Kina_Ink.exe

Levi first sees you in the morning in the hallway outside of Erwin’s office. You’re holding a stack of reports tucked under one arm, your cloak clasped crookedly, and a half-finished piece of bread pinched between your teeth because you realized eating breakfast and walking to your briefing is an efficient way to multitask.

Levi sees you from the end of the hall and stops walking. His entire body locks up for the stupidest reason—because it’s you. He immediately thinks There she is. Then, because his mind is determined to ruin him, it adds, Her hair looks nice. He almost turns around and walks directly back to his office just to avoid facing you, but because he’s Captain Levi Ackerman, a man who has faced Titans without blinking and therefore shouldn’t be taken down by a woman holding paperwork and chewing bread, he keeps walking forward.

“You look like hell,” he says as soon as he’s close enough.

You stop and look at him, taking the bread out of your mouth as you lift your brows. “Good morning to you too, Captain.”

Levi stares at the bread, then your mouth. He tries to find something else to focus on. Maybe he can tell you your cloak clasp is twisted and Erwin will absolutely notice. Maybe he could ask whether you slept, because the shadows beneath your eyes look darker than yesterday, and yesterday they had already irritated him enough that he left a cup of tea outside your office and convinced himself he only did it because your exhausted handwriting was difficult to read.

“You look better than yesterday, though,” he adds, because he doesn’t know how to shut up around you.

You half-smile. “That might be the closest you’ve ever come to saying something nice to me.”

He feels his stomach drop. Was it? Was that nice? Had he been too obvious? No. No, that’s impossible. No one could hear “you look like hell” and think it was sweet unless they were deranged. But you’re not deranged. In fact, you’re too competent and too observant for his peace of mind.

“You’re insane,” he says, reaching forward before he can stop himself to fix your cloak clasp. The moment he brushes his fingers against your throat, he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. 

You freeze out of surprise, then lift your chin slightly as his knuckles graze the skin beneath your jaw. Levi’s mind goes blank in the most humiliating way possible. He hears the scratch of your breath, feels your pulse at your neck, smells the soap you use—because of course you would be the only other person with proper hygiene standards—and everything he’s learned in life to survive abandons him. He steps back as if you’d burned him.

“There,” he says, voice flat. “Try dressing yourself like an officer next time.”

You glance down at the straightened clasp, then back at him, amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Are you always this charming before breakfast?”

“No.”

“Only with me, then?”

He turns and walks away. Behind him, you laugh, and Levi immediately knows by the burning of his cheeks and the repeating Stupid, stupid, stupid in his mind that this is going to be a very long day.

He insults you again five minutes later inside Erwin’s office, where Erwin stands at the head of the table. Hange lounges over a chair, looking as if they’ve only slept for either four hours or not at all. Miche stands near the window quietly, as always. You take the seat across from Levi, who keeps his eyes on the meeting notes. He refuses to look at you. If he does, he won’t be able to stay composed.

“You’re quiet,” Hange says to him after Erwin begins explaining the revised training schedule for the week. “You’re either listening or plotting something.”

“Unlike you, I can do both quietly,” Levi says.

Hange grins. “That’s what I admire about you, shorty!”

You snort under your breath. Levi looks at you without meaning to. You’re clearly trying not to smile, one hand pressed over the bottom half of your face, eyes lowered to the table. He sees it all, because he always sees too much where you’re concerned. That’s the problem. It means he notices the loose strand of hair against your cheek, and the warmth in your eyes when you catch him looking at you. Levi looks away immediately, thinking to himself Idiot.

“Something wrong, Levi?” Erwin asks, quirking up an eyebrow.

“No,” Levi says.

“You were staring into nothing.”

“I was just assessing whether her paperwork is as sloppy as her uniform.”

You mock an offended gasp. “My paperwork is pristine.”

“It’s tolerable.”

“From you,” you say, pointing your quill at him, “that is basically a marriage proposal.”

Everyone in the room goes quiet. Hange inhales like they’re about to burst. Levi goes completely and utterly still. Marriage proposal. You said it as a joke. Obviously, right? It’s just a harmless, casual joke, banter shared between squad leaders when too much paperwork has turned everyone’s brains into horse feed. There’s no reason for his mind to take the phrase, drag it and him into an alley, and start beating him with it.

Marriage proposal. His mind races before he can stop himself, supplying a series of images: you standing at an altar, you and him in his office alone, your laughter at breakfast, your hand in his, your mouth on his—

No. He’s not going there again. Not now.

Hange’s grin grows wider. Miche looks out the window, but his shoulders shake with silent laughter. Erwin, who is the worst kind of friend to you both, simply looks between the both of you, silently filing this moment away for later to use against either of you when the time comes.

Levi picks up his teacup. “You’d make a terrible wife,” he says.

You grin and rest your chin on the top of your linked hands, elbows on the table. “Why’s that?”

“You’re loud, annoying, and you don’t even know how to chop a carrot.”

“You notice the strangest things about me.”

Levi drinks his tea to avoid having to answer, and even though the tea is too hot, he refuses to cough. Unfortunately for him, you notice his eyes squinting slightly, and your smile softens so much it nearly kills him on the spot. No, he thinks. I can’t let her do this to me.

He spends the rest of the meeting saying as little as possible, which would work better if Hange didn’t keep sneaking glances at him with barely contained excitement. 

Levi expects the week to improve after that. It doesn’t. The problem is that you’re everywhere. You’re in the training yard in the afternoon, walking between your squad members to correct their positions. You’re at the stables in the evening, arguing with someone about your saddle in disrepair. You’re at the mess hall the next morning, laughing with Nanaba over something silly, your head tipped back in a way that fully exposes your throat and immediately makes Levi think of how nice it would be to kiss it.

It’s nothing. It’s not attraction, it’s not a crush, because he’s a full-grown man and he has no use for romantic attraction. It’s just… a normal appreciation of competence. It’s nothing.

Then you bend to pick up a dropped training knife, showing off your ass perfectly, and Levi walks straight into a wall.

So, not nothing, then.

.

By the fifth day, he’s found numerous excuses to pass through the training yard—at least three times.

The first time, he claims he’s merely checking formations and whether the recruits are holding it correctly. The second time, he claims the training dummies aren’t being raised correctly. The third time, he says nothing at all because even he knows another excuse won’t fool anyone.

You catch him near the fence line with his arms crossed, watching as you demonstrate a disarming technique to your squad. “Captain Ackerman,” you call, breathless from your exertion. “Are you here to criticize my form again?”

His mind immediately says Yes, then No. Tell her she moves well. Tell her that her squad trusts her. Tell her she can command a room without having to do anything. Tell her—

“Your stance is less terrible than usual,” Levi says. He slaps himself in his mind. Stupid.

You turn slowly. “Less terrible? Are you praising me?”

“It wasn’t praise.”

“Definitely sounded like praise,” you sing.

“Get your hearing checked.”

You grin. Levi looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. Your squad disperses after another hour, groaning with exhaustion, and you remain behind to gather the practice blades, humming under your breath while the wind blows through your hair. 

Levi knows he should leave. He has reports, he has inspections, he has an office to clean and tea waiting for him that’ll oversteep if he continues standing here like some lovesick idiot. He finds himself walking toward you anyway.

“You’re wearing that wrong,” he says.

You look down at yourself, squinting your eyes. “Wearing what wrong?”

“Your harness.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ve worn ODM gear for years.”

“Then it’s embarrassing that you managed to fuck it up this badly.”

You put both hands on your hips, cocking your head at him. “Alright, then. Fix it if it bothers you that much.”

His soul practically leaves his body, but because he has absolutely no self-preservation, he mutters, “Fine.”

He steps behind you and reaches for the strap crossing your back. It’s only slightly twisted, barely enough to matter, but he focuses on it as if the fate of the Walls depends on that strip of leather lying flat. Focusing on the strap is easier than focusing on how warm you are, how close you are, how you freeze when his hands settle at your waist to adjust the lower buckles.

This is normal, he thinks. You’ve adjusted soldiers’ gear before. He pulls and tightens. Then, he finally realizes this is not normal at all. He’s too busy thinking about your waist. How nice it feels under his hands. How nice it would be to hold it while he presses up against you from behind. Goddamnit, get it together. He tightens one strap, loosens another, checks the angle, then checks it again because he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“You’re awfully thorough,” you say.

Levi freezes. He hears the smile in your voice. A small one. Possibly innocent. Probably innocent. He can’t lean forward and investigate, because if he sees your expression, he may just blurt something stupid out like I like standing this close to you, and then he’ll have to desert the Scouts and live alone in a cave for the rest of his life.

“If you fall out of your gear, I’ll have to hear about it,” he says.

“Ah, so this is precaution.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re very thoughtful.”

“More like annoyed.” You laugh softly, and he finishes the adjustment too quickly, stepping away in an attempt to restore whatever part of his dignity just died. “There,” he says. “Try not to embarrass your rank.”

You turn to face him, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just survived an internal war. “Thank you, Levi.”

He blinks at the use of his name. You usually don’t say his first name. It’s always Captain, Captain Ackerman, or Captain Levi. Never just Levi. He looks away before his expression can give him away.

All he says is a simple, “Tch.”

.

You still don’t realize that Levi thinks of you differently, even weeks later.

Levi is rude to almost everyone, blunt with everyone, sparse with praise and allergic to any kind of emotional displays, so it doesn’t occur to you immediately that the insults he gives you are not the same as the ones he gives everyone else. You just assume Levi tolerates you, perhaps even respects you. You don’t assume Levi watches for whether you’ve eaten, or that he’s memorized how you take your tea, or that he once spent ten minutes deciding whether he should knock on your door with medicine in his hand when you were out sick one day.

Hange assumes all of it, and unfortunately for you, Hange assumes very loudly.

In the mess hall, you sit alone at the end of one table with a bowl of stew, a cup of tea, and a stack of formation notes you’re trying to read without dripping broth on them. Even now, you don’t know how to stop working. Hange slides into the seat across from you so quickly that the table shifts. You look up, raising your brows.

“Hello to you too,” you say.

“You and Levi,” Hange says.

You pause with your spoon halfway to your mouth. “Me and Levi what?”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you haven’t noticed.”

You stare at them, and Hange stares back, eyes bright behind their glasses, their expression so gleeful it’s almost terrifying.

“Hange,” you say slowly. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Their smile falters, then returns even wider. “Oh, that’s even better.”

“Why am I scared?”

“You should be. I know something.”

“You say that a lot.”

Hange waves that away, then leans closer. “Levi has a crush on you.”

You almost drop your spoon into your lap. Surely they must be joking, right? The words don’t even make sense at first. They enter your brain, bounce around for a few seconds, then immediately get rejected by every sensible part of you.

“Levi,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

“Captain Levi Ackerman.”

“Yes.”

“Humanity’s strongest soldier. That Levi.”

“Do we have another emotionally stunted short man named Levi wandering around?”

You look across the mess hall at Levi, standing near the far wall, speaking with Erwin. His arms are folded across his chest, face blank as always. Nothing about him suggests he has a crush on you. The man looks like he was born to disapprove of everyone and everything. To be fair, he already does.

“He insulted my uniform,” you say.

Hange leans even further in. “I saw him fix your cloak.”

“He told me my paperwork was tolerable.”

“Levi considers tolerable high praise.”

“He said I would make a terrible wife.”

“He was totally thinking about you being his wife.” You open your mouth, then close it, because you have absolutely nothing to say in response to that. Hange presses on with a devilish smile. “He brings you tea, too,” they say.

“So?”

“Good tea.” That makes you pause. “He corrects your supply forms before Erwin sees them.”

“So? He corrects everyone’s forms.”

“No, he writes ‘redo this garbage’ on everyone else’s. Yours come back fixed.” You can only blink in response. “He always says something when your squad gets stable duty, and somehow those assignments always mysteriously change.”

“That could be Erwin.”

“It’s not Erwin, trust me.”

“Okay, well… he criticized my gear.”

“That was only an excuse to touch you.”

“Hange.”

“What? I’m observant.”

You sneak a glance at Levi again, and as though sensing your gaze, he looks over. His eyes meet yours across the mess hall, and you see the smallest shift in his expression. A fondness you hadn’t seen before. He then notices Hange sitting across from you, sees the wide grin on their face, and he narrows his eyes with immediate suspicion. Hange waves. Levi looks like he’s considering whether he could get away with murder. Then you notice—and you’re entirely convinced you’re just seeing things—the redness blooming across his cheekbones when he looks at you again.

Oh.

Oh?

That is, unfortunately, very cute.

Then you realize. It all hits you at once. The tea outside your office, the fixing of your cloak, the bread that mysteriously showed up on your desk, the fact that he somehow always manages to appear when you’re carrying something heavy, the way his insults land just a little softer when they’re directed at you.

“You’re enjoying this, you naughty thing,” you accuse Hange.

“Immensely.”

“If you’re wrong, I’m going to look very stupid.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“You’ve been wrong before.”

“I’m rarely wrong in matters this entertaining.”

Across the room, Levi pushes away from the wall and starts walking toward you. You feel your stomach drop as Hange stands up.

“Good luck,” they whisper.

You look to them in panic. “Hange, don’t leave—”

“Be gentle. He’s not emotionally housebroken.”

They vanish before Levi arrives, leaving you sitting with your lukewarm stew, your scattered notes, and the sudden realization that Levi Ackerman has been crushing on you for who knows how long now?

Levi stops beside the table. “What did they say?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes. “Nothing usually means something.”

“It means nothing, actually.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

You look up at him and, for the first time, allow yourself to study him with the possibility of affection returned. He looks the same as always: tight mouth, sharp eyes, neat cravat, straight posture. But now you see the tiny tells beneath it. He doesn’t look at you directly for too long. His attention flicks to your tea, your food, your notes. His fingers twitch once at his side before he forces them to be still.

He’s nervous. Levi Ackerman is nervous.

You nearly break into a way-too-obvious smile, but thankfully, you manage to just tilt your head. “Captain,” you say, “are you worried about me?”

“No.”

“Well, that was a quick answer.”

“Because it was an easy question.”

“So you’re not worried about me.”

“No.”

“And if I skipped dinner?”

His eyes flick to your bowl. “You’re eating dinner.”

“But if I did.”

“Then you’d be an idiot.”

“You’d notice, though.”

Levi looks at you pointedly, and you smile. You see the visible tightening around his mouth and the subtle shift in his breathing. 

“Hard not to notice when someone is being an idiot in public,” he says.

You lean your chin into your hand. “You know, if you wanted my attention so badly, you could’ve just asked for it.”

You swear Levi stops breathing. You see the hitch in his breath. His face doesn’t change as much, but you see the subtle shift in his eyes, the catastrophic collapse happening behind them that he’s so desperately trying to hide.

She knows, Levi thinks, then with rising horror, She knows, and Hange told her. I’m going to kill them. “I have better things to do than ask for your attention,” he says, swallowing through the tightness in his throat.

“And yet, here you are,” you say, smiling widely.

Because he doesn’t know where else to look, he peers at your notes. “Your handwriting is messy again.”

“Deflection.”

“Mere observation.”

“You make a lot of those about me.”

“Someone has to.”

You laugh. Levi wishes he didn’t love that sound as much as he does.

You become an absolute menace after that. 

.

You don’t do it immediately—you’re too clever for that, and Levi is too slippery to corner. So, you start with small things, such as sitting beside him instead of across from him at the next briefing, which he notices immediately. He stiffens in response.

“Morning,” you say cheerfully.

He looks at the empty chairs around the table. “There are other seats.”

“I like this one.”

“It’s too close.”

“To what?”

“To me, idiot.”

You look at him innocently, batting your eyelashes. “Am I bothering you, Captain?”

Yes, Levi thinks, because you’re too close that he can clearly smell your divine scent, and because your sleeve brushes his when you reach for a report, and because he can see the little crumb that you must not have fully swept away on your mouth and wants to stupidly wipe it off.

“No,” he says.

“Good.”

Hange bites their knuckles across the table.

Later in the mess hall, you ask Levi to pass you a fork. The utensils are closer to you than to him. It doesn’t go over his head, but he reaches for it anyway, because he’s embarrassingly obedient to you. When he hands it over, you deliberately brush your fingers over his. Levi nearly drops the fork. He doesn’t, thankfully, but he manages to keep his hand steady, even though internally, he wants to run face-first into a wall. 

You lower your voice. “Careful, Captain. You seem distracted.”

He glares at you. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes.”

“That was also a very fast answer.”

“You ask stupid questions.”

“And you still answer them anyway.”

You catch his eyes flicking down to your mouth only once, only for the smallest amount of time, but you see it, and all traces of wanting to tease him escape your body.

For all your amusement, for all the fun of watching him unravel, you’re not immune to him. Levi’s awkwardness is adorable, yes, and his insults are ridiculous as they are normal, but you know how to decipher the way he shows you attention. He’s always fiercely contained. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to crack that composure just a little.

After dinner, he follows you in the always-empty corridor outside the mess hall, the one just around the corner. He positions himself in front of you, standing near a window where the moonlight cuts across his face.

“You’re doing this on purpose now,” he says.

You stop walking. “Doing what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not. I want to hear you say it.”

He clenches his jaw. There’s no one else in the corridor, so surely, he can say it with little repercussions, right? Levi looks at you, then shifts his gaze away.

“You’ve been acting strange,” he says.

“I’ve been acting strange?”

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting.”

“No, it’s just annoying.”

You step a little closer, but Levi doesn’t move. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” you ask softly.

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“Then what am I making you?”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t seem to have an insult resting on the tip of his tongue, ready to strike. The silence stretches for a moment longer than necessary.

“Annoyed,” he says finally, crossing his arms.

“Ooh, that’s the answer you’re going with?”

“It’s the answer you’re getting.”

“Levi.”

His name again. You use it gently, and the effect it has on him is visible in the slight flare of his nostrils and his fingers flexing once against his sleeve.

“You can tell me to stop,” you say.

“I know.”

“And?”

