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The day they came, Earth didn't even get the courtesy of a fair warning. The sky cracked open, and Viltrumites descended from the sky like they were gods, and in a way, they technically were. They weren't loud or dramatic, just incredibly efficient. They weren't here to fight. They were here to collect.

They didn't call it that, of course. They called it a "selective preservation and integration protocol." They told you it was an honor. That Earth's population had been deemed too weak, too... soft. Only a handful of humans were to be preserved. You were among them. Not for your strength or your mind. For your "breeding potential". The Viltrumite Empire demanded heirs, and the scan determined you were genetically viable enough to carry one. Specifically, you were genetically-compatible with a high-ranking officer.

Mark Grayson.

Half-Human, but he was practically entirely Viltrumite now. He used to be known as Invincible; a name people used to cheer for. Now, it was only whispered in fear.

When you first saw him, you remembered the boy you'd see on television. His smile. How he'd help those around him, from the poor to rich, young to elderly. He had humanity. That boy was dead, though. What stood before you now was nothing more than a man forged in steel. His gaze lacked compassion, and his voice no longer carried kindness in it's tone.

"This is her?" he inquired coldly. His arms crossed against his chest as he frowned, he almost seemed disappointed. "She looks... fragile." He paused, glancing you up and down as if examining you. It felt uncomfortable, almost as if he could see everything about you; innards and outers. You began chewing on the inside of your cheek as you straightened your posture. You felt so conscious of everything you did now. Why'd he have to look at you like that? "She'll be sufficient." an older Viltrumite gentleman stated. It felt nice to have him defend you till,

"You'll begin the pairing ceremony tomorrow. Her cycle aligns."

You wanted to cry. That was so uncomfortable.

You were taken to a fortress-like world. Metal and marble, polished and perfect. No color. No sound. No life.

This was Mark's home, and now it was yours' too.

You were given a luxurious quarter, but it felt more like a prison. You never had to cook or clean, but you were constantly monitored. Always watched. It wasn't even you they cared about, it was the child they expected you to carry. You were told the process would be swift. You and Mark were to "unite genetically" and begin the process of bearing an heir.

Mark didn't touch you, not at first. He just studied you like you were a puzzle, like he was figuring out what made you tick and what made you crack. He didn't bother to get to know you or your life. He didn't care. He didn't speak to you often either. But, when he did, it was always flat, emotionless.

"The medical team wants a fertility scan today."

"You're not eating enough protein. That can affect gestation."

"We'll begin mating this week."

You hated that word. It made you feel like livestock.

The first time you shared a bed, he barely said a word. There was no love, no soft touches and gentle words. It was mechanical, clinical. Like a transaction for the Empire. You held it together, despite how this whole ordeal was beginning to tear you apart inside. It was a cycle. One day you sat alone, staring out the window as life moved on while you remain dormant. The next day you were prodded and poked by various people and machines. Then you were back to trying again with Mark.

But, you didn't cry until one night after he left. You stood in the too-polish and too-clean bathroom, staring at yourself. You were smaller, thinner. You looked foreign in the silk robes they dressed you in. Your hands grasped the sides of the sink counter as the tears fell down the drain. Your breath was heaving but you bit your tongue, trying to stay quiet. They didn't like weakness here.

Glancing up at yourself in the mirror you began to realize you didn't recognize yourself anymore... This wasn't you. The you that was full of life and joy. The you who established a career for themselves. Maybe that you died on Earth, and you were just the husk that remained. You sat crumpled on the cold tile, knees drawn to your chest. Your sobs slipped out in trembling gasps, each one echoing off the porcelain walls. The floor stole your warmth as if it was punishing you just for breaking down. The chill made your body shiver as tears puddled quietly beneath your chin.

You became pregnant six weeks after the first contact. The medical team confirmed it with quiet nods and clinical approval. You thought that maybe, just maybe, he would soften. That someone would finally speak to you like you mattered. But, nothing changed. Mark said nothing at first. He just stared at he holopad in silence, like he was reading your death sentence.

Later, when you returned to your quarters, Mark appeared in the doorway.

"I'll be taking a reduced deployment schedule," he began. "They don't want to risk..." Mark paused, he gestured to your stomach, "complications." You glanced up from your hands, tangled together as you fidgeted with the tips of your fingers... when did that become a habit? This was the first time you really looked at him in days. He looked hesitant, almost... concerned?

It didn't matter to you. Why did he care now? The anger began to rise in your chest, but it was almost if your body didn't care to feel anymore. "You think I'll die," you said flatly.

Mark was treading over gingerly before he hesitated. Those words stopped him in his tracks. Then, that look on his face disappeared. He was back to Viltrum again. "There's a 27% mortality rate for baseline humans carrying Viltrumite offspring. Even higher in emotionally unstable hosts."

That word, host. It slammed against your chest like a punch. There's that feeling again; like you were just livestock.

The sickness started early. Bone-deep exhaustion, blinding migraines. Your senses were too sharp, and your skin felt wrong.

And no one cared.

You stopped eating. Stopped speaking unless spoken to. The silence in the palace was unbearable, broken only by the humming of strange, alien machinery or the occasional barked order in a language you didn't understand.

At night, you would curl up in the corner of the massive bedroom, to hollow to cry anymore. If you did cry, it was sobbing, painful sobbing. You tried to avoid it. You didn't care if the baby came early, or if you died.

No one asked how you were feeling. The medics just measured your vitals as usual, and the attendants brought you your pills on schedule. Mark would check your stats daily, but he never once asked how you were doing.

Until one night.

You didn't show up for the scheduled scan.

Mark stormed into your chamber, ready to issue a command... until he saw you curled in the corner, shaking. Your body racked with breathless sobs. You were so exhausted. You hadn't eaten in two days, your lips were cracked, your skin was sickly pale, and you were sure you had a fever.

"I can't do this," you whispered, "I don't want this." Your arms hugged your stomach as you croaked.

He froze in the doorway. You swore you could see something flicker in his eyes, like the cog wheels were turning. Mark's fists clenched as he sucked in a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes. Exhaling, he walked towards you, crouched down slowly, and began rubbing your back. His palm was shockingly warm, and his touch felt right for the first time. Your body leaned into him, but your mind felt nothing but anger. You were bitter.

"Are you in pain?" he finally spoke, and for once he sounded... concerned. You didn't answer.

"I need to know if you're in pain." he spoke once more, quieter this time. "I need to know... if something's wrong, please."

You examined him through your wet eyelashes. Truthfully, you were stunned. It wasn't much, but that 'please' was the first thing he'd said that sounded like it came from a human being.

After that night, Mark began to linger.

"I... noticed," he began, awkwardly, "you've lost weight." You were laying in bed when he came in, trying to fall asleep. There was nothing to pass the time, and sleep was the quickest option. Rising from the covers, you peered at him with heavy, exhausted eyes. His eyes, however, looked more gentle today. More... welcoming. Nurturing. Like he was trying. In his hand, he held a small plate, but there lay fruit. This wasn't Viltrum fruit, no, this was human fruit. Human fruit from Earth. That was the first day you began eating again.

