sugar

there was no dramatic healing montage. no magical moment where you woke up and suddenly didn’t miss him anymore.

instead, it came in pieces. small pieces.

you stopped checking the answering machine every ten minutes. stopped wondering if every call was him. stopped rereading old journal entries until your eyes hurt. stopped sleeping in his old sweatshirt.

eventually you could hear his songs without crying. eventually. not immediately. and certainly not gracefully. there were setbacks. there were nights.

there were moments when grief snuck up on you in the middle of nowhere and knocked the breath out of your lungs. but slowly, painfully, you learned how to exist without him.

and then one day, when you weren’t looking for it, someone else walked into your life. his name was marcus. an a&r rep at motown.

tall.

smart.

ridiculously patient.

and absolutely nothing like michael.

which was exactly why you almost didn’t give him a chance. the first date nearly didn’t happen. the second almost didn’t either. because every time marcus did something kind, some ugly wounded part of you immediately waited for the catch.

waited for him to disappear. waited for him to choose someone else. waited for him to prove that your instincts had been right all along.

he never did.

if marcus said he’d call, he called. if he said he’d be there at seven, he arrived at six fifty-five. if he was busy, he communicated.

simple things.

normal things.

things that should’ve been ordinary. yet they felt revolutionary. sometimes that made you sad. because it revealed just how little consistency you’d accepted before.

marcus never made you feel like you had to earn his love. you weren’t in competition with anyone. he was yours. but something was missing.

he wasn’t michael.

the studio encounter happened on a random tuesday.

which somehow made it worse.

life-changing moments were supposed to happen on important days. birthdays. holidays. anniversaries. not random tuesdays.

yet there you were. sitting in the lobby of motown while marcus handled a quick emergency session upstairs.

“five minutes,” he promised.

you laughed, “that’s what you said twenty minutes ago.”

he grinned.

“this time i mean it.”

“liar.”

he bent down and kissed you quickly.

“five minutes.”

“okay.”

“seriously, baby.”

“marcus.”

“okay, okay.”

another kiss. then he disappeared toward the elevators.

you smiled despite yourself. shaking your head.

and that’s when the lobby doors opened.

your smile vanished. because suddenly michael jackson was standing ten feet away. and somehow, after a year, your heart still recognized him before your brain did.

he looked incredible. of course he did.

with his dark curls and his tailored black jacket. gold accents catching the light. he looked older somehow. well duh, because he was. but he looked more mature in a way.

sharper.

more confident.

yet heartbreakingly familiar.

his vitiligo had clearly worsened, but he was still so so beautiful. you wondered if he knew that.

for a second neither of you moved. you weren’t prepared. he wasn’t either. the shock on his face made that obvious.

his eyes widened. then softened. then widened again. like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“hey,” he said quietly.

your stomach flipped. damn him. even after everything.

he still had that same effect on you. the ability to make the whole room stop and make it feel like just the two of you.

“hey.”

his gaze traveled over your face carefully. taking inventory. you hated that you knew exactly what he was doing. he used to look at you that way all the time. like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“how’ve you been?”

“good,” you replied smiling politely.

good.

such a small word. yet it hit him like a punch, because you meant it. he could tell. you weren’t pretending and you weren’t trying to make him jealous. you actually looked happy. and that unsettled him immediately.

before either of you could continue, another voice interrupted.

“baby.” marcus called out to you.

michael froze as your boyfriend stepped out of the elevator, carrying a folder under one arm. already smiling. already reaching for you.

he wrapped an arm around your waist naturally. comfortably. like he’d done it a thousand times.

“ready?”

you nodded. “yeah.”

marcus finally noticed michael standing there.

“oh.”

you watched realization click. recognition, surprise, then understanding.

“michael.”

“marcus.”

the handshake that followed was polite. professional. but michael’s smile never reached his eyes. not once.

you were grateful that marcus wasn’t childish or immature about your previous relationship with michael. a fight was the last thing either party needed.

but for michael, suddenly everything made sense. you weren’t waiting for him anymore. you weren’t grieving him anymore. you weren’t secretly hoping he’d come back.

you had moved on.

actually moved on. and for the first time since losing you, michael was forced to see what that looked like.

it looked like another man’s hand resting comfortably against your lower back. another man making you laugh. another man being trusted with the parts of you michael had dropped.

“if was good seeing you,” you said.

and you meant it.

that somehow hurt him more. because you sounded sincere. not angry. not bitter. just…done.

the two of you walked away together. marcus holding the door open. you thanking him. the pair of you disappearing into the parking lot.

and michael stood there long after you’d left.

alone.

staring.

wondering how he had managed to lose the one person who had loved him so completely.

weeks had passed since then and somehow it got worse. because now he knew. you weren’t waiting. you weren’t coming back. you weren’t sitting around missing him.

you had built a life without him. and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

he thought about the way you smiled at marcus. the way you looked relaxed. safe. he thought about the way marcus touched you. not possessive. not insecure. certain.

as if he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

michael hated how jealous it made him. because technically he had no right. he knew that. you’d left. he’d hurt you. he’d failed you.

and yet—

some irrational part of him still wanted to be the person you looked at that way.

he heard marcus was leaving on a long tour with another group at the label that would last for at least a few months.

the information reached him accidentally. industry gossip. a casual conversation. nothing intentional. but once he knew, he couldn’t unknow it.

three days later flowers arrived at your apartment. white roses. your favorite.

you stared at them for almost ten minutes. then noticed the card. your heart immediately sank. because you knew before opening it.

i’m sorry. please forgive me. i miss you - xo, lovey

you closed your eyes.

“michael…”

the flowers sat on your kitchen counter all evening. mocking you and tempting you. infuriating you.

finally, around midnight, you grabbed the phone. determined. annoyed. ready to tell him exactly why he needed to stop. he answered immediately. like he’d been waiting by the phone all night.

“hello?”

your resolve weakened instantly. damn it.

“what are you doing, michael?”

silence.

then:

“i was wondering if you’d call.”

you sighed heavily.

“michael.”

your tone made him smile sadly. he could hear it. the frustration. the exhaustion. the history.

“you can’t keep doing this.” you told him.

“doing what?”

“showing up whenever you feel like it.”

silence.

long silence.

then quietly:

“i know.”

that wasn’t the response you expected. you paused.

“then why are you sending me flowers, michael?”

“because i love you,” his voice sounded tired. really tired.

suddenly you didn’t know what to say. because he wasn’t arguing. wasn’t defending himself. wasn’t making excuses.

for the first time ever, he sounded broken.

and that scared you. because you knew he didn’t have anyone. you were all he had. just you and bill.

the conversation stretched. five minutes became thirty. thirty became an hour. then somehow two. old rhythms returning despite yourselves.

you laughed once, then immediately hated yourself for it. he laughed too. soft and nostalgic. painful.

by three in the morning you were sitting cross-legged on your couch staring into darkness. exhausted. confused. emotionally raw.

“i should go to bed.”

silence.

“yeah, me too.”

neither of you moved. neither of you hung up.

“i miss you,” he said once again, quietly this time.

your eyes closed immediately. there it was. the thing hanging over the entire conversation.

“michael—”

“i do.” his voice cracked. “every day.”

your chest hurt.

“stop.”

“i can’t.”

the honesty startled both of you. another silence. then:

“let me come over.”

your stomach dropped. immediately. completely. utterly.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea, mike. you know marcus isn’t here-“

“baby, i don’t give a damn about marcus.”

“but i do, michael.”

“okay,” he said. “i’ll be respectful i promise. i just want to see you. i need to see you.”

your pulse started racing.

“please,” he begged.

your chest tightened. because a year later and his voice still did something to you. still reached places nobody else could. you hated that. you hated that you loved him enough for that to still be true.

“okay.” you said, wondering if you’d just made the biggest mistake in your life.

him coming over could cost you everything. all the months of healing. the work you’ve done to get over him. your healthy relationship with marcus.

all down the drain.

moments later, your feet carried you toward the window before your brain caught up. you moved the curtains slowly. carefully. and there he was. standing beneath a streetlamp, looking up at your apartment, at three o’clock in the morning.

your breath vanished. completely. gone. you couldn’t believe he actually came.

he spotted you looking down below and he smiled sadly. the same smile that used to make you weak. the same smile you’d spent a year trying to forget.

and suddenly every feeling you’d worked so hard to bury came rushing back at once.

every logical thought in your head screamed that you should. your boyfriend was on tour. you weren’t supposed to be standing here at three in the morning talking to the man who had broken your heart.

but logic had never been your strongest weapon where michael was concerned.

the knock came less than two minutes later.

two impossibly long minutes where you paced the length of your apartment, second-guessing every decision that had led you here.

by the time you reached the door, your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. you stared at the handle for a second. then another. then finally pulled it open.

michael stood on the other side. the glow from outside framed him perfectly.

he looked unfairly beautiful. he always had. a dark coat hung over his shoulders, curls falling across his forehead exactly the way you remembered. his eyes immediately found yours.

for a moment neither of you spoke.

the reality of seeing each other again after all this time seemed to hit both of you at once. his gaze moved slowly across your face.

“hi,” he said quietly.

his voice sounded smaller than it had over the phone. less guarded. more vulnerable.

you stepped aside.

“come in.”

he hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. you closed the door behind him. at three in the morning, your ex-boyfriend, michael jackson, stood in your apartment.

something about that felt absurd. surreal.

for a few moments he simply looked around. you stayed silent and let him. his eyes moved carefully over everything.

the bookshelf in the corner. the plants sitting near the window. the throw blankets folded across the couch. the framed artwork hanging on the walls. pieces of your life. a life you’d built without him.

he walked a few steps farther into the room. slowly. almost cautiously. like every object held information he wasn’t supposed to have. and then he saw it.

the photograph. you noticed the exact moment. his entire body stilled. it was a simple picture. nothing dramatic. just you and marcus, standing together at some industry event.

you both were smiling, his arm wrapped comfortably around your waist, and your head tilted toward his shoulder.

happy. comfortable. secure.

the sight of it seemed to physically wound michael. he stared at the frame for several seconds.

long enough that you looked away. because suddenly you felt guilty. which was ridiculous. you had nothing to feel guilty about. he was the one who let you go. he was the one who made you leave.

and yet seeing the hurt on his face still affected you.

finally he turned away from the picture. his jaw tightened briefly. then relaxed.

“he seems good to you.”

he didn’t speak with bitterness. which somehow made it worse. it was sincerity.

“he is.”

michael nodded. a slow, thoughtful nod. then after a moment he asked quietly,

“are you happy?”

the question hung between you. simple but not simple at all. because you knew what he was really asking.

are you happier without me?

did somebody else give you what i couldn’t?

did you survive losing me?

you looked down at the floor.

thinking carefully. because despite everything, you didn’t want to lie. not tonight. not anymore.

“yes.”

his eyes flickered.

you continued, “most days.”

the honesty seemed to surprise him.

“most days?”

“life isn’t perfect.” you shrugged slightly, a small smile touched your lips. “but yes, michael. i’m happy.”

your voice softened. and michael looked away toward the window. toward anything but you. you watched his throat move as he swallowed.

the answer clearly hurt. but he nodded anyway.

“that’s good.”

that somehow broke your heart a little because if the roles had been reversed, you weren’t sure you would’ve handled it so gracefully.

for a few moments silence settled over the room then michael laughed softly. the sound was humorless. more sad than amused.

“you know what’s crazy?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what?”

his eyes met yours. and suddenly he looked younger. not the superstar. not the icon. just michael. the boy you used to love. the boy you probably, maybe, absolutely, positively still loved.

“i spent so much time thinking about whether you’d forgive me…” his voice trailed off. “and i never stopped to think about what would happen if you moved on.”

your chest tightened. he looked toward the picture again. just briefly.

“i didn’t think i could be jealous.” his laugh returned. quieter this time. “turns out i was wrong.”

“michael…”

“no. let me say it.” his voice cracked slightly. “please.”

you fell silent and he exhaled slowly. like he’d been carrying these words for months. maybe he had.

“i missed you.”

your heart immediately started racing. you hated how quickly it responded. hated how easily he still affected you.

“i missed you every day. i missed talking to you. i missed hearing your laugh.”

his eyes remained fixed on the floor as he smiled faintly.

“i missed how you used to roll your eyes at me whenever i said something ridiculous.”

despite yourself, your lips twitched.

he noticed. of course he noticed. he always noticed.

“i missed the way you looked at me. and i missed the feeling of you missing me.”

“that sounds selfish.”

“it does.” a small laugh escaped him. his fingers rubbed together nervously. “but it’s true.”

his gaze finally lifted to yours.

“i got so used to knowing you loved me.”

the words hit harder than you expected.

“i got so used to knowing there was somebody out there thinking about me.” his voice softened. “somebody rooting for me. somebody who cared.”

and with that, your chest ached. because once upon a time that person had absolutely been you. without question. without hesitation.

“and then one day you were gone and i realized i’d taken all of that for granted.” his eyes glistened.

“i was stupid.”

you didn’t argue. because he was.

he laughed bitterly, shaking his head. he looked exhausted.

“i was so stupid.”

you sat motionless. watching him. listening. letting him finally say the things you’d wanted to hear a year ago.

the things that would’ve changed everything back then.

“i thought i had time.” his voice lowered. “i thought you’d always be there.”

you felt your stomach twist. because you’d heard that before. but hearing it in person somehow hurt more.

“i kept thinking i’d figure things out eventually. and by the time i realized what i was losing…” his voice cracked, “…you were gone.”

the room fell silent. you could hear your own heartbeat. hear the distant hum of traffic outside. hear michael breathing. then he looked directly at you.

and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. real tears.

“I would never make that mistake twice.”

your breath caught.

“I wouldn’t.” he shook his head immediately. firmly. like this was the one thing in life he was absolutely certain about.

“if i got another chance, i’d spend every day proving how much you matter.”

your throat tightened.

“michael—”

“i mean it.” his voice became stronger. more desperate “you have no idea how hard it was. after you left… it felt hard to breathe.”

something inside you snapped. instantly. a year’s worth of pain erupted before you could stop it. you stood so quickly the couch cushion shifted beneath you.

“hard for you to breathe, michael?”

your chest heaved. all the grief. all the loneliness. all the nights you’d spent crying into your pillow. all the unanswered questions. all the journal entries. all of it came flooding back.

“how do you think it was for me?!”

his face fell immediately.

“baby—”

“don’t.” your voice cracked. “don’t do that.”

tears burned behind your eyes.

“I don’t want to hear about how hard it was for you.”

michael looked devastated but you couldn’t stop now. not after holding it in for so long.

“you wanna talk about not being able to breathe? try loving somebody who keeps choosing somebody else.”

his eyes shut immediately. pain flashing across his face.

“try wondering every single day why you weren’t enough. your voice trembled. “try hearing somebody call another woman their real and true love while you’re sitting there loving them with everything you have.”

the tears finally escaped, sliding down your cheeks.

“do you know what that did to me?”

michael looked shattered. actually shattered, but for once you needed him to hear it. all of it.

“i spent months thinking there was something wrong with me.” your hand pressed against your chest. “months.”

your voice lowered.

“I kept wondering what she had that i didn’t.”

michael’s eyes filled instantly.

“nothing. baby, nothing. i swear to you…” his voice cracked violently. “nothing.”

you shook your head. angry now. hurt. you were so hurt by michael. you just had to ask. the one question every girl in their 20’s wonder:

“then why wasn’t i enough for you, michael?”

silence. absolute silence. because that was the question. the real question. the one buried beneath everything else.

michael stared at you. tears sliding down his face now. and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“you were.”

you laughed bitterly.

“clearly not.”

“you were.”

he stood again. slowly. carefully. like approaching a wounded animal. his eyes never left yours.

“you were enough.”

another tear slipped free.

“i just wasn’t ready.”

the confession landed like a punch. because somehow that answer hurt almost more than the alternative. not because you weren’t enough. because he knew you were. and still lost you anyway.

“i didn’t know how to love you the way you deserve to be loved. i was your michael, your lovey, your sweet boy. never in my life have i had someone love me in the same capacity as you. you know how i grew up. i was scared. scared of failing. scared of not being enough for you, my love.”

he took your hand into his.

“so please, don’t say such ridiculous things anymore. that was never the case.”

michael stood completely still. his eyes were red. his face wet with tears he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

and for the first time since you’d known him, he looked completely stripped bare. no walls. no defenses. no carefully chosen words. just honesty.

raw and painful.

the question still lingered between you.

why wasn’t i enough?

and his answer sat heavy in the room.

you were. i just wasn’t ready.

you stared at him. really stared at him. at the guilt carved into every line of his face. at the regret. at the sadness. and suddenly, something inside you softened.

not because what happened didn’t hurt. not because it didn’t matter. it did. it always would but you were tired. tired of carrying it. tired of reliving it. tired of bleeding from wounds that had already healed.

slowly, you wiped your face.

michael watched every movement. carefully. like he was afraid you might disappear.

“michael, i forgive you.”

the words were quiet. but they hit him harder than anything else you’d said all night. his breath caught. completely. his eyes widened.

“what?”

you gave a small, sad smile.

“i forgive you.”

he stared, unable to believe it.

you shook your head gently.

“i forgave you a long time ago.”

a tear rolled down his cheek. then another. and another. he looked completely shattered.

your own eyes watered again.

“holding onto all that anger was exhausting. i didn’t want to be mad at you anymore. i still don’t.”

michael looked down. his shoulders trembling slightly. you could see him fighting for composure. failing.

“I don’t deserve that.”

his voice cracked badly.

“I know.”

a surprised laugh escaped him and you smiled. small. genuine.

“I didn’t say you deserved it.”

that earned a weak chuckle. the first real laugh either of you had shared all night. then silence settled again. comfortable this time. different and lighter.

you both stood. neither of you quite knowing what to do with yourselves. what to do with a year’s worth of grief suddenly laid bare between you.

and then he opened his arms. hesitantly. carefully.

“can i hug you?” he said, asking rather than assuming.

your heart squeezed. because once upon a time you would’ve run to him without thinking. now there was history. hurt. distance. choice.

but there was also love.

so much love.

you stepped forward. and michael wrapped his arms around you. immediately. completely. like he’d been starving.

his face buried against your shoulder. his grip tightened. and for several long seconds neither of you moved. he smelled the same. that familiar cologne. that familiar warmth.

for one brief moment it felt like no time had passed at all. then you felt him exhale shakily. the kind of breath someone takes after carrying something heavy for far too long.

“i missed you,” he whispered.

you closed your eyes.

“I know.”

another pause. another squeeze. then finally he pulled away. reluctantly. looking at you one last time. memorizing you.

again.

“goodnight, beautiful.”

“goodnight, michael.” you replied, saying his name once more for the fifty millionth time that night.

he smiled softly and left.

the next morning felt different.

not magical. not perfect. just different. for the first time in a very long time, your chest didn’t feel heavy.

you sat alone at your kitchen table with a mug of coffee growing cold between your hands while sunlight spilled through the windows.

the conversation with michael replayed over and over again in your mind.

every word. every look. every confession. every tear.

you’d spent so much time imagining what it would be like if he ever came back. what you’d say, what he’d say, how you’d react. but somehow none of your imagined scenarios compared to the reality of seeing him standing in your apartment looking completely devastated.

completely human.

for years you’d convinced yourself that michael had simply moved on. that he hadn’t cared. that losing you hadn’t affected him the way losing him affected you and last night destroyed that illusion.

but now there was another truth staring you directly in the face. you still loved him. you had tried not to. god knows you tried.

you’d done everything right. you’d healed. you’d moved forward. you’d opened your heart to someone else. you’d built a life.

but underneath all of that, there had always been michael.

quietly existing in a corner of your heart you’d never quite been able to reach. and that wasn’t fair to marcus.

the realization sat heavily with you all morning. because marcus had never done anything wrong. he’d been patient and kind and consistent. everything you’d once begged for. yet every time you imagined your future for the last three hundred and sixty five days, there was still another face you saw.

another laugh you heard. another pair of eyes you searched for in crowded rooms.

your phone rang.

marcus.

you stared at the phone. your stomach twisting. then answered.

“hey.”

his voice immediately brightened.

“there she is.”

your eyes closed. god. this sucked.

he spent several minutes talking about tour preparations. about travel schedules. about hotel bookings. about everything and nothing.

you listened quietly. eventually your throat tightened. you had to tell him.

“marcus.”

he stopped talking.