“And I won’t.” Levi looks irritated by his own honesty, but he doesn’t retract. His gaze drops to your mouth, snaps back to your eyes, drops again before he can stop it, and this time both of you know. Both of you feel it. Both of you stop denying it. “I can’t think straight around you,” he says very quietly. The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise you.

Your smile melds into a softer one. “Do you want me to back off?”

“No.”

You take another step closer. “Do you want me to keep teasing you?”

Levi looks genuinely pained when he says, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

You shrug. “A little.”

“Brat.”

You raise your hand slowly, giving him enough time to move away if he so wishes, and you touch the edge of his cravat, feeling the fold beneath your fingers. He tracks the movement with his eyes as if your hand is a blade.

“Do you want to kiss me, Levi?” you ask.

Levi’s heart drops straight through the floor. There are many things he can do under pressure. He can make impossible decisions with blood on his hands. He can move faster than fear. He can face death with a blank expression. But this—a direct question, so clear in its intent, asked in your soft voice while you stand close enough for him to count your eyelashes—destroys him completely.

But he’s tired of losing to himself.

“Yes,” he says.

“Then what’s stopping you?” you whisper.

He waits a second longer, just enough to make sure you don’t step back or retreat fully, just enough to give you the chance to change your mind. You don’t, so Levi kisses you.

At first, he’s too careful, his mouth pressed against yours with restraint. It feels like he’s holding back an army, one hand hovering near your waist before he places it there. You feel the tension coiled in him, the uncertainty buried inside him. Levi doesn’t kiss you with any sort of confidence. He’s scared. You can tell. So you help him. You step into him, sliding one hand to his shoulder and the other to the side of his face, and kiss him back hard enough that his breath leaves him in a startled exhale.

Then he changes. Some guarded place inside him finally lets down its walls as his hand grips your waist and his mouth moves against yours with deeper intention, having thought about this moment for longer than he’ll ever admit. Every insult and cup of tea has been leading him here, to this corridor, to this moment, to the relief of wanting you and discovering that you want him too.

And goddamit, do you want him.

When you part, you stay close, your noses brushing, his hand still at your waist, having forgotten to let go—and when he remembers, he still doesn’t pull away. He notices your smile first.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re totally blushing.”

“What? No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Stop it.”

“Levi Ackerman is blushing from one kiss?”

“You and your fucking ego.”

You laugh, and he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his lips. Then he’s pulled back to exactly how you even got to this point, and his almost-smile curdles into a scowl. 

“Don’t flirt with me in front of Hange again,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because they’ll never shut up about it.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

Levi looks down the corridor once, then turns back to you. “And because I’ll probably embarrass myself,” he almost mumbles.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself,” you say. He looks slightly skeptical. “Levi. I asked you if you wanted to kiss me and you said yes. That was actually very impressive.”

“Tch.”

“For you, I mean.”

He narrows his eyes. You just laugh and kiss his cheek once before walking away with glee in your steps, leaving behind a very miserable, blushing Levi.

.

The days after your kiss are strange, for lack of a better word. You and him don’t announce anything to anyone else, which Levi appreciates, because if Hange finds out, he’ll never know peace again. But privacy doesn’t mean mercy—you’re too evil for that. You’re gentle with him still, but you’re also you, and you’ve realized very quickly that Levi’s composure is a door with a faulty hinge.

You touch his hand in meetings. You call him Levi and sometimes Vi in passing and watch him stop as his face flushes red. You smile at him over your drinks and soup and bread in the mess hall. You tell him, after one long afternoon of reports, “You know, you’re almost sweet when you’re pretending not to be.”

He looks up from his paperwork and accidentally leaves a line of ink across the page. You stifle a laugh. He’s not going to be happy when he looks back down. 

“I’m not sweet,” he says.

“Almost sweet.”

“Still wrong.”

“You brought me tea yesterday unprompted.”

“I always do. And you looked dead.”

“Aw, you noticed?”

“Hard to miss.”

“Because I looked pretty?”

“Because you looked dead.”

“Pretty dead?”

He stares at you. You stare back. His mouth twitches first.

Another thing that fits into your long, exhausting days are the stolen kisses. A brief one in the narrow hall outside the records room. A longer, messier one in his office after you bring him corrected notes. One in the shadowed stairwell that ends with him muttering, “You’re going to get us caught,” even though he’s the one who pulls you back by your wrist when you start to leave.

Every kiss teaches you something. Levi likes to pretend he isn’t affected by you, but he’s always betrayed by his hands. They start almost formal, then grow bolder when you respond, fingers spreading along your waist, your back, the side of your neck. He doesn’t make much sound unless you surprise him, and once you realize that, you become silently determined to surprise him every chance you can get.

He learns too. He learns that you like when he says your name softly, in the low, rough voice he uses when he’s too flustered to hide behind composure. He learns that you laugh into kisses when he deepens it out of nowhere. He learns that if he cups your jaw and tilts your face toward his, your breath catches so beautifully that it makes his heart flip.

One night, after a late strategy review, after Erwin dismisses the squad leaders and Hange leaves with an extremely pointed and suggestive look, Levi mutters, “Walk into a Titan’s mouth,” under his breath as soon as the door shuts and returns to his office. You join him because Levi still has your patrol notes. It’s just an excuse—both of you know it.

Rain taps gently against the windows. Levi stands behind his desk with your papers in one hand while he scans the revised schedule. Meanwhile, you lean against the edge of a cabinet and try not to watch his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You changed the rotation,” he says.

“Mhm.”

“It’s better.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Was that praise I just heard?”

“Observation.”

“A positive one.”

“You’re making it weird.” 

He looks up, but there’s a different look to his eyes, something worn down by days of wanting you and stopping and wanting you again. You feel your body answer, a warm pull in your lower stomach, the ache that’s been building every time he kisses you longer than you expect. Levi sees your expression shift, and he grips his papers tighter. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to start trouble.”

You push away from the cabinet slowly. “Would you like me to stop?”

He hates that question with a passion. Every time you ask it, it matters. You give him enough space to refuse, to breathe, to get himself together, and it makes him want you more than any stupid flirtatious remark ever could.

“No,” he says.

You approach him slowly. Levi sets the papers down, aligning them with the edge of the desk, as he always does. When you reach him, you don’t smash your lips against his—even though you desperately want to. Instead, you touch his sleeve first, then his wrist, then the back of his hand where his fingers rest against the desk.

“Stop thinking so hard,” you say.

“It’s what I’m used to.”

“I know.”

His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it worse.”

“Good worse or bad worse?”

“Depends on what you do next.”

You kiss him, and there’s nothing quick about it this time. Levi’s hand rises to cup your face almost instantly, gripping your jaw firmly. The little sound he makes when you press yourself up against him is so involuntary, it makes your pulse jump and heat spread through your limbs. You back him into the desk by accident or maybe not, and he reaches up to grab your waist with his other hand. The desk creaks behind him.

Levi breaks away first, breathing unevenly, forehead nearly touching yours. “Wait,” he says.

You freeze immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, not—” He exhales sharply, frustrated with himself, then looks away. “Not stop. Just wait.”

You nod, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest. “We can wait.”

“That’s—no, that’s not what I—I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

There’s no insult waiting on his tongue this time. Levi looks down at your hands against his shirt, at the simple intimacy of being touched without being grabbed or wanted without being cornered. He swallows. You watch the anxiety move through him, which might not be visible to anyone else, but it’s obvious to you now.

“I’m not…” He stops, then sighs. “I’m not inexperienced, but I’ve only done this once before. A… a long time ago. It wasn’t—” His mouth twists. “It was fine. But it wasn’t this.” Levi looks angry with himself for even saying it. “And now you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“I—I don’t know. Like I’m—like you could break me.”

“I don’t think that. But you are nervous, aren’t you?” His silence answers for him. You lift one hand to his face, touching him with enough care that he nearly closes his eyes. “That’s okay.”

His laugh is barely a breath. “Doesn’t feel okay.”

“It is. I promise you.”

“I don’t want to be bad at this.”

You smile and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Levi, you’re not being graded.”

“That sounds like something you say before giving a bad grade.”

You laugh softly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I want you,” you say, and your directness makes him freeze. “I don’t want a perfect version of you who knows exactly what to say or do. I want you. Nervous you, awkward you. A you who insults me because you don’t know how to flirt—”

“I know how to flirt,” he frowns. “I told you that you looked better than you did yesterday.”

“That is the worst excuse for flirting I’ve ever heard, baby,” you whisper. His ears turn red, and you grin.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

You kiss him again. His hand comes to rest on your waist, your fingers slide beneath his jacket, and his breath hitches when you move closer. Levi’s anxiety doesn’t just disappear, but his nerves settle under your touch. With your comfort, he’s able to move through them instead of having them stop him. 

When you begin taking off his jacket, you pause, waiting. He nods once, so you continue, and the jacket falls from his shoulders. Levi catches it before it can hit the floor, and in a motion that stuns you, he turns, folds it once over the back of the chair, smooths the fabric out, then turns back to look at you.

You stare at him. He stares back. “What?” he says.

“Are you seriously folding your clothes right now?”

“I’m not leaving them on the floor like an animal.”

“Levi.”

“What?”

“We’re having a moment.”

“And I can have a moment and have basic standards too.”

You look at him for a second, then you start laughing, almost too loudly. It spills out of you before you can stop it. You don’t know what you expected, but you honestly shouldn’t be surprised that Levi Ackerman can be flushed, breathless, visibly aroused, and still be a clean freak.

“If you laugh at me right now, I’m leaving,” he mumbles.

“No, you’re not.”

“No… I’m not,” he says, irritated that he’s proven your point. 

You catch his face in both hands and kiss him before he can recover, and that completely breaks his restraint. He grips your waist as he turns you and presses you back against the desk, enough to make you gasp and make his breath shudder in response. You feel him tremble once, or maybe it’s just you, or maybe it’s both of you. When you slide your fingers into his hair, ruining his neat parting, he makes a low, strained sound against your mouth.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You tell me if—”

“Yes.”

He searches your face for any hesitation. “Don’t just say it because—”

“Levi,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “I promise. I’ll tell you. You tell me too.”

He swallows, then he nods. He folds his cravat next, because that’s also non-negotiable, and you bite your lip so hard to keep yourself from laughing that he points at you and says, “Don’t.” You help him with your own clothes and he tries not to stare too obviously until you step closer and guide his hands to you.

“You can touch me,” you say.

He flexes his fingers. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not trying to be an idiot.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“But I trust you.”

Levi pulls you into the adjoining room—his quarters, a space you’ve only seen in glimpses before. He leads you there with your hand in his, fingers laced tight. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you both stare at each other. You feel your heartbeat in your throat as you both begin shedding the rest of what you’re wearing.

Levi pauses, his shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes flicking over you with that same mix of hunger and hesitation that’s been building for weeks. “Can I… undress you?” He sounds like he’s asking for permission to breathe.

You nod. “Yes.”

He exhales, the sound shaky, and steps closer. His hands rise to your shoulders first, sliding your shirt off. He follows the path of the fabric with his mouth, soft kisses pressed to the curve of your shoulder, then the side of your neck. His breath is warm.

Then you feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they roam lower, tracing the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, mapping you without looking. He tugs at the rest of your clothes, peeling them away until you’re bare before him. His eyes are dark and wide with want. He can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here, that you want him. The anxiety spikes again, making his hands shake just enough that you notice.

You reach up, covering one of his trembling hands with yours. You whisper against his ear, “It’s okay, Levi. Breathe. I’m right here with you.”

You see his shoulders loosen by a fraction. He presses a longer kiss to your neck, sucking gently at the skin until a bruise blooms. He then pulls back to finish undressing himself. You don’t pay attention to where the rest of his clothes end up, because by the time they’re off, he’s guiding you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he climbs over you.

He doesn’t hesitate when he shifts lower and settles between your thighs. Without warning, he dives in, mouth hot against you as his tongue strokes in a long, slow lick. It sends a jolt straight through your core. You jump, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through his locks and gripping tight. The sensation is overwhelming despite its lightness.

Levi pulls up immediately, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, then you see the panic overtake him. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe out quickly, your grip on his hair easing but not releasing. “I was just surprised. It felt good—really good. Please, keep going.”

You see the relief wash over him. Something hungrier takes its place. He nods once, then lowers himself again. His tongue teases your clit in firm strokes, alternating pressure that makes your hips twitch upward. At the same time, one hand slides between your legs, fingers slicking through your folds before one presses inside, curling just right as he adds a second.

The combination is devastating—his mouth sucking and licking with growing confidence, fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm that gathers heat in your belly. Levi’s thoughts race. He wants you to feel good. He wants to make you fall apart—and it shows in the way he devours you. His tongue flicks faster over your sensitive bundle of nerves while his fingers work deeper, scissoring gently to stretch you.

Your moans threaten to spill out too loud, so you grab the corner of the pillow and bite down hard, the fabric muffling the sounds as your back arches. Levi notices, glancing up with a small, breathless laugh. 

“Cute,” he says, the word soft and fond before he doubles his efforts. His tongue presses flat and broad, then flicks rapidly while his fingers pump in time. The wet sounds of it mix with your muffled gasps. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter, your thighs trembling around his head as he pushes you higher.

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves. Your body clenches around his fingers as you ride it out, hips rolling against his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, licking you through every pulse, drinking you in with appreciative sounds until the peak fades and you’re left panting. The pillow is still clutched in your teeth.

Only then does he ease back. He presses gentle kisses to your inner thighs before crawling up your body again. His lips find yours in a deep, lingering kiss. The taste of you is shared between you. He presses against you, hard and aching to feel you, but he’s content to just hold you close. 

He trails kisses from your jaw down to the middle of your throat. You feel the rapid beating of his heart against your chest, matching your own. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes are dark and wide, but you can see the flicker of anxiety within them—the hesitation that he's been dragging with him the moment you stepped into his quarters.

“I want to,” he says. His fingers trace your hipbones. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t—” He stops, clenching his jaw, searching for the right words that won’t make him sound as vulnerable as he feels inside. 

You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You won’t hurt me,” you whisper. “We go slow. We stop if anything feels wrong. I trust you, Levi.”

The sound of his name seems to unlock something in him. He exhales shakily, nodding once, and shifts his hips to align with you. His length presses against your entrance. You feel the tremor that runs through his arms as he braces himself above you. He’s trying so hard to be controlled, to be careful—but you can see the strain in his shoulders and his breath hitching.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense. Your breath catches, back arching slightly as your body adjusts. He’s thicker than you anticipated, filling you almost overwhelmingly. Levi notices instantly and freezes, his eyes snapping to yours with panic.

“Are you—should I stop?” he gasps, already starting to pull out.

“No!” you manage to say, gripping his shoulders tight. You wait a moment, letting yourself relax around him. Then you let out a breathy laugh that’s half wonder and half sensation. “You’re just… you’re big. Really big.”

Levi scoffs, though the sound is strained and his face is flushed. “Stop exaggerating,” he mutters. He’s still holding himself perfectly still, afraid of causing you pain by moving.

“I’m not exaggerating,” you insist, squirming slightly beneath him, which makes him groan low in his throat. “I need a minute to adjust. You’re filling me up so much, Levi.”

The explicit confirmation completely breaks him. His face goes red—truly, deeply red, even coloring the tips of his ears—and he lets out a choked sound of embarrassment. He ducks his head down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hiding from you. You feel the heat of his blush against your skin and his chest rising with mortified breaths.

You can’t help the small giggle that comes out. You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “Hey,” you whisper. “It’s a good thing. I promise. Just… give me a second.”

He mumbles something unintelligible against your neck. His hands slide down to grip your waist. You feel the slight shaking of them. Even now, while he’s joined with you, he can’t shake his nerves. It’s almost endearing.

Once the initial burn eases into a pleasant ache, you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper. “Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, move. Please.”

Levi lifts his head slowly. His expression is still flushed, eyes glassy with arousal. He searches your face for any sign of discomfort. When he finds none, he begins to move. His first thrusts are almost torturous in their gentleness. He rocks into you with shallow rolls of his hips, testing the rhythm and depth, watching your face carefully for any adverse reactions. 

“You feel,” he starts, then stops, letting out a sharp breath. “You feel too good. I can’t—”

“Then don’t hold back,” you tell him, dragging your nails down his back. “Let go, Levi. I can take it.”

The leash around his neck snaps. His pace quickens, thrusts deepening as he loses himself in the sensation of you wrapped around him. The bed shifts beneath you, the frame groaning as he moves faster and harder. The sound of your skin meeting grows louder in the quiet room. He’s still trying to maintain some control—you see it in the strain of his neck muscles. But it’s slipping, eroding with every clench of your body around him.

You look up at him, watching the first bead of sweat forming on his forehead. His hair has fallen into his eyes. He’s beautiful like this—undone and desperate. 

“Captain,” you whisper.

Levi’s eyes flash. He responds with a single, brutal thrust that drives the air from your lungs and causes you to throw your head back against the pillow. You cry out, hands flying to grip his biceps. Your nails dig in hard enough to leave marks. 

He doesn’t apologize. He leans down, kissing you as he continues to drive into you. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, devouring, and you meet him eagerly. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he increases his pace. The kiss becomes messy, teeth clicking, breaths mingling in gasps. He pistons his hips, each thrust rocking the bed against the wall.

You’re his. That’s the only thought in his mind now, primal, washing away the last of his nerves. You’re here and you’re his and you want this, want him. He can’t focus on the kiss anymore, can’t split his attention between the taste of your mouth and the heat gripping him so perfectly. He breaks away with a low sound, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His eyes squeeze shut. He surrenders completely to the need pounding through him.

His hips become relentless, a rhythm that has you gasping and clutching at him. You feel the tension coiling low in your belly again. The friction of him drags against your walls, building you toward another peak. The sounds coming from you are embarrassingly loud—moans and whines that seem to echo. You instinctively raise a hand to cover your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

Levi’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can hide your sounds. He pins your arm back against the pillow, then does the same with the other. He traps both wrists in one of his hands above your head. His eyes open, burning into yours.