It became a routine from that point forward. He brought meals himself now, mostly in hopes that you would atleast try to eat something warm, something that came from a stove instead of being plucked from a tree or bush. He'd sit beside you while you forced down the cut-up fruit. Oranges, berries, and apples. All things he said "were good for you and the infant." He began to strike up conversations, nothing exciting, just mundane things... "Was it sunny on your side of Earth?" or "Do you like music?"

It honestly felt clumsy... like he was trying to remember what people did in moments like this. But, atleast he was trying, finally.

One night, when your back was aching, and you were too nauseous to speak, Mark sat beside the bed, pulled his gloves off, and gently placed his hand over your stomach, rubbing slowly.

"It's growing fast," he murmured, his eyes squinting at your stomach, almost as if he was calculating. "It may already be stronger than most soldiers." He glanced up to you, but... he looked troubled.

You frowned, whispering, "You're afraid."

Mark nodded slowly, rising from his spot. "I don't want to lose you."

It wasn't romantic, hell, it wasn't even tender. But, it was the first honest thing he'd said that wasn't for the Empire's sake.

Your health declined rapidly in your final trimester. The baby's strength began growing faster than your body could realistically handle. Your bones began cracking under the weight of it's kicks. Soon, you began having seizures.

Mark stopped sleeping.

Instead, he would sit by your beside, reading medical data, and scanning your vitals obsessively.

Once, you coded for sixty seconds. Mark nearly killed the attending doctor trying to revive you.

"I will tear this planet apart if she dies," he snarled.

The doctor responded coldly as he worked, "Your heir will survive either way."

Mark punched him through a wall.

That night, when you woke up groggy and half-dead, you faintly saw Mark's bloodied knuckles and pale face through spotted vision.

"You need to live," he begged, hoarsely. "You are not replaceable."

You swore you felt his hand shake in yours.

From that night forward, something severely shifted between you two. Mark stayed home more. He still brought you meals, but now they became more thoughtfully chosen. No longer just meals to boost your vitamins and general health, but meals that you would eat back home. It seemed as if he was listening to your answers of his mundane questions, especially the day he brought home an unopened box of Monopoly. It had been years since you played, but Mark did recall you mentioning the board game when he inquired once about your childhood. You two never did sit down to play, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Your pregnancy began to inch toward it's end, but the dread never faded. Viltrumite births were violent. Bloody. Dangerous.

Mark knew that, and that's what haunted him. You were already so weak now... who knew if you were to survive.

Labor lasted twenty-two hours.

You screamed. Fought. Bled. The baby wasn't just strong, it was tearing you apart from the inside. The medics said you wouldn't survive. Mark paced outside your medical suite for hours. He kept trying to get peaks through the door every time someone would exit the room, but it was too crowded. Every scream he heard from beyond the door felt like a knife carving itself deep into his chest, brutalizing his heart. He grew restless, anxious. "Stay with me," he whispered to himself again and again, hoping that somehow you could hear him. "Stay with me, please..."

When the alarms blared, he nearly tore the door of it's hinges. He couldn't stand outside any longer. You were hemorrhaging and fading, fast.

In the end, you survived.

But barely.

You don't remember the birth itself, only waking later in a clean, silent room. Mark stood beside you with the baby in his arms. His eyes were sunken, and his armor was smeared with blood. Was that yours?

It was a boy; a spitting image of Mark.

"You weren't supposed to make it," he whispered, his hand reaching out to hold yours. You squeezed it, "Sorry to disappoint."

He choked out a laugh; it was the first time you ever heard one from him.

Recovery was slow.

But you lived.

Mark stayed close; often in the same room, sitting with the baby whilst you slept. He learned how to hold him gently and how to soothe him when he cried. It didn't come naturally at all, but he was determined.

He never left you alone at night.

You, sitting there on your bed with your magazine, hair catching the light, a smoothie straw between your glossed lips.

So normal. So heartbreakingly alive. You weren’t wearing a crown now, just a baby-blue skirt and a soft sweater, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine.

A sound, not thunder, not exactly, rolled across the sky, deep enough to rattle picture frames. Your head snapped up. For a second, everything went still, too still. Then a shadow passed over your bedroom window.

Something, someone, moving too fast to be human. He landed without a sound. The air rippled. The pages of your magazine fluttered.

You pressed to the glass, heart skipping. He landed on the street like a meteor, pavement fracturing beneath his boots. Blood, dust, and red armour that gleamed even in the fading light. Not your Mark. Not quite.

This one’s shoulders were broader, movements sharper. His eyes, same hazel brown, but harder, swept across the quiet neighbourhood like he was searching for something.

He was standing at the end of your driveway. And then he looked up.

Right at you.

You froze, your breath catching like static. Because even from behind the cracked windowpane, you saw it, that flicker of something raw in his face. Recognition. Relief.

Before you could even blink, he was gone from the street. Then—

A rush of air. A thud on your balcony.

You stumbled back as your curtains fluttered. And there he was.

Mark, but not your Mark. His hair darker, his suit stained with someone else’s war. A faint scar sliced across his cheek. He looked like every nightmare version of someone you loved. And yet…

He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.

“...You’re alive,” he said, voice low, disbelieving.

“I—” you managed, clutching your magazine like it was a weapon. “I think you might be looking for someone else?”

Mark just stared, he shook his head, slow and certain. The name he hadn’t spoken in years trembled on his tongue.

"No. I found you."

You blinked. “Me?”

The way he said it, soft but heavy, like a vow, made your heart stutter. He stepped closer, eyes drinking in every detail like he was memorising you. The gloss on your lips. The oversized college hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You died,” he murmured, like he couldn’t believe the words. “Back home. Angstrom said— he said he could take me somewhere you still existed.”

You blinked, mascara fluttering. “I— I don’t even know who Angstrom is. I’m— I’m just a college student! I have midterms, and— and a boyfriend—”

His jaw tightened at that word.

“You’re his,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was pure disbelief, like the universe had betrayed him twice.

There was something broken in his voice, something that made your chest tighten even though you had no idea who he was.

“I’m… not yours,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t sound convincing even to you.

He exhaled shakily, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist, just the two of you, the air thick with something unnameable. You’d never seen eyes so broken, so hungry, so sure.

“You don’t remember me,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But I remember every version of you.”

Your heart tripped over itself. And somehow, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he said it, not cruel, not possessive, but raw. Like he was speaking to a ghost.

And when he finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “I crossed universes to find you.”

You didn’t mean to let him in. But somehow the balcony door was open, and somehow you were sitting on the edge of your bed again, knees drawn to your chest while he stood in your room, this stranger with the same face as someone you knew, tracking every corner like it hurt to see how small it was.

He didn’t touch anything.

Just looked. At the perfume bottles on your dresser, the stack of magazines, the clutter of makeup everywhere. “You always filled rooms with colour,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“You talk like you’ve been here before,” you murmured.

