hand with enthusiasm.

You quickly interjected before Aoi could go any further than her name and occupation, wrapping an arm around Sukuna’s and making up some excuse to pull him away from the sea of onlookers,

“I didn’t know you were going around telling other people I was your husband?”

Though Sukuna sounded offended, he was nothing but relieved. His eyes trailed down to the chain on your neck, a simple golden ring glinting in the morning sunlight. It felt like a heavy weight had been pulled off his chest. His arm dropped from your shoulder to the small of your back, resting comfortably like it did years ago. 

“That’s not- I haven’t been telling anyone you are my husband, it’s a simple misunderstanding,”

Sukuna hummed, high on the euphoria of the thought that you had no husband to be paying any actual attention to the words stumbling from your mouth. 

“Whatever you say wife,”

He smirked, feeling far too happy for himself as he turned his head to look at you, eyes gleaming in happiness. 

“That’s not the point- oh god you’re just so!”

That fond feeling rose up in Sukuna’s chest as he watched you fuss over the situation, freeing yourself from his grasp as you walked up the sidewalk faster. 

Sukuna merely took longer strides to catch up with you, eating the distance up in a few seconds as his hand wrapped around your elbow, tugging you away from the curb and claiming the space you left.

The action made you flush, highschool feelings returning all at once at the sweet gesture. So many people asked you what you saw in Sukuna, some even straight up asked you if you were being held hostage. They just didn’t know about your Sukuna, they didn’t know about how sickeningly sweet he treated you. 

He’s not even on social media, neither does he even know about the pathway rule but it’s ingrained in him to look after you, to make sure you were the most comfortable at any place. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let go of him after all these years. 

“Where did you even find out that I have a husband?”

Sukuna turned his head to look at you, almost pouting as his eyebrows furrowed together opening his mouth just as you opened the door to the bakery. 

“Let’s talk inside your house,”

He mumbled under his breath, making you pause as you sighed, flipping the sign on the glass doors of the bakery to display closed.

Sukuna sat quietly at your dining table, no longer awkwardly trying to fit himself in the cramped space, instead just staring at the tiny piece of furniture like it had personally insulted him. 

You whipped a few more pancakes, making sure to reduce the sugar content just like how the CEO liked it, placing a few berries on top along with a cup of black coffee. You were surprised he didn’t blow up on you without his daily fix- then again you suppose you wouldn’t know a lot of things about him, not after all this time.

Sukuna eyed the pancakes with a hungry look, scarfing them down as you watched him amused, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips,

“Is Uraume not cooking for you anymore?”

Sukuna glared at you, gulping down mouthfuls of the scalding coffee as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, 

“Nah they’re working at some fuckass restaurant, just been a while since I had your food,”

Sukuna continued eating his pancakes without a care in the world, like him saying that sentence didn’t have a million thoughts swirling in your head,

He missed me.. 

You thought to yourself, looking down at the cup of coffee in your own hands, twirling the cup so the liquid was sloshing around inside the ceramic. 

“Where did you get the information that I had a husband?”

You peeked through your lashes watching Sukuna finish the pancakes and the rest of the coffee. He looked like he was struggling to get the words out, licking over his lower lip and pressing his thumb to his temple as he was left in deep thought. 

Under his lip was the light pink stain of a strawberry and you instinctively reached over to wipe at with your thumb, eyes widening as Sukuna’s own shocked gaze met yours, 

“Oh uhm- Hana- she gets messy- so I,”

You pulled your hands back, immediately going to explain with a flustered expression while Sukuna started barking out in laughter. You glared at him with a pout, sitting back in your seat white your arms crossed under your chest,

Sukuna stopped laughing, wiping away imaginary tears as he took another napkin, wiping his mouth with it as he grinned at you. He then crumbled up the tissue in his hand, looking out at the balcony that was a few steps away from the dining room with a complicated expression.

“I guess you deserve to know what really happened back then,”

When Sukuna finally came home after five long weeks of not seeing you, he made a beeline for your room, then your shared bedroom, then the kitchen, then the specialized baking room he had built for you, then the living rooms followed by all the washrooms and guest bedrooms.

His heart was thumping irregularly in his heart, body drenched in cold sweat when he sent a thousand missed calls only to  find your phone abandoned  on the dining room table.

His head chanted your name like a mantra, like it would suddenly make you appear in front of him. A few days passed by where he didn’t really move from the house, praying to the gods out there that you were safe and would come back home. 

Uraume stayed over with him for a few weeks, cleaning up after his messes and cooking for him. They got to work immediately, slowly removing the traces of you that were left behind, pacing them all into a box and storing it in the attic lest Sukuna find them and go on a witch hunt. 

Sukuna had already established himself in the company- he had a few more fuckers to send to the afterlife and he could finally stop these month long trips away from you. He had officially been recognized as the CEO by all the board members, a velvet box tucked into his pocket when he came home, just for the ring to be discarded in one of his bedside drawers. 

He waited for a grueling three months before he decided enough was enough and hired people to go look for you. What he got in return was photos of you with an obvious baby bump, a man helping you walk with a hand on your back, smiling at each other like you were a lovesick couple. His ring was glinting in the light, both of you disappearing into the bakery as the man held open the door for you. 

Sukuna felt his heart stop, dread crawling up every blood vessel, scalding and freezing him at the same time. He crumpled the photo in his hand, frozen in place as he felt his head go blank. 

Uraume watched him with a careful eye, ripping the photo from his hand and frowning at the sight, 

“Sukuna-” 

The CEO held up a hand, chair screeching as he got up from his office chair, effectively silencing Uraume as they pocketed the photo.

“Get a new place for me. I will move in by tonight,”

You were silent when Sukuna finished his story, red eyes glancing at you every now and then at you as you picked at your nails,

“I was never married, I- there's been no one, not after you..”

Sukuna nodded, eerily quiet as he scratched at a sticker on the dining table, trying to scrape it off with his nail. 

“The man you saw, I think you mean my cousin. He’s married, three kids and all- Hana plays with them,”

You finally looked up, meeting Sukuna’s gaze as you continued, voice feeling far too raw and much too exposed. You took a deep breath, calming yourself 

“I would never-,”

You shook your head, biting your lip as you scowled at the mere thought, 

“I would never cheat on you- Ryo you meant far too much for me to even think of that-,”

Sukuna cut you off, voice unnaturally cold as he spoke, you wondered how long it had been since you heard that tone directed to you,

“Why didn’t you reach out,”

You took another long breath, looking down at your hands and then the worn out house.

“I was hoping you’d have moved on. I don't know- I hoped you would have found someone better, not someone like me. It was obvious that your board didn’t approve of me and I just-” I felt like you were holding yourself back for me, you were doing things you didn’t have to- just for me and that scared me. I never thought I’d have become the coward in our relationship. I just craved when we didn’t have to think so much just to be together. I was scared you wouldn’t want Hana even though I did. Maybe I was trying to fill in the hole you left when you went on those week-long missions, I was scared- I was just so scared Ryo. 

You wondered why the words you wanted to say didn’t come out, stuck in your throat like it was held down by cement, weighing heavy on your chest. The hurt of those unspoken phrases was far more than you thought them to be. The words swirled in your head, your mouth pulled to a thin line as you stopped talking, 

“I got rid of them all.” 

Sukuna finally spoke, getting up from his chair and pulling his seat closer to you, 

“Huh?”

Your voice squeaked out and Sukuna had a crazed grin on his face, cradling your face with his hand, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, 

“Every fucker that didn’t approve of you- thats why I left for so long,” You felt like time had stopped again, it was just you both again and it was like you were in his college dorm room again, cleaning up the cuts he got from punching a guy who was talking behind your back. 

“I promised I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

Sukuna leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against yours as his breath fanned against your face. You leaned into his hand unconsciously, biting your lip as tears streamed down your face. 

“Ryo I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, I just didn’t realize what I had done and by the time it was too late and I didn’t have the courage to face you-”

Sukuna shushed you, pressing his lips to yours in one go. He tasted like pancaked and salty tears and nostalgia all at once. He pulled away staring into your eyes as he wiped away your tears, 

“Stop crying you baby,”

Sukuna teased, pulling you closer by your shoulders and enveloping you in a hug. 

Sukuna and You stayed like that for a while, hugging each other till Sukunas back started to ache and he pulled you into his lap, resting head on your shoulder as he mumbled reassurances into your ear. 

“So why are you going around telling people you have a husband?” 

You stilled in Sukunas arms, pausing for a second before you continued. 

“Didn’t want people prying into Hana’s life and teasing her. She already gets into so much trouble for fighting with the boys in her class. Honestly I don’t know how she even learned how to fight,”

Sukuna chuckles, his laughter settling deep into your bones as you let yourself enjoy the timbre of his voice, 

“That’s my girl.” 

You rolled your eyes, scoffing as you got up from his lap and looking at the time, 

“Don’t you have work?”

You asked raising a brow at the carefree man, 

“Nah I’m letting the Gojo handle it for now heh, took a week off too” 

You smiled, Sukuna was having far too much fun relaxing around in your home. You started your way up the stairs, glancing back to see Sukuna on his heels trailing after you like a big tiger. 

“Well I’m going to get to work then,” 

Sukuna caught up with you on the top of the stairs, twisting you around to face him as his hands rested comfortably on your hips, rubbing smooth circles. 

“We’re not done talking though are we?” 

You stopped, averting your gaze as you avoided speaking on the topic. Sukunas hand came to rest above your collarbones, twisting the ring on your chain and tugging it off you, 

“When are you going to tell the kid?”

You sighed, pulling Sukunas hands away from you, he looked dejected for a second, immediately masking his emotions as he took a step forward, bending his neck to look at you  properly, hands fisting at his sides, 

“Are you trying to run away again pet?” 

You shook your head, words dancing around in your mouth as you bit your tongue, hands resting on Sukunas arms as you tried to comfort him, 

“With Hana, we should take things slow, she’s never asked me about her dad. She's kind of perceptive- never been one to pry about the stuff I didn’t like,” 

Sukunas jaw ticked and he glared at the floor, pulling away from you this time. 

“What- what about us,”

He called out your name when you didn't respond, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he stared at you longingly, 

“Sukuna-” 

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Taglist: @lady-of-blossoms @shokosbunny @after-laughter-come-tears @glads-stuff @acidrefiux @linny-bloggs @dahliadaenerys @gojotech @emi311 @poopooindamouf @sadrna @domainofmarie e @sukubusss @nousija @pjofics @katsukiseyebrows @the-reas0n-is-y0u @krispywhisperswhispers @pillkits @rier @needsleep3000 @tangsakura @raquel12 @not-aya @melancholycries @desprrssooo-espresssooooo @tojisbabymommasblog @thebumbqueen @melancholycries @totallygyomeiswife @kiyotosbae21 1 @bwlol7 @ratedrrrr @ihrtbin @kunascutie

A/n: Issues are getting resolved but are they really. I want to build up the tension between Sukuna and Reader a bit more but a kiss was much overdue. MORE DRAMA!!!!

a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described. 

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever. 

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.  

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.” 

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead. 

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response. 

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting. 

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.” 

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”  

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining. 

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her. 

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock. 

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia. 

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do.  “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

 “Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you. 

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now. 

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition. 

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king. 

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise. 

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it  takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself. 

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering. 

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing. 

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now. 

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!” 

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time feels like an enemy, one you've already let get the better of you for over a day now. Begrudgingly, you sink onto the hood of a rusted car and take the knife from your waist, slashing roughly at the ends of the fabric. A serrated one would be easier to work with. The end result is jagged hems. Less of a nuisance now, at least.

Ghost's persistent fever isn't the only threat. It's the sepsis. The blood poisoning. The shutting down of his organs. The things you haven't explained to Blue. At best, he could have a week. At worst, if they set in quickly, another day. The thought scrubs your hands over your bleary eyes, recentering your vision, and you push away from the car. You toss the cut scraps in the grass just when a disturbance skims the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it, the flicker of relief in his face quickly replaced by a grim determination as he musters his strength, raising the rifle and bringing the butt down hard against the lock. A sharp clang echoes through the room, metal chipping but holding firm. He exhales through his nose, adjusting his grip, and you meet his eyes, nodding once—keep going.

He hammers at the lock repeatedly, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. You glance away for a second when the dove returns to the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side, losing hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth. Force yourself to stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. A flicker at your jaw. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue, on the other hand, spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

Slowly. His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself, breath unformed in your chest, unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, clutching it fiercely when his mouth finds your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" Frustration chokes you. "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. Your hands clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails thoughtlessly piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.

Took you Like a Shot

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe (gojo is an idiot) MDNI - 4 parts (I THINK) in this chap-explicit sexual content, oral (m and f recieving) light angst, lots of feelings developing, Satoru is a lil shit but he's tryingg, cumplay, creampie, cervix kisses, mating press, flashbacks of their past rivalry- WC- this chap- 11k ( a lil longer one for ya) art in the banner by Yuana on X

Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3 (extras here and here)

<<<Chapter One - Masterlist - Playlist- Chapter Three (soon)>>>

Chapter Two

One Week later

“Are you… are you high!?” You whisper, as Satoru Gojo steps out of the back seat of his car, grinning up at you, sunglasses covering his eyes, but when he tilted them down, they’re bloodshot, he winces as the sunny day hits them, his head pounding.

Maybe going to a party last night was a bad idea?

Fucking Suguru and Sukuna.

“What? No! Do they have good food here!?” He’s eyeing the restaurant eagerly, tummy audibly growling. “I’m starving.”

“Satoru, tell me you’re not blitzed before we meet my parents.” You hiss between your teeth, crossing your arms under your breasts, just drawing even his faded attention to them.

“Those tits, god they keep getting-”

“Nope. Answer me.”

He whistles, shaking his head, before he grins once more, lopsided and far too charming. “No way, sweets. Straight as… a whistle?”

“A whistle?” Your raised brow shows your obvious confusion, you lean over to sniff him, smelling no pot however.

“Damn baby, right here?” He’s chuckling at his own joke, he may look like a million bucks in this gray Armani suit, so damn gorgeous it’s ridiculous. “I’m fine I swear, and ooh… don’t you look good.”

“Um… thanks?” He lowers those glasses as you lead him over to the stairs. It's bustling and busy, nice but casual, not what Satoru was used to, but when you explain it’s your favorite place, he’s intrigued. “This way, you’ve met my parents, yeah?”

“A couple times.” He pauses as you step in front of him, staring at that ass in this fucking sundress, making his already fucked up state worse, as he remembers the first time he noticed that ass.

*****

Four years ago

“Well hello, pretty.” Came the slow drawl of the voice behind you, it’s your first day of college, you’re so nervous but excited, this was a big opportunity for a girl like you, a full ride scholarship so elite. You look around, seeing the white haired man whistling as he stares at your ass, his sunglasses perched on his straight nose.

“Gojo?” You ask then, since you all met Senior year of high school, he’d certainly never called you pretty.

His blue eyes lock on yours over his shades, blinking then, thin brows together. “When did you get such a nice ass?”

“A nice what!?” You turn now, shoving at his chest, which almost makes you blush at just how built he feels.

You remember seeing him shirtless playing basketball, dribbling that and dunking in school, but the two of you never talked, you were the new girl Senior year and quiet, he was as popular as it got. This year, you want to have a life, have friends, not just be the shy girl.

You have a plan.

And he certainly can’t fuck that up.

“I didn’t know it was you, shit, you been like… doing squats or-”

“Can we not talk about my ass? Also how was I pretty from the back?” He’s grinning, bright white snarky little grin.

“I bet it’s pretty from the back-” Smack. “Ow, what the hell!?”

“You are an ass, Satoru Gojo.” A crowd gathers, gasping as Satoru takes off his shades, a red mark on his face.

“Give a girl a compliment and she smacks you for it!? Prissy little brat.”

“I don’t want your pervy compliments, manwhore.” You hear the oohs and whispers rolling more and more, as he crosses his arms, smirking like the little shit he is.

“Pervy? No, you should be honored to have them by me, goody goody.”

“Conceited jerk! Ugh!”

“Little nerd!”

“Me!? Don’t you play Digimon!”

“Yeah but you play DnD.” You cross your arms now, glaring up at the tall handsome jerk of a man, in his stupid blue polo that brings out his eyes, very unfortunately.

“DnD is classy.”

“Okay dungeon master.”

“Ugh!” You both stomp off in different directions, as everyone disperses, already talking about the two of you, people who never noticed you in high school now saw the girl who slapped ‘the’ Satoru Gojo.

Satoru’s friends, Suguru and Sukuna come up to him then, as he rubs his cheeks, and he sees Utahime talking to you. “Oh great, she’s talking to the number one Gojo hater.”

“She smacked the shit out of you, dude.” Suguru snorts, clearly blitzed, where his eyes are white they’re bright red. Satoru rubs his cheek, as you walk off, that nice ass in those jeans jiggling just so, while your hips sway.

“Just told her she had a nice ass.” He grumbles, Sukuna and Suguru lean their heads to the side, whistling, earning you looking back at the three men.

“Really!?” You cross your arms, and they all snort in laughter.

“They’re pigs, I know. Hey, we should sign up for the sorority, don’t you think!?” Utahime asks, you bite your lip nervously.

“A sorority?”

“You’d do great, baby.”

“Shoko!” You both hug her, as she sucks on the tip of her cigarette, looking back at the boys and laughing a bit.

“They’re still staring at your ass.”

“My god!” You take off your hoodie then, wrapping it around your hips, flipping the three of them off, Sukuna and Suguru laugh, but Satoru’s just staring, blue eyes far, far too much to handle.

Blue eyes you fell into when you first saw him.

Before he opened his mouth, that is.

*****

Present Day 

The memories fade off, when you head up the stairs to the rooftop restaurant where you were meeting your parents for lunch, and you hear a low whistle as you step up each stair. You turn, hand on the railing while the breeze whips your dress around just a bit, when you see him staring right at your ass.

“Satoru!”

“It’s getting bigger, pregnancy is kind of hot on you.” You gasp now, as he’s licking his lower lip, eyes traveling up your body.

“I’ll smack you!” You whisper, turning and leaning close, while his hand now comes to rest on your waist, feeling far, far too good.

“It’s a compliment, Pookie, relax.”

“I’m not your ‘Pookie’ and-” He pinches your ass now, earning his smack, but this time he dodges, before casually strolling up the stairs, hands in his pockets, as you’re fuming and stomping along next to him.

“You’re a brat.”

“A brat!?”

“Never could take a compliment for shit.”

“A big ass isn’t-”

“There you two are!” Your parents wave you two over then, and Satoru puts an arm around you with ease, waving and grinning, hand precariously close to the ass that has driven him insane since the first day of college.

“Hey guys!” You greet, grinning but whispering through your teeth. “I’m gonna kick your ass later.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time now.”

“Gojo! What a… surprise.” Your mom looks at you curiously, you haven’t told them yet, but surely seeing you with Satoru Gojo was a shock. He smiles with ease, taking her hand and kissing it with a wink, as if he’s a gentleman and not someone who just pinched your ass.

“Hey there, Gojo.” Your dad says now, shaking his hand, and you both sit across from them, as the pretty waitress flirts right with Satoru, he ignores her and has an arm draped around your waist.

He plays a very good boyfriend.

Maybe his arm feels a little too good?

Pregnancy hormones, surely.

“You don’t want mimosas?” Your mom asks curiously then, as the waitress offers the bottomless special, you shake your head, and Satoru’s blue eyes assess you carefully, your hand flitting to your stomach.

You already were sacrificing, sure it’s just drinks, but he’d gotten blitzed the fuck out last night, something about that feels off to him. He can’t pinpoint or place it, when you take his hand in yours, it feels too good, your warm hand so tiny compared to his own huge hands, he falters for a moment, mind all over the place until he sees the shock on your parents faces.

Oh shit.

You just told them!

“Pregnant!?” Your mom says far too loudly, and you see the curiosity of those around you, shushing her then. “What!? How?”

“You wanna know how? Take a guess mom.” Your eyes narrow, and then your mom sighs, as your dad still blinks in shock.

“With… Gojo?” Her assessment turns to Satoru then, who’s gulping down his own icy drink, some rainbow frozen concoction, so fast his head hurts, he holds it then, whimpering.

“Brain freeze, ouchie!” He’s screaming out, earning more looks, as your mom turns back to you, watching the six foot four man waving his arms like he’s caught on fire, a question on her lips.

“Him though? Honey…” You sigh then, standing up and cupping Satoru’s face then.

“Open up.” He opens his mouth now, as you press your thumb against the roof of his mouth, to the avid attention of the entirety of the rooftop now, when Gojo sighs in relief, blue eyes fluttering open, meeting yours.

“S’better!” He mumbles, you laugh then, you can’t help it, damn him if he’s not amusing and… freaking cute, pouting like a puppy around your finger.

“It’s a trick I learned.” He’s tempted to suck on your finger then, so much he kind of does, making you heat up, pulling back and wiping his drool off your dress, as you both sit back down, and your parents look at each other.

“Oh.” They both say then, making the two of you blink in confusion.

“Oh what?” You ask.

“I guess I see it now.” Your dad’s words fill you both with confusion, but you have to admit, it works in your favor, too.

“Yes we are… together.” You say softly, scooching your chair a little closer, when Satoru’s hand rests on your thigh, burning your skin with the contact.

Pregnancy hormones, right?

Nothing else… yeah?

“We are, and she’d like to keep it.” Gojo’s soft words surprise you, making you meet his gaze, wondering then- “Gonna be a Satoru junior!”

“Satoru junior!? What if it’s a girl?”

“Still Satoru. Oh wait, Satoruette.”

“Oh god,we are not naming it Satoruette!”

Your parents laugh then, and the tension eases, soon your dad is talking to Satoru, and they’re speaking on sports, of course Satoru was also a star basketball player, amongst everything else. That’s one area you never were not missing too much, you cheered of course but it was not really your passion, also every game seemed to be some argument between you two.

“Are you sure about this, kids are a big responsibility, especially financially.” Your mom’s words hit you hard, you know that of course, and don’t take it lightly. “We can help some but things are a little tight-”

“No mom, no. This isn’t for that, though you can totally buy them some cute little toys or clothes if you want.” Her eyes get misty, as your hands join over the table. “This is just to tell you. I can do this mom.”

“But honey, your career…”

“I can do it. I know I can.” She sighs now, leaning over and brushing your cheek, Satoru watches the affection then and hears her words.

“Then I’m proud of you, I always am.”

God, what would Satoru do if he heard those words?

His parents barely gave him affection growing up, always on this island or this cruise, this country or that destination, never acknowledging how hard Satoru worked, just informing him of his duty. Taking over the business, college was useless to a family like the Gojos, maybe a nice decoration for that sky high office building just waiting with his name on it.

No straight A’s, no winning games, nothing got one tenth of the affection you just got for something that’s essentially not the best thing at your age. No, your mom is proud of you, and he watches your tears flow down your cheeks, realizing he’s seen you cry a few times now, but never in four years, while you’re smiling tremulously at her.

“Thank you mom. I needed that.” You’re on her side of the table, hugging, as your dad clears his throat a bit.

“Gonna make an honest woman out of her?”

“Dad! Satoru, don’t listen. Old fashioned man.” You tease, wiping off your cheeks and smiling so brightly, the sun hits your skin, skin that’s just glowing, and it makes his breath catch for a moment.

You’re beautiful.

He always knew you were banging hot, a little pretty brat, but he never realized until that moment, with everything glowing about you, that you’re beautiful too, an inner beauty that makes his fogged brain clear for just a moment. The crush he’d had for so long suddenly shifts into something more, even moreso than after the night you two shared that led to this moment.

“Are you okay, they’re a little extra.” He notices you’re right then, looking over to your parents and shaking his head.

“They’re great actually.” The sincerity in his voice hits deeply, you smile over at your parents, then back at him.

“They are, huh?” You grin, so clearly devoted to your family.

How must that feel to be?

So loved.

“So… dinner in a few hours with your parents, right? Should I dress a certain way?” Satoru’s demeanor shifts, you frown a bit at it, touching his shoulder. “You okay, this is a lot.”

“I’m fine.” He needs another hit of that blunt or ten before he deals with his parents, however.

“Are you gonna continue basketball, Gojo?” Your dad asks, Satoru sighs, frowning and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t.” His words make you sick as you’re struggling to just keep water down, have you already fucked his dreams up?

“The baby…”

“No, no.” His hand sits on yours with far too much ease, like it’s been there in that spot for as long as you can remember, squeezing it. “Nothing to do with that. The family business.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, you were amazing though.” He smirks just a bit at that, you sure would never have said that back then.

“Ya think so?” You nod then.

“I was a shitty cheerleader.” He smiles.

“You were.”

“Hey!” You shove him playful\y, as the food is brought out, Satoru has ordered an obscene amount of food, already digging in. “Remember nationals?”

“Oh god yeah.”

Three years ago

Satoru and the team had almost won nationals already, and you and the cheerleading squad are on the sidelines, about to head into the center of the loud basketball court, the rubber of your cheer sneakers sliding just so, squeaky over the floor as you all prepare. Satoru has a bunch of girls all over him, snapping selfies, as he’d already secured their guarantee, so of course he was the MVP of the team.

You watched him avidly, how good he was, not that you’d admit it, especially as your fists go to your hips, preparing for the routine, and Satoru’s chuckling just a bit at you, smug expression on his stupid pretty face. You can’t stand him then, when he cups his hands over his face, shouting your name.

“You can do it.” He’s mocking, one thing you were not good at was fucking cheerleading. You couldn’t flip for shit and were afraid of heights, this was a terrible combination.

Some people laugh, as your friends pat your back, encouraging you. When the routine begins, and you’re up in the air, standing stiff, you panic, the room starts spinning damn near. You feel yourself lose balance, falling in front of a court with thousands of people watching.

And one loudly laughing.

You can’t cry, you can’t cry.

You brush off the helpful hands of your friends, hopping up and immediately regretting it, your entire body aches, and you see a bruise already forming along your knee, scraped up and dripping blood.

And he laughed at you.

God you can’t stand him.

You limp off when Satoru sobers up, seeing you’re clearly hurt, and runs towards you, pausing you before you run right out of there. “Funny, huh? You get a good laugh at me?”

You glare at him, eyes watery then, and he falters, instantly feeling terrible, he didn’t think you hurt yourself, and the fall was comical. It’s what you both did, make fun of each other, laugh and point when one of you fucked up, but even the side of your face has a blossoming bruise, which he touches, earning your trembling lip.

He’s never seen you cry.

“Are you crying?”

“Really, came here to mock me even now!?”

“No I…”

“I am not crying, and I’ll be fine. I quit.” You’re limping off, even when Satoru’s hands hit your waist, feeling far too good.

You shove it down, shove it all down.

“You quit, competitive ass no way.”

“I do.”

“C-can I carry you, to get it checked? The doc is here-”

“Carry me, what kind of joke is that, to make you look even better? The basketball court is full of quiet murmurs, many worried about you, and cooes of how sweet Satoru is. His blue eyes light up with fire as they narrow.

“You think I am asking to help so I look good.”

“You always care how you look. And you look perfect, you have the perfect life, and here I am - falling in front of a room - to you fucking laughing. I’m good.” You pull back from him, wincing in pain as your knee is swelling even more.

“You’re being a stubborn brat, you have to get checked. What if you-”

“Tell them I quit, if you wanna do anything for me. You won’t have to see me as often either, works out.”

“I…”

“Congrats on the win, I’m sure.” He watches you limp away, your friends running after you, eventually he walks back, your face haunting him.

Maybe if he didn’t taunt you?

Maybe if he didn’t laugh…

You clearly got hurt, thrown off maybe because of him, and he’s just left there, quietly informing the team you quit. When he’s back to his team, even they look at him a little seriously, his coach coming to tell him about sportsmanship, and how he shouldn’t laugh like that.

Satoru tried to apologize the next time he saw you, but instead of the banter, with your leg wrapped up, you turned and said nothing to him.

Shit he fucked up.

*****

Present Day

You are walking Satoru to his car, as you both have a few hours to go, while his mind whirls with regret, with memories of you. You had brought up nationals as a joke at how bad you were, but all it did was make him remember just how fucking horrible he was to you.

“What’s wrong, intense huh?” You look at him with concern he doesn’t really deserve, your dress blowing just a bit, earning you clutching some of the thin material in a fist.

“I was an ass that day. Nationals.” You look down now, taking a little breath, shaking your head.

“It probably looked funny-”

“No. I was an ass. I’m… sorry.” Your pretty face is frozen in shock, mouth wide open while you try to comprehend his words.

“You’re apologizing for something like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…” You both stand there for a bit, when you remember how upset you were, god you two didn’t talk for months, a gnawing feeling growing.

Do you know him truly?

“Thank you for that. But, it’s the past, we shouldn’t dwell.” Your hand is soft on his shoulder.

“Pregnancy making you a mush.”

“Says you, apologizing for your past, like some Eboneezer Scrooge.”

“Pshh.” You both laugh a bit, before you clear your throat, dispelling some of the tension between the two of you.

“I’ll see you soon, Satoru.”

“Sounds good.”

Doesn’t sound good, his parents are not something he wants having you scrutinized, the cozy vibes of today will be long, long gone, he already knows.

******

“Holy shit… you’re… rich rich.” Satoru snorts, rolling his eyes as you two use the brass lion knocker that evening, twilight making the sky a myriad of purples and pinks, casting the softest glow.

“Yeah, the ‘richest in the state’.” He finds it all far too pretentious, but you can’t help but feel a mixture of intimidation, and awe, the high iron gates and gorgeous mansion in front of you, in the prettiest white with light blue there was, as if it was molded for Satoru’s color.

Could anything replicate his eye color?

Why are you thinking that way!?

“Are they alright with this?” You ask quietly, hearing the footsteps head towards the door, ever so slowly.

“They are… well you’ll see.” The tone, while he’s still blitzed the fuck out clearly, perhaps more, is dark for a simple dinner. “I already told them.”

“Oh… you did?”

“Yeah, when I found out, trust me, throwing you to the wolves is an understatement of my parents.” The door opens, after an uncomfortable long moment, the butler opens it and bows at his waist.

“Master Gojo, come come.” He claps his hands, nose literally up in the air like some damn commercial for ‘grey poupon’ or some shit. Satoru’s family home is even more beautiful on the interior, floors polished to a glassy sheen, white marble of course, along with dual winding steps, in crushed white velvet with mahogany rails.

Everything in here is impeccable, sparkling, chandeliers over head with the insanely high ceilings, you tilt your head back, to see the intricate work decorating it, swirls of gold and blue, like you’d see in old royalty. It doesn’t fit a damn LA home, as rich as the area is, no it’s damn near Versailles.

You swallow down a sudden lump of anxiety, when Satoru’s hand squeezes yours, gently, and you look at him. His eyes are slightly glazed, his jaw is tight, his grip reassuring, but the way he looks around, like he himself is uncomfortable in his own home, makes you realize how much he truly hates this place.

You never considered someone so privileged could feel this way, his utter disgust is clear as day. “I know, it’s overboard.”

“No, I mean it’s beautiful…” Your words trail off, because the butler has already led you to the dining hall, where a table so long it could fit fifty people is set for the four of you. You spot his mother and father at the end of the table, their expressions unreadable, but you know they’re sizing you up.

The chandeliers are dimmer here, the walls lined with paintings that belong in a damn art gallery, including a giant painting of Gojo, his father and you’re assuming his grandfather, so giant they take over the entire room. The atmosphere is so thick with tension in the air that you could feel your lungs crave fresh air.

Is this where he grew up?

The smell of surely a five star meal wafts over to you, but your stomach feels like it’s in knots, when you see the elaborate display, and you see Satoru’s mother. She’s got long silky white locks, but dark eyes, elegant and beautiful as she stands up, while his father has the exact shade of blue, Satoru is clearly the perfect mix of the two gorgeous people.

“Ah, Satoru, and you…” She addresses your name, a cold smile as she gestures for you to sit. “Come have dinner.”

“Pleased to meet you all, thank you.” You say politely, even as this feeling of being… in some petri dish under a microscope takes over. Satoru’s plopping down, making his father’s brows lower.

“Can’t pull out her seat?” He demands, and Satoru sighs, but you’re already sitting down.

“This looks so delicious, thank you.” You try to ease the tension, while you all follow into polite, menial conversation, their words feel practiced and hollow.

You think of your upbringing, a little cozy home, far from rich or fancy, but your mom cooked every night. And that little old kitchen table they still have, the one long past its prime, was filled with laughter, tears, or sometimes even lively debates between the three of you.

Not this.

“So, let’s cut to it.” You hear, while you’re nibbling on a bite of probably the best filet mignon you’ve had, but your fork clatters to your plate at his father’s words.

“Really, couldn’t give it twenty minutes?” Satoru’s words are icy cold.

You tense as you sit at the table, scrutinized to a tee, his mother and father’s eyes cooly assessing you up and down. “You have an amazing degree, lots of community activism, some sports it seems.”

“You… researched me?” You ask, his father shrugs.

“Of course we did, we need to know if you’re good stock.”

You nearly spit out your drink, Satoru’s jaw tenses so much you see a thin blue vein popping out from his jaw, pulsing under that skin. “She’s not an animal, the fuck you mean good stock. Are we breeding corgis?”

“You know what he meant.” His mom says, dabbing a handkerchief on her lips and sighing, leaning back to look at you. “She’s beautiful, and clearly intelligent, no record ever, unlike your long one.”

“Whatever a couple charges. And… so what, then she’s okay for your standard then?” Gojo says with a glare, as you heat up in embarrassment.

“She seems like she may be good quality, though her family isn’t exactly up to par.” You throw down your napkin then, standing, and Satoru curses, knowing you sure weren’t letting that slip. He murmurs your name, but you’re far gone.

“My parents are the best there are in the world.”

“They’re poor.”

“Poor!? They aren’t on the streets, they live in a fucking superb.”

“Bad language, check that off.” His mom murmurs, and Satoru blinks at their audacity, watching as his former rival - was it former? - fire sign brat - about to go unhinged, was so enjoyable his lips twitch in humor.

“Is there a checklist you’re keeping for me?” You demand, they look at Satoru then.

“She seems angry, is that usual?” His mom asks, earning Satoru’s smirk.

“She’s fiery is all.”

“Talk to me like I’m a person, stop acting like I’m a picture, someone who fits your son in your eyes.” They both falter a bit, watching while you’re crossing your arms now, he hears your heels click on the floor, echoing while he can clearly see the fury raging on your pretty face.

“We don’t disapprove.” His father says then, making you pause, as well as Satoru for a moment. “She… sorry, you seem like you have your life together. Squeaky clean, dean’s list, high up journalism opportunity. We are supportive of the two of you getting married.”

“Married!?” The two of you shout at once, you plop back down in your seat in shock, sipping water while they look at each other, then the two of you.

“Of course you’ll get married, the sooner the better before-”

“It’s not 1810, we won’t be getting married.” Satoru cuts in. “In the future perhaps, but it’s common for people to not marry.”

“That’s unacceptable for your position, and you know it. What sort of scandal would that cause?”

“Scandal this, image that, fuck it.” Satoru downs the glass of wine in front of him, shaking his head now as he answers his mother. “I’ll take care of the baby, but we aren’t getting married for your image.”

“I highly encourage you to change your mind, a marriage and baby would look good for the corporation.” Satoru rolls his eyes at his father’s words.

“Everything for the image, huh?” He smiles sadly, eyes hollow, and you realize then and there that you’ve never really known a damn thing about Satoru Gojo.

You pictured it, the rich boy he was, flaunting his wealth in shirts worth your bills for the month, how cocky and conceited he seemed, how foolish. But now it all starts clicking together like little puzzle pieces you can finally press together. How could he handle parents like this?

“We will help support the heir, regardless.” His mother says, a little softer, you watch as Satoru stands then, hands gripping the table tightly.

“I don’t need help, and we are not royalty, as close as you think we are, don’t call it the ‘heir’ please. I think I’m… full though. You?” He holds out a hand and you nod, placing yours in his, while his parents stand across the elegant banquet table as well, stiff and stuck up… and just cold.

“Satoru, we aren’t displeased you’re having the child, just the way you’re going about it. It’s uncouth.” His father’s words make him squeeze the fuck out of your hand, while he pulls you to stand.

“Uncouth huh?”

“You’re uncouth all together, you always are. When you’re supposed to be the pride of the family.” You glare now, yanking Satoru around, until you stand directly in front of his parents.

“Guess what, I’m proud of him, even if you aren’t, okay?” They gasp at your audacity, but Satoru just blinks, staring at you.

“You’re a mouthy little girl, aren’t you?” You laugh then, right at his mother, shaking your head.

“You’re going to be grandparents, you should focus on becoming good ones, huh? Not financially, either. Focus on being someone we can feel good about you being in their lives, about the coming over.”

“Well, we won’t watch the baby. We could pay for a nanny-”

“No.” You cut his mother off again. “All due respect Mr. and Mrs. Gojo, you need to get it together if you want to be in this baby’s life. No nannies, no being uppity, you need to support your son, okay?”

“We-”

“No, I mean really support him. He got straight A’s, he was a star basketball player, leader of his fraternity, now he’s stepping up to care for his baby. What more did you need to be proud of!?”

Satoru speaks your name again, tugging at you, while his parents frown then, staring at each other. “We should go.”

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. and Mrs Gojo. I hope I can see you all again.” You say now, holding out your hand, firmly shaking each of theirs, before you let Satoru pull you away, steps echoing through the elegant halls on those marble floors. Pretentious statues staring at you both the whole way, you can feel him, seething. “Shit, I said too much, I’m sorry…”

“Will you stop?” He’s pulled you past the door man now, until the two of you are finally outside, so he can breathe.

“How do you even handle them?” Your question makes Satoru laugh, without humor, while you all stand in front of the Gojo mansion, the night breeze swirling around the two of you, the moon so full and bright it’s illuminating his perfect skin.

“How do I handle them…” He’s shrugging a broad shoulder now, as the two of you wait for the car to arrive. “I didn’t have to very often, they weren’t around.”

“No wonder you…”

“No wonder I what?” He whispers, raising a thin brow now, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I shouldn’t say anything.”

“No, when have you ever held back, hmm little preppy ass brat?” It’s your turn to glare, crossing your arms.

“I wasn’t attacking you here, I was trying to be understanding, to… just try to get you, okay?”

“Why, do ya feel bad for me?”

“No!” You do though, shit. You feel horrible that those are his parents, not that they are cruel, they don’t care about him as anything other than a figurehead.

“Don’t feel bad, I have everything I ever wanted, right?” He uses your own words in the past against you, making you falter, blinking rapidly. “What’s that display, though, playing a girlfriend so well?”

“What display?”

“That you’re ‘proud of me’ or whatever.” He’s mumbling now, looking away from you, making the clenching in your tummy worse. “That’s feeling sorry.”

“That’s defending you, okay?” His eyes catch yours, more feelings than you ever expected to see from Satoru Gojo, eyes that were arrogant were swirling with more emotions than you could fathom.

“I don’t need you to.” You scoff now, shaking your head, biting on a lower lip he’s dying to kiss, a mouth he wants to devour, with every puff of breath in the cool night, he sees goosebumps along your shoulders and arms. He should offer you his fucking jacket, he should…

You’re touching his face, hand cool on his heated cheek, as you glare right up at him, making him ache to pull you against him. “If we are going to raise a baby together, we need to do a lot better than them. And we can do better, okay? I know you can.”

Satoru exhales at your words, blinking back emotions. “How do you know?”

“I just know, you’ll be more involved, you’re not like them, alright? You’re arrogant, you annoy me, you're a perverted little shit.” He laughs a bit, softly now, big hand wrapping your delicate wrist, easing off his face, but not letting it go. “But you’re not them, you’re just… Satoru.”

“Shit.” He pulls you against his hard chest, making you both falter, your own eyes darting to his lips, far too close when he leans down.

If he kisses you, you’ll melt.

“Say something dumb or pervy.” You whisper, he grins now, shaking his head, while his hand slips down your waist.

“There’s been one thing on my mind looking at you-” The car pulls up now, and he clears his throat, hands slipping down your cool arms. “Time for you to go home. Do you want me to ride with you?”

You nod then, sliding into the back of the black car with him, as he sends the address to the driver’s gps, leaning back, arm over the seat, so close to you, his long legs spread wide, brushing on your still chilled skin. You feel the warmth of him, as you fall into an uncomfortable silence, you can’t stop wondering about him, the boy you thought you knew.

You turn your head to find him staring right at you, openly, not the ogling stare of before, no it was so different. Contemplative, studying, heating you up everywhere it touches like his hands themselves are touching you, burning a trail everywhere they land, in the quiet dark of the car.

“What is it?” You murmur, biting back a moan when his hand touches your thigh, feeling so good you almost fail at concealing it.

“Beautiful, that’s what I’ve thought all day.” Your cheeks heat up, you look away then, words you’d never expect Satoru to say.

“What?”

“You’re beautiful. Okay?” His fingers brush your hair back, off your collarbone, trailing them across it then, as your chest rises and falls with every breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it, shit I always knew you’re drop dead gorgeous, but I guess today is the first moment I thought it.”

“You can’t-”

“I do mean it. Glowing, fuck.” He’s too close then, and you’re gulping, throat suddenly dry, inhaling that hundred dollar a spray cologne, intoxicating as it fills your senses.

“Satoru…” He’s exhaling, breath hot against your lips, lips you’ve bitten to death in attempts to hold back, what’s glimmering to the surface.

“We hate each other, I don’t want that, not for this baby.”

You blink rapidly, your own hand slipping up his chest, feeling his heart race as it does. “I don’t want it either. I want them to have loving parents, even if we’re not together.”

Together.

Satoru’s never dated, he’s had women in and out of his bed since he turned eighteen, sometimes multiple girls in one night, chasing some feeling that he has never gotten, except with you. But even after that night, he never contemplated it, dating someone, being with them, was he worthy of that, especially with you? He couldn’t even give you his jacket.

Suddenly he takes it off, making you giggle when he wraps you with it. “It’s not cold inside the car, silly.”

“I suck, I’m an idiot and… I am not a gentleman, at all.”

“Satoru…” He shakes his head as you cut him off.

“No, it’s true. I was fucked up before an important day for us, and I couldn’t even give you my jacket tonight when I saw you freezing.” You pull it closer, when he’s brushing a hand under it, right on your waist, sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re doing fine all things considered, I wasn’t kidding. I am proud that you stepped up, it means a lot to me, okay?”

“Don’t be so nice.” You glare, making him moan softly at how sexy you always are when you do.

“You’re being nice, too.”

“I know. Everything I’m thinking, though baby?” He’s got his other hand entangled in your hair, and you can’t stop the soft cry from escaping your lips. “It's filthy.”

“Filthy, huh?” Your voice is just a breathy whisper, he can't stop thinking just how cute you are.

“You can’t begin to imagine what I’m thinking. Seeing these rock hard all fucking day, so full already.” He’s gripping your tits then, squishing one in his palm, and a thumb brushing over it, making your hips roll, pressing your eager cunt against the seat, dying for the friction, while he’s so close you can taste him. “They want to get sucked on, don’t they sweetheart?”

You nod wordlessly, earning Satoru’s moan as he presses you down on the seat then, his own jacket falling under you, hand pushing down your dress, revealing your pretty breasts to his view. You gasp when he brushes his thumb on them, bare, lowering his snowy head, and you’re frozen there, trying to remember all the years you hated him, he hated you.

Why can’t you think of anything but how bad you want him?

“Shouldn’t I take care of you, too? Don’t you ache baby?” He’s murmuring, mouth hovering, as he just barely brushes his lips on them.

“S-sensitive…” He presses another kiss, and your hands entangle in his silky locks, cunt so wet it’s making your panties sticky.

“Sensitive, then do you want me to make them feel good?”

“Should we… ah!” He’s lapping at your nipple with his talented tongue, swirling your nipple, and your moan fills the car, to the point you’re sure poor Kiyotaka could hear you, making you slam a hand on your mouth. Satoru chuckles, little shit that he is, lapping at the other one.

“You want it so bad, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He sucks your nipple into his hot mouth, you can’t stand just how good it feels, your hand entangling in his locks, pulling him off, as your chest heaves with your labored breaths, and he hovers an inch above you.

“Is it just… sex then? Do we just have amazing sex?” He smirks now.

“It was amazing? That’s the first I heard.”

“You know it was, arrogant ass. For me I mean.”

You falter a bit, you’re sure Satoru’s more experienced, you’ve watched him have more girls on him at once than men you’ve known. Satoru sees your hesitance, pressing a kiss on your lower lip now, nipping it slowly with his teeth, unleashing the heat in your core, until you’re throbbing with need.

“You felt so good wrapped around me.” You whine out at that, as he presses kisses to each corner of your mouth, gripping your breast again, heavy weight over you, his words and caresses making you pulse now. “Felt you cumming, so tight, think I don’t wanna be back inside you?”

“Shit… this is insane.” You’re shaking your head, when he kisses down your neck, back arching up for more. “If we are going to… we’d have to be exclusive, for the safety of the baby. So you really better think about this. At least while I’m pregnant.”

As if Satoru had been with anyone since you.

“I wouldn’t put the baby at risk.” Your eyes lock, noses brushing against each other, while he touches your tummy, feeling the slight roundness just barely already, making him lose his mind.

“While I’m pregnant I mean… if you do want anyone else and want this to stop… just tell me so I know?” He nods, unable to say the words, that he just wants you.

“Guess what?” His husky voice resonates in your ears, like he’s speaking to your pussy directly.

“W-what?”

“I can cum so deep inside your tight little cunt, all you want. ” His words fuck your brain, what was left of it, his fingers brushing on your slick heat now. “Fuck, you’re soaked, you like that thought huh.”

“It’s just hormones, mnh!” He’s laughing at your attempt.

“Hormones hmm?” You nod weakly, then cry out as he sinks two fingers in your pussy, pressing up in those gummy walls, that spot that has you weak, seeing fucking stars.

“Fuck you for hitting it so quick-ah!” He’s smirking as he watches you, the sounds of your squelching wetness filling his ears, making him feral.

“Wanna cum on my fingers or my mouth?” Your lips part, brows together, uncomprehending his words.

“Y-you eat girls out?” He chuckles then, curling his fingers up inside you just so, as your slick pools down his hand, already gripping him like a vise.

“Do I seem so selfish?” You take several shaky breaths, eyes rolling back as he hits some spot even you don’t know about, bringing you higher and higher. “Think I don’t wanna bury my face between your thighs?”

“It’s… intimate…”

“You’re cute.” He’s kissing lower, lower, your thighs trembling when the car comes to a stop, and Satoru’s fingers are coated in your slick when he pulls them out, dripping off his fingers, when he sucks on them, making your jaw drop. “Fuck you taste s’good.”

“Jesus, hormones and you are dangerous.” He’s smirking, when you sit up, biting on your lip once more. “Do you wanna come inside?”

“Cum inside that pussy?” You roll your eyes.

“Oh never mind…”

“No, no, no! I do!” He follows you out of the car, while your hands tremble, trying to unlock the door, you both barely get in before your lips are all over each other, you keep thinking, this is insane.

Insane.

It’s just the situation, why he’s ripping that dress off you, leaving you naked and bare to him completely in moments with practiced hands, moaning softly when he sees your body fully, that night he hadn’t seen all of you. His hands grip your hips then, yanking you up like it’s nothing, right into his arms. You cling to him, kissing him desperately, still fully clothed, while he presses you on the door.

“Fuck me, please.” Your desperate plea alone makes him leak precum, while he stares at your gorgeous frame.

“You’re begging me? Never thought I’d see the day, preppy little brat.” Your glare just makes him harder, as you shove at him now.

“Satoru!”

“You’re demanding pregnant, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god just… shut up please…” You slam your lips on his, grinding shamelessly against his belt, that hits your clit just so, making him drop that persona for just a minute, how sexy you are, how good you feel. “God just fuck me.”

“Room?” You point weakly as he carries you, and you’re thrown right on your bed, he stands up then, pulling off his dress shirt, revealing that perfect body, glowing slightly with the moonlight filtering through your blinds. You sit up, yanking on his belt with shaky hands, yanking his pants down and revealing how hard he already is under his boxers.

Your body violently responds when you see how much he wants you, for some reason that means more than it should, than two people making the best of such an insane situation, tugging his boxers down until his cock springs free. You’re lapping at his pretty blushed tip before he can think, eyes looking up at him from lowered lashes, making him whimper from just that.

Satoru whimpering triggers something in you yourself, you’re sucking his veiny length, as his hands entangle in your hair, his head falling back, abdomen flexing while you take him deeper. “B-baby, fuck… taking it that good, huh?”

He’s mad you’ve ever done it.

He’s mad anyone’s even seen your eyes at this angle. God he can’t stop thinking how pretty they are, even as his cock throbs inside your hot mouth, and you suck him so fucking hungry. He can’t stop thinking of how gorgeous you are, how he’s not sure he even deserves this from you, like he’s in some fucking dream, sweet thoughts mixing with the wet sounds of you sucking him up.

He’s feeling the suction, your hot wet mouth so eager, when you touch your throbbing, needy clit, running it in circles, while you sit there serving him, feeling him lose it with every stroke. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he fucks into your tight throat, feeling so good when his tip brushes the roof of your mouth, leaking pearly pre cum.

“Fuck, you’re so hungry for it, aren’t you?” You pull back with a pop now, when he swipes the drool off your chin, and your hand strokes him, earning another sweet little whimper.

“Shh. Just fuck me.” You whisper, pulling back and turning, on all fours with that sexy ass in the air. He pauses, dying to fuck you, but dying to taste you more, you gasp when Satoru flips you on your back, and you blush in the dark room. “Don’t you wanna…”

“I said I was eating you out. Gonna deny me the meal? Ya that mean?” You’re stammering as he kisses down your tummy, shoving your thighs apart, lapping a stripe up your slit, you’re pulling his hair so hard it hurts, screaming out, just making his cock throb harder.

“Toru I haven’t had anyone… do that…” He pulls back now, and your hands ease, when he sees something he never saw in you before, the confident, feisty little brat that you are.

You’re nervous.

He eases up a bit, resting on his elbows, pressing kisses against your inner thighs as he inhales you, god you smell even better than before, taste even better than he remembers. “I love to do it, if you want.”

You exhale in relief, nodding shyly then, another thing he wouldn’t associate with you- shy. The girl who just ripped down his pants, sucking him like a pro, is nervous to get pleased this way. “I want it, fuck I want it bad. Just a little… you’re seeing all of me, like all.”

“I am seeing so much of this pretty pussy.” He presses a kiss higher up, breath ghosting your sensitive clit when he parts your lips, watching arousal drool out of your cunt. “Prettiest, actually.”

“N-no…”

“Mmhmm.” He licks you again, and something far too intimate forms, when Satoru Gojo is buried between your thighs, worshipping you with his talented tongue in long, slow strokes. “Fuck you’re so wet…”

“Hormones?” He just grins, you feel his teeth against your pussy, when your body relaxes for him, when you spread your thighs, letting him see you, while he presses his cock against the mattress.

“Hormones.” He slips his tongue up to your clit then, and you don’t hold back anymore, a few more strokes and you’re grinding on his face, making his groan vibrate against your sensitive clit. “Mmm…”

“There, there oh my god!” Did Satoru Gojo have to be the best at everything? Did he have to ruin you when his blue eyes watch your face contort in pleasure?

“There you go, you like it right… here.” Satoru slips two fingers in your slutty little hole, pressing up as he flicks his tongue, and you’re clinging to him now, while he works you with a tongue far too talented, you’re instantly jealous of every girl that’s had Satoru like this.

Wild thoughts, stop that.

“Loosen up, just feel it sweetheart.” He says now, feeling you tense around him, and you nod then, eyes rolling back when he fucks those fingers into you, scissoring them in and out, while flicking his tongue right on your clit, twitching in response. “Let go f’me, huh pretty?”