“Don’t,” he growls, voice gravelly. “Don’t cover your mouth. I want to hear you. Need to hear you.” He ruts in particularly hard, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. “Louder,” he demands, practically begging. “Please, let me hear how good I’m making you feel. Let me—fuck—let me hear it.”

His words, the desperation in them, the way he’s holding you open and vulnerable while he pounds into you, has your toes curling and back arching off the bed. You let the sounds come freely, cries of his name breaking from your lips. He groans in response, a visceral sound of satisfaction. His free hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in circling strokes.

“Levi—” you gasp, straining against his grip. “I’m close, I’m so close—”

“Cum for me,” he pants. His own rhythm falters slightly as his own peak barrels down on him. “Cum on my cock, let me feel you—”

The coil snaps. You cry out loudly as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Your cunt clamps down on him so tightly he curses, a strained, filthy sound. He keeps thrusting through your climax, dragging out the bliss until his own control breaks.

With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his body locking into place above you. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of his release flooding you as he cums with a ragged groan. He collapses forward, but catches himself on one arm. The other releases your wrists to cradle your face instead. 

He kisses you messily as he empties himself into you, his hips giving small, involuntary jerks with each pulse of his orgasm. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. He kisses you through the falling peak, his tongue languid against yours now. When he finally pulls back slightly, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed. The anxiety has been completely washed away and replaced by something sated.

“You okay?” he mutters, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

You laugh and press a kiss to his jaw. “Better than okay. You?”

He huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. He hides his face in your neck again. “Yeah,” he breathes against your skin. “Yeah. I’m good. We’re good.”

When he pulls back again, you see the color high on his cheeks again. He slowly withdraws and falls beside you. The room is dark except for the grey light from the window. Levi lies stiffly at first—as if sharing a bed with you is somehow more intimate than the sex. You almost laugh again, but then you see the uncertainty in his expression. 

You touch his bare chest, fingers stroking his skin. He looks at you. “You can relax,” you whisper.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re all tense like you’re on trial.”

His mouth twitches, so you move closer, resting your head on his shoulder. After a moment, his arm wraps around you, tentative for half a second before it relaxes, drawing you against him.

“There,” you say. “Wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“Tch. You’re annoying.”

“You like me.”

He’s quiet for long enough that you think he’s either asleep or just ignoring you, but then his arm tightens around you.

“Yeah,” he says.

.

Morning arrives. You don’t know where you are at first. There’s a strange warmth at your back, light pouring through at an angle that you usually don’t see in your room, the faint smell of black tea and clean linen, and an arm resting around your waist. 

Then Levi shifts behind you, and everything comes rushing back to you so fast your only response is a small squeak. You remember the office, his confession, his stupid folded jacket, his mouth and hands, his body fitting against yours.

You turn carefully. Levi is awake, his hair slightly disheveled as his eyes fix on you, less guarded than usual. “Morning,” you whisper.

He stares at you for a few seconds, then, because he’s Levi and doesn’t know what else to say, he says, “You drool.”

You open your mouth in offense. “I do not.”

“You did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“On my pillow.”

“You’re lying.”

“Badly, apparently, since you’re not convinced.”

You shove his shoulder lightly, but he grabs your wrist without the intent to stop you. He brushes his thumb over your inner wrist once. You look past him and notice his boots aligned near the wall, his pants half-folded on the chair beside it. Then, on the floor near the foot of the bed, you see his shirt. Wrinkled and abandoned and scandalously unfolded. Your eyes widen with joy. He follows your gaze, then freezes.

“Oh,” you say softly, “Captain.”

“No.”

“You left that on the floor.”

“Stop.”

“Like an animal.”

He groans and closes his eyes. You start laughing before you can help it, and he rolls onto his back with a long sigh. He knows it’s way too early in the morning for such nonsense. You know it too. Will you stop? Absolutely not.

“I—I was distracted,” he stammers.

“You? Distracted?”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“I’m incredibly happy about it.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.

Levi realizes what he said at the exact same moment you do. He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t turn to look at you yet. He stares at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to just disappear off the face of the earth forever. You turn toward him slowly, your grin widening and softening at the same time.

“You love me?” you tease.

His face changes in increments: irritation, realization, horror, resignation. “No.”

“Really? You just said it though.”

“I’m tired.”

“So am I, and I’m talking just fine.”

“Fine. Then I was… vulnerable.”

“That’s even worse for you.”

“Shut up.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him while your heart beats hard. “You love me.”

Levi stares at the ceiling, hoping it’ll fall on him and crush him at this very moment. Then, with a sigh that sounds like it was dragged from the very bottom of his soul, he reaches for you and pulls you down against him, hiding his face near your neck where you can’t see the color in his cheeks.

“You’re making this weird,” he says.

“It is weird.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“It definitely does. You insulted me for months because you had a crush.”

“I brought you tea.”

“You called me sloppy.”

“You were sloppy.”

“You also fixed my cloak. What was that about?”

“It was crooked.”

“And you told me my paperwork was tolerable.”

“It was.”

“Marriage proposal,” you whisper.

He groans into your shoulder. You laugh, smiling into his hair. Levi doesn’t tell you to stop, and instead just holds you there, letting the morning continue in all its noise and duty, while the two of you exist in the aftermath of your surrender to each other.

Levi still has no idea what to do with romantic feelings. They’ll remain inconvenient for now. Messy and, quite frankly, a nightmare. But when you trace circles over his shoulder and whisper that he’s the sweetest man you know, when you laugh softly against his mouth after he tells you not to push your luck, when your hand finds his beneath the blanket and he squeezes without thinking, he decides that maybe being terrible at feeling doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to feel.

After all, if you’re the one teaching him, he might just survive it.

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @ddilfs4life @nickibunny23 @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @angierb05 @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @vmxz6 @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13 @wh0r3f0rchoso @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @starfallenlevi @altpsyche @tea-rae

divider by: angelciide

But the amusement didn't last long. It was hard not to notice the weird bookkeeping after that—the endless trail of shell companies stamped across invoices, and there was an unusually large amount of cash coming through the registers. The numbers didn't add up for a venue that was rarely even half full.

But what really got under your skin, though, was one of those men.

He couldn't have been much older than you. He had his hair slicked neatly back, striking violet eyes, and a suit that clearly cost more than you'd make in a year.

Every time he walked in, there was a strange prickling sensation settled at the base of your neck. For some reason, you couldn't place the feeling you'd seen him before. Like recognizing someone from a dream you'd forgotten the moment you woke up.

In the end, you just brushed it off.

As a busser—though "runner" sounded much more professional when management wanted extra work done—you weren't exactly rolling in luxury. However, it was still the best paycheck you'd earned since arriving in Tokyo. Ever since the day you packed your entire life into a single duffel bag after a screaming match with your family, cut the SIM card out of your phone, and vanished without saying a single word to your boyfriend, Ran.

For a long time, you'd wondered whether he'd been angry. Eventually, you stopped wondering altogether.

People moved on.

That was what everyone said.

Since then, you have bounced between a dozen different dead-end jobs, but none of them ever lasted very long. Then you landed here. Sure, a high-end nightclub in the heart of Tokyo didn't hand fat envelopes of cash to a high school dropout out of the goodness of its heart. But for someone without a college degree to their name, the money was simply too good to pass up, so you buried your doubts and decided to stick around.

After all, you had a future to build and a clean life to live. Asking questions didn't put money in your pocket, while keeping your head down and keeping your mouth shut did.

_

Routine is a drug. Better than alcohol, better than a cigarette snuck on the fire escape at three in the morning. You could give up the cash, swear off the canned iced coffee that kept your heart racing through four-a.m. closes, but you could never give up the sweet, predictable numbness of a routine. Because how else are you supposed to view a boring late night when your entire existence is built on keeping things as utterly uneventful as possible?

​Your shift had officially ended five minutes ago. Up on the main floor, the heavy bass from the subwoofers had finally dialed down, thrumming through the floorboards, vibrating right up through the thin rubber soles of your worn sneakers.

You unpinned the plastic nametag and tossed it onto the cold metal bench beside your duffel. You were just pulling a hoodie over your head when the door swung open, and one of your coworkers dragged himself inside, his apron slouched so low it practically trailed on the floor, looking thoroughly defeated.

"If I have to wipe down one more sticky table, I am going to throw myself off the balcony," Kenzo groaned, collapsing onto the bench next to your bag with a dramatic flop. "I'm serious. I'll do it. You ever think about just quit?"

"Yeah, every shift," you answered, zipping up your hoodie as you leaned back against the cool metal of the lockers.

"Same." He wheezed, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Then payday rolls around and suddenly I remember why I'm still here. Funny how that works."

"Stockholm syndrome, probably," you smirked, playfully.

"Pretty sure that's not what that means."

"Close enough."

The lighthearted banter filled the room; he was one of the few perks of working in a place like this.

You shoved your hands into your hoodie pockets, ready to call it a night. But Kenzo didn't move. He didn't bother unbuttoning his vest or ditching his apron yet. Instead, he stayed put on the narrow metal bench, nervously picking at a loose thread near his hip. His fidgeting immediately set off alarm bells in the back of your mind.

"Hey," he started softly, looking up through his bangs. "Are you... heading straight home?"

"Why?"

"Well, I was just thinking..." Kenzo rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing an embarrassed pink. "We've been working together for a few months now, and you're really cool. Like, really cool. And I was wondering if maybe... you'd want to get breakfast with me sometime? Or grab a drink on our night off? As a date, I mean."

He offered a hopeful little smile. "I've liked you for a while now."

In an instant, the atmosphere in the room became thick and charged, as if the very air had lost its substance.

It wasn't that Kenzo wasn't cute. He was. He was attentive and kind too, embodying everything one could want in a friend or partner. But the moment the word date left his mouth, the ghost of a violet-eyed glare immediately settled right in the back of your mind, making your heart claw its way back up your throat.

You couldn't do this. You couldn't. The idea of letting anyone that close again—of running the risk of finding out someone else had a hidden side—made your stomach turn into a tight knot. You knew, even if the sweet boy standing in front of you had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the person you were before.

"Kenzo, I... I'm really flattered," you said, forcing a polite smile onto your face before the silence could stretch into something weird. "You're great, and you always make this place bearable. But I'm really not in a place to date anyone right now. I've just got... a lot of personal stuff I'm dealing with."

Kenzo's eyes widened, and he instantly held up both hands, regret washing over his face.

"Oh, man—no, hey, say no more," he said quickly, his posture slumping back in visible relief that he hadn't made a total mess of things. "I am so sorry if I made things weird! You don't owe me an explanation at all."

He rubbed his forehead, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. "My bad. I just thought I'd throw it out there, but we are totally cool, I promise."

"Thanks for understanding, Kenzo," you offered him a softer, more real smile.

"Of course," he said, as he finally stood up to head toward his own locker. "Get home safe, alright? See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder and stepping out of the locker room.

Somehow, that interaction left an unexpected ache somewhere in your chest. Not because you'd rejected him. More like it reminded you how ordinary people were supposed to fall in love.

Ask. Accept rejection. Feel embarrassed. Move on.

It shouldn't feel remarkable. Yet somehow... it did.

"Hey."

You had barely taken two steps out of the locker room when the manager's voice snapped through the hallway.

He jabbed a finger toward a tray someone had abandoned on a nearby counter. "You blind? Take care of that before you leave."

"...That's not mine," you mumbled.

"Do I look like I care?" he said, looking up long enough to glare.

You bit back a smart-ass response sitting on your tongue, picked up the tray, and carried it away. As you walked, you let out a long, shuddering breath, trying to shake off the lingering phantom chill of the past that Kenzo's sudden confession had accidentally dragged back to the surface. You told yourself you were safe. You were just a busser in a noisy club, leaving another late shift behind, walking toward the quiet exit.

After eight hours inside the muffled thump of the club, stepping onto the street was like walking straight into a fever dream.

Rain had slicked the narrow alleyways, turning the asphalt into a dark mirror that reflected the endless barrage of glaring red, pink, and yellow signs hanging overhead. As you turned onto the next street, one of the club promoters was speaking to a girl who couldn't have been older than eighteen. She clutched a suitcase in one hand and nodded eagerly at everything he said.

"You'll make more in one night than most office workers make all week," he said, handing her a business card. "All you need to do is just pour drinks and smile."

She smiled back with obvious relief. As you walk past, you wonder how long it took before she figured it out.

Walking through the crowded veins of Kabukicho meant running a nightly gauntlet of men—foreign tourists lined up like cattle outside the shady parlors, happily fueling the illegal prostitution rings that ran rampant through Tokyo's underbelly. Rich tourists and businessmen who openly bragged on the street about their upcoming flights to the Philippines or Thailand next month, genuinely believing that a fat wallet gave them a right to buy anyone they wanted for a night. To do whatever sick thing popped into their heads, even complain about local laws getting in the way.

God, how you loathed them. The scum who ran those operations, and the men who paid them.

You turned the corner into a quieter alleyway that served as a shortcut to the subway entrance, stepping around a puddle of spilled liquor as a group of intoxicated men stumbled out of a nearby club. Sometimes, you felt small and stupid and utterly trapped by the choices that brought you there.

You kept your chin tucked, eyes glued to the pavement.

Down here, Kabukicho was a graveyard of abandoned things. Tonight, your eyes caught a sun-bleached concert poster from three years ago, plastered right next to a bright yellow municipal sign warning against illegal dumping, though someone had already sprayed a streak of silver paint right across the fine print. Poor artist, getting buried under city ordinances.

Maybe they should've picked a better wall.

_

Back then, if anyone had asked you what Ran was like, you probably would have hesitated.

Because the answer depended entirely on who was asking, to your classmates, he was the infamous delinquent who skipped classes whenever he pleased, constantly getting into fights and attracting rumors the way neon signs attracted moths. To teachers, he and his brother were a huge pain in the ass. To strangers, he looked like the kind of boy parents warned their daughters about.

To you...

He was the idiot who complained about carrying your schoolbag while refusing to hand it back. The one who insisted motorcycles were perfectly safe, even while driving like he had a personal vendetta against speed limits and municipal traffic laws. The one who—somehow, against your better judgment—managed to make you laugh every single day.

You never really knew what he did after school. Sure, he was in a gang. They probably got into fights. He never volunteered details, and you never asked very hard. Because ignorance was clean. Ignorance let you pretend.

Looking back now, dating Ran Haitani had been like holding a lit match over an open gas line.

At the time, though, being eighteen had a remarkable way of convincing you that love was somehow immune to inconvenient questions.

You remembered one afternoon in particular.

It had been near the end of your final year, and the forecast had promised a light shower. Instead, the sky had split wide open, hammering rain against the school courtyard until the world outside the awning was blurred into gray watercolor smudges.

Half the students had already surrendered, making phone calls to parents or cramming three people beneath umbrellas designed for one.

You simply stood beneath the awning with your backpack hugged against your chest, determined not to text Ran for a ride. You were perfectly capable of surviving one rainy afternoon on your own; you didn't need a boyfriend catering to your every minor inconvenience.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

As the rain only grew heavier, you were beginning to wonder whether swimming home counted as a viable commute when a familiar motorcycle rolled to a stop in front of the school gates.

Ran climbed off first, he was already completely soaked.

His braids clung to the sides of his face, water dripping from the ends onto his jacket. In one hand, he held a completely transparent convenience-store umbrella with a bright yellow price sticker still attached to the handle.

"I knew you would forget," he said, swung his leg over the bike, and stepped into the pouring rain without a care in the world.

You glanced at the umbrella, then at him. "Where did you even get that? You didn't have it when you drove up."

"Stole it," he said without missing a beat. "Off some salaryman outside the convenience store. I told him it was an emergency."

"Ran! You can't just rob middle-aged men of their umbrellas!"

"Tomato, tomahto."

He looked genuinely offended that the sight made a laugh bubble right up out of your chest; he then held the umbrella over your head before you could argue further. The rest of him remained entirely outside its protection.

And that was the thing about Ran back then, wasn't it? He could be reckless, absurd, completely unbothered by the rules everyone else lived by. But when it came to you, he'd stand in the storm and make sure not a single drop touched your clothes.

"...Move closer." You frowned immediately. "The umbrella is supposed to cover both of us. You're getting soaked."

"I already am soaked," he replied, grinning so broadly.

The walk back to your house was absurd. Ran held the umbrella over you so meticulously that not a single drop of rain touched your clothes, which meant he was getting progressively soaked to the bone. Every time you tried to push the handle toward him so he could share, he would just push it right back over your head.

"Ran, stop it, you are completely ridiculous," you huffed, trying to grab his wrist.

"And you are entirely ungrateful," he shot back. "I am ruining a very expensive pair of shoes for you right now. The least you could do is hold my hand."

You rolled your eyes, but you slipped your fingers into his wet palm anyway.

"Seriously, you're going to catch pneumonia, Ran."

By the time your house came into view, your shoes squelched with every step.

The umbrella had somehow become even less effective over the course of the walk. You suspected it had something to do with Ran repeatedly spinning it like a baton every time he got bored.

When you finally reached your front porch, you stepped under the roof and turned around to face him. He closed the umbrella, shaking off the excess water, standing a step below you on the concrete stairs so he was almost at eye level. Water was dripping on his face, his violet eyes dark and bright against the gray afternoon light.

He reached out, his fingers surprisingly warm despite the weather, and gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your face, tucking them behind your ear.

"You look so cute," he said, his thumb resting against your cheekbone. "I don't think I'd ever let anyone else see you with your hair mess like this."

You laughed, rolling your eyes. "What, because I'd embarrass you?"

"Nah, I'd just rather keep this to myself."

You opened your mouth to make another joke. Then his hand tightened so much that it actually hurt, his fingers locked into the damp strands, holding your head in place. The playful warmth in his face hadn't disappeared, but the smile on his lips had gone completely still. 

His violet eyes were entirely flat.

"I'm serious," he murmured.

For reasons you couldn't name—reasons you wouldn't dare admit to yourself until years later—the rain pouring off the porch roof suddenly felt like ice against your skin.