His gaze dropped to you. “Not here. But… everywhere you were felt like this.”

You swallowed. “You keep saying that. That I’m her. That I died.”

He nodded once, slow. The light from your window caught the edge of his ruined cape. “We ruled together,” he said. “Viltrum was colder than this world, but when you laughed, it felt like spring. You used to tease me for how serious I was. You’d tell me I looked better when I forgot the crown.”

Something in his voice, hoarse, reverent, made your stomach twist. “What happened to her? To… me?”

His jaw clenched. “A rebellion. I was too far away. By the time I got back, there was only smoke. I buried you myself.” He glanced up again, eyes gleaming with a grief that seemed to stretch across galaxies. “I thought time would dull it. It didn’t.”

The room was too quiet. Your fingers twisted in the hem of your sweater. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You don’t remember it. But I do. Every word. Every look.”

He told you things then, half-memories, half-fairytales. How you’d once stood beside him in white armour, how you’d scolded him for being late to your coronation, how he’d learned to braid your hair because Viltrum had no maids and you refused to cut it. His voice softened when he spoke about the way you’d calm him after battles, how you’d touch his face like he was something human.

It was impossible, all of it, yet you found yourself listening, eyes wide, pulse thrumming. The details were too small, too tender to be inventions.

When he finally stopped, the silence between you felt fragile. You looked down at your hands. “That doesn’t sound like me,” you said, half smiling, half terrified. “I can’t even remember to water a plant.”

His lips curved, just barely. “You would’ve said that then, too.”

The smile faded into something heavier. “You don’t have to believe me,” he added. “But I needed to see you once more. Even if you never remember, I needed to know you were somewhere safe.”

The ache in his tone cracked something in you. You reached out before you could think, your fingers brushing the scar along his cheek. “You look tired,” you said softly.

He caught your wrist, but gently, as though afraid you’d vanish. “You always said that,” he murmured. “Right before you’d tell me to rest.”

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears. “Then rest,” you whispered.

For the first time, the tension in his shoulders eased. He lowered himself beside you, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The world outside still burned with distant battles, but your little room felt suspended in its own quiet orbit.

You didn’t know if he belonged here, or if you belonged anywhere near him, but you found yourself wanting to keep listening, to the stories, to the way he said your name, to the soft disbelief in his voice when he looked at you.

Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was fate.

But when he smiled again, tired and almost human, you felt it, that dangerous pull of falling, even across universes.

He leaned closer, slowly, as if testing the air between you. The scent of ozone and distant smoke clung to him, mingling with the vanilla lotion on your skin. His forehead brushed your shoulder, a shockingly tender gesture. You froze, breath catching as his lips pressed softly against the curve of your neck.

Warmth bloomed where his mouth touched, sharp and electric, making you gasp and jerk backward instinctively. His arms tightened, holding you still for a heartbeat too long before letting you pull away.

"Don't—" you choked out, fingers trembling against your throat where his kiss lingered like a brand. His eyes locked onto yours, raw desperation clawing through the exhaustion.

"This might be the last time I see you," he rasped, voice cracking. "Your face… your laugh… I need to remember it right." The yearning in his gaze was a physical weight, heavy enough to bend the room around you both.

He didn't move closer again, just watched you with that fractured intensity. Your boyfriend’s face flashed in your mind, Mark, your Mark, texting about dinner plans while this stranger bled universes onto your rug.

The guilt coiled hot and sudden in your stomach.

Yet, when he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with knuckles scarred and rough, you didn’t flinch. His touch was gentle, deliberate, mapping you like uncharted territory. "In my world," he murmured, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, "You’d already kissed me by now."

The words hung between you, charged and dangerous. You saw the manipulation then, subtle as a knife slide, the grief weaponised, the loneliness offered like a bridge you couldn't help but cross.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of confusion and something darker, sweeter. The magazine lay forgotten on the floor, pages splayed open beside his cracked boot.

His thumb still traced your jawline, rough skin catching on your softness. The accusation hung in the air, you’d already kissed me.

It wasn't just a statement, it was a challenge wrapped in velvet grief, a lure cast into the turbulent sea of your confusion. You saw the manipulation, the way he wielded his loss like a key to your sympathy, but the ache in his eyes felt real, terrifyingly real. It resonated somewhere deep and forbidden.

He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours.

This time, his lips didn't seek your neck. They brushed yours, a feather-light contact that sent a jolt through you. It wasn’t your Mark’s familiar, easy kiss. This was desperation distilled, a question asked with trembling pressure.

Ozone and iron, the scent of alien battles, filled your senses, overwhelming the vanilla of your room.

You meant to pull away. You should have pulled away.

But a sound escaped you, a tiny, breathless gasp against his mouth. And then, inexplicably, impossibly, you were kissing him back. Your lips moved against his, tentative at first, then with a sudden, shocking hunger that mirrored his own.

It wasn't gentle. It was collision, a frantic claiming fuelled by centuries of loss and the dizzying, terrifying pull of recognition you couldn't explain.

Your fingers tangled in the torn fabric of his cape, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the vertigo. The taste of him, salt, smoke, something metallic and ancient, flooded your mouth.

Your boyfriend’s name screamed silently in your mind, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the frantic beat of your own traitorous heart. He groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating against your lips.

One hand slid into your hair, cradling your head, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his armoured chest.

The kiss deepened, turning fierce, possessive. It wasn't tenderness, it was a drowning man dragging you under with him, a reclamation of something he believed was irrevocably his.

His tongue swept against yours, demanding, exploring, mapping the contours of your mouth with a familiarity that stole your breath and twisted the knife of guilt deeper. You clung to him, lost in the storm he carried, the magazine pages fluttering uselessly on the floor beside his boot, forgotten relics of a life that suddenly felt impossibly small.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, your throat, leaving a path of searing heat. "Every universe," he murmured, voice thick against your skin, rough with reverence and something darker.

"Every single one. You're always perfect." His hands slid down your sides, fingers finding the hem of your soft sweater. He pulled it up slowly, revealing the smooth skin of your stomach, his gaze worshipful.

You shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his stare, the sheer certainty radiating from him. He nudged you backwards gently, guiding you onto the bed until you lay against your pillows.

He followed, settling between your legs, his weight a solid, anchoring presence. His eyes never left yours as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your baby-blue skirt. He slid it down your hips, the fabric whispering against your skin, joining the discarded sweater on the floor.

Then his fingers traced the delicate lace edge of your panties. "So soft," he breathed, his touch achingly slow as he peeled them down your thighs. "Always so soft for me." His calloused fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you gasp.

Then, finally, he touched you there.

A slow, deliberate circle around your clit, the pressure perfect, maddeningly light. Your hips jerked involuntarily.

"Shh," he soothed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core. "I remember." His thumb pressed down, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles, each stroke sending jolts of electric pleasure radiating outwards. He watched your face intently, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every bitten lip, every hitched breath.