“Mnh!” You shatter at his urging, his mouth, his teeth, tongue, all of it merging and destroying your surroundings, you’re cumming so intense you cannot see anymore, and Satoru’s eagerly drinking you up. “Satoru!”

“Mmm…” He’s lapping all the wetness that’s gushing out of you, fingers easing out to grip your hips, while your thighs tighten on either side of his head. “That’s it, so greedy f’me, want more?”

“Please!” You’re fucking his face now, god he can’t get enough, burying his face against you, shaking his head side to side, while you’re so sensitive the next orgasm comes so quickly, you’re yanking him up, kissing his lips and reaching down, stroking his cock once more, watching snowy lashes flutter.

“God, you’re so ready aren’t you?” You just nod, and when Satoru presses his tip past that tight ring of muscles, sinking deeper, it’s even more intense.

You’re fully sober this time, with swirling blue eyes looking right at you, as he slides in your tight cunt, which struggles to take him at first, even after so much play, Satoru is huge, certainly bigger than you’re used to. You grip his shoulders, manicured nails pressing in, when he rocks his hips just so, kissing your lips, letting your taste mix between the two of you.

“God you’re so wet, fuck…” He’s enamored by you, lifting a thigh then, pulling back and jerking his hips so he’s shoved deeper, your cry drank by his eager lips, that can’t rip themselves from yours.

How is he supposed to ever be with someone now?

You feel like heaven, he won’t say that corny shit, but it’s all he can describe it to, watching your pretty face as he fucks into you slowly, and both of you freeze for just a moment. He grips your hand in his, entwining his fingers as he lays it over your head, your heart races as your pussy struggles to take more, greedy for his every stretch, every stroke.

“S’good I… ah- please, more!” You’re begging him, shameless as you do, when he slams his cock in deep, tip kissing your cervix, your head falls back, his lips devouring your neck while he bends over you.

“Taking this cock like you’re made for it.” Satoru hears your cunt sucking him in, so wet it’s squishing loudly, mixing with the slapping of your skin, as he starts to go faster, watching your eyes nearly black as they dilate. “There you go, look at you. So greedy.”

“Ngh…” You can’t form words anymore, not when he feels better than that night, not when he’s fucking every thought, worry and woe away, you can’t even remember what brought you here. You can’t remember anything, think of anything but his cock, slamming deeper and deeper, his tip dragging on that spot now on your walls. “There, there!”

“You’re so bossy, what a brat.” You can’t scowl, but he knows you wish you could, as he grins down and does just that, eyes hungry while they watch you falling apart under him, pulling back then, groaning as he watches his cock bulging your tummy, making him more sensitive inside you. “Look, so fucking hot, I’m so big in you, aren’t I baby?”

“C-conceited… mmm, y-yes…” He turns your chin, making you blush, where you watch his shape inside you.

“Gotta see this while we can, gonna be so round soon.” His words should bother you, but they don’t. He’s imagining it with you, and it takes him over. “I’ll be easier then with you.”

“Gonna take it e-easy?” You’ve got your thighs up high now, Satoru watches your little hole swallowing him, cock coated in your slick, so wet it’s dripping down his balls, that smack against your ass, harder and deeper now.

“Well I won’t be able to do this.” He’s folding you in half, leaning over you to cup your face with huge hands, slamming deeper than you’ve ever felt, so deep it damn near hurts, but you’re craving it, dying for it, hands gripping his shoulders helplessly while you lose yourself in his eyes.

Insane blue, pupils shrunk to pinpoints, while he hovers over you, breaths mingling together in the night, you’re folded so in half your knees damn near touch the bed. “So d-deep…”

“You can take it, like a good girl. Slutty pussy, listen to her.” You’re too fucked out to get offended, let him call it a slutty pussy, it’s what it was, after all.

“Ngh- Close, close.” He’s slamming his cock harder, tempo increasing as she soaks him so much he almost slips out, only for you to whine desperately, nails leaving crescent moons against his arms, he hisses in pain and pleasure, kissing you deeply, tongues dripping, messy and desperate.

“Fuck…” He’s close, he realizes, a man who could go forever, you’ve already cum, but he wants you cumming over and over until you’re a sobbing, pretty little mess for him, but you feel far too fucking perfect wrapped around him. “Want to cum with me? Want me to fill your slutty hole?”

His dirty words just make your walls flutter, earning his soft whine, right against your ear, his hands gripping your waist bruisingly. You nod weakly, whispering in his ear now - ‘Cum in me’

“Oh god, fuck yes. Want all my cum, don’t you?” You look up, intoxicated by him, losing your mind completely while he’s working you, pulling back to press on your thighs, feral grin spreading across his pretty face. “You’ll take it so fucking good like this.”

“Satoru!” You scream when he thrusts his hips just so, slamming that cervix, forcing you to cum again, to the point your ears are ringing, body on fire for him, every memory of you both thrown out the damn window.

“Beg for it.”

“No!”

“Beg.” He’s smirking, and you shake your head, clenching around him and watching him lose control, his cheeks flushed, lips parted in a gasp.

“You beg to cum in me.”

“No.” You both laugh, then the motion itself brings Satoru to the edge, tightening impossibly around him. “Fuck it, please, let me fill this pussy.”

“You really begged I- ah!” He’s glaring, slamming his cock deep, stuffing your cunt so full.

“That’s it, milk me huh?” You’re too far out, your pussy is milking him with your aftershocks, when he’s pumping you with those hot white ropes, endless sticky, gooey cum. You’re so full from it coating your walls, warm and hot and perfect, all the way even in your tummy. “There you go, taking s’much fuckin cum.”

“S’much I… Satoru.” His cum alone has you addicted, he pulls back now, watching his cock slowly pumping cum in and out of your hole, watching the way it trickles down his huge cock, glistening and mixing with you.

“You took me so well.” His praise is too much, it’s all too much, while Satoru eases back, on his elbows, hovering just so. “God you’re fucking pretty like this, so fucked out.”

You bury your face. “Am not fucked out.”

“No, need more?”

“I’m… we…”

“That’s what I thought.” He eases back, pulling away fully, seeing the mess of both of your fluids fall over the bed, pulling your pussy lips apart, watching it all pour out, drip by drip. “How is this little thing gonna push something out?”

“They stretch silly!”

“Well, clearly, took me so good.” He’s fingering the sticky cum, desperate and feral, cock glimmering from you, damn near ready to fuck into you again.

For a moment you both stare, Satoru’s scooping it out, before sucking on it, your breath is rapid at the motion, his cheeks hollowing, tilting your chin up. “Satoru you’re… a whole freak.”

“Open.” You tentatively do, allowing him to open mouth kiss you, his cum and yours in your mouth, but you crave it, so much you’re pulling him desperate. “You’re gonna be freaky just for me, aren’t you?”

“Shh.” He’s chuckling watching you drink up his cum, while you come down from your high, when he brushes your hair back, you struggle with just how much you feel, how badly you want more.

You’ve never felt anything like this.

How can you and Satoru have this?

“Um… is poor Kiyotaka waiting?” You manage to say softly, to diffuse the feelings threatening to bubble to the surface. Satoru rolls his pretty eyes.

“He gets paid good to wait!”

“Oh jesus. Let’s not keep him waiting forever.”

“Ya kicking me out? Rude. I had you cum how many times?” You giggle, that sound clutching him, pulling him by the goddamn heartstrings.

“I need sleep, and don’t you have a trip coming?”

“Shit… you remembered.”

“You all always took that trip.”

“What did you do during spring break?” He slips on his clothes, as you grab a robe, throwing it over yourself and wrapping it with a tie.

“Study.”

“Boring.” He eyes the books by your bed then, along with a fresh bag of hot cheetos, he laughs softly at that, touching the baby books curiously. “Cravings?”

“God yes, bad too.”

“I wonder… will you be showing more when I get back?” You heat up at his question, brushing back messy hair, while Satoru buttons up his shirt.

“Will that suck for you, physically?” He hears the worry, which seems ridiculous, fuck you’d just be sexier.

“Shit no. You’ll look hot.”

You’re fiddling with the ties of your robes now, his words and your wobbly leg a lethal combination. “You think?”

“Fuck yeah, milf and all.”

“Shit.” You pull him down, kissing him again, he’s gripping your terry cloth robe, yanking you to him, while the fan above you both serves no purpose, the both of you are so overheated. “Thank you, I needed it. All of it.”

“The dick is that good?”

“Psh, go on.” You turn him now, shoving him.

“I feel used!? I feel like a booty call! For a horny pregnant girl.”

“You got me pregnant, so.” You pinch his ass, he gasps, feigning upset, only making your smile brighter, your heart lighter.

Then you realize.

You’re gonna miss him, shit, a guy you couldn’t stand is starting to become… comfortable, enjoyable and clearly your body…

She’s a wreck for him.

“Satoru please if you want to be with someone else, let me know.” He is sucking you off his fingers as you speak, he turns and raises a brow.

“I would let you know. But… I think having you take all my cum? Pretty fucking elite.”

“A-plus?” Your lips twitch, and his white teeth glint.

“4.3 GPA pussy.”

You both laugh, and soon you’re standing by your door, trying to not think so much, to just let it be. So you both have fun, so you…

Fuck you already want him again, what’s that.

“If you masturbate thinking of me, video it would you?”

There he is.

Fuckboi Gojo isn’t gone, he just fucked your brains out.

“Oh god. No, go on.”

Satoru chuckles a bit, slipping on his coat now, as you both stand in the doorway, your mind rushing, feeling him trickle out of you, knowing this is batshit, knowing it’s just sex. Right, sex, that’s it… agreement, sex, some sort of understanding, that’s all that this was.

Don’t get too attached, don’t fall into his blue eyes.

“Thanks for today, though.”

“Thanks for the dick or-”

“Jesus do you stop?” You shove at him now, and he pulls you against him, far, far too close. “Thank you for being here.”

His jokes calm, as he sees it, how serious you are, so unsure when you look down, and he tilts your chin up. “Of course, I’ll be back for the next ultrasound, okay?”

“Okay.” You both stand there, kissing after sex, what’s it mean?

Don’t you hate each other?

“Gonna miss me, hmm?”

“No way.” You peck a kiss on his lips though, before you can stop yourself, leaving him blinking on the porch, when you get off your tiptoes, and turn to the door. “Be safe and don’t be late for it.”

You shut the door then, leaving him aching to go back inside, to be inside you, fuck he’d stay in your heat all the time if he could, fill you over and over until you’re so full of him you can’t take it. He pauses before he turns around, wondering then, should he go on this trip?

Should he just stay?

He shakes himself out of the spell you’ve cast, as his friends start texting him, wanting to know if he’ll be ready tomorrow, he texts them back, slipping in the back of the car, where Kiyotaka is taking a nap. Satoru leans forward, with a ‘boo’ damn near earning a smack as he wakes him up, the tired man panicking.

“Relax, you’re fine buddy.” He smacks his narrow shoulder, making Kiyotaka jerk just a bit, before exhaling.

“You were in there a long time, Mr. Gojo.” He says with yawn, focusing now, putting the car on with a purr of the engine.

“Yeah I was.”

“Not as long as most of your… escapades.” Satoru glares at him now, blue eyes narrowing as his driver clears his throat.

“Are you saying I busted quick, Ijichi?”

“Sir I-”

“Hah did you bust quick?” Satoru realizes somehow he has called Suguru, and hears Sukuna cackling in the background.

“Oh fuck you three, mmkay I lasted like a champ… kind of.”

“How long was he in there?” Sukuna asks, and Ijichi looks back at Gojo, who’s shaking his head and mouthing a plea.

“I was merely kidding, Mr. Gojo was in there so long I fell asleep.”

“Thank you, as I said.”

It wasn’t that quick was it?

You sure came enough for him, god he feels you all over his fingers, his mouth, you’re soaked into his goddamn taste buds- how could you think for a minute that he’d want anyone else? He knows his reputation, but how do you not know the level of obsession you send him to more and more every time he sees you, since he’s been inside of you twice.

This was more intimate.

His hand had gripped yours, he’d looked into your eyes as he lapped at your pretty pussy, you’d taken him so good, too. Your cries are echoing in his head as he realizes his friend is talking. “Huh?”

“Pussy that good? Share with your friends, hmm?” Satoru scoffs at Sukuna, rolling his eyes.

“You wish, I’m not telling you two shit.”

“So special? Are you down so bad?” Suguru teases, making Satoru’s jaw tense just a bit.

It was just your hormones, it’s the situation, it’s just sex.

Right?

Right… no.

No sex doesn’t do this to him, this is…What is it? Is it because you’re having his baby, is it his feelings that have pent up so long for you?

“Probably not coming on our yearly trip.” He hears, clearing his throat.

“I’m not gonna miss it, think I’m old and tied down now?” His friends laugh, but his heart aches, thinking of how fucking bad he’ll miss you already.

You fix the bed, flushing as you see the rumpled sheets and blankets, before laying down in bed, covering your face as the memories hit. His touch, his tongue, his eyes just staring into yours. Was it because it was easy for the two of you, because you’re pregnant already? Convenience?

You can’t stop wracking your mind.

Not seeing him for almost a month…

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Good night, sweet dreams about this dick.

You glare at the screen.

You don’t respond, seeing him typing and typing.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: I’ll keep in touch, please if… you need to talk I’ll have my phone, okay?

You sigh now, turning on your side, while Gojo watches those three dots, finally walking into his penthouse, mind wandering to you. He wants you… in his bed, he wants to stay, to ignore his best friends, ignore the tradition. Your pussy is… a demon surely, making him hard just thinking of it again.

Sorority Brat 💦😻: I don’t wanna bother you, I’ll be fine.

Satoru frowns at that.

Fratboy Gojo🙄   I want to know how you are.

His own vulnerability makes him feel sick damn near, but you heart the message, making him simp like some idiot with a dopey grin.

Sorority Brat 💦😻Then I will keep you updated, I hope you have a lot of fun.

Guilt gnaws at him, leaving you alone, to go on some trip, while your body would surely go through more changes. He doesn’t even want to miss it, but he can’t just… he has to still have his life, right? For now, was it just… sex to you because you’re horny, and he’s there?

Did it mean more?

Sorority Brat 💦😻 Good night, Satoru.

You watch him heart the message, as your hand drifts to your tummy, thinking about the little growing baby inside you. It almost feels surreal, as do the feelings for Satoru Gojo.

 Fratboy Gojo🙄 Good night, Sweets.

this one took a bit but it WAS a little longer- I'd expect chap three to be long as well! I will post a preview of that tomorrow as it's already in the works ;) (will time skip one month!) I hope you all enjoy, ty for being patient! ILYSM

Taglist #1- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @poisonousspiderlily @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @shokosbunny @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @vamqyx @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97

Took you Like a Shot

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe (gojo is an idiot) - fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc- 4 parts (I THINK) in this chap- flashbacks of explicit sex with dirty talk, weed smoking (Satoru and his boys aha) mentions of sex, lots of humor, enemies to loversss- WC- this chap- 8k- art in the banner by Yuana on X

Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3

Masterlist - Playlist- Chapter Two>>> (coming soon)

Chapter One

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter almost three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly in your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, and you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'So greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?' 

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

You take the results in a shaky hand, mind swirling as the doctor goes on and on, some crazy distant humming in your head, there’s no way, it can’t be. You’re literally starting your journalism career, thinking you’d maybe gained a few pounds from stress and ramen, the interning was absolutely brutal, you’re never regular on your periods, hence the birth control in the first place.

Running coffees here and there, grabbing this and that for everyone above you, but you were now officially hired, and you were making good money for once, finally able to pay down some of your pesky student loans and get a nice car. You worked hard for it, for everything, despite many thinking leading a sorority meant you came from money, you were a scholarship girl.

That’s a huge reason you and Satoru always clashed, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, easily acing every test that you busted your ass for, things came easy to him, you worked for it. Achieving the highest you could in your graduating class, the little shit that came to school hungover grinned right next to you, like a goddamn plague, and you hoped that finally he was gone for good.

What bonded two people like you now?

Well…

“Do you need to go over your options, hunny?” One of the nurses says, touching your shoulder with a gentle smile, you shake your head then, clearing your throat.

“I just need to… think.”

You’re pacing back and forth in your apartment, feet padding gently along the hardwood floor, cell phone in your hand, staring at the phone number that just got sent to you by Shoko. She was Satoru’s friend and yours, which was rare given the ongoing student warfare zone you all created. You’d texted her a simple- hey do you have Gojo’s number- not going into details.

How do you even tell him?

What do you say!?

You psych yourself up, finally dialing it, when he picks up the phone after the second ring, murmuring - “Hello.” God, even him answering what he assumes is a stranger is snarky.

“Um, hey.” Gojo pauses at the sound of your voice, faltering just for a moment, as his friends bounce a basketball around a court outside, he sits down on the bench, vivid images filling his head. “It’s-”

“Think I don’t know your annoying voice by heart, sweetheart?” You roll your eyes, sighing and plopping down on your couch.

“Yeah, well… I got your number from Shoko.”

“Need a second round? Should have guessed.” He’s gesturing to Suguru and Sukuna, who roll their eyes at him, and he puts his voice down an octave. “I could be convinced.”

“Jesus christ, Gojo.” You almost hang up, feeling your tummy tighten then, almost nauseous, realizing you had to talk to him. “Are you, I don’t know, um… free for lunch or anything?” You despise the words falling from your lips.

“Asking me on a date, huh? So bold, I like it.” Satoru winks now at his friend’s shocked expressions, muting for a moment, telling them it was you.

“No fucking way.” Sukuna says, Suguru snorts in laughter and Satoru just grins, unmuting you again.

“I guess I could be convinced.” He purrs out those words, chuckling. “Hmm, we could go to that nice place on Hollywood ave hmm? Perfect Sushi.”

Your tummy growls, but then you frown, remembering that Sushi is on your damn list not to eat, you curse internally, peering at this list of everything you should never do or consume, and it specifically says raw fish right there. “Do they have cooked Sushi there?”

“Pshh, you’re such a prissy ass, can’t eat raw huh? Didn’t mind it raw from what I remember.” You hate this man.

“You know what never-”

“Shit, I was just kidding.” He panics, thinking you hung up, hearing your irritated sigh then. “Yeah I think they do. Why do you even wanna hang out, ya wanna nag me in person?” He spins his basketball effortlessly on his finger, acting all calm, as if he wasn’t dying to be buried in your perfect pussy again. “Miss being bitchy to me so bad?”

God he wanted to have you on his face, have you sucking him, he wanted for so much more than you all got to do, drunken fingers and your muted cries as he’d had a big hand tight over your mouth. His cock twitches under his basketball shorts just remembering how slick and hot you were, god how you fucking felt gripping him so damn tight.

Satoru had felt you pulsing around him as he reached his arm around you, pressing his fingertips to your clit in circles, as you’re crying out against his palm, practically drooling against him. ‘There you go, cumming so easy f’me huh?’ he taunts, as his own eyes roll back, feeling your pussy drool against his hand.

‘Mnh!’ was all you managed to murmur against his hand, as he feels your gummy walls spasm around his cock, his blue eyes roll back at how perfect you feel, how long he’s dreamed of this.

‘F-finally got you to shut up, hmm?’ He taunts you, normally you’d have something smart to say, but not as he’s overstimulating your little clit, pulling it away as you damn near collapse on the mattress, your thighs shaking, he wants to kiss you so bad, but you’re burying your face, arching your ass.

‘F-fuck you, Gojo- ah!’

The memories are so vivid Satoru can barely calm his thoughts, hearing you say his name in that irritated little voice, the one that drove him insane from day fucking one, the moment he’d met you. Prissy little thing with so much to prove, he thinks you still feel that way, which the biggest secret Satoru had for you had almost spilled on that last drunken night, the night he was inside you was…

He's always wanted you, not that he'd ever admit that however.

Ever.

“Is like three okay?” You're interrupting his thoughts now, as he clears his throat.

“Three rounds?”

You’re scowling at the phone as you question your life’s choices at this very moment. “Three o'clock, my god, for lunch.”

“Sounds good, it gives us time later, to… you know.” You glare at the phone, unbelievable, he’s ridiculous! 

“Time for what?” Satoru chuckles at your high pitched question.

“Don't be shy, sweets, no need to pretend. I remember it all in vivid detail, every little bit.” Your cheeks heat up, hand clutching the phone tightly, trying to calm yourself and focus.

“Just lunch, that’s all I’m asking you for. Sounds good?”

“Want me to pick you up in my-”

“No, I'll meet you. Okay um…. Bye.” You hang up, breath coming quickly, you couldn't just tell him on the damn phone, this needed to be in person.

The thought of his pretty yet annoying ass presence damn near makes your head spin… would he think it's all a joke? Some scam to get with him or get money?

You're fucking terrified, standing and staring in the mirror, rubbing your tummy and frowning as you do. A damn baby… Likely raising it alone, knowing Satoru all these years, partying, insane and so immature. Even on the phone, he’s so damn cocky and self sure, that this must absolutely be what you want, to have him, as if you are over here pining away.

The sex was amazing to put it lightly, and sure if he was a decent guy, and not a fucking ass of a man, you’d have done it again, but the walk of shame that morning had been the most embarrassing day of your life. His little smirk after you woke up, plump lips too damn glossy for his own good, yawning and stretching half naked, cock already hard as he’d tapped his lap.

‘Another round, sweets? Come to daddy.’

You scoff even at the memory, at the audacity of fuckboi Satoru Gojo, you had run out so quickly he hadn’t had a moment to speak, and you swore to yourself never, ever again. Who cared if his cock was so big it hit places you didn’t know existed, and who cared if you’ve never felt that way, fuck you wish he actually wasn’t as good at it as he was.

Perfect at everything, infuriatingly, even fucking.

You get a text from the guy you were currently at least flirting with a bit here and there, the one you suggested going on a date, and then it all starts to hit, you’re pregnant and quite likely going to be some single mom. You couldn’t just go on dates, everything is completely different, maybe forever truly.

“Twenty Two year old single mom.” You grumble, sighing a bit as you text him you’re busy.

Busy.

*****

Satoru waits nervously at the restaurant, he doesn’t really do dates, he usually spends his time in the bedroom with a girl then runs right off. Shit, he’s never even gone without a condom before you, but when you’d said hurry up and put it in, who the fuck was he to tell you no? Not only had it felt superb, he never wanted to leave that perfect pussy.

Of course you would have the most perfect pussy.

You had to be the best at everything, all the time, didn’t you? Always competing for that top spot, but Satoru always just barely got past you, that .01% of that GPA, winning every contest over you always by just a tiny bit. From the moment you glared up at him and crossed your arms, he knew it, he had to do everything he could to win against your cute little ass.

Here’s the thing… Satoru never hated you, but he loves to say he does, you both say you do, or… well, said. Considering you slept with him and didn’t say a single word after, it’s not like he’s hard to find, but each of you actively refused to add each other on socials, though Satoru will admit he stalks your IG, you’re too fucking pretty not to do so, not that he’d ever like a post.

Once he accidentally did, god he wanted to be like those pathetic simps in your comments, but he’s not that, he’s Satoru Gojo. Women come to him, women come easy too, you of course were never one to come near him in that way, no you’d look at him getting smacked in the face on campus with a grin, vowing to your friends that you’d never be one of his conquests.

That night, though, it was like he lost himself, the most stupid, corny shit Satoru could think of, that last night of his freedom before being forced to take over his family’s business. You and everyone probably thought he wanted to, but of course he fucking didn’t, he didn’t want a part of the Gojo corporation in any way, shape or form.

Satoru felt lost, honestly.

Self sure, confident, conceited clearly, talking far too much shit and laughing, picking on you every chance he got, showing up to all your sorority parties in various stages of undress to lure your friends to him. He’ll never forget him, Sukuna and Suguru crashing your ABC party, wearing nothing but cut open beer boxes, and you so happened to have some white claw box made bikini.

God you’d been sexy, but when he stole all the attention? Oh he’s never seen you more mad.

Well no, he has.

Gojo loved to make you mad, because you’re so damn cute when your nose scrunches up, when your pretty eyes narrow, there was nothing like your huffs as you would cross your arms and shift your hips just so. And if there was anything Gojo was absolutely perfect at, amongst well damn near everything, it was making you absolutely furious.

Finally Satoru sees you, dressed in this pretty blue summer dress that juts out just a bit at the waist, making his heart race for just a moment at how pretty you are. It’s not like he forgot… but god. Are your tits bigger he wonders, or is he just obsessed with them, as always, looking too hard. Your cheeks are this beautiful color, your eyes so bright, like… some damn glow about you.

How corny is he lately.

He puts on a smirk as he leans back, waving with his fingers to gesture you over, and you look at him so damn seriously, sitting across from him, hands entwined together in front of you on the table for a moment, as you eye him carefully. “Gojo, um… how are you?’

Who the fuck is this girl in your body!?

You don’t nervously ask shit, you tell Gojo to fuck off, you glare or scowl while he smirks, what’s this… shy ass shit? He frowns a bit now, you exhale and slide off your purse, letting it sit on the seat next to you, he can’t stop staring at your lips, clearly bitten to fucking hell.

He tries to feign that he’s fine, that he hasn’t missed you, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He missed your daily arguments on campus, he missed you being a total brat. He misses your scent, god that vanilla sugar body spray was haunting his very dream.

He acts as if he hadn’t died to hit you up, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t go that far, not with you, not with what you did to him, how you’ve damn near destroyed any game for himself any longer. That one night with you had sunk into him so deeply, he wishes it was just good pussy, and not whatever this was.

He’s jerked it off to you every fucking night since, to the point is damn dick doesn’t even work, he sure also wouldn’t admit that he can’t even fuck a girl because you were so good. Some evil witch that did something, it must be, he has at this point just given up trying, until whatever curse you gave him falls the fuck off.

But god you look good in front of him.

He should tell you, but instead he swipes a hand through his silky white locks and smirks right at you. “Missed me so badly, sweets?”

You roll your pretty eyes as the menu comes, smiling and thanking the hostess, a smile reserved for anyone in the world but him, even when he’d had you cumming all over him, you weren’t smiling. No, but you were drooling then.

‘Ah, look at you, so fuckin pathetic f’me, huh? Thought you hated me, sorority brat’ Satoru had huffed, as he’d fingered your cunt, curling inside of your slick walls, watching your pretty fucked out face. ‘Just from fingers?’

‘I do h-hate you- mnh!’ Your sparkly manicured nails dug into his broad shoulders as your tight walls convulsed around him, as he hit that spot that no man had ever found in a moment.

Perfect at everything, stupid Satoru.

‘Feel her, god she’s so desperate, huh?’

“Fuck you I- there, shit!’ you’d rolled your hips, grinding right on his hand, pussy drooling as you came from his fingers before he’d even put his cock inside you, and Satoru’s cock was leaking against his boxers, twitching as he pictures how perfect you’d felt around him. ‘Fuck you for being so g-good at that!’

‘Oh, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart.’ He’d turned you then, whispering a ‘bend over, just like that, gonna be a big stretch, hmm?’

Satoru struggles to calm his memory, focusing on that sexy mouth of yours moving, realizing words are coming out of them, blinking to focus.

“How are you doing, Gojo?” You ask softly, always Gojo, you never called him Satoru, and he always called you sweets, short stuff, your last name, also never your first.

But he wanted to call you a lot of things, one of them being-

Stop that Satoru.

“I’m doing great, of course, miss me so much?” He teases, winking at you and sipping on the sickeningly sweet Shirley temple he’d had them buy, you just grab a water, hand flitting to your tummy for a moment. “You’re not sick are you?”

“No, not sick just… yeah we needed to talk. Is that okay?”

Satoru leans forward, raising a thin white brow. “You seem weird, everything okay?”

“Well… shit. I guess I’ll just say this. Um…” You tuck your hair behind your ear, looking out the window at the bustling city for a moment, before looking back at him. “Remember that night?”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do all this to have a repeat.” His hand comes to your thigh, and that’s when you curse this pregnancy, because your nipples tighten, your cunt gets hot and wet from that.

Fuck hormones.

You take a breath, glaring as you always do at Satoru, the only time you never had was when he’s had your face with a slutty O for your mouth, your eyes rolled back, nails gripping those sheets. You shove his hand off, hoping he couldn’t feel your heat that quickly, as your body responds stupidly in a damn sushi restaurant.

“It’s not that, it’s important. Can you ever be serious in your life!?” You say quietly, and it’s his turn to glare, taking his hand back, sipping his drink again.

“Well just spit it out. What is all this, then?”

“It’s… I… You…” Shit, if ever you needed a drink it was now, and you damn sure wouldn’t have one for a good six months or more.

“It’s… I…. You…” He mocks, and you stand then, so furious your heart is racing, snatching up your purse.

“Never mind, I should have known you’re-”

“Shit, just sit. Sorry. Okay?” He grips your delicate wrist in his big hand, and even that is wrecking you, against your better judgement and everything you feel. “I’m sorry, it seems… serious. Just sit down and spit it out.”

You sit back down now, shifting as you both make your orders, a thankful distraction. As the waitress leaves, you sigh. “I don’t want anything from you, first off, so don’t think that.”

“What?” He blinks in confusion.

“I don’t need help, I can do it myself.”

“Do what!?”

“But you have to know… it’s the right thing to do, to tell you.” You look up at the ceiling, gathering your thoughts.

“Is this… are you in love with me, because of how good it was? Shit, that’s okay baby, everyone-”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!?” You just sit there, seriously staring, as he blinks, looking at fuller breasts, your damn glow, thinking of every dumb thing he’s heard. “You’re… by who?” He whispers, and you flush then, shifting in your seat, sipping more of your water, condensation cool on your hot palm, your skin is burning, heart is racing.

“I was on the pill, religiously, I swear, I never missed one. Shit, until I found out I never missed… I… never would have done it like we did if I knew.” You feel sick as he gapes at you, his pretty blue eyes bulging out damn near, his mouth dropped open. “I expect no help, no involvement, we’re young. I just-”

“This a joke, right?” You take another breath, hand gripping the glass, eyeing those around you all, engulfed in conversations.

“It’s not a joke.” He’s laughing now, smacking his thigh, and your jaw tenses as he does.

“It’s you and your damn friends, someone recording!? Hah-”

“It’s not a joke.” You clear your throat now, leaning in your purse and pulling out the papers, with your name, the results, watching his expression shift, brows drawing low, his jaw tense. “It’s only been you, no one else for an entire year.”

“A whole year?” He eyes you again, and you flush under his gaze, as his hands shake, hands you’ve never seen shake, hands that dribble basketballs, that tossed footballs, all with ease.

Hands that…

Fuck, don’t think of it.

“I’m not… I was too busy.” Besting Gojo, competing with Gojo, you had no time for shit with him, your anger at him shone so brightly it was hard to think about men. “As I said, you don’t need to pay for anything, this isn’t that conversation, this is just me letting you know. I’m keeping it.”

Satoru continues to blink at you, staring open mouthed, at your face, then your body, then back to your face, over and over, while the waitress brings out the food, smiling curiously at the two of you. Satoru doesn’t make a move to touch his food, running his hand through his now messy white locks again, as his mind spins.

“I know you’re wealthy, I don’t want you thinking I want some piece of it. I’ll take care of them alone, please don’t worry.” You touch your tummy, the motion making Satoru fucking feral in some way he can’t put together, just continuing to stare at you in utter shock as the sushi sits in front of the two of you. “I can leave, now, we don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” He murmurs finally, voice hoarse.

“Act like we are civil, act like we’re anything but college enemies, fucking rivals, not even friends. God I know you hate me, I know this was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He whispers.

“Yes, for both of us. You don’t deserve your life uprooted, sure I can’t stand you, but this is my fuck up. I said those words…”

‘Cum in me, f-fucking cum in me, mnh…’ you’d arched your back, as his long fingers wrapped your throat, god he’d never felt anything like you.

‘Want me to fill your pussy s’good, huh lil brat?’ you just whine, muscles clenching on his cock, and he’d groaned in your ear then, shoving deep inside your drooly cunt. ‘Beg for it, then’

Oh, you had.

You hated him for it.

“It’s my fault, so don’t worry. But I wanted to be transparent, but I am… indeed, pregnant.”

“Pregnant, like, with a baby?” Satoru whispers, and You giggle then, for the first time since you found out, covering your mouth just a bit as he just stares.

“Yeah, a baby.”

“Mine…” His words send something through the both of you.

“Yours, but only if you want to be involved. I know it was a hate fuck, we’re young, we have lives-”

“You got a… like that scan shit set up?”

“Ultrasound?” He nods, nervously, hands clenching the table so hard you see the veins popping up through his thin skin. “I do, next week. I mean it is a couple months already, so I will see something, not like… the sex but…”

“Can I go?”

You blink in shock now. “You want to?”

“Yeah. I mean… why wouldn’t I?” He rubs the back of his neck, as the life he thought, the mundane one of following his damn family, of being a pawn in a bigger scheme, everything flashes.

It changes.

He’s scared shitless, but…

“I want to be involved. If you want me to be.” You blink back tears, but you fail, and if it’s one thing, Satoru Gojo has never seen his preppy ass Sorority rival cry, not fucking once.

He falters as those tears run down your cheeks, he leans over, hesitantly, the only physical contact aside from that fateful night was him shoving at you teasingly, or you smacking at him. Shit you all hadn’t hugged, you never even kissed aside from that night, sloppy and messy. But he doesn’t stop, until his thumb brushes your cheek, and you gasp.

“Shit I’m crying. Stupid hormones.” You huff now, swiping at your own eyes with shaky little hands. “You really wanna go?”

“Yeah if it’s cool?”

Satoru’s shocking you, the world tilts on its axis, like you’re having some insane dream. This can’t be real, can it? It’s fuckboi, frat boy Gojo, the man who goes through girls like they’re candy, the man who takes nothing serious, who has the world handed to him.

“Gojo, if you want to go of course you can, to any and all appointments, but you’re under no obligation, and please know I can cover the costs.”

“I know you’d never take my money, shit even if I offered, stubborn ass little brat that you are.” You manage a breathless giggle, the second one, realizing he is still brushing that thumb against your cheek, before he clears his throat. “So, tell me what day, I'll be there.”

“Yeah, are you sure? It will make it so… real, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now eat your cooked sushi, aren’t you like eating for two or some shit?”

You take your chopsticks with a shaky hand, exhaling. “I was reading, I think they are like the size of a pea maybe. But, this is yummy looking.”

“Gonna be a huge ass baby, shit.”

“Oh god!” You eye his lanky body, and he’s grinning, Satoru is grinning!? Shocking you further.

Maybe you don’t know him like you think?

“Tits are gonna get so big.”

Never mind.

*****

“An ultrasound!? A baby? Fuck…” Suguru Geto inhales the blunt, sucking the smoke into his lungs as Satoru nervously paces Sukuna and Suguru’s apartment, Satoru chose to live in his own place, closer to work. But he frequently gets shitfaced and crashes out at their place.

“Sounds fucking insane, shit.” Sukuna chuckles, as he’s hitting a bong, inhaling and exhaling, broad shoulders shaking as he coughs. “You look like you could use a hit or something.

“Before the ultrasound? Shit I need more than weed. I’m freaking the fuck out right now.”

“Imagine you as a dad though hah!” Sukuna smacks his thigh, as Satoru glares now, stopping his pacing while the music plays, the same music Satoru remembers doing keg stands and playing beer pong in togas to, only to now have the possibility of being responsible for a whole human being.

“Can’t even keep a plant alive, shit.” Suguru says in between laughs, and Satoru raises a white brow at the two of them on the couch.

“You two are so supportive.”

“Well shit, she said you don’t have to be involved, you can always just like… send money and shit? Do you really want a whole kid?” Sukuna asks, and Satoru takes a breath, pacing once more as he runs hands through disheveled hair over and over.

“Do I want a whole kid, no, I never even… I mean I figured eventually, as the Gojo heir, blah blah blah.” Satoru slumps in a nearby recliner, as Suguru hands him the blunt, frowning a bit now.

“You do need a hit. You’re young, it’s not time to give your family fuckin’ heirs yet, is it?”

“They’d probably be delighted.” Satoru rolls those cerulean eyes, inhaling the smoke into his lungs and leaning back, staring up at the ceiling, as the black fans above them swirl, moving the puffy clouds of smoke all around. His nostrils fill with the scent of the Sativa, wishing he could make sense of his thoughts. “Not delighted that it’s out of wedlock and unplanned.”

“Imagine her marrying you.” Sukuna and Suguru laugh loudly again, as Satoru hits the blunt again, not passing it.

“The fucks that mean?”

“She hates you. God I think more than anyone.” Suguru says, and Satoru smirks just a bit.

“She sure didn’t hate this dick.”

“Oh!” He’s slapping hands with his friends as Sukuna and Suguru start to make the most obscene gestures, while you call, and he shushes them quickly, trying to compose himself.

“Hello?”

“Gojo, hey. Um, ultrasound is in an hour, I’m heading out soon if you want to meet up?”

“Why don’t I have my driver pick you up?” He asks, and Suguru and Sukuna continue the gestures, making Satoru snort in laughter, the weed starting to enter his bloodstream.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just thought it would be more convenient in this traffic.” He shoots a wink at his friends.

“I mean… sure?” Satoru mouths yes, pumping his fist, clearing his throat now.

“It’ll be easier this way, alright send me your addy I’ll head out.”

“All right.” You just hang up, such a rude little thing. Satoru has changed your name to Sorority Brat in his phone for a good reason.

“What are you gonna do though, man?” Suguru murmurs thoughtfully, his dark violet eyes narrowed, clearly blitzed. “Gonna like… be with her?”

“Could cum in her whenever now.” Sukuna bursts out in laughter as Satoru glares at the two of them.

“Grow up…” They blink at him, then Satoru grins wide. “Nah, that would be a perk, because her pussy my god.”

They both scooch up, elbows on their thighs, avidly staring at Satoru now. “Details, man, it’s like the one girl you never told us about?” Sukuna asks.

“Because you’re in love.”

“Pshh, in love!?”

“Haven’t seen you with anyone since.” Suguru earns Satoru’s middle finger, as he puts out the blunt, stretching and earning their pouts.

“Bet she’s so good, though, all angry and shit, bet she’s a freak.” Satoru doesn’t even know if you’re a freak necessarily, but as Suguru agrees, he glares at them both, crossing his arms.

“This has been the worst pep talk in fucking history.”

“Shit, what’s your decision?” Suguru asks, and Satoru’s mind races, peeking at his watch now.

“I think I’ll make it when I like… see it?”

“Alright big Daddy, then if you decide to be involved we’ll be like… their uncles and shit.” Suguru says, and Satoru grimaces.

“God no, you’ll ruin my kid.”

“Fuck off now.” Sukuna starts hitting his blunt again, Satoru walks out away from them and spritzes cologne all along himself, he knows your prissy self never smoked weed, no you were a little goodie goodie. He thinks the only time he saw you drink was a little at parties, but never like that last night.

He remembers just looking at you asleep when he’d woken up, and the tenderness he felt when he had brushed your hair off your pretty face, and you’d stirred a bit. For a moment he felt his heart hammer in his chest, stone cold sober, seeing the bite marks he’d left on your delicate skin, feeling affection like he couldn’t describe, Satoru never felt that way.

He didn’t cuddle, he didn’t linger.

He ran out before they could wake up, he ran out like you did to him, perhaps he was a little nicer about it, though, you’d given no fucks when you darted out the damn door in a hurry. He had acted cocky though, full on hard just by the damn thought of your slick sticking to his cock, but instead of perhaps kissing you, he’d patted his lap and been a little shit.

He hated the recognition on your face, like he’d been a mistake, so he decided to shove you out of his brain, though he clearly failed.

Jogging down the stairs, he has his driver sent in your direction, and you get the text he’s there, stepping out in front of your little house, cute Satoru thinks, it’s small but it’s immaculate from the exterior. You have pink flowers and succulents all over the front of it when he steps out, eyeing your pretty dress, nerves starting to eat at him, but he puts on an easy smile.

“Ready to go see this little parasyte?’

“A what!?”

“Technically, it sort of is. Right, you’re like its host.” Your mouth is wide open, as you touch your tummy, and he curses. “Shit…”

“A parasyte, you’re calling our… I mean I guess my… the baby a-”

“I’m sure it’s a cute parasyte? It has a pretty host.” Satoru tries to put on the charm, the smolder, as you stare at him in shock.

Was it shocking, this was Gojo.

“Dear God.”

How’d you end up pregnant with this idiot’s baby?!

You slide into the car as you shake your head, and he covers his face, grimacing as he realizes he just told his… god what even were you, a baby mama!? That his baby was a… parasyte. Well, it is, and Satoru would typically just argue with you and let you know he’s correct and you’re wrong, but he keeps quiet, feeling you seething.

“Fire signs.” He mumbles, you look at him again.

“What?”

“You’re a fire sign, it’s why you’re so feisty. I am too, you know.” You relax just a bit, curiously.

“You believe in astrology?” You ask in shock, for as long as you’ve known Satoru Gojo, the two of you don’t really know each other.

“Baby I’m the most Saggitarius man there is.” You giggle again, fuck that’s three giggles Satgoru has counted, and how it lights up your already glowing makes him ache for you, suddenly realizing one of his long legs is brushing against you. Your warmth alone makes him throb, the vanilla sugar filling the space in the car.

“You certainly are the epitome of a Saggitarius. Don’t call me feisty, yuck.” You shove at him playfully almost, pausing a bit when you realize his body feels far too good against yours.

You may or may not have masturbated last night, and he may or may not have popped in your head, over and over. But, don’t worry, because Satoru has spent months jerking his thick length to the thought of you, not that either of you would admit that it may or may not have happened.

“This baby would be a fire sign.” You murmur then, letting your hand fall, and nervously fidgeting, Gojo’s long limbs take over so much of the car, as big as it is, Gojo’s always taken over everything, even apparently your senses.

“Would it?” He asks quietly, for once just a little serious it seems.

“Yeah, an Aries if it comes when it should.”

“So it’ll be a brat like you.”

“Psh, like you.” You roll your eyes, and the two of you fall into a bit of a silence, so much unspoken between you. “Do you know if…”

“That’s why I want to see. Make it real?”

You actually nod in understanding, surprising him then. “I get it.”

The ultrasound tech is rolling the wand over cold gel soon, as you’re embarrassingly propped up with your feet in stirrups, and Satoru stands to the side, glaring at the man who’s inserting this wand in you. He gets angry that he’s getting such a view, he doesn’t even think he saw you that much.

What he remembers…

Your pussy is very pretty.

You wince a bit as the doctor smiles up at you. “Tight muscles, huh?”

Satoru snorts in laughter, and you glare. “What!?”

“You are so tight.”

“Gojo!” You glare, and even the doctor laughs, also earning your scowl, which makes them both sober up.

“Sorry, Miss. Alright… relax, would you?” How do you relax as a doctor is shoving a wand in your coochie and your enemy, who got you pregnant somehow, is turning red holding in his lewd thoughts!? “Look at the screen.”

You and Satoru both look over now, your breath catches then, as does his, when the doctor begins to tap keys on the keyboard, and you hear it for the first time, this little… heartbeat. It’s a heartbeat.

“There it is, congratulations you two. About… ten weeks?” You’re enamored as you stare at the screen, and he moves the wand inside you. “Look there, that’s the little baby.”

Baby.

A baby.

It’s all real.

Satoru’s completely silent as tears fill your eyes, a myriad of emotions, some that you’re so connected already to a little peanut inside you, some that you don’t know how you’ll do this, some of your life. How will it alter, how will it go, what will people think… and what does the man next to you think? What will he do!?

But overwhelmingly as you feel yourself begin to cry, and the screen turns off, you feel warmth spread, touching your tummy in wonder, there’s a damn baby in your body. Your baby. Something you never considered or thought of, you figured much, much later in life, not now.

And you’d likely be…

Alone in this.

“I’ll go get a picture printed for you two.” The doctor smiles kindly, as you’re left alone, with a for once silent Satoru Gojo.

You hesitate to look at him, a stunned expression on his face as you sit up, closing your legs and biting your lower lip, he finally looks at you and exhales, seeing your tear streaked cheeks. A girl he never knew to cry or giggle has done both, and a man you never thought to be serious or quiet… was.

“Satoru um…”

“Satoru?” He asks quietly, and you flush.

“Sorry…”

“No, I don’t mind, just… crazy. This is crazy. There’s a whole life inside you!? And we made it?” You sigh, nodding then, and he shocks you as he leans down, as you’re sitting in the bed, coming so close to you, eyes swirling storms of emotions.

“You can back out now, it’s okay. I won’t put this on you, keeping it is an insane idea but… it feels right to me?” He tilts your chin up, leaning closer, to where you can taste the sweetness of his breath, as your heart pounds right in your chest. “But if you’re backing out, do it now, it will hurt… fuck it will hurt more if you get too involved, okay? Do it now.”

“I’m not backing out of shit.” You gasp, and he exhales, wiping your tears away. “We both did this. I’ll not live in some world knowing my baby is raised with no help of mine in any way, fuck that.”

“But you-”

“I get it, we… aren’t… together. But in this I will be.”

“Satoru, I think I may have a cardiac arrest  before I get this baby out.” You sniffle and he smirks a bit.

“So unbelievable that I’d want to?”

“Yes. The Gojo I know…”

“You may not know me as well as you think. And maybe I don’t know you that much… aside from I agree about that tight-”

“I swear!” You shove at him, as he snorts in laughter, still a little shit, as they bring in two pictures, and Satoru takes one thoughtfully.

“That’s it, huh?” He tilts his head curiously. “Looks like me.”

“It looks like nothing yet, what?” You’re taking tissue and cleaning up a bit, as they give you privacy to pull back on your panties, but Satoru gives you no privacy, just looking. “You could turn?”

“Why, that’s one benefit you know.”

“What?”

“Could fuck any time, cum inside whenever.”

“Oh you wish.” You shove at his chest, and he’s grinning and wiggling his brows, grabbing your waist, pulling you against him.

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Shut it.” Yes.

“Sex is good for pregnancy.”

“You’re so full of shit! I can’t with you. Rizzing me up at a gyno?”

“Perfect place, see that doctor, he wants a piece.”

“You’re so dumb, I swear.” You look at the picture then, thumb brushing against the baby’s… maybe it’s a face?

“Are we gonna live together?”

“I mean… what?” You eye him in shock.

“When the baby’s here.”

“No, we don’t have to do all that, we live close. Can you imagine us living together, we’d kill each other.” He envisions it, the fights surely but… the sex, and seeing you in the morning?

“Or fuck. Alot.”

“That’s how this happened.” You mumble, and soon you’re back home, and trying to ignore your body’s insane responses while he stands on your porch, looking far too fucking sexy. “Thank you for being there.”

“You thanking me? the world is ending.”

“Hush. I appreciate this, you standing by me. You don’t have to.”

“I… want to. Um, what will we say?”

You bite your lip more, until he gently takes it out from under your top row of teeth, brushing against the indentations. “We could say we’re together, if you don’t mind, dating I guess? My parents would trip if they knew it’s like…”

“Same. My parents would be happy for a Gojo heir though.” You hear it, the surprising resentment in his voice.

There’s a lot you don’t know.

“Well, I can act like I like you for them if you want.” You tease, and he leans against your doorway, so fucking tall, just looming over you, and you have to clench your hands not to give in to the temptation of touching him.

“Act like you like me- you?”

“I could! If you could act like you like me, in front of my family.”

“How will we explain the whole not living together thing?”

“It’s new, it’s 2025 Gojo, not 1810. We’ll be okay. You're so old school huh, gonna marry me?”

“You’d leave me at the altar.” You both laugh again, as he straightens up now. “Alright, so when should we tell them?”

“When you want to. So work on those acting skills. I’ll set up brunch with mine, you set up dinner with yours?”

“Sounds good. Alright don’t miss Daddy too much.” You snort and roll your eyes, turning away now.

“Daddy? Whatever.”

Satoru presses you against the door, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing a hand gently on your tummy, splaying the expanse of it with long fingers, as your breath comes quicker and quicker. “Could swear you called me daddy when I beat up that pretty pussy hmm?”

You falter, whining softly, hating your body’s reaction, scowling right up at him, your hand on your doorknob, while this tall ass of a man makes your body light up. “Never called you daddy, no way.” Your voice is a pathetic whisper, why does he do this to you, you want to arch into his damn touch, press against his length, to the point you make yourself stiffen.

“Oh? Must have been the liquor.” He caresses your face, leaning so close you wildly think he’ll kiss you, and you know damn well you can’t handle that, not with your pussy soaking your damn panties just from this.

You hate Satoru Gojo, and he hates you.

This is… because you both are having a baby.

Right?

“It must have been.”

“Ah, I see. Good night, then sweetheart.” He leans his lips up, kissing the top of your head, a gesture so oddly sweet it doesn’t even fit him. “Text me the details, Sorority brat.”

“Sure will, Frat boy.” He sticks his tongue out as you do, walking in and leaning against the door, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, the feel of his hands, the memories that surfaced. You slide down it slowly, burying your face in your hands, as your body trembles with this insane need.

Shit. A baby with your enemy?

A baby with Frat Boy Gojo?

Faking that you like him, would it really be that fake?

Satoru’s leaning against it too, for just a moment, trying to compose himself… finally he’s in the back of the car again, as his driver looks  in the rearview mirror curiously, tired eyes focusing as Satoru looks at the picture again. The little peanut that’s apparently a…

A baby.

With his enemy.

An enemy he really wants to be inside again.

“Everything alright, Mr. Gojo?” Kiyotaka asks, Satoru runs a hand through his hair now, leaning back in his seat as he peers out the dark tinted windows.

“I’m having… a baby with a girl who hates me.”

“Why does she hate you?” Kiyotaka asks, driving off, as Satoru chuckles just a bit, remembering bits and pieces of college, out of order, out of sync.

“Because honestly, I was kind of a complete dick to her?”

“That’s… oddly self observant.”

“You saying I’m a dick to you?”

“No Mr. Gojo!”

“I’m kidding, relax.” Kiyotaka’s tense shoulders relax when Satoru leans forward, hand on his shoulder through the little divider that’s opened. “Do you know shit about kids at all?”

“I have nephews, they’re pretty good kids. But babies, not really.”

“I could ask my parents but they basically had nannies raise me.”

“Many nannies, I heard.”

“Well, I was a menace to be honest. Where do I learn about these… things?”

“Babies?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I think there are books?”

“Hmm.” Satoru pulls out his phone then.

Fratboy Gojo🙄(yes that’s his name in your phone now, no you’re not sorry): Should I order us baby books?

Sorority Brat💦😻(of course that’s your name in his phone): Yes, if you want to? That would be good. Thank you… for today.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Two thank yous!? That baby is making you a mush.

Sorority Brat💦😻: Whatever!

Satoru snorts then, but when you’re in your bed later that night, nibbling on a bag of hot cheetos that have been screaming at you all day, how is that your first craving!? He writes to you again, and you pick your phone up with your clean hand, sans hot cheeto dust, rolling your eyes.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Need some nudes for your spank bank?

You’re gonna kill him.

Sorority Brat 💦😻: Good night, Gojo.

Satoru frowns, because his dick is already in his hand, but for a moment you think about it, and would it be so bad to-

No, no no.

You aggressively eat those hot cheetos, wondering just what you were in for with that damn boy in your life now, shit forever.

“Fuck.” You’ll never drink again.