And then, just as quickly as the vice had closed, he let go.

You stood on your porch for a long time, staring at him, your scalp still tingling from the pressure of his hand. Until he ruffled your hair instead, ruining whatever neatness he'd just created.

"You literally just fixed it," you groaned, forcing the annoyance back into your voice, forcing your hands to stay at your sides instead of checking where his fingers had bruised your scalp.

"I changed my mind," he beamed.

"You are the worst."

You shoved his shoulder, and he laughed.

The strange little moment disappeared beneath the familiar rhythm of your bickering, washed away as easily as rainwater running into the street.

At least...

That's what you told yourself back then.

_

Your apartment was typical for a cheap Tokyo rental.

Running away sounded much more romantic before you actually did it. In reality, it mostly consisted of glorified shoeboxes with paper-thin walls, convenience store dinners, counting coins before grocery shopping, and pretending you weren't homesick every time you passed families eating together through restaurant windows.

As you lay stretched out on your futon, scrolling mindlessly through your phone until your eyes burned, the muffled soundtrack of the building bled straight through the plaster. Above you, the thump-thump of the upstairs neighbor pacing in his slippers. You paused your scrolling, casually turning your head to listen; it was a nosy habit born out of living in such close quarters. You knew exactly when the university student next door overslept because he'd come barreling down the hallway every morning. The elderly couple across the landing always turned their television to the news right after dinner. And every Thursday without fail, someone two floors below practiced the trumpet with the confidence of a professional and the talent of an injured goose.

To keep the exorbitant Tokyo rent from completely eating your wages, you shared the tiny two-room unit with a hostess named Mayu, who knew nothing about your background, nor did you know hers.

Mayu pushed open the thin sliding door to your room. She pulled out a tub of cleansing balm and began aggressively wiping off her heavy night makeup while the television played some late-night variety show neither of you was paying attention to.

"I thought my feet were going to fall off tonight," she grumbled, rubbing a cotton pad over her eye. "Some middle-aged salaryman kept making me stand up to pour his whiskey just so he could stare at my legs!"

"You get paid triple what I do for that," you replied, not looking up from your screen. "Suck it up."

"Yeah, yeah." She tossed a used cotton pad toward the tiny trash bin, missing completely. "Though... speaking of high-rollers, one of my regulars was shitting his pants tonight."

That caught your attention. "Why? Did his wife catch him?"

"Worse," Mayu lowered her voice, though she didn't really need to, the thin plaster walls meant anyone in the hallway could hear her anyway. "He handles some of the logistics for the venue owners around here. Apparently, some executives from Bonten were in the area tonight, doing surprise audits and checking the books."

You didn't need to ask who or what Bonten was. Anyone living in Japan knew the name. They were Japan's most ruthless criminal syndicate—that had absorbed every major gang in the country and turned it into a multi-billion-yen corporate organization. From high-stakes gambling and drug trafficking to prostitution to the very money-laundering front that paid your rent, Bonten owned the city from the top down. The police didn't go near them, politicians took their money, and normal people like you just prayed that they would never ever cross your path.

Your thumb paused over your phone screen for a second at the name, but your face remain totally blank.

Mayu leaned in a little closer, her face half-cleansed, looking thoroughly entertained by the drama. "He said if Bonten finds even a single yen missing, someone gets a bullet in the head. Plain and simple."

A small, dry laugh bubbled up in your throat. You tossed your phone onto the blanket and rolled onto your side to face her. "Maybe don't get involved with syndicate freaks like that if he doesn't have a death wish."

"Right?" Mayu giggled, applying a layer of night cream. "I told him to just drink and shut up, but the guy could barely hold his glass."

She kept chatting for a moment. You waited until Mayu finished capping her skincare jars, watching her wipe her hands on a small towel, before you allowed yourself to shift the mood.

"Anyway," you sighed, letting out an exaggerated groan as you buried half your face in the pillow. "Enough about pathetic old men. I have actual important news."

Mayu paused mid-rub, blinking through her bangs. "Like what?"

"The trailer just dropped," you said, a small, genuine smirk finally breaking through the tension in your jaw.

"Really. For our show?" Her eyes lit up immediately, the poor bastard was already forgotten. That was Mayu for you.

"Yep! On Friday next week. Since we both have the night off, we're bingeing the whole thing."

"Deal," she smiled. "I'll handle the snacks."

You exhaled—a rare, unburdened thing—and closed your eyes, letting the ambient hum filter through the paper-thin windowpane. Next door, the university kid was probably already asleep, bracing for another morning of running late to class.

Because you believed, deeper down, in that naive part of yourself you kept safe that as long as you stayed small, as long as you minded your own business, names like Bonten were just stories that would stay as something above your head. You had no inkling that in just a few days, Friday night would come and go, and those silly little plans would mean absolutely nothing.

_

A week slipped by without incident.

You slept through bright afternoons and spent most nights weaving between strangers who would forget your face before sunrise, collecting abandoned bottles, clearing ashtrays no matter how many times management insisted smoking wasn't allowed indoors anymore, delivering drinks upstairs when the cocktail servers became overwhelmed.

Life, for the most part, resumed exactly as it always did.

Then the black sedans returned.

It wasn't entirely shocking that they showed up without a warning or a schedule; no one ever knew when they were coming. Sometimes they vanished for an entire season before showing up again as though they'd never left. Other times they appeared twice within the same week, completely without warning.

The moment your manager spotted them through the front entrance, every trace of confidence evaporated as usual.

He was already damn unraveling. He'd already barked at a bartender for polishing the wrong glasses and snapped at one of the DJs because a speaker cable was (god forbid) two centimeters out of place. By the time the front doors quietly opened to admit the suited visitors, there was enough sweat on his forehead that you wondered whether he ought to see a doctor.

Men like him—petty tyrants on short leashes—never handle real fear well. When their own knees start knocking, they do the only thing they know how to do: they look around for someone smaller to kick.

And tonight, the lottery ticket fell on you.

Spotting you wiping down a nearby tray station, he barked, "You! Bring a fresh pitcher of ice water to the VIP booth right now!"

You glanced around, there were at least four other employees standing closer than you were. Apparently, fate had decided your face annoyed him the least.

"...Yes, boss," you said.

He didn't stick around to check if you moved, already scrambling off toward the velvet ropes so fast he nearly tripped over the edge of the entryway carpet.

You kept your face completely expressionless and quickly filled a glass pitcher with ice and water. You knew better than to make him ask twice when he was in a mood like this.

You placed it onto a silver tray alongside three untouched crystal tumblers before making your way upstairs. The music dulled into a distant heartbeat with every step. The VIP corridor remained as immaculate as ever, even the security staff stationed outside the doors stood a little straighter than usual.

One of the VIP room doors remained open just enough for you to step inside after a quick knock.

Eyes down. Always eyes down. You navigated through the velvet ropes into the central lounge. Still... curiosity was free, wasn't it?

"—the numbers from the shell holding accounts don't match the front-end receipts," a voice said. "If they comes knocking, this venue's legitimate revenue needs to swallow the extra capital cleanly. That's the entire reason your name is on the registration, isn't it?"

"O-Of course, sir! It was just a minor delay in transferring—" your manager stammered, wringing his hands.

"I don't care about your excuses," the main voice interrupted.

Your gaze drifted upward just enough to take in the room and the three men.

The manager was talking to a long-haired man with white hair, wearing a vibrant red jacket paired with two long golden earrings. The undercut shaved clean along the left side of his head, with someone had carved an intricate emblem into the exposed hairline, resembling a Hanafuda full moon card.

It wasn't subtle. Then again, you suspected subtlety had never particularly interested men at the very top of the food chain.

Subtlety was for people like you.

To his right stood a man with a distinctive pinkish-purple mullet, quietly observing the room without speaking much. Beside him was the third man, and just like the mullet hair, he hadn't spoken once since you'd entered. Both of them wore tailored suits, and etched directly onto the front of their necks was the exact same stylized logo shaved into the white-haired man's head.

It didn't take a genius to figure that the nightclub wasn't your manager's. Not really.

It's running some massive money laundering shit for someone way higher. You were certain of it. The club is legally registered under the manager's name—a detail you stumbled across on a stray tax document in the back office—which meant the poor bastard was nothing more than a glorified human shield to rot in a cell the second the police finally decided to smash down the doors.

So he talked.

And shuffled his feet.

And talked.

The white-haired man didn't even glance your way as you approached. He just leaned back into the plush leather sofa, lazily swirling a glass of amber liquor between his fingers. While every few moments the manager would laugh nervously.

You reached across the low mahogany table to set down the tumbler. Suddenly, the manager stepped back in his bowing shuffle.

His elbow clipped your forearm.

Ice, water, and dark amber liquor splashed across the dark wood, pooling instantly over the edge of the table and dripping straight onto the polished leather shoe of the man with the slicked-back hair.

A gasp died in the manager's throat. You froze, your pulse spiking into a deafening roar in your ears. No. No, no, no. If you kept your head down, carried the trays, and did your job, they would never bat an eye at you earning chump change. But now, you had drawn a direct line of sight straight to yourself.

Slowly, the man with the slicked-back hair looked down at his soaked shoe, then raised his eyes to yours.

He blinked once, as though only now realizing there had been another person standing beside the table all along.

His eyes lingered for the smallest fraction of a second longer than politeness required, slowly drifting over the nametag pinned crookedly to your vest, the tiny scar near your wrist from years of bussing tables.

"...Have we...?"

"Me?" You looked up, confused.

He didn't finish the sentence, holding your gaze for another heartbeat. Then, imperceptibly, the tension in his expression dissolved. The corners of his mouth lifted into an apologetic smile, and he gave the faintest shake of his head.

"Nothing." He let out a soft chuckle. "For a second, I thought you reminded me of someone."

You tried to process the strange chill of his voice, staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the neat slick of his hair. Did you know him? Did you pass him on a train? Had he been one of those customers at the diner you worked at three jobs ago?

Or was it something else? Something from the before?

Suddenly, your manager's voice cut through; his face lost what little color remained.

"You utter idiot!" the manager shrieked, grabbing a napkin. "What is wrong with you?! I am so sorry—please forgive them, they're completely incompetent, I'll fire them right now, I'll—"

"It's alright."

The slicked-back-haired man raised a single hand, stopping the manager in his tracks.

He leaned forward, picking up a cloth from the tray, and turned his full attention to you. His face softened into an easy expression that felt shockingly strange from someone with a tattoo displayed so openly across his neck.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and you flinched at the way he did; it sounded an inch too familiar.

"...Sorry?"

He gestured toward the floor. "You didn't get cut by any broken glass, did you?"

"I—no. No, I'm fine. I'm so sorry," you stammered, entirely thrown off balance by his sudden gentle demeanor.

He let out a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively at his ruined shoe as he dabbed at the spill. "Don't apologize. Honestly, it's a relief—I've been looking for an excuse to throw these shoes away anyway. They were a gift from my brother, and his taste in leather is questionable at best."

Beside him, the man with the mullet scoffed softly, rolling his eyes with an irritated twitch of his jaw.

Meanwhile, the man with the white hair slowly folded his arms, leaning back against the leather booth with a mocking smile stretching across his face. He eyed his colleague up and down.

"Look at you. What brought on the suddenly generous mood?" he said, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"Ignore him," the slicked-back man murmured to you with a smooth wave of his hand, as he reached out to help you pick up the fallen tray and wipe down the edge of the booth. "Here, let me give you a hand with that."

Your manager looked horrified. "S-Sir, please, we'll clean that immediately."

"I've got hands. They're working fine."

The manager forced out an awkward chuckle that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. The poor man somehow looked even more anxious.

You found yourself awkwardly kneeling opposite the slick-haired stranger, carefully gathering the larger shards onto a folded napkin.

"I'm so sorry—"

"You've just been apologizing, doll. Relax a little." He tilted his head, watching the way you kept your head ducked, your focus strictly glued to the floor tiles. "Do you work here every night?"

You told him because you didn't see any harm in that.

As he worked alongside you for a brief, surreal moment, he made small talk—asking how long you'd been working here, complaining lightheartedly about how this venue is a bit too loud, how hard it was to have a decent conversation over that bass downstairs. Certainly, you nodded to be polite, and agreed that it was much nicer when it's quiet. Meanwhile, he acted for all the world like a charming patron enjoying a night out. Keep up the hard work. They'll be seeing you around.

When you reached for another shard, you happened to look up to check where his hands were—and your eyes caught the second man in the room.

The man with the pinkish-purple mullet wasn't watching the broken glass.

He was watching you.

Specifically, he was watching the slick-haired man watching you. Neither of them spoke and simply exchanged a look, a strangely familiar one. It was so brief, so razor-thin, you almost convinced yourself your mind had invented it entirely. Just the faintest, imperceptible twitch of an eyebrow from the mulleted man, answered by the subtle shift in the other's jaw.

Then both of them looked away as though nothing had happened; a strange feeling settled somewhere in the back of your mind.

You tied off the towel around the broken crystal. Apologized once more, and then excused yourself from the room.

"Thanks," you said quietly.

"Of course."

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit trousers before stepping aside to let you pass. "Have a safe shift."

"You too."

The words left your mouth, and halfway through the doorway, you realized how ridiculous that sounded.

"I'll certainly try," he said, smiling a little wider.

You stepped clear of the threshold and back into the hallway, your breath catching in your throat as your shoulder nearly brushed fabric.

Standing right beside the frame—so close to the entrance he had been completely swallowed by the alcove's shadows when you first walked in—was a towering man in a dark suit. He stood dead still, hands folded low over his belt like a gargoyle guarding a vault. Must be a bodyguard, then.

He hadn't been there when you walked down the hall earlier. Or... had he?

How the hell did you miss a man the size of a refrigerator?

You didn't look up at his face. You knew better than to make eye contact with the muscle of whatever syndicate was currently occupying that room. You kept your eyes glued to the floor, clutching the tray of broken glass against your ribs, and hurried past him before the door clicked shut behind you. Behind you, the manager resumed discussing figures in a voice still trembling from nerves.

Later that night, while throwing away the trash bag, you caught a glimpse of one of the newer girls standing outside.

She was leaning against the wall, her shoulders trembling, the edges of her heavy eyeliner ready to dissolve in a fresh wave of tears. Before you had the chance to ask whether she was alright, she noticed you looking. She wiped her eyes with a flick of her thumb and flashed you a bright, yet, entirely hollow smile.

You smiled back out of habit and kept dragging the trash bag toward the bin. You turned your back on her and went right back to doing what you were paid to do.

​Because there wasn't a thing you could do for her.

But that memory stayed with you far longer than you expected on the train ride home after your shift. Maybe because she looked so painfully young. Then again, most of these girls were so young, arriving in Tokyo full of life and desperate for a shortcut to a comfortable paycheck, only to realize too late that the industry didn't let go once it had its teeth in you. Some of them came here hoping for an easy ride; others were backed into a corner by debts or circumstances that forced it on them, bad luck had a funny way of disguising itself as opportunity. But regardless of how they arrived, very few ever made it to the top as high-earning hostesses. Most just had their youth chewed up and spit out, carrying a ruined reputation.

Strange as it sounded, you couldn't help but feel relief.

You were glad you had only stumbled into this red-light district venue older and thoroughly disillusioned by the world. If you had been a few years younger, this industry would have easily swallowed you whole. You would have been just like her, crying behind the building before the next client called your number.

_

The next evening, you woke up in an unusually good mood.

Certainly not, because you had developed a newfound appreciation for mopping spilled champagne off the floors.

No, it was because your favorite television series was finally releasing its newest season.

You weren't even supposed to be working the late shift tonight, if not for your manager suddenly calling you in. It was originally slated as your night off, and your calendar—if you actually kept one instead of scrawling reminders on the backs of crumpled receipts—was packed with the kind of aggressive relaxing only a thoroughly exhausted twenty-something could appreciate.

You had spent the last two weeks trying (and failing) not to think about it. You and your roommate had spent the entire week planning around the show. She had already bought snacks, and the second your shift ended at two in the morning, you would be sprinting to the convenience store for drinks and fried chicken. Though if she catches you bringing home yet another can of melon soda instead of the green tea she asked for, she was bound to yank a couch cushion off the futon and hurl it directly at your face. But c'mon. It wasn't your fault that the machine was half-empty and you were prone to picking whatever flavor gave you a hit of nostalgia.

Neither of you intended to answer texts, phone calls, or the front door until every episode had been consumed. There was a very real possibility you'd both be functioning on three hours of sleep tomorrow. But it would absolutely be worth it.

That singular thought carried you all the way through getting dressed.

The train ride.

The familiar walk toward Kabukicho.

Tokyo looked strangely charming whenever you had something to look forward to. You practically skipped past a group of sketchy promoters shouting at passersby, silently wishing them a lovely evening in your head. Even the local crackhead picking violently at his own arms and screaming at a lamppost wasn't a public menace to you—he was just a passionate street performer tragically born without a stage.

There was a moment when you caught yourself looking around and thinking that, from a distance, the place almost resembled one of those movie montages about chasing dreams in Tokyo. Even Kabukicho itself somehow managed to seem... endearing.

(if you squinted hard enough.)

By the time you pushed through the staff entrance, you were humming the opening theme from the show under your breath.

​The manager was standing by the tray station. The moment his eyes landed on you, his usual scowl contorted into a horrifyingly wide smile, that you briefly wondered whether someone was threatening him just outside your field of vision.

​"Ah! There you are!" he chirped, the buttery tone that made the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up. "I was just waiting for you!"

You instinctively glanced behind yourself, there was nobody, just you.

"...Evening, boss?" you answered cautiously. Had he developed a fever? "Is... something wrong?"

​"Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?" He practically glided over to you, patting your shoulder with an unsettling touch that felt completely wrong coming from a man who had screamed at you for spilling water last night. "I just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay after yesterday! That spill was a complete accident, of course. I hope you didn't take my little outburst to heart. You're one of our best runners here, you know that, right?"

​"I... thank you?"