“yes?”

you stared down at the table.

“i need to tell you something.”

the silence that followed felt impossibly long. when he finally spoke again, his voice had softened.

“okay.”

you swallowed. hard.

“you’re one of the best men i’ve ever met.”

another pause. then a quiet sigh. and suddenly he knew. you could hear it. he already knew.

“hey, its okay.”

your eyes immediately filled with tears. because there was no point lying.

“i’m so sorry, marcus.”

silence. then another sigh. longer this time. sadder. you pressed your hand against your forehead.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know.”

his voice was gentle. still gentle. even now.

“I tried.” you laughed weakly through tears. “i really tried.”

“i know.”

that somehow made you even sadder. because he wasn’t angry. he wasn’t yelling. he wasn’t accusing you of anything.

he was simply accepting a truth he’d probably seen long before you had.

another long silence followed. then marcus laughed softly. not because anything was funny. but because heartbreak sometimes sounded like laughter,

“I figured this would happen sooner or later. but i at least thought i had more time with you first.”

your chest tightened.

“when?”

“probably six months ago.”

you groaned. covering your face.

“marcus.”

“I’m serious.” his voice carried a sad smile.

“you cared for me in one of the darkest times in my life, and i thank you so much for that-“

“-but you love him.”

you couldn’t even deny it. because he was right.

the two of you continued to chat then you said goodbye nearly twenty minutes later. and when the call finally ended, you sat there staring at the wall. mourning what could’ve been.

mourning a good man who deserved someone capable of loving him completely.

then eventually you stood. grabbed your keys. and left.

the drive to michael’s house felt surreal.

your heart spent the entire trip trying to escape your chest. every red light felt personal. every stop sign felt unnecessary. by the time you pulled into the driveway your hands were shaking.

you almost left.

seriously.

you sat in the car for nearly five minutes staring at the front door. thinking. rethinking. overthinking.

what if you were making a mistake?

what if nothing had actually changed?

what if you got hurt again?

the questions kept coming. one after another. but then you remembered michael’s face last night. the tears and the regret.

the way his voice broke when he admitted he’d taken you for granted.

and suddenly you couldn’t sit there anymore. you got out, walked to the door, and rang the bell.

once.

twice.

then waited.

your pulse thundered in your ears. footsteps approached. the lock clicked. and the door opened.

michael appeared looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. plain white t-shirt. barefoot. his hair completely messy.

you nearly laughed.

for a second he simply blinked at you. confused. trying to process what he was seeing. because the last person he expected standing outside his front door was you.

“baby?”

the nickname slipped out automatically. instinctively. his eyes widened immediately afterward. like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to call you that anymore.

“what are you doing here?”

you stared at him. taking him in. really taking him in. the sleepy expression. the surprise. the hope already beginning to form behind his eyes.

and suddenly every doubt disappeared. all of it. gone.

you stepped forward.

grabbed the front of his shirt.

and kissed him.

michael froze. completely. for half a second. then melted. absolutely melted.

a breath escaped him. half laugh. half gasp. his hands immediately found your waist. pulling you closer.

closer.

like he’d spent an entire year dreaming about this exact moment. his forehead bumped yours briefly before he kissed you back.

soft at first. careful. almost disbelieving. like he was afraid you’d disappear.

your fingers slid into his curls and the sound that left him nearly broke your heart.

because it sounded relieved. truly relieved. the kind of relief that came after carrying pain for far too long.

eventually you pulled apart. both breathing harder. both smiling. both staring. neither quite believing this was real.

michael’s hands never left your waist.

not once.

his eyes moved across your face. memorizing every inch. the way they always had. and suddenly he laughed.

a genuine laugh.

bright. warm. happy.

the first truly happy laugh you’d heard from him in years.

“you’re really here.”

you smiled.

“I’m really here.”

his eyes immediately watered. and that smile somehow grew even bigger. more beautiful. more boyish.

more michael.

he rested his forehead against yours. closing his eyes. holding you close enough to feel your heartbeat.

for several moments neither of you spoke. neither of you needed to. because after all the years. all the mistakes.all the grief. all the longing. you’d finally found your way back to each other.

when michael finally opened his eyes again, they were shining.

filled with affection.

filled with relief.

filled with love.

his thumb brushed softly against your cheek.

you whispered with a smile so tender it nearly made his knees weak,

“oh how i’ve missed you, lovey.”

and for the first time in a very long time, you both smiled without sadness attached to it.

i believe this is the appropriate tag list, forgive me if i’m wrong!

Downstairs, somebody walked through the hallway laughing loudly before another voice shushed them. Both of you instinctively lowered your voices even further.

Michael pushed himself off the dresser and crossed the room slowly. “You know why I agreed to the tour.”

“You told me you weren’t doing it.”

“I know.”

“No, Michael.” You looked at him finally now, anger flashing behind your eyes. “You promised me you were finally gonna stand up to your father.”

His jaw tightened almost invisibly.

“That’s not fair.”

“It is fair.”

He looked away briefly, clearly fighting irritation already simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You think it was easy for me to say yes to this?”

“I think you folded the second he pushed you.”

Michael’s expression changed instantly. Not explosive anger but something quieter; hurt mixed with pride.

“You don’t know what that’s like.”

“I know you came home and told me you were done letting him control your life.” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. “You said this album was yours. Your success. Your choices.”

“It is mine.”

“Then why’re you letting him drag you back into another tour you don’t even want?”

Michael exhaled slowly and turned away from you for a moment, pacing toward the window. The city lights outside painted silver along the side of his face.

“Because it ain’t just about me,” he said quietly. “It’s my brothers too.”

You shook your head immediately. “And there it is.. every single time..”

He turned back around sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everybody gets a piece of you before I ever do.”

The room went still, and Michael stared at you, genuinely caught off guard by the sadness in your voice.

“You know what?” you continued quietly, trying not to cry because his family was right downstairs and humiliation felt unbearable enough already. “I’m tired of competing with everybody else in your life.”

“Mama..”

“No, listen to me.” You stood now too, lowering your voice further when it threatened to rise. “You’re either rehearsing, recording, traveling, hiding in studios for twelve hours straight, or dealing with your family. And every time I ask for more than scraps of your attention, suddenly I’m asking too much.”

Michael’s brows pulled together. “That’s not true.”

“You canceled on me eight times this month.”

“I was working.”

“You’re always working.”

His irritation flickered more visibly now. “You think I got a choice?”

“Yes,” you snapped softly. “I do.”

That silence afterward felt immediate and heavy.

Michael looked at you for a long moment, chest rising slowly beneath the thin white shirt. Usually he knew exactly what to say. Usually he could smooth tension over with charm so naturally it felt effortless.

Tonight he looked tired.

Really tired..

“You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “You think I wanted this tour?”

“I think you say no to me easier than you say no to anybody else.”

His face shifted at that.

The irritation faded instantly into something more wounded.

“That ain’t true.”

“It feels true.”

Michael looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless and exhausted. “Every time I try to make everybody happy, I end up disappointing somebody anyway.”

Your anger cracked slightly hearing how defeated he sounded, but you were too hurt to stop now.

“You told me you were finally putting your foot down with your father.” Your eyes burned. “Do you know how proud I was of you for that?”

Michael swallowed hard.

“And then suddenly you’re doing the tour anyway.”

He ran a hand over his face tiredly before sitting down heavily at the edge of the bed. “He cornered me, alright?” he admitted quietly. “He kept pushin’ and pushin’ about the brothers, about the fans, about money…” He shook his head. “And I got tired.”

You stared at him silently.

Michael looked up at you then, eyes softer now. Vulnerable in a way he hated being.

“I spend my whole life fighting people, Mama.”

The nickname came gentler this time. Less teasing. More pleading.

“And sometimes…” He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Sometimes I just wanna stop fighting for one minute.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

But the hurt still lingered.

“You could at least fight for me a little harder.”

That nearly broke him.

Michael went completely still before looking down at his hands in his lap. For a second, he looked young. Not the biggest star in the world. Not the man everybody demanded pieces from constantly. Just a tired twenty-something trying desperately to hold too many people together at once.

“I am fighting for you,” he said quietly.

You crossed your arms tighter. “How, Michael?”

His eyes lifted back to yours immediately.

“Because no matter how crazy my life gets,” he said softly, “you’re still the place I wanna come home to.”

The sincerity in his voice made your anger wobble dangerously.

Michael stood again slowly and walked toward you until he was close enough for you to smell his soap and the faint lingering scent of studio sweat beneath it.

“I know I’ve been gone too much,” he admitted. “I know I keep making promises and then work steals me away again.” His gaze dropped briefly before finding yours again. “But don’t stand here thinkin’ that means I love you less.”

Your eyes burned harder instantly.

“You make it really difficult not to.”

He winced.

Then quieter now, with the faintest trace of irritation finally slipping through his composure, he muttered, “You act like I’m choosing this.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.” His voice stayed soft, but firmer now. “I’m trying to survive.” Michael stepped even closer then, close enough his hands hovered near your waist without touching yet.

“You know what scares me?” he asked quietly. “That one day you’re gonna get tired of all this before I figure out how to balance it.”

You looked away immediately because the thought had already crossed your mind more than once.

Michael noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His face fell slightly before he finally reached for you, fingertips brushing your arms carefully like he wasn’t sure he’d earned the right.

“(Name), look at me..” he whispered. “Don’t leave me alone in this.. please.”

Everywhere he went, a rumour followed him. At this rate, he might be the most talked about person in the world. From old ladies clutching their pearls in the streets when he walked by, to little kids crying and dropping their ice cream cones whenever he tried to smile at them (little twerps…) everyone knew who Eddie ‘the …whatever-the-fuck-it-was-this-week’ Munson was.

Even though the rumour mill would come to a stop some time around summer break, it was never truly quiet. A cruel look, a snappy remark, a drink “accidentally” spilled on his shoes: Eddie knew that these people never saw him as an equal.

Subconsciously, he started to avoid it all. He started dreading going outside in the summertime, started making excuses of working on his van all day to his uncle, and it worked, he felt more comfortable, until he didn’t. He started to feel paranoid to go into the city, fearing angry people with pitchforks and torches (it seemed silly until he had a hyper-realistic nightmare about it, suddenly nothing was funny). His sleep schedule got so messed up he would stay up until the early hours of the morning high off his mind before dozing off for a few hours at the kitchen table, only waking up when Wayne shut the door loudly enough.

It was becoming a problem, he was a walking corpse, he felt like one too. He needed to do something before his brain started to atrophy and became all smooth and he lost all his taste and started listening to some yucky mainstream music… eugh….

That’s why he started going on walks at night, just outside the trailer park to try to coax himself back into leaving the trailer like the brave functioning member of society he was.

It started small, he thought of it one oddly warm night in the end of june. He was sitting on the steps of the trailer, quietly enjoying his private romantic time with his joint and letting the calm and accepting high overtake him. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there before he decided to get up and stretch his legs a little, a little walk never hurt anyone.

Eddie didn’t even notice that he was walking along the quiet road, drawn to an unusual smell: something close to food grease and stale coffee, yum.

When he finally made it to what happened to be a roadside 24 hour diner he felt like he was in heaven. The inside of it looked heavenly: the lights dim, but not too dim, only one worker, and no patrons inside. God bless 2:30 am.

The smell inside was almost overwhelming: coffee, pie, grease. Everything a high man could want.

He plopped down into one of the booths, almost sliding off the leather bench. Eddie wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there, but it felt like the greatest eternity of his life. Only the approaching sound of boots against tile brought him out of his trance.

“-So are you going to get anything or just sit there and look pretty?” The girl in uniform asked as she tapped her pen against her notepad.

His mouth suddenly felt too dry, it didn’t help that his jaw was almost on the floor.

-

You weren’t exactly excited when your parents announced that you would be staying with your aunt and uncle in Hawkins for the summer. They tried to excite you with the news that you would have a job at their diner and that it was truly a cozy town if you overlooked it’s flaws.

“-just don’t try any strange pills and stuff that strangers try to give you, alright? You’re under our care, got it?” Hour two of a long long summer and your uncle was already reinventing the bicycle.

“Yes.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“Hey- I’m serious, we have our own drug dealer in town, he’s about your age, long hair, crazy eyes… That Eddie Munson fella is no good… No good I tell you!” You weren’t sure if uncle Martin was talking to you or just ranting to himself anymore.

“Honey, he worships the Devil… you have to come to church with us… just to be safe.” Your aunt turned to face you from the passenger seat, deeply serious.

“…Devil..?” You repeated. If it wasn’t for your love for the occult you would’ve filtered that whole conversation out and continued to stare out of the window, watching the trees pass by.

…what was his name again?

-

You were still looking at him, not even expecting an answer from the red and droopy eyed individual who decided to show up just before spooky hour. You were in uniform, even though barely any people came in at this time (the average amount of customers reached a whopping 0,7 per hour!), your hair was put up into a ponytail and your uneven bangs were pinned back with Bobby pins, your nail polish was chipped and nothing about you was perfect or arranged, especially at this hour.

But Eddie was still looking at you like you were an Angel sent down from the skies. He has never ever seen you in the god forsaken town by the name of Hawkins, Indiana.

“I’m Eddie” he finally managed to say, to which you almost laughed, it was wayyyy too late for this.

Eddie…Ed… Edward…… where have you heard that name before?

“Thats amazing bud.” You tapped your name tag twice, bringing his attention to your name, he muttered it under his nose before you continued. “Anything you’d like? Worst coffee in town, but I’m sure you’d like it.”

He swallowed before answering

“Sounds great, yeah… how about a piece of pie with that?” you nodded, marking it down on your notepad.

Eddie… long hair… where have you heard something about that…

It only dawned on you when you were plating the pie for him.

Eddie Munson. Drug dealer, devil worshiper.

Maybe God was real, he even seemed to be on your side today.

“…sooo… Do you really worship the devil? …Like actually?” You placed his plate down of the table with a loud clang, effectively bringing his head out of the clouds.

“what? Huh? No- I- never! Never even heard of- what??” Eddie was stumped. He had never seen you before in his life, yet, you knew at least one of the many rumours about him.

“…bummer.” You mumbled before turning around on your heel to go back to the counter.

Of course it was too good to be true! No man you’ve ever met has actually been into the same things you’ve been into. Every time you try to explain your interests to guys you’re met with weird looks like you’re in the wrong for having hobbies. Geez… can’t a girl dwell on some casual spirituality once in a while?

“Wait- bummer? You’re disappointed that I’m not a devil worshiper..?” Well that was a first for Eddie… No girl has ever been evidently disappointed that he didn’t worship the devil.

“…well yeah… it’s boring, everyone’s a bunch a posers always acting like they know what satanism is while they think that it’s all sacrificing goats and demon possessions… It’s so much more than that…” You came back and sat down in front of him.

“Oh you’re really not from around here, if you shared some of those thoughts here sweet grandma Betty would have an aneurysm and call up a priest.” That got a laugh from you, he suddenly didn’t mind becoming a devil worshiper if that’s what you wanted him to be.

“Trust me, I know, three people wrote ‘Jesus loves you’ on napkins and left it for me, and that was just tonight.” He scoffed, shaking his head.

Talking came easy after that. You shared how you were just here for the summer, he told you he was in a band and invited you to come see one of his shows. You accepted and offered to drive him home after your shift was over, he declined as it was a shorter distance to walk.

He left shortly after, what a short lived friendship…

…Is what you thought until you started cleaning up and found a napkin on the table he was sitting at.

‘Jesus the devil loves you :) -Eddie’

His number was scribbled down below. God bless Hawkins, Indiana

“Throw it out, Ijichi.” Gojo snarled, tapping his long tobacco stick against the low table. The kiseru was made of polished bamboo, its sleek body donning the silver emblem of the Gojo clan—it had been scratched out. It gleamed like a blade.

The heir to the Gojo clan - at least in name - had his back turned to his audience. Soft morning sunlight filtered through silk curtains and illuminated his strong figure, draped in Gojo-blue. It was almost against everyone’s will, including his own, that he had grown tall. Broad. Traditional woodblock prints. Sandalwood incense from the local temple. Books upon books of high literature surrounding him. He’d read them over hundreds of times. 

Seated upon a plush blue zabuton cushion with silver threading; he was surrounded by opulence and even more loneliness. Most days, Gojo sipped his time away with that damn bamboo stick and his books—training and convening with others had long been banned since it became obvious that the heir had no talent in cursed energy. Which wasn’t supposed to be- he was supposed to be The Strongest. He was supposed to be…something else. Someone else. So they hid him away.

They forgot about him. 

Out of sight, out of mind. Right? 

Except for Ijichi Kiyotaka, the one resident at the Gojo Estate that knew the enigmatic Gojo son beyond just whispers and the occasional flash of white hair ‘round hallway corners. Disappearing quicker than one catches it.

The envelope crumples in Ijichi’s hands as he speaks, “But master-”

“Do not call me that.” His voice isn’t too loud. And yet, it cuts through the attendant’s voice with its simple simper—“What have I told you, Ijichi?”

“M-my apologies…Gojo-san.” 

Gojo had his head semi-turned over his shoulder. And from that brief profile, Ijichi sees that even that title manages to make the other man’s lip curl—though he doesn’t say anything more. He merely turns back to his tobacco as the bespectacled man starts to blubber once more. 

“I-I just meant to say…” Tone wavering. Tone beseeching. He’s shuffling forward on both knees with the envelope held out, “-that this might be something of interest, ma- Gojo-san.”

“What? A marriage proposal?” Gojo scorns after a deep exhale. The tobacco at the end of his pipe still remains inflamed when he sets it down on the table, and finally turns properly towards his attendant. His only. Gojo isn’t so presumptuous as to call him his only friend- but sometimes he can’t help but feel that way. Steely blue eyes narrow. “Does it look like I have the patience to entertain what is so-obviously a joke, Ijichi?”

“But—” Ijichi can’t help but stir. “You’ve been leaving this proposal without reply for four days, Gojo-san. And it seems that in that time, they’ve contacted the Estate five times just to make sure it was delivered.”

He raises a ghost-pale brow, “Then it seems they don’t know I’m without cursed energy.”

Ijichi squirms uncomfortably. He pushes his glasses up, “I-it seems that in that time, the council of elders had taken…liberties to inform them of this circumstance.”

Gojo takes his tobacco and taps it impatiently on the table. “And?” He runs a hand through his hair—what else could he have expected from them? Fucking bastards. 

To his surprise, Ijichi ducks his head down ever-so-slightly. And though the Gojo heir might not have those special eyes that deemed him as part of the family - he could still see that the other man seemed to be hiding a faint smile. “And…it seems they were still interested, Gojo-san.”

There’s a pause.

Gojo takes another deep inhale.

“Is that so…?” His words were low and lazy—but Ijichi could see right through them. He could discern that faint furrow between his master’s brows as he mulled over the thought, let it twist and turn and take over his mind. Everyone he knew didn’t spare him a second glance at him once they found out about his predicament. 

They would fawn over him and his blue eyes during those stuffy social functions he was dragged to as a child - back when the elders still seemed to think he had a chance of his cursed energy showing up as he grew - and then ‘discreetly’ be pulled aside by some attendant or the other to be…told. ‘Normal eyes’ was what he commonly heard. Then they’d avert their eyes from him all night.

It took him some years before he understood why, and then he’d started refusing to join these functions. After that, they stopped asking. 

Visitors from far-off lands would bring him gifts and candies whenever they visited the Estate on official business; and he’d stand outside the meeting hall as they requested to see the ‘little one’. Only to be told by his very parents that there was nothing to see - he had no cursed energy. There was nothing impressive about him. 

He never saw a single one of those candies.

The dojos of the Gojo Estate would be in an uproar morning after morning; and once - just once as a child - he had asked to join. The head instructor had shared a pitying gaze with his top student, and Gojo had sprinted out of the place before they could utter a single word. They can keep their pity—he didn’t need a single one of them.

He didn’t need anyone.

Not the tutors, nor the attendants, nor the kids of those higher-ups that all looked at him with pity in their eyes- that’s part of why he latched onto Ijichi and made him his only attendant. 

He never did so.

That, and Gojo liked his glasses. 

Wherever news of Gojo’s lack of power spread, it became infected like a disease.

Which is why he couldn’t understand you. 