I say four parts but I feel like this is gonna be long aha, bc god Gojo is a lil shithead hehe (as I like him) this just a teensy bit similar to the Knocked Up movie premise so expect a LOT of humor here! <3

Taglist one- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @poisonousspiderlily @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @shokosbunny @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @vamqyx @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97

simon who is just straight up cruel when it comes to fucking you when he's in a bad mood.

he comes home after a long shift at work. he was so pissed off that he couldn't think straight. captain has been driving him up the fucking wall, nagging at him for doing something that he isn't particularly comfortable with during one of their missions or whatever. he can't even remember? he's so mad.

you barely got any words out of your mouth before his tongue was shoved deep down your throat?!

fifteen minutes later, he's folding you in half till jt was physically impossible. your legs pressed right up against your chest while his cock slams in and out your wet pussy.

you can't even calculate anything but his cock ruining your deluctable pussy. you know you look fucked out of your mind right now. don't need a smart-alec to figure that one out. tears prickling out of your eyes, staining your pretty cheeks. mouth wide open, jabbering on nothing but full-on bullshit.

simon wasn't paying attention to that though - too pleasure-hungry for his own good. he grips onto harder onto your thighs and continues to drive his cock in and out of your wet channel. you were close, and you could tell he was too. his movements beginning to slow and become incoherent.

he moves the pad of his thumb against your clit, drawing soft circles until the knot in your stomach bursts and your pussy quivers around his cock. your arousal dripping down his cock as you come down from your high, which was suddenly taken from you when you feel a sharp feeling against your clit. you choke upon your tears as his thumb continues to tease your twitchy clit and he doesn't stop fucking you wrecklessly, "don'worry, sweetness. cummin' soon."

he utters out between a groan. he was true to his words. his cock pulsating inside of you as his load fills you cunt up, hand digging into your thighs which was bound to leave grim bruises later, but whatever.

he expels a shuddering breath before pulling out of you. his cum drizzles out of your fluttering hole and he stares at your throbbing pussy in awe. you try shift up onto your elbows, but he stops you with a hand on your stomach, pushing you back down in place.

"nowhere near done, lovie."

MONSTER - Modern!Sukuna x Reader

When you meet a sexy, tattooed stranger in a club, you can't bring yourself to care that he looks like he might be bad for you. In fact, you wouldn't mind if he became the monster in your bed

Inspired by "Monster" by Lady Gaga. A while ago, someone sent me an ask about this song and Sukuna. I can't find the ask anymore, but I hope you will see this story! This is one of my favorite Sukuna songs, and I always feel so insane about him when I hear it. I wish he was the monster in my bed uwu 🖤 Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). 3.5K words. 18+, smut, oral, rough sex, squirting, cumshot, mentions of alcohol. Minors don't interact. Divider @/benkeibear

You meet him in a club downtown. He's leaning casually against the bar, sipping his vodka, looking so sexy, with all those tattoos adorning his face and his body. He's dressed all in black with tight jeans and a sleeveless shirt to show off his gorgeous muscles. He is confident as hell. Arrogant even. But it makes him even more attractive to you. That smug, playful smirk on his tattooed face drives you crazy.

His face is beautiful, like an angel's, but you can tell that he is the opposite.

A bad boy. The type of guy your parents would tell you to stay away from because he is bad news. The type of guy your friends would fuck in the bathroom of the club because he is too irresistible to turn down, but they would never go for more because he surely brings all kinds of trouble into your life.

But none of that matters tonight. Not to you.

Not when he is so enticing, and there is this intense eye contact between the two of you that makes you feel light-headed. As if his eyes are full of a wordless promise.

You can't stop staring at him, giggling nervously at the way his gaze seems glued to you as you dance with your friends a few meters away. There's a look in his eyes that makes goosebumps rise on your arms. No one has ever looked at you that way. With such hunger in his pretty eyes. Like a powerful predator, a monster watching its prey.

It makes you shiver but, at the same time, you feel like an emptiness you have felt all your life seems to get replaced by something else. Something you have been missing and craving all your life. A kind of desire, a kind of want you have only read about in books or seen on TV screens. The kind of desire and attention you have been dreaming about but never thought would ever be directed your way.

But here he is. The sexiest guy you've ever seen. Like a devil, beautiful and seductive. As if someone overheard all your stupid little fantasies, all your nightly yearning, and manifested it into one person. You want him like you never wanted anything before.

Your friend says something to you, but you don't even hear her. All your focus is on him. And he smirks at you as he sets his empty glass on the bar counter, unashamedly looking deeply into your eyes, making your face feel so hot that you feel like you have a fever.

His eyes and his smirk seem to challenge you. Beckoning you to come over to him. Like a Venus flytrap, which sends out its seductive lure to attract its victims. And you are oh so willing to fall victim to this man.

You are so drawn to him, unable to stop yourself from dancing closer and closer. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, smirking that sexy, arrogant smirk again. A smirk that becomes wider when he lifts a large, tattooed hand and makes a beckoning gesture with his index finger. There's black nail polish on his nails, you notice, and small tattoos and rings on each finger.

You slip out of your friend's arms and take the last remaining steps toward the handsome devil who's been calling for you all evening. He is so tall that you have to tilt your head to look at his tattooed face. You are met with that arrogant, knowing smirk again. He looks good enough to eat, but you are sure that if anyone devours the other, it will surely be him who sinks his teeth into you.

He exudes confidence and danger, but you want him so bad, and you don't have the willpower to push him away when he puts a large hand on your waist and grinds against you in rhythm with the new song that is playing.

He looks intimidating with his tall height and broad shoulders and all those tattoos and piercings. But somehow everything feels so easy with him. He takes your hand in his much larger one and pulls you closer, drags you into his world, so all you see, feel, and know is him.

And he feels so good against you. Firm and strong, and smelling so good that it makes you bite your lips as you look up at him, trapped in the intense gaze out of those beautiful maroon eyes that almost glow red in the neon lighting of the club.

The bass is thumping loudly, making the whole club vibrate, sending a delicious feeling through your body. Or maybe it's because of the boy in front of you. Because of the way his large hands wander over your body.

His lips claim yours after just a few minutes, kissing you feverishly like you've never been kissed before. He grabs your chin, his thumb brushes over your lips, pulling down your lower lip, and then his tongue licks over your lips, hot and wet and so enticing that it makes you moan.

His kiss is savage. He licks deeply into your mouth, making your head spin as you feel his large, calloused hand cup your chin and tilt your head back, claiming you.

He has a tongue piercing. It feels amazing in your mouth, when he lets the small metal ball glide over your tongue with every deep kiss. It's arousing. It makes you get bolder and run your hands hungrily all over his tall, buff body, feeling him up, feeling all those firm muscles under your fingers, making you wish this dance will never end and you can just keep your hands on him forever.

The fact that he is so tall that you have to get on your tiptoes to even be able to kiss him makes it even hotter somehow. And his hand is on your chin, holding you in place, a long finger caressing your jaw, making you open your mouth even further for him, wanting more of him, wanting to give him more of you. And he takes it. He takes everything you offer him, and maybe even more than that.

Maybe he takes a part of your soul that night. But you don't care. At this point, if he told you he is a monster, a demon, or the devil himself, you wouldn't run, but instead sign over your soul to him oh so willingly, just for one more kiss, just for one more touch.

It feels exciting to be with him. He takes control so naturally, and it feels so comforting somehow as if you can finally let go of everything that has been worrying you. Nothing matters anymore apart from him, apart from this sexy stranger and his skilled tongue in your throat.

At some point, you shout over the music, asking him for his name, and he grins at you and leans down, teasingly licking the sweat off your neck, letting the metal ball of his tongue piercing glide over your sensitive skin before he bites your earlobe and murmurs in your ear,

"Sukuna."

He doesn't ask for your name. Maybe he doesn't care. Or maybe he doesn't need your real name because he already picked a name for you,

"Come closer, princess."

His voice is a low, velvety caress that sends shivers down your spine. Another light bite, his teeth gracing your earlobe, his lips spreading in a smile against your heated skin. No, you don't need him to know your name. You are quite happy with being his princess.

Somehow, it makes things even more exciting, even more forbidden. You are just two strangers dancing and making out in a club, and Sukuna's kisses and body feel so good, and that's really all you need to know.

His tall, firm body is pressed tightly against yours, grinding slowly against you. His large hands wander over your body, wrapping around your waist, his thumbs dipping lower, even in the middle of the dancefloor, teasing you, making shivers run through you. And his breath is so hot on your skin when he whispers in your ear. Nasty promises of what he will do to you.

Sukuna is a monster. He knows exactly what he's doing. He knows exactly how sexy he is and how crazy he drives you with everything he says and does.

He asks you to leave with him, smirking that sexy smirk that has you all crazy for him, and before you can even think twice, you already nod and smile up at his tattooed face.

Usually, you don't go home with strangers. Usually, you don't take any risks. Usually, you are always too scared to enjoy life to the fullest. But tonight, something is different. Or maybe it's not the night that is different, but the boy in front of you.

Sukuna pulls you along toward the exit while your heart beats so fast that you feel light-headed from it. This is the craziest thing you have ever done. It's exciting and scary, but you want it so badly. You want him so badly.

You stumble out of the club behind Sukuna, your hand in his, laughing, feeling so exhilarated, almost high, even though you didn't take any drugs. It's just the effect he has on you. He makes you feel so free, so invincible. As if this whole city belongs to you. As if he is laying it at your feet with the way he looks at you when he turns to grin at you.

"Let's go to your place, princess. Or do you want me to fuck you right here in the back alley?"

You shiver, not sure if all of it is from the chilly night air and the light rain coming down or also from the adrenaline buzzing in your veins. Sukuna's words make everything more real, and your head is spinning, but you refuse to let your fear win. You have never wanted anything so bad as you want this night with Sukuna.

Your face feels hot when you look up at him and tell him,

"We can go to my place."

You have to avert your eyes a split second later, too shy to keep looking into those smoldering maroon eyes after he announced he will fuck you.

Sukuna's low laugh fills the dingy back alley. He puts an arm around you and pulls you flush against his side as he leads you out of the dark back alley and into the glittering lights and the streets filled with a nameless crowd.

You have never done this before. Your mom always warned you about leaving with a stranger. But you feel like you will never forgive yourself if you let this chance pass.

And a little voice in the back of your mind whispers that maybe you won't even mind if Sukuna turns out to be a real monster. You want him to devour you. You are tired of always holding back, of always being the good girl, of always playing it safe. You want to let go for once. You want to experience all the things you have missed out on until now. Even if it means the monster will eat you alive.

And so you smile up at Sukuna as your heart thunders excitedly in your chest, and your small hands grab his tightly, telling him that you only live a few stops away from the club.

You sit on Sukuna's lap on the subway train, not caring about the other passengers, when Sukuna gives you nasty, open-mouthed French kisses that make you squirm needily on his muscular thighs. Your laugh comes out breathless, and you put a hand on his chest, clawing hungrily at his shirt, digging your nails impatiently into the defined muscles beneath it. You have never wanted any other boy in your bed this much.

You put your other hand on Sukuna's neck, fingers running over the short stubble of his undercut and into his soft pink hair, pulling firmly on it and pushing your body tightly against his, humming softly when your tits press against his pecs. This time, you are the one who claims his lips in another passionate kiss while Sukuna's low, amused laughter fills your senses.

Maybe what Sukuna shows you is that not only are you into monsters, but you are some kind of monster, too, driven by a dark desire, desperate and hungry for anything that Sukuna is willing to give you. Desperately craving his tongue in your mouth and his large, rough hands all over your skin. Craving his dick that's pressing hard against your thigh through his tight jeans.

He shoves you against the wall next to your front door, smirking against your lips while he kisses you deep and nasty while you try to find your key in your small handbag. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest when you slip inside the house, taking Sukuna's hand and tugging him along and up the staircase.

No going back.

He tears your clothes right off the moment you step into your apartment, making your pulse flutter when you are standing in front of him completely naked while he is still fully dressed, and his burning gaze trails hungrily over your naked tits and pussy.

He licks his lips, a lopsided grin lifting one corner of his lips as he looks deeply into your eyes,

"You look good enough to eat, baby."

It sends an intense longing through you, making you moan and press your thighs together. Thighs that get pushed apart a moment later by Sukuna's rough hands when he throws you onto your bed, exposing your embarrassingly wet pussy to his smug gaze.

You are in a daze, heart racing, moaning breathlessly when Sukuna buries his handsome face between your legs, kissing and licking your pussy hungrily, teasing you with his tongue piercing, and sucking on your swollen clit in a way that makes you sob and squeal and tug needily on his soft pink hair.

He is unrelenting, holding you down even when your hips buck wildly. Sukuna devours you. Kisses and licks and fucks your pussy with his mouth and his tongue, filling the room with obscene wet noises that make your cheeks burn. He makes you cum twice on his tongue before he lets go of you, smirking lazily at you as he straightens up and pulls his shirt over his head.

You lose your mind all over again when you watch him undress, revealing his broad chest and defined abs and even more tattoos. You moan when his large hands unbuckle his belt and push down his pants.

He puts your hand on his bulge, laughing when he hears your sharp intake of breath when you feel the heat of his hard cock through his boxer briefs.

"Don't be shy, princess. You can touch anywhere you want."

But his laugh turns into a sexy low groan when you rub your face against his abs, trailing kisses down his sharp v-line while your nails scratch his muscular thighs.

You find the courage to pull down his underwear and your mouth instantly wraps around his cock, sucking hungrily on his gorgeous swollen mushroom head. You moan around it, wondering why you find such bliss in feeling Sukuna's dick in your mouth.

You feel high, looking up at Sukuna's face as you suckle lovingly on his swollen tip. Your eyes meet Sukuna's, and it's the most intense eye contact you have ever had with anyone. He smirks down at you, one large hand wrapping around the back of your head, long fingers caressing your hair oh so lightly, making you shiver deliciously.

You suck his thick cock devotedly, holding eye contact, feeling your spit run down your chin and your arousal run down your thighs, basking in the soft groans coming from Sukuna's parted lips.

But he stays in control the whole time. Only lets you suck his cock for a short while, pulling you off it before you can make him cum, pushing you back down onto the bed, but this time he follows you and covers you with his tall, heavy body.

Sukuna is the monster in your bed, who knows how to touch you to turn you into the biggest mess. Deep, hungry kisses and dirty words whispered against your skin. Warm lips suckling on your sensitive nipples and calloused fingers caressing your throbbing clit.

And finally, his hot, thick cock glides teasingly slow between your pussy lips, massaging your clit in a way that makes you moan his name shakily. He fucks you open just around that gorgeous thick mushroom head. In and out. In and out. Giving you just a taste, driving you crazy.

Sukuna truly is a monster. Someone who doesn't just take you but makes you beg for it. Makes you so wild for him that you sob his name and look at him with big pleading wet eyes, abandoning all shyness, begging him to fuck you for real, begging him for his heavy cock. Begging him to fuck your brains out.

When he finally fucks you, it's like you entered a dark paradise. Sukuna fucks you rough and deep, so good that your eyes roll back. You have never been dicked down like that. No other cock has ever made you act this way. Turning you into such a horny mess. Uninhibited, unrestrained, squealing loudly while the headboard of your bed bangs against the wall in rhythm with Sukuna's deep strokes.

It's almost feral how he fucks you, how his hips snap against you, and his lips and teeth mark you up, his large hands restraining your wrists, his low grunts and moans in your ear. Savage. But he never loses control. His dick makes you cry, every thrust so precise, so calculated, making your legs shake and heat coil deep inside you.

It almost feels too good. Sukuna rolls his hips, and he hits that spot inside you that makes you splutter embarrassedly, squirming beneath his heavy body, ashamed of the way your body is reacting, but Sukuna doesn't let you go. He doesn't slow down. He doesn't stop making you feel so fucking good. He doesn't stop until you squirt all over his cock with a loud cry of his name.

And he watches you with a smug smirk playing around his lips. He pulls out after you stop clenching around him, but only to smack his heavy cock against your swollen clit, laughing at the nasty, wet sound of it.

"So messy. Sweet little thing got so excited for me, huh? How cute."

He drives you crazy, makes you lose your mind with everything he does. You're not even able to feel embarrassed anymore when Sukuna kneels over you with those strong muscular tattooed thighs on each side of your body, one hand wrapped around his enormous cock, stroking it with fast, long strokes, while his other hand pushes between your legs, rubbing your clit, spreading your wetness all over it, having you on the brink of another orgasm only seconds later, moaning and whimpering his name as you look up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

And Sukuna smirks down at you, licking his lips as he moans and tells you to keep looking at him,

"Open your mouth for me, princess. And stick your tongue out like a good girl."

You follow his every command, lost in the rush of the pleasure he is giving you, already feeling the familiar tightening deep inside you again as Sukuna toys with your clit while he jacks off unashamedly over your face.

Two long fingers get shoved into your twitching pussy, right when a low guttural moan escapes Sukuna's lips, and his warm, sticky cum shoots down on you, nutting heavily all over your face and tits, thick and milky. And you cum so hard on his fingers that you almost black out, screaming your soul out.

He silences your screams with another savage kiss, leaning down to cover your much smaller body with his. Your bodies are sweaty and sticky from Sukuna's cum, but you still pull him closer, craving him, wrapping your arms around him and sighing when he rests his weight on you and presses you down into the bed.

His lips claim yours again, kissing you deeply. He tastes addictive, like maraschino cherries and smoke, and somehow you know you will search for this taste all of the rest of your life, in every other person you kiss, but you will never find it again.

Maybe that is the true monstrous thing about Sukuna. He is the best, and everyone else you meet will never even come close to what he gave you.

And tonight, Sukuna is yours, and you can get as much of him as you want. And so you keep kissing him, and touching him, and letting him push his hard cock into you again, letting him fuck you another round, over and over again.

He stays the whole night, blessing you with more kisses and more sex, fucks you from behind, and bounces you on his thick cock until you start crying from the bliss of it.

Finally, he rolls over, grinning lazily at you before he slumps down half on top of you, falling asleep and trapping you under his heavy body, his face buried in your neck and one large hand sprawled over your tits possessively.

He leaves your bed in the morning with your marks on him, deep scratches on his broad back, and dark red hickeys all over his tattooed neck. And you know when you walk past a mirror, you will find the testament of your night spent with Sukuna on your body, too.

But Sukuna's mark isn't just physical. It's much deeper, and you fear you will never get rid of it again. That boy is really a monster, and he consumed you whole.

KUNA, PLEASE BE THE MONSTER IN MY BED!! 😘😘

I hope you enjoyed your wild night with Sukuna!! Thank you so much for reading, and thank you so much to the person who sent me the ask about this song.

Comments and reblogs would be sweet 💗

PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

Uncle!Sukuna Part 6

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

masterlist

Uncle!Sukuna who puts his plan for a second date on temporary hold. The day after the incident with Yuji, you sat him and Sukuna down for that "talk" about why they shouldn't resort to violence, and what other methods they could use to get their emotions out. He hated every second of it. But he did enjoy watching you in your professional element. You were stern and serious, but still had a gentleness about you that showed you actually cared.

Uncle!Sukuna who was falling, real hard, real fast.

But he pushed that aside, instead offering to take Choso out for the day that weekend. He could tell the boy needed some cheering up, and your worry was only getting worse, so he offered to take Choso to some "kid-appropriate guy stuff", and asked you to help Yuji with the finishing touches on his project. Both boys were up for it, and when Saturday hit, you and Yuji waved Choso and him goodbye.

Uncle!Sukuna who couldn't deny that the car ride was a little awkward. He still wasn't very good with kids, and honestly, he was starting to wonder what he was thinking when he offered to do this. He liked the kid, sure, but he knew very little about him. One thing he did know was that Choso and himself were very bad with people, and general socialization wasn't really their thing. So from the house to the mall, the car was silent.

It wasn't until he parked, turning the car off, that Choso spoke.

"I know you like my mom."

Sukuna is silent, stunned by the sudden call-out. He stares out the windshield blankly before his eyes move to the rearview mirror, meeting Choso's. Th boy looks calm and sure.

"You don't have be friendly with me just to get on her good side. She already likes you too." Choso added after a short period of silence.

His words make Sukuna's brow furrow. He ignores the part about you liking him back, turning his head to glare straight at the boy.

"Listen, brat. You're here with me because I wanted you to be, not so I could get brownie points with your mom. Now say something like that again, and I'll throw you in the mall fountain." He quickly got out of the front, leaving Choso to blush at his words. He has a small smile on his face when he climbs out.

Nothing more was said as they walked into the mall. Sukuna took him to the comic store first, that being the whole reason they were there. He watched as the kids eyes lit up, looking around at all the images of his favorite superhero's . It made Sukuna smirk.

"Get what you want. If you see something you think Yuji would like too, let me know." He said before they split up. Choso went to look for his favorites, making sure to keep an eye out for Yuji's too.

Sukuna kept his eye on the kid as he browsed, not caring much about looking at the selection. But his eyes caught on one of the covers, making him pause as a memory surfaces from the pits of his brain.

A young Sukuna is approached by his twin, the younger of the two having his usual grin on his face, while his older brother had nothing but a scowl. Sukuna barely acknowledged his brother until he is standing in front of him, looking far to excited for no reason at all.

"What?"

"It's our birthday tomorrow!" Jin replied. Sukuna rolled his eyes.

"I know that, idiot. Like you said, it's our birthday."

"Well I wanted to give you your present early."

Sukuna looked at his younger twin, confused. They never got each other gifts.

He doesn't get a chance to ask before Jin pulls out a flat, wrapped gift from behind his back. He holds it out to Sukuna, his grin never wavering. Sukuna slowly takes it, holding it in his hand for a second with a skeptical look on his young face.

"Open it." Jin encouraged.

Sukuna listened, tearing off the wrapping paper slowly to reveal a comic book still preserved in the plastic. Sukuna examines the cover, recognizing it as one he's seen Jin read before, one that Sukuna had actually been interested in reading (though he never said that).

"I know you've wanted to read it, so i thought I'd get you a copy. That way, it's something we can enjoy together." Jin admits, practically bouncing up and down with his excitement for Sukuna's reaction.

The older twin is surprised by the thoughtfulness of the gift, and his twins desire to have something they can share. It makes his chest feel full, but he clears his throat in an attempt to appear unaffected. Even at 10, he preferred appearing reserved.

"Uh..thanks, loser." He says after a second, ignoring his brothers grin. Jin can see right through him. "I didn't get you anything." He adds.

"That's okay. Just make sure to tell me what you think once you've read it."

Jin leaves, and Sukuna is left looking down at the colorful cover.

That comic was one of the few things Sukuna ever shared with his brother. It was one of the few things they could talk about and enjoy, finally having a common ground. Sukuna would never had said it before, but he could admit, at least to himself, now that this one comic brought him and Jin a little bit closer.

Which is why he picks it up, not bothering to look at anything else when he moves toward Choso. The kid had already picked out a few comics, some for him, some for Yuji (though he couldn't read that well yet). The two checked out, before making their way through the rest of the mall.

They walked through a few stores, Sukuna buying whatever Choso wanted without complaint. The kid was grateful each time, not expecting Sukuna to do so. But eventually, Sukuna was tired of hearing "are you sure? thank you" over and over.

"Say thank you again and I'll take it all back." He threatened. Choso laughed, nodding in agreement. Sukuna wasn't as intimidating when you got to know him.

They finished their afternoon with some food in the food court, before leaving with plenty of bags and two full bellies.

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The care ride back was far less awkward, but the two still didn't talk much. They simply enjoyed the low music playing through the radio, and the easy ride home.

When they were close to the neighborhood, Choso spoke up.

"If you and my mom get married, would that make Yuji my brother?"

Sukuna blinked in surprise, glancing at the boy in the mirror. Choso had a curious look on his face, genuinely wondering.

"Yuji isn't my son." Sukuna answered after a moment, ignoring the feeling he gets at the idea of marrying you.

"So he'd be my..cousin?" Choso asked. That wasn't as cool as 'brother' but it wouldn't be too bad.

"I...I guess. Technically, yeah." Sukuna answered, trying to brush it off with a shrug. He didn't know why they were talking about this. "But your mom and I aren't even dating, so don't worry about shit like that."

"But you both want to date. Don't you?"

"Don't you have other things to worry about, brat? Since when are you so damn nosey?"

"Mom says it's good to be curious and ask questions."

"Yeah well, not about this. Just worry about your comics and your ma and I will worry about..all the other stuff."

Choso huffed, not happy with his question going unanswered, but figured it didn't make sense to push it. Not right now, at least.

"Well, I like you. And Yuji. So I hope, even if you don't date my mom, you both stick around." Choso admits. Sukuna looks back at him again.

"Yeah?" He sees Choso nod. "Well I...we like you too kid." He says, his voice a lot quieter and soft. His eyes return to the road, right as they turn down the street to your house.

Neither of them say anything more, but both feel a little bit lighter at the confession.

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Uncle!Sukuna who walked into your house a few minutes later, to the sound of upbeat music playing and two voices, very off tune, singing along. He shares a look with Choso, before they walk further in. They stop at the kitchen, seeing you and Yuji dancing around together while seemingly baking. There's a sheet of cookies already laid on the counter to cool, telling Sukuna you both have probably been at this for a bit. He smirks as the smell finally catches up with Choso, who rushes forwards towards the two of you. The sound of his steps catches your attention.

Once again, Sukuna is sure his heart stops when you give your son a large grin, hugging him tightly. It gets worse when you look up, giving Sukuna the exact same beautiful smile.

You turn down the music as he walks into the room fully, Yuji immediately running towards his uncle to be picked up. His bright grin is in place as he starts to ramble about the things the two of you did. He's talking so fast that Sukuna can't understand but a few words, but he doesn't bother interrupting the boy. He simply holds him with one arm, staring at him with a raised, unamused brow. He sees you and Choso talking out of the corner of his eye.

Once Yuji has calmed down a little, you turn to look at them with another smile, handing Choso a cookie while you do.

"Did you get me anything, Uncle Kuna?" Yuji asks, staring at the man expectedly. Sukuna scoffs, wanting to call the boy spoiled for thinking he got him something. But he couldn't, because Sukuna did in fact get his gremlin of a nephew stuff.

"Yeah, but don't expect me to every time. I'm not gonna let you get spoiled." He glares slightly. Yuji ignores that completely, clapping happily at his uncle's words. He wiggled, wanting to be put down to go play. "tch. can't ever stay still." Sukuna mumbled as he set Yuji down. The kid immediately took off, grabbing Choso's hand on his way and dragging the surprised boy to another room of the house.

"Don't know where he's going. The shit's still in the car." Sukuna says with a smirk. His words make you laugh, bringing his attention back to you. "How was he?"

"He was lovely. We finished the project, I think it will score good, and then he wanted to bake some. Said his mom used to make cookies all the time, so I thought it would be a nice treat and help cheer him up." You answered. Sukuna was a little surprised at the mention of his late sister-in-law. Yuji didn't really talk about his parents much. But he didn't think much of it.

"They smell good. Surprised you let him have any before dinner." Sukuna smirked, knowing how strict you usually are about desserts before supper. He moved closer, leaning on the counter as you took the last back of cookies out of the oven.

You huffed playfully, setting the cookies down to cool.

"Well I'm not a monster. Finishing the project was a little emotional for him, so I wasn't gonna be strict with him about something as little as this." You replied. Sukuna frowned slightly at that, but he could understand why. "Also, I don't think I've ever heard of a pair of twins who are so totally opposites, I honestly wouldn't have known you were both related in any other situation." You teased.

"Wait, how'd you know Jin was my twin?" Sukuna asked, thrown back by your knowing something that he definitely never told you. Sure, you saw pictures, but him and Jin looked nothing alike, so surely the twin thing wouldn't be easy to assess. It was your turn to be confused, and you gave him a look as though the answer was obvious.

"Yuji, of course. He mentioned it a while ago. Did you not think that would ever come up?"

"Yuji talks about his parents that often?"

"Of course he does. He talks about them all the time. His dad apparently told him a lot about you, so he talks about that too."

Sukuna was shocked. Yuji hardly ever talked about his parents to him. He thought the kid was just a silent griever, like him, but apparently that wasn't the case. Sukuna frowned as he tried to understand why Yuji wouldn't want to talk about them with his own uncle.

You see this, understanding immediately where his confusion was coming from.

"Does he...not talk about them with you?" You ask softly.

"..No. not really. I figured he just..didn't like talking about them. Figured it might be hard for him." Sukuna answers. His frown turns to a slight scowl at the feeling that he might be doing something wrong. If Yuji wasn't coming to him to talk, didn't that mean he wasn't doing what he needed to in order to show the kid he could be there for him?

His thoughts are interrupted by your hand on his arm, and his eyes snap to meet yours.

"I don't think Yuji is the one who has trouble with it." You said gently. He got what you meant. "If you want to know why he doesn't, I think you should ask him." You added, just as the boys ran back into the room.

Sukuna watched as they excitedly showed you something they drew, contemplating your words. He knew you were right, you always were. He just didn't know how the hell to go about it. Talking wasn't his forte, none of this was, but especially not that.

But he remembered he told himself he would be better, and wanted Yuji to be open with him, even if he struggled with that himself. So he knew he'd have to figure out a way to talk to the brat, sooner rather than later.

He decided to save that for later tonight, though, when you turned to him with another pretty smile, as Yuji runs towards him to shove his drawing into the mans face.

Uncle!Sukuna who gets offended when you offer to pay him back for everything he got Choso, simply walking away without dignifying you with a response. He basically pouted as he helped you make dinner, making it seem like you has actually insulted him. It made you laugh.

Uncle!Sukuna who isn't surprised when he finds Yuji and Choso passed out on the couch once more. In the short time after dinner, while Sukuna help you clean up, they had gone to watch some TV. He will never understand how they can go from so energetic to snoring and halfway falling off of the couch.

Uncle!Sukuna who smirks when Yuji actually does fall off of the couch. He still didn't wake up, making Sukuna shake his head in disbelief. He was pretty sure the kid could sleep through anything.

Uncle!Sukuna who approached your bed room, knocking on the door softly. He couldn't help but admire you when you opened the door, obviously getting ready to go to bed soon. You smiled again, opening the door to allow him inside.

"They're asleep aren't they?" You assumed with a chuckle. He smirked, nodding as he examined your room.

"Knocked out." He confirmed.

"Yuji can stay here tonight, if you don't want to carry him back to yours." You offered, looking at him through your mirror. His brow raised, smirk growing.

"What about me? Can't I stay too?" He teased, giving you a flirty smile. You flushed, breaking eye contact and shaking you head fondly.

"You can if you'd like." You replied after a moment, looking back at him. You see his smile drop in surprise, making you smirk. "Plenty of room on the couch for you." You added, teasing him.

His shoulders dropped, a scoff leaving him as he shook his head. His reaction made you chuckle. He moves closer and you turn to face him fully.

Sukuna remembers he had a plan, to ask you out on another date. And while this wasn't how he intended to do it, it feels like the perfect time.

"Tease," He grumbled. His hands settled on your waste, holding you just like he did when he kissed you. "What are you doing next weekend?" He asked.

You flushed, hands going to his chest because you weren't sure when else to put them. This was the closest you two has been since your date.

"Um, nothing specifically. Choso won't be here, so I was just gonna get some stuff done around the house. Why?" You replied. You could guess why he asked, but you wanted to be sure before getting your hopes up.

"How about we get to that second date?" He asked, doing his best to appear confident in his questioning. He hoped you were on the same page.

Your instant smile reassured him that you did.

"Oh yeah? I don't know, the house could really use a deep clean." You teased. He scoffed, glaring at you with no heat behind it.

"Don't be a brat." He replied, making your smile grow. His jaw clenched as he hesitated. "You..do wanna go on another one, right?" He forced himself to ask. He wanted to be clear with you, straightforward to the best of his ability.

Your smile softened.

"Yes, Sukuna. I'd love to go on another date with you." You said. The look of relief on his face made you want to tease him more, but you decided to give him a break.

He smirked softly, pulling you closer. He didn't say anything more, and neither did you. You ended the night with a soft, sweet kiss, before he left your bedroom. He took Choso and Yuji to bed in Choso's room, before actually laying on your couch. Both of you fell asleep with little smiles, feeling more secure in whatever it was between the two of you than before.

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let me know what you think! also, would ppl like to see a snippet that's about reader and Yuji's afternoon together while sukuna and choso aren't there? I realize sometimes i focus too much on one dynamic and might leave another out a bit. I assure you guys there will be plenty more about sukuna and reader in the next part! I just think it's important to build their relationships with Yuji and Choso.

I'm thankful for any constructive criticism! Thank you for reading, and all the support <3333

barely proofread

SINFUL WATCHERS | 05

pairing: s. geto x f!reader // w.c 2.3k

synopsis: Geto Suguru, moulded by the hefty hands of the Lord himself, and his brazen suggestion for him and distant friend/classmate L/n Y/n (Satan's favourite poem and existence opposed by heaven's residents) to anonymously post a video of their lewd entanglement on twitter proves to be more hazardous than one would think. Who knew one viral video could overturn God's plan?

warnings: 18+, heavy smut, modern!uni/alternative!AU, forbidden romance (?), fwb, angst, uploading of NSFW content by characters (basically Twitter p0rn stars), blasphemy, religious imagery/symbolism

series m // chapter 04 // chapter 06

BETWEEN HER FINGERS nuzzled the material of her bedsheets. Y/n gripped the blanket and clenched her hands into fists of frustration before releasing and returning her hand to the state it was previously in.

Memorable hard stares from the judgmental spirits crowded above pierced her physically stark flesh and left fresh wounds yet to close as they viewed her body engulfed with carmine hand prints, little to no segments of pure flesh peeking through. 

Because of the continuous dreadful way of living she collapsed into, her corrupted soul had offered the last remains of purity within her away.

Their indistinct mutters and terror-stricken expressions flooded the grandiose Heaven rumoured to have infinite streams of dulcet milk and elegant wine alongside bountiful bulks of precious gold.

Undoubtedly, infinite benefits that couldn't be redeemed upon God's temporary property was proof earth's temptations were a diversion from the abundance of rewards reserved in the afterlife – yet Y/n was the first to dare a request to be destined for hell, her care for even trying to attain a home beside the omnipotent leader non-existent.  

All of those prominent markings mentally engraved upon her skin belonged to none other than Mr Geto Suguru – her accomplice dragged down alongside her into the open mouths of reapers prepared to annihilate any ounce of innocence discovered.

Geto's oak hues, which swarmed his perpetual pupils, propelled eccentric shots of pleasure to spread like wildfire around her figure whenever she was present within his radius. Furthermore, having him captured within her chaotic whirlwind of unholy lust and craving for insincere love had both of them questioning their sanity afterwards.

Warily glossing over her phone in arm's reach, Y/n bit her plush lips – only to snatch her gaze away forcefully. However, no matter how many times she attempted to distract her filthy mind, lewd thoughts filled the crevices of her teasing brain.

Her half-hearted attempts to avoid the itch bothering her heart flunked; it's' nagging successfully compelled her to call him during the late evening, albeit begrudgingly, and offer him an exclusive invitation to her flat. 

Before her final decision and silencing her pride yelling she didn't reach out first, recollections of Geto's and herself heated her skin: his lingering touches left no velvet flesh untouched, his tricky tongue abandoned slick, silvery swirls between the valley of her breasts – if daytime, the wet trail would be resplendent beneath the syrupy rays of lustre. 

Most importantly, though, Geto never refused to be at her service and vice versa. 

Y/n timidly groaned, envisioning him between her parted thighs. Her joints weakened when briefly remembering the past luxuries of witnessing his eyebrows furrow whilst battling through her compressing interior or hearing his subtle groans in the crook of her neck. 

Thus, Y/n clawed at her phone and punched in his number – although her short-lived impulsiveness made her momentarily question her decision to submit to the fraction of sensuality that had consumed her body and state of mind. 

"L/n?" A hazy voice asked.

The woman simply hummed, biting the tip of her thumb by resting it atop her bottom lip. 

"Hey," she softly greeted.

For a few seconds, suspense clogged the air, but she forced a sigh and swept away a couple of her strands that shadowed her features.

"Geto," she paused, "just come over.". 

With no follow-up questions, Geto ended the short-lived call, his response confirming that he would be arriving shortly.

***

The candescent sphere had long transpired and swapped with its' selenic counterpart. The newcomer prepared for an observation of a night-long conversation between two figures consisting of tangled tongues, crescent marks stamped into clammy skin, and bruises fuelled by intimate moves. 

Geto stared at his lap for a few moments. He wasn't oblivious to the scenario soon to occur, considering he was the one who ignited the flickering flame this time around.

Receiving Y/n's abrupt phone call had him tidy himself up a bit, freeing his locks from it's messy bun and adjusting his causal apparel. and pace around his organised bedroom for a few minutes, although he wasn't startled by her tendency to take matters into her own hands.

At that moment, he released his imagination from the shackles that had been locked upon his mind for the past few nights after being bullied by her presence. The hallucination of their bodies moulding into one entire sexual thirst to then twist undone perked his interests exceedingly high and was a sublime but inimitable form of artwork. 

It wasn't long until he found himself sat within his car stationed outside her complex. 

From time to time, tilting his head to the side gifted him a moonlit visage of her bruised lips slurping around his length, as if she was sucking on an ice pop on a warm summer's day at the park – an ethereal sight of her mouth stuffed to the brim with his needy cock was an endangering sight yet was eternally engrained in his mind.

Geto ground his jaw and ran his fingers through his messy tresses. 

After questioning himself on what exactly he was waiting for, Geto swung open his car door with ease. It was near the dead of night, and he was ambling to the front of her apartment with a ghost of a smile wavering across his tight-lipped frown.

He was buzzed in instantaneously and proceeded to hike up the complex's stairs. Upon reaching Y/n's front door, his opportunity to politely knock was disregarded as the door was prematurely agape, revealing the lady infamous for setting his composed demeanour ablaze.

"You called?" He announced for some reason with slight caution and eyed her lack of clothing, even though a woman wearing nothing but an oversized shirt was nothing out of the ordinary. 

"Yeah, come in." she attempted an admirable smile, which felt too forced on her part.

The male's head jerked upwards and faintly goggled at the physical contact of her fingers nestled between his after closing the door behind him and slipping off his sneakers near the mat familiar with the shape of his feet. 

It had been long, a few months apart being far too long in his opinion. He wasn't usually timid, but the time apart had his dominance hesitate.

"Would you like a drink or anything?" She asked, refusing to delve directly into the nucleus of his eyes, possessing intense tides of contemplation as she desired to savour every second later on. Hastiness was in neither of their interests.

With a shake of his head, she tugged him behind her needy form into the disclosed realm of her bedroom, where mercurial languages of pleasure were expressed with no consequence. 

A rich waft of incense with accords of sweet almond and Indian rose oil caressed his eyelids, the compelling scent naturally drew him to re-familiarise himself with his surroundings, the theme of her entire home aesthetically minimalistic: her luxurious bed to the right of her spacious room was pillowed with two additional ones of dark grey, nicely contradicting her almost-white and cool toned walls. 

On the opposite side, her neat vanity (paired with a chic cotton-linen swivelling chair integrated with a curved back and armrest) displayed luxury perfumes strategically arranged, her headphones alongside other desk necessities with an expansive mirror mounted above whilst a glass case occupied a corner, presenting her recent fixations and prized possessions.

"I know it's kind of late," Y/n began and took a step back out of instinct as his height towered over her smaller frame, causing her to peer up at him through the wisps of her silk lashes.

On the other hand, Geto lowered his impassive face to hers and brushed his thumb across her naturally pouted bottom lip when her lips parted to resume her speech. 

"But you know why you're here," she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck as the old impulsiveness to do so returned. 

Plus, Y/n wasn't one to shy away from her wants; and right now, it involved the man in front of her. 

"I do, but did you seriously think I wouldn't come?" He queried, and before answering, she took hold of his index finger, towing it across her collarbone, prepared to be littered with his harsh bites sooner than later.

Y/n wanted to overlook his query but failed, "Possibly.". Though Geto may have enjoyed the teasing during their last encounters, Y/n had remained slightly hesitant.

"That internship sucked out a lot of my holiday," he murmured and brushed his fingers over the jut of her hipbone before carving a soft swirl upon the targeted flesh. 

"And I know it was the same for you so I hope you won't hold it against me pretty lady. I wanted to call you but...".

She softly sighed as an indication she wasn't attempting to place blame upon him; knowing she remained present in his mind offered comfort. Building a portfolio to improve a CV was tough, but Y/n was pleased they understood each other's positions and reasons. 

"You don't need to explain; it was the same for me. So long you've come back to me...".

"I wouldn't not.". 

Her palms smoothed the cotton of his shirt, hooking her index beneath the hem to plant a peck between the gap of his collarbones. 

"The old birds downstairs are out for a few days, so you're allowed to make me scream as much as you want tonight," she informed him before licking under the row of her pearly teeth, slightly tiptoeing to have a better insight into his already bewitched sight. "Or I can make you fall apart. I think either is fine. Don't you think so too, Sugu?".

Geto gently bit the gummy surface of his inner cheek in response to her titillating suggestions and the shortening of his name – somebody utilising the sobriquet of 'Sugu' was nothing remarkable; however, under these specific circumstances and it being Y/m who spoke the label, differed entirely to his interactions with other humans.   

He swore he noticed his caged heart restart from the immediate overdrive of spiralling pressure after the outburst of confidence she always displayed when behind locked doors.

"Enduring both doesn't sound too bad to me," he hotly replied, steadily tugging at her top, which revealed a thin strap.

He almost paled and gulped harshly when she shrugged away the fabric completely that greeted the floor of their makeshift paradise. Decorating her beautiful breasts, which had a tendency to be squished against his chest, was a sapphire bra – its cups were semi-transparent due to the mesh whilst being embroidered with a satin trim of deeper blue and minuscule embellishments of glimmering thread sewn as dainty flowers. 

Maybe it was due to the various versions of blue available that reminded him of the tradable sentiment the sky of heavily populated Tokyo faced, or the transparent liquid curved in swashing waves that covered a majority of Earth's circumference, or the multitude of synonyms the adjective 'blue' offered; truthfully Geto couldn't pinpoint an exact reason nor answer as to why the cobalt garment beautifying his classmate's breasts hardened his cock stuffed beneath the restraint of his cotton bottoms.

Geto appreciated Y/n not dolling herself up to the nines, highlighting her abrupt and raw need for him. The simple set of lingerie consisting of a bra and panties satisfied him despite the lack of a garter squeezing her thighs and the centre piece clasped around her waist it also came with. Yet, he would happily accept the incomplete ensemble for tonight due to his interpretation of her clothing choice, or lack thereof, should he say. 

The proximity between the pair dwindled, their minty breaths celebrating the reception of two mouths resuming a paused unity. The sole aim for satisfaction substituted their relationship from civil accomplices to libidinous miscreants.

"This piece always gets to you," she sighed in accomplishment when he traced basic shapes onto the small of her back once his lean arms snuck around her waist. A sweet murmur of his name joined the collection lingering in the air from their last meeting months ago. 

"How could it not? It drives me wild when I imagine you in colours that don't even exist." Geto's sophisticated mouth shamelessly admitted through tasteful literature and not meaning the apparent blue, but other shades only visible to him. 

His infatuation with specific garments complimenting her gleaming skin hadn't diverted his attention from her once blanche wings tarnished with maliciousness. Yet, every moment involved with the woman tattooed with every one of his poetic commentaries increased his credence in perfection.

Salacity trickled into her bloodstream and partied amongst her body's necessities before fogging her mind, which led her to spare an inappropriate invitation for Geto, and him only, to access her however he pleased. 

Painfully close to having his lips on hers, Y/n whispered, "Geto," followed by a grand demand which furthered the uncomfortableness of his confined bulge and its prominent outline. "Just kiss me already.".

In response, his sight was doused in momentary darkness, her brazen request for their mouths to engage the cause as her body rapidly comprehended the sensuality in her command – their kiss rendered the beginning of no end to repressed lust. 

Geto's lips, which he unconsciously puckered whenever amidst weighty thought, served an inviting embrace when captured by her honeyed mouth; a chaotic spillage of her quiet whimpers, an addictive yet sweet liquidation melded into the dehydrated grasps of his taste buds.

Y/n's figure tensed upon feeling the tips of his fingers now ghost above her clothed nipples, their mouths parting before he nudged her temple with his nose and sought approval. 

His voice proceeded to be low and raspy, and his eyes were half-lidded as his gaze soaked in the embodiment of excellence before him. "Can we do something new tonight, sweetheart?". 

The pet name wasn't new to Y/n; however, she was pleased when the label pecked her ears. A nurturing flutter swarmed within her chest, a touch so familiar and warming stimulated the eruption of a scorching blaze. 

"So long as we make up for some of the time lost, I'm up for whatever you want.".

a/n: thank you for all the sudden love and support, please don't be shy and interact with me! I also have other fics in the making, masterlists will be dropped soon

tags: @ikaiower @d3stin7 @iweirdthingsblog @dandelionskyes @nsfwinami @cookiemonsterboss @kasellan @anonymous-3846 @violetflowersstuff @tlostwizardinhsong @ddelly @babybluegirl99 @lillianadreams @kazuuhali @dizzzymango @iluvmusicxoxo @diamxndwht-blog @x0lunaaaa @s3niz3ro @nightingale1989 @shorty-jordie @adequate-binch @cockslayer420 @shikiyoshiro @satsattoru @ash-ate @naeiss

Spicy Curry (Bakugou Katsuki x F!Reader) Chapter 7

Summary: Pro-hero DynaMight hides his developing hearing loss from the public. He doesn’t want them or the villains to know about what he considers his only weakness. His family knows. His best friends know. And now you, the owner of his favorite little curry shop, know. You want to live a quiet life & to protect your son. The last thing you want is to draw attention to yourself. You hide your identity, you hide your scars, and you hide your quirk. And then Bakugou, Katsuki walks in one day with dried blood on his ears, and you can’t help but help him.

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Parts:  1  |  2  |  3 | 4 | 5  |  6  | 7 | ? ? ?

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Content Warning: This fic will contain mentions of past abuse from a “partner”, including sexual assault.

The bell above the door chimed as Katsuki and Kouichi entered the shop, the familiar scent of curry spices wrapping around them like a welcome. But instead of the usual calm atmosphere, they walked into controlled chaos. Nearly every stool at the counter was occupied, customers' chopsticks clicking against bowls as steam rose in fragrant clouds from their curry. Only two seats remained open in the far corner, tucked away from the main bustle. The tiny kitchen behind the counter was alive with motion as you moved between multiple pots, your hair escaping its neat bun in wisps that clung to your damp forehead.

The sight of you like this made something twist in Katsuki's chest. He'd grown used to seeing you in quieter moments, when the shop felt like a sanctuary from the world outside. Now, watching you navigate the cramped space with practiced efficiency, he found himself studying the fluid grace of your movements, the way you anticipated each customer's needs before they spoke, how naturally you maintained your composure even as chaos swirled around you. It reminded him, oddly enough, of watching seasoned pros work a crisis - that same economy of motion, that instinct born from years of experience.

Kouichi immediately bounced toward the counter, waving his hands to catch your attention, his small body practically vibrating with excitement. When you didn't look up, focused on a pot threatening to boil over, he tapped the counter rhythmically - your agreed-upon signal when he needed you urgently.

You glanced up, and Katsuki caught the flash of relief in your eyes at seeing them safe. But your attention was immediately pulled away by the overflowing pot. "Just a minute, baby," you signed quickly, one-handed while adjusting the heat. A customer at the far end raised his empty glass, and you moved to refill it, narrowly avoiding collision with another patron reaching for napkins.

The dinner rush had clearly hit harder than usual. Katsuki's enhanced observation skills, honed through years of hero work, picked up the subtle signs of strain – the slight tremor in your hands as you ladled curry, the way your shoulders tensed with each new demand for attention, the tight lines around your mouth that spoke of exhaustion you were trying to hide.

Kouichi's hands moved in increasingly larger gestures, determined to share his triumph. His signing became bigger, more emphatic: "Mom! I controlled the heat! I made a rock warm but not too hot and—" His fingers shaped each sign with perfect clarity, unconsciously demonstrating the control he'd learned that afternoon.

Your hands stilled for just a moment, genuine pride breaking through the stress. "That's amazing, sweetheart," you signed, love and pride shining through despite your exhaustion. But your response was cut short by a customer calling out their order. "I want to hear all about it, just... give me a little time, okay?"

Kouichi's face fell slightly, though he tried to hide it. His small hands dropped to his sides, the excitement dimming in his eyes like a candle being slowly extinguished. Kouichi's dimming enthusiasm hit Katsuki harder than he expected, like a punch he wasn't braced to receive.

"Oi," he signed to Kouichi, getting the boy's attention. "Let's sit down," he directed, guiding him toward the only empty seats at the counter's far end. The simple gesture was a quiet reminder that someone was still paying attention to him, still saw him through the chaos of the busy shop.

Kouichi nodded eagerly, settling onto the stool. You hurried past with two steaming bowls of curry, offering a quick glance that somehow conveyed both warmth and apology. Your movements stayed precise despite the obvious fatigue in your shoulders, each step measured as you navigated the crowded space.

"I'll get your food as soon as I can," you signed between packing orders, but three more customers walked in, the bell's cheerful chime feeling almost mocking now. Each new arrival seemed to add another weight to your shoulders, though you moved through the chaos with practiced grace, your movements precise despite your obvious fatigue.

He watched as you juggled multiple orders, your usual grace starting to fray at the edges. When you nearly dropped a bowl, catching it just in time but splashing curry sauce on your apron, he saw real strain flash across your face before you buried it beneath a professional smile. Something in that glimpse of vulnerability made him shift forward in his seat, his body moving before his mind could catch up.

Once Katsuki and Kouichi finally got their food, Kouichi pulled out his remaining schoolwork. The workbook was slightly scorched around the edges, evidence of this morning's frustration, but he attacked it with a determination that reminded Katsuki of himself.

"Mom?" Kouichi's hands moved in question, drawing your attention from where you were recording takeout orders. "What does this word mean?"

You glanced at the workbook, starting to explain, but another customer's voice cut through the din. Your explanation faltered as you tried to split your focus, signing with one hand while reaching for clean bowls with the other. The strain of trying to be everything for everyone showed in the slight trembling of your fingers, in the way you bit your lip in concentration.

"Mom?" Kouichi tried again moments later, pointing to a different problem. Each time you started to help, something else demanded attention – a new order, a spill that needed cleaning, customers requesting their bills. The constant interruptions were wearing you down, though you tried to hide it behind efficient movements and professional smiles.

Katsuki saw the moment it all became too much. Your hands trembled slightly as you stirred a pot of curry, your eyes darting between Kouichi's hopeful face and the growing stack of orders. The careful balance you usually maintained between mother and shop owner was cracking, and something protective surged in his chest at the sight. He recognized the look in your eyes – the same desperate determination he felt when trying to prove he could handle everything alone, even as the world kept demanding more.

The next time Kouichi raised his hands to ask a question, Katsuki shifted closer without conscious thought. The movement was natural, automatic - like adjusting his stance in a fight or reaching for support gear during patrol. Without a word, he angled himself to see the workbook better, as if helping with homework was something he did every day. Kouichi looked up in surprise as Katsuki's shadow fell across his paper.

"Show me what you're working on," Katsuki signed.

Kouichi pointed to a science worksheet about plant growth cycles. His small finger traced the confusing sequence of illustrations. "I don't understand which comes first," he signed, frustration evident in his furrowed brow.

Katsuki studied the page for a moment, his mind already breaking down the concept into manageable pieces. Years of analyzing quirk mechanics and battle strategies had honed his ability to explain complex ideas simply.

"Think about making curry," Katsuki signed. "What comes first?" 

Kouichi's eyes lit up at the familiar comparison. "Getting ingredients!"

"Right. Just like we need ingredients for curry, a plant needs ingredients to grow." His hands shaped each concept with careful precision. "The seed is like the first ingredient. It needs water and soil, just like curry needs water and spices."

You glanced over while measuring out rice, catching sight of them bent together over the workbook. The sight of Katsuki bent over the workbook with Kouichi, his usual intensity softened, stirred something quiet and unexpected within you.His crimson eyes were focused intently on Kouichi's face, watching to make sure the boy followed each explanation.