He nodded, then stepped aside to let you pass first. He never voluntarily let you through a doorway before.

Something was wrong.

You continued toward the staff room. A minute later, he appeared beside you carrying a fresh stack of polished glasses.

"I already assigned someone else to clean the hallway," he said. ​"In fact, why don't you take it a little easy tonight?" he continued, waving a hand dismissively as if bestowing a royal blessing upon you. "No heavy lifting! Just handle the light glassware in the back, okay? If you need a break, just take one!"

There it was.

Definitely a fever.

Or a concussion.

Take last week, for example, he called you an incompetent dropout who was good for nothing. And somehow this bothered you far more than if he'd simply yelled at you instead.

"...Really."

"Of course." He nodded enthusiastically. "If anyone ever asks, you'll tell them I treat everyone here like family, alright? "

"...Who's asking?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

His smile twitched.

"No one."

Then why would anyone ask?

Before you could press him about it, he patted your arm one last time, flashed that uncanny sweet smile, and turned on his heel to hurry toward his office, leaving you standing alone in the hallway.

"...Huh."

A cold, prickly sensation spread across your skin, drowning out all the excitement you had felt just five minutes ago. The manager wasn't nice. He didn't care about his staff, he didn't forgive mistakes out of the goodness of his heart, and he certainly didn't hand out special treatment for free. Something was definitely off tonight, you just couldn't figure out what.

You raised your eyes to the tiny black dome of the security camera mounted in the corner of the hallway, the display monitor was probably mounted somewhere that mirrored the feed.

Ah, perfect, you thought, channeling your best deadpan internal monologue. Maybe the manager finally realized your so-majestic talent for carrying six empty beer mugs at once and decided to crown me employee of the month.

​"If he gives you one more break tonight, I am going to throw myself off the roof," a voice muttered from behind you.

​You turned to see Kenzo dragging a heavy bin of clinking glass bottles, his face flushed red with exertion and bitterness. He dumped the bin onto the staging table with a loud clatter and slumped against the wall. It took you a while to get over the other day, but you both are cool now.

​"I swear, the guy has completely lost it. He's dumping all the floor work on me!" Kenzo complained, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

​You offered him an albeit helpless, grimace. "I swear, something feels weird."

​"Yeah, well, his mood isn't the only weird thing tonight," Kenzo sighed, lowering his voice as he leaned in closer. "Those guys are back."

​You blinked, your thumb pausing over the edge of your apron. "What guys?"

"The suit guys." Kenzo shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "The ones everyone acts weird around."

​Your stomach did an uneasy flip. "That doesn't make any sense. They never show up two days in a row."

​"Tell me about it," Kenzo said, picking up a fresh stack of linen napkins. "Maybe they're really into our cocktails."

He meant it as a joke. But you didn't laugh. And he didn't seem to notice it, at least he didn't voice any concern.

​Meanwhile, you just stood there, let the noise of the venue wash over you, and sat in the strangeness of it all. You stared at the scuffed tiles beneath your worn sneakers, watching a stray drop of condensation run down the side of a glass bottle on the staging table. It probably just money-laundering stuff. It has nothing to do with you.

​You were always doing this—overanalyzing, picking apart every shift in the air, measuring the space between yourself and the nearest exit like a feral dog that had spent too long on a leash. It was exhausting. It made you paranoid, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop while everyone else around you just... lived. Kenzo was probably going to go home after this, fry up some instant ramen, and sleep for ten hours without a single thought about tonight.

Before you could fully digest the sudden creeping dread, heavy footsteps echoed down the tiled corridor.

​The manager rounded the corner, his face pale and slick with a fresh sheen of sweat. The overly polite demeanor he had worn earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a high-strung panic. He completely ignored Kenzo, his eyes locking directly onto you.

​"You," the manager gasped. "I need you upstairs immediately."

​You stiffened slightly. "Upstairs? But I thought—"

​"The VIP room needs a quick wipe-down," he snapped. "Some glasses left over from earlier. Go ahead and clear the table, okay?"

​Kenzo shot you a confused look from behind the manager's back, but you just swallowed down the sudden lump in your throat. There was no point in arguing or overthinking it. Cleaning up dirty glassware in the VIP lounge was literally what you were paid to do. It was just another table. Just another five minutes of work standing between you and your night off.

​"Understood," you said. "I'll handle it right away."

You grabbed an empty tray, pushed open the swing doors, and headed down the dimly lit corridor toward the private room at the very end of the hall. The muffled bass from downstairs barely reached this far.

You stopped outside one of the VIP rooms. The door stood slightly open. You knocked lightly. No response.

Assuming the guests had already cleared out and left the mess for you to deal with, you placed your palm against the wood and pushed it open.

Sitting in the center of the plush leather booth were those two men from yesterday—the white-haired man was swirling a drink, while the one with the slicked-back hair sat beside him, his long legs crossed comfortably over the other. While the third one, the man with the pinkish-purple mullet, was nowhere to be seen.

You froze, the heavy tray slipping an inch in your grip.

Click.

Behind your back, the door swung shut, and the heavy brass lock slid firmly into place.

For one long second, your thoughts simply stopped, then they came back all at once.

You were such an idiot.

You'd spent months telling yourself to keep your head down, not ask questions, not wander into situations that didn't concern you, and the one time you ignored your own advice, you managed to lock yourself inside a VIP room with the people who made your manager look like he was awaiting sentencing. You had been set up, handed over like a piece of property wrapped in a ribbon. How could you have been so unbelievably gullible? Why on earth would a high-ranking executive from a ruthless syndicate—a man who owned half the district—ever be nice to a dropout busser who spilled a drink on his shoes?

"So."

Behind you, a voice broke the silence.

The white-haired man leaned back comfortably on the leather sofa, studying you with open curiosity before glancing toward the slick-haired man beside him.

"...Is that the one?"

"Yeah," the other man didn't hesitate.

"Huh." A crooked smile spread across the white-haired man's face. He looked you up and down without the slightest hint of subtlety. "You've got terrible taste."

Hearing that, the slick-haired man laughed under his breath. "I've been told."

They sounded almost... amused.

Like two old friends teasing each other over something completely ordinary.

"I'm..." Slowly, you turned back around. Your throat felt dry. "I'm sorry, but I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Neither man interrupted.

So you continued. "I-I'm not one of the work girls. They must've sent the wrong person."

Your eyes darted around the lounge, searching for anyone. The white-haired man watched you with the same bored expression as yesterday. Only then did you properly notice the third figure, a man dressed in a dark suit stood silently beside the wall near the entrance; you couldn't even remember seeing him when you'd first walked inside.

The realization made your stomach sink even further.

"I really don't..." you blurted out, panicking, making the words spill together. "I don't do... those kinds of services. I'd be terrible at it and I'd honestly just make everything awkward. I'm serious."

The slicked-back man let out an amused huff at that.

For the first time since you'd entered, he actually laughed. A genuine one. It felt horribly out of place.

"I know."

"...You... do?"

You looked up, the simple answer caught you completely off guard.

"Believe me, I'm not asking you to do anything like that. If that's what I wanted, I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble," he continued in the same calm tone someone might use while offering tea, and then gestured calmly toward the empty chair opposite the sofa.

"Come sit," he said.

You didn't move. And frankly, you'd better stand.

"Well, suit yourself," he shrugged, his tone remaining remarkably relaxed. "I'm not going to force you into the chair."

Hearing that should've made you feel better, yet, your heartbeat refused to slow.

He sighed softly, pressing his lips together as though suppressing a smile of his own. "I only wanted to have a heartfelt talk, really."

"...Talk?" you asked, looking helplessly between the locked door and the bodyguard. "I don't understand. Who are you?"

"You really don't recognize me?" He blinked, taking in your wide, terrified eyes and the white-knuckle grip you had on your empty tray.

You stared blankly at him, and he didn't seem offended.

"I'm sorry. Should I?"

"...That's disappointing." He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself. "Well, I suppose it's been a long time. I was hoping we'd have a nicer reunion than this."

Your eyebrows drew together, a knot of confusion twisting tight in your gut. "...Did we... know each other?"

"Mhm, I'd certainly hope so."

​He uncrossed his long legs, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked up at you. "You disappeared before we even finished high school, [Name]."

You blinked.

...No...

No.

No.

No.

There were only a handful of people who even knew you'd disappeared before graduation.

Your pulse started to roar so loud in your head, drowned out the bass, and every nerve ending in your body is screaming at you to run, run, run. In real life, it was not the daydreams but your worst nightmares that come true: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still—even this far down the line) where he finds you, where he proves that no matter how far you run, you are still standing in his shadow.

Only now, years of distance was collapsing in on itself, the image of a Bonten executive overlapping with a memory you'd buried so deep you had almost convinced yourself it was dead.

"...Ran?"

"There you are, I was beginning to wonder whether you'd forgotten me entirely," he smiled a little wider, deepening the lines around his eyes.

You stared at him, at the slicked-back hair, the older face, the broader shoulders, and his violet eyes were darker, colder, stripped of whatever childish mischief they used to hold. You'd spent so long remembering him as the eighteen-year-old boy who showed up outside your school gates that you'd never once considered what eighteen years old eventually became.

You wished he had died years ago. You wished he had died as a foolish teenager in some nameless street fight on the asphalt of Roppongi. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to justify the wretchness, so terrible of the thought—as cruel as that wish was, the man sitting in front of you right now was infinitely more cruel than death.

Before either of you could say anything else, the white-haired man rose from the sofa with a dramatic sigh.

"Well," he said, checking a heavy gold watch on his wrist. "I've officially become the third wheel. Guess I'll go have the car brought around."

"Leaving already?" Only then did Ran finally look away from you.

Kokonoi looked between the two of you before clicking his tongue. "You've got catching up to do."

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he walked toward the rear exit hidden behind one of the decorative wall panels. Halfway there, he looked back over one shoulder.

"And don't ever say I haven't done anything nice for you, Ran."

"I would never," Ran hummed back.

The concealed door opened soundlessly.

The bodyguard immediately stepped away from the main entrance and followed Kokonoi without a word, disappearing through the back passage behind him. The panel slid shut again.

Now it was only you and Ran.

After all these years.

​"You know," ​Ran's voice breaks the silence, carrying that soft cadence from your teenage years, "I was really mad at you for a very long time. You just changed your number and ghosted me entirely. I figured you had your reasons, of course. You always were overly dramatic when you panicked. But I really hated not knowing what those reasons were."

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a black smartphone and tapping the screen a few times. A pale glow illuminated his face as he casually scrolled.

"It was also impressive, really. How thoroughly you hid yourself," he hummed. "Though, finding out you were working in one of Koko's little front operations last night was a hilarious stroke of luck. I spent the whole night reading up on what you've been up to. Turns out, you've had... quite the employment history."

"I wasn't exactly building a career," you muttered, looking down at your hands. Heat crept up your neck, hot and embarrassing.

But what else were you supposed to say? That you spent the last few years sprinting from one dead-end shift to the next, constantly looking over your shoulder?

"I noticed, you never stayed anywhere very long," he said, counting lazily on his fingers. "You quit the café after eight days. Bouncing around from diner to warehouse every few months, splitting rent with a hostess. Was it really worth it?"

​"It was my choice," you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the muffled thump of the bass from the floor below.

​"And look where it got you."

​You can't even offer a defense because your brain is screaming that any wrong word could be your last.

​He tilts his head, his violet eyes narrowing just a fraction with curiosity.

"...One thing surprised me, though. You never dated again, did you?"

​The terror locking your jaw forced out the truth before you could even calculate if it's the right answer. You shook your head frantically. "No. I didn't."

He searched your face for any sign you were lying, and finding none...

"No?"

"That's good," he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if you had just given him the best gift in the world. "Because if you did, I would have had to hunt the bastard down and kill him then."

He paused, resting his cheek against his knuckles as a thought seemed to strike him. "Actually, that reminds me... that runner working with you earlier tonight. Kenzo, was it? He was standing a little too close to you by the tray station, wasn't he?"

"He's just a coworker," you said quickly, keeping your tone as flat and detached as humanly possible, trying to steer the conversation entirely away from him. "He means nothing. We just clear tables."

You couldn't defend Kenzo—not outright, in a way that would draw more attention to him or make Ran suspect he meant anything to you. You knew better than to be reckless with a man like this.

Still, Ran wasn't an idiot either. He caught the subtle shift in your posture the moment a name was brought into the room.

​"Relax, I haven't done anything to your little coworker. Yet."

Without thinking, you took half a step backward. He chuckled softly at that, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his crystal glass. "You're doing it again."

​"Doing what?" You stared down at the tray.

"Looking at me like I'm about to hurt you."

​"I don't know what you're going to do to me anymore, Ran," you blurted out. The words escaped before you could stop them, and Ran's smile disappeared entirely.

Almost... disappointed.

It was the same look he gave you back in high school when you refused to let him carry your bag, or when you didn't laugh at one of his terrible jokes—a look that feigned hurt, except this time, beneath the polished suit and the tattoo etched across his neck, there was a strange stillness to it that made your stomach turn inside out.

​He stared at you for a long moment, taking in the way you cowered. Then exhaled.

"...I suppose that's fair."

Ran smoothed down the front of his tailored suit jacket, stepping out into the open space of the room, slowly closing the distance between you.​ His jaw set when you flinched away from his touch.

​"I haven't really decided what I'm going to do with you, to be honest," he admitted, stopping barely two feet away. "Part of me wanted to tear your life apart the second I found you, just to teach you a lesson for running. But now that you're standing right here in front of me..."

"...I'm realizing I kind of missed having you around."

It was supposed to sound sweet. In some sick, twisted reality, maybe it was. The way he reached out, his fingers hovering mere inches from your cheek.

​If you were smart—if you had an ounce of sense left in your skull—you'd drop to your knees, apologize until your voice gave out, and let him take you back. Instead, your eyes drifted past his shoulder to the back exit—the door the white-haired man and the bodyguard had walked through just minutes ago. It wasn't locked from the inside. It was a private exit, a clear shot to the service corridor.

Ran noticed your eyes move; his own flicked briefly toward the door, then back to you.

He didn't even acknowledge it. The silence stretched, and you realized if he was going to stop you, it had to be now.

Instead, he simply watched.

You didn't calculate the odds and swung the heavy metal tray, slamming it straight into Ran's chest, and bolted.

The chair beside you toppled over as you sprinted across the room, fingers fumbling desperately for the edge of the sliding panel. The cool air of the back corridor hit your face, and relief—blinding relief—surged through your veins.

You stole one brief glance back over your shoulder, expecting to see Ran lunging after you.

​He still hadn't moved an inch.

​Still standing right where you left him, casually brushing off his jacket where the tray had clipped him. He was looking at you with a pitying smile, as if watching a child try to run through a brick wall.

​Before your mind could even process the horror of why he wasn't chasing you, instantly, a pair of arms clamped around your chest and shoulders like a steel vise. The massive bodyguard hadn't left; he was standing right outside the frame. Before you could even scream, he yanked you backward into the VIP suite, slamming your knees down onto the hardwood floor near the doorway. He twisted your arms behind your back, pinning you completely motionless.

Your forehead hit the edge of the low coffee table, the sharp shock of pain ringing through your skull as the guard held you completely pinned. Gasping for air, your chest heaving, you looked back into the room.

Ran was still standing in the center of the lounge, then raised those flat, dead violet eyes to yours.

Slowly, without a single trace of hurry or emotion, he reached inside his tailored suit jacket, the motion was so calm that it took you a while to register.

Then you heard a metallic click.

"Ran—" you choked out at the sight of him withdrawing a compact black pistol. "Ran, please. I'm sorry."

"I believe you, [Name]."

A pause.

"But actions have consequences."

His fingers closed around the pistol grip.

Pain didn't register immediately. First came the violent force that nearly tore you out of the bodyguard's grip, followed by a blinding, white-hot numbness in your left thigh. Then, a second later, the numbness detonated into a searing fire that made your vision bleed completely red, drowning out every thought, every memory, every breath.

You shrieked, as you collapsed sideways against the floor.

Ran raised his left hand, making a flick of his wrist.

​The bodyguard instantly let go, dropping your weight like a sack of dead lead. You hit the carpet hard, clutching at your bleeding leg, your jaw trembling so hard your teeth clicked together as tears overflowed down your cheeks. Blood, dark and thick, was already soaking through your trousers, staining the plush carpet beneath you.

Ran calmly stepped forward, he crouched down right in front of you, bringing his face inches from yours while you gasped and sobbed, writhing in the suffocating heat of the wound.

"You always push me to these extremes," Ran sighed wistfully. He reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing your jawline as if admiring a delicate porcelain doll he’d accidentally chipped. "You should be grateful that I like you as much as I do. No one has ever disrespected me the way you just did and lived to tell anyone about it."

He watched you for another moment before slipping the pistol back beneath his suit jacket. As the room fell dead silent, he lifted his wrist toward his face.

You flinched violently, squeezing your eyes shut, fully expecting him to draw the gun again to finish what he started.

​Instead, the tick-tick-tick of a second hand was the only sound in the room.

After several seconds, you slowly opened your eyes. Ran was simply checking the time. He noticed, and the realization settled over his face with an imperceptible flicker of guilt.

​"...Ah. Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you, I was just checking the schedule. Koko should have the car waiting at the curb by now."

​Before you could process his words, he leaned down. His arms slipped effortlessly beneath your back and the crook of your knees, hoisting you off the blood-stained carpet into a bridal carry.

​The sudden movement jarred your shattered leg. Your hand instinctively grabbed the front of his jacket, and a pathetic whimper ripped from your chest as white-hot agony flared straight up your spine. Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks, your body shaking uncontrollably against his chest.

​Ran paused mid-stride, looking down at you.

"...Does it hurt?" he asked, adjusting his grip so your head rested against his shoulder, cradling you like a child.

You could only stare at him through the blur of your tears. The question was so utterly insane, that for a second your voice completely failed you.

​"I-Is that... a fucking joke?" you choked out.

He stepped out through the open back door and into the service corridor. ​"I know, and I really am sorry about it. But I just couldn't risk you trying to run off again."