“Gojo-san?” Ijichi’s tentative voice breaks through his torrent of thoughts, and Gojo’s still slightly dazed as he looks up at the other man - how long had he been silent? Shaking off whatever had come over him - it’s not quite like him to reminisce - he stands and walks to one of the open doors—facing a private section of the Gojo gardens. Butterflies flicked from flower to flower, and trees swayed serendipitously in the winds. He watches one of those multi-colored wings flap to foxglove and then off into the sky. Watching such a sight, he couldn’t help but feel so small.

The Gojo Estate was beautiful, but deadly. 

And so were those with its name. 

“Write them a response apologizing for taking so long.” Gojo keeps staring out at the summer day as he speaks, and the other man jolts to attention. “And tell them…” He wasn’t sure who he was waiting for: Ijichi who was noting this down, or himself. He swallows and clasps his hands behind his back—“Tell them that I accept.”

He has always hated feeling small. 

“Let’s see how they truly like The Strongest.”

.

.

.

The elders were prepping and poking at him like some dessert the next evening.

News of his acceptance had spread like wildfire. 

And before he knew it, they were rubbing his skin red and raw - until milk-water seeped into his every pore. Dousing him in clouds of perfume. Painting his plump lips just the faintest cherry-red—just enough to be enticing, or so they said. Smoothing down the invisible creases on his expensive cotton hakama; threaded cranes and reeds took flight from their hem, the silver emblem of the Gojo clam burned deeply into his back. He couldn’t find much of a difference between this and a dog collar. Play nice. Don’t bite. 

Do tricks for the pretty lady. 

Or so he assumed he would have to. 

At some point, he wondered whether they were oh-so-fervently preparing him in the hopes of getting rid of him. And his hypothesis was only exacerbated when those elders caught each others’ eyes and smiled as they were bidding him farewell. “Make our family proud.” His father had told him.

Farewell. Farewell.

The towering, palace-like gates of the Gojo Estate grew smaller behind him, and he determined that even if he wasn’t getting picked - he was never coming back. 

And so he was here.

Gojo was escaping one Estate and being led straight into another; grander, more gilded. The prestige radiated off of it in waves and made his stomach turn to knots as he was led inside - Ijichi by his side - past winding hallways and antiques displayed, then singled out and told to sit in the meeting chamber amongst a row of handsome men. Ijichi nods reassuringly at him and steps outside. 

Gojo’s sighing greatly before sitting at the very end of the row - attempting to twist his legs into the poised positions that the others were taking on top of the tatami. There were about twenty of them; backs straight, legs tucked, proudly dressed in robes with their family names. They stood out in their multi-color robes and reminded Gojo of old-fashioned puppets. And even among these handsome men they were attempting to out-handsome one another.

It was almost pathetic- really. 

As they wait for you to arrive, your suitors would jut their heads out and take a good look at the competition—then if they assess that one seemed to be giving them too much of a run for their money, they’re primping their hair n’ polishing off their jewels. The Gojo Estate had given him none - probably didn’t trust him with them. 

He feels a laugh bubbling up in his throat as, one by one, they snuck glances at him and sat just a little taller. And yet, they couldn’t meet his height.

That didn’t matter, however.

In this society, all that mattered were one’s powers - and should one not have strong powers, then it’s the connections. Gojo had none. 

Ah, to get this over with…

Soon, footsteps resound and the sliding doors rattle. Gojo gets the urge to look up as they open, but he’s tampering down the temptation and keeping his eyes fixated on the ground as he always does. It came as second nature to him. Next to him, he feels the other candidates stiffen and do the same. 

“The Madam enters.” Wheezes out a male voice, old and reverent. 

There’s another step as someone - presumably you - steps inside the meeting hall, and then they’re all placing their hands in front of them and bowing. Bending in unison at the waist. It wasn’t common to bow to someone he knew was just a year or two younger—but you were already the Madam of your clan, and they were mere heirs after all.

Him, not even that.

“At ease, please.” Your sweet, sweet voice echoes out and sends goosebumps skittering across his skin. Gojo’s not sure what he expected - but this…”Thank you for coming. Your presence shall be rewarded plentifully.”

“We’re grateful, Madam.”

“W-we’re grateful, Madam…” Gojo follows up belatedly. His pulse quickens. His thighs squeeze. He feels stares hone in on him at that exact moment, and he’s sure that one of them was yours.

Gojo attempts to press himself down on the tatami even deeper- to fold himself in half and make himself invisible. His eyes widen and the smooth woven surface stares up at him. His palms sweat where they were clenched. It’s not that he cared about what anyone here would think of him - but if he were to get out of here and escape, then drawing any attention to himself doesn’t help. 

His heartbeat thunders in his chest—ba-dump! 

But you don’t single him out. And Gojo’s unsure whether or not to breathe out a sigh of relief once he hears what seems to be a soft chuckle coming from your direction—he can’t risk it twice.

And after a beat, Gojo hears your footsteps start to make their way down from the other end of the row. Step after step. Stare after stare. Second after second, he assumes you’re taking your time assessing each candidate before moving onto the next. And behind your nearly-soundless steps were your gaggle of elders- “This is a descendent of the Kamo clan—” They’re not quite whispering to you, “Very powerful. Very respectable family.”

“I see.” You say, and you’re walking past the Kamo descendent.

“O-oh and this one…the Fujiwara clan. Not the wealthiest but-”

You hold a hand up, “Yes, thank you.”

“Zenin Nao-”

“Not at all.”

Whoever that was - Gojo’s heard of the Zenin clan in bits and pieces through the walls of meeting chambers he wasn’t let into - withers in his bow. Whatever he’s heard of the man hadn’t been favorable in the first place, so he has to bite his lip to hold back a faint chuckle—so caught up in the action that he nearly doesn’t notice the shadow padding over to him. He nearly doesn’t notice that you’ve walked right up to him. 

It’s the elders that get his attention before you do.

“Ah- and this is the…” Gojo doesn’t need to strain his ears to hear what they’re saying about him. He’s heard it time and time again: that slight hitch in their tone, the way they bring up a hand to cover their mouths but still look at him. “The heir to the Gojo clan.” Spat like a curse.

“The hair gave it away.” There’s none of that derision in your tone. “How beautiful.”

A shiver runs down Gojo’s spine.

And it’s not long before yet another one of your council members is tugging at your sleeves, “Madam, this is the…”

Another speaks up- “The note that was delivered—”

“That forgotten son.” And another.

“Silence.” 

You’re saying it so serenely, and yet it manages to get every single damn one of them to shut up. Every single one of them—that were hungry and clamoring for your attention; frothing at the mouth to reveal his open secret. If only it was so easy for him. The silence stretches terribly, until the tension was so thick that it was hard for him to breathe. 

And before he knows it, Gojo’s feeling a soft hand touch his shoulder. 

Lightness fills him. Just ephemeral and fleeting. 

And your voice speaks out in a much warmer tone, “Please. At ease.” 

Something seems to uncoil inside him as he straightens- why he was following your every word, he has no idea. But soon enough, he’s back in his resting position and looking down the row of other candidates that ogled him. 

You chuckle kindly once more, “The others have long since been sitting. You may go easier on yourself.” Through his peripheral vision, he senses you crouching down in front of you.

And so he’s finally looking up—

Now, Gojo Satoru could describe your features, or your clothes, or the color of your eyes- or even the degree of your smile. He looks back on this moment - not even in the far future, mere split-seconds later - and thinks he could pinpoint the exact angle that the light flooding into the chamber struck the side of your face. But the only thing he registers right now is that if heaven were real, then this might just be the place. And he’d run straight into its awaiting arms-

Your awaiting arms. 

Then as quickly as that flare of madness appeared, he’s shaking his head. Trying to clear his mind - whilst you wear a look of slight bemusement on your face as if you could read his thoughts.

Gojo’s just able to pull himself together and flicker his sapphire eyes open—when you’re standing up and addressing them all. Speaking loud and clear- “I have chosen.” 

Cold water douses him- or at least feels like it. And the other candidates in your row of suitors shiver like they were experiencing something similar.

One of the elders shifts his gaze nervously between him and you, “Y-you have chosen, Madam?” 

Another one clasps his hands in delight and beams, “As per my recommendation- the Kamo boy, Madam?”

“No no—it should be the Abe boy.”

“The-”

One hand raised to signal silence. You’re running your serious stare down the row of men that sat rigidly awaiting your decree.

Each one blenches a little as it reaches them, as though it sent bolts of electricity through them.

Eventually, they’re stopping on him. 

On Gojo Satoru.

And he meets your gaze shyly- with bated breath.

“It’s him.” The calmness before the storm. “I choose him.” Before the chamber seems to explode into the indignant noises of the other candidates, the pleas and coos of elders attempting to stop you from making any rash decisions. The air seems to still. The pipes seem to burst. Outside, it’s evident that some of the house staff had been peering through the cracked-open door and eavesdropping on the ceremony- and their surprised squawks add to the cacophony.

And in the middle of the noise - the center of attention - you and Gojo share a look in silence.

Your hand raises once more. 

“Silence. I will not repeat it.” A slight hardening in your tone. It’s there to remind them all that you are the clan leader, after all; amongst the youngest to be handed the mantle, amongst the most successful to make your Estate surge in social and economic standing. “He is to be my husband—” Turning to look at him. “-if he so wishes it.”

And you had chosen him to be your husband.

There’s a terse silence- and everyone turns their heads towards Gojo before he realizes that they were waiting for his answer. Most of the other men glower at him as if to say he was stupid if he messed this up-

“Y-yes.” Nodding unsteadily. It seems like the kind of thing that he’d have to ponder over - but it comes to him as though his mind had already been made up, without him knowing. “Yes.” Yes, he was sure. 

“Yes, Madam.” The guy next to him hisses.

One of your head council members all but begs at your feet, “B-but master, he has no cursed energy…”

“Elder, must I repeat myself once more?” It seems like an off-hand question—almost jovial. But clearly the elder knows better than to push, and he’s shrivelling back up once more.

With a wave of your hand, you’re dismissing them. “And so if that is all, the other candidates shall have to forgive me- but I wish to spend some time getting to know my future husband. I hope you understand. Refreshments will be available in the East gardens.” As they start to exchange glances and stand, you turn to your balking elders—“And that goes for you, too, dear elders.”

They stir.

They look at each other- as if for confirmation.

Before one nudges the other - and they can do nothing but walk. Walk away with a mere glance—past the ogling house staff, following the murmuring young men. 

Despite how much your attendants try to take a peek at him- the sliding doors shut. 

Rattling; those trundling vibrations soak into the walls and reach all the way down to Gojo’s toes. Making them curl as you sit in front of him: close enough that his heart thunders, far enough that you wouldn’t be able to hear it. Though by the look on your face, he almost has his doubts…

“So…” You’re placing your face in your hands and taking a good look at him. “Something tells me you’re not one for small talk?”

“Why have you chosen me?” He jerks his peripherals to meet yours, and stares at you squarely. “They were right- you know—” Gojo gestures at the doors behind you, “I don’t have any cursed energy.”

“I was right.” You mutter to yourself, “And as for why I chose you…hm…” 

He almost thinks you won’t answer the question, when you’re cupping your hands in front of you and letting them emanate a soft golden glow. Gojo knows what it is instantly- he’s spent so many years wishing he had the same, after all. Even the tiniest ember of it.

You’re shaping the air in your hands as though molding the radiance; it fractures and bends like sunlight between tree branches. Beautiful. He’s never seen anything more beautiful. As if his thoughts caught your attention, you’re half-smiling up at him. “Do you know what this is?”

“Cursed technique.” He whispers.

You nod, “And can you take a guess what it does?”

“Something to do with darkness and light? Vanquishing darkness?” Gojo cocks his head. 

“In a way…” You’re gesturing for him to reach out—and he brings his arm out somewhat tentatively. The moment your fingertips touch his skin, that radiance seeps warmth throughout his body- it floods him with that same light feeling from earlier. “Feel that? It’s your mask being taken off you.” Gojo looks at you in confusion. “My cursed technique reveals people’s true emotions and thoughts- the good and the bad. The honest. I can read them all.”

“And mine…?” He gasps. How wondrous. Those of the Gojo clan were often stuck on bending space and the physics of it all. Your technique just seemed so…human. 

You smile, “Something like cursed energy doesn’t matter to me. You were the only one that didn’t want me for my name or status.” Fingers sliding across milky skin - feeling more of him. Reading more of him. His gasp catches in his throat as you continue, “You were angry. And tired…” Brows furrowing. “-and a little scared.”

“I am.” He swallows- throat dry. “I was. But what’s that to you?”

“And then there was something else…” Bolts of lightning seem to explode wherever your fingertips traced, and he’s feeling his pulse heighten. His half-lidded gaze bores into yours—“You were aroused calling me ‘Madam’.”

And then Gojo Satoru just seems to melt-

“I wasn’t-”

“You were.”

“I was-” There was no use hiding it. He’s leaning backwards—even though his hands remained where they were, aching for your touch. Gojo’s words come out in jagged pants, wet and blistering; perspiration starts to formulate on his skin. “I was. And it’s all your fault I had to hide a boner from some damn elders.”

“You were…what?” You tilt your head coyly. Gojo Satoru. From the moment you saw him, you knew you wanted him.

And one wouldn’t need a cursed technique to know how he felt- a rosy blush rises to his cheeks. “I was, Madam.”

Was it getting even hotter inside this damn room? Gojo’s almost subconsciously letting those expensive robes of his flap open, just the barest slivers of pinkish skin. 

“How perverted.” You’re tutting. Starting to lean in now, “But that’s alright. Because right now, you’re feeling something else, too.”

Whispering. Octaves higher. He looks like he’s in for a battle- there’s a carnal glint in his eyes that’s hard to mistake. “And that is…?” Challenging. 

“You wish to kiss me so badly.”

And so he does.

He does, he does, he does- he’s not sure who’s reaching for whom first. But suddenly your lips are on his and he’s moaning into your mouth—loud and openin’ up in a gasp before you’re capturing his lower lip between your teeth and teasing him just a little. 

Nibbling.

The chamber light flickers for just a second- but neither of you notice it as Gojo bucks. Straight off the smooth tatami and reachin’ his carnal hips up into yours. The simple action is enough to make Gojo fist at the fabric of your clothes, white-knucking them until he’s hearing a little riiiiip—! 

You’re breaking the kiss with a gasp- and his lips still chase yours ravenously. “Now, now…we aren’t even married yet. Not that I care, but what would the council say?”

“I don’t care.” Gojo pants out hot n’ heavy into your mouth. Before one hand snakes up the back of your neck to guide you into a deep kiss once more- “I don’t fucking care.”

“E—mmpf.” He’s sucking sloppily on your tongue, dragging the tip of your tastebuds between his lips n’ tasting. Like it’s the sweetest damn thing he’s ever tasted. Brows crinkling in frustration whenever you’re attempting to half-heartedly break off and continue speaking- “Eager- oh, are we? Something tells me that someone’s a little…inexperienced, hm?”

And you didn’t need your cursed technique to read him - Gojo blushes straight down to the roots of his ivory hair. 

His nose crinkles, “I am. I’ve never touched a woman- anyone before.”

“And that’s perfectly alright.” You’re reassuring him, hands coming up to caress his heaving chest. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can take it slow-”

“No—” Gojo gasps as though you’d just cussed him out. Hands trembling on your body - fabric bunching, fingers white-knuckling. He’s holding onto you like you were a lifeline. “No no no no- I would rather…if you would like to—”

You’re letting your warm cursed energy out.

“I want to taste your lips.” He admits, wincing at the way it sounds so crude being said out loud. “Your…other lips.”

“Oh.” Your mouth parts. Before a rush of pleasure seeps through you- “Then why don’t I get on my back, hm? I want to see your pretty face.”

He almost feels faintish just hearing the words.

In next to no time; you’ve positioned yourself flatly against the tatami mats—and dragged him right on top of you, of course. Gojo’s body eagerly climbs up your own, the light from above creating a halo-like effect on him, and admires you for a few seconds- kisses your lips once more- before he’s pressing a thorough trail of open-mouthed kisses down your body. 

Between your tits. Down the side of your hips.

Gojo’s then moving back and chastely peckin’ up your inner-thighs before he’s reaching that wetness in-between. The heat of your cunt just radiates between your legs- you were already so drenched n’ pulsing. 

That tick-tick-tick of your cunt presses against his face as Gojo shuffles aside your layers and nuzzles in. Even through your underwear, it was making his mouth water already.

Without a single warning, Gojo lets his greedy tongue drip out and gives your clothed pussy a gooood lick. From bottom to top.

His tongue flickering back in. That damn light inside the meeting chamber flickers against once more- and you’re immediately bucking up into his touch. “G-Gojo—”

“That’s my father’s name. Instead call me…” He murmurs, throat smoky. With a sudden squelching kiss—placed right where your swollen folds were the plumpest, the heir to the Gojo clan struggles to push himself even deeper. Even closer. Even more desperately. “Satoru.”

“Satoru.” You repeat.

And he looks as though he’s in ecstasy.

In what seems like the far-off distance, there’s a sudden burst of something sharp- shards. The observation lingers in your mind and you’re realizing that it sounded like a lightbulb or one of the antiques being dropped. 

But there’s no time to think about it too deeply—because in the next few seconds, you’re weaving your fingers through Gojo’s dampened white hair. Twisting them into a grip so deliciously painful for him, and dragging his pretty face back between your legs. A sudden moan rips from your throat- “Your future wife wants you to eat her out, Satoru.”

He’s on you so fast - nudgin’ his head nose-deep - that you think it might’ve been teleportation. “Yes, Madam.”

And how could he ever deny a command from you?

It’s the only thing that whirls in Gojo’s dazed mind- it’s the only thing his body even seems to be running on. Before he even registers what he’s doing, his fingers are reaching up to swipe aside your soppin’ panties. Fuck…you’re so pretty he feels a moan slip out. Muttering a ruined prayer between your legs- before the slender tip of his tongue darts out and slobbers.

A lick straight down your wet crevice.

A lap around the outer area where your slick had accumulated.

“Mmmpf—” Gojo breathes through his nostrils n’ lets them flare. He lets his eyes widen. He lets his jaw drop.

Just the faintest glimmer of your essence trickling down the side of his mouth. 

And Gojo’s going crazy.

With a croaked, crackling groan at the back of his throat- he’s hooking a bulky arm around your left leg and tugging—manhandling you to him in a surprisingly primal way. Your pussylips are slammin’ against the edge of his chin, and he’s probing his tongue even deeper. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Why is she so sweet…”

Feeling the pressured intrusion of his tongue - the way his slippery muscle expands the first inches of your muscle so well - you’re merely arching up into his mouth with a keen. “Ohhh, just like that—”

“Huh? What- that’s not…” And for a few seconds there, you think he’s merely babblin’ away to himself. But when Gojo fishes his sloppy tongue back out and thrashes it even harder- nose pressing up determinedly against the nub of your clit - that’s when you’re realizing that something else might be at play here.

That’s when you’re letting your chin drop to your chest, and discovering Gojo already staring at you with large, hallowed eyes- straight up at you.

That’s when he’s becoming even more frenzied as he sandwiches his lips between your puffy folds and makes out with them. Those girthy inches of his tongue drawing out languid slurps and sounds that make his cock twitch. “Th-that’s not what I asked, Madam.” He’s rubbing up against the sensitive inner parts of your thighs, “That’s not the answer to my question, right?” From the way he looked, you genuinely couldn’t tell whether he was joking or dead serious.

“Satoru, what do you…” Getting on your elbows to look down at him.

But it’s almost too late. Because Gojo has his mouth hooked ‘round your sweet, sweet pussy and his zig-zagging tastebuds driving you wild—“Why are you so sweet?” Almost as wild as Gojo was driving himself. “Why are you so hot? So ready takin’ my tongue? Just fucking—stickin’ to me like that- your pussy’s trying to chase me when I kiss her.” 

“O-ohhhh—you’re sure this is your first time?” You can merely sob.

Those sky-blue eyes of his flash with some amusement.

“So fucking…” And you’re not sure if he even hears you - you’re not sure whether Gojo can register anything other than the dessert platter in front of him right now. As if on cue, that leaky hole of yours empties out numerous wads of sap that smear down his cheeks. He welcomes it with what almost feels to you - and your technique - like a purr. And this last word is spat out in what almost feels like a growl- “-addictive?”

It’s almost accusing.

Though not really, and Gojo’s honed canines jut out as he lavishes a few kisses on your clit. Soakin’ it up enough to reach a hand up and pinch.