Unlike your Mark, eager, sometimes clumsy, wonderfully flustered, this Mark moved with devastating precision.

Every touch was calculated, expert, honed by experience you couldn't fathom. He knew exactly how to draw the tension tight, how to make your body sing for him alone. He leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel.

"You taste like sunlight," he murmured against your skin, his thumb never faltering its slow, torturous rhythm. "Even here. Even now."

The contrast was dizzying, the raw, cosmic yearning in his eyes, the gentle, devastating skill of his hands, and the terrifying knowledge blooming within you: he knew you better than anyone, even yourself.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze locked onto yours.

With deliberate slowness, he began to unfasten the clasps of his battle-scarred Viltrumite armour.

Metal plates slid away with soft clicks, revealing the powerful musculature beneath, broader shoulders, thicker cords of muscle straining against his skin, littered with scars your Mark didn't possess.

Then, his fingers moved lower, freeing the final clasps at his hips. The armour fell away completely, pooling at his knees on your rug. Your breath caught. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already fully erect.

It was impossible. It wasn't just longer, it was thicker, harder, veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin, a brutal testament to Viltrumite biology pushed to its absolute limit.

A visceral shock ran through you. Your Mark was strong, powerful, but this… this was primal, overwhelming.

Every inch of him radiated raw, untamed power, a physical manifestation of the centuries of war and loss etched into his soul. He saw your wide-eyed disbelief, the flicker of apprehension mixed with undeniable fascination.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, possessive, knowing. "Stronger," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "In every way." He ran a hand slowly down the thick length, his knuckles brushing against your trembling thigh. "Built to rule worlds… and ruin you."

He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He gripped your hips firmly, lifting you effortlessly, aligning himself.

The blunt, massive head pressed against your slick entrance. You braced yourself, biting your lip, expecting pain, invasion. Instead, he pushed forward with agonising, controlled slowness.

Inch by impossible inch, he filled you, stretching you wider, deeper than you'd ever been.

A choked sob escaped you, not pain, but overwhelming fullness, a pressure that bordered on exquisite agony. He groaned, deep and guttural, his head falling forward, dark hair brushing your forehead.

"Gods," he breathed, his voice ragged. "Tighter than I remembered." He stayed buried to the hilt for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, letting the sheer, impossible size of him imprint itself on your senses.

Then he withdrew, almost completely, before thrusting back in with that same devastating control.

Each slow, deep stroke dragged against every sensitive nerve, igniting sparks behind your eyelids. His eyes burned into yours, intense, possessive.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough velvet. "Look at me while I take what's mine." His hips rolled, a powerful, relentless rhythm that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.

Your boyfriend's name dissolved into meaningless static, replaced by the pounding of your own heart and the slick, obscene sound of him moving inside you. He filled the room, filled your world, leaving no space for anything but him, his strength, his claim.

Tears blurred your vision, hot and unbidden.

"T-Too big," you gasped out between shuddering breaths, your fingers clawing at his scarred shoulders. "Mark… please… it's too much…"

The words were a whine, thick with overwhelmed sensation and a dawning, terrifying pleasure. He chuckled darkly, low and vibrating through your joined bodies. He leaned down, catching a tear on his thumb before bringing it to his lips.

"You used to beg for it," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot. "Beg me to fill you just like this." His thrusts deepened impossibly further, grinding against a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

A ragged cry tore from your throat as your back arched off the bed. He smiled, a feral, possessive twist of his lips. "See? Your body remembers." His pace remained torturously slow, deliberate, each powerful thrust designed to maximize friction, to make you feel every ridge, every vein.

He watched, enthralled, as tears tracked down your temples, mingling with sweat. "Cry for me," he rasped, his own control fraying, his breathing harsh. "Cry because you know you belong here. Under me. Filled by me." The words were manipulation wrapped in velvet grief, a poison you drank willingly.

He shifted, hooking your legs over his forearms, spreading you wider, sinking deeper still. The angle was brutal, perfect. Your whimpers turned into desperate moans, your hips lifting to meet his punishing thrusts despite the overwhelming stretch.

"That's it," he growled, approval lacing his voice. "Take it. Take all of me." His gaze dropped to where you were joined, watching himself disappear inside you, slick and glistening.

The possessive hunger in his eyes was terrifying, exhilarating. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fierce, claiming kiss, swallowing your cries, his tongue mimicking the relentless thrust of his hips.

Outside, the wind howled louder, shaking the windowpane, a distant echo of the storm he carried within him.

Inside, your small room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, ragged breaths, and the soft, broken sounds of your surrender.

He moved with the precision of a conqueror reclaiming lost territory, every stroke a declaration: You are mine, in every universe. His hand slid down your trembling stomach, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, insistent circles.

"Come for me," he commanded against your mouth, his voice thick with need. "Show me you remember." The dual assault was too much, the deep, stretching fullness, the sharp friction on your clit.

Pleasure coiled, impossibly tight, then shattered. You screamed into his mouth, your body convulsing around him, clamping down on the massive intrusion.

He groaned, deep and triumphant, his thrusts turning frantic, losing their careful control as he chased his own release, buried impossibly deep inside you.

He pulsed within you, hot and thick, filling you with a possessiveness that went beyond the physical. His body shuddered above yours, muscles locked taut, breath ragged against your sweat-slicked neck.

For a long moment, there was only the frantic drumming of your hearts and the fading tremors of your climax.

Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew, leaving you feeling achingly empty and impossibly marked. He stayed close, propped on one elbow beside you, his gaze tracing the flush spreading across your chest, the tear tracks drying on your cheeks.

His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. "Mine," he murmured again, the word softer now, laced with a profound, weary satisfaction.

The unnatural pink glow had deepened outside. A low rumble, distinct from thunder, vibrated through the floorboards, another universe tearing at the seams.

He tensed, his head snapping towards the window, the lover instantly replaced by the warrior. His jaw tightened. "Levy's portals are unstable," he said, voice hardening. "They won't hold."

He looked back at you, the raw yearning crashing back into his eyes, sharper than before. "I have to go back."

You stared at him, the impossible reality crashing down: the taste of him still on your tongue, the ache between your legs, the lingering scent of ozone and sex.

Mark, your Mark, would be checking on you soon. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the haze of spent desire.

He sat back, breathing hard, the heat between you fading into something quieter, heavier. You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, afraid that if you let go he would simply dissolve back into the impossible light that had brought him here.

The air around you hummed, faintly electric. The walls trembled.

Another portal was opening.

“Mark,” you whispered. You didn’t know which version of him you were calling to, the one from your world or the one who had crossed galaxies to find you. Maybe both.

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing your knuckles. The battle-hard calm returned to his features, but underneath it, something softer flickered, a grief so old it looked like love.

“If I stay,” he said quietly, “your world unravels. Levy’s fractures will spread until there’s nothing left of either of us.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I can’t lose you again… even if it means I have to walk away.”