​You didn't respond as he navigated the narrow hallway with unhurried steps. The club sounded different back here. The music became little more than a distant pulse behind thick walls.

​"Though... I suppose I should apologize if the bullet nicked anything vital," he continued, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Sanzu was lecturing me the other day about the quadriceps—something about the femoral branches and nerve pathways. He said deep trauma there can cause permanent muscle weakness. Or... well, paralysis."

​Your heart stopped. The realization that your leg might never work the same way again hit you like a physical blow, sending a fresh wave of panic through the blinding pain.

​Ran must have felt the terror locking up your frame, because his grip on you was tightening, as if to comfort you.

​"But don't worry about any of that," he said, pressing a reassuring kiss against the crown of your head. "I'm not going to abandon you just because you can't walk properly anymore—I'd never do that to you. In fact, it makes things a lot easier for both of us, doesn't it?"

​You closed your eyes, clutching weakly at his suit jacket, completely paralyzed by the horrifying reality of his words.

​Ran adjusted his grip ever so slightly, careful not to jostle your leg more than necessary, and pushed through the heavy metal crash-doors at the end of the service hall, stepping out into the back alleyway. Just as you turned the corner toward the street where a black sedan sat idling in the shadows, its tinted windows reflecting the garish neon lights of Kabukicho.

Your vision was swimming in hazes of red and gray, but you were still able to register that a man stumbled out from the side entrance of a neighboring bar.

​He was obviously drunk, with a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. Probably another customer who'd wandered into the wrong place after too many drinks. He bumped heavily against the wall, taking a staggering step before his foggy eyes landed on the scene unfolding right in front of him.

​You forced your eyes open, locking your tear-filled gaze with his.

The man looked at your bleeding leg, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Ran's.

​Ran didn't stop walking. He merely stared down the hallway, his expression utterly void of emotion. The tattoo etched into the side of his neck stood out under the dim overhead fluorescent strip.

​The drunk man's face went entirely slack, his skin draining of color in a matter of seconds. The slight swagger vanished from his posture. Without saying a word, he abruptly turned his head away, deliberately staring at a grease-stained section of the brick wall as if he were suddenly fascinated by the masonry. He took a heavy step backward, pressing his spine flat against the wall to make as much room as possible for Ran to pass, his eyes fixed firmly on his own shoes.

How pathetic you were. How utterly, laughably naive.

Why would you plead for help from a stranger who didn't know you, who owed you nothing?

At the side of the idling sedan, Kokonoi was already leaning against the passenger door, checking something on his phone. Beside him stood the pinkish-purple-haired man from the VIP room, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other idly spinning a set of car keys around his finger.

"There you are." Rindo looked up first, his eyes flicked briefly toward you before returning to Ran. "What took you so long? Koko's been checking his watch every thirty seconds."

Kokonoi lifted his brows without looking up from his phone, as if to confirm that.

​"I had a small situation to handle," Ran replied, completely unbothered, as he merely adjusted his hold on you, resting his chin gently against the top of your head. His arms held you close as his men opened the rear passenger door from the inside.

​"A situation?" Rindo repeated, letting out a quiet huff of air. "You mean you managed to shoot them within five minutes of getting them in a room?"

Kokonoi got in the car first, and Rindo followed him, finally flicking his eyes toward the blood soaking through your trousers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it casually onto your lap.

​"Guess I should introduce myself properly," he said. "I'm Rindo. Ran's younger brother. Though I'm sure you already remembered that much."

Rindo, you realized. Back then, wherever Ran was, his younger brother was never far behind.

​You squeezed your eyes shut, too terrified and in too much pain to form a proper response.

​Rindo rolled his eyes at your silence, turning his gaze back to Ran. "Unbelievable. You've been talking my ear off about finding them, going on and on about how you were going to handle it, and the moment you actually get your hands on them, you go and ruin my fresh car seats."

"It's just a little blood, Rindo," Ran said, reaching down to gently hold your wrists in a loose grip as the driver shifted the car into drive and pulled smoothly away from the curb. "Besides... they're not going anywhere now."

​"Whatever. Just make sure Koko pays for the detailing," Rindo muttered, leaning his head back against the leather headrest with a bored sigh.

​The car glided out of the dark alley, merging into the endless stream of Tokyo traffic. You lay slumped against the leather, your chest still hitching with helpless sobs, watching the glowing neon signs of the city fade into blurry streaks of light through the heavily tinted glass. ​Tonight was supposed to be Friday. You were supposed to be back in your tiny shoebox apartment by now, huddled under a blanket, binge-watching the show with Mayu while she complains about her feet.

Maybe she'd probably microwave the fried chicken because she was convinced you'd just missed the last train again.

Maybe she was texting you.

But you weren't going home tonight. Not now or ever.

​Tears flooded your eyes, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. You felt so stupid, like an absolute idiot for crying over a missed TV show while a bullet hole bled through your leg.

​Your hands, slick with cold sweat and trembling uncontrollably, reached up and clutched the lapels of Ran's ridiculously expensive tailored suit jacket. You buried your face directly into the crook of his neck and, weeping violently, wrinkling what probably cost more than three months of your rent.

You cried until you couldn't breathe properly. Until your nose was clogged. Until you were embarrassingly aware that you'd probably gotten tears, and quite possibly snot all over the suit, but you couldn't care less. You pressed your face harder into the fabric, weeping bitter, helpless tears. He deserved worse. He deserved infinitely worse than a ruined suit for what he was taking from you.

But Ran never once tried to pull away.

His fingers interlock with the bars above you, holding them tight enough to make his knuckles whiten, rattling the cage somewhat each time he rocks back and forth.

He doesn’t talk to you much when you’re in this state. Small talk and sweet nothings are reserved for good girls. While bad girls, naturally, only deserve commands like sit, open up, tongue out, suck. 

“Turn around.”

Your breath is erratic, throat abused, voice weak, saying, “Yes, master.”

You’re not allowed to call him by his name, only when you’re back to being his good girl. For now, you’re not his pretty wife; you’re just a caged critter he’s training, and as such, you’ll refer to him appropriately with the proper title.

You honestly don’t know which is worse sometimes, acting like his ever-sweet housewife or this, this fucked up pet-play.

You twist around on all fours in the small cage—face down, ass in the air, as you press your cunt up against the cool metal bars and await getting fucked just like an actual animal.

He’s laid out a baby pink dress on the bed, all frills and ruffles like the things dolls wear—a clear sign. This is the last day of your probation—if you manage to pass the test, that is—meaning, be a good pet and take the pounding.

The cage rattles even more after he drives himself inside and sets his tempo.

It’s hard maintaining the position, painful, but you hold it as good as can—keeping your cunt pressed flush against the wire so hard the fat of your ass and thighs squeeze through, leaving cross-hatched markings on the skin, staying there for every harsh thrust until he's filling you up with his load.

When he’s done, he crouches down, asking sternly if you’re going to be his good girl from now on. And you, despite knowing how the cycle repeats, nod your head, desperately wanting out of the cage even if it means wearing whatever he dresses you in and doing whatever he tells you until the next time he deems you’re due for a demotion.

♡ Satoru Gojo

Gojo’s scary for the opposite reason from Nanami.

Where Nanami is structured, Gojo is random. You never know what to expect or when his switch is about to flip or go apeshit.

Most days, he’ll act like your boyfriend and treat you like his girlfriend. Ignoring you when you don’t play along. He just boops your nose and calls you his grumpy little tsundere with a fond smile on his lips.

He’ll be so lax with you then, allowing you to call him names and fight him. Pulling you to him and spinning you about, doing whatever he wants, treating you like a doll. Laughing at your protests as if they’re all just jokes.

Other days, he’ll be much the same, but even more lax, so lax that he might even actually listen to you, throwing his hands up in surrender, saying “okay, okay” when you growl at him not to touch you.

He’ll act, somehow, somewhat normal on those days as if the two of you just happen to be living with each other. He won’t insist on you being his girlfriend or him being your boyfriend, won’t force you to be lovey-dovey, and won’t force his own lovy-dovey-ness onto you.

On those days, he actually seems to accept that you don’t love him, and you can pretend he’s just this roommate you don’t like. You'd call it his sane days. But at the same time, you think you could even stab him, and he wouldn’t care. So, it's more like his too-tired-to-care-or-something days.

Then there's his demon days.

On those, you don’t get away with anything without him shoving it in your face how little anything you do matters.

He’ll be nasty about it, too. Grinning at your struggle as he pins your wrists above your head and holds them there without budging, making it painstakingly clear that no matter how much strength you put behind it, it’s nothing to him. 

He might even lift you by his hold, haul you off the ground, up onto your tippy-toes, and further, until you’re no longer touching the floor, have you hanging there, like he’s nailed you to the wall.

At those times, it’s as if all he wants to do is make you squirm.

Cupping your cunt in his other hand, he tickles the slit before filling you with two of his ever-long fingers. Breath hitting your cheek and neck, where he whispers filthy teasings in your ear, his sharp blue eyes beholding you with a glint and a smirk on his lips.

He strives to make you cum, but it’s not about your pleasure—it’s about proving a point. The point being, everything in your body surrenders to him, so you should give it up already and accept it.

And still, he doesn’t really tell you to stop fighting—he just mocks you with false coos, “All I want is to see the look on this cute face when I make you cum. Come on, show it to me. We both know you’re gonna, so just give it up already, yeah?”

He only snickers when your cunt flutters around his fingers, eagerly watching you try denying it by shaking your head and biting your lips from squealing.

“That’s it. So fucking cute. And it’s all fucking mine.”

Sadistic glee is painted on his face as he furthers your humiliation by treading your sensitive walls over his cock next. Up against the wall, your thighs around his torso, his mouth on your neck with tongue and teeth.

No matter how you push on his shoulders and chest, he doesn’t budge—just continues to have his way.

You never know which mood you’re waking up to. Delusional boyfriend Satoru, strange roommate Satoru, or this, sadistic Satoru, or someone completely different, someone who’s in all matters of likelihood way worse like that time he cam home covered head to toe in blood and still insisted on fucking you then and there.

♡ Suguru Geto

You started off as a simple temple follower before Geto became the new head priest. You’d been brought into it by your parents from birth. They’d both tried leaving when the organization changed. It would have cost them their lives if they hadn’t had you to offer instead.

And so you become one of his personal servants.

It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, to be honest. You had other maids to find solace and solidarity in. It was only when he took closer notice of you that you started feeling the urge to run away.

Geto is an understanding and patient person. And so he allowed you many liberties, such as letting you talk your way out of coming to his chambers when he requests you, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you run out of excuses.

It’s only when you abuse those liberties that he deems it fit to punish you. When you, just like your foolish parents, take his loose reins as an opportunity to run away.

Naturally, you don't make it far. You should have learned from your parents' mistakes. But, where he was more than happy to stain his pristine monks' robes with their blood, he doesn’t lay a hand on you.

No…

He leaves that to them. 

The many monsters he summons—all slimy, bulky, bumpy ones that drool over your pretty skin as they tear your clothes off and start groping you, rearing your every orifice with something gross.

You scream in the beginning. Then you sob. Then you go silent, whole body limp and twitching, eyes miles away.

He calls them all off when you’re spent—when you don’t even have the strength left to lift a finger, and all you do is lie there where they’ve left you, in a heap of your own undoing.

He doesn’t even say anything. He just snaps his fingers, ordering some other servants to come and collect you.

Lying on the floor, your vision fades in and out as you watch his long robe drag along the floor, steadily moving away from you until disappearing.

The other servants bathe you and dress you, erasing all traces except for those left on the inside.

You don’t see him until later. And this time, the very sight of him makes you shiver.

He asks you which you prefer: how you can choose to behave and be treated like his favorite, or pull a stunt again and be reduced to a plaything.

And this time, it’ll be forever—he doesn’t do third chances.

Your hair’s still damp, and you're wrapped in the fluffiest of all robes, and still, you feel raw and cold and dirty beyond relief as you nod your head and whimper out how you’ll behave.

He smiles then. That kind smile he uses with those sorry people who come to the temple to have their problems fixed—the one where his eyes will crease, and his lips will stretch just far enough to curl at the edges and betray him. 

This time, when he touches you, you accept it by lying still and spreading your legs. 

Vowing to both him and yourself that you’ll never be so dumb as to go against him ever again.

♡ Sukuna

You don’t dare fight him at the start, nor do you run. You don’t even dare think about it.

Tales of the king of curses made you more than willing to bend over backward if it meant staying alive. And somehow, it’s enough to get in his good graces. 

It’s not without sacrifice, of course, being his concubine. He’s not the easiest to please. But watching the way he cuts others into pieces before setting those pieces ablaze, you figure catering to the monster is better than being his prey.

You might be his favorite for now, but you know you’re not any special. That’s to say, you don’t think he’d spare you if you tried running away. In fact, you’re quite sure he’d set his domain off and level everything within a mile’s radius.

Again, not because you’re anything special to him, just out of principle. 

You’ve seen him do worse for less. In the end, all that really matters to him is that his word is law, and if anyone goes against it, they pay the hefty toll of death by utter annihilation.

You know this, and yet as the months go by and you grow more comfortable by the day, you do end up becoming a little brazen. A little naughty. A little too naughty for your own good, maybe... Walking about in expensive silk and jewels, wicked smiles, and coy catlike eyes, playing games with the king of curses and deadly poisons as if you’ve become immune.

“What would you do without me, huh?” you drawl, lying on top of his naked chest, softly lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing while listening to his heartbeat betray the fact that he is, in fact, still somewhat human.

The two of you had just finished up, now lying sweaty in the afterglow. He’s got an arm propped up behind him against the headboard. The other three he keeps on you, petting your skin. Cuddling.

He quirks his brow down at you but neither of his faces react much, regarding you like the silly creature you are and talking to you just so,  “Going somewhere, are you?”

You trace the black ink on his chest. “Oh, you never know... One of these days, I might just run away. Never to be seen again. Leave you here with your dick in your hand.” Your finger reaches the apex of his chest, giving it a tap while you look back up at him, a sly smirk on your lips. “Or, well… dicks in your hands.”

His eyes, all four, squint while eyeing you.

“Are you now…”

There’s a sudden rush, you don’t know where you are for a second or what’s happened. Getting your bearings, you realize you’ve been spun on your back, still in bed, though now lying beneath him.

He seems much bigger this way, terribly big, caging you with his four arms.

“I was…” Your voice comes out as a whimper this time, stripped of all things insolent, now weak and soaked in building fear. “I was just… joking. I didn’t mean anything by it… I–”

“You didn’t mean anything by it, huh?” he cuts you off, leaning down until his head’s next to yours, breaths warm and heavy, hitting your neck and chest.

You squeeze your eyes shut, frozen in place, thinking his teeth are next, knowing he’s no stranger to the taste of meat, knowing he has the palate for it.

His mouth brushes your throat. His teeth follow shortly, gracing your jugular.

But, right before he’s about to puncture your skin comes a chuckle instead, then a whisper, “I’m just fucking with you, brat.” 

The bite still comes, but it's barely hard enough to be called that. Just enough to make a bruise, but nothing you’re not used to.

Still, having your life flash before your eyes is not something you recover from quickly, keeping your breath caught in your throat, just beneath the spit and sting left there by him, leaving you mute.

He, however, is feeling uncharacteristically chatty.

“Not that it would matter either way…” He draws back with a smile, leering down at you with an amused expression written plainly across both his faces, stroking your cheek with his thumb, making your breath stay stuck. “You wouldn’t even be able to leave this room, let alone this temple, without me knowing about it.”

His lower arms lift your thighs and spread them. You only now realize he’s hard again.

“But, to humor your question, if you ever dared leave me…” His grip tightens, his black nails sinking into the doughy flesh. “Well, I’d simply haf’to bring you back, now wouldn’t I?”

His grip seizes, turning gentle again. And your brows furrow, needing to blink.

That’s a little boring, you almost say, only to realize you’re able to breathe again. “You wouldn’t punish me?”

He smiles warmly, admiring the confused pout on your face while rubbing soothing circles over the moondents he left on the insides of your thighs.

“Nah…”

His softness is a little offputting, and so still makes you shiver as one of his upper hands slips down between you and starts playing with you all leisurely.

You only barely get the question out, “Why not?”

He hums, entering you with his fingers, feeling the silky slick left there from before, something proud written on his face. His voice is something nearly unrecognizable with what he says next, though, you suppose, he’d already been acting unlike himself. “If you rip just one petal off a flower, it loses all its beauty.” 

Your breath stops short again, this time for a different reason.

He thumbs your cheek, then curls his digits inside you, making you keen. 

He smiles in return, then says, “And I prefer you just the way you are.”

And it might just be the scariest thing to ever leave the tip of his tattooed tongue. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again.

“Don’t get me wrong, though, pretty flower,” he continues with a grin, feeling your walls clench around him. “The thing is, no matter where you go, no matter how far, and no matter how well you hide. I’d still find you.”

His hand then goes from your cheek to thumbing your chin—still just as deceptively softly, whispering just so, “Even if I’d haf’to obliterate every last person on earth to get to you. It wouldn’t matter.”

You swallow thickly at that, feeling his lips ghost yours, feeling some of that brazenness return for some reason, making you whisper back at him. “You’re crazy.”

He hums out a chuckle again. “Mh, to push me that far… I’d say you’re the crazy one.”

♡ Yuji Itadori

He doesn’t listen.

He’s like Gojo in that regard. He doesn’t take you seriously.

With his view of life and his knowledge of real horror, he doesn’t take anything seriously anymore.

His life is a waking nightmare, and you? You’re his sitcom.

You thought he was going to be gentle your first time together. And he was, sure, to some degree. He’d prepped you on his fingers and tongue first. Having taken his time with it, getting you puffy, wet, and hot to go. 

You’d been ready, feeling good, sitting on the bed, watching him undress, smiling and happy, biting your lip as he lifted his shirt off, revealing his chest and all those perfectly cut muscles of his. 