That glistening nub of yours grows even fatter n’ needier as he squeezes it between two cold fingertips. His thumb and his index. Just the sight of it is enough to make his mouth salivate once again, and all those gluey ribbons of saliva end up getting spat on your pussy once again.

Gojo’s pluggin’ it up with his crowned fingertips before it can get the chance to trickle out. Like a waterfall. “You must have done something to me…” The realization hits him.

“E-excuse me?” You ask.

“It’s your cursed technique- isn’t it—?” Gojo’s then scissoring two digits inside you and starting to pummel your gooey insides with them. Each movement causes the prettiest orchestra of squelches that enter his eardums like fucking music-

“It wasn’t.” Squealing. Soaring your hands through his hair. He scours every inch of you with a single thrust- the sheer length of his fingers, ending off with those knobbly swollen tips. 

They were so moldable n’ he’s gluing them to your softest orifices like adhesive. “I p-promise it wasn’t…” Saliva starts to stream from one side of your mouth—your mind’s turning to mush with every passing second. Without even thinking, you grab him by the scalp and guide his face closer between your legs. The cavern of his pretty pink mouth opens with a soft ‘yes, ma’am’ and Gojo then latches onto your throbbing clit. “Why? Do you feel any different, Satoru?”

“Feel different?” At that question, Gojo has to physically lurch away from your pussy to look up into your face n’ make sure that you’re serious. You were. “Feel different?”

“Y-yes…?” Slightly taken aback.

Gojo genuinely lets his head tip backwards- with a bout of crazed laughter. 

Short. Breathless.

It echoes around the room; and you’re sure of it—this doesn’t sound anything like the Gojo Satoru you’ve known. Until now. There’s a feral twinkle in his eyes that you can’t quite discern once Gojo surges his head forward and kisses your pussy once more. French kisses.

This time, his pupils were mere needlepoints around a sea of faintly-gleaming blue as he wraps his lips around your clit and peers up at you. A grin plastered across his face- he knows you can feel it, because you’re just squirming so much. “Sweetheart, I don’t just feel different…” Those roverin’ tips of his enter your hole once more, three of them propelling inside your slippery channel. “I think I am different.”

A shiver runs down your spine. What did he mean by…

Gojo’s eyebrows raise—“What do I mean by- hah, that? Well…I can feel your pussy reeeeeeal good-” His nose crinkles as yet another wave of slick slips down his throat, “-I can feel every clench, every pulse, every bead of slick.”

And then he increases the pace of his thrusts, until the brutish knuckles of his fingers were reddened. 

Starting to swell.

Pump after pump.

Hit after hit.

The most ruthless swipes that messed up your insides. Leaves his mark on there like a last name; Gojo adds in a fourth finger just when you think you’ve been stretched-out to your maximum limits—

“And…” That flexible end of his tongue lifts off of your clit. He curls it tenderly in front of your entrance- just in time for a pearly bead of slick to escape you and end up dappled straight on his tastebuds. “I can predict wherever they start to drip.”

Your mouth gapes open.

And though that was impressive, your mind’s occupied with something else entirely. 

You yelp and sit up on your elbows straighter. How did he know? He read your mind. He’s reading your body. You thought he didn’t have cursed energy?!

But as though reading your mind was something he did everyday, he continues.

He’s using those special antics to slash his mouth near-vertically across your own slit and end up draaaaaagging his textured tastebuds on top of your clit. Making you shake with every single spark of pleasure running up your body, whilst his fingers only prod ‘round even deeper. Swivelling around. Stirring you up from the inside. Squelch after squelch. “I can sense where you feel the best.” Gojo’s lips are flappin’ away animalistically between your legs. “I can tell just how good you feel—”

A sudden bite at your clit.

You’re yelping, “Fuh-fuuuuuck!”

““See? I can tell your pretty pussy liked that.” Gojo’s fluttering his pale lashes playfully. A smirk upon his maw. “I can tell that you like it when I do- ngh, thiiiiis—” Scissoring his fingers and flickerin’ his tongue on top of your clit, “And especially when I do this.” Making you throw your head back as he nibbles on your knob once more. Just as he had predicted - you shiver underneath his tongue, and he’s gapin’ his mouth wide to let those droplets cascade into his mouth. Those blue eyes of his nearly glow in excitement—“And I can tell…actually, I can see that you’re feeling good all the way from here—” 

He presses down on your clit using the tip of his handsome nose. 

Then glides his left hand up your front- as far as he could reach, he’s soon squeezing your left tit. Then the right. Alternating. There’s a strange buzzing sensation floating over your nipples whenever he touches them…“To here. Even higher up to that- hah, pretty head of yours, the way s’lighting up.”

“Lighting up…?” Just to make sure, you spare a glance down at yourself. “Satoru, what are you talking abou- oh.”

But then he’s hittin’ his fingertips damn near your g-spot, and it feels good enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, your entire body’s on fire because of how good you feel. And I haven’t even gotten to it yet.” 

“My g-spot?” You babble.

He’s nodding like a drunken man. “She’s been waiting for me- pulsing, y’know?” Gojo trundles out through his husky breaths, “Throbbing. Needing. Just aching for my attention.”

“Th-this really can’t be your first time…” You mumble weakly, barely audible enough.

“And guess what?” He breathes- octaves away from normal.

“What—?”

Gojo was staring at you with wide, almost-bulging eyes. His gaze was glazed over and yet- still so frenzied, enough so that you swear the irises surrounding his pupils were glowing—“I can see where she is.”

With that said, you’re feeling the hardest- sloppiest thrust of his fingers yet. 

A direct hit onto that cute heart-shaped button of your g-spot. Gojo doesn’t need to move his fingers ‘round to feel for where that particularly soft area was—he knew where it was instantly. And the most crazed smile splashes across his face, twisting his lips, as he’s watching you shatter underneath him. He knows when you’re reaching your high before you yourself do.

“You’re cumming for me…” He inhales hollowly. 

Eyes widening, “I am?” It’s suddenly hitting you then: that spread of warmth from the pit of your stomach, up your spine, n’ fogging up your mind. Your pussy was just battering away at a staccato- your legs were thrashing where Gojo pinned them down with his upper half. “I am.”

Gojo merely crushes his face deeper and fucks you through the best orgasm you’ve had in your entire life. Fingers nothing but a blur. Nose nuzzlin’ deeper. “I would never lie to you, Madam.”

“Fuck…”

Tongue dipping straight into your slippery hole, then alternating between rolling over your clit. Wave after wave.

The bliss is almost too much to bear - it washes over your body, setting your limbs alight with the electricity of your orgasm. That dopamine. Those white stars. And Gojo’s pressing on your g-spot accurately upon every single peak, such dogged need. “Oh, and I can s-see it—” 

“Satoru-” You’re keening out. Your hands reach up to muss up Gojo’s ivory strands, grabbing and lavishing his mouth across your clit. He’s sucking it inside and hollowing his cheeks out—“Th-that wasn’t anything my cursed technique did. This was all you, baby.”

“Oh…”

And with that awed expression upon his attractive features, he’s finishing up with the last few dredges of your orgasm. Letting the bliss course through you - Gojo then unlatches himself from your sensitive cunt with a loud pop! The last thrust of his fingers ends off with the faintest flicker of blue lightning…

You both catch it and gasp-

Gojo’s meeting your eyes with his frenzied ones. It’s then that you’re getting a good look- a proper one.

Gojo Satoru’s eyes were always such a beautiful blue. But now…they had a wreath of so many different shades - sky-blue, cobalt-blue, denim-blue, indigo, some almost as pale as white - playing within them that it looked like jewels. Like something out-of-this-world. It glowed with power.

And he doesn’t need to read your mind to know—

“Six Eyes.” Gojo breathes, “It’s finally awakened.”

“Oh my god-” You’re immediately attempting to surge up - and Gojo firmly presses you back down on the tatami. As if he already knew what you were going to say. “Satoru, we need to inform someone—we need to send summons to your Estate elders immediately-”

“Maybe.” He cocks his head with something akin to a pout.

And you’re staring up at him in disbelief, “Don’t you want to prove them wrong? Don’t you want to take your rightful mantle as head?”

“Maybe…” Gojo murmurs once more, and his brows knot in the middle. “But more than that- there’s something else I want to do first.”

His first time, that is.

Before you know it, Gojo hovers his body upwards- then he’s tugging open your robes. He’s leaving you half-bare. And then moving onto his, Gojo stares you straight down as he damn-near tears through the four attached straps of his hakama, the belt, the pieces tucked. Harsh. Almost violent. 

It makes your cunt quiver just for a moment—and Gojo’s letting his jaw drop as though he could feel the fucking thing.

As though he’s listening to it. Worshipping it. He then manages to free his red, ravaged cock - glistening at the top with so much slick, and then turning into a peachy pink towards his base. Girthy tip, even girthier middle. His shaft was looooong and oh-so-proudly decorated in numerous zig-zagging veins, disappearing into the tufts of curly white at his hilt. He’s so damn hard that he twitches in the air a few seconds after release. 

Almost immediately afterwards, Gojo’s tall frame collapses on top of yours. Body wracking with shivers. 

Gently folding both your legs over his shoulders; they trembled with the aftermath of your previous high, and a wicked smile plays upon his lips as he bends and bends you until the top of your knees hit your chest. 

He gazes down at you through the gaps in his ivory hair, “May I fuck you using my powers, Madam?”

Your mouth parts.

Gojo had flushed cheeks. Damp skin. His eyes faintly a-glow- and the most primal glimmer flickering within them.

Bolts of lightning dart from the edges of his peripherals and crackle in the sensual air between you two. The newest user of the Six Eyes in the Gojo clan. You’re wrapping both arms around Gojo’s clammy neck and pulling him to you - instantly, a whiff of jasmine hits you. “Please do, future head of the Gojo clan.”

He shivers.

And then he’s entering.

Just the large, globular tip of him—the very edge of it that feels almost scorching against your entrance. He doesn’t even need to sink all the way inside to stretch your hole ‘round himself, gluing his slit to the channel of your cunt - those walls that seem to just gulp him up. It’s heavenly enough that Gojo’s letting his head duck into the crook of your neck, mouth opening up in turgid gasps. “Oh- I’m fucking my Madam.” One jerky thrust. “My wife.”

“Sh-shit…” Your teeth clench. Your toes curl. And your pussy’s clenching around him like a vice. The stretch of him…it was like nothing you’ve felt before. 

“Feels good?” Gojo asks, through strikes. His swollen shaft drags in n’ out at a dizzying rate, and with those Six Eyes of his - you knew when they were about to activate down at you, because the fizzes of lightning would grow more concentrated - he’s managing to point out your g-spot instantly.

Directly mazin’ between your fluttering wall. Pushing his rounded tip against that bundle of nerves- still so sensitive from your previous orgasm that even the merest brush sets your body alight…

Gojo reels his hips back n’ starts fucking you in quick, thorough thrusts that echo out into the room as plap! after plap! He’s cementing his toned v-line to the front of your pelvis, and letting out drunken giggles at the way your g-spot quivers for more after every whack—these damn Six Eyes really did manifest at the perfect time.

In no time, you’re feeling your walls turn to a gummy mess- ruined by his cock. Moaning out, “Go even deeper, husband-”

“O-oh.” His hips stutter mid-thrust. Not even bottoming out yet. “Ohhhh, don’t just say that-”

“Why not?” Fluttering your lashes up at him innocently. 

Gojo then trembles- he clamps his jaw shut as though he didn’t know how to respond…or didn’t trust himself to. His knees hike up the tatami floors as though attempting to burrow himself even deeper—and then back n’ forth again as if conflicted. Conflicted. Gojo grazes his pearly whites down the side of your throat and murmurs, “Because c-call me that again n’ m’gonna cum…”

Just a few thrusts.

Not even bottomed-out.

An he was going to fucking cum- just because you called him that?

Your interest piques. “Maybe I want you to-” Angling your head so that his hair tickles your face, and your lips graze his ear lobe. “-husband.”

“Ohhh, I beg for mercy, Madam.” And he genuinely sounded serious.

“Husband?”

But it was too late- Gojo sprints his right hand down to clasp his hilt. But it was too late. 

No matter how tightly he’s squeezing right there - where he was suddenly bulging even thicker at the thought of going inside you - Gojo’s ruddied tip leaks out a singular drop of ivory sap. And then another. And then another. 

Until soon enough, he was coverin’ the entire front of your cunt. Eyelids shuttering. Throat cracking.

Gojo’s dipping his head down and watching as the mushroomy tip of his shaft almost explodes in a downpour of his cum- so much of it stored up. The warm wetness trickles over your pussylips like a glaze and ends up getting smeared by his blushin’ cockhead, stirring it around with the hand at his base. “Sh-shit.” Gojos takes his lower lip between his teeth, in an effort to keep the whimpers out of his voice. “Shit, I can’t believe you made me- ngh, cum before you. What did I tell you?”

“And I said I wanted it, didn’t I?” You’re grinning.

“And I can never deny my Madam- ngh.” The prettiest noise at the back of his throat- he’s breathing it into you as you two kiss. Once you’re breaking apart, Gojo’s finding himself bucking short, stunted semi-thrusts without his hazy mind having even realized it—“B-but about this mess…can I fuck it inside?”

“Hm? I don’t feel a mess.” It’s true - you felt the initial splosh! of his creamy white cum leaking out. But after that you didn’t feel it streak or dribble.

You’re both looking down and finding- “What’s…” That the large majority of his sap had accumulated around his fat tip, and though it was deliciously thick—there seemed to be another barrier that kept the cum from leaking. An invisible forcefield. 

Gojo’s breath catches once he realizes, “Infinity.”

“What?”

 But without answering, he’s merely swervin’ around the crowned head of his cock and watching as the glistening cum moves ‘round it. Doesn’t exactly touch it. “Infinity.” All the air seems to escape his lungs- and electrify around you two. Gojo looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes. “I can manipulate Infinity- I have Limitless.” Blue lightning scatters across his skin.

“Both? Both—?” Awe pumps through every atom of your being. It was impossible not to recite just what you’d learned in your jujutsu lessons years ago: “There hasn’t been a Six Eyes and Limitless user in the last 400 years.”

“I know.” He probably knew more than anyone else. And his lips twitch at the edges- he presses his sweaty forehead to yours. “I know.”

“Satoru, you’re probably one of the strongest sorcerers of two- maybe even the strongest.” Tone picking up in pitch and volume- and frenzy. The ends of your sentence wavered just a little bit at the fresh intrusion of his cocktip, twitching and glazed in cum—and something far more powerful. A layer of Infinity that pushed your sodden walls apart even further. “A-and you’re using it to fuck me—?!”

Another rugged thrust. “What else would I use it for?”

But of course, the suggestion of anything other than feelin’ your sweet, sweet pussy wrapped around him felt almost like blasphemy. 

Gojo’s snowy brows furrow at the sudden rush of power- and it takes a little getting used to the ebb and flow of cursed energy, the urge to bend and mold space at his will. But right now he had more important things on his mind. And no matter how much his mind raced—it halted for one thing. One idea.

And the most crazed - almost bemused - grin breaks across his face. 

Crooked and slightly off-kilter; he’s focusing all his energy on lacquering that long, looong cock of his with a shatter-proof layer of Infinity. Almost like a…“Condom.” Gojo utters without meaning to. 

The half-shocked half-aroused look on your face is enough to make him continue.

“Like a c-condom.” The girth of his tip starts pressing in once more—this time with the added, minute measurement of his Infinity layer. And if you thought that he was big before, then now…and with the added fuzziness of cursed energy? The slight buzzing vibrations that penetrated your inner walls? You’re being driven absolutely insane—

And he’s just fuckin’ to fit inside.

“It feels s-soooo—ngh.” Your voice cracks almost pathetically. “Big.”

“Just big?” Gojo shovels in just a few more inches- almost like it’s never-ending. 

Your toes curl. “Long.” You babble. Wringing your moans into the column of his throat - Gojo’s immediately turning his head and capturing your lips with his. “And so- ngh, veiny.”

“Oh? You can still feel them past Infinity?” He asks.

“Y-yes?” As if you could ever not feel those prominent lines imprinted onto his shaft. They formulated the most lecherous patterns that seemed designed to massage your sweetest spots specifically. Just rubbin’ and rubbin’ and making explosions of pleasure burst behind your eyelids—“I can feel e-each and every one-”

“Count them.”

Your eyes flutter open, “What?”

Another few more vicious thrusts- pointed. “Count them.”

Then Gojo’s pressing a chaste peck onto your cute cervix- loving. Pressing a heart-shaped indentation with his cockhead, it squishes ever-so-slightly against the very back of your cunt—and Gojo glides his shaft exhaustively back and forth. Making sure you’re split open on every single vein and indent, and even stimulated by the soft hairs at his base that tickle the top of your folds.

Perhaps The Strongest trills, “I’m waiting~”

“Oh- please.” You’re suddenly brought out of your cockdrunken reverie. Spending every remaining speck of sense in you to count- “There’s a really big one down the middle and…ngh…” Though with the added layer of Infinity coating him, you’re thrown into a frenzy attempting to accurately feel for how many veins decorated his thick shaft. “And then one more- two—?”

Lovingly, he kisses your lips…“Incorrect.”

Your jaw drops.

“Try again.” Gojo smiles sweetly.

And then you’re being fucked even harder- even deeper into the tatami floors until you’re sure the grounds of your Estate would be tattooed against your back. The mats lift and creak as he pummels a few more repeated- thud-thud-thuds against those velvety orifices. “Three-” You manage to gasp. “No- five.”

“Hmmm, wrong again.” Almost with a pout- the fucking nerve of him to pout.

And then he’s holding you to him as he funnels you even harder. The scruff of his happy trail dragging down your clit. 

With a huff, you have nothing else to do but hold onto his sweaty, thrashing body for dear life. And with a monumental effort; you’re pushing your thighs ever-so-slightly together and clenching—as hard as you could, you’re suctionin’ off his pistoning cock. Milking him.

Gojo’s brows immediately furrow, and a crack appears in his irresistible grin. He’s letting out what almost sounds like a whimper- before nipping at the sensitive skin on your throat. “Oh…”

“Is it- hck! I think I got it…” You’re uttering. Everything about the way he was fucking you now was just messy and sloppy- from the way his clammy skin stuck to yours, to the way his precum was now drivelling through the layers of his Infinity, to the thump! of veins brushing against where you needed him the most. “It’s six- fuuuuck—”

He’s staring at you with dazed, tear-filled eyes. Unresponsive.

“It’s six, isn’t it?” You ask. Squeezing your heaven-like walls around him once more just to make sure- hard. “It’s six- fuuuuck, can feel six of you just massaging me inside.”

Breathing ragged. Brain ruined.

Gojo stows in his silence as his hips keep rammin’ away into you - he doesn’t need to think about it. He just can’t stop.

You’re running a hand across your stomach, feeling for where he was exerting the most pressure inside your goopy cunt. Shapin’ you to him from the inside out. “A-all the way—here- oh.”

“Correct.”

Rudely, Gojo smacks your hand away and replaces it with his, instead. 

Lightning sticks to his fingertips like a second skin, just the most miniscule display of it. And yet, not in the least less powerful. You already know that Gojo’s using his Six Eyes before he starts to speak, “Here. Your walls. Your g-spot. Your womb—they love my cock s’much. All six veins, and all nine inches. Feel that twitchin’ there?”

Stupidly, you’re nodding.

“That’s your pussy begging for more-” Slapping his hips to yours with such aggressive thrusts- each one felt incredible. Each one was hitting eeeevery single spot he needed to and more. Curvin’ the luscious tip of his shaft against your drippin’ wet cervix, “That’s your pussy begging for it- even harder Faster.”

“P-please—” You’re keening. Hands racing up to claw at his bulging biceps.

“Again and again-” Without a single warning, Gojo reaches his free hand down and slaps! your neglected clit. The buzzing cursed energy there makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. “She’s begging to be filled up by me. To feel the seed of the Gojo heir dripping out of her…” Lovingly, he caresses your clit. “She aches until she can keep feeling me between those pretty legs as she walks.”

Another spank.

“She’s obsessed with the strongest, isn’t she?” Whatever quivering, twitching sensations that he can sense with those heightened powers of his—it makes him croon. “You make me so- hah, honest. Good thing m’obsessed with her, too.”