The sound of the portal deepened, a low thrum that made the windows shake. Light spilled through the cracks, violet and gold, painting his face in colour.

You shook your head. “Will I ever see you again?”

He smiled, that same half-smile your Mark sometimes wore when he was trying to be brave. “Every universe has a version of you,” he murmured. “Maybe someday, when the stars line up just right… you’ll love me.”

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat. So you did the only thing you could: you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The warmth of him, the smell of smoke and sky, seared itself into your memory.

When the light flared, you had to close your eyes.

And then he was gone.

The room was silent again, the air still humming faintly, your curtains fluttering with the echo of his departure. Outside, the sky had returned to an ordinary blue-grey. The world, impossibly, went on.

You sat there for a long time, tracing the spot on your hand where he’d held you, half-expecting to wake up from the whole thing. Then your phone buzzed, your Mark, texting to ask if you were okay after the war outside.

You typed back, yeah, all good, though your heart still felt full of stars.

And when you looked out the window one last time, for just a second, you thought you saw a streak of red against the horizon, disappearing into the clouds.

he can't stop thinking about how he'd love to slow dance with you to this song, he's not the best dancer — he'll probably end up stepping on your foot, but if it makes you laugh, he'd make a fool out of himself every time, just to see your lips curl up into that beautiful smile and hear the sweet sound of your laughter again and again, the thought makes him smile out of nowhere, making william roll his eyes fondly.

“you with me lover boy?”

right, even william knows, but it's not because he's his best friend, hell almost everyone knows, it would be hard not to with the way his eyes go all soft, slowly blinking— pupils turning into hearts and a soft smile tugs at his lips at the mere mention of your name.

he's so far gone for you.

“what- yes ‘course i’m with you,” he clears his throat, lying through his teeth.

“and i’m not gay.”

it can’t be that obvious, surely.

he hears his phone buzz with the ringtone he’s set for you and immediately reaches for it, grinning like an idiot — a very lovesick one at that, happy you’ve agreed on going to the newly opened cafe with him.

it really is that obvious huh?

he's trying not to run his hand through his hair for the nth time as he waits for you nervously at the cafe, this isn't even a date — he would probably pass out from his nerves alone if it was.

he straightens up when he smells your perfume, the scent lingering in the air, ah hear you come. he quickly glances at his phone screen, making sure his hair isn't a mess or anything.

“hi,” you greet him, your voice — a melody he's grown incredibly fond of, it's something that has helped him so much when he was at rock bottom, it brings him unimaginable joy, yet it also sometimes makes him want to rip his ears off — that sweet voice of yours is also pure torture everytime he realizes he can't have you, he can't possibly risk your precious friendship, that's selfish. and he tries to convince himself everyday that he isn't selfish, but he's not so sure anymore.

“you okay?” oh right he hasn't responded yet, too busy staring at your face, the one he wants to kiss all over.

“yeah sorry . . . just you know,” he leans in, heartbeat increasing, “had another bad guy to take care of,” he whispers, eyes darting to your lips for a split second.

he shouldn't have done that.

not because you're one of his best friends, no, but because now he can't get the thought of pressing his lips against yours out of his head.

although he'd argue he'd end up thinking about that one way or the other.

“ah i see, hope it didn't tire you out too much”

“nah i’m good,” he flashes you a small smile, a kiss from you would be nice though, he thinks.

as you two decide what to order, his gaze keeps drifting to you — the way the light plays across your features, the subtle furrow of your brows as you contemplate what sweet treat to order, eyes focused on the menu unlike him.

and then a strand of your hair falls out of place right on your face. just great, now he has to hold himself back from tucking it behind your ear. it's like the universe is torturing him, but he'll take any of this torture as long as you promise to remain by his side, as long as you're here, he's happy.

he's too busy daydreaming about you so when the waiter asks for his order it takes him a while to snap back to his senses, quickly saying the name of the first thing his eyes land on.

“matcha?” you ask a little surprised as the waiter heads off to get your orders going.

he doesn't like matcha.

“uh yeah, thought i’d give it a try again, give it another chance” maybe you should give him a chance too.

okay he's getting a little carried away, but he can't really help himself. not when it comes to you.

as conversation flows easily between you two — packed with familiar banter, teasing and inside jokes, a warm fuzzy feeling settles inside his chest curling up around his heart, his heart overflowing with love for you.

but will you ever know the extent of his love?

he'd rather not think about that bitter thought while you're excitedly rambling about some new show you watched — god you're adorable, he wants to keep you in his pocket. he's all smiles and giggles, a soft flush adorning his cheeks which can be chalked up to the warm weather but, he knows better.

and maybe you should know better too and then kiss him.

he really wants to kiss you.

the softness in his eyes quickly disappears the second the waiter comes back with your drinks and food, muttering some flirty remark towards you.

his gaze bores holes into the back of the waiter's head, eyes only leaving him when he's out of his sight. he knows he has no right — you're not even his, but he can't bear the thought of you being with someone else, it makes him sick.

“go on, try it. i wanna see the look of pure disgust on your face,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your sweet strawberry milkshake.

oh right the matcha.

he gulps nervously, taking a small sip of his matcha, immediately regretting it, mark has always been expressive and by the looks of it, you were right.

“good?” you jokingly ask. he huffs amusedly, “so good,” he says sarcastically, playing along.

he's thankful you ordered him a piece of his favorite type of cake without him asking, you know him so well — or maybe you don't, considering you don't know how he'd give up everything he has just to be with you.

“this is really good,” he says absentmindedly as he savors the taste of the sweet treat, hands itching to wipe the small amount of whipped cream on the corner of your lips.

“really? can i have a bite?” 

a bite? you've got to be joking. you know you can have the whole thing right? you can have him — his soul that he's sure is intertwined with yours with the way his chest aches when you're not around and his heart, it's already yours. it's always been yours, was never his to begin with. you can have the world, he'd give it to you to the best of his ability, but sure you can take a bite.

he can't stop himself from smiling when he sees you enjoying a piece from his cake, he wants to see you happy, always. he doesn't like when you get sad, especially when he gets hurt, he always feels so guilty afterwards.

you even feed him a generous spoonful of your cake, which he happily accepts. he wonders if the other people in this cafe think you two are a couple — the thought makes him awfully giddy.

the matcha grows on him, or maybe it's the fact your presence alone is enough to distract him to down the whole thing easily.

“you want my cherry?” you ask, already plucking it from on top of the whipped cream on your milkshake, he doesn't protest against your offer, instead boldly leans in — hoping you'll feed it to him.

and you do, his lips brush ever so slightly against your fingers but it's enough to send a shiver down his spine.

the action is oddly intimate, especially with the way you're holding his gaze as he eats the sweet cherry, his body feels like it's on fire.

what kind of foreplay is this? he's gotta ask william.