Everything was going well at the start. But that’s not to say he didn’t totally bulldoze you in the end...

His sweats were next, and you felt your lower belly do somersaults, needing him like you’d never needed anything else.

But then, when he dropped his boxers, and you finally saw the sheer size of him, you could only reel back in silent shock.

Eyes round and glossy in the dim light, switching between looking up at him and it as if your stare alone could keep it at arm’s length. 

You swallowed thickly, trying to ease the sudden pang of anxiety, making your heart shudder in your chest. But it was to no use. When he took a step toward you, you couldn’t help but bring your knees up to your chin, as if on instinct, locking your thighs together before shaking your head.

“That’s not gonna fit—I was wrong, I’m not ready.”

To which he only blatantly disregarded with a smile, “Pff, don’t worry.” Shaking his head right back at you with a chuckle, then insisting with casual neglect, “It’ll fit.”

Still, watching him climb after you on the bed, you shuffled backward away from him and the threat pointing right at you, repeating, “No, I’m serious, I’m not ready.”

“Baby, relax,” he drawled, stroking his rough hands up and down your thighs to comfort you. “Trust me, alright? I’m gonna make you feel real’ good,” he promised with a wink, hooking his beefy arms under your legs and, without further warning, parting them and pulling you closer, making your back hit the bed with a bounce.

The impact made you blink, and when your eyes opened again, you were all but face to face with it—the massive thing bobbing above your belly, struggling to carry its own weight, and even larger up close.

Honest to god, it must be the size of your forearm. No doubt, it’s going to tear you in two.

Your entire system goes into full alarm. And again, you repeat, now with urgency, “No, Yuji, really, that’s not gonna fit–”

This time, he just laughs—as if you’re only cracking a joke and the laugh track within his head is going nuts.

“You’re supposed to squeeze a baby through here,” he smiles, already pressing the tip against your wet entrance. “Compared to that, this’ll be nothing.”

♡ Toji, Mahito, Yuta, Naoya, & Megumi coming...

The call gets disconnected, just like the previous one and the one before that.  

‘The number you have called is currently–’

Biting your lip, you tap on the call button, pushing the phone against your ear once again. Please, pick up. Please, pick up. 

Your prayers are successful as the call finally gets accepted, too many moments later. 

“Dad?”

There’s a low scoff on the other side of the line. With a swift glance behind your shoulder, you enter the large bathroom and fumble with the lock of the door.

“Dad? I– It's me.” 

The soft click provides you with the tiniest amount of security and you hope the walls are thick enough to muffle down the sound of your voice. 

“What is it?” the annoyance in Endeavour's voice is clear as day. Your dad has never had the time or patience to waste with you, much less now. “I’m busy. Make it quick.”

“I don’t like it here.” you start, holding onto the phone like it’s a lifeline. “Can you come pick me up?” 

“What nonsense is this? Have you lost your mind, like your mother did?” the words are cruel and sharp - a combination that your father does like no other. “It’s only been a few hours and you’ve started complaining already? Ridiculous!” 

“But I don’t know him. I don’t feel comfortable here. With him.” you try again, desperate. “Dad, please, don’t make me do this. Please, please, I don’t to–”

“Enough!” you flinch at the harsh tone. “End this nonsense right now. There’s no place left for you at my house. You are exactly where you belong. Ungrateful brat. Be grateful that Hawks accepted to have some quirkless trash as a wife.”

The venomous insult has you recoiling. Many are the times that the words ‘quirkless’ and ‘trash’ have been hurled your way and yet the dull ache in your heart never lessens. 

Your dad pays no mind to your pained silence, continuing with his angry frustration. 

“I’m warning you for the final time, so listen carefully. You are Hawk’s wife now, so behave like one. Do not even think about returning home, you hear me?” he hisses sharply. “Do not drag the family name through the mud just because of your pathetic whining.” 

The call abruptly disconnects. 

You stare at the wall, apathetic as cold emptiness slowly consumes you, inch by inch. You feel lost. Empty. Brain hardly able to acknowledge what’s happening to you. God, why is this happening to you?

You don’t want to stay here. In another man’s house - a man you hardly know. Hawks. Keigo, like he asked you to call him when your dad’s driver dropped you off like a delivery package. A mail-order bride.

You don’t know what to do. What can you do?

Running away is out of the question. It’s not even an option, not when you’re the daughter of Japan’s Pro-hero Number One and your husband sits on the second rank.

But the truth is that there’s never been much of a rebellious streak inside you. No, you are docile and simple. Being rebellious was a trait more present in your brother's disposition. Natsuo. Shoto. Touya. 

The thought of them has you hesitating for a moment, but you quickly dismiss the idea. No doubt they would try to help, but to what extent would they truly be successful?

Their relationship with dad was a strained one, so tense that it could break at any moment. You’d hate to be the one to tear the family apart. 

You wonder what dad will tell them - that he just sold you off like a broodmare? Or will he make a more elegant explanation?

Will your brothers even believe whatever strange justification your dad comes up with?

You haven’t seen them for a while. Natsuo spent most of his time on his college campus and Shoto lived in the U.A dorms. All while you took care of the house. 

Would they believe you married Hawks even though there’s no wedding? 

No grandiose wedding ceremony to marry off the only daughter of the great Endeavour, no. Only a legal contract binding you to him, papers that you barely got a chance to read properly before your dad demanded for your signature. And just like that you’re married on legal terms.

It’s hard to believe it happened this morning, less than two hours ago when it feels like a nightmare that is dragging out for too long. 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your brainstorm session. 

“Hey. You good in there?” 

Keigo. You really hope he didn’t catch the hushed phone call. That makes you tuck the phone into your back pocket. 

You make a little noise with your throat, clearing your voice. “Hum, yeah. I… Just a minute.” 

You wait a moment in the spacious bathroom, taking the opportunity to check out your reflection in the mirror on top of the impeccable white marble vanity. 

There’s nothing different about your face, despite the storm of emotions that devastates you on the inside. Nothing indicates the horror you’re experiencing, maybe except for the light downturn of your lips. 

Your hands smoothes down the wrinkles along your silk blouse. Your dad had barked at you to change into a proper dress, something more elegant than a blouse and pants, but there had been no time to alter outfits.

The last hour you spent at home was total chaos. Hurrying to pack your stuff and now that you think about it, you didn’t even get a chance to pack your favorite clothes. Most of your belongings stayed behind, unable to fit the two suitcases the maids helped you fill with whatever you could find. Clothes. Shoes. Skincare. Makeup. Some jewelry. 

Oh, you even forgot your laptop! Well, you suppose that’s the least of your concerns. 

Straightening your back with a deep breath that does little to calm your nerves, you finally reach for the door.

Keigo is casually leaning against the adjacent wall with his hands chuffed inside the pant’s pockets, fluffy blonde brows rising as you close the en-suite bathroom. 

“Took you long enough in there. Was getting worried you had fallen down the toilet or somethin’.” he jokes. He’s not wearing the yellow Pro-Hero costume, just a tight shirt and pants.

Casual. Comfortable. 

 He pushes himself off the wall, nodding towards the room door. 

“C’mon, let me show you the rest of the penthouse. It’s yours now as well.” he pauses, looking at you with a knowing expression. “Unless you wanna go back to hiding in the bathroom to beg Endeavour some more?”

Your face falls, eyes widening with shock. 

“Oh, I…” you stammer, like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m sorry. I just–”

Keigo stops you with a wave of his hand, walking over to you. You gulp as a reflex when he stops, standing right in front of you, his red wings ruffling behind him. 

Hands are placed over your shoulders, warm and firm. The proximity has your body tensing up, nerves prickling you.

It’s the first time you’re seeing him up close, eyes shyly noticing the small details. The faint scars scarring his cheek. The short blonde stubble around his chin. The small piercing on his ear. There’s a gentle scent emanating from him, maybe a body lotion or soap, you’re not sure. 

“Hey. It’s fine. I’m not mad.” he gently says, one finger tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his golden ones. “I know you must be scared. I’d be too if I was in your shoes.”

“Getting married is a huge deal. I’m also pretty sure this was kinda... unexpected, right? You probably weren’t expecting any of this. Were you? Hm?” 

Your silence elicits his fingers to dig deeper into your shoulders, and you hesitantly nod. A bad feeling pools in your belly. 

“C’mon, there’s no need to be so shy. You can speak to me. It’s just me, Keigo. Your husband.” a shiver follows down your spine when one of his hands slowly slides down your naked arm, calloused palm touching over the length of your skin.

The heat of his palm, albeit gentle, feels scorching hot when it lands on your wrist. Burning your skin. Marking you.  

“... and that means no secrets between us. Cause a good wife always tells the truth to her husband. All that stuff about having bling trust on your husband, ‘kay?” 

Keigo’s tone changes in the slightest as he speaks, a more serious undertone coating his words. His peculiar behavior has often reached your ear, mostly by the angry complaints of your father, but this… this seems insane.

He’s insane. The way he talks to you makes you uneasy. It makes you want to evade his touch and run back home, back to the safety of your room - your little heaven of peace.

The situation that has you trapped is far too weird, too abnormal for you to even know what to say or what to think. 

“So, what do you say?” his lips curl into a small smirk. “Will you be my perfect little wife?” 

There’s no other option other than nodding, a shaky movement of your head. That doesn’t satisfy Keigo, his lips pouting dramatically.  One hand cups the side of your face, rugged fingers scratching your gentle skin. 

Your heart skips a beat when his thumb reaches for your lips, the tinted lip gloss smudging as the pad of his finger drags over your lower lip. Heat burns in your cheeks, your whole face blazing warm at his touch. 

Keigo’s eyes are fixed on your lips, captivated by the shiny moisture coating them. You don’t dare moving a single muscle, as frozen as a porcelain statue. Too scared that one move might trigger him into kissing you. 

It happens anyways despite the little hope you harbored. Keigo leans forward and there’s barely time to think - or to dodge him - before his mouth is pressing against yours, soft lips applying minimal pressure into the kiss. It’s tender, gentle. It’s your first kiss. 

A hum rumbles through his chest and his hand slides to the back of your head, fingers stretching to keep you in place. Not allowing you to run away from him. Oh gosh. 

The kiss deepens, more pressure being added as Keigo teasingly nibbles your lower lip. There’s no other option but to gap your lips, allowing access to your mouth.

Keigo takes full advantage, sneaky tongue tracing the shape of your lips before pushing past your lips, almost making you gag at the sensation. It’s slimy and wet, and it feels weird to have roaming around your mouth, touching and feeling around. 

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your hands are pushing against his chest and Keigo accomplies, pulling away with a breathy chuckle. 

You exhale, wiping the smear of saliva and gloss with the back of your hand. 

“Sweet like candy.” Keigo says, eyes fixed on you as he licks his lips. “And a virgin, right? At least, that’s what your dad told me. Pure, untouched virgin and all that.”

You gulp at the hunger in his eyes. 

“Don’t be scared. I’m not a monster, I promise.” the corner of his lip curves, giving away the unsettling smirk behind. “Promise to take good care of you tonight. Scout’s honor.”

---------------------------------- 💍 ----------------------------------------

Physical touch is a concept you’re hardly familiar with. Anyone that looks carefully into your family can quickly realize that they are not one for effusive displays of affection.

Hugs, kisses, cuddling - none of that. If you think hard enough, there might be some vague memories of your mom wrapping her arms around you, back when you were a little child. Cradling you into a sweet although chilly embrace, gently rocking your body into sleeping.

But those memories are so distant, so fuzzy that you can’t even be sure they are real. The ones that remain are your dad and brothers. 

And if your mind doesn’t fail you, the last time your dad gave you any sort of physical attention wasn’t a pleasant situation, one that resulted with you receiving a nasty slap for being so loud and rowdy that you woke him up on his day off. 

So, no. Showing love through touch is not something you know about. But Keigo sure does. His touch is the only constant throughout the apartment tour.

As he guides you through the different rooms, his hand never leaves yours. Warm and somewhat gritty. Solid enough to keep you attached to him, even when you take small steps away from him. Could be considered a sweet gesture, if only your mind wasn’t finding it so suffocating. 

When finally you reach the last division left, Keigo wraps his toned arms around your waist, pushing you flush against his body.

A gasp escapes from your lips, both surprised and shocked at the sudden gesture and your hands immediately fly over to his, pushing for a moment before you realize that you can’t do that so directly.

You can’t push him away. He’s your husband. 

“... and this is where you’ll be spending most time. The kitchen. Had it remodeled especially for you.” Keigo proudly says, chin slotting on top of your left shoulder. “Endeavour seemed pretty confident in your cooking skills, he even bragged a whole ton about that. Delicious, traditional food and all that. Works well enough cause I’m sort of a glutton, y’know?”

He pecks the side of your exposed neck as you take in your surroundings, drinking in every single detail.

The amount of sunlight coming from the large windows is impressive, the bright and warm light cascading down on the large middle island and the long counter made of white marble. Every piece of equipment and machine looking like it belongs to a restaurant’s kitchen, modern and brand new. 

Everything is so impeccably shiny and clean, without a single speck of dust, that you wonder if the kitchen has ever been used before. Likely not. 

“Used to eat fast food everyday. Easy and cheap.” Keigo confirms your assumption. 

His arms tighten around you, squeezing you tight enough to leave you a bit breathless. 

“But that’s in the past. Cause now I have a pretty wifey who’s gonna spoil me with yummy food, right, babe? My little housewife.” he coos, similar to how one would speak to a little baby. “You’re gonna be real busy. Cooking everyday for your hard-working husband.”

The more Keigo speaks, the more uneasy you get. Why is he being so weird about it? 

He’s always had sort of a peculiar personality, you know that much from the tabloid’s fixation on documenting and discussing the every public interaction of the popular Pro-Hero that occupies the second position in the rankings but it was your dad’s angry ramblings about the younger man that gave you the confirmation of Hawks’s eccentric and unique personality. But you didn’t think he’d be a… freak.

The uneasiness that is slowly taking over you only gets worse when something - something that grows hard with every passing moment - pokes against your lower back, firm and insistent. 

A yelp gets stuck in your throat and you jump without thinking when a calloused hand delves underneath your blouse, warm fingers pinching the soft skin of your stomach. 

“C’mon, don’t be shy. I wanna hear you say it.” his mouth hovers over your ear, teeth playfully biting the sensitive earlobe. His hand graduatelly slips lower until it reaches the hem of your pants, giving it a playful tug. 

“You’re gonna cook for me, right?” 

A shudder travels through your body, raising goosebumps over the expense of your skin. 

“I’ll…cook for you, yes.” you stammer the words out, but Keigo isn’t done with you yet. 

He tuts, tongue swiping as light as a feather across the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna cook for me and what else. Go on, say it.” 

The knot lodged on your stomach won’t stop twisting and warping, making you experience things like never before. Stress, anxiety, fear. Everything at once. 

“I’ll…” you hesitate, voice so low that it breaks.

Keigo encourages you further. “Hm hm, keep going. I’m all ears.”

“I’ll..” you start, tongue feeling too heavy to move. “I’ll be your housewife.”

Keigo rewards you with a nasty growl and much to your horror, he pushes himself harder against you, pulling you against the kitchen island. Trapped between the cold marble and Keigo’s firm body, there’s no way to slip away from him. 

There’s no way to escape Keigo as he sets up a slow rocking motion, shamelessly dry humping you in the middle of the kitchen. 

There’s nothing for you to do except to push back the disgust that grows with each breathless moan that resonates over your ear and accept your destiny. 

---------------------------------- 💍 -----------------------------------

A few years ago, when you were a somewhat silly dumb teenager, you’d have fantasies about your wedding night.

Rosy and dreamy fantasies about how perfect that night was supposed to be, how romance and love would fill the atmosphere until you were dizzy with emotions.

A strong and handsome husband that would have the softest lips, peppering kisses all over your body. Gentle hands whose touch would be enough to make you see stars. He’d be sweet and kind and he would take his time with you. 

Now, on your first night as a married woman, you realize just how unrealistic your teenage fantasies were. 

Your body writhes on its own as Keigo slowly pushes his hips forward, forcing his cock all the way inside your cramped pussy. The problem isn’t his size. He’s not too big or too small. Just average, you suppose.

But the problem lies in the painful fact that this is your first time and Keigo seems more focused on getting as deep as he can instead of going easy on you.  

“Oh, fuck. You’re really tight, huh.” Keigo pants, forehead pressing against yours. One of your hands instinctively reaches out to push on his chest, desperate for some distance, for some much needed relief.

But Keigo is fast in stopping you, grabbing your hands with his own, forcing each hand to lay flat near your head. 

“...it hurts.” 

Your whining gets smothered down by Keigo’s lips, insistent in keeping you quiet. His hips rock against you, pulling halfway out before drilling back inside with impressive determination that earns a muffled distressed gasp from you everytime. 

Your walls sting despite the unhurried pace Keigo sets. Not too fast, but not too slow either. Probably the best middle-ground tempo he could find. But it’s not enough for you. Your pussy aching with each thrust, struggling to accommodate the foreign intrusion.

Keigo pulls away from the kiss, with a breathless groan that feels overly graphic. His face hovers close enough for the ragged breaths and pants to hit you, leaving a warm cast of air.  

Keigo releases one of your hands and his now free hand travels down, expertly hooking under your knee before pulling the leg up to your chest. Opening you up. Discomfort flares up in your leg at the uncomfortable position, cramps start to form in your muscles and there's a malicious grin forming in Keigo’s face at the sight of your struggle. 

“C’mon, don’t be a brat, you can take it.” he purrs, face bending down to press a kiss on your knee. “You’re already taking my cock like a champ. Keep that tightness up and you’re gonna make me cum soon. Fuck.”

He grunts, strands of honey hair hanging in his forehead, his skin dewy with sweat. Behind him, the wings won’t stop twitching and shaking, adding more weight as Keigo falls on top of you, crushing you against the bed with his solid weight.

He fucks you faster, going deeper with the new angle that has you wincing everytime. The erratic pace rocks both you and the bed in a way that feels like an earthquake, headboard banging with such force on the wall that you won’t be surprised if tomorrow there’s a dent.