A customer called for a refill, pulling your attention away, but your eyes kept drifting back to them between orders. Katsuki's hands moved with surprising patience as he explained each stage of plant growth, relating it to things Kouichi understood from the kitchen. The boy's face glowed with comprehension as concepts that had seemed impossible suddenly made sense.

"See? Just like how curry needs time to simmer, plants need time to grow." Katsuki's signs flowed more smoothly now, his initial awkwardness forgotten in the focus of teaching. "Each stage is important, just like each step in cooking."

A bittersweet tenderness washed over you as you observed them working together– Kouichi's hands flying with enthusiasm as he finally grasped the concept, his expressions matching Katsuki's determined focus. There was something achingly natural about how they fit together, how Katsuki's usual sharp edges softened as he broke down complex ideas into pieces Kouichi could understand. 

Between serving bowls of curry and recording orders, you couldn't help noticing how competent Katsuki was with Kouichi. He didn't oversimplify or talk down to him, but explained things clearly and expected understanding. It was the same approach you'd always used – treating Kouichi's questions with respect while making sure the answers were accessible.

"Mom, look!" Kouichi's excited signing caught your attention as you passed with a tray of empty dishes. "I understand it now!" He held up his completed worksheet, pride shining in his dark eyes.

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at his excitement. "That's wonderful, baby," you signed quickly before turning to deliver another order. You couldn't help watching them between orders—how quickly they'd fallen into step together, how your son straightened whenever Katsuki acknowledged his progress.

Stop it, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away. This isn't permanent. He's only here because he's on medical leave. Once he's cleared to return to hero work, he'll have more important things to do than help with homework.

But watching him guide Kouichi through another problem, his hands moving with growing confidence through signs he must have practiced when no one was watching...it was hard to remember why you were supposed to keep your distance. Hard not to imagine more evenings like this, hard not to want this to be more than temporary.

Don't read into it, you told yourself firmly. He's just being kind. He's probably like this with all kids – he's a hero, after all. It doesn't mean anything.

The evening stretched on, full of these dangerous moments – glimpses of what could be, if you were brave enough to want it. If you were whole enough to deserve it. If the world was kind enough to let you keep it.

The last customers finally filtered out, leaving behind a scatter of empty bowls and the lingering scent of curry that permeated everything. Quiet settled over the shop like a heavy blanket, broken only by the soft clink of dishes and the gentle hum of the refrigerator. You moved behind the counter with mechanical efficiency, muscle memory carrying you through motions you'd performed thousands of times before. Your hands trembled slightly as you stacked bowls from the counter's edge, fatigue settling deep in your bones after hours of non-stop movement.

Kouichi had dozed off at the counter, his small face peaceful against his folded arms, schoolwork spread out beneath him. The sight made your chest ache – he should be in bed, not falling asleep in the shop because you couldn't manage to balance everything properly. But there had been so many customers, so many demands on your attention, and Katsuki had been there helping with homework, and somehow time had slipped away from you like water through cupped hands.

Katsuki watched you from his spot at the counter, crimson eyes tracking your path through the small space. You'd been in constant motion since they'd arrived, always reaching, lifting, serving – but he hadn't seen you take a single proper bite of food. Even now, exhaustion clear in every line of your body, you kept pushing forward with that quiet determination that made his chest tight. It reminded him too much of himself, that stubborn refusal to show weakness, to admit when things were becoming too much.

"Oi," he called out. You immediately looked up from your cleaning. His hands moved with a steadiness that hadn't been there days ago. "You've been running around feeding everyone else all day. When was the last time you actually ate something yourself?"

Your hands stilled on the bowl you were reaching for, surprise flickering across your face before you could hide it. The question caught you off guard – when was the last time you'd eaten? You'd had... something, surely. There had been that half-finished bowl of rice this morning, and you'd tested the curry batch for seasoning, and...

"I eat plenty," you signed back, the defensive gesture betrayed by how you wouldn't quite meet his eyes. Your stomach chose that moment to protest loudly, making heat crawl up your neck.

"Bullshit." He stood, moving around the counter with purposeful strides. There was something almost predatory in his grace, the way he commanded space even in this simple movement. "You had lunch with us earlier, sure, but that was hours ago. Since then, all you've had is whatever you can grab between customers. Call that eating if you want, but we both know it's not."

The observation struck deeper than it should have. You were used to running on empty, used to putting everyone else's needs before your own. It had become such a habit you barely noticed anymore – there was always another customer to serve, another task that needed attention, another reason to postpone taking care of yourself.

"I'm fine," you signed, movements sharp with embarrassment. "There's still cleaning to do." The excuse sounded weak even to your own ears, but old habits died hard. Taking care of yourself had always seemed like a luxury you couldn't afford, not when there were bills to pay and a child to raise.

But Katsuki was already taking the stack of bowls from your hands, his movements leaving no room for argument. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, callused and warm, and you tried to ignore how that simple contact sent electricity skittering across your skin.

"Sit," he signed after setting them aside, pointing firmly at the counter stool. "I'll handle this."

"I don't need—" you started to protest, but he cut you off with a look that could have melted steel. The intensity in his crimson eyes made your breath catch, not from intimidation but from the genuine concern you saw lurking beneath his scowl.

"You're about to fall over," he signed, his movements gentler than his expression would suggest. "Let someone else take care of things for once."

"I can't just—" you tried again, but your hands were trembling now for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion. The words died in your hands as you caught his expression – not pity, which you couldn't have borne, but something closer to understanding.

"Yes, you can." His signs were firm but carried an undertone of something that might have been concern. You recognized the look in his eyes – the same one you wore when Kouichi pushed himself too hard, when he insisted he was fine even though you could see him struggling. "Now sit before you collapse and give me more shit to clean up."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it, surprised and a little watery. Katsuki's eyes softened at the sound, his usual scowl melting into something gentler that made your heart skip. Something about seeing DynaMight standing in your tiny kitchen made all your careful defenses start to crack. You found yourself sinking onto the stool he'd indicated, your body yielding to his demand before your mind could formulate any further protest.

The sight of him moving through your space with such natural familiarity made your heart do complicated things in your chest. He navigated between counter and stove as if he'd memorized every inch, his powerful hands handling your worn dishes with unexpected care. A bowl appeared in front of you, steam rising in fragrant clouds. You hadn't even noticed him preparing it, too mesmerized by the sight of someone else moving with purpose through the kitchen you'd always tended to alone.

"Eat," he signed without looking up from the sink, but you caught the slight pink tinge to his ears that betrayed his gruff exterior. “You're no good to anyone if you keep pushing yourself like this.”

The warmth that bloomed in your chest had nothing to do with the curry and everything to do with how naturally he'd claimed his place in your world. As if he belonged here, in your tiny shop with its worn counters and familiar rhythms. As if taking care of you was something he'd always done.

The warm curry filled your mouth, rich flavors spreading across your tongue—the first proper meal you'd had since dawn. You noticed his gaze flicking toward you as you ate, a quick, concerned glance that he tried to disguise as casual. Something softened in your chest at his unspoken attentiveness. There was something comforting about someone caring enough to watch over you.

The comfortable silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft splash of dishes in the sink and Kouichi's gentle breathing from his corner. The evening light painted everything in soft gold, catching in Katsuki's ash-blonde hair and making him look softer somehow. You watched his hands move through the familiar motions of cleaning – the same hands that created devastating explosions in battle now carefully washing your dishes, treating your worn bowls with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He moved through your kitchen like he knew where everything belonged, and maybe he did. Maybe he'd been paying attention all this time, learning your rhythms, finding his place in this small world you'd built.

The clock on the wall ticked past ten, far later than you'd realized. The day's exhaustion settled deeper into your bones as the adrenaline of the dinner rush finally faded completely. You stifled a yawn, gathering your empty bowl to bring to the sink, but Katsuki wordlessly took it from you with a look that brooked no argument. 

You moved to wake Kouichi, your hands already reaching toward his shoulder, when Katsuki's warm fingers wrapped gently around your wrist. The contact sent electricity skittering across your skin, but his touch was careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of startling you.

"Don't wake him," he signed one-handed, his other hand still holding your wrist with surprising gentleness. His expression softened as he looked at Kouichi, something protective flickering in his crimson eyes. "I'll carry him. Just show me where."

The offer caught you off guard, a flutter of warmth spreading through you. You hesitated, old instincts warring with the trust that had been building between you. Letting someone else carry your sleeping child, letting them into your private space above the shop – it went against years of careful boundaries, of keeping everyone at arm's length.

But this was Katsuki, who had spent the evening teaching your son with endless patience. Katsuki, who noticed when you weren't eating and made sure you took care of yourself. Katsuki, who had already crossed so many of your carefully constructed barriers without ever making you feel unsafe.

Your nod came after a moment's hesitation. His hand fell away from your wrist, leaving your skin tingling from the brief contact. He picked up Kouichi with surprising care, his movements quiet and efficient. Your son barely stirred as Katsuki lifted him, small body relaxing naturally against his chest as if he'd done this a hundred times before. 

You led the way up the narrow stairs to your apartment, each creaking step familiar beneath your feet. The stairwell was tight, forcing you to walk close enough to feel the heat radiating from Katsuki's body behind you.

The door opened into your small living room, warm light spilling from the lamp you always left on. It wasn't much – just a modest two-bedroom unit above the shop – but you'd poured everything you had into making it feel like home. Kouichi's artwork covered the walls, each piece carefully framed as if it belonged in a gallery. A collection of his origami creatures marched along a bookshelf, arranged by color – something he'd done himself one afternoon when you were teaching him about organization.

You watched Katsuki take it all in, suddenly seeing your space through his eyes. The well-worn couch with its carefully patched cushions, evidence of years of stretching resources. Kouichi's finger painting of a colorful mountain sat drying on the coffee table, surrounded by newspaper spread out to protect the surface. Everything in its place, everything serving a purpose, everything chosen with careful consideration of limited means.

His gaze lingered on the family photos dotting the walls, telling the story of your life with Kouichi in captured moments. You watched his eyes catch on one from the hospital – you looked so young, so exhausted but triumphant, cradling your newborn son. Another showed Kouichi's first day of preschool, his smile bright despite the uncertainty you remembered him feeling. Each image carefully chosen to show only joy, no hints of the struggles that lay beneath the surface.

Books filled every available space – sign language dictionaries dog-eared from constant use, parenting guides marked with sticky notes, and well-worn cookbooks. They showed how you'd taught yourself to be everything Kouichi needed, learning through determination what most people had help to figure out.

Something shifted in Katsuki's expression as he absorbed it all. His eyes caught on the height measurements marked on the kitchen door frame, each line dated and decorated with small stars. 

The intimacy of having him here, seeing these private markers of your life with Kouichi, made your chest tight. YHe wasn't just seeing your apartment - he was seeing the life you and Kouichi had built together. His careful handling of Kouichi, the way he took in every detail without judgment, made something warm unfurl in your chest despite your usual caution.

You moved ahead into Kouichi's room, turning down the covers of his bed decorated with hero-print sheets – a special find from a secondhand store that had made his whole face light up. The walls here were his gallery, covered in crayon drawings of heroes in action. But it was the sheer number featuring Dynamight that caught your attention now – explosive quirk rendered in bright oranges and reds, each one capturing that fierce determination Kouichi so admired.

Katsuki's steps faltered as he noticed them, something soft and surprised flickering across his face. You watched him take in the evidence of how long he'd been Kouichi's favorite hero, long before he ever stepped foot in your shop. His eyes lingered on one drawing in particular – Dynamight standing protectively in front of a smaller figure with dark hair, flames dancing around them both. The date in the corner was from just after Kouichi's quirk manifested.

Katsuki carefully eased Kouichi onto the bed, his hands moving with such precision that the covers barely shifted. Your son snuggled into his familiar spot, one hand automatically reaching for the worn All Might plush that had been his constant companion since infancy. Together, you stood watching him sleep, his small face peaceful in the gentle glow of his nightlight. 

Your hands moved in the dim light, forming a simple "thank you" that encompassed far more than just carrying him upstairs. But your fingers trembled slightly, betraying how much it meant to have someone else here, someone who saw all your careful defenses and chose to be gentle with them.

Katsuki's eyes met yours with quiet intensity, crimson softened to burgundy in the low light. He understood – you weren't just thanking him for tonight, but for everything: for teaching Kouichi with endless patience, for seeing your struggles without making you feel weak, for treating your trust as the precious thing it was. For making your careful world feel less lonely without ever making you feel like you weren't enough on your own.

Stepping out of Kouichi's room, you found yourself suddenly aware of how narrow the hallway was, barely wide enough for two people to pass. The dim light from the living room cast long shadows, softening Katsuki's usually sharp features into something almost gentle. He stood close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest in the confined space. The familiar scent of caramel and smoke that always clung to him mixed with the gentle aroma of curry that permeated your home, creating something new and intoxicating that made your heart beat faster.

You should have stepped away. Should have maintained the careful distance you always kept between yourself and others. But something about having him here, in this private space where you only ever let Kouichi exist, made all your usual defenses feel paper-thin.

"Would you like some tea?" you signed, the offer slipping out before you could second-guess it. "As a thank you." The words felt inadequate against everything he'd done tonight.

His eyes met yours in the half-light, their crimson hue deepened by the shadows. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something behind that intense gaze. You found yourself holding your breath, though you couldn't have said why. The air between you felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"Yeah," he finally signed. "Tea would be good." Such simple words, and yet they carried the weight of crossing another boundary - from helper to guest, from Kouichi's mentor to something less easily defined.

You led him to your small kitchen, hyper aware of his presence behind you. The space felt different with him in it. You'd never noticed how small your kitchen was until his broad shoulders filled the doorway, until his presence made every movement feel like a delicate dance of almost-touching.

You busied yourself with the kettle, grateful for the routine tasks that gave your hands something to do. The familiar motions helped ground you - measuring tea leaves, heating water, reaching for mugs. 

"Kouichi did well today," Katsuki signed once you were both seated at your small kitchen table, steam rising from the mugs between you. His movements had grown more fluid with practice, each sign shaped with the same precision he brought to everything he did. "He's got good instincts. Just needs confidence."

The genuine pride in his expression reminded you exactly why you were finding it increasingly difficult to keep your guard up around him.

"He was so excited about today he could hardly focus on anything else," you signed, a smile touching your lips. "I haven't seen him this enthusiastic about learning in a long time." The admission carried more weight than you'd intended - hints of Kouichi's struggles at school, of the isolation that came with being different.

Katsuki's eyes drifted to a photo on your refrigerator - you and Kouichi in the hospital, his tiny face scrunched and red against your chest. The sight of him studying that particular moment made your heart skip. That photo captured both the best and worst day of your life - the joy of holding your son tempered by the bone-deep exhaustion of running, of knowing you weren't safe even in the hospital.

"He was early, wasn't he?" The observation caught you off guard. Trust Katsuki to notice what most people missed.

"How could you tell?" 

"The monitoring equipment in the background," he signed, gesturing toward the photo. 

You nodded slowly, choosing your words carefully. "Six weeks early. We were in the hospital for a while, but he was strong." The simplified version of events felt hollow in your mouth, omitting the fear and exhaustion of those days, the constant looking over your shoulder even in the hospital. You didn't mention the cheap motels before that, the careful planning of your escape, the way you'd rationed food to save money for medical care you knew you'd need.

Something flickered in Katsuki's expression - recognition, perhaps, of the gaps in your story. You saw the questions form and die in his eyes, saw him choose not to push. Instead, he reached for the honey jar at the same moment you did. Your fingers brushed, sending electricity skittering across your skin. You both pulled back quickly, but the ghost of his touch lingered, warm and dangerous.

His attention returned to the photograph, his expression unreadable as his eyes traced over the image. "Can see where he gets that determination from," he signed, his gaze lifting to meet yours for just a moment before glancing away. 

Heat crept up your neck at the unexpected compliment, at the way his gaze moved from the photo to your face with careful consideration. 

"You notice a lot," you signed, trying to keep your movements casual despite your racing heart. The words felt inadequate against the weight of everything he seemed to understand without being told.

"Hard not to," he signed back, something in his expression making your breath catch. 

The implications of that statement hung in the air between you. The soft kitchen light cast a warm glow over his ash-blonde hair, and you noticed how his expression had gentled, the usual hard lines of his face relaxed. Your heart skipped a beat despite your best efforts to remain composed. He looked right somehow, sitting at your small kitchen table with his calloused hands curved around the mug you'd bought at a secondhand store. Like he belonged here.

A comfortable silence settled between you. The gentle steam from your mugs curled upward in the quiet kitchen, and you found yourself relaxing into the moment, your usual vigilance softening at the edges. The exhaustion of the day caught up with you all at once, and before you could stop it, a yawn escaped, your hand flying up too late to cover it.

Katsuki's eyes flickered to you immediately, that sharp observation that missed nothing softening with something that might have been concern.

"You're tired," he signed, his movements gentle in the warm kitchen light. There was no judgment in his expression, just that quiet attentiveness that seemed to catch everything.

"Long day," you admitted, embarrassed at being caught but too tired to properly hide it. Another yawn threatened, and this time you didn't bother fighting it.

"I should go," he signed decisively, setting his mug down with careful precision. "You need rest."

Despite your fatigue, you felt a flicker of disappointment that surprised you with its intensity. You'd grown so used to keeping people at a distance that the reluctance to see him leave felt foreign, almost dangerous.

"It's okay," you signed, even as you suppressed another yawn.

He snorted softly. "You can barely keep your eyes open."

Before you could protest, he was standing, collecting both your mugs and placing them in the sink. The simple consideration of it—that he wouldn't leave you with more to clean—was becoming a pattern you couldn't help but appreciate.

"Come on," he signed once he'd turned back to you. "I'll head out so you can get some sleep."

The wooden stairs creaked softly under your feet as you followed Katsuki down to the shop entrance. Shadows pooled in the corners, broken only by the gentle glow of streetlights filtering through the front windows, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Your small shop, usually so comfortable in its limitations, felt different at this hour. The counter where you'd served countless bowls of curry, the worn wooden floors that had supported thousands of footsteps, the simple decorations that made this space yours – everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

"Same time tomorrow?" Katsuki signed, his movements illuminated by the light above the door. The question was casual, practical, but something in his expression made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest. His hands moved with growing confidence through the signs, evidence of late-night practice sessions he'd never admit to. 

"If you're sure you don't mind," you signed back, hands moving carefully in the dim light. "I know it's a lot of time to spend on your leave." 

He scoffed, the sound soft in the quiet shop. But then his hands stilled, hovering in the space between you as if caught between impulse and restraint. You caught something flicker across his face – an aborted movement, words left unsaid. The hesitation felt significant somehow.

His shoulders tensed slightly, and you could almost see him wrestling with whatever he'd stopped himself from saying. The struggle played out in minute changes of expression, in the way his fingers twitched as if seeking signs he wasn't ready to form. You found yourself holding your breath, though you couldn't have said why.

Instead, his eyes found yours in the half-light, crimson softened to burgundy by the shadows. The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch, though there was something gentle in it that hadn't been there before.

"You know," he signed, movements deliberate, each gesture carrying the weight of careful observation, "for someone who spends all day feeding people, you're pretty bad at taking care of yourself."

The comment took you by surprise, not only for how spot-on it was but also for the quiet concern hidden in his rough voice.

"I take care of what matters," you signed, the familiar defense feeling weaker under his steady gaze. The words tasted like the half-truths you'd been telling yourself for years – that you could keep running on empty, that taking care of yourself was a luxury you couldn't afford, that being strong meant never admitting when you needed help.

His expression shifted into something that might have been fondness, though he quickly masked it with his usual scowl. But you caught it – that moment of softness, of understanding that went deeper than words. "Tch. That includes you, you know."

The words settled warm and heavy in your chest, carrying more weight than their simple meaning should allow. In the dim light, your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the way his ash-blonde hair caught the streetlight's glow, how his usual intensity had softened into something that made your heart beat faster.

"Same time tomorrow," Katsuki signed, his movements illuminated by the light above the door. The statement carried no uncertainty, just the same decisive confidence he brought to everything. A sense of comfort washed over you at his certainty, at how naturally he'd claimed his place in your routine.

"Yes," you nodded simply.

He turned toward the door, and in the narrow space, his shoulder brushed against yours. The brief contact sent electricity skittering across your skin, leaving warmth in its wake that lingered long after the touch itself.

The bell chimed softly as he left, its familiar sound somehow hollow in his absence. You stood in the doorway, watching his figure disappear into the night, the streets quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Without him, the shop felt suddenly larger, emptier—as if the space he'd occupied had left a vacuum nothing else could fill.

didn't see it cumming

bakugo x fem!reader

content: teen pregnancy, no angst

Your hands couldn't stop shaking, two pink lines staring back at you.

What were you going to do, you couldn't be a mother, you haven't even graduated from U.A yet. They say it only takes one time for accidents to happen.

Condoms were only 99% effective and you didn't think to take any birth control, but maybe you should've or else you wouldn't be hyperventilating looking at the pink stick, mocking you.

You put the test down, deciding to take a breather before you did anything rash. Sitting on your bed with your head in your hands as you tried to focus on breathing.

Bakugo and you were always careful, making sure he always wore protection and even when you didn't he always bought you the plan b afterwards for you to take.

Bakugo. What were you going to tell your boyfriend.

Even before dating you knew his ambitions and goal towards being number one. This wasn't part of his plans, this wasn't even part of your plans. Your mind raced as you thought of his reaction, he was always level headed with you, but that can always change, especially when you break the news.

Would he break up with you? Shout and call you names, blame you for ruining his future?

No, he wasn't like that, hot tempered and a loud mouth sure but he wouldn't put the whole blame on you, it takes two to tango.

Bakugo could probably smell your fear, not even a second later your phone started ringing with texts from the man himself.

"we still on for tonight?"

"your room or mine?"

"I know you're scrolling, don't ignore me."

Oh how you wished you could be freely scrolling, laughing at minor problems in everyone else's lives. In reality you were seconds away from dropping out and moving to Germany. If you could get into one of the top hero schools, then you could find a way to change your name and go into hiding, never to be seen again.

Staring at your phone, you didn't realize you never answered. The recognizable pounding on your door made your spine shoot up. Bakugo didnt wait for a response before entering, his griping about not answering his texts going unanswered as he locked your door.

As he faced you, you looked back at him like a deer caught in headlights. Wide eyes, glistening with unshed tears, as your chest raised with stuttered breaths.

Anyone with brain cells could tell something was wrong. He walked towards you, wrapping his arm around you as he waited for you to speak. Like he usually did when you were having a break down, but this time was different.

You could barely look at him, scared what you'll see in his eyes. Scared that his unconditional love will turn to hatred when you break the truth to him.

So like the coward you are, you kept your head down when you finally confessed, "I'm pregnant."

You felt his arm stiffen in shock, "what did you say?" he murmured. You couldn't hold it in any longer, the tears started rolling as you sobbed out, "im so sorry, I didnt mean for this to happen."

You cried into your hands, waiting for him to get out and leave you. But the warmth engulfing you made you think otherwise. He cradled you in his arms, your head pushed into his neck as he held you.

Bakugo was in shock, not expecting to hear his girlfriend tell him she's pregnant for another five years. He shushed you, trying to comfort you in anyway he can while trying to process the words you just uttered to him.

"I understand if you want to break up." you muttered. He snapped out of his thoughts, looking down at you in confusion. "Break up? Why in the hell would I do that?" You burrowed deeper into him, holding onto any sliver of warmth you could, "Cuz it wasn't in your plan to be a teen dad and now your career of being a hero is ruined."

Bakugo slowly pulled you away, holding your chin to look up at him. Your tearful eyes and flushed face looking adorable to him even in this situation. "Baby, that is the stupidest this you've ever said, and you've said some awful stuff." You couldn't help but give a sad chuckle at his jab. "You're not getting rid of me, not now, not ever. This is my responsibility as much as it's yours and we'll go through this together."

You wiped your nose, sniffling "But what are we going to do?" Bakugo wiped your eyes, holding your face in his hand, "Whatever you want to do, I'm with you every step of the way."

You smiled at his words, grateful that he was so understanding. Throwing yourself around him in an embrace, you held him tight, basking in his grip as he hugged you in return.

"What are we going to tell your mother." You murmured in his ear.

Your boyfriend's body tensed up, "Aw shit, she's gonna kill me."

houndtooth [17]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: see masterlist - 15.6k words

Ghost keeps his crosshairs on you like you’re his target. His infrared vision tracks you like prey, he follows your heat signal amongst the sea of cold-blooded vermin that infest your home. 

He keeps his post as you instructed him to. Settled into character by following your orders, as obediently a member of your guard would have. In truth, it wasn’t as much an order as a meek request - that he remain hovering at the perimeter, hidden by shadow. Such a thing comes to him innately, ghost that he is. 

His mastery of stealth is tested, though, as he watches you drift between your dead husband’s many comrades. You fawn at them with a well-trained domesticity, jittery hands politely interlocked in front of you as you accept their sneering condolences with saccharine gratitude. Pointedly ignoring how their pig eyes fondle you, how they exchange glances with each other as though sharing the same thought when you pass them by. 

He knows what thoughts they share. 

He can see it in their greasy smiles and their ruddy necks. Frothy-mouthed at the sight of you, so vulnerable and sweet. No husband in sight. 

None of them are accompanied by their own wives. And they do have wives, near all of them do; Ghost knows each of them by full name and date of birth by virtue of his mission dossier. Instead their women have been left tucked away and out of sight, not here to survey how lecherously their husbands covet the fresh widow. 

The thought alone makes his temples hot and his jaw tight. He remembers the words of your supposed ally; once the boys get their hands on her . Was this the very thing he was referring to? An army of war profiteers swarming the mansion of their late leader so they can take turns with his dowager? 

You shouldn’t have worn that fucking dress. 

He’s sure you chose it thinking it was unappealing; severe and structured, coating you in black fabric from clavicle to ankle. You couldn’t see it from behind, could you? 

He could have demanded that you wear something else, when he found you stooped in front of your mirror. Ordered that you should shove on black slacks and a bulky coat, maybe a thick scarf for good measure. But the longer he looks at you, the more apparent it becomes that his instruction that you wear nothing pretty was inherently unachievable. No amount of hideous clothing could conceal an artless beauty as preternatural as yours. You are an ineluctable magnet for gluttonous eyes, and magnetise you do. 

The men you aren’t talking to look at you still, even as they are engaged in droning conversation with one another, glasses of liquor and cigars between their turgid fingers. The entire affair strikes him more as a dinner party than a funeral, and he supposes he should have expected that. They’ll all be celebrating the usurpation of a leader who clung to his power far longer than he deserved. 

The usurper himself is yet to arrive, and you seem as potently aware of that fact as Ghost is. 

You’re petrified of him. Makarov. Whatever the cretin has done to you, or threatened to, Ghost needn’t know. He can guess well enough. Every utterance of the name turns your skin grey and your lips dry. 

Your nervous eyes flit to the entrance of your mansion every odd moment, and occasionally you’ll meet Ghost’s glare between the gaps of your guests. You give him glittering stares, swollen with pleas he cannot grant you. Little thing. He can’t jeopardise the mission at hand to offer you comfort. 

When a stern knock on the front door echoes out from the foyer, your chary head perks up and you freeze on your feet. He can see you trembling from here. You know who knocked. 

The fucking bastard could just as easily open the unlocked door, march into the heart of your home unimpeded and announce his arrival to all of his sycophantic subordinates. Instead, he chooses to knock. To lure the grieving hostess away from the crowd that might witness him. Away from your only protector.

You hesitate before you retreat from whatever foul conversation you were trapped in, eyes wide and twitching. It takes you a moment to summon the bravery, and you offer an apologetic smile to the pig in front of you before retreating towards the exit. 

You pat down your dress as you leave the room to let in the dog, and you disappear through the archway. 

Out of his sightline. 

In the humming quiet of the foyer, you can hear every machination under your skin. 

The thunder of your arteries, the buzzing of the fire in your nerves, the squeaking of your grinding teeth. You can feel the panic in every muscle, the needles, the venom leaking between sinews. 

The front door is solid black, though it may as well be transparent. You can see the silhouette of the man as clearly as you can feel him there. His coldness trickles under the gap in the door and makes you bristle. You don’t want to open the door. 

You don’t want to open the door, but he knocks again. 

Three gentle knocks, intentionally soft - because he knows you are standing there. He’s simply waiting. Maybe he wants to see how long it takes you to overcome the terror that keeps you there. Maybe, the longer you take, the wider his grin. The sharper his teeth. 

He finds amusement in your terror. He always has. 

When your numb fingers curl around the handle of the door, reluctantly peeling it open to reveal him, he is already smiling. 

He stands with his feet apart in suede oxfords, his hands courteously held together in front of the buttons of his suit jacket. His head already bowed to address you, with the thick tendons in his icy neck pulled tight. The vein that bulges in the centre of his forehead passes through his curled brows, a marker of the feral rabidity that thumps under his skin and collects in the corners of his pointed mouth. He’s riddled with it. Sadism exudes from him like radiation. You can smell it, taste it; metallic and hard, as he tilts his head and awaits your greeting. 

A henchman stands behind him, black bulletproof vest tight over his dark blazer. You can see the pistol tucked in a front strap, and he hovers behind his master with the stiff obedience of a muzzled doberman. You wouldn’t expect Vladimir to venture anywhere without his myrmidons, so it surprises you to see only one of them. He mustn’t believe he needs any more protection than that. You are no threat to him.  

Your mouth is dry, full of chalk that grits between your teeth, and you can’t even part your lips to utter a word. You aren’t sure how to greet him, now. If you had Victor at your side, you’d have called him Vladimir, as he did. What is he to you, now? Should you address him as sir? 

“Госпожа Захаева. Рада снова тебя видеть.” Mrs. Zakhaev. Lovely to see you again.

Your jaw tightens. His voice, still, turns you to ice - brittle enough to shatter, translucent enough to expose the trembling obeisance he exhumes from the deepest parts of you. 

Mrs. Zakhaev. Not once has he called you that. No, you had always been Девчонка . Girl. Or simply you, with a snap of fingers or a gesture in his direction. 

His politeness is as clear and sharp as glass - he is mocking you with it. Only now are you Victor’s wife, a missus, with your husband dead. Only as a widow are you granted that reverence. 

You swallow. It takes a shaky breath before you can bring yourself to speak. “Добрый вечер.” Good evening. 

He lowers his head in feigned respect. “My condolences, ” he says, rich with derision and a thick Soviet accent. “We lost him so suddenly. You must be devastated.” 

Facetiousness drips from every word. 

You nod tensely. “Thank you.”  

A pallid hand crosses the space between you, then, and his palm lands unabashedly on your cheek. 

You immediately flinch - his palm stings against your skin as though barbed, and the alarm it rings claws down the back of your neck, makes every one of your little hairs stand on end. His calloused thumb brushes towards the corner of your mouth, as if accidental - but the black gleam in his eyes makes plain his glee. 

“Бедняжка.” Poor thing, he murmurs. “It must be so frightening to be alone.” 

The tips of his heavy fingers press into the hollows of your cheekbone and temple, close to your ear, and you can hear his pulse through your skull. It is deathly slow. 

You struggle between agreeing with him to appease him, or feigning confidence to spite him. He is right - it is terrifying. It is so, because of him; and he knows that as well as you do. 

You only nod, again. Pleasant and quiet. 

He gives you a pout, a mask of pity, before his rough hand slithers behind your neck and under your hair, and he reels you towards him. Your heart thunders to resist him but your body does not obey, and you acquiesce as immediately as he had grabbed you. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, and with his chin atop your head, he holds you firm against his body. A hug, if you could ever call it that. 

Even an act as innocent and well-meaning as an embrace is tainted by ridicule. He knows you abhor his touch with every cell that you consist of, as much as he knows how desperately you avoid displeasing him. 

You feel his breathing in your hair, acidic, it makes your scalp sting. 

“Ax, моя дорогая.” Ah, my dear, he says deeply. “You won’t be alone anymore.” 

He says it like a threat, and it is one. 

Eyes wide and dry, you stare into the individual fibers of his powder-blue shirt. He smells of cheap tobacco and gunpowder, with an edge of chemical sweetness, aspartame. 

As you breathe him in, your dreaded fate begins to settle in the pits of you. Edges towards certainty. 

Maybe he’ll claim you as your husband did. Maybe you are to be passed on to your husband’s successor as though you had been left in his will. An heirloom, too feckless to be left without reins, too precious to be left for someone undeserving. 

You envision such an outcome if your efforts to thwart him are to fail, if Simon breaks his promise and abandons both you and his mission, and you are left to fend for yourself among the carnivores.

Vladimir would not play the same role as your husband; demanding but patient, hungry but restrained. He wouldn’t offer you kindnesses or feign any form of compassion, beyond the rotten affection that cloaks his depravity. He’ll play with you as though his toy until he grows bored, and it would not take him long to do so. 

Perhaps you were foolish to ever imagine a reality where you escape. The world beyond the one you have come to know has slipped into obscurity, after all - so out of reach that you have begun to forget what it looks like. 

He pulls back from you with a pleased sigh, and his hands settle at each side of your head, fingers weaved into the hair behind your ears. His stare is hard and intruding, heterochromic eyes bite at you wherever on you they land. Body, lips, eyes. Even the act of perceiving you is as violating as his touch. 

“Grief doesn’t suit you,” he remarks, glower intruding. “Not with those eyes.” 

An insult and compliment in the same breath, though you cannot fathom that he might be attempting to ingratiate himself. Worse, that he’s bemoaning your dour expression. Next he’ll ask you to smile. 

“Do you miss him yet?” He asks coldly, after a beat.

The smugness in his expression tells you that there isn’t a correct answer to his question. It seems to you a trap, so you do not answer. But a blink, or a shift in your gaze, or a quirk in your lip, evidently answers it for you; because he grins. 

“Mh, милая Мия.” Mh, dear Mia, he drones. “It’s no secret that you never loved him. You have nothing to prove to me.” 

“Of course I loved him.” You dispute, briefly compelled not to let his ego be sated by such a presumption.

A huff of laughter escapes his nostrils. 

“You did?” He questions candidly, though the vein that splits his forehead protrudes with the words. “Are you sure?” 

You can read the shift underneath his smile. How it mutates from artificial pleasantry to true malice. The joy he takes in tormenting you oozes from his pores and between his teeth. You can see in his eyes exactly what he is thinking about, what he is ecstatic to remind you of; he needn’t even say it. 

“Yes,” you utter, because you know that is the answer he wants. 

“Even after all that you did for me?” 

Your blood pools at your feet, and his thumbs stroke the prickling skin of your cheeks with tangible satisfaction. You want to look away from him, at your feet, at the sky - anything to conceal the grimace that knits in your face. Instead, you deferentially hold his gaze; eager to ensure he doesn’t feel compelled to elaborate, to remind you in any greater detail, of the whims you were given no choice but to indulge. 

He opens his maw to speak, but something catches his eye, and his stare shifts upwards to something behind you. 

You are as yet uncertain what or who has drawn his attention, but his rough hands slip from your cheeks and fall to your shoulders. 

“Mh,” he grunts through pursed lips, as he straightens his back. “Она ведь все еще держит своих собак при себе, да?” Still keeps her hounds with her, eh?  

It is apparent he is not addressing you, so you turn as much as his grip allows you to; to your surprise, a constraining hand drops from your shoulder, and you are free to see who had approached from behind you. 

Your protector. 

Masked and severe, he stands tall, arms locked militaristically behind his back. He utters not a word, but you see his chest rise and fall, controlled but bordering on detonation. His eyes catch the shine of the porchlight through the gap in his mask, but his glare does not fall on you. He keeps it pinned on the man whose other hand still lingers on you. 

Vladimir only grins. A smile that twitches, tips between intrigue and genuine humour. His imposing touch abandons you, then, as he steps cavalierly towards your mercenary. 

“Ты та самая тихая. Сергей упомянул вас.” You’re the quiet one. Sergei mentioned you. 

Riley doesn’t nod, doesn’t waver, doesn’t move his boots from where they are planted on the floor. Offers no acknowledgement of the man approaching him beyond the pointed stare that follows his every movement. 

“Спокойно.” Take it easy, Vladimir teases as he stands beside your guard, patting him with a firm hand on his opposite shoulder. “Я буду вести себя хорошо.” I’ll behave myself. 

He holds Riley’s cloaked gaze for a noticeable beat. A second longer than would otherwise be natural. Your breath catches in your throat. Is he trying to get a better look? Might he recognise the soldier if he looks too closely? 

With a dismissive nod and an affable pat on the shoulder, Vladimir struts past him and ventures towards the hallway, armed dog in pursuit. As familiar with your home as you are - if not more so - he disappears into the reception room to announce his arrival to his new subordinates. 

Like a boot had been lifted from your ribs, a rush of air erupts from your chest the moment he is out of sight and earshot. Your blood turns runny with the transient relief, and you suddenly feel as though you had stood up too fast; knees and hands shaky, you see stars when you blink. Wiping your hair back from your face with clammy palms, you attempt to settle your ravaged heart by breathing deeply and staring knives into the tiled floor. 

The skin he had marred with his touch burns and itches, and you wish you could peel it off from the flesh beneath it. You imagine burrowing your fingernails into your scalp and picking the leather loose from your skull, flaying your skin off by the seams. Maybe they’d leave you alone, once your exterior is shed. What would be left? 

“You’re alright,” comes a grumbling whisper, from the shadow you had forgotten was standing there. 

Your eyes flit to meet his, and you abruptly feel the ground beneath your feet again. His shoulders have softened, his hands hang relaxedly from his tactical vest, and you are alone in the foyer with him. 

Not a query into your state of mind, but a stern reminder. You’re alright . You can almost believe it while you have him within sight. 

Foolish of him to come to the door to check on you, because none of your husband’s mercenaries would have shown that level of devotion. But you were grateful that he had frightened off the wolf, if only for the briefest moment. You might have thanked him if he weren’t the one to force you into this predicament, into the arms of the very man who you’d rather cut your hands off than spend more than an hour with. 

How much had he seen? How much had he heard? 

You wonder how long he had been standing there, watching as your husband’s rival caressed you with his pretend affection, listening as he mocked you with his own transgressions. You shrivel up like a raisin at the thought of him witnessing any of it, sucked dry by shame and an overwhelming desire to hide from every pair of eyes that has ever looked at you. 

“Yeah?” Your protector presses, and you blink at him. 

You nod, and sigh sharply, attempting to regain some lost composure. You have an objective, you remind yourself. You just have to make it through the evening. You only have to fawn enough to get something, anything useful.

“I’m fine.” You insist, as you begin your march deeper into the hallway.

Ghost looks past you as you brush around him in a hurry, and he leaves a few bloated seconds before he brings himself to follow you. 

There’s a line to toe in his donned role as a paid bodyguard, between loyal dedication and professional apathy. He finds it difficult to strike the balance, having only ever swung to either extreme of the pendulum. He knows that he has leaned too far towards the former, by stalking you, and only you. By unintentionally keeping his vigilant attention on you, and not on the many targets that surround you. By all but threatening the only target that matters to him for daring to lay a finger on you. Despite his decades of experience, of trained resilience, of pure stoicism - it is only growing more challenging to suppress the compulsion. 

Worsened by your present company, threats around every corner and through every door, is the urge to fulfil the role of guard dog in every sense of the term - only he cannot bark, and he cannot bite. Muzzled by duty. 

Your potent fear of Makarov is not without cause. 

He is more verminous in person than through a screen or a scope. Somehow more feral, more crooked, more rat-like in his features than any blurry CCTV image could ever have accurately depicted. He reeks of malignant pride, and it filled the room like putrid smoke the moment you opened the door to let him in.  

What sadistic conceit made him confident enough to touch you? Audacious enough to hold you?

His hands seemed to find purchase on your skin with a borderline familiarity, an intimacy that appeared habitual rather than a cautious venture into uncharted territory. 

Ghost’s stomach wrings at the thought of it. 

Organs twist and shudder with a fury only worsened by the need to force it down. It pushes against the inside of his ribs, rises in his throat - and all he can do is swallow it, and tighten his knuckles to keep himself stable. 

How often had the cretin broken past that boundary? How many times have those filthy fucking hands touched you? Your face, your neck, your shoulders? Where else have they dared to venture? 

The very end of your conversation bounces around the inside of his skull, on repeat, as he attempts to decipher what had been cryptically referred to. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

He creeps through the dark of the hallway, in pursuit of you, as the words ring in his ears. Perhaps it was a brazen and salacious reference to some sexual favours from your past, some lascivious orders he had made of you, some effort to make a cuckold of your husband. 

Did you fulfill those demands? Were you given a choice? He won’t ask, and he doesn’t want to know - but the imagined sight stains his vision all the same. Sees you on your knees in a shadowy corridor, sees you locked in a bathroom, sees the very same visceral reluctance printed on your face that he himself has grown so familiar with. Sees too the rabid grin stretched in the warlord’s thin lips, as he makes an unwilling adulteress out of you. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

As he approaches the open door into the kitchen, and sees the back of you, he grinds his teeth. What if Makarov referred to something else? Some unspoken agreement between the two of you? He imagines any number of conversations you might have had with him in the past; the closest comrade of your husband, after all. It stands to reason that he might also be a comrade of yours. Had you gotten a message to him through your friend, Vasiliev? Did you make a plan with him before Ghost had ever found you in your glistening castle? 

Had you lied to him? Are you in on all of it? 

Perhaps your proficiency in artificial personalities was even more effective than he had come to believe. That you had effectively wrapped him around your finger, had him feeling pity for you, manipulated him into caring more about your wellbeing than the outcome of his mission. 

Despite his ingrained scepticism, rooted in countless betrayals; he doesn’t believe that. 

You tip your head back as he comes to a stop in the entrance to the brightly lit kitchen, and it takes him a moment to see that you have knocked back a glass. Of gin, he discovers, made evident by the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that sits with its cap off on the counter in front of you.

“Don’t get drunk, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps, under his breath, once he notices there is nobody else in the kitchen with you. 

He sees you jolt in fright, before your head swivels hastily on your neck. Your body loosens when you see it is him and not one of your comrades, and you wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm.

“I’m not,” you whisper shakily. “Just - I just need a little.” 

“A little?” He scolds you, having watched you take easily three gulps of liquid before you put the glass down. 

Your eyes glisten with fearful shame as he approaches you. He can barely glance at you without being overcome with it, that guilt - you look at him with dewy eyes and his once rigid scruples crumble to his feet. 

Pathetic . 

“I can’t even-” You take a sharp breath and shake out your hands, as though treading water. “-I can’t even talk, I c-can’t even get words out around him. I need something. Just something to make me more, more-”

“Fine,” he hushes you, “It’s fine. Just that one glass, alright? Or you’ll fuck us both over.” 

You nod obsequiously, and as if to prove you mean it, you grab the metal cap and screw it back onto the bottle. 

He notices, then, the eerie silence that fills the bowels of the mansion where there had previously been the migraine-inducing chatter of more than a dozen men. 

“Where are they?” He murmurs discerningly, and you point towards the direction of the dining room. 

“They’re all in there,” you whisper. “He called them all in straight away.” 

He immediately moves towards their meeting room, situated around the corner, and keeps his body out of sight of the towering glass door. He can hear them, quiet Russian murmuring, just loud enough to make out a few words. 

With a gesture of his fingers he beckons you over, and you refuse, remaining frozen in place with wide eyes and a shaking head. Only with a second, more fervorous demand of his hand do you reluctantly tiptoe in his direction. 

He hovers a gloved finger over his lips, shushing you, and holds out a barring arm to keep you behind the corner. You look up at him with your lips sealed, unblinking and awaiting instruction. He cranes his head and holds his covered mouth beside your ear. 

“Listen,” he orders; a whisper so low it is barely a breath, directly into the cavern of your ear, and your warmth oozes through the knit of his mask. “Listen to everything they say, yeah? I’m going to check whatever they’ve left out here.” 

You remain dead still, and without a physical response, he insists; “Alright?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, with a feeble nod. 

“Good. Stay quiet.” 

He reels back from you, then, and turns away before the compulsion to remain and watch over you overtakes his drive to fulfil his mission. He almost succeeds, passing through the kitchen’s exit, before your soft whisper hooks him by the ankle and rivets him in place; 

“Be careful.”

He releases a ragged sigh. You are a winsome liability, aren’t you? 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could tuck you away - lock you in a cupboard, or a bunker, or ship you off in a helicopter - so that the risk of harm coming to you would cease from plaguing his every thought. He has one - one objective. His prescribed mission is not to keep you safe, not to hover behind you like a shadow, not to fight off the hounds that might want a taste of you. His task is to get his intel on the Ultranationalist’s imminent genocide, to prevent the deaths of tens, hundreds of thousands - and all he can think about, is you.

He turns his head, barely lets himself get a glimpse of you over his shoulder. He feels your eyes on his back, the claws of a cat scratching at the door to be let in. 

“I will,” he grumbles, faltering before he breaks free. 

You’ll be fine, he tells himself. He repeats it over as his distance from you stretches thin. You’ll be fine. 

Your stomach drops heavy once your protector leaves your line of sight.

His return to the cold and clinical demeanour you knew best was jarring, but unsurprising. Perhaps it’s for the best, to imagine him a mercenary and not the man who has bared his face to you. His loyalties might be more plain, then. His motivations more in line with what you’d expect. You’ve paid him to protect you, and he’ll fulfill his contract as best as he is able. That’s the only level of devotion you have come to know. 

You don’t shift your feet from where they are planted, from where he had ordered you to stay. There is some reassurance to be found in explicit instruction. Ever since the first man arrived at your door, you have been nauseatingly adrift; as though you had suddenly forgotten what to say, how to act, beneath the looming fear that every word might make obvious your espionage. The stakes are now higher than your own self-preservation, for the first time in your life. You want to do right. You want to be good.

You know these men. You know how rarely they mean what they say, how often they hide secrets between their words. You know who you are to them. What you are. You know how they look at you, what they think of when they do. What they see. What they remember.

You wait by the corner, as still and silent as a gravestone, with your ear close to the wall. 

They speak in hushed baritones with one another, entirely in Russian, unaware of their eavesdropper. You focus your attention on each of the voices - most of which you recognise, and can distinguish - others, you cannot. 

“We had Konni do a thorough sweep of the entire estate once we sent her off. They found nothing.” Sergei, you determine. 

“Nothing? Fucking nothing, you say? Victor’s entire militia was wiped off the face of the earth - I don’t believe the men who did that left nothing behind.” 

The venom in that voice is potent even through the wall that blocks him from sight - Vladimir. 

“Nothing. No bullet casings that didn’t belong to the same guns the guards used. Even the boot marks were the same as their uniform.” 

A different man chimes in. “What, so one of the guards did it?” 

“No, fool. Someone with enough intel did this. It was well planned.” 

“It makes no sense to me. If all they wanted was to assassinate the bastard, why would they go to the effort of slaughtering an army of security?” 

You hear an irate groan from Makarov. “There was something else they wanted. Killing Victor does nothing. They’ll be as aware of that as we are.” 

“We found nothing to suggest Victor’s digital assets were compromised. It didn’t look like they even touched the vault.”  

“They didn’t kill every person on the property to get to one man. Your Konni friends found nothing because they are fucking inept. We’ll have the premises swept again by somebody competent.” 

“Fine. I’ll talk to Arkady.” 

“What, then? Who do you think it was?” 

“I have guesses,” Makarov seethes, and you can hear the signature drumming of his knuckles on the table. 

Another man, a voice you don’t recognise, addresses Sergei; “You got nothing else out of the girl?” 

Your ribs tighten at your mention. 

“She said they sounded Ukrainian. I don’t know. I don’t believe she has a clue.” 

“You’re soft on her, Sergei. You let her lie to you and you’re too stupid to tell.” 

“I made sure-”

“She knows you’re stupid, too. You saw the state of her. They were with her for a while. She will have heard more than their fucking accents.” 

“What do you want me to do? Torture the poor girl after she watched her husband die?” 

Then, a sudden yell. “Mia!” 

Your blood turns to lead, and you immediately back away from the door. Did Vladimir see you? Hear you? Was he calling you to enter, or expressing that you were to blame? 

On the tips of your toes, you silently retreat into the kitchen, lean against the counter so that it might appear to a spectator that you were busy with the dishes and not listening in on a confidential conversation. Your heartbeat shudders in your ears. Your knuckles turn white. 

The bellow thunders out once again, in English - for you. “Mia, come in here, now!” 

You feel fragile. You might faint. You stare at the knives in the knife block and imagine it might be easier for you to slice one of them through your own throat, than to be trapped in a room with those men again. You might have even gone through with such an ideation, if you hadn’t reminded yourself of the stakes that supersede your survival.  

It takes every weary synapse in your brain to force the movement of a single muscle, before you can begin to inch yourself in the direction of the dining room in earnest. Your body resents it with every fibre of its being. Your knees shiver with every step. 

You see them through the glass door before you open it. All leaned back in their chairs, surrounding the vast dining table in the centre of the room; Vladimir at the head, where he always wanted to sit. He glowers at you through the glass. Spots you even when you try to hide in the shadow. 

Meekly opening the door, the shrill squeak of the hinges echoes across the silent room, and all the heads turn on their necks to face you. Every set of beady eyes lands on you at once, and you can feel each of them; hot brands, sizzling and mean, on every part of you.

The air of the room is heavy and warm, reeks of cigar smoke and corked wine. You suck in a quivering breath, arms pinned to your side, as you wait for someone to speak. You can’t bring yourself to say the first word. 

“Shut the door,” Vladimir orders dryly, cigarette in his lips. 

You do as you’re told, and close the door with a heavy clunk. 

“Come here.” 

He beckons for you with two fingers. He watches you as intently as the others do, and their heads follow you as you carefully float closer to the table. You remain on the opposite side to the man who called for you, and hope he doesn’t demand you any closer. 

“The men who killed your beloved husband,” he begins, a tug in the corner of his mouth as he says the word. “Sergei tells me you think they were Ukrainian?” 

You chew your lip, near the point of drawing blood, before you can croak out a response. 

“Or Kastovian,” you utter. “I couldn’t - it sounded like Russian but I couldn’t understand what they were saying very well.” 

“Very well?” He interrogates, unrelenting. “Or not at all?” 

It takes you a moment to think of a lie on your feet. Who could the imaginary assassins have been? What do you imagine they might have said? What can you tell the men in front of you to goad them into spilling some information that they shouldn’t? 

“They - there were a few words I understood, but, I d-didn’t know what they meant by them.” 

“Like what.” 

“They kept referring to, um, флешка - I think, is what they said. Like, a USB drive?” 

With every lie you utter, your adrenaline picks up threefold. You feel it buzzing in the tips of your fingers and prickling in your scalp. 

Vladimir shoots a pointed glare at Sergei, who adjusts his blazer instead of acknowledging the wordless accusation. 

“What else.” 

“I don’t - I’m not sure. I thought they might have said something about a - a warehouse. But I don’t know if I have the word right-”

“What was the word?” His vicious impatience cuts through the air like a knife, you feel the blade at your skin.  

“Завод.” Factory . 

You know the word. You’re pretending to be clueless. 

Vladimir slams the surface of the table with both hands - the startling bang makes you jump and sends a shockwave of fright from your chest to your extremities. 

He addresses Sergei in Russian with a renewed fury, and his eyes bulge with it; “Fucking idiot. You could have asked her this and we would have known forty-eight hours sooner.” 

Sergei rolls his eyes. “Give me a break. She was concussed when we found her.” 

“So they know about Mialstor?” A man whose face you recognise asks, and your ears perk. 

“How the fuck would they know about that?” Someone else. 

“Maybe we’ve got a leak to plug.” Another opines. 