“Enough- I need you to do it.” You sob. “Do it, Satoru- ngh, I want you to cum inside me.”

“I would, it’s just that…” He trails off- just the faintest bit of rationality in his face. “I don’t know how m’gonna take this damn infinity off, sweetheart.” It’s just then that you remember his little ‘condom’ experiment. “Can you try squeezing?”

“Squeezing?” Gawking. But you do.

Just like before, you’re clenching your soaked walls- and it makes the powerful sorcerer buck. Even though he closes his eyes, you can discern his peripherals moving haphazardly behind them—affected. And Gojo pummels out a few more vicious battering rams before he gasps out. “Again.” Head falling into the crook of your neck. “Again- harder.”

And so you do. “L-like this?”

“Harder.”

Practically keeping his cock hostage.

Just one - one - stuttered probe of his ravaged length thereafter- and he’s entirely shattering. Not just in terms of the Infinity that scatters into nothingness—but because the faintest sensation of your tender walls, and he whispers. “I-I think m’gonna…”

“Shut up and cum inside me.” You retort.

And with a single thrust- Gojo dribbles out hot, white cum for the second time tonight. Hard. Powerful.

The minute his splatterin’ cum breaks through his Infinity to end up stirred inside your walls—an emission of powerful cursed energy emanates from his body. It singes his skin. It makes the air tense between you two. 

The sudden spike in pressure makes the lightbulb above you shatter-

Only to rain down on the two of you, getting safely discarded by the forcefield of Infinity that Gojo had mindlessly cast as it began falling. And after every single plunge into your gooey, hot depths - scattered bursts of lightning bolt from Gojo’s eyes; eventually skittering around his body and making antiques around the two of you crack the further he crescendos into his euphoria.

Just like before, he was losing it. Except, this time, it’s ending up seeped at the very back of your pussy.

Glistening down your walls and ended up plastered to your cervix.

Using his Six Eyes, he’s managing to fuck every single webbed wad until they’re reaching deeeeeeply at the very back. The very back. Until not a single ounce was left leaking between your legs, and he could see every droplet of it puddled right at your womb- Gojo would rather die than waste a single drop. 

And through it all as he fucks you, you’re crashing into your nth high- one after the other. More than just your second.

You dig your nails into Gojo’s muscular shoulders and moan out his name. “Satoru- Sa—” Kissing him deeply. Soft echoes of it still crackle at the back of your throat as he keeps pushing you through peak after peak, wave after wave. “Oh, it feels so- ngh, keep going. It feels so good.” One after the other.

“I can…tell…” So dazed that it was getting hard to speak even. Gojo was overstimulated and working his body to the bone.

The Gojo heir finally opens his eyes again- and you’re feeling a carnal jolt go through you as you’re taking in just how much power whirled beneath them.

Ravenous.

Raging.

His Limitless and his Six Eyes seemed to be battling one another for predominance. Both of them were winning - which just meant that every spark of pleasure he felt was another lightbulb cracked, or a handprint seared into tatami flooring, or a piece of furniture hovering.

So overstimulated. 

“I-I need to think of…” Gojo’s eyebrows knit together, and he keeps his gaze downturned to where the two of you were connected. A sheen of sap spread between your inner-thighs, and you’re tugging him even closer. “Need to think of a way-”

“A way to do what, Toru?” You’re asking, after he trails off.

“A way to do…” Those hands twiddlin’ with your clit then form a complex array of signals; not quite practise, but more so just going with intuition. His cursed energy must have a lot to say to him after being cooped up in there for so long. “-this. Unlimited Void.”

There’s a mantra- then a flash.

Then you’re feeling space and time itself bend between your legs. Between your legs. It was like the twisting of air around you, the strange feeling of a vacuum running through your entire body. 

And the lights of your entire Estate seem to be shutting down; before you blink through the darkness and make out the shape of Gojo staring lovingly down at your stuffed cunt. The way it bloated around his girth. The loads of cum that kept on trickling out. Your pussy that had a…strange tingling surrounding it that had nothing to do with your own cursed energy-

“Unlimited Void.” Gojo helpfully explains, “That way, I can cum inside your pussy forever.”

“Forever.” You breathe out. “Oh.”

Nuzzling you, “Such a complex mantra. I could only do it because of you.” He highly suspects that it was your honesty technique that helped him face his powers, after all. 

You’re unsure how long it takes - but Gojo’s then buckin’ the two of you through another one of his orgasms. Then another one. Then another one- he twists his arm behind his neck and keeps your ankles interlocked, manhandling you backwards whenever he needed to. 

Whenever he felt like movin’ you instead of his fatigued body. 

Again and again.

He just can’t seem to fill you to the brim now. Squelching between every stuffed thrust. 

Cock rock-hard still and doused with so many layers of his own cum. It was just the messiest experience to be stuffing you full like so - no Infinity would’ve been able to hold this back.

Eventually Gojo’s limbs were heavy, his hamstrings aching, his bangs sticking to his forehead. Knees pushing up against the floor in an attempt to clamor upwards—though he just kept sloppily dropping and falling and fucking you as best he could. He was practically collapsing his large body on top of yours n’ merely rutting his cock sloppy in and out - not even proper thrusts. In and out. “Ngh- feels like you’re going to cum again.” He eventually utters.

Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your head. “I can’t possibly-”

But a twist of his cursed energy-covered fingers on your clit, and you’re feeling your next orgasm soar through you. Flashing fast. 

“Oh…Satoru.” As he’s churning your insides through another one- you feel a sudden splat! of something wet hitting your shoulder. Eyes snapping open.

That’s when you see that the oh-so-enigmatic Gojo Satoru was crying from overstimulation.

And you didn’t need his Six Eyes to see that he was cumming again- only, this time, he was cumming blanks.

Pretty face scrunched up.

Cheeks glistening with tears. Chin wrinkled. 

Choking out sobs at the back of his throat. 

His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth, and he’s gagging out a few thick sobs as translucent sap empties out from the end of his cock. His heavy balls having had enough—Gojo’s body was practically forcing himself to stop…but he couldn’t.

No matter how much he was cumming, it still wouldn’t be enough to fill up the Unlimited Void he’d casted on your fucking pussy.

And after a few more ruinous strokes, Gojo’s lurching his head up. 

By now, you could reach that look in his eyes. “What?” You ask suspiciously.

“I read this- hah, don’t squeeze me like that I’ll…” Too late, he was pumping out a few more drivelling wads before continuing. “I read this extract in a textbook about Limitless once- that some users have the- ngh, ability to bend space and make a sort of…clone of themselves. Multiple.”

Your jaw drops. “C-clones…” Your cunt already quivered with excitement- letting out a lecherous sound of cum sprayin’ out.

He could read those feelings in you instantly- and he nods. You always did make him so honest. 

“How about it, Madam?”

.

.

.

The elders already knew that a new user of Limitless and the Six Eyes had manifested. 

Because at that very moment, the world had shook. 

It had been impossible for anyone but the two lovers to ignore. And perhaps it was already time when that lone silhouette had stalked all the way to the Gojo Estate: shoulders tense and his blade glinting in his hand. They could say that Gojo Satoru hadn’t been born with cursed energy, but no one could say that he hadn’t clawed himself a reason to live. 

Something to live for - someone. 

And now, the cruelty of those that had come before was redundant. 

That night - after leaving you wiped-down and tucked-in - Gojo had donned his robes and stepped outside into your sprawling gardens, still sore. There, he’d experimented with the rumored teleportation that Limitless users were said to have—and perhaps it really was true what you’d said.

Maybe he really was The Strongest.

Because in no time, Gojo was trained enough to teleport to the Gojo Estate had thought he’d never come back to. Certainly not to finish the job.

With his silver blade, decorated with the silver emblem of the Gojo family, he made those sleek floors run red. Between trees, he was a shadow. He stained the gardens with the foxgloves and the trees he’d always loved - he supposed that no butterflies would be visiting these gardens ever again. 

At least he wouldn’t be.

And as Gojo cut down the last one of those elders, he memorized the look on his face. Nothing of the pity and hatred he’d seen all throughout his life—they all wore the same expression now.

Shock. Fear. Knowing - so this was the power of The Strongest.

Some were happy to merely witness it before they died. What an honor it was, to die by his hands.

Gojo wondered whether it scared them more that he’d found his powers, or that he’d come to hone them. Whichever it had been, he hoped they knew now - he was always someone strong. 

He was always strong. The last swing of his blade.

Everyone was gone now - his relatives, his elders, his tutors. It was just the outsiders to the Gojo clan that he commanded to run—Ijichi himself had likely taken up quarters at your Estate, and he was determined that no harm should come to the innocent. 

But did that make him just as cruel? 

He cares not.

Overnight, Gojo Satoru became the head of the Gojo clan, he became a myth: The Strongest. Said to be talked about for centuries to come.

But that was for later.

Gojo steps back on the edge of the portico overlooking the gardens - a sunrise before the Sun could make an appearance. Then he focuses his newfound cursed energy and prepares to teleport right to your side, he couldn’t bear the thought of you waking up alone—everything else could be thought of later.

Right now he had a wedding to plan.

A/N. Honestly could write a whole series of this…

Back then he was a lowly barback, bobbing and weaving around the same group of drunks every night, clearing empties and wiping down sticky tables, attempting the Sisyphean task of keeping the bathrooms clean in exchange for his band being allowed up on their so-called stage.

Now he was acting manager and in the process of buying out the original owner so she could retire. He made a lot of changes already—not that you’d ever dared set foot in here during your tenure at Hawkins High back in the day. But you (rightfully) assumed it was your average hole in the wall, with barely any light coming through the dirt-streaked windows; all the walls papered so thoroughly with stickers and graffiti you couldn’t guess what color they were; furniture so rickety and shoddily built it fell apart if you so much as looked at it wrong.

The space was still divey, but he’d changed up some of the decor and added some light fixtures over the bar so people could actually see what they were drinking. He’d swapped out the older standing tables for black vinyl booths that lined the walls, leaving the middle open for shows.

He’d also managed to construct an honest-to-god stage in the corner with lights, and a sound system and everything. At present it was empty, but according to the fliers tacked up on the door quite a few bands were slated to play there over the next couple of weeks. His own included.

And it seemed the interior wasn’t the only thing that had been updated.

His height still afforded him the same gangly frame you remembered from high-school, but he’d filled out slightly with more muscle and a bit of softness around his formerly bony hips—which you were most definitely not checking out as he spun a bar key on his middle finger and slipped it smoothly into the back pocket of his black jeans.

You had fully been expecting just to slide onto one of the newly refurbished stools that ran along the side of the bar and drink in relative anonymity. Instead, you were stunned to find recognition in Eddie’s eyes as he turned to greet you and your name fell easily from his lips.

Like he’d been saying it for years.

“This is a surprise,” he said, leaning casually on his side of the bar.

Your mouth dropped open, but not to speak. You just blinked back at him in silent stupor.

His arms were turned out, his sleeveless tank showing off the sinewy muscles wrapped around them and the same tattoos you must have wasted hours of class time staring at. He’d cut it off at the bottom,its curled hem barely skimming the top of his handcuff belt, and your mouth watered at the thought of him reaching for something over his head to reveal a sliver of his pale stomach and the tantalizing patch of sparse hair that swirled just below his navel.

“You know me?” you asked, still blanched with confusion.

“‘Course I do.” He gave you a warm smile, deep dimples forming on either side of it. “I think I only passed Old McDonnel’s class because you let me copy your notes every morning.”

He paused and took a long moment to let his eyes wander appreciatively up and down your form. You felt your thighs press, grateful for the oak shield that hid your reaction from his view.

“Don’t you know me?” he purred.

Jesus. You thought you might slide right off the freshly re-upholstered seat under you.

“Oh– I…um,” you cleared your throat, “Yeah, of c-course I do. You’re Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

“Ding ding,” he grinned. “Remembering my name gets you a drink on the house. Whad’you like?”

He pushed off the bar and tipped his head at the rows of bottles lined up behind him, never taking his eyes off yours. They glinted like shards of onyx under the warm glow of the pendant lights.

“A rum and ginger?” you replied sheepishly, praying he didn’t think you were too lame for not going with the typical whisky. But Eddie just shot you a wink as he reached for a clean glass.

“Mm, something sweet with a little bite? Sounds about right for you.”

You’re glad to have a moment to collect yourself when he looks down to scoop some ice out of the bin, because you were not remotely prepared for this onslaught of charm. You also weren’t sure where he got the idea that there was any bite to you at all, but the implication alone makes your body buzz watching him pour out the liquor and then spray in your mixer with the soda gun.

He placed the drink down in front of you, bubbles effervescing as he set a lime on the rim and juices dribbled down its side. He then waited, expectant smile on his lips as he watched you take your first sip. Only when you had, giving an encouraging nod and a quiet thanks, did Eddie finally tear his eyes away, seemingly remembering the rest of the people in the bar existed.

In a flash, he’d done a quick check with the scant number of other patrons, closing out one’s tab and replenishing another’s drink before he returned to his spot in front of you.

“So, what brings you in?” he asked. “You moved, right? Haven’t seen you around.”

“Y-yeah, I left for school and just…stayed away,” you chuckled. “I’m here for my dad’s birthday.”

Eddie plucked a maraschino cherry from a jar he produced seemingly out of thin air and dropped it into your drink, giving you another smile as he licked sticky red juice from his thumb.

“Sounds festive,” he hummed, veins in his hand bulging as he screwed the lid back on the jar.

Fucking christ on a cracker.

Was he trying to kill you?

“Well, I guess…” you cringed inwardly at the words before they even left your mouth, “I guess it’s sort of my birthday too? They’re a couple days apart, but we always mash ‘em together.”

“Oh, shit. Way to bury the lede, sweetheart!”

Eddie leaned on the bar again, folding his arms under his chest this time so his eyeline was level with yours and he could lean a little further forward, edging his way into your space.

“It’s not a big deal,” you insisted. “I don’t really celebrate it.”

“Well, that’s no good.” He shook his head. “You’re definitely worth celebrating.”

Pure fire rose in your cheeks at his leading tone, and you felt your brain whirring trying to think of a response. Thankfully, a rumbly and disgruntled voice from the end of the bar called out for some attention and saved you from yourself. Eddie’s expression soured and his eyes rolled as he straightened up to full height.

“Wha-a-at?!” he brayed loudly, shooting you a sly wink when he caught your wide-eyed gaze.

Your panic turned out to be unfounded, the owner of the voice giving up a wry chuckle, evidently not phased in the slightest by this outburst. The older man huddled against the wall simply smirked and snarked about how he needed to ‘quit flirting long enough to serve some drinks.’

“Bah! You’re just jealous, Ray,” Eddie scoffed, flapping a hand at him that turned into a warning finger. “And I better not catch you trying to sneak her out from under me, alright? She’s mine.”

This time, it wasn’t just your cheeks that caught on fire. Your entire body was searing, engulfed by flames, tingling as if you’d been dunked in a vat of magma. And your mind was blank—devoid of any thought aside from those two words flashing like a neon sign on a loop in your head:

She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine.

It had to be a bit. Just an off-handed comment he threw around without giving any thought to who it was being prescribed to. Even so, you allowed yourself to bask briefly in the satisfaction.

It made something stir deep within your gut. Some slumbering giant who had lain dormant for so long you were certain it had fallen into legend. A creature you tended from a young age, only to seal it away in a cavernous tomb before it could grow too large to contain—strong enough to decimate whole villages in a single strike.

But now it was awake. And making itself known by the ache at the crux of your thighs.

“Can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me it was your birthday,” Eddie chuckled as he came back to you with a teasing smile. “You’re really racking up the free drinks tonight, huh?”

You sputtered on the sip you’d just taken of the cocktail in front of you.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

He held a hand up to stop you, the other reaching blindly behind him to grab a bottle of rye he used to top off Ray’s drink. “Nope, uh-uh, don’t wanna hear it,” Eddie insisted. “It’s actually illegal for me to charge for a birthday drink. Unless, of course, you wanna see me in handcuffs?”

He leaned into your space again, lowering his voice for that last part.

His brow lifted in a suggestive arch, disappearing behind his scraggly bangs, and you felt like you might rip off a hunk of your stool you were gripping the seat so tight.

Was this real life?

Was Eddie Musnon…flirting with you?

The thought alone sets off a second heartbeat between your legs, practically throbbing.

Absolutely not, you answered yourself. He is a bartender and you’re at his bar. All he’s interested in is a good tip. Don’t be that guy at the strip club who thinks a lap dance ‘means something.’

“N…no,” you answered him meekly (also lying), “wouldn’t want that.”

Eddie nodded, still smiling as he grabbed a glass and started to dry it with a towel. Conveniently, remaining in the same spot in front of you.

“So, how’s the visit so far?” he asked.

“It’s good, um…just kind of strange being back,” you hemmed, hands wringing in your lap.

Eddie pulled his lower lip back with his teeth. A look you couldn’t quite name flickered in his dark eyes and he shrugged, his chin dropping to his chest as he watched his hands dry another glass.

“Yeah, well. You took off so fast after graduation I’m surprised you didn’t break the sound barrier.”

He kept his head bent, focused on his task, but he couldn’t stop his gaze darting up to watch you through the fan of his thick lashes. You felt your breath catch when your eyes met, and promptly looked away. You took another sip of your drink, mostly sucking air through your straw while you stared at the ice, and couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of the same thing you were…

Graduation night. The bonfire in the woods. The rows of trucks and cars parked haphazardly along the edge of the forest with their headlights shining into the treeline as the class of ‘86 reveled in the bacchanalia of their newly minted freedom.

The last high-school party any of you would ever attend.

You couldn’t say what ultimately possessed you to go. Maybe you’d been emboldened by the fact that it was most likely the last time you’d ever see any of these people again. Maybe it was just good timing that your friend from yearbook had offered you a ride seconds after you overheard some jock confirm with Eddie that he’d be there selling that night. Maybe you wanted, for once in your entire high school career, to do something a little bit reckless and decidedly un-like yourself.

Or maybe it was just the pure, unbridled hope you might run into him there.

Eddie’s lips parted to speak again, but he was cut off by a group of younger guys who had come in and immediately started asking him about drinks and where the darts were for the dartboards.

And while he dealt with them, you found yourself drifting back into the memory of that night…

Clutching the ringed hand he offered as you clumsily tried to navigate the roots that sprawled on the forest floor; making your way towards the outermost edge of the party. Still close enough to the blaze to be scantly lit, but far enough that no one would notice you with The Freak, standing behind the thick trunk of a tall, imposing oak.

You leaned back against it, the rough bark biting into your bare back and snagging slightly on the gauzy material of your sundress. You had talked yourself into buying the revealing garment by reasoning that no one would ever even see the spaghetti straps and the nakedness of your arms and shoulders and collar bones under the bulky cover of your emerald green robe.

But now, with Eddie’s gaze drinking in the sight of all your gloriously exposed skin, you were oddly pleased you hadn’t had enough time to change in between coming home from the dinner with your parents and rushing back out the door when you spotted your friend’s car pulling into the driveway.

The firelight flickered, reflecting in his eyes that were as black as the shadowy woods at his back, and you literally felt every thought in your head being obliterated. You tried to will yourself to speak but couldn’t manage so much as a squeak, having used up all your boldness to approach him at the fire and ask if he had anything to smoke. Stomach tying itself into knots with every word.

With a slow smile, Eddie pushed back the curtain of his long hair and revealed the joint he’d tucked behind his ear. He held it out in a quiet offering, but you made no move to take it from him.

“I, um…I don’t know h-how,” you admitted, heart thumping relentlessly against your ribcage.

“That’s okay,” he said before placing the joint in between his lips instead. God, his lips…

Your pulse jumped, temples throbbing so hard you could scarcely breathe while he dug around in his jacket pocket looking for a lighter. He took a couple short, shallow puffs to get it going and a cloud of its earthy smell imbued your senses, blending with the sharper scent of the bonfire.

He then pinched it in the middle and held up the smaller end to your mouth.

“Just…take it slow,” he murmured, heavy-lidded gaze transfixed somewhere on the lower half of your face. “Don’t inhale too hard.”

You nodded, even though you barely registered the words he was saying you were still so deeply distracted by his lips, and the fact that your own were now so close to his fingers. Trembling like a leaf and desperately trying not to look like you were, you touched your mouth to the paper.