“thanks,” he manages to mutter out, his voice cracking slightly.

he watches as you finish your milkshake, lips wrapped around the straw-

woah not there mark! he holds his thoughts back from straying into that direction as he finishes his remaining food.

he sheepishly tells you about the whipped cream around the corner of your lips, handing you a tissue — he wants to wipe it off with his thumb, well he really wants to kiss it but he's not that bold. although sometimes he wishes he was.

but then maybe you two wouldn't have gotten this close to begin with — so he'll be himself, the mark you know, hoping one day he works up the courage to earn the right to shower you with all the affection and love in the world.

he smugly grins when you try to pay at the counter and then come to know he's already paid in advance.

“mark.”

“you can pay next time.”

“that's what you always say!”

“hm do i?” he makes a show of thinking long and hard, rubbing his chin and all as he gets a coffee for william — as he'd insisted mark get him something from the recently opened cafe in the area.

the conversation and shared laughter dies down as you two make your way out, it's time to leave and part ways, mark has been dreading this the second he got here.

don't leave me.

his chest tightens with unspoken words and affection when you bid him goodbye, with a hug. he doesn't want to pull away — arms lingering around for awhile even when you start pulling away.

don't go. please.

even though the words remain unspoken —  his eyes speak volumes, even the feelings he's too scared to utter out loud.

and as the wind blows, rustling your hair — you look back at him one last time with that damn smile, he hopes the next time you two are together, it ends with you not leaving but instead in his arms, where you belong.

or well at least where he thinks you belong — he's getting ahead of himself again isn't he?

he smiles back although it doesn't quite reach his eyes, watching you walk away until you're out of his sight.

and now he's left there alone. he ends up taking a sip from the coffee to distract himself but it's bitter — almost bitter like the thought of never having you, never having you as his.

he sighs, god he's hopeless. better get back to william’s before his coffee gets all cold.

“you look like someone just drained the life out of you,” william teases him as mark hands him the coffee that's still somewhat warm, “don't tell me a vampire attacked you,” he jokes but mark’s mind is somewhere else — you.

he already misses you.

“quit moping around and spill the tea already,” william groans playfully, feigning annoyance as he sips on his coffee.

“i’m such an idiot.”

“tell me something new mark.”

“not helping.”

william scoots his chair closer to mark on the bed, “did you mess up?”

“no, i don't think so.”

“the why do you look like a sad kicked puppy?”

“i’ll never have-”

“oh my god not this again,” william sighs loudly, “we've been through this likea gazillion times mark.”

“what kind of foreplay is cherry eating?”

william almost spits out his coffee. “i beg your finest fucking pardon?”

and as mark rambles about you, reliving the memories of you sure makes him shy and giddy — he tells his best friend, “she asked if i wanted her cherry, and-”

“oh you do, real bad,” william snickers knowingly in a suggestive tone which makes mark pause and raise a brow.

“oh my god you are so dense, and you missed the perfect opportunity to flirt,” william rubs his temples like an overworked stressed parent.

“how did you know i want-”

oh.

that kind of cherry.

“william!” mark is quick to throw a pillow at his friend — embarrassed and cheeks starting to heat up, a blush creeping up his neck.

“oof,” william lets out a surprised noise, “hey you're not denying it,” he teases — earning another smack with a pillow from the half viltrumite.

“shut up.”

“you're still not denying the idea, real subtle there.” 

“i hate you.”

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

Sukuna thrives off the fear and chaos he causes. And most of the time, just his name alone is enough to have sorcerers and curses fearing for their lives. You’re no different. 

Except, there is something about you that is different. Sukuna’s been watching you from the very beginning—from the moment you popped into Yuji’s life. Probably debating whether or not he should kill you or toy with you, probably both. Or maybe use you against Yuji? He especially enjoys needling Yuji about you. It’s just too easy to get under that brat’s skin.

“How’s your little pet today, brat? Still breathing?” Sukuna’s voice slithers through Yuji’s mind, condescending and intrusive. It’s not really a question because he already knows the answer. He’s been watching the whole time. As much as he despises watching Yuji fumble around you like a pathetic, horny teenager, there’s really nothing he can do about it.

“Shut up.” Yuji groans back, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples. As if that would deter the curse living inside him to fuck off. It won’t.

Whatever the reason is, Sukuna spends a lot of time watching you, more than anyone else. 

Sukuna calls you pet names, and they’re almost always mocking. Little thing. Pet. Brat. He’s such a dick. He refuses to call you by your actual name unless it’s to make a point. And when he does? It’s slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring the way it sounds.

Of course, Sukuna wouldn’t be Sukuna if he didn’t take control of Yuji’s body at the worst possible times. When he does manage to manifest temporarily, he makes sure it’s whenever you’re around.

“Studying hard, are we?” The voice that suddenly slips from Yuji's lips is nothing like his. It's lower. Rougher. Coated in mockery and fucked up amusement. It's almost laughable—almost—how oblivious you are, so absorbed in whatever pointless little textbook you've got your nose buried in. “What a good little sorcerer you are.” The words drip from his smirking mouth like poison, sweet and condescending, meant to belittle, meant to sting.

Sprawled across the floor, you freeze instantly, the textbook you were reading just moments ago suddenly slips from your trembling grasp and lands with a soft thud.

Sukuna doesn’t sit up immediately, content with just watching you from Yuji’s reclined position. He lounges in the brat’s body like it’s his throne, sprawled lazily across the dorm bed, one arm slung behind his head, the other resting carelessly along his stomach. His eyes—Yuji's eyes, but not—are half-lidded and dark as he examines you up close for the first time.

For Sukuna, it’s almost fun to appear unexpectedly. There's something so delicious about the way your whole body tenses, the way your pretty eyes widen the second you realize it's him. He will never admit it, of course, but he adores your reactions when he manifests. No warning, no build up—just that subtle shift in posture, the change in voice. Being confined to his vessel's body is tiresome, infuriating, and beneath him. So when he gets the chance to claw his way to the surface, even for a moment, he takes it.

It's not always about violence—though the temptation is always there, testing his control. He could easily grab you and slam you against the wall. Would you scream? Probably. Would you fight? Absolutely—but not well enough. He could almost feel you struggling in his arms, your body twisting and squirming as he pins you down with ease. He could almost hear your pretty voice crack as you scream and beg.

But with you… it's more complicated. With you, he’s more restrained. Killing you would be too quick and easy. No. He’ll take his time with you, making sure he enjoys every second. He doesn't hurt you when he takes control. Not much, at least.

But at some point, things started to change. He started noticing too much, watching you too much, thinking about you too much, looking forward to seeing you too much. It’s infuriating and confusing. Why does he find himself actually paying attention when you speak? Why does he get nervous when you’re on an assignment? Why doesn’t he just kill you and be done with it? He’s had multiple opportunities. And why does his chest burn when Yuji flirts with you? 

And that’s when the frustration sets in. Sukuna despises this unfamiliar feeling.

Honestly, Sukuna isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what he’s feeling, he just refuses to acknowledge it.