Vladimir’s eyes return to you, then. Fixed and curious. “Remember anything else, девочка?” Girl?  

You exert every muscle to maintain some level of confidence in your character. A mournful widow, forced to remember the night her husband was slaughtered in her bed. At the notion you remember the true moment you lost him - the bullet shot through the back of his head, the seizing of his limbs once his skull was split open, the expression that remained in his vacant eyes once he was gone. You let the tears well. You let your feeble body tremble with its horror and grief. 

“Not - not much else,” you croak. “One h-hit me in the head - I didn’t wake up until they were all gone.” 

“Mh,” he ponders, dissatisfied. “Did he hit you hard?”

The blatant delight behind his question almost makes you wince, and you stumble on any words you try to give him. “I- I don’t - I suppose so-”

“More than once?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer eagerly, flustered, you feel the burning in your cheeks as the intensity of his barrage only tumefies, a blister ready to burst. 

“What do you think they did while you were out?” He drills. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Were your clothes on when you woke up, Mia?”

A snort blurts out from another man at the table, another whom you recognise. “Fuck’s sake, Vlad,” he chides, with a deeply ill-placed humour. “Victor’s only been gone a day.” 

Vladimir chortles, taking a drag of the stub of his cigarette, and it becomes evident he was hounding you more for his amusement than any hunt for information. 

“Didn’t stop him last time,” another says. 

The floor quakes beneath you. It might open up and swallow you whole. You hope it does. You hope they can’t see how you shake, how your eyes twitch, how your knees threaten to buckle as you listen to them joke about it - you must conceal it, because as far as they are aware, you cannot understand them. 

There’s a chorus of acrid laughter between the dogs as they reminisce on it. The few that weren’t there must have heard about it from the ones that were, because they laugh too. You wonder how detailed their descriptions were. How vivid their storytelling. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Give him another vodka and he’ll have her up on the table again.” 

More chuckling. 

“We don’t have the props for it this time.” 

“I’m sure we can find some. In the kitchen, I bet. You going to grab the cucumbers again, Vlad?”

“No, look at him. He’s still bitter he couldn’t get her to use the knife.” 

“No Victor to worry about this time, eh?” 

Your body is numb, your tongue is dry. Vladimir hasn’t taken his ferine eyes off of you for the duration of their perverted raillery. He simply wears a fading smirk, takes the odd puff of his wet cigarette, watching the minutiae of your expressions as if you’re as entertaining as a television. Glares at your terror and shame like it is pornography. 

You can see it in the pits of his predatory stare, that he knows you can glean the topic of their conversation. He wants you to know. He wants you to remember what you had devoted yourself to forgetting in the years since it had happened. What you had done before you knew you could refuse their demands, before you had the well-established status of a wife, before you understood you’d be stuck in their country for the remainder of your life. 

There was no refusing them, but they hadn’t needed to force you - nor to order you, nor to touch you at all. Not a hand was laid on you. No, you were so uncertain of your fate, that you did it willingly. 

Therein lies the root of Vladimir’s mirth. He calls you a whore with his mouth shut. He makes you remember all of it, at the funeral of the very man to whom you had feigned fidelity. The man who remained blissfully unaware that you had debased yourself in front of the comrades he worked with daily until his dying breath. 

The bile rises in your throat, and you spin urgently on your heel - rushing out of the room in hasty stride, retreating in the midst of their degenerate laughter. 

“She figured it out!” One hollers, and you leave the door ajar as you hurry into the kitchen. 

Panic and resentment swells hot and fiery under your skin, you feel close to bursting with it - every limb, every sinew of you writhes with the vicious humiliation that they have pumped you so full of. It is all such fun for them, endlessly entertaining to see how terrified they can make you, hilariously satisfying when you succumb to it. 

In your urgency you sweep the bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the counter, gripping it by the neck, and carting it with you as you march out of the kitchen. Flick off the cap as you storm down the corridor. Shove the open top between your lips, and suck down a hard mouthful. It makes you cough, but the harsh burn of its crawl down your throat is the only source of comfort you can find in your frenzy. You swallow another, and another. Maybe if you drink enough of it you might go to sleep and never wake up. 

You have to tell your guard dog what you’ve learned, first. You have to do something right, anything to make up for your complacency in your husband’s dreams of genocide, before you even think to check out early. 

You have to find him. 

Once you reach the foyer, though, you hear the beating of footsteps fast approaching, and your heart drops to your feet. 

A growl. “Where are you running?” 

Vladimir followed you. Sniffed after you like the bloodhound he is. 

Your body screams at you to run from him, but you only manage a few steps backward as though trudging through knee-deep tar - and before you can turn, he is two paces from you. 

There is no option but to surrender, then, and your bones turn soft. 

His hooks are in you before you utter a noise, thumb and forefingers digging into your cheeks as he drives you by the head - wrangles you against a wall, in the dark and silent hallway, out of earshot from anybody else in the building. 

You pant into his palm, eyes watering at the severity of his grip, brows knitted as you hold back the sob that nudges its way up your throat. 

“Why are you alive, Mia?” He snarls, his eyes as black as the shadow he hides in, as manic as a rabid dog. 

“W-what?” You groan, near a cry, dizzied by his question. 

He jolts you, a violent shove into the wall he has you pinned to, if only to make you squeak. “They killed everyone on that estate. Every single man. Even the dogs. But not you?” 

The sob you had been struggling to suppress leaps out from your teeth, you feel yourself begin to shrink. “I don’t unders-”

He moves his grasp from your face to your collarbone, hooking rough fingers into the slash neckline of your dress. With a violent yank he stretches down the hem, close to tearing the fabric - and reveals the plum and yellow bruising on your sternum, the ambiguous scrapes that speckle your skin. Utterly unnecessary, for whatever point he is attempting to make - there are plenty of visible bruises sprinkled over the parts of you not covered by fabric, and yet, he sought to reveal that one. 

“You want me to believe they kept you alive for what, for fun?” He seethes, and you feel the splatter of his saliva on your face with every consonant. “That they wouldn’t have finished you off once they were done with you?”

Every lie you might utter in your defense turns to mist in your mouth. You feel every tear he pulls in your story, excruciating as if it were your own skin. 

He stoops closer to you, mere inches between your face and his. “What did you do for them, hm? What did you bargain with?” 

Nothing you can say will do anything to help you, now. He isn’t interested in whatever excuse you spit out. He doesn’t care whether or not you are innocent. 

He is just playing with his food. 

He makes plain his appetite when he holds his face against yours, his carnivorous teeth grind against the shell of your ear. 

“What happened, Mia?” 

You shut your eyes, a reflex, some subconscious effort to hide from his bombardment of questions and his nauseating proximity - until a sudden release of pressure forces a torrent of air from between your teeth, and the claws that had nestled into your flesh you no longer restrain you. 

A shriek escapes you as your assailant is forcibly torn away by his collar, and he is tossed backward like a kicked dog. 

In the blurry dark you struggle to see who had broken you free, but you know who it is. You can hear his ragged breathing, you can hear the cracking of his knuckles as he reels back his elbow and wrenches his gloved hand into a stone fist. 

And while he still holds the Russian by the lapel of his jacket, he jettisons his clubbed hand into the centre of his face with such a force that the thwack of the collision cuts through the air like a gunshot, echoed by the splintering of bone under skin. A strike so brutal that your guard dog must have broken his own knuckles upon impact, and he almost follows his victim on his way down. 

But he catches himself with a boot, and towers unruffled over Vladimir, who tumbles hard into the opposite wall and only just prevents himself from collapsing onto the tiled floor. The black of his blood splatters the white wall behind him, and oozes from his nostrils, coating his lips. 

A turgid silence then settles like smoke. 

It fills up your lungs as you wait, deathly silent and pressing your back against the wall, for the impending eruption. A gunshot, a roar for backup, a retaliatory strike with a fist or a knife. You know well what the man is capable of. The lengths he will go to to punish any perceived profanation. A knife would be the most gentle, most charitable penalty, regardless of where he put it. 

Instead, Vladimir sniffs as he stands himself straight, propped up by the wall, swallowing the blood that pools in his mouth with a foul gulp. 

He glowers at you. Burrowing. Torture in itself, for many moments too long - to you, an eternity of silence within which he can wordlessly threaten you. You know the many fates that have befallen others, each more harrowing, more gut-wrenching than the last. Acid, fire, gas, steel. He makes you shrink, your eyes dry, and you look down from him on instinct. 

His glare then shifts to the man that had so violently come to your aid. There’s a glimmer of recognition in the hollows of his eyes. A quirk in the corner of his mouth. An unspoken understanding. 

He says nothing. You feel the weight of it in the pit of your stomach.

A brief grin stretches in his lips; blood filling every gap between his teeth, smile painted red. “Милая Миа.” Dear Mia, he coos. “Что ты наделала?” What have you done? 

“Get out,” you croak, voice breaking; the command tumbles from your mouth and surprises even yourself. Emboldened by the masked shadow that stands between him and yourself. 

His twitching smile returns for a single snicker, as though pleased with your brief retaliation. He waits, for a pregnant pause, before he decides to give you a single nod. 

“Victor left a lot of important things behind, mh?,” he says pointedly, with an uncanny smirk, as though he had said it to purposefully confound you. 

You do not blink as he steps around your protector, and brushes past you on his way to the front door. His gait utterly unaffected by the blow to the head,he stands tall and proud as always, as though he had not been struck at all, as though his nose weren’t shattered by a deserved fist. He adjusts his jacket as he opens the door, and cold air floods into the room. 

The clamour of the others crowding out of their meeting room echoes from down the hallway, too late to intervene, and you stay furtively silent, unmoving so as not to draw their attention. 

“What the fuck happened?” An approaching voice calls out, in Russian, and Vladimir looks up as he coolly sticks a cigarette in his teeth. 

He offers nothing but a shrug, and a dim smile. “We’ve outstayed our welcome.” 

You remain tucked against the wall behind you as the rest of your dismissed guests file out of the front door, murmuring spitefully after being ordered to leave by their superior. 

Ghost keeps his post steadfast, standing in front of you, a barricade; eyes following every one of the pigs as they are herded out before he follows behind the very last one. 

He slams shut the door the moment the last hoof is clear of the frame, and he locks the deadbolt with a clunk. Through the sliver of a window beside the door he watches them fill their black cars, listens to their engines churn, before they finally pull off in a convoy down the driveway, and their headlights disappear among the trees. 

He hears your mousy breathing in the subsequent silence. 

His back remains to you while he finds the right words to say, and it doesn’t take him long to determine there are none. An apology would fall on deaf ears. A check on your welfare would be salt in the wound. He left you alone with them, after all. Alone with the very creature you had warned him about so vociferously. What might he have done if Ghost had taken a minute longer to find you with him? 

Do you blame him as much as he blames himself? 

Once he turns to look at you, though, you have already wandered off down the hall; your faltering silhouette disappears into your empty kitchen. 

He could leave you be. He could, if he chose to, let you recover in solitude. He considers it as he unbuckles the straps of his cumbersome vest, pulls it over his head and dumps it on the tiles. As he unstraps the velcro bands of his gloves, plucking them off by his fingers and leaving them on the console table. Maybe you want nothing more than to be alone, than to curl up and hide from everyone who has assailed you. Himself included. 

What happened the last several times he left you by yourself, unguarded?

He isn’t ignorant of his selfishness when he chooses to follow you. 

He hears you pacing before he passes through the open door, hears your frenetic panting echoing from where you bite your nails by the island counter in the centre of the kitchen. 

You catch his eye and freeze in place. 

Before he can utter a word, you cock back your bottle of gin behind your head, clutching it by its neck. You catapult it at him without warning - it whistles as it barrels through the air, before it explodes against the top jamb of the doorway in an ear-splitting crash . He holds up a defensive arm and turns his head away, to protect himself from the shards of blue that spray out from the collision and the spiced liquor that rains down on him with it.  

He stills, utterly agog - you only glare at him, the dim downward light above you illuminates the bulging mania in your eyes. You radiate a fury that he never imagined you capable of, and he can feel the shuddering heat of it from where he stands. 

“You fucked us!” You roar, so ferociously that your once soft voice breaks in the strain. He can see it thundering in your temples, twitching in the tendons of your neck, red on your chest - a rage so harrowing it makes your eyes wet. 

“Did you hear me?” You shout. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

There’s nothing he can say, and nothing he wants to. He feels no compulsion to calm you down.

You storm towards him with heavy feet - plant both palms into his chest, and shove him backward with all of your might. He stumbles back a step, he offers you that, but he stands his ground. 

“You - you promised!” You wail, your broken expression shifting from wrath to heartache and back again. “You told me I could go home if I could get what you needed. You told me I could go home, and now you’ve fucking taken it away again. For fuck’s sake, you hit him! He knows, he knows , I have no chance, no chances left. You told him everything he needed to know and you didn’t even say anything!”

It is clear to him that his lack of reaction is only engorging your anger, but he doesn’t want to dampen it. 

He can’t bring himself to take it from you. 

“Are you fucking stupid? Are you? You - you - you’ve fucking killed us both! You gave away everything. You gave it away. You gave me up! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

In the midst of your tirade he watches your arm wind up, and you swing it with a force, open palm smacking into the side of his face - hard enough to knock his head to the side, vicious enough to sting even through the knit of his mask. 

Your violence is almost a relief, to him - he cannot justify it. Have you ever, ever been given the chance? The space? The opportunity to erupt as viciously as you do now, without the dire retaliation that would inevitably follow? 

How many years worth of torment, hatred, agony, wrath have been packed so deep into you that they’ve been embedded into the very fibers of your being? How many years have you been forced to withstand the ever-building pressure, bursting at the seams with it? 

“You’re as pig-headed as the fucking rest of them. It was all your idea and now you’ve ruined it! I - I told you. I told you what fucking animals they were and you dragged me here anyway - now what? Are you going to punch every single one of them?”

In your fury you reach upwards and take the forehead of his mask in a tight fist - tearing it off his head in a single pull before savagely throwing it across the room. He remains stone-faced, he keeps his lips sealed, his hands by his side. He watches your every movement with heavy eyes. 

Your fiery glare scratches about his face now that you have forcibly exposed it, and after a blink, you truly succumb to your apoplexy. You slam your fists into his chest, another attempt to shove him, and he gives way to you with a step back. 

“You never think , are you even capable of forming a fucking thought? No, you just attack whoever or whatever gets in your way - anything you don’t like - just maul everything like you’re a fucking dog. You’re dogs. You’re all dogs!” 

Another shove, more flailing hands, he cedes to you under every attack. You force him backwards until his back hits the wall behind him, and you berate him still. 

“You - they - everything you fucking touch, why does it always hurt? You just can’t fucking stop yourselves from biting, can you? Always scratching and grabbing and fucking hitting and breaking - never once, not once - do you ever think it might hurt? Always so hungry for more, and more, do you ever think I might be fucking hungry, too? God - that I don’t want to scratch you and grab you and hit you and break you? No - you - you all just fucking laugh when I tell you to stop or to shut the fuck up, for once . It’s always so funny to you, to think that I might want to fucking maim as badly as you do.” 

Is he still the one you are referring to? 

Does the pith of your rage lie beyond him? Is he merely the receptacle of it? The catalyst? 

In the blast radius of your onslaught, he finds himself rapt. 

The rest of the room, of the mission, of the country, of the world beyond it - it all dissolves into fog. You, an ember, the only thing lambent enough to see. Speechless, because you have finally burned away any image of you he had cloaked, smothered you with since he found you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You thunder, though your rage has begun to barely cool into indignant exasperation. “Fucking say something!” 

Is it your real self, now? Unfettered, unaltered, raw? Has it always been? 

“What do you want me to say,” he murmurs hoarsely, head tilted down to meet your eye. 

Out of breath, you let out an incensed groan, wiping down your face with red hands. “I want - I-”

Your brows knit in frustration as you seem to hunt for the words, reluctant to let them out - you chew on the inside of your lip, glaring at him, eyes forlorn despite the anger you radiate. 

“I want you to tell me everything will be okay.” 

You grow humiliated in the silence he leaves after your answer. 

Your eruption has left you ragged, shaking with the tsunami of adrenaline that flooded you from your neck to your feet, that poured your soul out through your teeth. 

Once it began, there was no swallowing it. The wrath in your bones controlled every movement, the spite in your tongue, every word. It drips from you, still, in the quiet - you can almost hear it landing on the floor, soaking into the slate. 

You weren’t sure who you aimed to hurl it at. Who you envisioned as the target of your bombardment. You fired at the skullhead who kidnapped you, at the American soldier who stripped and tortured you, at your genocidal husband, at the ophidian cunts at your dinner table, at the apotheosis of your fear, the wolf who goaded them into defiling you. At your father, at your secondary school teacher, at your johns and your bookers. 

Even at the man under the mask, who has only existed to you in moments of his humanity - Simon, whose face is only unveiled when he deigns to be compassionate. 

You didn’t expect his apathy. You climbed to the peak of your rage and girded yourself for his retaliation, anticipating that he would reflect your abuse back to you tenfold, your outburst quashed. Instead, he absorbed it like a scream into a pillow. Siphoned all the anger out of you and let it pool at his feet. 

His face is bare, now, and expressionless - yet, laden with infinitely more to say than you have so far seen in it. His lids hang low over his amber eyes, and they do not leave you. Do you see apologies in them? Pity? Familiarity? They flay you with their candour, and you cannot break away from them. 

“God - even if it’s a lie,” you grimace, resenting every second of silence he forces you to fill. “Just say it.”

His lips remain shut, but barely held closed. You follow the pink scar that splits them up his cheek, where it stops at the bone. You look at the shallow crow’s feet that spider out from the corners of his burdened eyes, more likely from a life of squinting through scopes than a life of laughter. At the concentration of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes - the parts of his face most often exposed to the sun, the rest hidden under his skull-faced identity. At the bend in his nose, fragile bones within it once broken, maybe twice, and never truly healed.

The armour of fury sloughs off from you, in pieces, as you wait for him to speak. To say what you want him to say. To do what you asked. Is he staying silent as retribution for your tirade? Or is it too much of a lie to even utter?

“Just say it,” you exhale, resigned, as you keel forward. 

You don’t spare a moment to second guess yourself, to think better - as you lean into him, and drop your forehead to his sternum. You rest your weight in him. You need the solace of human warmth, too weary to stand on your own. You hope he’ll hold you upright, at least, for a moment. 

His heart beats directly into your skull. The fleece of his jersey is soft on your skin, the thick padding of his chest so gentle, so cushiony to sink into. 

You anticipated more rigidity, that he’d turn to stone upon your touch - but, instead, a warm and wide hand settles at the back of your head, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You rise and fall with his ribs as he draws deep a breath, you feel him sigh, as he rocks his head back against the wall he leans on. You can feel it in his touch, hear it in his breathing; he doesn’t know what to do with you. The whiplash of your outburst has confounded yourself more than it possibly could him.

“It’ll be okay,” he grumbles, the words barely make it past the gravel in his throat. 

The vibration of his voice reverberates directly into your head, makes your mind buzz, and you turn your head to press your ear to his chest. 

Whatever line you have crossed - torn through - is long behind you, now. Whatever rationality you had left has long since crumbled through your fingers. You untuck your hands from beneath you, slide them up his chest - you slither your arms over his shoulders, around his neck, and you stand on your toes to reach. 

His reaction is delayed, almost hesitant - you can hear, feel the arguments he wages with himself. But you feel his breathing in your hair, warm and hazy, and his thick arm hooks reverently around your waist, forearm nestling in the small of your back. 

“Are you lying?” You breathe, your nose brushing the skin at the crook of his shoulder, where the collar of his fleece meets the zipper. 

Your fingers drag up the back of his neck, the skin there burning hot; you brush through the buzzed-short hair at the base of his skull, and your other hand grabs at the back of his jersey. There are no justifications for your actions; merely the machinations of a disillusioned machine, aching for some unfindable comfort. Maybe you’ll find it in him. 

He bends downward to meet you, and you needn’t stand on your toes anymore - both of his mammoth arms wrap around you in earnest. His broad hand glides up the nape of your neck, fingers weaving with the hair that remains in a collapsing bun at the back of your head. He doesn’t yet pull you in very tightly, though - as if fighting to allow you room to escape, convinced you’ll change your mind and break free at a hair trigger. 

His lips graze the shell of your ear, feather down the side of your neck, and your stomach drops. 

“Don’t know,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, gooseflesh prickling out from where his mouth ghosts over your skin. 

His arms tighten, only just; the button of his trousers scrapes against your belly as you weld yourself to him. You snake a hand down his torso, fingertips traversing the hills and troughs of his pectorals, catching in the small folds of fleece, scratching the length of his zipper. 

Once you reach his stomach, though, he is quick to cuff you by the wrist with a firm hand. 

“Don’t do that,” he huffs, his lips retreating from where they almost found purchase in your skin, but didn’t commit to taste. 

Disappointment deflates your fervour, and you cannot take it. You feel compelled to explain yourself, but any desperate excuse you can muster is too pathetic to utter aloud.

You want it. You need it - just once, the embrace of somebody who doesn’t get off on hurting you. Who doesn’t hate you, who doesn’t leave the bruises of his hatred behind when he is done with you. You can’t even rightly claim that the man you now cling to won’t do the same, but your longing belief that he won’t is enough to spur you into craving him. 

Perhaps he thinks it’s immoral, to touch, to feel, to taste his prisoner of war. Is that really where he’d draw the line? 

“I want to,” you insist; it emerges as a trembling whisper, scarcely a breath, and you bunch the thick fleece of his jersey in your fists. 

He lets out a hounded breath, pent up within his ribs, and his grip on your wrist only grows tighter. He reels his head upward, his stubbled chin grazes your cheek before he widens the gap between his face and yours and leans his back against the wall. 

“What,” he grunts, tone tender yet goading. “What do you want.” 

Is he really going to make you say it? 

Do you even have an answer? 

You don’t know what you want from him, not in any way that you can adequately explain. Asking him to fuck you would be too crude to articulate what you truly, deeply crave. You don’t want him to bend you over, you don’t want him to simply fill you up and leave you empty. No, you want him surrounding you, against you, inside you - you want the sensation of soft skin, of praising hands, of indulging mouths. You want to be corporeal again, a tender human and not an animal, a woman and not a spayed bitch. You want to be adored, not consumed. Needed more than wanted. 

The thought of speaking any of it aloud forces you to reckon with the unadulterated lunacy of what you are doing, of what you want to do. Clawing for the man, the soldier, the war criminal, that abducted you and slaughtered your husband. 

But, in your thirst, you mould your reservations like soft clay. 

Maybe the man he executed wasn’t your beloved husband, but a manipulative, perfidious sociopath, who kept you around as a pedigree showpiece and a hole to fuck. Maybe you were more pleased at the sight of the corpse than you had let yourself believe. 

Maybe your abduction was in fact a rescue, offering you the only breath of freedom or hope of escape you had ever been granted. Maybe the mission of espionage he forcehanded you into was not purely a death sentence, but an opportunity to do something that actually matters, for once, to make right the horrors you had been blindly complicit in.

You aren’t certain how much you believe any of your excuses, but, the longer you hold your tongue, the louder they ring true. 

Your eyes fix to the thrumming of his arteries under his tense jaw, the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. The satin sheen of sweat on his skin, despite the cold air of the empty kitchen. 

Your misgivings spill like milk, and you take a sip of air. 

“I just-” You hesitate, quiet words knotting your tongue. “I just want to feel good.”

He stills for a beat, before the hand he had shackled around your wrist loosens - he grazes it up the length of your arm, settling into the crook of your neck, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. His dusky eyes inspect you down the bridge of his nose. 

“Y’want me to make you feel good?” He murmurs richly, voice low. 

The surge in your chest turns your blood thick, and hot; you feel it flood into the apples your cheeks, into the tips of your fingers, into the crux of the pulsing bead between your legs. 

Your lips barely part, your heavy eyes flicker about his face, your fists open flat on his stomach. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eye when you nod, barely moving your head, too diffident to bravely admit it. 

He wedges the tip of his thumb under your jaw, and hinges your head backward, insisting you look at him. A warm shiver trickles down your spine as he cranes his head, his breathing tickles your lips. 

“Say it.” 

He’s tormenting you. Your tongue is too fevered to form the words for you, it takes a tremulous breath to gather them. 

“I want you t-”

Your confession is cut short, when he closes the narrow distance and presses his open lips into yours, too impatient to await the full sentence. It sucks the air from your lungs, but it doesn’t startle you - no, you sink into him the instant you taste him, opening your mouth to him with an ardour you have never been so consumed by. He clutches your head with both hands and almost lifts you by it as he kisses you, thick fingers weaving into your hair, rooting keenly in your scalp. 

His tongue tastes of cinnamon chewing gum and the smoke of your Benson and Hedges, decidedly softer than you would have expected, when you lave yours against his in your mouth. Your eager claws climb over the sides of his torso, digging into his back - pulling yourself as deeply into him as your bodies allow it, you want his warmth so firm against you that you might absorb it from him.

His lips drag from yours to plant wetly on your cheek, trailing to gnaw at the underside of your jaw, to taste your jugular with an open mouth - his teeth graze the tendons of your neck, but he doesn’t bite. Only lavishes your skin with a fervour that leaves you flustered and short of breath. 

You offer him no such tenderness - you mouth at the skin behind his ear, taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue, teeth burrowing into the fleshy muscles of his neck like you might take a bite out of him. Your avaricious fingers scratch up the back of his scalp, combing through his cropped hair, burrowing your nails into his skull as you clutch him so covetously. 

His right hand runs downward from your shoulder, sweeping the hollow of your waist, over your hip and down the side of your thigh. With his fingers he rakes the heavy silk of your dress up, up, up, and deftly gathers the fabric in a fist at your hip. 

You gasp as he grapples you by the thighs with both hands and hoists you smoothly upward, parting your legs so that they wrap around his hips. He carries you three fluid steps forward, before planting you on the edge of the marble island counter in the centre of the kitchen. The countertop is biting cold against the bare skin under your skirt, and he wedges your legs open with his torso. In your impatience you clutch his head by the jaw with two eager hands, dragging him downward to kiss you again, teeth clacking together ungracefully in your ferocity. 

You feel his thick fingers slither up your thighs, to your hips - they hook into the waistband of your underwear, and your heart jumps to your throat. He plucks them downward, lifting you just slightly to pull them over the swell of your ass, shimmying them down your thighs with an urgency that dizzies you. 

He pulls away from your mouth with a ragged breath, and your hungry hands lose grip of him - he shifts back to drag your panties to your knees, and he sinks downward as he pulls them to your ankles, off your feet. You don’t see where he drops them, and he doesn’t come back up. 

No, he remains on his knees beneath you. Doesn’t even take a breath before he plunges between your legs, doesn’t spare a second to admire your cunt for his own satisfaction, doesn’t waste a moment teasing you, nor preparing you - he parts your shamefully sodden lips with an overindulgent tongue, laving from your fluttering opening to your puffy clitoris in a single taste. You choke on air in the shock, flurried and light-headed, catching yourself from buckling over with hands atop his head. 

He eats you like a hound, messy and greedy, sucking your clit between his teeth and then releasing it with a smear of a flat tongue. The noises you make are embarrassing, unfamiliar - you have only ever performed them, sweet and delicate moans, music tailored to the man pretending to please you. Instead you choke, squeak, whimper like you are drowning in rapture as thick as honey, and the sounds spring from your throat despite your efforts to contain them. 

He rivets you to the counter with two expansive hands, fingertips bore into the pillow of your hips, holding the skirt of your dress up and out of his way. His coarse stubble chafes against the inside of your thighs, you feel every movement of his jaw as it opens wide and clamps shut. Your talons rake through his hair, scratch into his scalp with nearly enough force to break the skin. Your clit burns hot under his ravening, tender and hypersensitive - you gasp for air with every graze of his tongue, bite out a whine with every suckle. 

Neck growing weak, your head falls back from your shoulders; with it, you collapse backward and land against the countertop, knocking over a stemmed wine glass that shatters loudly and sprinkles glass over the marble and the floor. You do not notice it, back arching as though in a fit, spine contorting as you unwittingly buck your hips away from his mouth, but he follows you. 

He keeps the impetus of your pleasure under his tongue despite your writhing, reminding you of his strength when you involuntarily try to evade him. He does not restrain you with brutality, though - his hands are simply demanding, guiding, and as your squirming eases they soften their grip. One loosens and glides along the outside of your thigh, languid and tender across your skin, settling at your knee and steadying its position hanging over his shoulder. 

The knowing gentleness of his touch, the caution in the caress of his fingers, the overindulgence of his tongue - emulsify into a surge of liquid heat, unctuous and boiling. It floods scalding from the core of you, through the vessels and nerves of every extremity, pumping into the centre of your spoiled clit and setting it alight. You come in his mouth with a fervency that suffocates you, and you choke on a keening cry as he sucks more out of you - it charges through you in waves as you tumble over the edge of it, forcing you to jolt as though electrified, over, and over, until you finally plant a heel on his collarbone and push him off of you. 

You whine as you exhale, no air left in your lungs, as his mouth finally peels from your cunt. You take a moment to recover, back flat against the cold stone, eyes fluttering shut as the aftershock of your orgasm keeps you twitching. 

His rabid breathing echoes yours in the silence of the room, and you tilt up your head to look at him down the length of your nose. His murky stare catches yours over your mound; his eyes stygian in the shadows as he glowers at you from under his brow, reflecting a faint glint of light in their centre. His mouth hangs open, your liquid and his soaking his lips and dripping from his chin. 

He pants like a dog. 

You’re still hungry. 

The taste of you lingers in his mouth, and he refuses to swallow. 

He savours it for as long as he can, letting your heady syrup soak into his tongue, he wants it imbibed by every taste bud. Your sweet breathing is music, spent whines almost as euphonious as the sounds of your orgasm, velvet in his ears - he relives the feeling of your needy clit spasming against his tongue, how eagerly it twitched when he persisted in spoiling it, and resists the urge to take it in his mouth again. 

Your lethargic eyes cling to him, blinking slowly, lips wet. 

Did that feel good, little thing? 

Did he surfeit you? 

Was he soft enough? 

He tried to be. Christ, he tried - he exerted every ounce of his strength to subdue the savagery that roiled within him, that threatened to forcibly breach the cage he muzzled it with. It doesn’t come naturally to him, touching without forcing, lavishing without teeth. It goes against every fibre of his being, in fact - he is a carnivore by nature, he hunts and he snares and he chews, he overpowers with strength and fear, he controls with the threat of his aggression. 

He had never practiced restraint until he met you. 

It was far easier, when you kept your distance, when you avoided his eyes, when you resisted his touch.

Now, you run your fingernails through his hair. You wrap your thighs around his neck. You blink at him winsomely, supplicating, awaiting his next move. Unaware or uncaring of the predator you tempt so pointedly, how much effort he employs to tame it in your presence. 

The animal in him has its own hunger - starved, in fact - its stare flicks to your cunt, inches from him, shuddering under the heat of his breathing. Pink and pillowy after his avaricious praise, glistening with its stickiness; your nectar seeps in a rivulet from your slit, clear and glossy. His cock is heavy, only growing heavier, thrumming rich with the blood you fill it with. 

He does not deserve it. 

He catches your eye again, as you push yourself upward to sit straight, and he forces himself to stand. His nose brushes up your silk-cladded stomach as he rises from his knees, and once he stands tall, his face is a hair’s breadth from yours. 

Your cheeks are rosy, shiny with the glow of the paroxysm he ate out of you. Lips bitten red, shimmery with your saliva, part gently to breathe. Hair mussed, askew, falling out of the updo you had pulled it into, pieces of it cascade in waves and frame your face. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful.

He could say it aloud, but he doesn’t. Is that what you want to hear? Does it even matter to you? 

Your gaze lingers on his lips, he watches your eyelashes as they flutter. You shift forward to press your mouth to his, lips barely open; you are reserved, shy about it, as if kissing him now is a crossing of a boundary, as if he could ever mount any boundaries against you. You need only blink at him and they crumble. 

Can you taste yourself in his mouth? 

Does it make you as ravenous as it does him? 

He feels your fingers on his stomach, scratching at the fleece - and like you tried to before, you trail them downward, past his navel, catching in the stiff waistband of his trousers. He lets out a grunt, a sigh, as he looks down to see your diffident fingers hook the button of his fly, pushing it through the eye with a dull pop. You move slowly, cautious about it, as if he can’t see, can’t feel where you venture. As though he might catch you in the act of your transgression, and you’d be in trouble.

Do you feel that you owe it to him? That he did it for a reward?

Tasting you was a reward in itself. One he could never have deserved, one he cannot yet fathom you deigned to grant him. 

Maybe it’s habit, all you have come to know - sex as a transaction, a contract you need to fulfil. That if you don’t open your cunt or your mouth to repay the favour, they’ll be opened for you, whether you like it or not. 

He can’t have that. He won’t let you offer yourself out of obligation, nor out of dread. Not with the knowledge of what he has done to you hanging heavy from his neck. Not with your wrathful words ringing poignantly in his skull. Because, you were right - he does scratch, and grab, and hit, and break, he spends every waking second hungry, and the compulsion to maim is written on, embedded in the flesh he consists of. His very being is anathema to you, and he should be. 

He refuses you, again, taking both of your little wrists in one hand, shackling them together and tugging them away from him. 

“Stop,” he grumbles, and you look up at him through your lashes. 

He can’t decode you. Your expression reads to him as both nervous and discontented, embarrassed and yet frustrated. 

Do you even know what you want? 

With a pent breath you lower your head, pressing your forehead under his collarbone, and he feels your leg shift up his side. He hopes you have given up. That he has left you depleted of the lust that drove you to make the mistake of indulging him.  

“Please.” 

A whisper, so muted he thought for a moment that he had hallucinated it. 

“What?” He presses, under breath, and you sink deeper into him, mouth against his jersey. 

“Please,” you repeat, a whine, muffled by fleece. 

Your supplication turns him to putty, and his cuffs slacken. He doesn’t believe you - or, just as likely, he doesn’t trust his own ears to be hearing what he thinks you have said. Your slippery hands escape him, and unbridled they return to their objective; fingers catch the zipper of his fly, you watch your work as you pull it down. 

“Please,” you insist, unprompted, each utterance more desperate. 

His cock grows as solid as iron; straining against the boxer briefs you release from behind his fly, twitching with every slight movement you make in its proximity. His war not to touch you is lost, and he ghosts a hand across your shoulder, up the back of your neck, combing into your hair as he presses his nose and mouth into the top of your head. 

Do you know what you are pleading for? 

Do you want him inside you?

Do you need the fullness he can give you?

He could oblige you, if that is what you truly want. He could sink his cock into you deep enough to make you dizzy. He could stuff you full enough to slake the turmoil-induced concupiscence that has possessed you. 

But he won’t do that for you, little thing. Not unless you beg him to. 

You pluck at the elastic waistband of his boxers, another unspoken appeal. 

“Say it again,” he growls, into your hair, doing his level best not to dig his teeth into you.

With a quivering breath you tilt your head upward to face him, your lips brush lightly against his. The tips of your wary fingers brush the underside of his length through the fabric of his boxers, and he bites down on a grunt. 

“Please.” 

You whisper it into his mouth, and his scruples turn to smoke. 

He dives downard, lips colliding with yours, kissing you with a resurgent zeal, his manacles broken and his conscience smothered - your little hands hold him by the cheeks, softer than he is worthy of, and your tongue strokes against his as though drinking your own juices from him. 

He grants your pleas, tugging down the front of his boxers and releasing his burdensome cock with a grip around its curly base. Your needy legs hook him by the hip, and you tug him forward - the underside of his shaft grinds against your slit, soaking in the nectar that pools there, and you spill a yearning whimper into his mouth. 

“Again,” he snarls, against your lips; he kneads the crux of your labia with the base of his head, frenulum rubbing against your swollen clitoris, and your brows curl with the whine he pushes out of you. 

“Please,” you mewl, fingernails nearly puncturing his cheeks. 

Fuck, you’re insatiable. 

It liquefies him when you hurt him. When you bite. When you maim. His scalp still stings from where your claws had all but broken the skin, the side of his neck throbs where your bite marks sink deep. He wants you to wound him, he wants you to take it all out on the body that he offers you. He wants to bleed for you. 

He drags the soft head of his steel cock down your slit, burrowing between the lips so slick he needn’t pause, needn’t prepare you by spitting on his hand and smearing it on you. He wedges his tip against your opening and it almost sucks him in with its voraciousness, but he halts there. His free hand finds your waist and clutches at its hollow, tugging you minutely closer, your ass perched precariously on the very edge of the counter. You look up again, with a little gasp, neediness etched in your stare. 

“Again,” he urges, just to hear you beg for him. 

“Please-”

You gag on your entreaty as he obliges you; he pushes his weight forward and sinks his cock into you, reaming open your taut yet eager pussy as he gradually burrows it deeper. He sees white as you stretch to fit him, and he lets out a broken grunt; the ridged and gooey walls of your cunt engulf him snugly, blindingly warm, you fit his cock like a glove. 

With a breath caught in your throat, you squeak on it - he stills, only half-way deep, for your own good. He refuses to hurt you, even if you want him to. Your cunt clamps down on him as he pauses, muscles rolling up the length of him, and he wrenches shut his eyes; your hands rake from his cheeks to the collar of his fleece, and you reel him desperately closer. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you breathe, lips under his ear, warm on his skin. 

Can you read his mind? 

Is he that transparent? 

He wonders if you have been able to see through his veneer, peer under his mask since the moment you laid eyes on him. As if you can guess his thoughts, decrypt his every motive, predict every decision. As if you can decipher his feelings, better than he can, almost as well as you can manipulate them. He has always boasted his ability to conceal himself, has always considered his truest centre too deep to be retrieved, long gone - but you peel off every layer that coats him, every cover that obscures him, and you expose him without effort. 

It might have made him defensive, cold, being unmasked so brazenly. But, it doesn’t. Not when you’re the one peering under the hood. 

He smooths his hands up your thighs, lifting your skirt, finding purchase in the meat of your hips - he uses his grip to anchor you to the edge of the counter as he thrusts forward, plunging his cock so deep into you that you take him to the hilt. 

He bites back a groan, as his blunt head nudges against the spongy pillow of your cervix, and your fingernails carve into his burning neck. He stays there for a beat, buried as deep as you can take him, swimming in the abundant honey that soaks him from base to tip. 

He reels out of you, indulging his cock with the friction of your walls, gripping his shaft on its way out - before he drives back into you, ramming into the gummy plug of your womb and forcing a succulent cry from your throat. Your cunt swallows him like it was moulded to fit him, and he grits his teeth as he succumbs to rutting in earnest; drags his cock out of you and plummets in deep, relishing in the melody of every little squeak he fucks out of you. 

With the arms over his back you yank at the fabric of his jersey, pulling it up from where it was tucked into his trousers, exposing his back to the cold of the air. He yields to your unspoken request without dispute, fleetingly separating from you to reach behind his back and shuck off the fleece and the t-shirt he wears under it in one go. He knows you like the sight, little thing. 

You hook an arm around his neck with a frayed breath, and slither the other over his ribs, rooting your fingers in the muscles that wrap his scapula. He fucks into you after the transient reprieve, and you burrow your face into his bare chest. You kiss him there, tongue gliding over the scars of burns and gunshots like you can taste the blood that once spilled from them. 

With another impetuous thrust your sanguinary fingernails carve through the meat of his back, as though you want to break the skin; you claw deeper, crueller with every rut, and your mewls grow wetter and sweeter. 

He shifts his right hand to the top of your thigh, and he glides his thumb down the crease of your groin; he nestles the tip of it at the nexus of your pussy, still slick from his appetite, and he burnishes your clit in circles with the pace of his thrusts. 

Can he get another one out of you, little thing?

It sounds like he can - your whines hitch in your throat with every upward swipe of his thumb, with every ram of his cock, and your legs coil tighter and tighter around his torso. He feels your cunt constrict around the length of him, resistance where there had been none, tightening and letting go in rhythm. He’d like to see your pretty face as he takes you over the edge, again, a sight that could never pall - but you are engaged in your own vices. 

Your unquenchable mouth is busy - gnashes at his neck, his trapezius, his collarbone, leaving wet nibbles in your wake. You settle for a pectoral, and he feels your teeth grazing his febrile skin, over where the tattoos of his sleeve spread over his chest. Your heightened whimpers are muffled by his pelt, as he brings you closer, as he fucks you deeper - you hold your breath, clamp your thighs around his waist as you climb to the apex. 

And when you come, when your pent breath escapes your chest in a ravished whine, your jaw finds purchase; you take the flesh of his muscle between your teeth and bite down as he stuffs you full, chewing on his meat like a carnivore, and he groans harshly through a clenched jaw. 

Do you enjoy hurting him, little thing? 

Or do you simply like the taste? 

Perhaps it is both, because you only bite down harder as you roll down the other side of your climax; your nails lacerate deeper, your legs trap him tighter, and your pussy constringes around his cock with the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

The pain you inflict in him is just as blinding, just as shattering as the euphoria engulfing the length of him - his cock rakes against your suckling walls, rooting into the pillow of your cervix, bathing in the flood of your liquor - he feels his stomach sink, his vision goes hazy, his cock engorges in waves from base to head. 

“Fuck-” he bites out, wolfish in his grunting - you are either oblivious to or unperturbed by his looming climax, because you keep your ensnaring legs tight around his torso, your arms hooked rigidly around his neck, your canines in his shoulder. 

He stifles a hoarse groan through gritting teeth, decisive hands seize you by the hips in an effort to unsheathe his cock from the depths of you. But your thighs only contract, grapple him closer; you drive his length back into you, and you squeak insatiably into his skin. 

“Mia-” He grunts, voice ragged. 

Your greedy hands slide to either side of his inflamed neck, and you finally unlatch your mouth from his skin - you hold your forehead to his, languid eyes fluttering across his face, he feels your breathing cool against his skin. 

He’s too close - it wracks him, surges through him with a voltage that turns his vision sparkly and his cock as heavy as lead. 

Do you want him to come inside you? 

Do you need him beholden to you? 

“Please,” you croak. 

Fuck. 

His orgasm rips through him and leaves him blind, floods out of him in a torrent that sucks the air from his lungs - his cock lurches in the snare of your cunt, spilling a spate of thick come against your cervix and pumping you so full that he feels the overflow drool down the base of his shaft. He groans into your mouth and you swallow it, your own spent whimpers echoing his, as his cock continues to spasm inside you. 

The cold water rinses him once he takes a breath, and he lowers his head; he rests his open mouth against your shoulder, panting into your feverish skin. You listlessly run the soft tips of your fingers up his spine, as winded as he is, his head rises with your torso as you draw in a breath. 

His mind is paradoxically empty and teeming - warring between shame and pride, between guilt and reverence. 

He didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have obliged you. 

He doesn’t regret it. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, a torpid whine in the sigh that follows. 

He presses a praising kiss into the crook of your shoulder. 

“Don’t thank me.” 

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The rattle of vials cuts through the quiet sobbing as you raid the cabinet, stuffing a backpack with painkillers and wound care. 

"We had antibiotics on us. Where are they?" 

From the corner of the room, the response breaks apart. "I don't... I don't know about any... This is all we have."

You drop the backpack in favor of the gun at your waist, and direct it at her. "Don't lie to me."

"I-I'm not! I don't know where they are!"

A twist in your gut says she's honest. "Is there any alcohol?" you press with a curl at your lips.

"There's... some... under there."

You lower the gun and move to the sink, uncorking a half-filled bottle that reeks of absinthe. It fits snugly into the backpack. A nod to Nereida. She lowers her own gun from the young woman’s temple. Straps over your shoulders, you step into the smoke-tinged air, leaving the woman behind, when her accented voice chokes out: "You have taken... everything from us."

You stand in the doorway, watching a piece of ash fall on the scuffed leather of your shoe, then glance over your shoulder. "There is still some medicine left in there. Take what you can, get the other women, and leave. This place could be teeming with Greys soon with all the blood spilt. Travel north. We're going south." Her glossy eyes drift up from her hands. Your gaze hardens. "We will kill you if we see you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

You look away. "Salome is in the cell. Alive."

The flames lick at the chapel’s frame as you return to the others. The stone walls have blackened, the door swallowed in fire, windows shattered. The acrid stench of scorched wood and charred flesh burns your nose. The last survivors—the few men left after Price and Kyle cleared the barn—had been shoved inside with the Grey. 

You need to get out of here—away from the stench of blood. Clean water is urgent. A safe place to treat everyone's wounds, even more so, though the missing antibiotics linger in the back of your mind. Adrenaline wearing off, you move quickly, pausing only to hastily dress Blue's feet and Ghost's back with medical cloth from the cabinet before continuing down the main road. While everyone yields a backpack and gun, Ghost carries Blue to his chest. He hasn't once let her go. 

The flames still flicker behind you when his grip falters. He stops to adjust her weight, and you touch his elbow, speaking low. "Let Price or Kyle carry her."

"I've got it."

You don’t press, though the gnawing concern remains. How much blood has he lost? You can only hope it's clotted enough to hold a bit longer. 

The only words Price manages are instructions—what to watch for to indicate freshwater. Downward slopes, converging animal tracks. You’re nowhere near as injured as the others, yet your thighs shake, your vision blurs, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut to regain focus. You still flinch at every sound, ready for blood.

An hour out, the sun hangs heavy. Dense vegetation and a small cliffside offer promise. Carefully, you help each other down. Ghost finally relents, letting Blue cling onto Price’s shoulders so he can manage rappelling down the rocks. You stay close without thinking, your hand ghosting over his bicep when he wavers.

Then you smell it. Water.

Relief nearly buckles your knees.

A narrow creek winds between boulders, tucked beneath towering cypresses.

Everyone washes off the blood, dulling the stench. A fire will be needed to clean it for the wounds. As you rake water through your hair, your gaze drifts upstream—where cypresses give way to ripened plum trees, bordering what seems like a property. Price sees it too. He’s already shouldering his backpack, moving to check it out.

The gown pools at your ankles, dipping into the shallow water as you cross. The property is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. You tighten your grip on the gun, scanning the unkempt garden and overgrown path leading to the estate—a summer home fit for a family or, as you soon realize, two wealthy old fucks. Their skeletons are all that remain inside, draped in dust like the furniture around them.

Price lowers the rifle to his side and nods in approval. "This will do."

If you could, you’d strip off the stained gown and shut your eyes. Instead, you follow Ghost as he kicks open doors—nothing but a bathroom and parlor. On the second floor, the first door to meet his boot reveals a bedroom. You shake the dust from the quilt, and he carefully lays Blue down. You're already sifting through the backpack.

Ghost kneels to take her feet. He fumbles with the cloth, exhaustion stealing motor function. You help, unveiling the jagged cuts edged with dirt. Ghost grits, "They did this?"

"I did," she whispers. "I hoped you'd find me... and the Greys... they got distracted by my shoes."

Her words linger as you dab alcohol onto a strip of cloth. "This will hurt," you whisper, biting your cheek.

Ghost grips her ankle to keep it still and takes her hand, offering something to squeeze. At first touch, her nails claw at his wrist. Her lips press tightly together to muffle a small sound that dies in her throat, and then she falls silent. Her eyes flutter shut, reopening only to release a lone tear when you finish with both, then wrap them again.

"Your arms," you say, reaching for them. One is already bandaged—must've been done by them. The other is freshly cut. When you try to look at it, she recoils, inhaling sharply.

"They did this one, didn't they?" he asks.

A slight nod of her chin.

Anger leeches from Ghost's skin.

He exhales sharply through flared nostrils, then gently takes her wrist, pressing a kiss to the skin just before the cut begins.

"Let Twix clean it, baby."

Her fist clenches before she offers you her arm. More tears cut a trail down to her lips. 

"There. Let's get you something else to wear," you breathe out, stuffing the cork back in once it's over. 

What you find in the closet is at least better than the bloodied dress she was supposed to die in—a large flannel shirt that smells like old man. Blue accepts it, but stares at the shirt in her hands for a long moment before asking Ghost to look away. He does, and you help her, keeping your eyes on hers while undressing her.

You turn to Ghost. "Your turn," you whisper.

Lowering to the bed is a great effort, one you have to steady with a hand under his armpit. As gently as possible, you peel the cloth from his back. Seeing his wounds before did nothing to prepare you for this—up close, in the unforgiving sunlight. Deep, inflamed gashes ooze fresh blood at the disruption. The stench of festering flesh makes it hard to focus as you murmur for Blue to touch his hair, distract him for the first dab of alcohol.

Where Blue was able to silence herself, he cannot. Not when it’s this bad. The terrible, wrecked groan and the violent jerk of his body make you want to disappear—to run and let someone else do this to him. But you know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t trust anyone else to. So you steady the tremble in your fingers and continue, the room heavy with his pain. It finds its way to your back, as though someone behind you is holding a whip. The phantom pain sinks into your skin with each of his groans, forcing you to push it away to steady your hand as you work.

Blue twists her fingers in his hair, whispering in his ear. "It's almost over, dad."

By the time the wounds are cleaned, redness remains, offering little reassurance. Over a day's worth of sweat and bacteria isn't something you can simply undo. You'll need to keep an eye on them for infection. You sift through the vials and push two painkillers to his lips, helping him sit up to swallow them. As you’re about to help him back down, he grabs onto your wrist, a pulse of pain pulling your gaze to where you slit your own vein. The linen strip is soaked through. Ghost silently unties it and reaches for the alcohol at the bedside table.

"They did that?" Blue questions from behind him.

"I did."

The pain sears as he cleans it, though it’s nothing compared to his.

When he lays back on his stomach, there’s no fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Blue curls up beside him, wincing. You get her two painkillers as well.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks quietly.

You pull the light quilt over her body. "His body just needs to rest. So does yours."

"That's not an answer, Twix."

The way she calls you out makes your face fall. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

There is a pause of silence before she sighs audibly, arms falling flat at her sides and her gaze finding the ceiling. "I don't think I can sleep."

Your chest tightens at the thought of what she must be thinking of, what she must have seen when you weren't with her. The wounds you can't wrap up. You dig for one of the sedatives: lorazepam. "Here." 

It takes a while for it to take effect.

"You're safe," you whisper to her, over and over, tucking her hair behind her ear until you feel the subtle shift in her muscles as they slowly loosen from their panicked tension. When sleep finally comforts her, a shift in the air causes you to leap up.

"It's me," Nereida whispers, poking in her head. "The others are sleeping, too."

Right. The others. "They're alright?"

"Just a few fractured ribs."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"I'll do it." Seeing the protest twist on your face, she adds, "You haven't slept in days."

She's right. It was impossible to sleep in that cell outside of being drugged.

You give in. "Patrol the whole property if you can. And keep track of the air. The flowers here should help mask our scent, but—"

"I've got it, Twix."

The fatigue truly hits when she leaves. You barely have enough fight in you left to peel off the stupid dress and raise another flannel shirt from the closet over your head, the hem resting above your knees. There is a chair in the room—that's where you sink down, knees tucked to your chest. At first when you close your eyes, the world is loud and red. Then, it quiets to black.

A dove call announces morning, and you jolt awake to fresh light from the window.

You fell asleep.

They've already killed her.

You didn't get there in time—

Your gaze lands on the small body lying in the bed beside a much larger one, and the panic escapes through a shaky breath. You inhale and exhale to calm your heart rate before uncurling from the chair to touch Blue's soft cheek. The skin is cool. You move to her father next. Palm to his forehead. Hot, dry skin snaps your touch away as if burning you. 

"Fucking shit," chokes out of you, along with a fresh wave of urgency. Blue stirs in her sleep. You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself and whirl out of the room. A fever: you need water. If you hadn't slept so long, you could've boiled some sooner. With the recovered energy, you race outside in the chilled morning air.

Nereida sits up from the porch.