Oh fuck, mother bitch, that burned—

Tears immediately sprang in your eyes and you sputtered, trying to smother the cough as it burst forth and failing. It came out in a relentless string of dry hacks, your nose stinging and your throat tightening as you whipped your head sideways to avoid spraying spittle directly in Eddie’s face.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he soothed, the tiny smile he was trying to hide coming through in his voice as he rubbed his hand across your back in a wide circle, coaxing you through your fit.

Not that you could even enjoy the sensation of his warm palm on your bare skin.

He kept it up, though, until you were able to catch your breath and stand up (somewhat) straight.

“So-sorry,” you wheezed, giving your chest a solid thwap trying to clear your throat.

“Nah,” Eddie waved off your apology, grinding the lit end of the joint into the bark of the tree before he placed it back behind his ear. “It’s really fine. Happens to the best of us. Honest.”

You felt yourself slump against the trunk in an attempt to hold yourself up. It was tough to say if the dizzy, floating feeling in your head was due to the singular hit you’d taken off that joint, or just a reaction to Eddie’s very presence. He’d stopped rubbing your back, but hadn’t yet moved away from you. Still standing close enough you were breathing in the smell of his cologne.

Slowly, his hand came up to the side of your face and he pressed the pad of his thumb to the skin just beneath your lashes, swiping away a stray tear that leaked from the corner of your eye.

In that moment, everything had seemed to slow practically to a standstill. No more breeze rustling the tree branches overhead, no more drunken teenagers stumbling into one another, no more beers sloshing out of plastic cups and splattering on the soft earth. The scope of the entire world had narrowed down to you and Eddie and the negligible number of inches between you.

“You want, uh…water? Or anything?” he asked, his thumb still idly stroking your cheekbone.

Your head shook slowly, barely conscious of the moment, your eyes never leaving his. He gazed back at you, soft and endearing, the corner of his mouth crooked up. Looking at you almost like he knew all the things you’d been thinking as you laid in your bed at night. Like he’d seen you touch your fingers to your lips in the softest, barely-there brush, imagining it was his mouth.

His shoulder shifted and you felt his other hand on your hip, gripping you purposely. Deliberately.

All at once, it was too much. The heavy pounding of your heart in your chest too rapid, turning from anticipation to terror. You felt like you were behind the wheel of a racecar whose speed had climbed too high without you noticing, teetering on the verge of spinning out of control.

Almost hearing the screech of tires, you slammed down on the brakes.

“I-I have to go.”

With the ghost of his hand’s warmth still on your cheek, you slipped out of the space in between the tree and his body. In short, uneven strides you stumbled back to the party and gripped your friend’s forearm as hard as you could when you found her, insisting ‘we need to leave.’

And seeing the wild, panicked look in your eyes, she didn’t dare argue.

You wished he kissed you that night. You thought about it for weeks afterward, reliving every step in your head, pinpointing every humiliating second.

It was a fool’s errand, honestly. From the moment you approached him, you should’ve known.

Eddie Munson had plenty of girls to kiss. Plenty of girls whose pits didn’t sweat and whose knees didn’t buckle at the thought of someone getting close to them. Who didn’t tremble with full-body shakes like a neurotic chihuahua when someone put a hand on their hip.

You and he weren’t even friends. You’d never had so much as a real conversation.

The best you could muster was a timid ‘you’re welcome’ whenever he’d returned your notes after copying them, or a small wave when your eyes unwittingly met his across the cafeteria.

He talked, sure. But he could talk to anybody. He could debate a brick wall if the occasion arose. Any time he’d spent making idle chatter with you was surely just an attempt to fritter away a couple hours of class time. And you’d hung on his every word, barely offering a pittance in return.

“Sorry about that,” Eddie grumbled.

He slid back into his place in front of you just as the door behind you smacked closed. The group of guys who came in left just as quickly, evidently unimpressed with his selection of Scotch.

Truthfully, you couldn’t say you were sad to see them go.

“You okay?” he asked, his head dipping to catch your eye. “You want water, or…”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his as he trailed off, his face clouding with some strange expression as his fingers drummed on the surface of the bar. His gaze was suddenly distant, almost as though he too was recalling the last time he’d asked you that. Impossible as that was.

“N…no,” you exhaled the sharp breath you were holding. “I’m alright.”

Eddie nodded, his head bobbing longer than was necessary as if to a song that only he could hear before he grabbed a pint glass and filled it with water anyway, setting it down in front of you.

Even without that group of guys to deal with, Eddie got annoyingly busy after that. Annoying to him, at least. He grimaced every time somebody called him away either for a refill or to order.

The bar wasn’t crowded, by any means, but there was a consistent flow of people who needed him, demanding the attention he seemed antsy to direct somewhere else.

You got down to the last of your drink, and just as you were debating whether you should commit to another, a new one had appeared in front of you, delivered with a wink and a smirk from a dark-haired blur as he moved past you on his way down to the other end of the bar.

Smiling around the straw, you snuck a glance at Eddie and found him already looking back at you while he counted out l change. Your neck twinged with the urge to turn away, embarrassed at being caught, until you remembered he was the one who’d been caught looking at you.

And he didn’t seem embarrassed at all.

The small rush petered out and Eddie came back to you, letting out an exaggerated ‘whew!’ as he dragged the back of his hand across his brow.

“That almost felt like work,” he groaned.

Maybe it was the rum going to your head, but you couldn’t help giggling at the terrible joke, a hand coming up to cover your face when a soft snort unwittingly escaped through your nose.

Your eyes met his again, twin pools of espresso just about twinkling at the sound.

The bar was much emptier now, and quieter too. It wasn’t like it had been loud before, but now its silence felt sort of daunting. The kind of silence that made you feel anxious about how to fill it.

Thankfully, Eddie was adept as ever at defeating awkward pauses.

“You know…there’s a bunch of stuff I never knew about you,” he said after a few minutes.

“Really?” you scoffed. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, lots of things,” he chuckled. “What about, like…your first kiss?”

Your fingers tensed around your glass. And you thought if you were a little stronger, it might have cracked open against your palm when every muscle in your face went still as stone.

You hated thinking about your first kiss.

Simply put, it was a mess. Brought on by a lethal mix of green apple vodka and your self-esteem at a record low. Sloppy and clumsy and too-quick. Over before you even had your bearings.

He just…attacked you. Pushed his face into yours, barely aiming. Like he was in a hurry to get it over with. Like you could’ve been anybody with a mouth and it wouldn’t make any difference.

It was a guy who was sort of friends with (and sort of wanted to fuck) your roommate. One you’d go with to parties or out to the bars. But he’d only ever engaged with you after he’d been drinking. Sober, you were lucky to get so much as a cursory greeting—assuming he got your name right.

The night it happened, you'd gone out with a big group and he’d been pestering you.

Not flirting, not as far as you could tell, just irking. Stealing sips of your drink, reaching behind you to pick up the hood of your sweatshirt and pull it up over your head, tugging on your sleeves, poking you, reaching behind his friend sitting in the middle seat of the cab to tickle your ear.

Then you got home and he started texting, asking for—no, telling—you to come over.

And to your credit, you tried to discourage it.

Begging him off with next time, some other time, another time. Because maybe if he could muster some of this enthusiasm when he was sober, you might find yourself a little more amenable to the idea. But then he hit you with the words you had no idea would still haunt you even years later:

honestly, it’s now or never.

You’d panicked. It had taken this long to find someone who was even willing to kiss you—who knew how long it would be before you could find another? Before you’d ever have another chance. So…you did it. Told him to meet you outside your dorm, and kissed him. And then he left. Because of course he didn’t just want to make out. But at least you had enough sense to shut that down.

You shook your head, mouth dry and your throat suddenly too tight for your words to get out.

“It, um…it was nothing to write home about.” you answered, staring at your lap.

Eddie, mercifully, either didn’t notice the immediate shift in your demeanor, or he simply elected to ignore it. “Okay, screw your first kiss,” he said daringly. “Tell me about your best one.”

Your fingers traced the edge of your glass, running down the ridges of the facets, freezing at his question. All ofthe air in your chest rushed out, leaving the cavity constricting as you struggled to breathe normally. The molten brown of Eddie’s eyes scanned over your expression, his features wrinkling with concern when he saw the pained look that came over your face.

“I don’t wanna do that,” you said quietly.

Something in your tone made Eddie’s gaze soften. He dropped down to his elbows, leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice to a murmur. Something just for you to hear.

“How come?” he asked.

“Because I…” Your throat tightened in a thick, dry swallow and you had to take a swig of your drink before you could go on, “...because I’ve never really had a good one.”

The admission hangs in what little space there is between your faces. As soon as the words left your lips, you wished you could take them back. Suck them back into your lungs and rewind the whole evening until your feet carried you back out to the parking lot and over the gravel where your car was parked, back to your room at your parents house where you belonged.

“Never?” Eddie frowned.

And you can’t say if it’s the softness in his voice or the confusion in his eyes, but you keep going. Trying to shrug it off, trying not to sound so sad and pathetic. Broken and weary.

“They always kinda rushed it,” you said. “I didn’t get a chance to breathe or think, they just—”

“No drumroll,” Eddie finished for you.

His expression seemed to curdle like he’d just smelled something sour, his jaw ticking in a hard set frown. The veins in his arms stood out slightly as his grip tightened on the bar towel he’d been using to dry some glassware while you talked.

“That’s awfully disappointing,” he sighed, twirling the towel between his hands and then snapping it lightly against the edge of the bar with a soft tap. “Sometimes the lead-in is the best part.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged and swept the back of your hand across your cheek just to be sure you weren’t crying. “Clearly, I pick a lot of winners.”

Eddie chortled at that, his chest rising in a short puff. “Any of ‘em still live ‘round here?” he asked. “Gimme some names, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Oh, no,” you shook your head rapidly, “this was in college. I never—”

You winced, cringing inwardly at what you’d been about to reveal: that you had gone most of your adolescent life without kissing anyone. That the thing most people had knocked out by the time they were pre-teens, you hadn’t managed until you were well into your twenties. And even when you did, it was always so dissatisfying. Lacking.

You let out a joyless laugh, glancing down at the drink in front of you. “I mean, nobody around here was ever interested, so—”

“Bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“I’m calling bullshit, sweetheart,” Eddie echoed himself, the sing-song words laced with a leading tone. “I know for a fact someone liked you.”

“Oh, really?” you scoffed in disbelief as you went to take another sip. “Like who?”

That devilish smile twisted up the corner of his lips again, and he tilted his head. “Me, for one.”

Your sinuses erupted with pain as you nearly shot ginger ale out of your nose. You blinked furiously and your hand shot up to cover your face.

“Yo—you what?” you sputtered, still half-choking.

“Always thought you were cute,” he shrugged. “Got a thing for smart girls.”

You felt your stomach drop, plummeting to the dingy floor underneath your feet.

Jesus. Were you really so pathetic that Eddie Munson had to dream up some imaginary crush just to make you feel better? This was a level of rock bottom you’d never imagined hitting. With a trembling hand, you reached for a napkin at the same time Eddie offered you one, your fingers meeting briefly when you took it, static crackling in the air and tingling where you’d touched.

You dabbed under your nose, still burning from the threat of fizzy ginger ale shooting through it.

“I wasn’t that smart,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “Trust me.”

Eddie’s mouth popped open to respond, but he didn't get the chance. From the same spot he had not moved from all night, Ray’s voice cut through the low music playing over the sound system.

He said something about his chariot being on the way and having to cash out—assuming that Eddie actually wanted to get paid that night. The pair of them traded a few more friendly barbs you were starting to glean were par for the course for these two, and as Ray settles up it dawns on you.

Aside from him, you’re the only one left in the bar.

While you were distracted with Eddie, everybody else had steadily filtered out until it was down to just the three of you. And once Ray was gone, it would be just you and him. All alone.

Once he’d paid, Ray slid off of his stool and Eddie came out from behind the bar to help him over to the door. The two of them chuckled together as Eddie held it open for him and then pulled it firmly shut once they said their goodbyes.

But then, instead of returning to his side of the bar, he sidled up next to you instead.

You fought the instinct to jump when Eddie appeared at your side, the closest he’d been to you all night. His scent was even stronger, sweat and musk mingling with the aromas of bitters and liquor. It made you feel woozy, swaying on your stool like you’d taken a shot of 100-proof him.

“I need a break,” he said, nodding in the direction of the back door then tapping the pack of smokes rolled into his shirt sleeve that sat on his shoulder.

You blinked back at him mutely.

Was that your cue to get lost? If you weren’t here, would he be able to close up and go home? If he genuinely wasn’t going to charge you for your drinks, you had no tab to settle.

You could just tip him and go. Get out of his hair. God, his hair. His beautiful, beautiful hair.

“Oh…kay,” you said slowly, mentally flogging yourself for remaining in your seat when he was so clearly trying to get rid of you. But you couldn’t find the will to stand—not when you were being pinned down by his devilishly handsome smile and his penetrating, all-consuming stare.

He chuckled, letting his head fall to rest his cheek on his shoulder, his eyes shining as he smiled at you and then nodded at the back door again.

“Come keep me company, sweetheart.”

The back of the Hideout wasn’t all that different from the front.

Aside from the dumpsters and the wooden crates stacked next to them, it was nearly identical. And rather of an assortment of cars parked across the gravel lot, it was Eddie’s van pulled up next to the loading door, alongside the cinderblock structure.

A single flood light shone down on the two of you as he pushed the door open, brandishing his free arm with a flourish as though he was escorting you into a castle rather than an alley.

You giggled at the display, recalling how he used to do the exact same thing when you were leaving the one class you had in common—hanging back after the bell had rung so you and he were walking out at the same time, then scurrying ahead of you to grab the door and hold it before it closed.

Hugging yourself despite the balmy night air, your eyes darted about nervously, looking anywhere but at him, already mentally preparing an excuse for not taking a cigarette when he offered one.

Except Eddie didn’t even reach for his pack.

“So…” he said, spinning abruptly to face you, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Really?” you asked. “What’s that?”

“I just…” he sighed and tipped his head back, exhaling up to the sky. He brought his eyes back down and you swore tiny pieces of the moon had landed in them. “I think you deserve a good kiss.”

You stared back at him, speechless as you’d been when he recognized you the moment you came into the bar. Beneath you, your legs had started to tremble and you felt your breathing get heavier. Your shoulders tensed, thinking any minute you’d be hearing the blare of your alarm clock.

“Oh,” was all you could say.

Eddie licked his lips thoughtfully, taking a careful step closer to you. “And I,” he started with a thick swallow, “would really like to give you one.”

You felt your eyes widen, about ready to pop out of their sockets. The ‘YES’ you wanted to scream gets lodged so tight in your throat you think you might actually choke, mouth dropping open.

“Is that…okay?” he asked, tilting his head at you as he parsed your expression. It was more than okay. It sounded like a dream come true.

You took the deepest breath you could manage, chest shuddering with the effort, and nodded

“Okay,” Eddie said, letting out a breath of his own, as if he had been holding it. “Good.”

He took your hand in his and carefully brought it up to the nape of his neck. He helped you thread your fingers into his hair and encouraged you to grasp his curls firmly at the root. Your breathing hitched as his touch trailed over your knuckles and down your forearm to your elbow.

“Don’t be scared to hold on tight,” he burred low in your ear. “I like it when it hurts a little.”

Your grip tensed as his hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he backed you up to the brick wall. It felt gritty and cold against your back, but you couldn’t find it in you to care one bit.

Eddie’s hands squeezed again, sliding them up a little higher to your waist.

“Fuck, are you beautiful…” he murmured, his eyes flitting wherever they were able at such close proximity. The slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the graceful lines of your neck.

His voice was so soft, so adoring, you felt your knees liquifying. You wanted nothing more than to believe him implicitly, but you couldn't stop the little seed of doubt deep in your gut that quivered beneath the earth from peeking out through the undergrowth until it had sprouted.

“Really?” you whispered, hating how mousey you sounded. How timid and unsure.

He brought one of his hands up to cradle the side of your face. Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning in to the warmth of his palm, interrupted only by the cool bite of his rings that dissipated when they warmed to the temperature of your skin.

Still, you couldn't help but shiver when your eyes opened to find Eddie's gaze focused so intently on yours, squinting in a bemused sort of way.

“Do you honestly not know?” he asked you with a slow grin. “You really don’t see it?”

All you could do was shrug. You didn't think you were, like, hideous or anything. But you had never been particularly impressed by your looks. And no one had ever looked at you or acted like you were some ethereal being who'd fallen to earth just to grace these mere mortals with your face.

Well, at least not until now.

“Eddie, you…”

He shook his head, stopping your words on their way out of your mouth. Like somehow he’d heard the ‘don’t have to do this’ you’d been thinking.

“I know,” he whispered, close enough that his breath hit your skin in a soft puff. “I want to.”

He took a long moment, letting the edge of his thumb brush along the high points of your cheek. His gaze only grew more intense, his face inching closer as his eyes began to flutter closed. You felt your foot hovering over that imaginary brake pad, threatening to slam down on it just like it had all those years ago. But it never does.

You don’t let it.

His nose touched your face before his lips, its rounded tip pressing into the apple of your cheek before your mouth melds with his. It’s the softest, slowest, most tender kiss you ever experienced. He lets you have all the time in the world to think about it, to notice the ways his movements ebb and flow, his jaw and mouth all working together.

To feel the way his chest expands, taking the deepest breath of you he can and holding it inside his lungs like he can’t stand the idea of losing whatever part of you he just inhaled.

You have all this time to think, but your head has never been so empty. No, not empty. Quiet.

It’s as if sound itself ceases to exist. Not even your own rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears is enough to break through the pure peace of finally, finally getting to kiss Eddie Munson.

There’s no more cars whizzing past, speeding down the two-lane highway. There’s no more hum of the exhaust fan or relentless buzz of the bare bulb flickering over the back door.

There’s just…nothing.

Nothing but the feel of Eddie’s mouth tenaciously exploring yours, dragging every second out into a minute and savoring like it’s something precious—something he’s scared he’ll never get again.

He doesn’t dare pull back when your lips part with a quiet click, just stays right there with his face close to yours and his shaky breath expelling. It’s only as the world slowly leaks back into focus that you realize his fingers are trembling against your waist and his bottom lip is quivering.

“That was…wow.”

You can’t help but laugh gently at his words, dizzy with the elation that went straight to your head. His eyes flit across your face, his brows lifting in a silent request for more.

Your nod is shaky, but lacks no enthusiasm. And it’s all the permission he needs to dive back in.

He takes you faster this time, clutching you harder to pull you tighter against him. There’s a latent strength in his arms, a tension coiled in his corded muscles he’s working so hard to restrain.

Don’t, you wanted to scream at him. Don’t stop, don’t hold back, I want it all—

God, you wished you could will the words to leave your throat. They sat there, lodged firmly in your esophagus, practically cutting off air supply.

Eddie moved his hands upwards to cup your face, squishing your cheeks just a little as he cradled them tenderly in his calloused palms.

You hummed into his mouth, excited and anxious all at once, and Eddie sucks in a breath through his nose. Like he’s not gonna let something stupid like breathing get in the way of this.

You break apart just shy of your lungs bursting, the both of you panting heavily into one another’s mouths, trying to catch your breath. He blinks heavily, dazed and delirious as he asks,

“When’s your birthday?”

“Wh…huh?”

“Your birthday,” he repeated, still panting, “was it today?”

You tried to think—a Herculean sort of effort when you could still taste Eddie’s lips on yours—and finally sifted something from the primordial ooze he’d turned your brain into.

“N-no. It’s, uhh…” It took you a second to remember what day it even was. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Thank god,” Eddie grinned and breathed out in relief. “I want to take you out.”

“Out?” You blinked a couple times, brow pinching together. “Out…where?”

“Like for a date, out,” he couldn’t help but snicker. “Movie. Dinner. General revelry?”

Warmth exploded in the middle of your chest. “You…you’re not working?”

“Peg’ll cover for me,” he said assuredly. “If it’s for something important.”

“And I’m…” you looked back at him, hope shining in your gaze, “...important?”

He smiled at you again, eyes all peaceful and dreamy as he reached up to trace the side of your face, sweeping the tips of his fingers from your temple to the bottom of your chin.

“If you even have to ask,” he sighed and shook his head, “I didn’t do my job right.”

And then his mouth is on yours again, his hand sliding back to cup the nape of your neck, holding you in place as he kisses you deeply. It’s not, not a sweet kiss, but it’s not just sweet. There’s a little something more to it this time. Something dizzying and breath-stealing and…hot.