In the end, I highly doubt Sukuna would ever admit to having feelings for you, nor would he change his behaviour too much. Don’t expect him to be all mushy and shit. That’s just not his style. But there would be some signs…. 

The signs would be subtle. The last thing he—and his pride—needs is people thinking he’s gone fucking soft. 

He gets quiet when you're speaking. Not out of politeness—he just wants to listen. He'll go silent inside Yuji's head, letting your voice wash over him. He memorizes your cadence, the words you use, the way your voice changes when you talk to other people. And when you talk to Yuji? He listens too closely.

Sukuna started watching you much more often. He finds himself paying extra attention whenever you’re around Yuji, and actually listening when you speak. For once, he’s not thinking about killing or toying with you—he’s just… observing you.

He notices everything about you. The way your nose scrunches adorably when you smile, the way your laughter makes his stomach twist in an unfamiliar way—he remembers every little detail about you, and he hates himself for it.

Whenever you’re on missions or assignments, Sukuna watches you even closer, especially whenever you’re around other curses. Again, he chalks it up to just being boredom, considering he’s stuck inside Yuji and all. But in reality? He doesn’t want you to get hurt. He doesn’t want anyone else touching you, or even coming near you. Just the thought of it makes him livid—not because someone threatened a weak sorcerer. But because they threatened you.

There was one time where you did get injured by another curse on an assignment, and Sukuna lost all composure.

Sukuna rarely steps in, even when Yuji is in danger, preferring to sit back and watch the sufferings of others. He’s selfish. Stepping in to save someone doesn’t serve his purposes. He doesn't protect people—ever. But the moment you were injured, the line was crossed. He forcibly manifested, motivated more than ever to gain control. The curse that attacked you doesn’t stand a chance against him. He’s more unhinged than usual. He doesn’t torture the curse for his own sadistic enjoyment—not this time. Instead, he barely wastes any time ripping it apart and then checking on you. 

“Pathetic.” He sneers down at your crumpled form, not bothering to wipe the blood off his scowling face. It’s difficult to tell if the insult is meant for you or for the curse he just sliced in half. Still, his tone is considerably less….biting than usual. 

Languidly, he crouches beside you, eyes roaming your body with detached curiosity. But something flickers in his crimson gaze—brief, almost undetectable. But it’s there. Concern? Rage? Whatever it is, it makes his glare falter, and his scowl deepen.

“Hurt, brat?” The taunting pet name rolls off his tongue, softer than he would've liked. His gaze shifts between your face and the gash along your side, silently assessing the damage while trying—and failing—to appear indifferent. Like the fact that you’re actively bleeding out doesn’t concern him in the slightest. But the sight does bother him. Deeply.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as he suddenly scoops you into his arms—a growl caught somewhere between annoyance and... something else. Frustration? Worry? Who fucking knows. “If you die from something this trivial, I’ll be disappointed.”

Sukuna doesn’t stop taking control of Yuji when you’re around. But when he first started feeling something deeper for you, he wasn’t around as much. It’s odd, especially since he’s always sought to control Yuji, and has been known to appear at random times. He’s probably been stewing somewhere in his domain, sitting on the mountain of bones as he tries to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him. He’s not fully manifesting, not always. But his presence is there, lurking.

When he takes control of Yuji, he doesn’t threaten or intimidate you outright like he did before. No. Instead, he’s just kinda… there. Almost like he enjoys just being near you. Still, he doesn’t completely stop messing with you—he’s got a reputation to uphold, after all. His threats become empty, more like teasing. More like taunts.

“Keep talking like that, and I'll carve that pretty mouth of yours shut.”

“Am I interrupting something important?” He drawls mockingly, tilting his head and flicking his nails as he tries to appear uninterested. Like whatever you were doing wasn’t even worth his time or energy. “You looked so focused, brat. So serious. And now you look like you’re about to piss yourself.” 

He starts to manipulate Yuji's sleeping patterns, taking control in the dead of night just to watch you sleep. Why? He himself doesn’t even know why. Maybe it's the way you look so unaware. So peaceful. Unlike the pure terror you display when he’s around when you’re awake.

Then it pings again.

satoru: hellooo?

Fuck.

Was it too late to change your number and move to a different country?

You sigh, finally typing a message you actually send.

y/n: how long have you been watching the screen

Three dots.

satoru: like 10 minutes

You let out a silent scream, heart hammering in your chest.

This is the worst possible scenario – time to deflect.

y/n: why the hell did you have my chat open anyway

Three dots again…

satoru: princess I've been waiting for this moment for months

Your cheeks heat up with something other than embarrassment this time.

y/n: you're an idiot

You know he’d practically be able to hear your pout through that text. But then–

satoru: that guy you were dating finally fuck up?

You let out a small chuckle at his honesty. And yeah, fuck up was putting it lightly, but you didn't exactly want to get into how every man since Satoru had been a complete disappointment.

You sigh, biting the inside of your cheek to try and force back the smile that tried to form on your lips.

y/n: guess you could say that

Satoru was typing again, three dots appearing and disappearing. Maybe he was the one deleting the messages on the other side now.

You could almost picture him – that wide cheese eating grin, celebrating his prophecy coming true. You hated how right he was about the fact you wouldn't find anyone better than him.

The overly confident bastard he was.

But the message you received wasn't smug at all. If anything, it made your heart ache with that familiar comfort no one but him seemed able to give you.

satoru: did he hurt you?

You felt a tightness in your throat as you typed out a yes. It's not like you were ever in love with the guy – you hadn't really been in love with anyone since, well… since the man you were texting right now.

White haired, blue eyed, handsome Satoru Gojo, shining so bright he overshadowed everyone in his wake, including you.

But how could anyone else even compare?

satoru: are you ok?

You bite your lower lip, reading and rereading his text. Yes that guy proved to be an asshole, but what was really making your chest hurt wasn't that short lived situationship – it was how much you missed Satoru.

Missed his stupid jokes. Missed the way he'd easily pick you up and place kisses all over your face. Missed cuddling on cold nights, laughing at the dumb movie he chose, baking cookies for lunch when his adorable pout convinced you it was healthy.

What was the use of lying, anyway?

y/n: i just really miss you

There. You finally admitted the truth you had been trying to conceal for months now.

And his response came so fast you wondered how his thumbs could type so quickly.

satoru: ill be there in 10

You laugh – Satoru easily lives a half an hour away, but you fully believe him.

How did you ever think you’d get over Satoru Gojo?

(important) DO NOT MESSAGE YOUR EX – unless he is satoru gojo, of course

permatags @madamechrissy @mercipourleveninx @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt @nanamitiddiechomper @kekeanna266 @amazedfor @dogggggggblog-kaye @literallyadarling @dawnsoblivion @chewiebee @iquitfindingausername @valberryboos @pwd54gr54 @raendarkfaerie @bbfawns @itimisu @sapph22

જ⁀➴ Satoru Gojo .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Yuji Itadori .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Megumi Fushiguro .ᐟ 💭

being best friends with the miya twins since childhood really is something.

and by “something,” you mean “an endless loop of chaos, food, and twin-induced migraines.”

you don’t even get two bites into your onigiri before the door slams open hard enough to rattle the soy sauce bottles.