You also won’t be surprised if there are visible dents littering your body as well.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he moans, chasing his high like a madman. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Take my cum like the good, little wifey you are. Fuck, yeah!” 

The symphony of groans rises in volume just like the growing urgency in the few thrusts Keigo punctures right before he buries his face in your neck, an animalistic sound rumbling deep from his chest as his body comes to a halt, every inch of cock buried deep inside you. 

After that, the room is strangely quiet. 

Keigo’s warm breathing hits your neck, irregular and shallow as he takes his time getting himself back together. He takes no initiative to move away from you and you lack the necessary strength to push him away, so there’s no other option but to remain on your back, smothered under his weight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Feeling the soreness seeping through the soft muscles while realizing how sticky your skin has become. The dull cramps that start building up in the lower part of your body. Leg still hoisted up over Keigo’s arm, settled into the stiff position. 

You wince at the member lodged inside of you, turning flaccid with each passing moment. What is impossible to ignore is the fluid that oozes from your hole, slowly trickling downwards. 

“That was insane. Fuck, I even think you’re officially the best fuck of my life.” he declares with a satisfied sigh, voice hoarse. 

Finally, after what it feels like an eternity - even if probably only has been a few minutes - Keigo moves his arm away and you sigh in relief when your leg falls down to the bed, stiff and sore.

He pulls back on his knees, a soft grunt escaping from him when he removes himself from inside you and you can finally breathe properly without his weight pressing you down. 

He heads for the bathroom, feet padding on the floor as he walks away with a yawn. 

You doze off, exhaustion making your eyes finally close as you find some thin peace in the darkness. 

---------------------------------- 💍 --------------------------------------

The marital troubles begin less than two days after you become Keigo’s wife. 

You figure it to be a good moment to ask for permission. Your husband - it still feels awkward to say that, even in your mind - is happily munching on the dinner you rushed to cook after he wasted nearly the entire afternoon by keeping you in bed, performing other marital duties.

He’s insatiable when it comes to sex and you’ve come to realize that his appetite is only satisfied when you end up with a sore, achy pussy that leaks copious amounts of cum he fills you with. 

The reality of your situation is slowly falling upon you, forcing you to realize that this isn’t just some phase of your life. No, it’s not a phase. This is your life now. 

Your father never called back, not even a single message to check up on you. Part of you thinks that he must’ve blocked you. He did make it abundantly clear that you’re no longer a part of his family. 

So now, you’re trying to find a way to make things better for yourself. Online college had been the only compromise your dad accepted at the time, so at least you have a degree.

Keigo’s short leave is almost ending, you only know this because Keigo complains about it all the time, which means that soon he’ll be going back to his agency, the patrols, the rescue missions… 

Sure, Keigo did blabber some stuff about you staying a housewife, but you do hope that he can be convinced otherwise. 

“How’s the food?” you ask, catching some vegetables with the fork. The question is pointless, given that the answer lies on the plate before Keigo, mountains of teriyaki chicken and mashed potatoes stacked on the plate.  

Keigo grins, shoving more food into his mouth. “Think cookin’ might be your quirk after all, babe. Those Michellin-star chefs got nothing on you. Trust me.” 

A chuckle leaves your lips before you even realize it. That might be the first time Keigo actually made you laugh. 

“I was meaning to ask, you’re going back to work tomorrow, right?” you ask as casually as possible, pushing the fork to your mouth. 

Keigo hums, before he stops and shakes his head. “Nah, I changed the dates so I can get a few more days with you. Probably heading back on sunday. Maybe monday if I can pull it off.”

“Oh okay.” you nod. 

He looks at you, the edges of his lips curling into a small grin. “Why? Want me to take more days off? I’m sure I can make it work, if you really want me to.”

You pause, mushing down some broccoli with the fork for a moment before you answer. 

“Well, I… I was wondering…” you hesitate, trying to measure your words. “...that when you go back to work, maybe I could get a job? If it’s fine by you, of course! It’s just, well, you’re gonna be busy with work and I’ll be home alone all day. So, if I get a job then I’d be doing something useful, right?”

The teasing grin slowly dies down as Keigo stares at you, eyebrows arching. “A job?” 

Your nod isn’t as assertive as you wish it was and to make it worse, Keigo doesn’t answer right away, taking his sweet time chewing another mouthful of food before taking a few sips from his beer. 

And then he explodes in laughter. 

Eyebrows arching in amusement while Keigo wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. 

The expression on your face must be transparent enough to show your feelings, you realize so when Keigo coos at you, hand settling on top of yours. 

“Did I hurt your feelings, doll? Aww, c’mon, don’t be sad.” he says with a pouty lip, not a trace of seriousness in him. “You’re all delicate and nice. You wouldn’t last a single day working a nine-to-five job. Those things are brutal. Trust me when I say that you’re not cut out for that.”

You stare at him, stunned. He’s making you look weak and pathetic. Something your father would too. 

“But I–”

“Besides, if you really wanna be busy that bad, I’m sure we can work something out.” Keigo doesn’t give you the chance to speak before he’s cutting you off, his grin growing wider - and sinister. “I’m sure a baby would keep you fully booked.”

---------------------------------- 💍 ---------------------------------------

Being Endeavour’s only daughter hadn’t been the glamorous life assumed by the tabloids. Sure, you lived in the comfort of a huge house filled with staff that was more than willing to satisfy your needs.

Not a single day in your life went by struggling for money or food. You had enough designer clothes to overflow your room’s closet and more jewelry than needed. Safety, comfort, money - you had it all. 

But materialistic luxury and comfort hardly meant anything when so many restrictions were imposed upon you.

Your dad was strict - even more considering the quirkless failure he claimed you to be. Not to mention that you are a girl. That alone downgraded your value by a ton, at least to your father’s eyes. That meant being homeschooled for the better part of your life, with harsh tutors and teachers that demanded nothing less than perfection from you.

Leaving the house for whatever reasons may be meant begging your father for permission and his answer was always unsurprisingly negative. Your brothers, despite being nice, were too busy with their own lives. 

In the end, you were left alone - no social life and no friends. 

But as bad as it was, you grew accustomed to it. It was your life and granted that it could be much worse. 

Marrying Keigo - as frightening as it was - isn’t as bad as you expected. He’s not violent. He’s not abusive. As peculiar and bizarre that Keigo is, he’s not entirely a bad husband, you reluctantly admit. 

He takes care of you, through both big and small gestures. You don’t even have to ask for gifts before they are given to you. Books. Jewelry. Clothes. 

He makes an effort to get to know you. Your likes and dislikes. Always eager to know more about you. About the things that make you happy or sad. 

He shows you affection - something that used to be so foreign to you. He kisses and hugs you, his touch always so warm and soft as he drowns you in affection. 

But Keigo is not a saint either. Far from it. 

He doesn’t like it when you talk too much about your family. The way he firmly steers away the conversation when you mention how badly you miss your brothers is enough proof that your husband wants nothing but distance from your old life.

His own family remains a mystery to you, with Keigo setting up boundaries at that sensitive topic. The only family he’s interested in is the future family that the two of you will build together.  

He hates when you do anything that doesn’t suit him. Cooking anything other than his favorite meals always ends up with him giving you the cold shoulder. Choosing a movie or a show that he doesn’t like has him instantly taking over the remote control, changing the TV to whatever he wants to see.

Keigo doesn’t give in easily and there’s no attempt of an amicable compromise or whatsoever. You do what he wants, not the other way. 

In the end, it dawns on you that marrying Keigo wasn’t a salvation. It never was. It was merely exchanging from one prison to another and a part of you believes that your dad knew that. 

---------------------------------- 💍 ---------------------------------------

A few days after Keigo restarts his work schedule, you take the opportunity to leave the apartment. 

However, grocery shopping takes far longer than you anticipated and the sun is already starting to hide in the horizon when you finally make your way back to the apartment. 

You get inside with the bags full of groceries, struggling to close the door when a voice resonates from behind. 

“Where were you?”

You yelp at the frightening sight that the living room has become. Red feathers are sprayed all over the room - the floor, the couch, the furniture - creating a confusing mess of crimson that awfully resembles a murder scene. And in the center of it all, Keigo stiffly stands with arms crossed over his chest.

But what’s more frightening is the solemn expression on his face. Blank and devoid of any humor, serious as a stone. His golden eyes are sharp, raking over you like you’ve committed a serious, immoral crime. 

A cold shiver runs through your body. You’ve never seen Keigo this serious, without the usual friendly grin and the humorous jokes. That makes you a bit nervous. 

“Did your dad not teach you any manners? Cause I asked you something and I’m still waiting on the answer.” the harshness of his voice makes you feel cold, despite the soft heat that comes with summer. 

“Uh, I went to the store….for groceries.” you tentatively raise one hand, showing the heavy bag hanging from it.  

Keigo just stares at you, unfazed. 

“Which store?”

You look at him, confused. 

“The one down the street. Right in the corner of the-”

“To buy what?”

“We ran out of carrots yester–”

“With whose permission?”

“I-”

“With whose permission?” he repeats with a silver of irritation, taking a step towards you. “Cause I sure as hell don’t remember you asking me about this. So, I’d like for you to explain why you left the apartment without talking with me first.”

Your lips part with shock, shoulders slumping in the slightest. 

“Did you check your phone? I texted you, even called you a few times. But I guess you were too busy to answer your husband, right? Nah, you just went out there, not a single care in the world. Who cares if I was here, waiting and worried sick ‘bout you. ” he spits the words, bitterly chuckling before he turns around, stomping his way down the hall. 

Anxiety builds inside you, layer after layer until you’re overflowing with it, chewing your lower lip.

You don’t understand. He never mentioned anything about not going out and you just assumed Keigo wouldn’t object to it. It was just grocery shopping, nothing much. 

But maybe you should have asked. Maybe you should’ve been more careful, more attentive. That’s what a good wife does. You can practically hear the echo of your dad berating at your stupidity. Stupid. Useless. Quirkless. 

You stay frozen in the same spot, brain thinking too slow and too fast at the same time but without providing you a solution.

Slowly moving, you take the grocery bags to the kitchen, putting away all the food with a heavy guilt-prickling mind. Hopefully you can appease Keigo's irritation by cooking his favorite dish. 

Dinner takes place an hour later, the tense mood highlighted by the heavy silence that is only broken by the scraping of the cutlery. Keigo doesn’t bother looking at you, a light frown still engraved in his face. 

Apologies are stuck in the tip of your tongue, just ready to spill at any moment but somehow they don’t. You just can’t bring yourself to speak. Keigo matches your silence, eyes trained on his phone as he eats. 

He barely glances your way when his food is finished, leaving his plate on the table before he goes back to the room. 

The coldness remains for the rest of the evening. Keigo doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, nor does he touch you - the first time since you got married. 

The next morning you rise earlier than usual after spending the entire night mulling over the argument.

It weighs uncomfortably in your mind, repeating itself over and over again till you’re lost. Intrusive guilt settles in your mind, making you both sad and insecure about your actions. 

The kitchen is swallowed by gloominess and darkness when you enter it but you don’t mind. It matches your mood. Sleep-deprived and stressed out. 

You’re putting together the ingredients for a white chocolate cake - Keigo’s favorite - when suddenly arms wrap around your waist, frightening you.

Your shriek echoes through the kitchen before you get the chance to turn your face around and realize it’s only Keigo. 

He chortles for a moment before burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You remain paralyzed, unsure of what to say despite the turmoil that takes place inside you. 

“I’m sorry. About yesterday.” Keigo mutters, face buried in the crook of your neck. “I might’ve had…overreacted a bit.”

The tension melts away from your body and mind, releasing all of its heavy weight. Everything is gonna be fine. You feel so light and free suddenly. 

Keigo must’ve noticed that because he gently swirls your body around, making you face him. His hand cups your cheek, thumb gently rubbing the skin underneath. 

His expression is apologetic until he starts speaking. 

“I shouldn't have said those things. I hurt your feelings and I’m really sorry for that.” he apologies, “I was upset and worried and those emotions took the best of me. But…”

You raise your head, eyes searching for his. 

“... you have to admit that some of the fault goes to you as well. You really shouldn’t have left the apartment without asking me first.” the words are coated with a softness that doesn’t seem all that genuine. Some of the tension returns. 

“I’m your husband, that means I get worried ‘bout you. Can’t make me be the bad guy just for tryin’ to look after you, can you?”

Keigo looks at you, sighing. 

“Listen, I just… if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. You’re the most precious person in my life, you’re my wife and I love you. A lot.” his fingers tighten up almost imperceptibly around your face. “So can you really blame me for trying to keep you safe?”

Your fingers weakly try to pull his hand away from your cheek, without success. 

“But I was fine, Keigo. Nothing would’ve happened.”

He chuckles, a dry sound with no amusement underneath it. 

“If you saw the amount of fucked up shit I see everyday, you wouldn’t be saying that.” his words stun you, but Keigo doesn’t seem to mind. “Women getting robbed, raped and murdered left and right, all the time. And guess what you are? A woman. A defenseless, quirkless woman.” 

There’s a cold shudder running down your spine, giving you goosebumps.

His tone, demeaning and derogatory, sounds awfully similar to the one your father used with you every time he was forced to address you. 

“Not to mention that you’re my wife. Hawks’ wife. That makes you a target to all the bad guys out there. And trust me, they won’t hesitate to use you to get to me. You get what I’m saying, right? Sweetheart.” 

You gulp with a dry throat, practically sensing Keigo’s patience wearing thin with each moment. Head moving without your consent to nod at him. Yes, you hear him - loud and clear. 

“Yeah…yes, I understand that.” 

Keigo nods, apprehension plastered in his face, clearly not convinced by your words but he drops the matter. Doesn’t matter if you agree or not, if you’re happy or not, as long as he gets his way. And of course he does. 

He pulls you into his arms, pushing your face to his chest while pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head. 

“No more outside trips, alright?” his question is merely rhetorical. “Not without running it by me, at least.”

You nod once again. Not because you want to, but because it dawns you that there’s nothing else you can do. This is your life now, whether you like it or not.

---------------------------------- 💍 --------------------------------------

The first anniversary of your ‘marriage’ is a bittersweet day.

You wake up to a strange tingling over the expanse of your neck, similar to the brush of a soft feather against your skin. Your eyes flutter open at the ticking feeling, the low chirping of birds revealing the early hour of the morning. 

A yawn slips from your lips as you rub your eyes, fighting back the drowsiness. You feel like you’re running on fumes, unable to have a decent night’s sleep in months.

The pain that stretches across your back and torso only adds up to the exhaustion, your muscles somewhat sore. 

“Rise and shine, sweetheart!” 

You look up just in time to catch Keigo crossing the threshold of the door, a small round cake precariously balanced in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other. His red wings spread out almost majestically, carrying him through the air until he softly lands by your side in bed. 

Keigo immediately ditches the gift and helps you sit in the bed, fluffing out the pillows against your back. 

“Happy anniversary.” his lips press against yours, roping you into a warm kiss, before depositing the cake in your lap.

White chocolate, as usual. You’ve eaten so much white chocolate these past months that your mind has developed a genuine disgust for it. Still, you force out a grateful smile, his morning stubble scratching your lips as you kiss his cheek. 

“For you too.” 

Keigo grins, digging into the cake with a spoon before offering you the first bite. It’s delicious but nauseatingly sweet at the same time. 

“Can you believe that it’s been a whole year since we got married? Feels like it was only yesterday that we got together.” he muses, taking a spoonful of cake for himself this time. “Looks like it’s true what people say, time does fly by when you’re living the time of your life.” 

You refuse his attempt to feed you another piece of cake, the hints of nausea starting to turn your stomach. You wish he had come with a normal breakfast tray instead of cake. 

Keigo takes your left hand into his own, thumb stroking the ring decorating your annular finger.

“And to be honest, this has been the best year of my life. Never been happier than this.” he confesses. “I love you, so so much. And you love me back, right?” 

Your lips part, a resigned ‘yes’ ready to spill from your mouth. And then a loud squeal cuts through the air. 

Repressing back a tired sigh, you start pushing yourself out of bed when Keigo shakes his head, stopping you with a hand. 

“Nu-uh, I got it. Just sit back and relax, babe. You deserve a break.” 

The promised break lasts about a minute as Keigo seems hell-bent on spending every moment with you. Soon, he’s walking back inside the room with the small baby nestled in his arms, choosing to stand near your side of the bed. 

“Little baby bird over here wants to celebrate the occasion with mommy and daddy.” Keigo uses that special soft tone with your daughter, peppering small kisses over her tiny face. She giggles and coos, crying fit already forgotten. 

You watch them with a faint smile tugging at your lips.

Despite every flaw of Keigo, you can’t help but be grateful for his doting nature when it comes to your daughter. Sure, Keigo never changes her diapers or deals with her during her occasional meltdowns and tantrums but you recognize that it could be worse.

She’s the apple of his eyes and he spoils her rotten, not afraid to shower her with love and affection. You could never imagine your dad kissing or hugging you the way Keigo does with your kid. 

Only takes two minutes for the little princess to tire herself out by laughing and soon her little eyes close as she settles down once again. Keigo makes sure to tuck her better inside the little pink blanket, rocking her in his arms with gentle rhythmic movements. 

Finally, he remembers the long forgotten gift from the bed, offering it to you with a grin. 

“A little something for my gorgeous wife.”

From the small rattling sound inside the box, it’s easy to predict that a new necklace or bracelet is gonna be added to your jewelry collection. 

Your brows press together, fingers feeling the smooth texture of the box. 

“I don’t have a gift for you, sorry.” you mutter, suddenly conscious of your mishap. 

Keigo coos at you this time. 

“Aw, don’t say that. I’m holding in my arms the best gift you could’ve given me. Our little baby bird.” he says, shifting the baby into only one of his arms while his free hand comes to rest atop of your belly, still not fully recovered from birth and yet ready for the next batch.

“Besides, the second gift is already on the way.”