"Good morning. You're the first one up. I haven't seen—"

"He is burning up," you seethe. "You should've waken me. I slept all through the night!"

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

You push past her. "I'm getting water."

She lightly touches your elbow. "I already got some from the creek. I boiled it over the fireplace." She rushes to show you the full metal pot in the kitchen. 

You don't pause to say thank you, hoisting the water upstairs to urgently wet a cloth and place it over his forehead. His lashes flutter, once, then twice, before fully opening.

"You have a fever," you exhale, swallowing hard. "I need you to drink a little."

He sits up to swallow a handful of the water from your palm, faint bobs of his throat, and you feel just how dry his lips are. His voice emerges low. "Did they have anything for it?"

"I couldn't find the antibiotics," you bitterly admit, swiping a thumb over the faint freckle on his temple, as if maybe, the sip of water has already changed the temperature. It hasn't. A growl pushes under your breath. "The bitch probably lied to me and took them. We'll need to experiment a bit for now."

"Sounds promising," he manages through his teeth. He glances down at his daughter. "She's alright?"

"She's okay, not warm." You inhale sharply. "Lay down. Let me look at it again."

When he does, you gently remove the bandages and are met with yellow-green pus. The sound that fills your throat, caught between helplessness and disgust, has him popping an eye open to look back at you over his shoulder. "Sorry, it's just..." Another explicative leaves your lips, and you have to bite your cheek hard to keep from vomiting at the sight and smell. Blue is awake now, sitting up against the pillow; she need only glance over once for her face to twist in concern. 

"It's bad, isn't it?" She covers her mouth.

"I need to drain it," is what you say. Luckily, it's already oozing, saving the need to puncture the wounds open. You wet another cloth and carefully press at the swollen ridge of the first laceration, making him groan through his teeth as pus begins to run down his sides. Blue has one hand back in his hair, and uses another wet cloth to collect the pus. You keep pressing, draining each irregular wound, having to remind yourself the rotten smell being released is for the better. 

After what feels like hours, it's mostly cleared. Only a bit of swelling remains, revealing just how deeply the skin was shredded, as if slashed through repeatedly in the same spots. 

"How come you were hurt more than the others?" Blue asks him the question you've been mulling over since the moment you found him. 

"I was their favorite," he mumbles lowly. "The most handsome."

Your brows lower.

"It's not funny," she presses, nails twisting in his hair, teeth grinding. "It's infected. You could fucking die."

"I won't," he says to her, but the silent, heavy glance you exchange with him acknowledges the understanding that he very well could, deepening the harsh pit in your stomach. "We have a nurse here."

"An unlicensed one." You finish securing a new layer of cloth and lean back. "And one without real medicine." Realizing you are supposed to be reassuring her, you hide the way your nails pick each other and add, "But draining all that pus will help. Eating will help even more," you look at Blue, "For you, too."

Blue and you share a meal of wild cucumbers, strawberries, and two small field mice you catch by the creek, swiftly snapping their necks before skinning them. For Ghost, you boil the bones with garden carrots to make a broth. You have to coax him into finishing it, no matter how it tastes, promising that once it's done, he can sleep longer.

By the time the others are awake, you and Blue have failed to leave his side, simply watching the continued rise and fall of his chest as if it might halt if you look away. "Please get better," you catch her murmuring. The only time you go is to speak with Price, informing him that Ghost is in no condition to travel again. 

"Twix," he interrupts you, the knowing tick in his brow, and worn smile, making you realize you'd been rambling, your tone coming off a bit accusatory. "I have no intention for us to continue yet. No one is ready for it. We need food, and rest."

You release a filtered sigh, nodding. "I can help hunt, I just need to—"

A firm hand finds your shoulder. His seafoam eyes glance past you at the door to the bedroom, then back into your gaze, low voice barely above a murmur. "You've done more than enough. Let us take care of the food. Just make sure we don't lose him, alright?"

You nod, and when he turns to leave, you mutter to yourself, "I'm trying."

You spend the evening refreshing his bandages, and draining the new wave of pus. You have the idea to look for onions in the garden, remembering they have antimicrobial properties, but there aren't any. So you clean the wounds again with a flush of water, and also scrub his dirty hair a bit. Your brain must be tricking you, because once when you touch him it feels like his fever has at least dropped a degree or two, but then a minute later it feels like it went up more. There is practically no color to his skin except the angry red of his wounds, and the rosy sheen on his cheeks. Other than that he is a pale ghost. It's as if your efforts haven't done a thing. 

Frustration strangles your lungs, and you palm at your forehead. His body, deprived of sleep and nutritions for days, is struggling to bounce back, to fight off the encroaching bacteria. His unyielding strength is yielding; succumbing. He needs more food and water. You try to sit him up again, retrieving a small bit of leftover broth, but he is unable to help pull his weight.

"Come on, Simon. Please."

He's too heavy for you, even with Blue pulling at his other arm.

You hurry out of the room and call for Price. He and Nereida are there quickly, his rifle ready. "No, I just need—I need you to lift him."

Price drops the gun to steady Simon up despite the heavy hiss of protest. "Gotta eat, Simon."

He holds him as you spoon broth to his mouth, having to rub at his jaw to release enough tension for him to open it and swallow. 

The room is quiet once it's all done, and Nereida stands in the doorway with her head hung low. Price carefully lays him back down so as not disturb the work you've done to his back. He glances at the empty bowl in your hands. "Kyle cut up some squirrels he killed earlier. I'll tell him to make more broth with them in the morning."

All you can do is nod and pass the bowl to him.

When they leave, the heaviness in the room has Blue picking at her wrist. You take her hand, placing another painkiller and sedative in them, and urge her to lay down for more rest.

"I'll stay up with him, alright?"

Her chin drops, and she stares blankly at the quilt. "What happens to me if he dies?"

The hollowness in her voice cuts through you. "We can't think like that," you murmur, refusing to acknowledge how terrified the answer makes you.

"Why not?" Her eyes blaze in the dark. "It's a possibility. I've never seen him like this before."

You shake your head, touching two fingers under her jaw to tilt it up so yours eyes meet. "He's stubborn, like you. And he has too much to live for. He loves you."

She looks away. "I'm not like him. I wouldn't be able to keep going on my own."

"You’ll never be on your own. He and I... we will always come for you," you swear, your voice firmer than you intend. You soften it to a whisper, breathing out, "But even if you were, you’re smarter and stronger than anyone here. There’s nothing you can’t handle, Blue. It was you who kept yourself alive this time."

"It was just luck," she murmurs, curling a fist into the sheet below her. She peers back at you. "If you guys hadn’t found me, I would’ve been bitten to death."

"No," you insist. "It wasn’t luck. You survived because you saw the opportunities, and you took them. You made time for us to find you. You are just like him."

Emotion floods through you, thick and reeling. Without thinking, you pull her into a solid hug, pressing your nose to her scalp. "You’re just like him," you whisper again, screwing your eyes shut. White-hot tears escape, burning a quiet trail down your cheeks, and you feel her begin to tremble in your arms, silently soaking your shirt with her own tears.

Through them, she manages to whisper, twisting your shirt in her fists, "I-I don't want him to leave me again. H-he said he wouldn't."

"He won't," you promise, struggling to catch your breath through a choke, the words rushing out of you. "Never again. I won't let it happen."

After minutes, hours, like this, she grows limp with exhaustion, and you lay her back down, tucking her under the quilt and wiping your cheeks. 

You resume position in the chair by Ghost. 

This time, you refuse to close your eyes, locking them onto him—the way his cheek is squished against the pillow, the bare stretch of his arm, the curve of his ribs where an old scar splits into the new ones. You keep pulling the blanket over him, thinking maybe the extra heat will break his fever, only to rip it back off moments later, convinced the cool night air would be better. Frustration burns behind your eyes as you rub them hard, then press your forehead against the uninjured part of his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to trace your thumb over the freckles there, connecting them with soft, absentminded sweeps of your finger.

He needs more.

Real medicine.

Either the women are long gone with it, or it's somewhere none of them knew of. 

This is what you mull over well into the night when sleep threatens with a pull at your lids, and again, you see red. Blood-red. Like the burst of an open throat. You reopen them and jolt up to your feet, panting hard. The need for a distraction to keep yourself awake pulls you out of the room for a stretch of your legs, pupils straining against the dark hall as you stumble through it, crossing your arms over yourself. You've barely looked through this place besides what was necessary, so it's a surprise when you happen upon a spiral staircase going up, not down. 

A cool metal rail bites your fingertips as you heave upward, revealing a small attic library. Dark oak shelves reach the low ceiling, all of the leather spines neatly alined as if never having been touched even once: a capsule of time. A large window at the far end offers enough moonlight for your eyes to scan the embellished spines as you brush a finger over them, various French titles staring back at you. You work your way to the window, where the thin curtain is parted just enough to allow you a view of the creek, cliffside, and dark horizon where stars disappear into distant earth. 

"I shouldn't have believed her. I should've made her talk more." The words barely leave your lips before the stench of burning flesh fills your senses. Your hands shake violently. With a sudden, forceful yank, you tear the curtain from the rod. Your voice cracks, rising with rage. "I should have killed her—all of them. I shouldn't have let a single one walk away!"

You spin around and begin pulling books off the shelves, ripping at pages, thrashing them at the floor with a cacophony of thuds, until only half are left untouched. The years-old dust caking the covers explodes into your eyes, stinging them, and tears begin to fall, the painful kind. They come hard, ragged, anything but quiet. You sink to the oriental rug, burying your face into your knees and hugging them close as you sob through your teeth, scraping your nails into your shins.

You imagine all their faces: the blonde man who tortured them, the old woman you only saw once when they took Blue, all the pretty eyes beneath the stupid veils. In your head, you slash all of them to pieces. Shreds. Torn nerves and burst eyes. Until you are swimming in their entrails. 

There is a voice. In your head maybe. But no, it's real—someone touches your shoulder, and you flinch. You lift your gaze, and through it, make out the shape of warm, almond eyes, one of them half-opened beneath a swollen bruise.

Kyle kneels beside you. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, his knee touching yours the only point of connection. When your crying subsides, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state he's found you in, and wipe at your cheeks. "Sorry. I woke you up."

"I was already awake."

Silence hums between you, and he thoughtlessly picks up one of the books, thumbing through the pages, then quietly closes it.

"We all owe you our lives, you know. Nereida told us about all you did."

You dig your chin into the tops of your knees and stare off at the wall. "I still didn't do enough."

"You're doing all you can." His gaze pierces into the side of your face, making you feel translucent. "He'll be alright. Always is."

You don't know what to say to that, sighing through flared nostrils and looking down at your feet before over at him. "How is Ari?"

"He's alright. Just shaken, I think. Thank you for asking." A tinge of guilt finds you that you haven't checked on them enough. Ari, just a boy, and he's hardly crossed your mind through any of this.

"You know," Kyle continues quietly, his knuckles whitening around the book. "When we were in there, I didn’t know what to say to get him through it—because I couldn't see much hope myself. I had to watch, do nothing, while they made him memorize that goddamn book just to earn a meal. And he wasn’t allowed to share any with me." He lets out a short, bitter snort. "I've never felt so fucking weak. So powerless. Watching someone you love suffer, not knowing how to help them..." His gaze locks onto yours. "That has to be a pain worse than any torture."

His words catch you off guard, stirring something deep and unformed. All you can do is reach for him, gripping his shoulders in a firm hug, evening your heart rate. He murmurs a promise about the broth, his hand brushing your shoulder before he excuses himself. Returning to the bedroom, you check their pulses—her pinky curled around his in sleep. You press a kiss to Blue’s hair, then, without thinking, let your lips brush her father's fevered temple. All you can think of is the harsh burn of his skin, and the medicine you know he needs.

tw. reader has implied daddy issues lol I can’t help myself, Nobara Yuji and megs are in grade school tgth, not proofread bc I’m too lazy right now lol. I had fun writing this.

Megumi stares into the glass bowl of the gumball machine in the window of the corner store as he waits for his dad to finish picking out the parts for his broken down car. His eyes are trained on a blue gumball stuck beneath the turning blades at the bottom of the machine. But when he reaches into his pocket for a quarter, he only finds the wrapper of the lollipop he ate earlier.

The sound of footsteps catch Megumi’s attention, and he looks to the side to see a woman standing in front of the gumball machine next to him.

She looks inside of it for a moment before reaching into her pocket as he just did. Only she actually pulls out a shiny quarter and pops it into the machine’s slot.

“Aren’t you too old for that?” Megumi asks in a small voice.

The woman turns her head and looks down at him. “Are you the gumball police?” She asks with sincerity Megumi is only used to hearing from teachers at school.

He shakes his head, strands of inky black hair falling over his face softly. The woman’s sincere face cracks with a soft smile before she reaches into her pocket again. She pulls out another shiny quarter and holds it out in front of Megumi as an offering.

“Go ahead, I’m not gonna bite,” she says, sensing the little boy’s hesitation.

Nobara told Megumi about this during recess while they sat on the swing set with Yuji: “don’t take candy from strangers,” she said, waggling her finger to get her point across.

Megumi takes the quarter from the woman’s fingers swiftly before putting it into the slot of the machine in front of him. He’s not getting the candy from her, he thinks, only the vehicle to get the candy.

When he twists the metal knob of the machine the blue gumball trapped in the bottom falls down with a clink. He reaches in and grabs it with his tiny fingers.

“Where’s your mom, kid?” The woman asks, now leaning against the window of the store.

Megumi chews his gumball and looks up at her with an oddly stoic face. “Dead,” he mutters, words slightly muffed.

The woman’s eyes widen slightly for a moment before she clears her throat awkwardly. “Dad?” She asks hesitantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s getting a new tire for Betty,” the little boy says, slowly blinking his green eyes like a cat.

“Betty?” The woman echoes.

“Daddy named the car that. He says it’s a long story from before I was born.”

She nods softly, blowing a big red bubble with her gum. “Dads are weird like that,” she says.

“How do you know?” Megumi asks, cocking his head to the side like a befuddled puppy.

“Because I had one…for a while,” the woman shrugs. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes trained on the cars passing by outside.

“A while?”

She looks down at him, huffing with amusement softly. “You’re nosy, huh?” She says. “Yeah, I had my dad for a while.”

“Did he die?”

The woman looks at him silently for a moment. “No.”

“Did you lose him?”

Megumi stares up at the strange woman, his jaw slightly sore from the rubbery gum.

“Something like that,” she finally says.

The little boy opens his mouth to say something, but a gruff voice interrupts him. “Brat,” the voice bellows, “time to go.”

The woman looks up from Megumi’s small face, only to be greeted with a larger, more scared, version. A man with short stubble and muscles that look too toned to be real, stands behind him.

“You bothering this woman?” The man asks his son, eyes raking over the woman in front of them.

“No,” Megumi says, looking over his shoulder, “she gave me a quarter.”

The dad smirks. “Bribing my kid?” He asks the woman.

“Yeah,” she snorts, “bribing a little kid with a quarter is my go to.”

Both of them look at each other silently for a moment, but Megumi can clearly sense the unsaid words between them. He’s seen people stare at each other like they are in the Disney movies Nobara makes Yuji and him watch.

“Toji,” the man says, his scared lip quirking up.

“Y/n,” the woman says back. “I was just making sure the kid wasn’t alone.”

Megumi looks up at his dad, gauging his reaction. He’s never seen his dad look at someone like this.

“Say thanks to the pretty woman, Megumi,” Toji says, still looking at y/n.

“Thank you,” Megumi mutters. He still wants to ask the question his dad stopped him from asking, but with the way he’s looking at her, he feels like this won’t be the last time he sees you.

remedies and reasons | ch. 05

pairing — professor geto x law student reader

summary — this wasn’t supposed to happen. not that miserable internship at the law firm you hated, not him becoming your doctor, and definitely not that drunken night at the bar. but he helped, and god, you needed a friend. and he did too. except it's never just friendship with him, is it? it could be perfect—messy, complicated, but perfect. if only his heart wasn’t already taken.

word count — 12.4 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, age difference (10 years), doctor-patient relationship, angst, smoking, alcohol use, mature themes, and depictions of illness. reader discretion is advised.

previously — watching the woman he loves fall apart over satoru yet again, suguru retreated to the garden to escape. but he wasn't alone for long. you found him there, offering distraction until comfort turned to something more. he knows it's wrong, that his heart is still tangled up in someone else's mess. but sometimes being alone hurts more than making mistakes.

author's note — hi everyone ! so excited to share this new chapter with you all ! i’m already sorry if the chapter is a bit confusing bc of the two main female characters with the crossover. also there’s quite a bit happening in this one. anyway, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it (even though that party scene nearly broke me lol). let's dive in <3

series m.list + playlist + ao3 + wattpad + support my writing

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I'm fucked.

I'm so completely fucked.

My head was a mess when I kissed her—reason just gone. It was all want, need, hunger. I knew it was a terrible idea—she was my patient, practically still a student compared to me. And here, at the Zenins' party of all places, with her and Satoru just down the stairs. It was wrong and stupid on so many levels.

But God, the way she felt pressed against me, all soft curves and warm skin, the little gasps and sighs she made as I tasted her mouth, the way she clung to me like she was afraid of falling—it all conspired to destroy my better judgment.

I knew it was wrong. A voice in my head screamed that this was a so fucking wrong. I was using her, wasn't I? Trying to drown the constant ache of seeing Satoru with his girlfriend. Using another pretty face to numb the fact that I'd never have the one I actually wanted. It wasn't fair to her. She deserved better than this—a quick fuck in some rich kid's guest room. Better than a guy still hung up on his best friend's girl.

But fuck it. I wanted her. Badly. And if I was screwing up as a doctor, then at least I'd give her this. Even if come morning, I'd hate myself for it. And she'd probably hate my guts too. I didn't care. Not in that moment. Not when she was moving closer, kissing me harder, making those soft sounds that twisted something inside. She was doing that to me, something I didn't understand, something that made all the reasons why this was wrong so fucking irrelevant.

I vaguely remembered her leading me through the crowd of drunk students, dragging me in from the garden. Her hand in mine. Then stairs, a doorknob, stumbling into some empty bedroom. I shoved her against the wall, kicking the door shut behind us.

She pulled my shirt over my head, her eyes never leaving mine, and before I could even blink, I was back on her, backing her against the wall again, kissing down the curve of her neck. I knew I should end this. That I was taking advantage. But when her fingers went to my belt, undoing the buckle, I groaned helplessly into her mouth.

"Tell me to stop." My voice was hoarse as I trailed kisses lower, my hands gripping her hips hard, holding her against me. "This is fucked up. Tell me."

"Don't stop." Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. "I want this. I want you."

God. This woman. I took her mouth again, a hard, bruising kiss, all tongue and teeth and desperation. She met me with the same urgency, arching into me as I cupped her breast through her shirt. She gasped, her body tensing for a split second before melting into my touch, the soft moan that escaped her lips against mine a spark that ignited a fire in my blood. I couldn't wait to taste her, to feel her skin against mine—it was driving me insane.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't stop."

I knew I'd hate myself in the morning. Knew she'd probably regret this, resent my lack of control. The honorable thing to do would be to walk away. Now. Before it went any further.

But honor was long gone. 

"What are you doing to me?" I turned her around, her back pressed against the door. My hands found her waist, pulling her close. My cock was already so fucking painfully hard against her. But not yet. I needed to take my time, even though every fucking cell in my body screamed at me to just have her.

I grabbed her hair, gently at first, then tightening my grip as I tilted her head back, exposing her neck to my lips. Her breath hitched, and she pressed even closer against me, her body trembling slightly. "Suguru," she moaned, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. Hearing her moan my name like that, like it was something sweet, something precious, instead of the desperate cry of a woman being taken by a broken man—it was shattering my resolve, making it almost impossible to stop. 

"You're making me lose my mind, you know that?" I whispered against her skin.

Her hands reached back, fingers digging into my thighs, pulling me even closer, as if she could meld our bodies together. I let one hand slide from her waist, tracing down her hip, over the curve of her ass, feeling the rough fabric of her clothes under my palm. I wanted to tear them off, to feel nothing between us, but the anticipation, the torture of fabric between us, was driving me nuts in the best way.

My hand left her hair, now trailing up her front to her chest, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. I squeezed gently, my thumb brushing over her nipple, feeling it harden under the fabric. Her breath hitched, a moan escaping her lips. I pressed my hips forward, letting her feel just how much she affected me, my cock straining against my pants.

"Suguru, please," she begged, and I couldn't help but smile against her skin. Please never stop saying my name. I loved hearing her like this. But I wasn't done playing yet.

I turned her around, her back now against the door, her eyes hazy. "Not yet," I breathed out, my lips hovering just above hers, teasing both of us with the promise of a kiss.

I grabbed her thighs, lifted her up and carried her to the bed. I followed her down, her hands already at my zipper, pulling it open as I settled between her legs. Seeing her now beneath me, her eyes half-closed, her breath quickening, I knew I should stop. That this was wrong. There it was, the voice of reason, a small, insistent whisper in the back of my mind. But when she pressed her hips against mine, a small, involuntary sound escaping her lips, I lost all sense of reason.

I pushed her shirt up over her bra, pushing the fabric to the side to reveal more of her skin, the moonlight painting her in shades of silver and shadow. "You'll regret this tomorrow." Admittedly, the protest sounded weak, even to me, as I lowered my head, my mouth latching onto her hardened nipple.

She moaned, her head falling back against the mattress. "I won't," she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady despite her ragged breathing. "I won't regret this." Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer against her.

"You sure?" I murmured against her skin, my tongue circling her nipple, her chest pressing into my face as she arched into me. My fingers traced the undercurve of her breast, then moved downwards, teasing along the waistband of her jeans. "This is insane. We can't—"

"If you tell me this is crazy one more time," she interrupted, her voice firm, "I might actually start to believe you don't want this."

Not want this? Stupid girl. If she only knew how much I wanted to rip her clothes off, spread her legs wide, and bury my face between them, fucking her with my tongue until she was begging me to stop, before I’d tie her up and fuck her brains out. But I didn’t say any of this, of course. 

Instead, I said, "You know I do. God, you have no idea how bad." My hand tightened on her hip, not sure if I wanted to pull her closer or push her away. "But we can't. We shouldn't." The reasonable voice, once more.

"Says who?" Her hand slipped lower, brushing against my cock through my slacks, causing me to suck in a breath. "I'm not your patient here, Suguru. And you're not my doctor."

I caught her wrist, stilling her hand. "You're not thinking straight. We've both been drinking. You'll hate me in the morning."

"I'm not a child." She held my gaze. "I know what I want. I know my own mind."

Something shifted in me at her words. She saw the change in my expression, the flicker of doubt, and seized the opportunity to roll us over. Her legs straddled my hips, and for a second I was genuinely surprised at how easily she'd managed to reverse our positions, given our size difference.

"And right now," she said, her eyes locking with mine, "I want you to fuck me."

God help me, but this woman will be the death of me. She leaned down, her lips finding mine, and I slid my tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss immediately. Oh fuck all of this. I wanted to fuck her just as badly.

I sat up and pulled her closer into my lap. "Then tell me how you want it," I murmured against her neck, my lips trailing down to her collarbone, then lower, pushing her shirt up and tossing the stupid fabric over her head into a corner, my mouth finding her chest again. She arched her back, offering herself to me, her skin burning.

Her hands threaded through my hair, urging me closer. "More." And I obeyed, increasing the pressure, my tongue circling her nipple, teasing it with my teeth until she squirmed in my lap. "Do you like this?" Though I already knew the answer.

"Yes," she breathed, her eyes half-closed. "Fuck. Yes." Her head fell back, her hips beginning to move against mine, and I could feel myself getting even harder, if that was even possible, my cock already slick with precum. "Suguru." Her voice was so adorably needy, so fucking captivating. "Hurry up with the stupid foreplay."

Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. What's the hurry? I pressed myself harder against her, the fabric of our clothes doing little to dull the sensation. My hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements, forcing her to feel every inch of my length against her. It was torturous, but I loved how her breath hitched with each thrust.

I could have done this for hours—maybe we were—just watching her moan and squirm in my lap like she couldn’t help herself, her cheeks turning rosy and her eyes glassy. But then she whimpered my name again, a small, desperate sound that made me think I’d cum right in my pants. I couldn’t wait anymore. 

With one arm around her waist, I spun us around, landing her on her back on the bed. I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, my gaze locked on hers. "Do you trust me?"

She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. "Yes."

I shifted back onto my knees, releasing her wrists just long enough to thread my belt through the loops and secure it to the bedpost above her head. She watched me, her chest rising and falling quickly. I leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep kiss. "Tell me if you don't like something," I murmured against her mouth.

She nodded again, her eyes fluttering closed. I trailed kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, lower to the soft skin of her chest, down her stomach until I reached the waistband of her jeans and pushed them down, taking her underwear with them.

I kissed her inner thighs, feeling her tense and then melt beneath my touch. Her hands tightened against the belt, her breath hitching as I kissed lower, until I was fully seated between her thighs and my mouth was on her. I dragged my tongue slowly from her clit down to her entrance, the flat of my tongue pressing firmly against her. As I reached her entrance, I circled it, my tongue probing gently at first, then with more insistence, loving how she squirmed in response. I pushed inside just a bit, tasting her deeper, my tongue curling upwards to find that spot that made her breath catch in her throat. I could have stayed like this forever, watching the small, involuntary twitches of her legs when I found a spot she liked, studying her, learning the language of her body, knowing her in a way that no one else ever could.

She moaned as I slipped two fingers inside, feeling her clench slightly around me. I paused, licking up her clit, teasing her, stroking her tight with my free hand until I felt her relax, and I pushed deeper, curling inward and stayed there, applying gentle pressure.

She was unexpectedly sensitive, more so than I was used to, and I could feel her slickness increasing with every flick of my tongue, so I moved more firmly against her, could feel her shudder and clench around my fingers. God. I could get used to this kind of responsiveness.

She let loose a series of curses above me as I fucked her with my fingers, pushing deep and slow while my tongue worked on her clit. I was just about to increase my pace when I felt her clench around my fingers, her moans filling the room, wrists straining against the belt and her thighs clamping around my head. Her voice was strained, and I realized she'd cum. 

Already? After maybe two minutes. I was just getting started.

I eased my fingers slowly from her trembling form, my tongue still working on her, drawing out her orgasm until her moans turned into soft whimpers that I could really get used to. My mouth then moved over her inner thighs, feeling the slight tremble of her muscles under my lips, tasting the saltiness of her skin.

I looked up at her. She was silent, looking up at the ceiling and breathing heavily. "Are you good?" I asked, suddenly unsure. It was a stupid question, maybe, but I needed to hear it anyway. Was she already regretting it? Did she hate me now?

But then she said, "Fuck, why was that so good?" and immediately smacked her hand over her mouth, her face turning an impossible shade of red. "Can we pretend I didn't just say that?" 

I nearly laughed, but let out a heavy exhale instead. "That good?" I asked, knowing how smug that must have sounded, and the look on her face as she looked at me then told me she thought so too.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked, her voice a little shy, her gaze flickering away from mine. You can tell me anything you want, pretty, I thought. "I’d never… come before," she said, her gaze returning to mine, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "I mean, with someone else. And now I'm making this weird, aren't I? I'm totally making this weird."

Never? What? How? She was so responsive, so perfect. How could no one have—? I blinked at her, trying to process what she’d just said, the thought nagging at me. She turned even more red, her eyes darting away again. "Don’t make such a face," she whispered.

I pushed up to her, cupping her face in my hand, my thumbs brushing against her soft cheeks. "God, you're fucking perfect," I said against her lips before I kissed her, my tongue pushing past her lips to find hers. And all I could think about in this moment was how desperately I wanted to make her cum again and again, until she was so sensitive, so overstimulated, that even the slightest touch would send her over the edge with nothing but my name on her lips.

Again, I did not say that. I was a doctor, at least I should represent some sort of normalcy, right? Instead, I said, "Then let me make you come again." And I really, really wanted to.

"What? Again?" 

I released her from the belt, pulled her close by the waist, her back now pressed against my chest, lifting one of her legs up so that I could reach between them. My fingers found her clit, teasing it before I slowly pushed one finger inside her, watching her slowly arch her back further and further against me as I thrust deeper.

"You’re doing so good for me," I whispered into her ear. I added a second finger, my movements slow and gentle, savoring the way she gasped. "You take me so well.” I began to move my fingers, in and out, feeling her wetness coat my fingers, making each slide smoother.

"So your past boyfriends didn’t do it for you?" I said. "Couldn’t make you come?"

"What?"

"Why did you never come with them?" I curled my fingers slightly, searching for that spot that would make her gasp. When I found it, her body jolted, a louder moan breaking from her, her head falling back against my shoulder.

"We can’t have this conversation while you fuck me," she said, her voice strained.

"Why not?" I loved how easily she flustered, how responsive she was to my touch. "You want me to stop?" I slowly withdrew my fingers, just a little.

"No," she gasped. "Don’t stop, please don’t stop." 

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

I introduced a third finger, stretching her further, preparing her for later. I knew this would feel different, more intense, but I moved with the same slow motion, making sure she could accommodate the added fullness. Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open as a few curses fell from her lips, her hands reaching back to grip my head, her nails digging into my scalp. And I loved how she enjoyed herself, loved seeing her like this—her cheeks flushed, her eyes glossy, hips beginning to move against my fingers. It was like watching art come to life.

My mind already raced with all the ways I wanted to make her cum, in ways her past stupid loser lovers could never dream of. Wanted to show her everything she’d been missing, every sensation she’d been denied, to make her forget any other touch but mine. I thought about bending her over, fucking her from behind, or having her ride me, tying her up with ropes, teasing her with toys, with my mouth, with my cock until she was begging for release. I wanted to explore every position, every angle, to find those spots that would make her scream, to show her the depth of what she could experience with me.

"You like that?" I asked.

She nodded. "Like you don’t know that." Fair enough.

"Touch yourself." Her hand moved tentatively at first, sliding down her body. I leaned in, my lips finding her neck, kissing, then sucking gently, marking her.

I could feel her pulse quickening under my lips. "You're so hot when you touch yourself," I whispered against her skin. And it really was. My cock practically begging to replace my finger.

Her legs clamped together, trapping my hand, her muscles contracting around my fingers as she came. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she gasped out, her voice breaking. I slowed my movements, my lips stayed on her neck, my kisses turning all soft. Her hand that had been on herself now gripped my arm, holding onto me as if for dear life. Slowly, her legs relaxed, the tension in her body ebbing away, replaced by a soft trembling as she came down. 

"You good?"

She let out a small, shaky breath. "Yeah, but I… I don't think I can walk anymore."

"Good thing you don't have to." I pulled her close and towered over her, my lips finding hers again. She tasted like sex and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I couldn't get enough. My hand found her hair, tangling in the strands, holding her head gently as I deepened the kiss, losing myself in the feel of her against me, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips. For a moment, it was just us, the rest of the world fading away until—

Someone was shouting her name in the distance. And just like that the spell broke and the reality of our situation, the recklessness of it all, came crashing back in, a tidal wave of what the fucks and oh shits. We were still at the party. With Satoru. And her friends. And my colleagues. And—

Fuck.

"Is that Megumi?" She sat up, her eyes wide, a flicker of panic replacing the haze that had been there moments before as she heard the voice again. "Oh God, that is Megumi—one of my friends."

"You should find them," I said. "They're probably searching for you."

"No." She shook her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. "It’s okay."

"Go," I urged, tucking the strand behind her ear. "They're worried about you."

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with her shirt, the fabric still wrinkled from where it had landed on the floor. "Shit," she muttered, hopping on one foot as she wrestled with her shoe. Her hair was still mussed from my hands, and I watched as she tried to smooth it down and failed miserably. I had to physically restrain myself from getting up to help her, knowing exactly where that would lead.

Finally dressed—more or less—she turned to me. She bit her lip and hesitated for a moment. "'Uhm... see you," she said in that adorably awkward way of hers. And then she was gone.

I fell back against the pillows with a groan, surrounded by sheets that still smelled like her. "Fuck," I muttered to the empty room, though whether it was about my current painful state of erection or the countless ethical lines we'd just crossed, I wasn't entirely sure. 

Probably both.

From somewhere in the house, I could hear the party still going strong, could practically picture her trying to act casual, slipping back in with her friends like she hadn't just… Jesus. I needed a cigarette. A cold shower. And maybe a drink.

But first something else needed attention, I thought, glancing down at my very large, very insistent problem. My pants were definitely… tenting. Right. Priorities.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

After I took care of the problem, I headed downstairs, still hazy with lust and still slightly hard despite cumming twice to empty myself. I needed to leave. Needed to go home, clear my head, figure out what the hell I was doing here, what I was doing with her. I was way too old for this shit. But before I could make my escape, a familiar voice cut through my thoughts.

"Suguru! There you are!"

I turned to find Kento weaving through the crush of bodies. He was with some other university colleagues, clearly having a good time and taking full advantage of the free alcohol. I eyed him. He hadn't exactly been keen on coming here with Satoru and me. Satoru had basically dragged him here.

I wondered what Satoru had on Kento but they wouldn’t tell me. I should really let it go, but I can’t get my head around it. Before I could ask, Kento pressed a beer into my hand and asked, "Where'd you disappear to?" 

I shrugged. 

Fucked a patient of mine. No big deal. Had a great time, thanks for asking, even though I needed to finish the job myself. Also, I'm a fucking idiot and should probably give up my medical license.

"Look at them," Hoshino—one of my fellow colleagues—laughed and gestured to a group of students who were… doing something. I wasn't sure if I was too drunk to figure it out or if my brain just refused to comprehend that these were actually my students. Either way, Hoshino added, "Future doctors of Japan, everyone." 

As I watched them, I was kind of worried. But then again were Satoru and I any better?

"They should be studying," Kento chimed in. "Finals are coming up."

"Oh come on," another colleague, taking a sip of his beer. "We were just as bad. Remember that time—"

He cut off abruptly as movement caught our attention. The crowd parted like water, and there they were—Satoru and his girlfriend.

Strange how suddenly breathing can become hard, when it was so easy only a second ago. How it cuts into your lungs, like trying to breathe through a wet cloth until you wish you could just stop.

She was soaked through, shivering, wearing nothing but her underwear, water dripping from her hair and running down her shoulders, leaving dark trails on the already sticky floor. The thin fabric clung to her skin, revealing the lines of her body in brutal detail. She looked vulnerable. Exposed. Like prey. 

Other eyes were on them too as they walked past without acknowledging any of us, I could feel it. Whispers rippled through the crowd, heads turning, gazes lingering, devouring. It was a spectacle, a train wreck unfolding in slow motion, and everyone was watching. 

And I was watching too. My world narrowed down to just them, to just her, and the cold, sickening dread that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

But then my gaze dropped to her waist, and the air left my lungs completely. Dark marks on her skin, violent purple, disappearing beneath the edge of her lace. Burn marks. A wave of nausea rolled in my stomach.

When did that happen? Why didn't she tell me? Why didn't he tell me? Why did they never fucking tell me anything? Is she okay? Why is she undressed? What the fuck is going on here?

The crowd swallowed them up again, leaving only an awful fucking lot of unanswered questions in their wake. My mind raced through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Had she fallen? Been pushed? Had someone—?

I felt sick.

I felt so sick I thought I could vomit right there on the floor.

"He's got some nerve," Kento muttered, his voice sounding distant, like it was coming from the other side of a long tunnel, even though he stood right next to me. "Walking around with her like that in public. Lucky everyone's too drunk to remember this tomorrow."

I turned to look at him, my gaze unfocused, trying to make sense of his words. "What do you mean?"

"Come on. Everyone at the faculty knows." He threw his head back to empty his beer. "Not exactly subtle, are they?" He scoffed, crushing the empty can in his fist. "Satoru really thinks he can get away with anything. But I guess rules don't apply when your family name's on the building."

His words hung in the air, disconnected, meaningless. Like sounds without context. I stared at him, my brain struggling to process the meaning, to connect the dots. Some part of me had known this, had suspected it. Yaga knew. I'd guessed Kento knew too. But hearing it confirmed, spoken aloud, was like a punch to the gut. Fuck. Some delusional part of me had wished they didn't.

I’d wanted to believe it was still a secret, something I could control, something I could… hide. For them. And I wondered, with a fresh wave of nausea churning in my stomach, what was more worrisome—the bruises on her waist or the fact that the whole faculty knew Satoru was sleeping with one of his students? 

The whispers, the gossip, the judgment. It would cling to her, not him. I can't let that happen to her. Not her.

Yet, I felt paralyzed, my limbs heavy, unresponsive. I needed to do something. Right? But instead, I stood frozen in place, my gaze fixed on the spot where they’d disappeared into the crowd.

Kento turned to me, continuing as if I’d still been listening, his words a distant drone. "And who's gonna have to deal with the university board when shit hits the fan? I'm getting real tired of cleaning up his messes."

University board? What? 

My mind snagged on the phrase. Since when was Kento involved in this? Since when did he know? What did he mean, the university board? A thousand questions crowded my thoughts, each one a new thread in the tangled mess of this situation. Why was there so much I didn't know? Why was everyone else in on this secret except me?

I couldn't take any more of this night. The music suddenly too loud, the laughter too sharp. But I couldn't leave, not yet. Not without knowing attorney was okay.

I pushed through the crowd, scanning faces. Each flash of her haircolor made my stomach clench, each glimpse of her height made me stop, my breath catching. But she was gone.

Then blue lights flashed through the windows, painting everything in harsh stripes. Someone shouted "Cops!" and the party was chaos. Bodies pushed past me as students scattered, drinks abandoned, music cut off.

The chaos at the entrance of the house escalated faster than I could track. A punch thrown—a cop's arm flashing, then the sickening  crack of bone on flesh. Then all hell broke loose.

Students surged forward. Bodies collided. One of them charged, tackling an officer like a rugby player. "Everyone back!" a cop's voice boomed, but it only made things worse. Glass shattered. Handcuffs clicked amidst the shouts and curses.

Then I heard it—a scream that sliced through the chaos, unlike the panicked shouts around me. Someone is hurt. I shoved through the throng, shouldering past fleeing students and aggressive officers alike.

And then I saw her. My… her. On the floor, surrounded by a small group. Satoru was there, kneeling beside her. And his girlfriend, checking her pupils, talking to Satoru, who seemed frozen in place. 

She was seizing.

My mind struggled to process what I was seeing, the image burning itself into my memory. Her. Like this. It was like watching a nightmare unfold, a scene of horror playing out in vivid detail. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if they were no longer connected to my brain. I wanted to move, to rush to her side, but I was rooted to the spot. The world around me seemed to fade, the noise of the party becoming muffled, the flashing lights blurring into a chaotic mess.

But then, something clicked. A strange detachment, a clinical distance. It was like a switch flipping in my brain, the emotional circuits shutting down, the logical ones taking over. Emotions muted. Urgency heightened. Flight or fight. Doctor mode. A familiar state.

I crouched down beside her, my movements automatic, my mind already running through the checklist of necessary actions. I cradled her head, supporting her neck. My thumb gently stroked her cheek. I leaned down, my voice low and calm, meant only for her ears. "I'm here. Everything's going to be alright."

I heard Satoru on his phone, the word "ambulance" cutting through the noise. Too long, I thought, my mind racing. Too fucking slow.

"The ambulance is taking too long," I said. Without another thought, I carefully lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. She was limp, unresponsive. I stood, my legs surprisingly steady, and pushed my way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts, the flashing lights, the chaos around me. I had to get her out of here, to get her to a hospital. I had to fix this.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

I never hated hospitals before.

No. That's not quite right. To hate something, you have to care about it first. Hospitals were always just there—sterile spaces where we did our work, saved lives when we could, lost them when we couldn't. A means to an end. Nothing more. 

But now, sitting beside her hospital bed, the monitor's rhythmic beeping felt like torture. Each sound a spike driven into my skull, too loud, echoing through the otherwise silent room. Beep. Beep. Beep. Again. And again. Mechanical and cold.

I hated it. The sound, the hospital, the antiseptic smell, the stuffy air, the way my clothes clung to my skin, the way my skin felt too tight around my muscles. Beep. Beep. Beep. Again. Again. Again. I wanted to rip the damn machine off the wall, tear out its wires, and force the damn room into fucking silence.

I hated being here. Hated the reason why. Hated that my last memory of her before this was the taste of her skin, her ragged breaths in my ear, the way she'd arched against me. 

I didn't regret it. Couldn't. Not a single, fucking second. Because it had felt right in a way I couldn't explain, couldn't rationalize. It had been so long since I'd felt anything like that. It should have felt wrong. Should have tasted of guilt and mould. Instead, it felt like coming up for air after drowning for so long.

But I shoved the thought down, hard. I couldn't let myself think about what that meant. About how different it felt from the constant pain in my chest whenever I saw her—Satoru's girlfriend, my student, the woman I'd loved from afar for months. 

That pain I knew. It was a comfortable scar. A clean, familiar cut I felt in my chest every time I saw her smile at him. But this was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something I wasn't sure I had any right to feel. You're not supposed to feel this way about two people. It's not right. It's not fair to anyone, and a betrayal of everything I thought I knew.

But I don’t know how to move on—from her, from the pain, the constant reminder of what I couldn't have. It was manageable. Acceptable, even. Because I loved her, didn't I? Hadn't I always? And wasn't this quiet, persistent pain the price I paid for that love? 

I think my world changed—the moment I saw the burns on her skin at the party. Neither of them had told me. Not about the fire that had gutted her apartment, not about her injuries, not about her moving in with Satoru. I was always on the outside, looking in.

For so long, I'd deluded myself into thinking I was part of their world. But in reality, I was merely a silent observer in a world that wasn't mine. And now I was an assistant in the morgue, witnessing the autopsy of a relationship that had never truly lived.

Beep. Beep. Beep. It got louder. I stood, moving toward it. My hand closed around the power cable and—

The door opened behind me, and she stood there—the woman I'd loved for so long—still do, i think—with two paper cups of what was probably terrible hospital coffee in her hands. Her hair hung limp and dull, but she'd changed clothes, I noticed. Clearly Satoru's. Always Satoru.

"Suguru?" Her voice was small, uncertain, as she pressed one cup against her waist with her elbow to keep it there and closed the door behind her. "What are you doing?"

Yeah. What was I doing? I wasn't even sure anymore. 

Wordlessly, I sank back into my chair. I couldn't look at her. I didn't hate her—she had no fault in any of this. Right? But still, this strange anger burned in my chest. She handed me one of the cups, and I muttered a low thank you. We sat in silence, watching the shallow rise and fall of attorney's chest in the hospital bed between us.

She looked peaceful. Almost too peaceful. Her hair lay tangled on the pillow, a few stray strands brushing against her cheek. She was beautiful, even like this, even in the sterile, unforgiving light of the hospital room. The curve of her lashes against her cheekbone, the gentle slope of her nose—it was the same face I'd held in my hands, kissed, touched. 

It shouldn’t have been so unnerving to see her simply sleeping. Logically, I knew she was okay. The monitors confirmed it. But the image of her collapsing, the memory of her seizing, was a brand seared into my brain. Every breath she took, every slight shift in her position, sent anxiety crashing through me. She was so still, so vulnerable. Too still. It was a constant, silent question hanging in the air. Was she really alright? Or did I overlook something?

Needing something else to focus on, I asked her where Satoru was. Talking to the doctors, she said. I said he was using. No need to sugarcoat it. "That's not fair," she retorted. Fair? What's fair? I almost laughed. Nothing about this was fair. She asked me if I thought it was Satoru's fault. I stayed silent.

"Don't you think that he's killing himself over this?" she asked then. 

And for one horrifying second, I thought, yeah? And? Why should I care? She must have seen it in my face because she didn't wait for an answer.

"You act like it was his fault. That's not fair. He couldn't have prevented this."

"I really don't want to talk about it right now," I said dismissively.

"Do you think I'm the one to blame?" she asked then.

I looked at her, sitting in this chair that was too big for her, wearing clothes that were too big for a woman, in this hospital that was too big for a student. And for a second, I thought this was all too big for her. She should have stayed a student, stayed out of this. Should never have gotten tangled up in any of this. Not with Satoru. Not with me.

"I think you two cause trouble wherever you go," I said in a bitter tone, and I wanted to take it back as soon as it left my lips, but somehow I also wanted her to hear it. Wanted her to hurt a little. Wanted her to feel even a fraction of what it was like to be on the outside looking in. Just for a moment, I wanted to be part of their world—even if my only role was to cause pain. 

Ugly and violent, the words stood between us. They were a betrayal, a deliberate act of cruelty, and the sight of her flinching, the way her eyes momentarily flickered with hurt, twisted something inside me. It should have given me some twisted satisfaction, some sense of… I don’t know… justice? But it didn't. It just made me feel sick.

She looked so small, so vulnerable, it physically hurt to see her like this. It hurt to see her at all. It hurt to know that I was still so drawn to her, that I was still so conflicted. It hurt to know that I was capable of such cruelty, such coldness, even to her. I never wanted to talk to her like that, to be so dismissive, so distant. When all I really wanted was to be close to her. But the words had clawed their way out anyway.

I couldn't bear to meet her eyes anymore, couldn't face the hurt I’d caused. Like a coward, I muttered something about needing a cigarette and fled the room.

One cigarette became two, then three, then four, until the pack was empty and my lungs burned, but the need in my mouth remained. I saw her friends in the cafeteria, looking exhausted. I told them to go home. They hesitated, then nodded. When I returned, Satoru was there with his girlfriend. The sight of them together twisted something sharp and ugly inside me. I told them to go too. That it's late. That I'll stay.

They left without argument, which somehow made it worse. As they stepped into the hallway, I asked, almost desperate for justification, what they'd found in Naoya's room anyway. Was it worth all of this? Was it worth what she had a seizure? I needed something to make sense of it all, to make it worth it.

When she told me, my stomach lurched. We looked at each other in silence for a long moment, and the shame hit me then, a cold, clammy wave and I wondered, what happened to me. How could I have wanted to make her feel guilty, to see her hurt, even for a moment, when she was carrying this?

"I'm sorry," I said, the words hollow, inadequate for my cruelty towards her.

"It's been a long day," she said. "Don't worry about it." And then she was gone. And I was left alone with the weight of what I'd done, the weight of what she'd told me, and the sickening realization of just how much I didn't know.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

The next few hours were a numb, empty void.

Dawn crept across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of grey and pale pink. I opened the window, letting in the frigid morning air. Hoping it would scour away the unease that had settled deep in my bones.

Birds chirped in the early dawn chill, though soon they would fall silent as winter tightened its grip. You could feel it already—in the bite of the breeze, in the crunch of fallen leaves beneath the feet of early risers walking through the hospital courtyard below.

Nurses came and went, asking if I needed anything. I brushed them all off. I called in sick, canceling my shift. I couldn't leave her side, not for a second. Only for cigarettes. I needed them still.

At some point, exhaustion finally claimed me. After hours of watching her, I drifted into a fitful sleep, only to be jolted awake by a voice. I blinked against the harsh lights, my eyes stinging. It took a moment for the sterile reality to snap into focus—the white walls, the scuffed linoleum, the snaking tubes and wires. The hospital. Her hospital room.

She stirred, a small groan escaping her lips as she shifted against the thin pillows. I straightened, my neck protesting the sudden movement after hours slumped in the hard chair by her bedside. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused at first as she took in the room, the IV line snaking from her arm, the monitors beeping steadily.

"Hey." Relief washed over me as I saw her stir, a wave so intense it almost made me lightheaded. She tried to sit up, and I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, easing her back against the pillows. "Easy."

She blinked up at me. "Where...what happened?"

"You had a seizure at the party," I explained. "We brought you here. You've been out for a while." My fingers brushed her chin, a light, almost hesitant touch that seemed to startle her slightly. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and I wondered if she regretted what had happened between us as I reached for my penlight. "Follow the light with your eyes," I instructed, checking her pupillary response. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"

She shook her head, wincing at the movement. I checked her pulse, the steady throb beneath my fingertips reassuring. Her skin was warm but not feverish. It was such a relief to see her like this, to know she was okay. She was okay. I exhaled heavily.

"What time is it?" She glanced toward the window where pale light filtered through the blinds.

"Early," I replied, deliberately vague. "You should rest."

She suddenly seized my wrist, turning it to see my watch face. "Fuck!" She flung back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. I barely managed to catch her as her knees buckled, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other caught her elbow. 

"What are you doing?"

"I have to get to court!"

I stared at her in disbelief. "What?" 

"Mr. Higurama's waiting for me. We have a hearing at ten." She spoke as if this was perfectly reasonable, even as she swayed in my arms. Her face was tilted up to mine, her hands gripping my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric.

"You're not going anywhere." She tried to push away from me, to prove she could stand on her own, but her legs trembled with the effort. I tightened my hold, pulling her closer to keep her upright.

"No, you don't understand. I'm fine," she insisted, though her fingers only gripped my shirt tighter. "This case is important. I can't miss it, I need to—" She struggled for words, frustration clear in her voice. "I don't have time for this right now."

"You had a seizure," I said. "The only place you're going is back to bed."

"This isn't my first seizure, Suguru. I know my limits."

"And as your doctor, I know better." 

"Wow, are you really pulling the doctor card now?"

"Yes. And right now, you need to listen to me." Even as I said it, I felt my resolve wavering. God, she was stubborn. And that look in her eyes, something fierce but also something softer, something that made my chest ache—it was making it damn near impossible to think straight.

"Then come with me. You can monitor me the whole time. If anything feels wrong, I'll leave immediately." Her thumb brushed against my chest, probably unconsciously, but the touch startled me slightly. Or maybe it wasn't unconscious at all. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. "With a doctor by my side, what could go wrong?"

"Everything. Everything could go wrong."

I closed my eyes, wondering when exactly I'd lost the ability to say no to her. When I opened them again, she was still watching me, triumph already dancing in her eyes. Her smile widened and we both knew she'd won.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

I wondered why this court meeting meant so much to her. I'd never seen anyone get dressed quite that fast. Either this was a major case, or Higurama was stricter than I'd realized. If it was the latter, he and I would need to have a word.

Anyway, the next few minutes passed in a blur. While I handled paperwork and convinced a skeptical nurse to process her discharge, she disappeared into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes. I'd given her one of my spare dress shirts from my office—a pale blue one that had been hanging there for emergencies.

When she emerged, I almost forgot how to breathe. She was still tucking the shirt into her jeans, the fabric bunching slightly at her waist in a way that was oddly endearing. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows, giving her a slightly retro look that shouldn't have worked as well as it did. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She glanced at the mirror, fighting with those stubborn strands before turning to me. "What do you think? Can I go to court like this?"

I managed a nod, not trusting my voice. It was strange—this feeling of uncertainty, this fear of saying the wrong thing, that my voice might betray more than I wanted it to. She looked beautiful.

We ran through the hospital corridors, her hand in mine as I guided her through the maze of hallways. Every few steps, I checked her for signs of dizziness or fatigue, but she seemed steady, her steps surprisingly sure. The morning sunlight caught her face as we burst through the entrance, highlighting the escaping strands of hair and making her look even more beautiful.

We made a quick stop at her law firm. I waited in the car, ready to drive off the moment she returned. At the courthouse, she jumped out of the passenger seat. "I'll go ahead, I need to run," she said, clutching a stack of folders to her chest. "Room 34, second floor." And then she was gone.

Barely catching my breath after parking, I entered the courthouse to find the room. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. I thought hospitals were mazes, but this was worse. After a few wrong turns, I found it. The proceedings hadn't started yet. I quietly slipped into one of the long wooden pews, sitting next to an elderly woman who nodded at me, holding a notebook. Court staff, perhaps. A man in a dark blue pinstripe suit with gray hair sat a few rows ahead, and a woman next to him spoke quietly on her phone.

The room was large, with grand windows illuminating the dark wood paneling the walls and floor. And then I saw her. She stood beside Higurama at a desk—the plaintiff's table, I assumed. She leaned in, whispering something into his ear, her hand shielding her mouth.