You feel his body press up against yours fully before he remembers himself, but the loss of heat and pressure makes you mewl pitifully into his mouth. No. Don’t. Stay, you want to beg.

Your hands moved out of their own volition and grasped fistfuls of his shirt, tugging him back into you. His laugh rumbles low in his throat and you can feel him smiling into your next kiss.

A smile that doesn’t dim one bit when you part.

“Should we, um…” you heard your own giggle, the twitterpated reaction semialien to your dazed and dopamine-addled brain. “Should we go back in?”

Eddie let out a tiny noise that sounded dangerous close to a whine. “What for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you tittered, “just to be sure you’re not being robbed blind or something?”

You glanced at the door, imagining the bar filled with big disgruntled men ransacking the liquor on the other side, descending into chaos with no one to stop them. Eddie’s teeth flashed in a grin, dark chuckle stuttering in his chest, a mischievous edge to the sound you remembered well.

Normally hearing it right before he did something particularly devious.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he exhaled, letting his forehead rest against yours, “the door’s been locked and the sign’s been off since Ray left.”

♪ Girl drop it to the floor ♪

♪ I love the way your booty goooooooooo ♪

Some frat party classics were busting out everyones eardrums, the bass shaking the lined up solo cups on the ping pong table people were playing beer pong on.

You were standing near Shoko, but were trying to distance yourself, nursing some jungle juice.

She was currently making out with Utahime- and you did not want to stand and watch. (this time)

You were a good friend and didn't want to ruin her hookup, finally walking away to go find something interesting to do or somewhere to hide. You couldn't decide yet, the alcohol in your cup wasn't hitting yet too.

"If it isn't myyy bitch."

That tone, those slurred words. You could feel the hairs standing up on your neck.

Just ignore him.

Ignore hi-

"I'm speaking to you, woman. Should be thankful!"

Naoya...

Man, maybe staying to cuck Shoko and her girl might've been better.

You turned your head, finally giving him a look.

The same as usual, a way too cocky grin, hands on his hips and chin tilted up too high.

"I'm not your bitch... and you shouldn't be speaking to me. We ended things months ago." You sighed out, trying not to throw the drink in his face.

"Awww.... cmon, doll. You know you stilll want this." he motioned to himself with a hand.

You cringed.

You definetly had not ended on good terms, not only was he insufferable but he had cheated on you.

Someone across the room called Naoya, his attention turned to one of his bros wanting to play body shots with some girls.

While he had turned his head to yell across the music, you were gone.

Scurrying past a few dancers and getting to the back door.

Maybe fresh air could save you from him.

Not really.

The air was fresh for a second and then a plume of ciggy smoke was blown in your face.

You spluttered, stopping your gait. Now stood on the back porch, being chuckled and smirked at by two... big...big? oh... beefy- tall guys.

Toji and Sukuna. Sharing some cigarette.

They were bad news. In general.

You looked up at them. Your face looking a bit dumb as gears turned in your head. Wait...

"You good?" The black haired one asked you, a smirk tugging up a scarred mouth.

"Nah, she looks like she's about to say somethin' stupid as hell." The pink haired one laughed, making fun of you, about to blow some more smoke your way.

"You have to help me!" You suddenly got out, reaching your free hand to grab onto Toji's forearm.

You pulled your best "damsel in distress face", a pout and round doe eyes.

The two, obviously got startled by your sudden pleading.

"The hell? We ain't helping shit." Sukuna made a pout to mock yours.

"Nah hold on, help with what?" Toji asked, not pushing your hand away. Maybe he was the nicer of the two-

"Could you be my boyfriends?"

The two burst out laughing, the loud cackling hyena kind.

Sukuna punched Toji's arm, the cig being dropped and put out. "I told you we aren't helpin! Why'd you let her talk?" He roared, red eyes looking down at you, way too amused.

Toji's chest and shoulders were shaking while a deep laugh left him, green irises not leaving your dumb little face. "Nah nah... stop, let her explain, dumbass. This is why no girls talk with you." Toji elbowed Sukuna back for the punch.

The pink haired one grunted a bit, but rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles bulging, veins protruding a bit. So biteable...

"Please! Naoya is out to get me- Just for tonight, help me get him off my ass." You whined a bit, the hand on Toji's forearm not helping itself and your fingers lightly rubbed his skin, feeling the strenght.

Now that got their attention.

"Zen'in? Oh man, isn't he your cousin, Ji?"

"Don't associate me with that bum." Toji shook his head a bit. He pulled your wrist away from his forearm and shoved it into Sukuna's abs instead, as if passing you to be his problem.

Sukuna just gave you a look before focusing back on Toji, not really caring.

You palm was flat on his stomach- the black wife beater tank not hiding any of the definition there. Your cheeks were getting flushed and not from what was in your cup.

"Please- i'll do anything, just-" You were about to beg some more. But then the bleached blonde man was shoving the back door open, looking pissed off.

"There you are! You thought our conversation was over?" He slurred out, clearly having a few more shots in his system, a hand already reaching for you.

A tattooed arm curled around your waist, a large palm over your tummy, making you stumble back into a warm, sturdy chest.

"Yo, Naoya." Toji grinned back to the drunk one, shifting to lean closer to you.

Sukuna just glared, looking like a possessive bastard all of a sudden. As if he wasn't the one about to shoo you away.

"Toji! Oh- hi Toji!" Naoya looked like he perked up, as if a puppy seeing his favourite thing in the world.

"You got some buisness with our girl?" Toji asked, as if you had been their girlfriend forever.

Sukuna had let up a bit, but still kept you close. "You do know she's ours now, right, Zen'in?"

Naoya paused, finally not only giving attention to Toji.

You, tucked in Ryomen's chest, Toji leaning against you and the pink haired one. He was bamboozled.

"...Our?"

"Yes, our. Are you deaf?" Toji deadpanned.

"What the hell? How does that work? You dump me to go to my cousin? And you're such a greedy bitch that you need two of them? What even is this? Women can't have more than one boyfriend!" The blonde accused, pointing a finger right at you.

You frowned, reaching a hand to hold Toji's bicep, showing that you three were comfortable in touching one another.

"It's called being polyamorus, dickwad."

"The fuck does that even mean?!" His voice broke.

Was he tearing up?

"I hate you! And you too!!!!" He sniffled, pointing to you and his cousin, turning his heel and rushing back inside.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"You can let go now..." You mumbled to Sukuna. But you weren't exatly letting go of Toji too.

The pink haired one looked down at you, the hand on your stomach sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt back.

The view was great.

Both of them smirking down at you.

"You said you'd do anything?"

♪ Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time ♪

♪ At the same damn time, at the same damn time ♪

The bass from the speakers and the cheers of people yelling downstairs were muffled by the sounds of gasping and lewd moans.

In some abandoned bedroom, you found yourself sandwiched, trying to make out with the both of them at the same time, lips not even knowing who was trying to shove their tongue down your throat this time.

Toji was behind you, you sat on his lap, rough hands pushing your shirt off, another pair was grabbing into your ass, fingers greedy while trying to get to feel all over.

"Mmm, she wet already?" Sukuna asked, his mouth moving down to lick and kiss at your jaw and neck, canines trying to dig into your skin, hands too busy with your ass to check your front.

One of Toji's hands went under your shirt, shamelessly tugging your bra down to cup one of your tits, the other large palm touched all over your tummy before dipping between your legs, rubbing you between your pants. "Donno... but by the way she's squirmin' i think she is."

You gasped out a name, a mix of both of theirs, not sure who to call to while your thights tried to squeeze Toji's arm.

You were dripping. Panties soaked, surpised how it hadn't seeped trough your jeans.

Your own hands were hugging Sukuna, nails digging into his back. Both of them were shirtless, making you feel like your temperature went up just by their body heat.

Sukuna watched Toji's hands, lowering himself a bit more, your top being pushed up and over your head, bra roughly unhooked and tossed somewhere- annnd Sukuna was biting and sucking on the other tit, moaning around it just from the feel of the stiffened bud.

"You look like a baby tryna get some milk-" Toji laughed, applying more pressure between your legs, finding your clit just by the sounds you made once he rubbed higher up.

Sukuna groaned, biting your tit in response.

You were manhandled by the both of them. Heaven. Not even having to think while they did all the work.

Currently you were still on Toji's lap- but with a fattt, mean cock stuffing your drooly cunt. Your syrupy arousal dripping down it and onto his skin. The black haired one was driving it up inside of you, lifting you up and down by the hips to meet his pelvis, his arms strong enough to do it effortlessly.

Not like you could even protest- another hole, your mouth being fucked into by Sukuna, the pink pubic hair of his tickling your nose while he bottomed out. The girthy thing barely squeezed down your throat, heavy balls slapping at your chin every time he moved. And you were drooling around it too, eyes rolled back every now and then.

"Every time you fuck into her, her throat gets all tight... shit..."

"Haah... says you- you should feel how her pussy clenches when you move."

"I bet she's happy, right, slut?" Sukuna grinned down at you, giving you a light smack to the cheek so you'd make eye contact.

You tried to nod, but his hand pushed your head back down, wanting to hear you choke again.

"Fuck- don't be so mean to 'er... it's making her cunt wetter. I don't wanna blow my load yet..." Toji almost whimpered out, but covered it up with a groan, a hand pulling away from your hip to slap a handprint on your ass.

You let out a high pitched whine around Sukuna, tears dotting in your lash line.

They switched before any of you got to cum.

You were bent over, a tattooed arm wrapped around your middle while Sukuna was leaning over you, making sure to keep his thrusts short and rude, not giving you any time to breathe.

You were sloppily making out with Toji, a hand trying to jerk him off but the way the pink haired one was bullying your cervix- you kept getting distracted, moaning into Toji's mouth instead of working.

The black haired one got a bit annoyed, biting your bottom lip and fisting your hair, forcing you to fully bend down, face against a twitching cock.

And then again.

"Ryo, you sure she can take it?"

"Look at her expression and tell me she can't." Sukuna had gripped your face in his hand, it almost covering all of it.

You were sitting on top of both of them, eyes rolling back once some fingers found their way into your mouth, making you suck on them. Maybe to distract you-

You were still trying to slowly bounce on whoever's dick was buried inside but then another one tried to join.

Your nose scrunched up, whining around the digits and trying to move away.

Toji cooed, holding you down with his hands, thumbs rubbing into your hips to try and soothe you. "Cmon, you can handle it."

Sukuna just snorted, shoving the fingers deeper down your throat. As if it hadn't been fucked raw already.

And another wayyyy above average cock was sliding its way inside.

It felt like you were being split open- maybe because you were, helplessly crying around the fingers in your mouth.

Oh... oh this was. Way too good.

The initial stretch and pain was forgotten once they started to move. One after the other, one pulled out but another was immediately moving up and anadnanddd.... your mind was scrambled. The way your puffy pussy was being spread in every way, hands all over you...

Babbling nothings while your eyes were shut, hands holding on to god knows who's arms right now.

The room was filled with silent grunts and mewls, the heavy smell of sweat and sex. Sorry to the owner.

Sukuna and Toji were silent on the most part, either too focused on keeping up the pace or the feeling of rubbing together and velvety walls wrapped around them was too much. Who knew.

All you knew is that you could never be fucked his good by Naoya.

Being stuffed full of two cocks... and their cum was like you had ascended to somewhere beyond. So blissed out you didn't even clock your orgasm.

They did though.

You were out of it, cuddled up between two warm walls, bundled up in two pairs of arms that could crush your skull if you asked. Cum was definitely oozing out of you. But nobody really cared.

You were slowly passing out, drool still dribbling out of the corner of your mouth on someone's skin.

"She's cute." Toji murmured, behind you, hands sliding up and down your tummy, caressing your flushed and lightly bruised skin.

"You say that now?" Sukuna rolled his eyes, a bit more exhausted. He was holding your head against his chest, the other hand rubbing your back.

"You think she'll want to be ours after she wakes up?"

"That weird poly thought stuck in your head huh, Ji?"

The door suddenly swung open, a flustered gojo-looking guy standing in the doorway. The music from the first floor flooding in.

By the way he looked flustered and winded... had he been jerking off behind the door?

Sukuna lifted his head, glaring over to the guy. "The fuck you want? Kinda busy."

"E..erm... this is my room..."

Nobody had even looked at the decor- anime figures and posters all over, books in piles around the bed and desk.

Gojo had some sort of nerd twin?

Yoon's notes: OOHMYGOODD For the lovely: @mshkcdies @cherrychoso <3 I HOPE U LIKE ITTT

art: youka.i on tiktok, sso_s__ on twt (?), idk who the artist is for suku help

masterlist

tags: @s0me1n3w @liliklei @blu-goingdark @darlingbambii @whispers-of-aurora @xqce @cactusvolumes @deartoru @sxno0 @yeschefcarm @peachygelic @puppyrawpawz @dustypepsi @izeizebaby @Imbetter111 @stellarixe @deftoneslut @itstotallynotbrina @mimiiis @yorikae @astutetwilight @ghonegh0stwrit3r @1cckedheart @kissmatz @sxpernova @satorusdollie @itimisu @chloeee20 @liahcharms @jinjoohaaa @theartofsugarcoating @fruitypatootie @iluvfictionalmen4eva @jj5110 @magicalpeenpoo @Iilteef @sugusplaything @namjooningera @intrepidsnakespecter @pjselee @qdamselettep @waterlilispetals @jaaazy @kebablover @suckerforsatoru @milf-ivy @love-d-luxe @mrskamikazekaito @gloriouscollectormusic @cursedkisss @ilike2read456 @purpleisbeautiful @dreaslv @dracaenasomnolentaa @@re-tired-succubus @dovewhisper @mainovelle @livviaaaaa

“Ready.”

Beneath the confidence and bravado, you can already tell his mask has cracks. Nervousness lines his eyes, insecurity nestled in the corners of his mouth. You stand on your toes to reach his face, try to kiss it better - his cheeks, each corner of his mouth, then his lips. Sukuna melts just a fraction, body accommodating your closeness as he tugs you a bit further into him.

“It’s gonna be alright. They’re all so eager to meet you.”

“Hah,” he barks, eyes avoiding you as they trail up the wall. “No pressure at all.”

You know this has been hard on him in a way the previous years have not. This is the first time you asked him to join you, confident in your relationship and his place at your side. The ups and downs have been there, for sure, but lately, everything considered, you can’t imagine leaving him behind. So it felt only natural to ask him to come along, absolutely thrilling when he actually agreed to it. You think, even if just a little bit, he regrets it at the moment.

“Secret signal for when it becomes too much and we have to dip?” you ask and he smiles, softer now, losing the edge when you try to help.

“I’ll start screaming and running in a circle.”

Snorting, you place a hand on his chest and feel his heart race beneath. You don’t mention it, never would when you know he hates his weaknesses. One so obvious would only slam up walls you can’t have today. Not when it’s been going so smoothly.

“How about you go to the bathroom, send me a message and we take a break to talk through how we continue.”

“Fine, that works too.”

This time, he kisses you. Not in this soothing way, but in a manner of devouring. He tips you back, pulls your hips close, has you cling to his shoulders where your nails dig into his suit jacket, a surprised moan falling from your lips when you feel his tongue.

After that, when you have to fix your makeup - again - you take his hand and gather your bag and the box of desserts you’ve prepared and he tells you in a hushed voice that he’s nervous. You squeeze his hand and make a big speech about protecting him from your family until he smiles again.

Today is his turn of meeting your closest people. Soon, it’s yours. Both of you sit in the same boat and you try very hard to calm him.

The drive is quiet, barely-there music playing from the radio, his body so tense his knuckles turn white each time he shifts gears. Finding a parking spot has him already tilted, anxiety ramped up enough to turn it into something he knows, something familiar and manageable. You let him rage until the engine turns off and then sit there with stiff limbs, waiting for him to fall silent again.

When he does, you take his hands and tell him you understand.

“I’m not scared,” he claims and you can see right through his lie.

“It’s okay if you are. I’m nervous too. But you have to trust me that I know these people, and although some of them have pretty bad takes, and some of them have no filter, you’re safe, you’re appreciated and they are all so excited to meet you. Because -“ you pause, collect his hands into your lap and trace the faint scars that line his knuckles. He watches you with nervous eyes, lip pulled between his teeth. “Because you’re my boyfriend and they know you make me very, very happy.”

For a few moments, he stares at you before finding his voice, swallowing so his adam’s apple bobs about, a vein at the side of his neck pulsing frantically.

“I don’t know anything about this family shi- stuff. This family stuff.”

You can’t really hide the grin when he tries to censor himself. He’s aware there won’t only be parents, your sibling, aunts and uncles and grandparents galore. There will be kids and Sukuna, including his very own brother, claims he’s never been good with those. You doubt it would hold true and appreciate his effort with a soft smile and a squeeze of his hands.

“I’m right there. Don’t you worry. Anyone say anything rude I’m going to fight my whole family for you.”

He snorts at that but let’s the bluff slide. He better not doubt you because you’re more than willing to go head to head with that offensive uncle of yours.

When you two finally peel out of the car, he’s wordlessly taking most of the things you’ve brought and follows you down the road towards your family’s house. It belongs to a relative once removed. The daughter of the sister of your grandmother or something like that and each year, you’re assaulted by the onslaught of rapidly blinking lights, of plastic reindeer and flashing candy canes along the window trim. For your family, this time has always been competition. The biggest house and the nicest yard, most lavish decoration and the most expensive fashion. All your life you’ve bit your tongue and run with it, silent eagerness for a time where the next generation will take over, where maybe the gathering and the shared time and the food and the stories will be more important than a freshly painted picket fence.

Beside you, Sukuna slows.

“Tell me again why I said I would come along?”

“Because you love me and you actually also love my mom. And she loves you too. And they have a cat. There will be so much food and you’ll get presents.”

When you ring the doorbell and can already hear voices inside, Sukuna steps behind you.

“Are you using me as a human shield?” you giggle, no offense to be found and he grumbles something, two heads taller and nowhere near hidden from whoever is going to open the door. Relief washes over his face as the door opens and reveals your mother, reindeer antlers and bells on her head and the ugliest sweater known to mankind, all while she still wears the most beautiful smile as she opens her arms.

Kisses and an endless hug later, you take all the things from Sukuna before your mom already has him pulled into her embrace. “Look at you, how is my boy?”

All the effort that went into his hair is quickly ruined but you watch without complain as Sukuna’s tension melts, whole posture dropping as he sinks into the hug your mom offers him.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he tries to appease and just like you, your mother takes no bullshit. “Don’t you fret, honey. Everybody’s nice and if they are not, they can fight it out with me.” Ever since day one, your mom has been in Sukuna’s corner. It’s a well-timed reminder as she pushes at his shoulders just enough to watch him fully.

“Sweetheart, you look amazing. Come inside, quick - quick.”

As she jingles down the hallway and takes the box of food from you, Sukuna carefully steps inside. He’s too large, even for this big house. He has to duck beneath the hanging lamp and almost takes some stupid mistletoe with him as he does so. You can’t but laugh, still far enough away from the living room to be safe from the rest of the family. You stop him as he tries to take off his shoes, instead pull him back up by the collar and kiss him again.

“Keep the shoes on. I haven’t squeezed myself into these heels to take them off again. And you’re going to be okay. You have me and my mom on your side and don’t you worry, we’ll cause a whole mess if someone comes for you.”

His mouth is dry, breath shallow. Beneath his shirt, his heart beats faster than it does when he’s mid workout. You take your time fixing his hair and straighten his jacket. Whisper reassurances he claims he doesn’t need and still let’s you speak them. When there’s a loud wave of laughter filling your ears, you straighten and let him fix your necklace.

“Ready?”

“…Ready.”

You try to ease him into it.

Avoiding the living room, your first stop is the kitchen, where you find your mom and several other’s gushing and stressing and cursing over the endless row of food. The smell has your stomach growl, following the line of salads to the stove where your sister tries to look as if she knows what she’s doing.

Conversation ceases when Sukuna ducks through the door, trailing you like a lost little puppy. All eyes on him, you think that maybe he doesn’t look like a lost puppy but a veloceraptor on the hunt, anxiety masked by a scowl he tries to keep neutral. It’s a whole show for those who know him.

Beside you, your mom is faster than you, shuffling back over to him as your sister pulls you into a hug and kisses your cheeks.