“QUIT STEALIN’ MY WIFE, SAMU!!!”

the voice is unmistakable. you close your eyes, inhale, and mutter a small prayer for the poor customers caught in the blast radius.

osamu doesn’t even look up from the rice ball he’s shaping. “ya mean my wife?” he says, calm as ever, the audacity of a man who’s spent his life pretending his twin brother doesn’t exist.

the old lady by the counter freezes mid-bite. the businessmen near the window stop chewing. a single piece of salmon falls off someone’s chopsticks and lands with a plop.

and then there’s atsumu—blonde menace, msby jacket half-zipped, hair all over the place like he fought a tornado before coming here (he did, emotionally). he storms through the restaurant like a man on a mission, finger pointing straight at his twin.

“DON’T ACT ALL CASUAL, YA SLIPPERY RICE GREMLIN! I SAW THE POST! YA GAVE HER A ‘FOR HER ONLY’ LUNCHBOX AGAIN, YA TRAITOR!”

osamu blinks. “...’cause she’s the only one who eats it?”

“YA DON’T GET TO MAKE LOGICAL POINTS RIGHT NOW, SAMU!”

the volume is so intense the chopsticks on the counter tremble. you look between them, mouth full of rice, unsure whether to intervene or let them emotionally combust like usual.

“guys,” you try, “please, not in front of the customers—”

but it’s too late. atsumu’s already vaulting over the counter.

there’s a blur of blonde and black and suddenly they’re both on the floor, rolling around like two toddlers fighting over a toy. only, in this case, the “toy” is you.

and somewhere between the flailing limbs and rice flying everywhere, atsumu yells, “YA THINK SHE PREFERS YOUR COOKIN’?! SHE PREFERS MY CHARM, SAMU!”

to which osamu replies (in between trying to chokehold him with an apron strap), “she prefers food that ain’t burnt, ya clown!”

the customers… continue eating. in silence.

one man whispers to his coworker, “do they do this often?”

the coworker sighs, “every tuesday.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you step around the chaos, grab a wet towel, and wipe down the counter like this is just another normal day—because it is.

the twins are still going at it. osamu’s knee deep in twin warfare, muttering curses while atsumu yells like an unhinged seagull. you love them both dearly, but if they ever made a podcast, you’d have to move to another country.

“ya don’t even DESERVE to give her onigiri!” atsumu shouts.

“ya don’t even DESERVE carbs!” osamu fires back.

you sigh and crouch down beside them. “boys,” you say softly.

they both freeze.

you’re smiling. that’s the dangerous part.

“if you two don’t stop wrestling right now, i’m gonna take my lunch and leave.”

“NO!” they scream in unison, like you just threatened to delete their entire existence.

they shoot up immediately, straighten their shirts, and fix their hair (atsumu’s still got rice stuck in his bangs).

“see, darlin’,” osamu says, voice all soft now, “this idiot just—”

“don’t listen to ‘im! i just came here to defend yer honor!” atsumu cuts in, puffing his chest like a golden retriever who just barked at the mailman.

you look at both of them. same eyes. same faces. same devotion. different forms of stupidity.

“my honor?” you ask.

atsumu nods, deadly serious. “sammy’s been makin’ ya meals that say ‘for my favorite girl’ on the lid! that’s emotional warfare!”

“atsumu,” you sigh, “he writes that on every lunch he gives me.”

“EXACTLY!” he screams, like that proved his point.

osamu wipes his hands on a towel and shoots you a grin that could melt steel. “ya liked the fried salmon, yeah?”

“i loved it,” you admit.

atsumu gasps like you just confessed a crime. “SEE?! THIS IS HOW IT STARTS! first it’s ‘ya liked the salmon,’ next thing ya know, she’s wearin’ an apron with his name embroidered on it!”

“...that’s oddly specific,” you say.

“’cause i SAW it!” atsumu accuses, “he’s makin’ one for ya, i know it!”

osamu doesn’t deny it. instead, he smirks and says, “she’d look cute in it though.”

atsumu’s soul leaves his body.

you’re half convinced the customers are filming this. suna’s sitting by the window with a takeout box, absolutely losing it. he’s been recording for five minutes straight.

“this is the best thing that’s ever happened in a restaurant,” suna says between wheezes. “i’m postin’ this. title: twin civil war breaks out over girl with god-tier patience.”

“delete that right now, ya lanky demon!” atsumu yells, lunging toward him.

but suna just smirks, running away. “nah. this is content. also, y/n, you good? blink twice if you need extraction.”

you just smile, sipping your tea. “i’m fine. this happens every week.”

“what’s wrong with y’all,” suna mutters, grinning, “like genuinely.”

aran walks in halfway through, takes one look around, and sighs. “oh god, it’s tuesday again.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

eventually, the lunch rush clears. the twins apologize (after you threaten to withhold hugs). suna leaves, still laughing, and aran pats your shoulder like a man offering condolences.

“good luck, y/n. i’d say ‘run,’ but it’s too late for you.”

he’s right. it is too late.

the shop quiets down. just the three of you now—you, osamu cleaning up, and atsumu sulking dramatically in the corner.

you reach over and pat atsumu’s head. “tsumu, you know i love both of you, right?”

he perks up immediately, eyes glowing like a puppy. “ya do?”

you nod, laughing. “yeah. i mean, who else would keep my life this entertaining?”

osamu leans against the counter, smirking. “see, she loves me more.”

“DO NOT.”

“DO TOO.”

you roll your eyes, setting down your chopsticks. “you’re both idiots.”

“ya say that,” osamu says, walking closer, voice low, “but ya keep comin’ back.”

atsumu scoots in beside him, grin mischievous. “yeah, princess. maybe ya like havin’ two of us fawnin’ over ya.”

“that’s not—” you start, but they’re both looking at you now.

same eyes. same smiles. same kind of devotion that makes your stomach flip.

“ya don’t gotta choose, ya know,” osamu says suddenly.

“huh?”

atsumu nods, leaning in closer. “why make ya choose when we can just... share?”

you blink. “share? like…—”

“yeah,” osamu hums, “share.”

and the way they’re both smiling—soft, dangerous, a little unhinged—makes your heart skip.

they exchange a look. a silent agreement between two idiots completely, hopelessly devoted.

“team effort,” atsumu declares proudly, like this is a group project in love.

you can’t help but laugh, cheeks warm. “you’re both ridiculous.”

“maybe,” osamu says, brushing rice off your sleeve, “but ya love us anyway.”

and you hate how true that is.

because when atsumu tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and osamu slides a bento box toward you with your favorite meal—you realize you’re doomed.

two men. one girl. and zero self-control.

the onigiri sign outside still reads OPEN,

but really, your fate’s been CLOSED for years.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: two bad bitches at the same damn time, indeed.

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)