What the hell am I doing? I wondered, watching her. Rushing through traffic with a patient who should be in bed, all because she'd looked at me with those eyes and asked. Because somewhere along the line, I'd lost the ability to refuse her anything. Not yesterday, when she pulled me close, not when she kissed me, and not this morning. When had that changed? I hadn't even noticed it happening.

Then she must have sensed my gaze because she glanced back over her shoulder. She gave a small wave, and I exhaled slowly as our eyes met. She smiled—a genuine smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She was okay. Everything was okay. I had to remind myself of that.

Then Higurama noticed me. He turned slightly, his gaze landing on me, and a chill ran down my spine. I'd definitely be hearing about this later.

I couldn't follow the hearing. Something about a trade dispute and unauthorized money transfers or whatever. I spaced out halfway through Higurama's opening statement. He was good, I could tell, but his voice was annoyingly monotonous when you heard it for twenty minutes straight. It was like being back in anatomy lecture. Hours spent staring at diagrams of the circulatory system, the professor's voice a droning hum that inevitably put me to sleep. I could almost feel Satoru's foot connecting with my shin, the sharp nudge that always jolted me awake just before I slumped over onto the desk.

I nearly dozed off until she spoke. It wasn't much—she was an assistant, after all—but she sprang from her chair when the opposing counsel said something, interjecting with a sharp rebuttal. Her hands planted firmly on the desk, she tilted her head, flicking a few stray strands of hair from her face as she addressed the other attorney. God, those strands. I wished I could reach over and tuck them back for her, anything to stop them from being so damn distracting.

She looked different—in this courtroom. Professional. In Control. She might not have chosen this path with her whole heart, but seeing her here, I couldn't help thinking she looked damn good like this. And I wouldn't want to be on the defendant's dock while she stood at the plaintiff's table. Though perhaps I already was.

The sun was still low in the sky when the hearing adjourned. People rose and began to file out. Higurama and she spoke for a few minutes beside their table. He looked pleased—even laughed for a split second. I couldn't remember ever hearing him laugh before. Hadn't even been sure he was capable of that.

Then she walked towards me, where I still sat in the gallery. "How did it go?" I asked, but the way her smile was all bright and sun had already given me my answer.

"Did you hear that?" She clutched the folders closer to her chest. "When Mr. Higurama brought up the transfer records? They're done. There's no way they can defend that misappropriation now."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I felt my lips curve into a smile. "To be honest, I have no idea what any of that was about."

"What?" She stared at me, her eyes widening. "How could you not follow? It was so interesting! The way they tried to claim ignorance of the regulatory requirements, but then Mr. Higurama pulled out those internal memos—" She stopped, seeing my blank expression. "You're a doctor. You do complex procedures. How can legal proceedings be too complicated for you?"

I probably should've been offended, but that stubborn strand of hair fell across her face again. "Brain surgery is much simpler," I deadpanned. "Cut here, snip there, try not to kill anyone. Much easier than whatever financial magic you were discussing."

"Financial magic?" She tried to look offended but couldn't quite hide her smile. "This 'magic' just won us the case—" She broke off as I reached out and tucked the stubborn stray strand behind her ear. 

"Sorry," I murmured. "I've been wanting to do that the entire hearing."

Her eyebrows quirked at my words, and I immediately second-guessed how that must have sounded. Smooth, Suguru, I thought. Real smooth. Idiot. But then Higurama was beside us, his briefcase tucked under his arm and his gaze fixed on us. I quickly withdrew my hand from her face.

"Geto," he said, his tone stern, one eyebrow subtly raised. "You're the last person I expected to see in the gallery today. I usually find you on the defendant's side of things."

"Just checking on a patient," I said, knowing he didn't believe me for a second.

"You seem to be developing a habit of going above and beyond for your patients," Higurama said dryly. "Especially lately."

"I take my responsibilities seriously."

"Clearly." His eyes flicked between us before settling back on me. "Though I recently increased my hourly rate for ethics violations, just so you're aware." The message couldn't have been clearer, and in his mind, he was probably already considering sending me to yet another mandatory seminar on professional boundaries.

"Just standard patient care," I offered.

He frowned but let it go. He reached out and gave her a brief, almost paternal pat on the shoulder, like a teacher praising a student's homework. "Good work." Then he walked past us.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

An hour later, we sat at a sidewalk café, the late morning sun warming our faces. She'd ordered some frappuccino that was more whipped cream than coffee, topped with caramel and chocolate swirls. My simple black americano looked bland in comparison and I should probably warn her about diabetes if this was her regular, but then again I'm no better as I bring the first cigarette of the day to my lips.

She’d burrowed into my jacket, the sleeves falling past her fingertips as she cradled her future diabetes. The collar of my shirt peeked out from beneath, now untucked and softened by the chill breeze that announced autumn's surrender to winter.

We settled into a comfortable silence, faces turned towards the sun, watching the Friday morning rush of people hurrying to wherever people hurry to on Friday mornings. I wondered if she felt it too, this fragile, almost surreal sense of normalcy after the chaos.

"This is nice," she murmured, her eyes closed against the sunlight. A soft smile played on her lips as she basked in the warmth. 

I hummed in agreement and exhaled a plume of smoke.

"Must feel like this in Italy every day," she said, still smiling.

"Italy?" I asked, opening my eyes and turning my head to look at her.

"Yeah. Coffee, sun… you know."

"Why Italy?"

She shrugged. "Why not? Must be nice there. Warm. Relaxing." She paused, her smile widening slightly. "I want to visit sometime."

"Italy," I repeated, the word feeling foreign on my tongue, like a word from a language I'd once known but now only vaguely remembered. "Sounds nice." I wasn't sure if I could picture myself there. Anywhere, really, that wasn't here, in this mess.

"When was the last time you were abroad?"

I was silent for a moment, trying to remember. Abroad? Had I even been? Then I remembered something. A flash of a brightly lit bar, the clinking of glasses. It had been where? Macau, maybe? Some conference Satoru had insisted we attend that had turned into a drunken escapade. That was the last time I'd left the country. Not for myself, not for vacation, but for him. For Satoru.

"Exactly," she said, after I had been silent for too long.

"The job's stressful," I said to justify my my lack of—well, life.

"Is it? Or do you just not take days off?"

"It's… complicated."

She didn't push it, though. She just looked at me for a moment, her expression unreadable, before turning her gaze back towards the sky. I watched her then, her profile sharp and delicate against the bright morning light. A small, almost imperceptible frown creased her brow as she squinted against the glare. Then my gaze dropped.

"Stop it," she said, her eyes still closed.

"What?"

"You're judging my frappuccino. I can feel it."

"I would never," I lied, though my gaze lingered on the Everest of whipped cream between her hands. "Though I'm not entirely convinced that is coffee."

She cracked one eye open. "Says the man drinking bitter bean water."

"Mine can at least be called coffee."

She huffed, a small puff of air that ruffled a stray strand of hair, then returned to her sunbathing. I found myself smiling despite myself, despite everything else we probably needed to talk about. We sat like that for a while, letting the sun warm our faces, watching the world drift by. A mother wrestling with a stroller. A businessman shouting into his phone. Two students sharing earbuds. My coffee grew cold, but I didn't mind.

She took another sip of her sugary whatever, got a smear of whipped cream on her nose, and wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"You scared me last night," I said after a while. "When you collapsed."

She lowered her drink, fingers tightening around the plastic cup. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just..." I struggled to find the right words. "I've seen a lot of seizures, but when it's someone you—" I caught myself. "When it's someone you know, it's different."

"It hasn't happened in months," she said softly. "I thought I was doing better."

"You are. But stress, lack of sleep, alcohol—"

"I know, I know. Doctor mode again?" She tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"No," I said. "Just... worried."

She met my gaze then, her eyes searching mine, and something shifted in her expression. A flicker of something I couldn't quite read. "You stayed with me all night, didn’t you?"

I nodded, my throat suddenly tight.

I'd barely closed my eyes. Every creak of the hospital bed, every change in the monitor's rhythm, sent my heart racing. It was like being back in residency, the constant fear of a code, of that flat line, of having to jump into action, knowing the next few minutes could mean the difference between life and death. But she was just sleeping. Just sleeping. Not teetering on the edge. Yet, my brain refused to distinguish between the two.

I'd replayed the party in my head countless times, searching for something I'd missed, some way I could have prevented it. Was it the stress? The alcohol? Or was there something else? Was it Satoru's fault? Something to do with her medication? Or was it her fault? Causing so much chaos? The questions had chased each other in endless circles all night with no clear answers.

She looked away, her gaze dropping to the melting whipped cream in her cup. "Thank you," she murmured, the word barely audible above the street noise.

"You don't need to thank me. Just watch out for yourself, okay?" I couldn't help shifting into doctor mode. "You know how dangerous seizures can be, especially when you're alone. The risk of head trauma—"

"No," she cut me off. "No doctor today, okay? I had a seizure, which means I get to make a wish. That's the rule."

I blinked at her, momentarily thrown. "Are you using your seizure to manipulate me?"

"Is it working?"

I leaned back in my chair, tilting my face to the sun, deciding I was too tired to fight this battle, and didn't really want to anyway. "Absolutely." She laughed, a light, genuine sound that drew a smile from me as well.

"About last night..." she began, and I immediately met her gaze, a sudden tension tightening my chest. But then my phone vibrated on the table between us. I glanced at the screen. Satoru's name. I flipped the phone face down.

"Don't you want to answer that?"

"It's nothing important," I dismissed, leaning back again.

"You sure?" We both waited until the ringing stopped.

"What were you saying?" I asked, just as my phone began to ring again. "For fuck's sake," I muttered, reaching out and declining the call. Exhaling heavily, I leaned back once more and reached for my cigarette pack. I could feel her watching me, the weight of her gaze heavy on me.

"You don't blame him for what happened to me, right?"

The question caught me mid-inhale, making me cough. "What?"

"Gojo," she said. "You don't think it's his fault, right?"

I took a long drag, buying time to choose my words. "No, it's not his fault. Seizures can happen even with perfect medication. I know that."

"But you're angry with him."

"That's complicated."

"Because of her?"

I stared at my cigarette, watching the ash lengthen. "Because of a lot of things."

"Like what?"

I took another drag, exhaling slowly. I didn't answer.

"Don't be angry with him." She pulled my jacket tighter around herself. "Or with her. What happened last night wasn't anyone's fault."

"I'm not angry."

"You are." She leaned forward. "Last night was the most fun I've had in—I can't even remember how long. For once, I wasn't thinking about law school or my internship or all the ways I'm failing to be who I really want to be. I was just... me." I watched her face as she spoke, her expression earnest and open. "And yes, I had a seizure. But that's not Gojo's fault, or yours, or hers, or mine. Sometimes things just happen. There's no one to blame."

She picked at the label on her empty cup, her voice softening. "You know... my mom used to call my school every time we had a field trip. She'd list all the things that could trigger a seizure—physical activity, excitement, stress. Eventually, the teachers just stopped including me." She smiled, but there was hurt behind it. "I'd watch my classmates go off to sports days, museum visits while I sat in the library, 'for my own safety.' Mom meant well, but..."

"But she was suffocating you," I finished quietly.

"Yeah." She sighed. "Everything became about managing risk. Don't do sports, don't go to sleepovers, don't get too excited." She shrugged, a small, weary gesture. "When I got to university, I promised myself I wouldn't live like that anymore. Scared of my own body, always waiting for the next seizure."

"Is that why you came to the party?"

"Partly." She met my gaze. "But mostly because, for the first time in a long time, I felt… free. Like I could just be myself. Not someone's patient or someone's responsibility."

"And yes," she continued, a small smile returning to her lips. "I had a stupid seizure. But I also had an amazing night. I danced. I laughed. I…" A faint blush touched her cheeks. "I did things my mother would probably have a heart attack over. And I don't regret a single thing."

Relief flooded through me at her words. I'd been carrying the weight of guilt since morning—for letting things go so far, for taking advantage of the moment, for not being stronger. For crossing a line I knew I shouldn't have crossed. For betraying… well, for betraying a lot of things, including my own sense of what was right. I'd been so afraid of what she would think, of the disgust or hurt I expected to see in her eyes if she knew how conflicted I was, how fucked up my feelings were. I'd been bracing for her to hate me. To see me as the predator I felt like.

But here she was, telling me she didn't regret it. Maybe I hadn't ruined everything.

Still, a nagging voice reminded me of all the reasons this was stupid. I was her doctor, technically. She was young, still figuring out her path. And I… I was a mess. And, worst of all, I was still caught up on someone else. Someone I couldn't have. Someone I probably shouldn't even want. But watching her now, face tilted to the sun, wearing my clothes and talking about breaking free—it was getting harder to remember why I was supposed to resist this. Why I was supposed to resist her.

The memory of her body against mine, of her whispered "don't think" in that garden, made my chest tight. Not from guilt, but of something other, something I hadn't allowed myself to feel in—God, how long had it been? I couldn't even remember. It was a tightness of longing, I think. Her skin against mine, the soft curve of her waist beneath my hands, the way she’d leaned into me, trusting me. It had felt so right. So incredibly, undeniably right. Like finding a missing piece of myself I hadn't even known was gone, a key that unlocked a door I hadn't realized was bolted shut.  

She'd been right—sometimes thinking too much was its own kind of prison. But wasn't sleeping with her, knowing what I felt for Satoru’s girlfriend, a different kind of prison? One I was building for myself? One that would trap her too?

My phone buzzed again. We both ignored it.

"When was the last time you just let yourself be happy about something," she asked, her gaze steady on mine, "without worrying about everyone else?"

The question hit harder than I expected, and suddenly I felt an almost overwhelming need to answer the phone. "Sorry," I mumbled, reaching for it. "I should check this." She gave me a long look, probably knowing that I was only dodging the question. 

Satoru's voice, rough and strained, crackled through the phone as he told me he’d just coughed up blood.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

Satoru's restless shifting on the hospital bed was driving me mad. Shift left, shift right. Legs crossed, uncrossed, spread wide, drawn narrow. He tugged at his sleeve, then worried a loose thread, before fussing with his collar. If I didn't hold his X-ray scans in my hand that basically read that he's was dying I would have lost it.

I was back at the hospital far sooner than I wanted. We'd run every possible test—blood work, chest X-rays, CT scans, anything that might tell us what we already knew. I'd slipped the new lab tech a few ten thousand yen notes to keep Satoru's name off the official records as I handed over the test tubes and told him to hurry. He was new to the hospital, fresh out of some training program, but he certainly knew how to bargain.

Later, when he shuffled into my office with the results, another few ten thousand yen changed hands. Insurance to keep his mouth shut. The way his eyebrows shot up from behind his greasy bangs told me this wasn’t his first unusual request. Just the most lucrative.

The reports spread across my desk confirmed what I'd already saw in Satoru. His skin the color of curdled milk, almost translucent, the blue of his veins more visible than usual, eyes slightly bloodshot and shadowed, and faint bruises bloomed on his arms and legs—likely from fragile capillaries.

If he weren't dying, I’d have been angry with him. God, I wanted to be angry. Wanted to shout at him, ask why he'd let it get this far. How many times had I warned him? How many conversations about getting help, about fighting his addiction? This will kill you. I'd told him again and again and again. And now, it was. 

He seemed almost surprised, like a child who'd never grasped the concept of consequences. But he knew. He had to. He's a doctor, for God's sake. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, yet he ignored every warning, every plea, until it was almost too late, or at least, fucking difficult to reverse.

I'd been warning him since his first stay in rehab. But nothing ever worked. Not when I begged him to try rehab, and he lasted a mere two weeks. And not after the thing with Sukuna, when he sought help on his own. That time, he managed three weeks and two days before checking himself out again.

We never truly talked about it afterward, and now I wonder if that was the initial mistake. It was during our second year of residency. Satoru changed after that. He became... better. The best, even. He surpassed me, surpassed all the other residents in our year. Hell, he was even better than some of the attending physicians. But he also became harder, more demanding.

He never said it outright, but his actions did. He would never be helpless in an OR again, never not know what to do. So he became meticulous, painstakingly precise, almost obsessive in everything he did. Younger colleagues were ruthlessly criticized for mistakes under his watch. He demanded perfection, needed it. It made him the best surgeon in the hospital, but at what cost?

His drug use became regular around then, no more experimenting. Again, he never said it outright, but I knew. The way his mood swings lessened, replaced by a consistent, artificial steadiness. I could only assume.

Sukuna left Tokyo after that, heading to the coast where the sun shines. We stayed. I probably would have followed Satoru anywhere if he'd decided to leave, but we stayed. But even staying in the same city, we began drifting apart. Satoru eclipsed me. Surged ahead, tackling more complex surgeries, receiving invitations from other hospitals, climbing the career ladder faster than I could blink.

I was okay with that. He is my friend, after all. I should be happy. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, that he was running from something. He was stable, of a sort, if you could call being a high-functioning addict stable. Never made mistakes anymore. Not in surgery, not when Yaga offered us teaching positions at the university after residency, not in research. He was, one could say, perfect.

"How bad is it?" Satoru asked, and I struggled to find the words. 

How bad? How could I tell my best friend since high school that "bad" didn't even begin to describe it? It was more like the end. Like there was no way to fix this. Like it was too late. And I wondered, why did it have to end like this? Would any of this have happened if I hadn't—if she hadn't entered our lives, his life? 

He loved her. I knew that. And God, I loved her too. But I also hated her sometimes. For what she’d done to him. When she entered the picture, it was as if Satoru had been violently thrown off course. His use changed again, different meds this time, stronger ones, more of them. He spiraled downwards, relentlessly, until we arrived at this point—Satoru on the brink of death, and me having to tell him. How the fuck do you tell your best friend something like this?

"Suguru."

Suddenly, I snapped back to reality. I must have drifted off for a few seconds, because he was looking at me like I was a ghost. Funny. Considering he was the one closer to death.

─────── ౨ৎ ───────

When I finally got home after what felt like an eternity in the hospital, I was exhausted in a way I'd never been before. Years of university and residency a fucking joke in comparison. I let my shoes and jacket fall where they may and collapsed onto the sofa.

I lay there for a few minutes, maybe hours, not moving an inch. I knew I needed to eat something, take a shower, needed desperately to sleep. God, I could have slept for thirty hours straight. Satoru had pushed me to my fucking limit, his self-destructive ass seemingly determined to drive me insane. Rescheduling treatments until the last minute, treating his lab work like some kind of sick game.

I groaned, rolling onto my back so I stared at the ceiling. My head throbbed. I rubbed my temples with my fingers and closed my eyes. Then I remembered what she’d said to me, "When was the last time you just let yourself be happy about something without worrying about everyone else?"

And as I lay there, I couldn't remember. Everything blurred together these days—the constant worry for Satoru, for his girlfirend, the mess with Naoya, the endless pressure, the suffocating weight of responsibility for everyone and everything. I cared about them both, deeply, desperately, but they were tearing me apart. 

And I realized, finally, that I couldn't keep banging my head against the same brick wall, trying to fix what was broken, trying to control the uncontrollable. I was stretched too thin, frayed to the breaking point. I needed… something. Something to give. Something to take. Something to change. But what?

I reached for my phone and texted her.

[2:17 PM] Me: Everything okay? Did you eat yet?

I stared at the screen, waiting for an answer. It was stupid, I know. She had a private life, of course. But a frantic, almost irrational urge gripped me. If she didn't respond within the next five minutes, something must be wrong. I'd drive to her dorm, the same dorm I'd dropped her off at after the courthouse earlier that day.

I waited. 2:18 PM. Then 2:20 PM. My mind raced, conjuring worst-case scenarios. Is she okay? Did something happen? I shouldn't have let her go. I should have stayed with her. She had a fucking seizure, what was I thinking, bringing her to court, letting her work like that? I was halfway out of the sofa, reaching for my keys, when her reply finally arrived.

[2:21 PM] Attorney: I'm fine, doc. No need to worry. I ate plenty. How are you?

Relief washed over me, so intense it was almost dizzying. But the stupid, irrational urge to drive to her, to see her with my own eyes, still lingered.

[2:21 PM] Me: Exhausted but okay.

[2:21 PM] Attorney: Tell that to the girl with the seizure.

I nearly laughed. I really shouldn't laugh at that.

[2:22 PM] Me: Are you free next friday?

Three little dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. She was thinking. Then, finally, an answer.

[2:24 PM] Attorney: Yeah, I am. What do you want to do?

[2:24 PM] Me: You wanted to see Italy, right?

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author's note — OMGGGG you don’t know how HAPPY i am that that stupid fucking party scene is finally over and dead for good. i was so excited to write this crossover, but it was a nightmare to write and i will never do that again byeee. anyway, thank you so much for reading and for all your patience with the slower updates lately.

i've been struggling a bit with the story recently, but i'm actually quite happy with how this chapter came together. idk if i’m allowed to say that. & we've finally reached that point where suguru gets his act together and realizes he needs to move on to be happy again. though of course, while he starts finding his happiness, the other couple's situation is about to spiral even more downhill bc someone must always suffer in my writing.

also, sorry if having two "she/her" characters without names was confusing ! i tried using descriptors like "attorney" and "his girlfriend" to differentiate them, but i know it probably feels a bit off. if anything wasn't clear, message me and i'll try to edit for better clarity. for those interested in more background on the reader personas, you can check that out here.

& yes i know the timeline with days is completely messed up now. this is what happens when you don't plan ahead but we're all just gonna collectively ignore that it makes no sense okay thank you.

also made a tandem reading guide to help keep track of the parallel storylines. hope that makes it easier to follow along. you can find it here.

thank you all so much for reading and for your support ! your comments and messages always make my day. can't wait to hear your reactions. next chapter will be quite cute and maybe a bit steamy too. as always, love chatting with you all about the story & have a wonderful weekend <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa @myahfig4 @wiserion

@depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker @paolarox01 @shoruio @rosso-seta

@bnha-free-writing @gojoswaterbottle @sugurbo @sadmonke @ihearttoru

@momoewn @plixy @yokosandesu @nakariabnrb @fairygardenprincesss

@lymsfm @mylovelessnightmare @wiseearthquakebeliever @sujiroses

@gojossugarcandy @cosmotoic @syubseokie

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.

The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.

But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.

"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"

Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.

"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"

"He'll talk."

Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.

"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.

He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."

"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.

Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."

Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—

"Salome?" you speak up.

His eyes snap open at the name.

You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."

At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"

Ghost covers his mouth.

You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."

The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."

The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.

"Only one for... offerings."

You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."

He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"

"I can... show you."

"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."

Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."

"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.

Ghost exhales roughly.

Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."

"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."

The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.

No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."

"Shut up."

Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.

You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.

"Is this it?"

"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."

Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.

Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"

"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."

Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.

The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.

Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.

Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"

The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.

You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"

Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."

Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"

"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle. 

For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.

But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.

---

B

Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.

She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.

He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.

"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.

"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.

"Because I said so."

"Why are we here?"

"I need to get something."

"What for?"

The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.

Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.

"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.

"I want to go back, daddy."

"You're not going back."

"I want to!"

He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"

She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.

"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"

"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.

"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"

She struggles to breathe.

"Tell me, do you understand?"

"Daddy, I—"

"No. Not daddy. Ghost."

"Ghost... please, I want to go home."

His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.

"Blue."

Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"

She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."

"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."

When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.

They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.

Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"

Blue grits her teeth.

The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"

"I understand."

Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.

The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.

The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.

When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.

As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?

"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."

Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.

Dad?

She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.

A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.

"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"

The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.

A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.

The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.

"Come on, come on."

Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.

"Stupid girl!"

Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.

Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.

"Fuck you!"

It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck. 

"Maman!"

Pierre shouts, rushing over. 

Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.

---

T

The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.

The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire. 

"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.

You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.

"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"

His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.

"Il y a putain de feu!"

"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.

You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night. 

"Simon, we have to get to her!"

"Where's the chapel?"

"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."

The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—

Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.

The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.

"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price. 

You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.

"Where are they?" 

Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs. 

"Price can handle it. Come on."

For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.

"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"

The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.

He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"

His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."

"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.

He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."

Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.

"I peed by that car. The chapel’s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.

The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.

---

B

Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.

"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.

When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.

Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."

Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite. 

She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.

"Blue!"

It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark. 

When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees. 

"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-delà!"

The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.

Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him. 

"D-daddy," she croaks.

"It's me, it's me."

"I-I'm alive."

Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak through the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children, or SA, triggers you do not read. I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

The world sharpens as your senses return, zeroing in on the empty, crumpled sheet where Blue had lain beside you. She’s gone. Your deadened limbs failed her. Guilt rises, choking your dry throat. When your hands can move, you grab the pillow, pressing it to your face. A few hot tears escape. It smells like her hair.

They took her. 

She's gone— 

A gentle voice speaks, and a hand settles on your shoulder. Only then do you notice your body trembling. You lift your face from the pillow, staring up at Nereida. Her lips move, but her words don’t reach you. Something stirs inside you, deep in your chest, clawing its way toward your mouth. When the door creaks open and Salome steps in with a tray of dinner, it finally bursts free—a roar of pure rage.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell me where she is.”

Salome startles, nearly dropping the tray as you fling yourself at the bars.

“I-I understand you’re upset, and I’m sorry we had to subdue you again, but it was only—”

“I don’t give a fuck! Answer me! Where is she?”

Her knuckles whiten around the tray, eyes darting away. “The child has... her own job, as we all do.”

Your lip curls. “Are you brain-dead under that stupid veil? Why take her? She’s a child! Why not one of us?” You lean closer, voice breaking. “If you want me pregnant so badly, fine! Do it now! Just bring her back—bring her back!”

Salome blinks, unnerved, her composure slipping.

“If you’ve killed her,” you hiss, heat flooding your face, “I swear to God, I’ll kill myself—”

“No!” she interjects, stepping forward, wide-eyed. “Don’t speak like that, I beg you. She... She’s alive. For now.” Her voice drops, reverent. “But Maman has plans for her. You must understand—Maman knows the Lord’s will. It is not our—" her throat bobs with a swallow,"Our place to question her decisions.”

“Alive for now ?” you snap. “What plans does that bitch have for her?”

Salome hesitates. For the first time, she looks uncertain.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I can’t... I mustn’t say. In time, you’ll understand.” She lowers the tray onto the floor and nudges it closer, staying out of your reach. “Please. You must eat. It’s only food this time, I promise. And the tea is for your bodies—to prepare you. Maman insists you drink it all.”

“You really think we’re stupid enough to eat or drink anything you give us?”

Her voice dips into a whisper. “I fear I... I must insist. If you refuse... I’ll have to tell Maman. She’s chosen to keep the males you came with because they are healthy and strong. But if she hears of your disobedience...” Her voice falters, and she tucks her hands into her sleeves. “There needn’t be any unnecessary deaths.”

Unnecessary deaths. 

The door clicks shut behind her when she leaves. You sink to your heels, spine against the bars, as Nereida reaches for the tray. Closing her eyes, a single tear escapes before she rubs her chest and exhales. With no choice, you both eat the braised beef and roasted carrots, though you bitterly imagine it tastes like the unseasoned squirrel meat you're used to.

The tea smells herbal and bitter. On your tongue, the taste makes you recoil.

"I think it's turmeric and parsley," Nereida says softly, taking another sip. "It's good for... regulating our cycles."

You stare into the mug, swirling the warm liquid inside. The urge to dump it on the floor flickers, but the risk of someone noticing holds you back. Instead, you take another sip, chasing it with food to mask the taste. Your thumb brushes the rim, finding a sharp chip in the ceramic. Pressing it deeper, the sting hums as a bead of blood wells up. You suck on it, brows furrowed, a half-formed plan taking shape. Without hesitation, you finish the tea and smash the mug on the floor, startling Nereida.

"Why did you—"

You gather the two biggest shards. "We have weapons now. Break yours when you're done."

"So what’s the plan? Stab her with it?" She shakes her head, frustration clear in her voice. "She’s dumb, but not dumb enough to get close enough for that—not after you just said you want to kill her."

"Well, it's something." Your lips tighten along with your hand on the sharp edges. "At least I’m trying to think of an idea instead of just—just praying my military husband comes to save me."

Her eyes flash with hurt. "I'm trying to think realistically instead of acting rash." She gestures to the broken pieces. "She just threatened to kill them if we do anything to upset this Maman person, and you go breaking the cup. You think they'll be happy about that?"

"I'll say it was an accident. I'm a clumsy female who just couldn't help myself."

"You're not thinking clearly, Twix. I know you're upset about Blue—"

“And you’re not?” you hiss. “We failed her. She’s just a kid, and we failed her. Who knows what they’re doing to her right now. We don’t have time to sit around waiting for Price. He’s not coming! Even if they don’t kill him now, you really think they won’t at some point? These people are insane.” Your voice drops lower. “They’re going to rape us, Nereida. Don’t you see that? They’ll wait for us to ovulate, then breed us like livestock to feed into their delusions. What happens when they find out you can’t have kids? You think they’ll keep you around? You think they’ll still ‘covet’ you?”

Moisture wells in her eyes, and she blinks. "I don't—I don't know. But what can we do? We can't reach her, and they won't open the cell without drugging us again. Even if we could get out, we can't handle everyone out there with just pieces of a broken mug." The tears spill quietly, and she stuffs her face in her hands. "You're right. I've always relied on him. I don’t know how to survive any other way."

Your face softens a little, and you breathe deeply to regain some composure. "I shouldn’t have said that. We’re both scared."

She whispers through the gaps in her shaking fingers. "I was never supposed to live like this."

You reach for her hands, holding them tight. "You were, or you wouldn’t still be here."

The words offer fragile solace despite how steady you force your voice to be.

The rest of the meal is in silence.

The helplessness in the room is suffocating, reminiscent of the week you spent alone in the woods, sleeping in trees and dreading the break of dawn. No—it’s worse than that. It feels more like when Ghost broke your bow and left you for dead, chewing on pine needles to soothe your empty stomach. Funny how this time there’s a delicious meal in front of you, and you’re swallowing it down only because you’re forced. You even have a real bed to slip into, a yielding pillow to rest your head on, yet the helplessness remains, unwavering.

"I'm sorry, Blue. I'm trying," you whisper, clutching the shards of ceramic and slipping them under the pillow.

You replay everything in your head: the lack of items in the room, the bolted cell door, and what Salome said— Maman has plans for her. The moon rises, and you remain awake, even as Nereida succumbs to fatigue. You force your eyes to keep scanning the dark surroundings, despite the lingering effects of the drugs threatening to pull you into sleep. There has to be something you're missing—maybe not in the room, but in Salome's words. What else did she say? You were so angry, you can hardly remember.

It feels like well past midnight when you hear a male voice outside the door and the shift of footsteps.

"Trois minutes, Hugo."

A low chuckle. "Trois minutes, c'est tout ce dont j'aurai besoin."

"N'oubliez pas de ne pas toucher. Et ne vous en vantez pas auprès des autres. La nouvelle se répandra et Maman ou Alexandre l'entendront."

The air shifts when the door parts. You launch up, inhaling sharply when a shadowy figure enters along with the faint scraping of boots. Salome? But broad shoulders give way to an unfamiliar man that steps into the sliver of moonlight, and panic sets in quickly.

Breathless, you rip the sheet from your body.

Nereida stirs. "Twix—?"

You rise to your bare feet, standing a meter from the bars as you take him in. A light smile plays at his lips, which might’ve seemed friendly if you weren't poorly covered by the barely-there slip dress. Unlike Salome, his face is exposed beneath the hood of his grey cloak. You make out a strong nose, ashen brows, and blonde hair. He looks to be in his thirties, much shorter than Ghost. He murmurs something in French beneath his breath that makes your hands clench, then reaches into a pocket in his cloak.

He retrieves three metal chains. 

In his upheld hand, the dog tags quietly collide.

Your breath hitches as his eyes flick to yours, and the moonlight catches on the engraved names.

"I'm a friend of your friends," he greets coyly in a hushed, strong accent.

"John," Nereida whispers, ripping herself up from the bed. 

The man nods, the subtle smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, but it fails to reach his eyes. They remain cold. "Yes. We've all grown rather acquainted."

"You've hurt them," you snap, grabbing Nereida's wrist and pulling her closer. "Cut the bullshit."

He wraps the chains tightly around his wrist before tucking them away, then looks at you in a way that leaves your mouth tasting like the dinner you just ate. "A female who bites. I will look forward to making you submit as a God-fearing woman should."

You clutch at the hem of the gown, terror whispering in the back of your mind from his words. Something feels wrong.

"Why are you here?" you ask measuredly. "I thought... it isn't the right time for us to... to get pregnant. I thought only women are allowed to see us right now."

"I've heard whispers of the new beautiful women God has gifted us," he says, his English choppy. "I wanted to see for myself. I've been... working hard to please the Lord, you see. Your friends are not so easily broken. Surely, in His eyes, I've earned just a glimpse."

Nereida tenses beside you. 

You rear a snarl at him. "Where are they?"

He holds up a finger. "Ah, ah, pretty face. You will have to let me see more if you would like to know. I have just three minutes with you. Two now that we've been wasting time."

Cold sweat coats your palms as his request sinks in, and you glance at Nereida. "I'll do it," you whisper. "You can just... just look away."

"No," his growl interjects. "Both of you, or nothing."

Even in the dark, her face pales. But when he pulls the chains back out and waves them around harshly, her hands dart to the hem of the dress and she peels it up without the chance to rethink it. You follow in stride, teeth gritted, as you scoot a step away from her and do the same, feeling the chilled air brush sickeningly against your bare skin. You've done this before, yet this time you are wholly naked under the stranger's gaze, and your hair is not long enough to conceal your breasts. 

When you hear him unbuckle his belt, you remove yourself from your body, mentally retreating to a far corner of the room to block out the horror.

"Tell us where they are," you press.

He chortles, breath catching when he grabs himself. "This land belonged to Maman's husband. It is a farm. New men we keep in the old slaughter house, by the barn, like the swine they are."

"And what about the girl," you interrupt urgently, "The young child who was with us. Why would Maman want to take her? Where else would she be keeping her?"

He grunts low. "I never said I'd answer about the girl, but if you touch yourself, I will consider it."

Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding. Nereida breaks, folding into herself and whispering, "I can't. I can't."

"I will," you whisper, your hand already sliding down your stomach, your eyes locking on his. "If I touch myself, will you tell me?"

His eyes narrow to where your hand dips unthinkingly between your thighs. You keep it there, doing what he wants, putting on the show that will make him talk. His shoulders ripple at the sight and audible groans bounce off the walls.

He clears his throat, voice rough. "I haven't heard nothing yet about the girl. But Maman says God’s punishing us... the land’s... sick. The wheat grows less and less. Only way to fix it—feed God's enforcers." 

"His enforcers?" you question.

"The démons."

"The Greys," you whisper, confusion flickering before clarity dawns.

A flash of the vermin-filled chapel plays through your mind—the bites in the corpse—and your hand jerks away from your thighs. The horror clicks into place, slow and suffocating, until all the color drains from your face. Blue... Is she an offering? An offering to God, just like the one you saw. They think the Greys are His enforcers. They will feed her to them. The thought claws its way through your head, and you feel a fresh wave of cold horror crash over you.

"When?" you croak. "When would Maman— feed them?"

"God's wrath... started on the sixth day," he murmurs absently, eyes rolling back. "That’s when we seek His forgiveness."

With a final grunt, his body jerks, and the spill lands on the floor. Bile rises in your throat, but you can’t even register it as you watch him stuff himself back in his pants and smear the mess with the sole of his boot, muttering something under his breath. You snatch the dress from the floor and stuff it over your head, legs wobbly. Faintly, you hear him laugh quietly.

"I can only pray I'm deemed worthy come the next coupling season. And when that time comes, I will be sure to choose you." 

---

B

Warm water kisses the back of her neck, and gentle fingers scrub soap through her hair. The woman bathing her hums softly, matching the rhythmic pulse in Blue's arm. As Blue closes her eyes, she tries to separate reality from nightmare, pressing two fingers into the clothed wound as if the pain will help her understand. She remembers the Greys coalesced in the old building, the chains used to restrain them, and the terror-blurred walk back to the small commune. After that, everything becomes hazy. She slept a little, she thinks. Was made to eat again. Then somehow, she ended up here, submerged in a wooden tub of lukewarm water, while a young woman quietly encourages her to dip her hair back to rinse.

"There. Time to dry off now."

There is the shuffling around as she fetches a towel. Blue crosses her arms over herself as she accepts it numbly, the air prickling her wet skin. Her feet land on cold tile floor as she dries off, the woman lingering beside the bathroom door with her head bowed. Blue feels like someone has strings coiled tightly around her limbs, puppeteering her. 

"Put this on for now." A light smile is offered as the thin gown is placed in her palms. "Maman will have a much nicer dress for you to wear tomorrow."

A puppet string is tugged, making her nod. "Can you... can you look away please?"

The woman turns and stares at the back of the door while Blue drops the towel and changes. 

Then she is taken back to the room she came from. The one she first woke up in, where the old woman's knitting needles still rest on the table. Morning light caresses the paintings on the walls, all oiled landscapes of land that looks similar to the one outside. The woman, whose name Blue thinks she mentioned to be Eloise, shuffles around the room, tidying things, before collecting the tray from breakfast. But when she glances back at Blue on her way out the door, her lips part in concern.

"You're bleeding."

Blue looks at the bandage on her arm, where red blood oozes in a trail, a bead dripping onto the floor from the tip of her finger. She frowns, confused, when Eloise sets the tray down to tend to the cut—as if they aren't the ones who caused it. As if the blood smearing her skin when she unwraps the cloth isn't the same blood they used to draw out the two Greys they brought back to the commune and locked up in a small shed. 

"I know you're frightened," the young woman whispers, her voice carrying an understanding that feels deeper than anything Salome ever said. Behind the veil, her eyes flick up to meet Blue's. "I can only pray God's mercy makes it quick." She dabs Blue's arm gently and rewraps it with a fresh strip of cloth.

"You mean they are going to kill me, right?" Blue whispers distantly. "With the Greys from yesterday?"

A glint passes through the woman's eyes, and she lifts her hands. "Yes," she says quietly, then leaves the room. 

Blue stands in the silence, eyes fixed on the drop of blood. She presses her heel into it, smearing it across the floor. Then, she moves. The fear she's carried since the old woman led her into the trees claws at her chest, but she swallows it. Trembling hands sweep over the room—checking the window, the locked door. The bed, the table, the paintings. Beneath the bed, only cobwebs.

A helpless croak escapes her lips as she collapses onto the bed, teeth clenched against the tears. Her father would never accept her giving up. Tomorrow they will kill her. She sits up, palms pressed to her forehead, knees drawn tight, dry sobs wracking her body. Through her tears, she notices the smear of blood from her heel left on the white linen. She flips over her foot and traces the dried blood with her finger, then digs her nail into the broken skin where the gravel road tore into her feet, seeking more pain—urging fresh blood to rise from the indent she leaves behind.

---

G

The last time Ghost was chained, he hadn’t known about the little girl who shared his blood—someone who truly needed him. Tommy was still alive then, of course, but he had his own family. If Ghost had succumbed to Roba’s torture, his brother and mother would have mourned briefly, held a small funeral, then moved on. The world would have forgotten his name. Part of him would have been pleased with that—but somehow, Simon Riley’s more stubborn side had survived.

That stubborn part of him refuses to close his eyes, not even for a second, because this time, he is fully aware of the girl who needs him.

With no windows to mark the time, Ghost can only gauge it by the man who beats him. The man alternates between striking him with a metal bar and taunting him with food and water, tossing them just out of reach so the smell can ignite pangs of hunger. There was once he showed up with an old woman, who clinically poked and prodded at Ghost's arms and abdomen, as if in approval. The longest absences of visitation likely indicate the man’s sleep, meaning two nights have passed since Ghost woke up here. His increasing difficulty in keeping his eyes open confirms it. 

Even through swollen eyelids, visions invade the darkness—four faces merging, their screams echoing, sharp and pleading. First, his mother. Then Sara. As they turn to ash, the two other faces remain, their screams fading into buttery laughter. Water splashes his cheek as they play in a creek, then their lips fall silent, and their faces sink below the surface. He reaches for them but can only stare as their eyes drain of life. Still, they remain accusatory. Disappointed. 

A slam of the door shatters the images.

"I think you will be pleased to hear the news I bring, Brit."

It must be morning. Ghost's gaze drops to the floor in persistent defiance, refusing to acknowledge him. His muscles loosen in preparation for the bar's routine assault, but a vein in his jowl ticks when he detects a new sound; the quiet slither of a whip against the concrete. 

Without warning, it recoils and lashes out with a sharp crack. The sting spreads through every nerve-ending, and he feels a gush of hot blood from the newly opened wound. A quiet, strained grunt slips through his teeth, and his chin dips to his sternum as pain robs him of the ability to hold it up. 

Casually, like a friend, the man hums, only his boots visible in Ghost's vision. "I saw them. They are well-kept, you should know, and they are indeed beautiful. A gift from God." The tail-end of the whip caresses Ghost's shoulders then slips to the floor soundlessly. "The child, though, I am disappointed to say she wasn't there."

Ghost stiffens.

His nostrils flare.

"Why wasn't she there?" he forces out.

"Ah. The child is yours, yes? The... fierce one was concerned for her as well." He bends, rubbing his jaw callously. "So concerned, in fact, that she was willing to show me more than I had even come for. Quite eager, too. Let me tell you what I told her—I know nothing of the plans for the girl. I can only guess, as you can, that they will not be pleasant."

"I will... kill... you," Ghost manages, his low voice thick with fury, each word a strained rasp through clenched teeth.

When his fingers twitch, weakly forming fists, the man pats his shoulder with a light laugh. "I will say, I am sorry you do not have a son, instead. Maman says daughters are the purest, most God-abiding of us all. With all due respect to her, this is where we disagree." He tilts Ghost's head back, locking eyes with him, his breath brushing against Ghost's face."They’re whores, all of them. Waiting to be bred. That's why the fierce one was dripping wet when she touched herself—"

In one swift motion, Ghost sinks his teeth into the first piece of flesh he can reach, tearing through skin. Blood fills his mouth, spilling between his teeth. The man jerks back, part of his cheek torn away, his eyes flashing with pure rage as he clutches the bleeding wound with his hand.

"You fucking, lowly swine." He spits out a mouthful of blood, then retracts the whip with a savage snarl. Another strike lands on Ghost's back—harder this time. Another follows. The blows come faster, until blood pools beneath his boots, and his eyes finally close no matter how much strength he tries to muster to keep them open. 

---

T

The sixth day.

If the Sabbath is the seventh day, then the sixth day would be Friday. The outbreak began on a Friday; God's wrath.

You trace the wrinkles in the sheet, trying to count back to the last day you can remember—back when Blue still announced the dates from the calendar Ghost kept track of. You recall it was the 12th of April, weeks ago. But what day of the week was it? Frustration bubbles up as you tear at the sheet, the harsh reality sinking in: you don’t even know how many days have passed since then.

Morning breaks in washed-out hues, accompanied by the low call of a nearby dove.

Growing content with the regular feedings, your belly hums in anticipation against your will.

"Ask her what day it is when she comes for breakfast," you tell Nereida. "We need to find out when Friday is, and you... you're better at talking."

Luckily, Salome either doesn’t notice that one of the mugs is missing or is willing to keep the fragile peace by not mentioning it. Again, she lowers the tray at an unreachable distance and slides it over. She lingers for a few minutes this time as you nurse a bowl of fresh fruit and sour yogurt, more mindful of how it tastes. But you don't suspect they have a need to drug you this morning—not with Blue already taken.

Nereida manages a bit of small talk, flashing a friendly smile you envy her for. It's enough to get a few pieces of information from Salome—mostly useless. She's about six months along, Maman suspects. There are two other pregnant women, and three infants already born over the years. A few have died during harsher winters, including this past one. The land is sick, that man mentioned. With a flicker of sadness, Salome adds that she had a miscarriage, and for a moment, you almost feel sorry for her.

But when Nereida asks about the day, Salome tenses, wariness creeping into her eyes. "Well, I forget the name in English, but it is the fifth day following the Lord's day."

"Thursday, you mean?" you speak up for the first time since she walked in. "I mean, Saturday is the seventh day. So the fifth would be Thursday."

Salome nods. "Yes, Thursday. Jeudi."

Then tomorrow is Friday.

The weight threatens to crush you.

When she finally leaves, you fling the pillow off the bed and flip the mattress, screaming soundlessly into it.

"We have one fucking day, and I have no clue how to get out of here."

Survival hinges on not panicking. Panic makes you weak. But still, your fingers curl into your hair, tugging desperately, trying to silence the hysteria rising inside you. For a moment, a silent prayer takes hold in your mind, mimicking the ones you overheard from Nereida. You screw your eyes shut in a pathetic hope that maybe when you reopen them, Ghost will materialize with the key on the other side of the cell. When he doesn't, you grab the nearest shard from the mug you broke. Nereida tugs on your shoulder, trying to calm you down, but you furiously press it against your wrist.

It's the sight of blood, not the pain, that makes you freeze.

Suddenly, your panic smooths into a fresh memory.

"She panicked, didn't she?" you whisper, lifting the shard and gently thumbing the shallow cut you've created in its wake. "When I threatened to kill myself. Her eyes—they held fear. Fear for what?"

You turn to Nereida and swallow thickly.

"Fear of... fear of us dying," Nereida finishes slowly, a pinch in her forehead.

"Fear of what would happen to her if we died," you say. "She seemed... scared when she spoke of Maman. Of course she is. She's the one responsible for us right now. What would Maman do if she can't take care of the two new coveted women?"

You reach for the next largest piece and place it in Nereida's hand, tightly closing her fist over it. 

"It might not work," she whispers, eyes darting across your face.

"It's the only idea I've got."

Over the next few hours, you smooth over the details in whispered exchanges. These are the only cards you have to play: the value of your bodies here and the power Maman holds. Nereida is uneasy at first but eventually grows convinced. Speaking through the plan helps soothe your nerves, keeping the walls from fully closing in. You remember that Salome usually arrives before the sun sets to bring dinner. So, when the window casts amber shadows across the walls, you suck in a breath, dig the shard into your wrist, and watch as blood spills onto the white linen.

---

“Three minutes, Hugo.” “Three minutes is all I’ll need.” "Remember not to touch. And don't brag about it to others. Word will spread and Maman or Alexander will hear it."

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter is all from Blue's perspective. if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children triggers you do not read. though it is really not graphic at all (imo) and the SA is EXTREMELY implied and subtle (just a woman looking/potentially touching Blue's private area to check for virginity). I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

B

Blue hasn’t been without her father for more than an hour in over five years. There were moments when she'd imagined him disappearing, especially when he said no to her, when he could annoy her, push her too hard, or withhold the words she craved. And yet—now, with her head resting in Twix's lap, she can only long for him. The thought of his absence fills her with cold dread. The kind that erupts goosebumps on her arms despite the stuffy air in the room. Twix’s fingers gently stroke the back of her scalp, but it does little to ground her as her mind drifts to Ghost. He’s alive, that woman said. But it's been over a day, and he still hasn’t come for her.

"Do you think he will come soon?" she asks quietly.

Twix's fingers pause at the top of her hairline. "I think... I think he is doing everything he can to find you."

Blue is old enough to know that is a non-answer.

She knows, deep down, that Twix doesn't think he'll be coming, either.

"I will figure something out, okay?" she promises.

"Okay," Blue whispers noncommittally.

"Hey." A faint smile. "I've done pretty good at getting us out of shit in the past, right?"

Blue mumbles, "I guess so."

But this time felt different from those times. No matter how many times she catches Twix squinting around the room, murmuring things to Nereida, even Blue knows that a bright idea won’t magically appear. Not in here, where there is nothing except the three beds, the bolted cell, and the out-of-reach door that Ghost has yet to barge through.

When Blue's fingers instinctively search for her wrist, Twix’s face softens, and she gently encloses her palm over Blue's knuckles. "Alright. I want you to close your eyes and imagine that beach you showed me once. The one with white sand, and super blue water." Blue plays along with a deep sigh, closing her eyes as she feels a callused thumb brush her cheek. "Almost as blue as your eyes. See it?"

"I guess."

"Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you are lying on the sand, eating all the Twix bars and Nutella you want. Oh, and Grim is there. He was trying to make a sandcastle but got his head stuck in the sand."

Blue's lips twitch despite herself. "This is dumb."

"Dumb? Well, I don't think Grim finds it dumb. He can hardly breathe right now so you better stop eating chocolate and haul his ass up."

Blue snorts quietly, eyes screwing tighter as she imagines it; pulling the bunny out of the sand, giggling, the waves crashing. She falls back onto the sand with him in tow, but he darts away from her hands, toward the water. When she looks over, sun glaring, someone else is there. It's her father, and for a moment she is ready to jump on his back and beg him to play in the waves with her. That's when she notices he is keeled over, ripped apart, bloodied and battered.

Blue jolts, inhaling sharply. When she reopens her eyes, the image is still there. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I just saw—" she rubs her eyes profusely, but he's right in front of her. Blood begins to spurt from a sever in his throat. His head snaps forward, hanging by a thin thread of tissue. "I see him! H-his head is..." 

She jerks upright from Twix's lap, her eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the vision. When that doesn't help, she buries her face in the pillow, but the image remains too real to ignore. The thread snaps, and her father’s head rolls away silently.

Twix’s voice cuts through, her hands gently shaking Blue’s shoulders, but it feels distant, like a shadow compared to the sickening thud of her father’s headless body hitting the ground. Thick blood pools at her feet, and she tries to move, but her muscles won’t obey. The blood rises and rises, suffocating her, until she can’t breathe.

"Blue, it's just... you're imagining it."

"I can't... I can't..."

Someone flips her over on the bed and hugs her shoulders.

Twix's chapped lips press into her cheek.

"Please, Blue. I'm here."

The touch is enough to drain the blood and free her lungs. Her father's dead body floats away. She gulps for air, cold sweat clinging to her neck, and curls into the body beside her. Lingering panic races through her heartbeat, but then, after a minute, it begins to slow considerably. A new feeling washes over with the force of a tidal wave; fatigue.

Blue suddenly feels so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. It’s as though the terrible images have drained her entirely, leaving only murky water in their place. Her mind begins to float, and the edges of the world blur. Twix's face is in front of her yet feels so far away. Her lips try to part for words to come out, but it takes three tries just to manage: "I feel strange."

Across the cell, Nereida whispers, "I do, too."

Weight shifts on the mattress as Twix tries to sit up, leaning against the wall. Her head dips slightly, then snaps back up. A shaky inhale. "That... that fucking bitch. The oatmeal!"

The oatmeal? Blue’s thoughts latch onto the warm meal they’d been forced to eat, but the memory slips away before she can hold onto it. The slow descent snowballs. Twix’s voice distorts, blending with the chirping of birds outside the window. Her body slides down the wall, crumpling back beside Blue. She tries to hug Twix again, but her arms won’t cooperate.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, Blue hears the metal screech of the cell door swinging open. Veiled ghosts drift in. She can do nothing to run from them. Murmured voices, speaking words she doesn't understand, bleed through the heavy blanket of fog lying over her.

"Vous avez dit que celui-ci était intact?"

"Oui, Maman."

"Nous offrirons son corps pur au Seigneur. Les deux autres seront aptes à avoir des enfants."

"Mais elle est une... Je veux dire, oui, Maman."

She feels something cold and sinuous lifting her—snakes. No, not snakes. Hands. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Twix shouts something slurred. Then Blue is dragged by her feet, her spine no longer supported by the bed. She tries to squirm free, but her limbs feel heavy, useless. More hands clamp down on her arms.

No, no.

She wants to call for Twix, but her voice is muffled beneath a palm, the sound dying in her throat.

A weathered voice coos in her ear. "Sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

She can't scream.

All she knows is Twix is no longer the one beside her.

Cold fear surges through her veins, and she claws at someone’s arm. The retaliation is swift—a prick to her neck.

The strike of pain intensifies her dizziness, the last fight in her body fading away. They're dragging her again. The hard floor beneath her feet melts into soft grass, and the stark white ceiling shifts into a blue, cloudless sky before everything fades to black.

A gentle melody repeats in her subconscious until she rouses.

The same three-note tune, over and over.

Peeling her eyes open against the buttery sunlight, the first thing she notices is an open window above her head, its thin white curtain dancing in the light breeze. Upon the windowsill sits a small, cooing bird with pearly grey feathers and a black ring around its neck. Its head tilts almost mechanically, two little black eyes regarding her. She stares for a long moment before her eyes fall closed once more, lulled by the familiar call. Only when the bird quiets does she truly come to her senses. The sudden silence jolts her upright.

This isn't the same room she was in before. There hadn’t been a window in the cell, and certainly not one left open. The air there had been thick with the scent of old wood and lingering dust. But here... here, the air is different. It smells of fresh flowers, of the tall grass she used to wade through with Ghost while hunting. 

The bird calls once more before flittering away, leaving her reeling.

"A collared dove."

Her gaze snaps to the right where an old woman sits in a mahogany chair, knitting needles in hand. Without looking up from the red yarn she weaves, she explains idly, "They are very common. Lovely, but common."

The accent of her old voice is nothing like Blue's Mancunian one. But she understands each word.

Her voice pulls through her teeth with great effort. "I don't... Where am I?"

The old woman's brow furrows as if she is deep in thought, but it smoothes over after she undoes a stitch and loops it again, hands moving with an unnatural slowness. "You had them in England, yes? They are very common there, too."

Blue's fingers spread into the fine linen, her pulse ticking as she blinks a few times to sharpen her vision. The woman before her is older than anyone she has seen in a long time, though there is a faint resemblance to a woman deep in her memory who she believes was her grandmother. Unlike the woman who visited their cell with food, this one does not wear a veil over her face. Long wisps of gray hair fall over her shoulders. Wrinkles etch around her eyes and lips. She is still cloaked in white, but around her neck hangs a red cord beaded with a cross dangling at the end.

Her fingers clench. "I don't care about the-the stupid bird. Why am I here? Where are my friends? You..." she swallows the feel of sandpaper in her mouth, "You put something in the food. You made me lose control of myself again!"

Finally, grey-blue eyes flicker up beneath a questioning brow. "Oh, sweet child. You are so full of fire." With an unsettling calmness, the woman sets down the knitting needles on a carved side table. Pressing a palm to the surface of it, she rises slowly, then laces her hands in front of her. "Come, and perhaps your questions will be answered. Though, I wouldn't try to run." She moves toward the door, her gait shuffled but steady. A glance over her shoulder beckons. "Your friends are under my care."

The mere mention stiffens Blue's spine. She forces herself to her unsteady feet, swaying slightly, bare toes digging into the wood planks. Each small step feels lighter than the first time she woke up from being drugged, though her body still protests. Ahead, the woman is already walking away. It wouldn’t take much to catch up, but Blue lingers, her eyes sweeping the room with deliberate caution—always stay aware of your surroundings.

For a moment, she considers grabbing the knitting needle and stabbing the woman. But then what? Everyone, her father included, is under her care, and any misstep could mean their deaths. Ghost always told her to never act without some type of plan—to wait for the right moment. Blue doesn’t even know where the others are.

As she hesitantly steps out of the small house, the realization hits her. There are more people here than she’s seen in a long time. Almost like a town, but not really. Smaller than that, but more than her group. The building they just left is a small, home made of light grey stone. To her right are more homes, smoke billowing from the chimneys. She counts at least four of them. Straight ahead of her is gravel road. This is where the woman heads, with Blue trailing behind her. To the left is a stretch of green lawn, bright and lush. She has the itch to sprint over it, but a voice ends that idea.

"Catch up, girl." 

Gravel bites her toes as she walks to the woman's side. She is still only dressed in the simple, white slip. She hasn't worn a dress before.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There are some things I wish you to see." 

"Why... why can't the friends I was with be here to see them, too?"

From the corner of her eyes, Blue catches the woman smile lightly. "What do you think of France?"

Blue digs her nails into her palms, swallowing down her frustration at the non-answer. "It's... nice, I guess." It isn't a lie. The beautiful beach they left from, the fields of wheat and flowers, were things she'd only imagined before. 

"Good. My husband was from India but owned this land. I never wanted to leave it. France is the most beautiful place. I knew I wanted my son to grow here." She exhales in a quiet appreciation. "My husband said this land would thrive, even after the plague. He was right. The Lord spared it. He did not spare Ashwin, though."

Blue doesn't know what to say to that. If she should feel sorry for this person or not. She didn't state her husband's death in a sorrowful way, merely factual. As they walk, they pass a few men hunched over tree stumps, chopping wood. The smell of fresh earth and spilt sap wafts up her nose. The men glance up, their gazes lingering on Blue a moment too long, making her shift uncomfortably. Then, they lower their heads respectfully toward the woman. She speaks to them in French, and their chuckles follow her words.

Under a warm afternoon, they approach what looks like a large barn, bordered by wooden fence posts strung with taut wires. Inside the fenced area, Blue notices a white horse, smaller than Cherry, along with four cows. More men are working nearby, some tending to the animals while others, farther off, wield sickles to harvest stalks of wheat.

When they stop in front of the fence, Blue can't stop herself from asking, "Where are all the girls at? Like the one who fed us? I've only seen guys so far."

The woman doesn't look at her. "Our community is built around the roles God intended for us. Men have bodies made for working under the sun. Women, like those beautiful young ladies you traveled with, are vessels to be cherished, protected. Especially in these times when they have become rather scarce."

A few of the words fail to make sense to Blue, never having learned them from any of the books Ghost read her. "Um, is that why you separated the girls in my group from the men?"

She hums, a slow sound. "Women are kept in their own quarters with the infants."

"Okay," Blue rocks on her feet and grips the hem of the dress before the light air can catch it. So is her dad one of those men working, then? She quints, confused, and shakes her head. No; if he was anywhere out here, he would've come to her. He must be locked up, too. A wave of anger buzzes in her chest, louder than the cicadas. "That still doesn't explain why you are holding Twix and Nereida prisoner. If women are so special, why are they locked up and I am out here? And where are all the men from my group?" Her mind briefly flashes to the others; Kyle, Price, and... Ari. 

"None of them are prisoners, child. They are merely being readied for the role their bodies were created for, by God."

Blue grits her teeth. "You're not really answering my questions. What about me? Why did you bring me to," she glances back at the working men, who haven't stopped to look at her like the others had, too engrossed in the strenuous labor. "A fucking farm. What could you possibly want to show me here?"

"There is someone I need here before our next stop." She leans closer to the barbed fence and calls out, "Pierre! J'ai besoin de toi et de trois hommes pour nous accompagner jusqu'à la cale. Apporte les chaînes."

A man—Pierre, she guesses—strikes one of the cattle's hindquarters, wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then shouts in French to three others following behind him. They unlatch a gate in the fence and slip inside a small shed for a brief moment, emerging with rusted chains in hand. They approach, causing Blue to falter and step back. An old, strange woman is one thing, but three strong men are another. A fissure of terror cracks through her, and she inhales shakily.

"You need not be afraid."

She blinks up at the woman, who for a moment, conjures something similar to a comforting expression. Blue nods, and then they are walking again, with the four men trailing behind them. The sound of the chains dangling in their grasp makes her feel uneasy. What are they for, and why are they coming with them? She is ready to build the bravery to ask when the woman ghosts a hand on her shoulder.

"What is your name, child?"

"It's... um, Blue."

A soft chuckle. "The English and their strangeness. This is not your real name, is it?"

For some reason, Blue finds the truth stuttering out of her. "No, it's—the name I was born with is Amelia."

"Amelia. Much better. Tell me, Amelia, did your mother have blue eyes?"

Blue nearly chokes, her footsteps halting in the grass as she flinches away from her hand, curling her fingers into fists. "What the fu—why are you asking me that?"

The woman stops beside her and clasps her hands together, the long sleeves of her gown falling over them. She is small woman, hardly taller than Blue, and can't be any stronger than she is, but something about her emits control. Blue can't look away from her eyes, even as her jaw tightens, stomach swirling.

"They are many answers to questions that can be discovered on their own if one simply looks for them. I know which one of them is your father—"

"How could you know?" Blue demands. "I haven't even said any of them was my dad."

Thin lips twitch at the side. "A daughter gets the shape of her face from her father." A bony finger reaches to trail the edge of Blue's cheek, and she trembles from the cold feel of it. "But the features are all from her mother." She looks away and continues walking, speaking over her shoulder, "A little dove might have also told me he was asking for you."

When the men step forward, Blue is forced to continue walking. It feels hard to breathe, even though the canopy of trees offer fresh, rich air. "Then why are you asking about my mother?"

"Your eyes are blue, but your father's are not. I was simply curious."

"My mother is dead," Blue finds herself gritting out. 

"I figured. Neither of those women were her, and many mothers have been lost. A very terrible thing. A child needs its mother. You will call me Maman, Amelia. This is what French children call their mothers."

"I am not going to fucking call you that. Tell me where we are going," Blue presses, swallowing as she looks back at the farm behind them. Through the gaps between the men's shoulders, she sees that it is rather distant now, along with the small homes. She looks back ahead; nothing but overgrown vegetation. Even the flowers have grown sparse over here. It is quiet and still. She can hear the thrum of her own heart.

"Your fire is admirable, but you need to learn respect." For the first time, Maman's voice carries an edge, one that sends a shiver down Blue's spine. A foreign bird call echoes through the leaves, and the woman holds up a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and listen. "Ah. That’s the Bluethroat, if I’m not mistaken. Much rarer than the dove. You won't often find those in England."

The bird calls again—a trilled chirp—as they crest over a small hill, and the air suddenly grows heavier, more pungent. A smell Blue knows well makes her freeze, but a strong grip on her arm keeps her moving toward the source of the stench: an old, smaller building made of much darker stone. The sharp rustle of wings through the trees fades into the distance, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.

"You, too, are rare, Amelia," Maman continues, voice steady and unhurried. "A pure, young female like you—so virtuous—carries more favor from God than any other. Your friends have their purpose, and you have yours. Each of us plays a part in shaping the new vision of God's children."

The men move in front of them now, except for one who continues gripping Blue. The tremble in her body intensifies, and a cold pit grows unbearable in her chest, thundering. She is forced to stand about four meters in front of the large door, where one man grips the handle while two others, including Pierre, stand beside it, their hands ready with chains and their stances wide. It’s now, through the stinging film that grows over her eyes, that Blue notices large metal muzzles attached to the chains.

Blue is too stunned—too confused, yet frightfully aware—to move a muscle when Maman procures a knife from inside her robe. Pierre shouts something in French, but Blue can barely hear him. Her senses are fixed on the bead of sunlight glinting off the knife, and on the scratching and snarling she hears from the other side of the door.

"Please—" she gasps, unable to finish the thought.

Maman ignores her in favor of snatching hold of her wrist. Cold fingers force her arm to extend, and a burning pain cries out when the knife slashes a laceration from her elbow to the rim of her palm. 

"Une seule coupure pour les attirer."

The blood weeps, and the door shakes from the ignited frenzy behind it.

Tears finally escape Blue’s eyes just before the door opens. She feels it—the sensation of her body being torn apart beneath rotten teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Ghost, when she hears more shouting and the harsh sound of chains being whipped through the air. When she opens her eyes again, the men are wrestling two Greys into the muzzles.

"Deux c'est bien!" Maman orders, and the door is slammed shut over the others that threaten to spill out toward the fresh wound. 

Blue is alive.

Her arm numb and bleeding. 

Maman yanks something else from her robe—a strip of cloth. She wraps it roughly around Blue's forearm, then issues another command. Without warning, Blue is hoisted from the ground and callously tossed over the shoulder of the man who had held her in place. They start heading back the way they came, the leashed Greys trailing behind them, and finally, a scream rips from Blue’s throat.

"You said this one was intact?" "Yes, Maman." "We will offer her pure body to the Lord. The other two will be fit to have children." "But she is a… I mean, yes, Maman." "Pierre! I need you and three men to accompany us to the hold. Bring the chains." "One cut to attract them.” “Two is good!”

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-nine —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

You trip over a tree root, catching yourself against the rough bark. You don’t stop. You scream for him again, your legs propelling you toward the road, boots sliding over loose gravel.

He pushes past the others and closes the distance.

You slam into him, nearly falling, and grab his shirt, using him to steady yourself. “Simon, we have to go. Now. We need to leave.”

“What’s going on?” Someone asks—Price?—but it barely registers.

"We need to fucking leave!" you urge.

Ghost clamps onto your shoulders. “Twix, breathe. What did you see?”

“There is a body—and blood, on the wall—I don’t know what it says, but it's fresh—” You shake your head, heart erratic. The words won’t come out right. You can’t explain the wrongness crawling under your skin, the terrible dread in your stomach. You thrust a finger in the direction of the chapel as if they will understand. The quiet air rolls through the flowers. You feel it now. It's too quiet. Too calm. You can only manage a whisper. “Someone had to have written the words. We’re not alone.”

You barely catch the unfurling of his eyes before the world erupts into black smoke, and then you can't see him at all.

They already knew you were here.

He grabs you, shouting something you can’t make out.

Your first thought is Blue, and your second is the bow.

Your hands fumble as you blindly slap an arrow onto the string, but someone's body slams into yours, and it falls. You can’t even see where it landed.

The cloud of smoke burns your lungs, and a string of coughs spasm up your throat.

Ghost’s grip slips from you.

"Blue!" you choke out. 

You stumble forward, reaching aimlessly, even though you don’t know what you’ll do when you find her. Your vision blurs with painful tears, and then you feel it—a sharp prick at your neck.

The pain is a numb, searing sensation down your spine.

Your muscles seize, then convulse.

"Ghost," you think you say. The soft ringing in your ears drowns everything. You try to take a step, but your leg won't move. You succumb to the numbness. The ground rushes to meet you, though darkness steals you first.

You swim between disjointed visions. Viewing them from behind plexiglass. At first, you are talking to Paul. It's a sunny day. The birds are chirping through canopies of oaks. Then, you are in a room bathed in white. Fingers prod at you. You can't react to them. A soft voice hums sweetly, almost soothing, but it twists and warps back into Paul’s voice.

"The world kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

You bite a smile. "You know I have those words memorized."

"Good. Don't forget them," he says, not looking up from the wooden bird he whittles between leathery hands. It is a raven, you think. Though, you're no expert like he is. 

"You missed the first part, though."

His brow lifts. "Remind me."

"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places," you recite. 

A weathered mouth stretches at the corners. "Which one will you be, then? Broken or killed?"

You look down at the knife in your hand, the one you've been using to carve the arrow for the bow he's made you. The blade is dulled. You drag a thumb over it, shrugging. "I guess only time will tell."

"I suggest deciding for yourself, Twix."

You look back at him. "What did you call me?"

He responds, but his voice slurs into something unintelligible. 

White sunlight catches on his knife’s blade, almost blinding you. You close your eyes against the glare, but the light doesn’t fade when you reopen them—it grows, washing out the blue sky until it shifts into a stark white ceiling. Paul is gone. The birds have been silenced. The crisp scent of fresh linen reaches you. Is this a new dream, or the kaleidoscope rolling before the surrender to death? Your body feels like a borrowed shell, your mind straining to instruct your fingertips to move. They manage a weak press into the soft sheets below, rubbing against the fabric as if to convince yourself it’s truly there.

You are alive, then. Or the brain is incredible at tricking you into thinking so. 

Moving your neck feels like a daunting task, as if the vertebrae in your spine have been rewired, so you shift your eyes, searching for clues, but your memory is faulty at best. The walls are all white and bare. There is a dark wood table at the far corner, and a single shut door to your right. Then, there are...bars. Metal bars stripe the view, and you realize with a sudden jolt in your chest that you are enclosed by them, kept in a confined rectangle at one part of the room. 

Awareness strikes as you realize you're nearly naked, clad only in a thin, white shift. Someone has changed you. You ignore the lingering ache as you crane your neck upward and steal leverage from your elbows. The small bed below you creaks with the shift in your muscles. 

There are two other cots in the enclosure, and in them lay two unconscious figures. One lays flat, limbs spread in an unnatural way, while her black hair curtains over the white linen like splats of ink. The other is a smaller girl, her body curled into a haphazard fetal position.

There is no one else in the room.

Only you, Nereida, and Blue.

Audibly dry breaths stagger up your throat. Your mouth feels like painful sandpaper no matter how much spit you try to gather. You try to sit up more, but your legs won't move the way you tell them to, and you end up almost crumpling onto your back again. 

"F...uck."

They are still asleep, or knocked out, or whatever it is that has been done to you. They are alive, though. This much you know, based on the steady movement in their chests. Still, you want to reach them. You try to lift up once more, managing to lean your back against the wall for support, but just when you are ready to throw your weight into swinging a leg over, a gentle creak comes from the door.

"Tu es réveillée!"

Your gaze snaps to a young woman—a stranger—dressed in a long white cloak with a hood and veil. She might look like a ghost if not for the faint shimmer of her features on the other side of the veil: soft cheeks, a slightly crooked nose, but still pretty. She can't be older than you. In her hands is a tray with three mugs of what appears to be a porridge. Nothing about her emits a threat except for the fact she is on the other side of the metal bars. A sharp intake floods your lungs, a scream caught in your throat as she approaches, tilting her head in a look that feigns concern.

"Forgive me, I forget you speak anglaise. Please, do not be afraid. My name is Salome." The accent is thick but ignorable. She glances at the other two with a gentle smile. "I am happy you are awake. Your friends will be awake soon, as well. Are you hurting?"

When you say nothing, frozen, she reaches a mug through the bars and sets it on the floor. "Here. For you. Eat it slowly. Your body is still recovering."

A stretch of silence hangs between you, broken only by your uneven breathing. The understanding sinks in with full force as you glance between her, the other two, and the mug. It’s an understanding spliced with confusion—missing pieces. All you know is that your nostrils twitch, and you have no desire to move an inch toward the offering of food.

You observe her in more detail. The cloak hangs loosely on her frame, but she isn't boney, in fact a distinguishable swell shifts under it when she adjusts the tray in her hands. She is pregnant. A pregnant woman is your kidnapper. No, that's not right. She couldn't have carried the three of you, nor could she have done whatever the hell has been done to the four males who are clearly not present. There has to be others. The thought digs your nails into the soft mattress. 

She looks ready to say something again when her eyes dart to the side. You follow her gaze to see that Blue is moving her leg, eyes still closed, but she is moving.

The sight gives the rush of adrenaline needed to rip the sheet off your body and bring your feet to the floor. On wobbly legs, you rush to her cot, ignoring the woman's presence in favor of cupping Blue's cheeks, checking her pulse. Her skin is warm and the artery is beating steadily. You give her a little shake, but her eyes won't flutter. 

"She might not wake for longer than you. Do not be worried. The dosage has a stronger effect on children."

You stiffen.

A snarl cuts through you as anger surges, ripping free from the pit in your chest.

"Dosage?" 

You whirl around, careening toward the bars, gripping them when you almost lose your balance. "Do not be worried? You drugged a fucking child and shoved us in a cage." Your hands tighten, the metal biting into your skin. You don't care that your voice hurts from disuse. "Where are the others? Why aren't they here?" She startles back a step, her soft eyes downcast.

"I see you are upset," she says, her tone soft and careful. "I know this is... much for you. Sometimes God works in ways we do not understand right away, but I promise, He has blessed you. You are safe here." A light touch to her belly. Whispering now, she adds, "You are coveted." 

Then, she lowers the other two mugs through the bars and slips out of the room, cloak silently brushing her feet. 

Breathing hard, the energy deflates.

You half-crawl back to Blue's bed.

Staring at her pink cheeks.

Head pounding.

She claims you are safe. The lack of hostility might suggest that, but the enclosure and fact that she could not answer your question about the others say different. 

You spend a strange amount of time sifting through the recesses in your brain, plucking the memories out, from the bloody chapel to the smoke to this, before Nereida shifts in her bed. Her eyes actually open, and then she is gazing around, the same process of understanding contorting on her face. 

"Twix," she breathes. "What is—where are we?"

You tell her about Salome and everything you know, which is next to nothing. 

"But the guys—"

"I don't know where they are. She wouldn't tell me anything."

The mugs of porridge go cold. 

You hear movement outside in the distance—someone stepping through the grass, a passing exchange between French-speaking men—but the window is on the other side of the bars.

"Maybe if we try to just..."

Nereida attempts to poke half of her face through the bars to look out, but by the way she claws at her hairline in frustration, you don't need to ask to know she can't see a thing. 

Your muscles feel mostly in control now, and despite the howl in your stomach, you refuse to eat.

Nereida does, too. She does some silent prayer—if that's what you could call closing her eyes and humming hypnotically to herself—and when she is done, she reopens them and says, "John will come soon. He will."

"They could be dead."

"We would know if they were."

"No, we wouldn't."

"I would know," she whispers, and circles her arms around her knees, thumbing the scar on her shoulder. "He isn't dead."

Neither of you speak for some time. 

You watch Blue, her pulse steadying you, even if by a little. Absently, you stroke her hair. The pieces of the puzzle fall together with grim clarity. No weapons. Ghost, Price, Kyle, and Ari could be dead. The thought is a weight you can barely carry. You shove it away, refusing to let it consume you. If you let yourself linger too long on the possibility, you'll break down. You can't—merely for Blue's sake, not when you're holding onto the fragile thread keeping you together.

As the sunlight through the window starts to fade, you try to determine whether it's been a day or more since you were knocked out, and when exactly Salome will return. That's when Blue finally wakes up.

"Twix?"

Her lashes flicker.

"Blue. Blue, I'm here." You carefully scoop her in a tight hug, breathing her in closely. 

"What... what happened?" She lamely pulls away, shoulders sagging, and trembles in confusion. "I can't—I don't remember anything."

"We were drugged. Someone—I don't know who or why—but someone is keeping us in here."

"Are they going to kill us?" she whispers.

"I think they would have by now if they wanted to."

Her breath staggers. "But where is—why isn't Ghost here?"

You swallow. "I don't know if he... I don't know where he is."

Her eyes dart around.

"You mean my dad—he could be..."

She clutches at the shift on her chest.

At first, when you see her eyes begin to gloss over, you fear she is in pain. But then the panic becomes palpable, tearing through her ability to breathe, and she starts clawing at her own skin. 

"My dad is dead! My dad is fucking dead! He's not here. Why isn't he here!"

Her screams pierce the room.

You grab her wrists to stop the damage from her nails, welts already beating red on her neck.

"Blue, stop! Stop it!"

But she won't stop. She grabs the pillow and stuffs it in her mouth, howling into it, her face red and wet.

She begins to rock violently.

"I can't survive without him."

You watch helplessly, trying to hold her. 

"Please, just—breathe. We don't know if he's—"

The door opens. Salome rushes in beside an older woman similarly dressed in white. 

"Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce." The other woman carries the tray this time, with what looks to be more food along with a syringe. She hands it to Salome. "Dites-leur que cela aidera."

Salome offers the needle through the bars as you glare at her, tightening your arms around Blue. "This will help her calm down."

"I am not giving her that. Stay the fuck away."

Blue is shaking so hard she bumps her skull into your jaw. Nereida touches your arm. "Twix, it could help her."

"You don't know what the fuck they put in that thing," you hiss at her. "I'm not drugging her even more."

"I will leave it here for your choosing. Your dinner will not be hot for long. Please, all of you, eat." Salome bows her head as she places the syringe and tray on the floor in front of the cell, and leaves with the other woman before you can demand more from them. 

It is only after minutes of listening to Blue scream, unable to stop her from scratching herself any longer, that you concede and ask Nereida to bring it to you. Carefully, you sweep the hair from her face, steadying the tremble in your hand as you sink the needle into a vein in her arm, with Nereida helping to keep it extended.

"There. Please, Blue, please calm down. We cannot think the worst. Not yet, okay?" Your eyes threaten moisture but you blink hard to keep it at bay.

Whatever it was acts the moment it seeps into her bloodstream. She sags into you, face turning sticky as the tears are given time to dry, and her wailing dies down to silence. 

"Are you hungry?" 

She shakes her head.

That first night is spent without sleeping. 

You entangle yourself with Blue in the cot, watching the evening turn to a sliver of moonlight across the floor. She doesn't fall asleep, either, oscillating between silent tears and a void stare at the ceiling. Nereida stays in her own bed, humming here and there in that way that she does. At one point, you hear her whisper into the pillow: "John, give me strength. You always do."

You keep your emotions steady by counting the notches in Blue's spine, one by one, then starting back at the top. As you do, you think about what Salome said. You are not just safe, you are coveted. They want you to eat. They are not trying to harm you. Coveted. She's touched her stomach when she said it. The connection between it all grows starker in your mind. 

You share this with Nereida at the break of dawn when Blue seems to finally have succumbed to fatigue.

"They want us because we are women. That's why the others aren't here."

She nods, whispering. "I was thinking the same."

"Then we use that to our advantage."

"How?"

You palm your temple. "I don't know. I mean, we have some standing here. They value us in some way, right?"

"But we don't even know who 'they' includes," she murmurs, leaning her forehead briefly against the wall, then sitting straighter. "There are men here, too. That much we know. And if they were able to take out all of us at once, then there could be many."

"But none have come to see us," you point out. "Why is that?"

"Because they aren't allowed to." She places a finger on the wall, drawing it around, as if it helps her think. "Why would they be? We are coveted, remember? Something to be protected. Why else would they bother feeding us and keeping us tucked away in here."

"So maybe the guys aren't dead yet," you exhale, wishfully. "Maybe they are just in separate... housing or something. Another cell of their own. Kept away from the women, that's all."

Based on the interior of the room, this feels it was once a small, detached home. Maybe on a farm. The walls are painted stone; cold to the touch. All of the buildings you recall seeing on your way here were old, little farmhouses. Perhaps they have an established settlement. 

Mewling it over, you finally touch the cold food, taking a small bite of the cut-up meat to confirm it's something you haven't tasted in years: beef. They have cattle. What else do they have? Drugs, apparently. Or at least some type of sedatives extracted from plants. They are well-versed in the land. They are religious. And women are coveted for reproduction. 

"But then what was the shit in that chapel for?" you whisper to yourself, the image of the mangled body staining the backs of your lids when you close them.

When they reopen, Salome is at the doorway.

"Bonjour, mesdames. I have some oatmeal—" she frowns at the tray on the floor. "Oh... my. You have not eaten for two days. This is not the Lord's wishes. Your bodies are chosen, and they are in need of—"

"Tell us where they are, and we’ll eat," you cut her off, rising to your feet. You grip the bars tightly. "Tell us if they're still alive. One of them is her father. If you don't want her screaming again, you will tell us if he's okay."

She stares at you, then nods. "Eat first. All of you."

The oatmeal is sweetened with ripe blackberries that burst on your tongue. Blue awakens just when you and Nereida finish scarfing the last bite. You hand her the last bowl of oatmeal and urge her to eat, knowing that Salome won't cooperate if she doesn't. Blue takes minuscule bites. She hacks some of it back up, but with a sip of water passed through the cage, she is able to finish the rest.

She wipes a hand over her mouth and looks at Salome. "My dad. Where is he?" Her voice is low.

"He is alive. Of course, he is. They all are." A tremendous sense of relief washed over you. She cups her belly, her fingers tracing the shape. "Life is sacred... and so is death. We must be careful not to let more death come than is needed. The world... it has already seen too much of it."

Your brow scrunches. "Bullshit. I saw that corpse you guys left in the—"

Nereida gives your wrist a light squeeze, a reminder to hold back. You bite your tongue, knowing this woman is the only one who might give you any answers.

Salome tilts her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "I do not mean the world does not deserve the plague it bears. Men... they grew too sinful. Strayed far from God's will. It was His plan for them to atone for it." Her lips stretch into a faint smile, a thin, almost sad expression. "Your friends—they cannot come closer to God until they make amends. They must atone before they can be worthy of the future we will bring."

You blanch. "What the hell does that mean? 'They must atone?'"

Her gaze drifts to the left, and she mutters something under her breath in French, her words faint, then lowers her head to collect the tray, her back to you. You can’t hold yourself back any longer, pushing your face between the bars. "Don’t you fucking dare. You’ve hardly told us anything!"

"I... I fear I cannot say more." She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "You are in a delicate state, and Maman will see to you today. Please... trust me, this is the way it must be."

Maman?

The door quietly clicks shut and you growl at it.

A hand cups your shoulder. 

"She told us they're alive. That's what matters, right?'

You face Blue, leaning your spine into the metal. "Yeah. But we still have no way of getting to them."

The red rim around her eyes has faded to the same flush as her lips. She takes a slow breath through her chest, clenching and unclenching her hands, before asking, "What do you think they are doing to them?"

"I don't know," you say with a heavy exhale, your tongue pressing between your cheek and teeth.

G

Pennies.

When Ghost swims to the surface of semiconsciousness, the smell of pennies wafts up his nose first, then the feel of icy, hard restraints around his wrists hits him second. It is the kind of smell that is deeply woven into the floors and walls. Old blood calling for new. He could remember smelling it for the first time in Mexico when he'd awoken in a cell, stripped. The flush of air against his chest suggests this time is now different, but upon forcing his lids apart, a glance downward reveals he still has jeans on.

Ghost thinks he hears someone scream his name—Simon!—but it is merely a memory from right before the world went dark. He'd fought against it all he could, keeping the tail of Twix's shirt in one hand, and trying to seek Blue with the other, but then he had to choose one to let go of to grab his gun. The memory swims up to the forefront; the fumbling of his fingers at his belt loop, seeking the pistol, the loss of motor function as something pricked his neck. The pistol slipped from his grasp, and so did they.

He forces the reel of Twix's screams to the back of his mind where they play in a distant loop. Through hazy vision, he looks around, taking in the lack of light. No windows. It is a small room, with grey stone walls, and only one door at the far end. None of the others are here. Not the girls or Price or Gaz. There wouldn't even be space for all of them to fit in here. The shackles on his wrists are rusty, nicking his skin when he tries to shift around. His heart thumps steady and slow between his ears. Whatever they drugged him with is fading with each shake of his head and forced blink of his eyes.

He tugs on the manacles once more in vain when there is a voice from the other side of the wall.

It is muffled through stone, but grows crisper as booted footsteps close in.

Then they stop.

The door creaks open.

The man who steps in is cloaked in grey.

He waves a metal bar, whistling lowly, and kicking the door shut behind him. 

"You must be an early riser." His chuckle is wry. "Up before your friends. Tell me, Brit. What brings you all the way to l'Hexagone? Not a fun trip over the water, is it?"

The man circles him. A light tap of the bar on his bare shoulder blade. 

"No? Not much of a sharer?" The end of the bar presses in, just slightly, but the pain doesn't register. Only the cold wetness of a trickle of blood on his back when it pulls away. A hand fists his hair, and yanks his head back. "Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière."

His head is thrown forward with force. Ghost blinks down at the floor, teeth grinding. Through them, he breathes hard—

"Where are they?"

"Which ones? The pretty ones?" The accented voice lowers to the shell of his ear. "I would not get your hopes up of seeing them again. They will be saved for the most worthy of us."

- Nous devons expier nos péchés...We must atone for our sins. - Tu es réveillée!...You're awake! - Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce....The poor child is afraid. God show your grace. - Dites-leur que cela aidera...Tell them it will help. - Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière...We'll sort this out, you dirty scum. I'll be happy to help you get back to the light.

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-eight —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

France feels just as haunted by ghosts, the kind that cling to silence.

The next morning, you follow the road south near the Belgium border under a punishing sun and suffocating humidity. Sweat pools under your clothes as you leave the coastline behind, passing overgrown rose bushes and grand estates crumbling to rotted beams. Without the raft or truck, supplies rest on everyone's backs, lighter now with all the food you’ve already gone through—a stark reminder that you’ll need more soon.

You were the last to wake, stirred from a deep sleep by the sounds of bags being packed. It shouldn’t be surprising—you’d slept well after two orgasms. It’s a miracle the night’s events didn’t spill into your dreams, but now, in the daylight, keeping them at bay is harder. Thankfully, Kyle and the two kids create a buffer as you all follow Price’s lead. Their presence helps keep your eyes from drifting to him. You force your gaze on the passing signs, making a mental game out of trying to pick up on some French. It's distracting enough. So far you've gathered that sortie means exit and allez means something like go. 

The first break comes when your shoulders burn from the weight of the backpack, the straps biting into your skin. You slip it off with a groan, sinking to the ground, and nurse the canteen of water. Just enough to wet your throat and keep the dizziness at bay—rationing is a habit.

Price's plan echoes in your head: Méteren by nightfall. That’s ten hours of walking, minimum. Your toes throb at the thought, each step promising fresh blisters, but you force yourself to focus. The faster you reach Switzerland, the safer you’ll all be. If the place they heard of is actually waiting there.

"Hey. Do you want this?"

Blue lowers beside you, offering a near-empty jar of peanut butter she was snacking on.

"Not much left but it's really good," she shrugs. 

"I'll finish it off, thanks."

The salty taste is not exactly refreshing, but you choke it down anyway, the boost of protein more of a necessity than a pleasure. Blue pulls at the grass beside you, her gaze drifting to Ari, who’s sharing food with Kyle. You try not to look, but your eyes flick to Ghost anyway.

The mask is still on, as always. Why is he obsessed with it, even after you just saw him naked? Despite its presence, you can still see the furrow between his brows as he pores over the map with Price. Sweat rings the collar of his black tee, and his biceps flex as he gestures down the road. You’re definitely checking him out when he catches your eye mid-conversation, adjusting his mask, and without missing a beat, you turn your attention back to Blue.

She is staring at you, her brow furrowed.

You instinctively touch your neck, your thoughts racing to the bruise hidden beneath your hair. 

“Do you think he likes him?” she asks abruptly.

You blink. “What?”

“Ghost,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Do you think he likes Ari?”

Relief floods you. “Oh. I mean, sure. He's a good kid.”

“He’s not a kid,” she corrects with a huff. “He’s thirteen.”

“That’s still a kid, Blue.”

She rolls her eyes but hesitates before adding quietly, “He kissed me.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “What?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down. And don’t tell Ghost.” She pinches your arm, her cheeks reddening.

“I won’t,” you assure her. “But… when? How?”

“The other night, when we kept watch. Just on my cheek, but still.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “He's cute. I think I like him, but… what if he doesn’t actually like me? What if he just sees me as a kid?”

Her uncertainty tugs at something deep in you. “Have you talked to him about it?”

She shakes her head, looking horrified. “No way. What if he doesn't feel the same? It could get weird.”

“Then kill him,” you deadpan. At her glare, your lips twitch. “Fine, I’ll kill him.”

She snorts despite herself. “Be serious.”

“Okay, how about this—just ask him, ‘Why did you kiss my cheek?’ Keep it simple.”

Blue considers this, her expression softening. “I could do that. But it has to be when Ghost isn’t around. Which is almost never.”

You're telling me. You pick at your nails, avoiding her trusting gaze as your chest tightens. 

The sound of Price's boots back on the gravel ends the break.

Even after the brief rest, your limbs drag with exhaustion for the next few hours, but the extra calories push you forward. You make it to Méteren before nightfall. As the guys pitch tents, you rip off your socks to survey the damage. Open blisters stare back at you. With only so much gauze in your kit, you've been hesitant, but you cut a conservative strand and wrap up your heels. 

Behind a bush, you change from your sweaty clothes and hope there is freshwater somewhere to wash them in the morning. You dab a rag with a bit of water from the canteen and scrub the biggest offenders; armpits, between your legs, the back of your neck. Changing into a clean shirt, the sound of them unpacking the sleeping bags beckons your heavy shoulders and sore legs. You head back to the tents, ready for sleep, when you overhear Ghost volunteer for first watch.

"Twix will help me."

You hope the surprise isn't visible on your face as you nearly drop your backpack, swinging your gaze at him.

"I will?"

"It's been a few days since you've taken watch."

Your lips roll together then flatten, shoving down the blush that crawls your neck at the thought of being alone with him. Kyle looks like he is ready to take your place, but you nod in resignation, clear your throat, and finish tugging on the zipper over your clothes. "Yeah, of course. I'll help."

The others disappear into the tents, and you turn to sit on a fallen log, bow in hand. But before you can settle, you feel his presence—a shift in the air just behind you, then the solid pressure of his hand curling around your forearm. Without a word, he guides you forward, pulling you with an ease that leaves no room for hesitation. Your body moves instinctively as he leads you out of earshot of the tents, behind an abandoned car. It is now you realize he's changed into a black hoodie and shedded the tactical vest. He leans his rifle against the side of the car and looks down at you, saying nothing for a few seconds.

"Did you take away my chance to sleep and pull me over here just to stare at me?" you whisper, arms crossing against the gentle breeze that has cooled with the fallen sun.

He exhales through his nose before responding. "About yesterday."

You blink at him, hoping you don't fail at hiding how even the mere mention sets your nerves alight. "What about it?"

The way his eyes move slowly over your face suggests he is searching for the words. Finally, he says flatly, "It was just fucking. A distraction."

"A distraction," you repeat slowly under your breath. The bluntness hits you harder than expected. You bite the corner of your cheek, a bit too hard, and you narrow your eyes. "You really think I don't already know that?"

His broad shoulders roll back in a shrug and his tone shifts far too casual for your liking. "I just didn't want you getting the wrong idea."

The wrong idea. You rip your gaze away, scraping your fingertips into your arm, before looking back at him with a forced shrug of your own. "I can handle fucking, Simon. Like I said, I'm a big girl."

There is an audible inhale, then a low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he leans in, his darkened eyes locking onto yours. He cages you in with his arms, the familiar heat radiating from his touch and already making your brain fuzzy. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you onto your toes as he tears off the mask and lays it on the hood of the car. The glimpse of his strong jaw and the flick of his tongue wetting his lips sends a shiver through you despite the lingering irritation at his words. 

"Yes. You are," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, before capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that feels like the deep, soothing release of sinking into warm water after aching for relief.

You could kiss him for hours, you quickly realize, pleasantly fascinated by how hot and demanding his tongue feels against your mouth. He tastes like how he smells. Pine and salt. You submit to the pace of his lips, every graze of his teeth making your heart thicken. You move your hands through his hair, scratching his scalp, pulling him closer.

"There's something I need," he mumbles, voice etched with a tremble of impatience, and his fingers clench your shirt. With his other hand, he blindly reaches for the car door and forces the rusted thing open with a few tugs. 

"What do you need?" you breathe out, secretly thrilled that he wants you, again, even when it's been only twenty-four hours since he last had you. The mutual desire erodes the fatigue in your limbs and awakens your arousal. 

Without an answer, he spins your bodies, easing into the passenger seat, then pulls you in with him, closing the door with a soft click. The position is awkward at best—your head bumps into the roof, one knee wedged painfully into the center console from the lack of space. The car smells like stale leather and dust, but thankfully not like rot. It's far from enticing, but none of that matters when he forces the seat to recline, creating just enough room for you to lay on top of him.

You can feel him, hot and straining within his jeans, as you kiss him again and begin to move your hips instinctively. It is a thrilling notion, that you have made him hard so quickly, and you wonder if he ever touched himself like you did, stroking his cock with a callused hand that he imagined as you. The image of it, in combination with the friction on your pussy, has you greedily reaching to undo his belt buckle. 

He breaks from your lips with a grunt and grabs your wrist. "Not that."

Huh?

You don't have the chance to question him before the notch in his throat bobs, and he begins unzipping your jeans, instead. "My face. Sit on it." 

The blush on your cheeks is hidden in the car's small, dark space. His half-lidded gaze lifts to yours, and you nod absently before helping him push your pants and underwear to your ankles, shifting awkwardly to discard them to the floor. His hand immediately moves between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your wetness with a sharp inhale. It should make you embarrassed, but it doesn’t—not with the way he watches you, his other hand peeling off your shirt, the whites of his eyes flashing over your naked body with such unabashed hunger that you realize it must’ve been simmering in him for as long as it has in you.

Again, you're the only one undressed. His hands knead the plush of your ass, the massage of your sore glutes drawing a moan from you. He pushes you up his chest and you move your knees, until his face is level with your cunt, nose caressing your throbbing clit. You have to grip the headrest of the backseat to keep yourself steady, neck craned. His palms cup the backs of your thighs, keeping them apart. 

He's already put his mouth on you, but for some reason, this time feels more vulnerable. You become unconsciously alert of the fact you are not the girl you used to be, the one who shaved every inch of her body before going on a date, and scrubbed her skin with perfumed body wash. You have been sweating all day in the French humidity, and not a single part of you is hairless. When he attempts to pull you to his mouth, you resist with a wiggle of your hips.

"You don't—we don't have to do this, you know. I mean, I haven't shaved in years and—"

He bites your thigh. "Stop talking."

"Ghost, I'm disgusting."

His brows furrow, confused, before he exhales a soft laugh, breath fanning your cunt. "I don't care."

You writhe. "No, seriously—"

"I'm a big boy, Twix," he throws back you.

His tone is final, and with that, he ignores your protests and tightens his hands on you, pulling you to sit on his jaw. His tongue licks a bold stripe from hole to clit, then back down to your hole, where he swirls it a few times before pushing in. Your mouth hangs open in a silent surrender. It is you at his mercy now. His mouth feels even hotter on your cunt for some reason, causing your head to lull forward because of the ceiling, hair dangling. 

Your nails scrape into the leather. His tongue fucks you, nursing the sore flesh that his cock had stretched. He pushes you down with more force, and meets the juncture of your thighs with an arch of his neck, pressing his face deeper. There is a small worry that he might not be able to breathe, but it is erased when his tongue visits your clit with a heady groan, the vibrations of his vocal chords making your muscles flinch. He circles it with a light pressure. You reach down to grip his hair, silently demanding more. He listens, pressing his tongue harder.

"Fucking... yeah, like that."

One of his hands glides up your stomach and squeezes your breast. He keeps sucking, toiling with your puckered nipple at a similar pace. Despite the uncomfortable position, your hips buck and thrash. Your hand slaps against the window as he makes a sloppy mess out of you. The overgrown stubble on his jaw scrapes between your tightened thighs and the sting adds to the overwhelming sensations. You attempt to lift off, seeking a break, but he growls and strikes your ass, forcing you back down.

He licks at you expertly, as if having figured you out in just a few minutes. You screw your eyes shut, a small but swift orgasm rolling through you when you hear him slurp at your folds. He gathers it with a sweep of his tongue, humming. The aftermath leaves your trembling, breath jagged, as a larger one grows towards release.

"Been thinking about that all day," he whispers against you, continuing his ministrations. "Got another one for me?"

His tone feels mocking and desperate at once. Your nails press painfully into the condensation-painted glass. Your other hand fists back in his hair, curling and uncurling, but there is no point in trying to fight it, not when he parts your cunt with his fingers so he can lick more of it. You cum again, harder, almost convulsing as your head bangs upward. It feels never-ending, your moans uncontrollable. He laps you through it, even more relentless, drawing the pleasure for a near-minute, until your lungs can hardly function and you feel like you might collapse.

Your body is pliant and jelly-like when it finally fades. He takes hold of your waist to keep you upright, and pulls his mouth away with a dribble of leakage down his chin. Already, you know it will be impossible to forget that sight, his eyes dazed as if he is the one who just came twice. 

His touch turns somewhat tender when he helps you back down to his lap. He doesn't bother wiping the obscenity from his mouth when he kisses the corner of your lips, firmly, then helps you slip back into your clothes since your brain doesn't seem to have full control over your limbs yet. It's when you place a hand on his thigh to shimmy on your jeans that you feel a distinguishable wet spot.

He finished, too.

The discovery makes your chest swell, and you nibble at your lip as you finish changing. 

"Thanks," you whisper to him. 

He doesn't say anything. He keeps the seat reclined and allows you to lay limp against him, feeling the uneven pace of his heart that matches your own. Clearly, he is a man of his word. This will not be a one time thing, even if it is just fucking. You sigh in sheer exhaustion from the day's activities, unable to ignore the weight in your eyelids as you inhale the residual musk in the air between your bodies. His chest feels firm and warm, a decent place to rest your head, and you think you feel a touch caress your hair. 

You are supposed to be staying up to keep watch, but he doesn't seem ready to move you. Somewhere between wondering how long you can keep this hidden from Blue, and dreading how far you will have to walk again tomorrow, you drift to sleep.

When morning arrives, you are not curled up in a car, but tucked in a sleeping bag. 

Ghost must've put you here, but you have no recollection of it, squinting your eyes against the harsh incoming of sunlight through the nylon walls. Nereida is in the bag beside you, not Blue, which offers a thread of relief. You carefully extricate yourself without waking her and join an awakened Price and Kyle for breakfast.

This morning feels slower than the last. Satisfied with the distance covered yesterday, Price is content with just making it to a town called Englos today. Then, you can focus on replenishing food and water during the evening. 

Your energy is replenished with tomato soup and stale crackers. Blue sits with Ari to eat, and you casually glance at her, but she gives you a subtle shake of her head. No, she hasn't talked to him yet. You offer a small, forced smile and look away.

The day's journey begins after what you would guess is around 8 am. As you walk, you redo your braids, tucking the strands into place so they don't stick to your forehead. Kyle falls in step beside you in comfortable silence, while Ghost moves to the front of the group. He treats you exactly as before—offering only the rare glance of acknowledgment. As if you hadn't just sat on his face last night. As if he hadn't ate you out like you were a source of sustenance.

Though, you’re grateful for his distance. It makes it easier to stay discreet. If he were to look at you too long, you might give yourself away.

It's just fucking.

Nothing but small towns and sprawling fields surrounds you. You pick up a few more words of French and think back to how your parents took you here, but never to the countryside. It's beautiful. Picturesque, even, except for the occasional skeleton tucked between ambery stalks of wheat. You pass through a place called Bailleul, where the remaining buildings remind you of England, when you spot black graffiti inked on a small clock tower.

N'allez pas à Fleurbaix.

"Allez means go," you murmur, stepping over some broken glass. "So what does n'allez pas mean..."

"Picking up a new language?"

You swing your head at Kyle, blinking, and he chuckles lightly at your reaction. 

"Yeah. I thought it might come in handy when chatting with the thriving local population."

He shakes his head in amusement. "Have you been here before?"

"When I was a kid. Once to Paris, and once to a ski resort."

"Ah. So you were one of those kids."

You frown. "What kids?"

"The kids who had money to go skiing."

You shrug, thinking back. "I mean, we weren't rich by any means. Just comfortable."

He nods, the companionable silence resuming as you replay the graffitied words in your head. N'allez pas must mean do not go. Do not go to Fleurbaix. You are about to ask Kyle if that is where you are headed when he speaks first.

"Are we good, Twix?"

His question throws you off guard. You make eye contact and he raises an expectant brow as if he is referring to something...

Right. He kissed you. It feels like forever ago since it happened, but it was only a week maybe. The memory almost makes you cringe, especially in comparison to what you've done with Ghost the past two days.

"Yeah," you dismiss breathily. "Yeah, of course. We're good."

He seems genuinely relieved by your answer, smiling with a sliver of teeth. "Good. I'm glad. I was an idiot and not in the right headspace. But still, I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I've been trying to give you space."

"It's fine, honestly," you tell him. "We are all under a lot of stress."

He releases a breath, then brushes a shoulder against yours. "So we're friends, you and I? Or something like that."

You nod with a little laugh, shifting the backpack. "Something like that. By the way, do you know if we are going by a place called—"

"Gaz. Come here for a moment," Ghost calls.

His tone is abrupt, causing everyone to halt. Without question, Kyle jogs over, his boots scraping against the gravel as he moves toward Ghost, who is crouched on one knee, fingers brushing over the matted grass at the side of the road. You squint, trying to figure out what’s caught their attention, and step closer to get a better look.

"A lot of them," Kyle says quietly, his palm pressing gently into the flattened vegetation. Now, you can see it—clear signs of something recently passing through. The ground is torn up, the plants bent and trampled. "It can't have been long ago," he adds, frowning as he observes the damage.

Ghost doesn't look up as he responds. "A horde went through here. Maybe in the last day." He inhales the humid breeze, and shifts his gaze toward Price. "I can smell them from the east."

"We could run right into them if we keep following the D231," Price mutters, drumming his fingers on the rear of his gun. He glances at the nearest road signs, then unfolds the map. "We could shift west for a few kilometers, through Fleurbaix, then cut back toward Englos."

"I just saw something that warned against going to Fleurbaix," you speak up, thumbing the belt loop in your jeans as you look between them.

Ghost's brow rises. You ignore the nerves that prickle your cheeks beneath his stare. 

"I mean, there are signs saying keep out of everywhere by now," Kyle reasons. "That's probably from the start of the infection."

"It's either Fleurbaix, or risk a run in with the horde," Ghost says.

You nod, more so to yourself, and murmur under your breath. "Fleurbaix it is, then."

Bailleul fades at your backs as you keep moving.

The scent of Greys lingers in the shifting air, but it is difficult to detect amid the strong aroma of flowers that pop up in every shade, replacing the fields of wheat. Roses, violets, and some yellow one you don't recognize ornate the rolling hills for as far as you can see. The buildings turn more upright, strong stone that has yet to falter from neglect. You keep reading the signs, even though you don't have the map to refer to, and your spine tightens when you read Fleurbaix: 1 km. 

You unsling your bow without thinking, tapping your nails against the wood.

The road becomes a bit windier as it cuts through some small farms. You even spot a few cows roaming the overgrown pastures which Blue seems curious by. You notice more painted words on the sides of the homes: Nous devons expier nos péchés. It repeats a few times, but you fail to translate it. The only part that clicks is nous, which you think means we.

We something... something...

After crossing a small bridge over a dried creek bed, you excuse yourself to relieve your bladder.

"Keep going, I'll catch up."

You step over what looks like a metal dog chain left on the road and situate yourself between a tree and old BMW. Squatting burns your thighs, and reminds you of your dried cum on them that you've tried, yet failed, to completely wipe off. You clench your teeth as you pee, when there is a sudden sound behind you that makes you flinch, and you quickly zip back up before whirling around. A rat—your shoulders sink. It sits up on its hind legs and stares at you with beady eyes.

"I guess I'm just jumpy sometimes, little guy," you whisper, leaning in. "You would be, too, if you've had to deal with what I have." The rat doesn’t blink. "Right. Well, I’m sure Ghost would think this is incredibly sexy—me having a talk with a rodent."

You sigh, watching him scurry away, but then another rat scurries over your boot. You jerk back, gaze following its direction to an old building—a schoolhouse or chapel, judging by the circular stained-glass window below the roof. Beautiful shrubs lines the sides, seemingly well-kept. The door hangs ajar, with more vermin pouring out in an endless line.

"Jesus. Quite a lot of friends you have, huh?"

You glance down the road. The others are still close but walking ahead. You should catch up. It's not safe alone. But against your better judgment, you step toward the door, pushing it open. Rats scatter underfoot as a thick, rancid smell hits you. Death—fresh and cloying, even more so than the flowers.

Blood streaks the stone floor inside, pooling where vermin feast. Splintered pews lead to an altar. You freeze, taking it all as the color drains from your face. Lying there ceremoniously is what's left of a body, hardly recognizable—ribs torn through flesh, a dangling optic nerve, a mangled groin. A plethora of bite marks cleave through the remains. Bile rises in your throat as the sound of gnawing echoes through against the sun-lit walls.

But what truly grips you is the writing, in blood, draped over a small cross.

Nous devons expier nos péchés.

You whip around and run, the door closing heavily behind you.

"Simon!" His name claws up your throat.