He knows your sister already, at least from stories, from pictures, from that one time you ran into her while shopping. It’s adorable how timid he looks when he lifts a hand, wordlessly waving.

She waves back with a grin, eyes darting between you and him. “Damn, you clean up nicely, Sukuna! How many hours did it take her to convince you to wear a suit?”

Next to you, an aunt and two others try to figure out who he is.

“Needed one anyway…” he grumbles and rubs his neck. Beside him, your mom looks comically small. She’s got her arm looped through his, tugs him along as she introduces the few people scattered about.

It gives you the time to watch everyone’s reaction, eyes following him as he gives firm handshakes and practiced greetings.

Despite the bad times, you think you cracked the jackpot with him. He’s yours, your man, the one who follows you into hell and back and somehow even to your family’s holiday gathering. You’re pretty sure that in his case, he chose the greater evil because you nicely asked him to.

When you slide up to your mom, she eagerly hooks her other arm through yours.

“Is he your boyfriend or mine?” you quip, try to tease as she parades him around the kitchen like he’s her newest tupperware addition.

“Yours, sweetie. But, you know-“ her voice becomes quieter, whole body leaning into yours as she whispers into your ear, “knowing where he comes from, what he’s been through - he’s like a son to me. And I’m so proud of him.”

Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or just your mom’s sentimentality - but it pushes the tears into your eyes and you have to focus very hard on swallowing them back down, blinking and rolling your eyes in an attempt to not smudge your makeup. Stupidly enough, you can’t remember if you even used the waterproof mascara or not. He’ll be damned if he’s the reason you cry your makeup off before ever making it to the living room.

“Me too, mom.”

Your mother is good at this, tracking someone and reading them like an open book. Even from their first meeting, she’d clocked Sukuna right away. You’re pretty sure that’s why she has such a soft spot for him, intuition and learning about him through his vague hints and your secretive and very much censored re-tellings, she’d made it her job to ensure he was well taken care of. Not that she held back when he pissed her off, but you think it’s exactly what Sukuna’s been looking for all his life: a parental figure who loves him and doesn’t shy away from calling out his bullshit. Momma Bear has no problem taking in more lost cubs.

Your sister and Sukuna are an easy mix. She tells him to hand her a spatula and lets him dig through the kitchen for at least a minute, a wicked smile on her face, before he breaks and gives a snide comment. She laughs and barks one right back, ending in both of them taking half the kitchen apart because she’s just as clueless until someone takes mercy and opens the right drawer.

When you steal him away and pull him to your side, he’s already a bit less stressed. You beam up at him with all the pride you hold in your heart and he smiles back with enough honesty to have you brave the walk down the hallway towards the living room.

Someone made another joke, another grouped laughter spilling out of the room.

Just before the threshold, just out of sight, you stop again. Somewhere behind you, your mom jingles about, your sister drops something in the kitchen and more laughter finds you from all sides.

“We got this,” you tell him and try to remember if you forgot anything important in his thorough preparation. Just yesterday evening the two of you sat on the couch, hot chocolate in hand and one of the cheap christmas movies playing on tv. You’d gathered a block of paper on your knees, trying to fill Sukuna in on all the family relations and problems. You’ve warned him about which topics to avoid, which topics were safe, who to dodge like the plague and who was safe to pull into conversation.

“Just remember the guy with the grey mustache is a big no and whatever the woman with the purple glasses say, don’t engage.”

Beside you, Sukuna chuckles. “This sounds like we’re going to war. ‘Don’t engage, Sukuna, they have a tank!’” Hiding your face in his arm, you try not to laugh. “Sometimes it really does feel like that.”

He hums, a hand finding your neck, tilting your chin up to face him, head framed by silver tinsel and plastic holly vines that snake up the railing of the stairwell. “I’ll manage. Gonna be alright with you by my side.”

You almost kiss him again - almost, if it wasn’t for the hasty sound of tiny feet running towards you. You smile and take a step back, just in time for two kids darting through the doorway and through the gap your bodies create. A girl in a frilly red dress, chased down by a boy in checkered pants and a little tie around his neck. He catches himself on Sukuna’s leg, uncaring who actually stands there, calling the girl names just to stick his tongue out, rounding the two of you and dashing back into the living room. The girl follows, braided hair flying as she throws childish insults. Something along “meany bean” and “jelly chocolate” that makes Sukuna laugh enough to turn back towards you.

“From now on, you’re my meany bean, too. Or my jelly chocolate.”

With a gentle jab to his bicep, you shake your head.

“Nah sir, you got to pick one. The other one is my nickname for you now.”

“I don’t want to be meany bean,” he complains, jokingly and tries to claim the ‘jelly chocolate’.

With another laugh, you shake your head.

“Baby, if there’s a meany bean in this relationship, it’s you.”

He doesn’t even argue about that and calls you ‘jelly chocolate’ with a peck to the nose.

You give him one too, call him ‘meany bean’ and take his hand to pull him into the living room before either of you stall for more time.

Both of you had feared the moment more than anything else. Stepping through tinsel and into the warm glow of the living room, where everybody is gathered on tables and couches, several conversations held at once - all to just fall into silence as you step through the door with your boyfriend. You’d imagined turned heads, judgmental eyes and a silence that stretches on until you want to be swallowed by the ground. Sukuna hadn’t talked about it but by the way he holds your hand insinuates he thought the same. And despite all your fears, your entrance goes utterly unnoticed.

No heads turn, no conversation ceases. Everybody ignores you and for maybe the first time in quiet a while, you’re grateful for it.

It gives both of you enough time to take in the room.

A very good reason for your first cousin once removed holding the party is that she has by far the most lavish, extravagant and spacious living room out of all your family. Considering she’s only had one child, the couches that have amassed in her house speak another tale. Still, it’s not enough to hold your family. Seats and chairs and pillows are pushed about, forming a half-circle in front of the hearth.

Garlands, wreaths, an army of LED candles and tinsel wherever it can stick, candy on the coffee table like an offering to the ancestors. The tree is a massive one, taller than Sukuna, scratching the ceiling and overloaded with ornaments and straw stars, everything in a very palatable beige to gold. Beneath it, a dragon’s hoard worth of presents, neatly wrapped and stacked and gathered. Just by a glance, you can find your name on one of them, tiny stars on the wrapping paper, a cute little bow on top. Atop, a smaller one, nice flowing letters that spell ‘Sukuna’. You point it out and there’s something foreign on his face, a new vulnerability that you haven’t gotten the chance to see yet. It makes his eyes all shiny, face lighting up as if the little boy inside the man gets to finally take a breath.

“I didn’t bring any gifts,” he immediately realizes and you squeeze his hand again, three pulses of your own before patting his arm. “Of course we brought gifts. We, in fact, have a whole trunk loaded with gifts we still have to fetch.”

Another wave of relief, before your favorite aunt finally spots you and immediately comes running, calling your name.

“You’ve grown! Look at you, were you ever that tall?” she calls with outstretched arms long before you’re in her reach. Her excitement is contagious and you find yourself letting go of Sukuna, if only to fall into her arms, squeeze and hug until she finally lets you go again, holding you at arm’s length to examine your outfit. “You really have grown taller!” she claims and you laugh and point at your shoes, lifting one leg to show the inches you’re sporting. “Not really, have to blame the 100 mm heels, auntie.”

She laughs at that, slaps a hand on her thigh before her eyes find Sukuna. If he could, you can tell he would shrink under her gaze as she looks him up and down, then, a smile cracks her painted lips.

“No wonder, gotta keep up with his height if you bring a man that tall!”

You bite, take the opening as if you’d done it endless times before and pull Sukuna back to your side. He’s stiff in your hold, muscles tense as you cling to his arm.

“Auntie, meet my boyfriend, Sukuna, really happy to finally bring him along.”

She’s always been a touchy one. You’d warned, you think, but still he’s a bit overwhelmed when she immediately pulls him out of your hold and into hers, pats his shoulders and arms as if it’s a body building competition or some quick frisk before he gets to enter, and eventually gives her summary by calling him a ‘handsome young man’.

It takes a bit of non-verbal convincing to pry him out of her hold again and when you finally do and step towards the crowded table, Sukuna heaves a sigh.

“Here I thought you were an exception by being so handsy.”

It makes you laugh.

“Oh no, baby. It runs in the family. I, unlike others, just needed some time to start being that touchy.”

To make things easier, you knock on the table and shout a ‘hello’. It shuts up most conversations and turns enough heads that Sukuna straightens beside you.

“Hi everybody, so nice to see you all!”

There’s a few faces you yourself haven’t seen before. Some teenage boy who seems to belong to your teen cousin, a woman beside another cousin who’s known for a bodycount in the 100s. At least Sukuna isn’t facing this alone.

Someone, somewhere, shouts: “Who’s that with you?” and someone else laughs a “Any chance your date is my present this year?”

You swallow down any irritation you feel and instead pull him just a bit closer, lacing your hand with his.

“That’s my boyfriend, Sukuna! Everybody say hi!”

Everybody does - a chorus of ‘hi’ and ‘welcome’ and ‘nice to meet you’ and somewhere a disappointed ‘aaawww’.

Sukuna lifts his hand and gives a greeting of his own, hand in hand, sweaty palm against sweaty palm.

You know this is a lot for him. You also think he does an excellent job at keeping it together. You reward him with another squeeze and lead him towards the couches, repeat the whole scenario and have to listen to more compliments to his physique, his look, his height. Sukuna smiles through it all, not as politely as you’d hoped and rather in a way that looks as if someone stapled his smile into place.

Better than a scowl, you tell yourself and try to remember how fast his heart beats in his chest. This is new, foreign territory to him. All you can do is give him some grace, lead and guide him and hope the two of you make it out of here without any incident. The family streak of ‘no incidents’ aka fights during the holidays is at zero, so at least there’s nothing to lose. You’ll call it a win if Sukuna get’s through it without losing his temper.

Eventually, after you’ve made your round giving out hugs and he’s shaken enough hands to feel his fingers tingle, you park him on an empty two-seater.

Sukuna sinks into the leather with a sigh, pulls you right with him as you try and step back around the table.

“No way you’re leaving me here,” he mumbles and tugs you into his side. “How big can one family be?”

You don’t have the answer for that, just a few people who got divorced and remarried and have too many children to do any of them justice. Nuzzling against his jaw, feeling his stubble where it’s still barely visible but evidently there, you take a big inhale of your favorite perfume on him.

“You know, I wanted to go fetch the cat and find someone who’s carrying presents with me.”

“I’m carrying them. All alone, preferably. Several times, too. Gotta take reaaaally long…”

The fact he already wants to escape again is hilarious to you. You strike an easy deal. He gets to unload all the presents from the trunk and walk back and forth as much as he wants to in the bitter cold while you try and find the cat for him to hold onto.

When he leaves and you shut the door behind him, two of your younger cousins eagerly pounce you. They’ve given it their all, you can tell. Fake lashes so heavy you wonder how they ever open their eyes, lips over-lined and the first attempts at clumsily clipped-in hair extensions. You tell them they look nice and they pull you back into the living room to bombard you with questions.

“How did you meet?”, “How old is he?”, “How long have you been together?”, “What does he do for a living?”, “How much money does he earn?”, “Does he drive a nice car?”, “What’s his hobby?”, “Does he - by any chance - have a twin who’s still single?”

You actually try to indulge them, maybe because he’s so absolutely yours and because he’s not there and maybe for once, you want to brag and boast about him.

Over the time, more people gather, more questions and more answers until your mom whisks you away to help Sukuna with all the presents of people he doesn’t know.

You place them under the tree and have to confess you never even started looking for the cat.

He forgives you, because of course he does and you take the chance to escape the nosy group of relatives to find the cat on the first floor, fat and fluffy in one of her many beds. Se’s a blue Persian, old and so chunky you have no idea where her fur ends and her legs start. She’s a rolling ball of fluff and when Sukuna spots her, you know his day is saved.

He has always been better with animals than people and thankfully, cute old Dumpling has always been a lover of attention. She eagerly rises to wind around his legs, lets herself be lifted up and carried like a princess down the stairs where you once again park him on the couch, now hands full of needy cat and suit already covered in her fur.

It doesn’t take long for your own group of favorite people to find you. Some cousins, your sister, your mom, your grandparents. You open up your own little gathering among the rest and with greetings and first impressions out of the way, Sukuna relaxes beside you.

Conversations stay in safe waters, people joke and recap their year and you proudly sit next to your behemoth of a boyfriend who’s hands no longer shake because one of them is squeezing your thigh and the other is busy cuddling a cat.

Both of you are on your second cup of mulled wine when your sister’s oldest child decides is time to make a move.

He’s fresh out of preschool, emboldened by this new transition and a new baseball cap he got the day prior. Now, he stands in his little suit, cap crooked on his head, skin pale as he pulls out his music stand, notes and a child-sized recorder.

All bets are off when he confidently plays the first note and it hits absolutely wrong.

You admire your sister for how she smiles and sways in an attempt to keep the rhythm of ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer’. The little boy is so focused on his music, he doesn’t see the way the crowd struggles.

Beside you, Sukuna is dying.

He’s dropped his head into your shoulder, sobs and laughs and shakes at your side in an attempt to quietly keep it together. You shake his wrist and make an attempt at stopping him.

“Shut up, you have a brother, you should know how this goes!”

“My brother doesn’t play the fucking flute!”, he wheezes out and you’re grateful your sister is nowhere in earshot.

Each note is horrendously wrong but you know your nephew is having a splendid time and so you sit there, trying to match your sister’s sways, pull Sukuna with you and smile as if you’ve never heard a song this great.

By the time it’s over, he’s all red-cheeked from effort, eagerly looking for his mom as the room erupts in cheers and clapping and an onslaught of whistles. You yourself rise and give a standing ovation, calling his name like you’re his biggest fan in the whole wide world. Proudly he beams and his smile is so wide it could split his face in two. Sukuna tries his hardest to stay alive while not choking on his laughter. An elbow to his ribs has him finally clap, cheering and whooping as if it’s the best concert he’s ever been to. The grateful look you give him goes not unnoticed and the smile he shoots you in return looks utterly silly by how teary-eyed he is from laughter and cringing.

Two more kids showcase their skills, a magic show that has the crowd in uproar and a little girl that says a poem while her mom mouths every single word.

Each time, you and Sukuna loose it and cheer as if you’ve never seen anything greater. You know it’s a joke to him but still, he acts along and when the final kid is back at their parent’s side, you squeeze his knee and thank him.

He just tells you he’s never had so much fun and tries to kiss you with a grin that has your teeth clank together.

After a while, someone calls for dinner.

Your mom moves the two of you safely to the area of the table that’s reserved for your generation, ensuring you get to sit next to each other, meat and potatoes and some green salad right in front of your nose.

You’ve bribed him - even if just a little bit - with the promise of a festive meal. By the way his eyes move up and down the table, taking in the mass and diversity of food, you know you didn’t promise too much.

By now, the alcohol has melted the last bit of anxiety clinging to his bones. The tips of his ears are flushed, a blush on his cheeks and a careful smile on his lips. You hold his hand beneath the table and lean in close to let him hear you over the buzz of the others.

“You’re cute,” you whisper and feel him shudder.

He looks at you with glassy eyes then, head turned and barely any space left before your noses touch.

“Am I doing okay?” he asks instead and you let your lips press to his and tell him he’s making you proud. After that, the blush only deepens and he busies himself with filling his plate.

The dinner goes uneventful. You ensure his plate is always full and you yourself eat more than you usually eat in a day. Wine and champagne and hot chocolate fills the mugs and glasses at the table and beside some petty argument between several drunk men, nothing happens.

Across from you, there’s a woman your age, she’s a cousin or someone who tagged along with a new husband or wife and you don’t know her name. But what you know is that her eyes are glued to Sukuna.

By now, he’s lost his jacket, rolled up his sleeves to get rid of some trapped heat, muscles and sinews and tattoos and scars all visible and you can’t even blame her for staring. You yourself do, find the wristwatch you’ve gifted him two winters ago and the matching bracelet to the one you left at home.

You can’t even be angry at the girl. Not when he wears your watch and your bracelet and when, beneath the table, his foot is linked with yours, his hand finding your thigh whenever he takes a break from eating. Whenever he looks up from his plate, his eyes look at the food or you. He doesn’t see anyone else. And so, you don’t start drama and instead let her admire him.

After dinner, the kids are so full of sugar that a whole bunch of parents decide to take their little ones for a walk. It gives the rest of you some breathing space and you find some time to talk with your mom. Sukuna stands by and smiles and listens, quips in when it’s appropriate, laughs when you laugh. But when you notice his fingers become restless and the back of his neck is covered in sweat, you pull him away and out on a balcony on the upper floor.

He thanks you with a tired smile and pulls out the cigarettes he’s been hiding in a pocket. It’s a quiet arrangement you have. He gets to smoke and you get to watch, curled into his side as if his body heat was enough to fight off the cold of a late December evening.

It’s your mom who finds the two of you, both your coats in hand, a scolding on her lips. She lets you off easily enough, pats Sukuna’s shoulder and you half expect her to call him a ‘good boy’. But she just pulls him down and kisses his brow dips back inside while you get all misty-eyed over their affection and try to blame it on the biting winds.

“Did you like the food?”, you ask despite already knowing the answer and Sukuna indulges and lists all the things he’s eaten and liked. Then it’s his turn and he doesn’t hold back.

“No shit, the mustache guy is an asshole…”

You laugh and agree and the two of you end up dissecting the hottest takes you’ve overheard, comparing stories and understandings until Sukuna grinds the butt of his cigarette against the balustrade.

The evening turns into loose patterns. You sit on the couch with a cat or without, you drink water and mulled wine and hot chocolate and you snack candy when the urge hits. Your mom stays close, proudly displaying the two of you as if you’ve both been her greatest achievement. Relatives rotate about the room, tell you of cars and promotions and vacations abroad. You listen and smile and feel unbothered while tugged into his side, his arm around your shoulder, lazy patterns drawn by gentle fingers.

Over time, Sukuna finds his people. A bunch of boyfriends and fiancés and husbands of cousins and aunts and whatnot, some male cousins of yours and an uncle or two. Routinely they all shuffle about and into the garden where they congregate and smoke together. He loosens and laughs and when night has already fallen and stars twinkle in contest with the fairy lights all about, you’re pretty sure he’s enjoying himself.

They stand with beer outside, cigarettes idly smoking as they laugh and talk and gesture. You watch lovingly.

“You two finally got your shit together?”, your sister asks before she ever sits her butt down beside you. You can’t tear your eyes from him and hope she gives you the grace to be in love.

“I think so. It’s been good.”

“Good. About time the asshole got his deal figured out.”

You tip our head back and laugh.

“Don’t be mean. You would be so bored if it wasn’t for all the drama in my life.”

It’s her turn to laugh now. She doesn’t argue, instead is interrupted by one of her kids, eagerly climbing all over her. She wrestles him into a seated position, tries her best to hold him down just for him to climb all over you, over the back of the couch and off under the table. She waves and laughs, claims it’s her partner’s turn to look after them.

“Oh, I would be. Still, have to make sure. He make you happy?”

You actually ponder over it. Sukuna and you’ve had a roller coaster of a relationship. Hardship and tears and fights galore. But the highs are high and they are so high that you tend to accept the downfall that will eventually come. Lately, the two of you have been more than happy.

“More than anyone else, yes.”

“Did he pull anymore bullshit?”

You know what’s she’s referencing to, the constant open ear for your relationship problems. Teeth scraping over your bottom lip, you reminisce over the past years. Still rocky, still far from fairytale content or fan fiction material. But yours. A relationship the two of you fought for with tooth and nail all of your hearts. You’re aware you’re the first one he’s really trying for, fighting for.

“No… not really. Not like two years ago.”

Your sister stretches, pulls you in and covers her mouth secretively with one hand.

“If you ever need someone to beat him up, I volunteer.”

You snort, slap her gently.

“No chance you could win against him.”

“It’s on my bucket list, sweetheart. ‘Beat Sukuna on a fast food chain parking lot’.”

You shake your head, incredulous and choose to instead take another gulp of your drink. It warms you from the inside, softens all edges to something fuzzy.

Your sister, apparently, is on a crusade.

“I do like him, you know. I see how happy he makes you when he’s having a good day. He’s fun, good-looking, the type of guy I know my sister is safe with when she’s out in the wide world. But oh man, the shitty stunts he can pull. I like him, really but - news flash - I like you more. So if it ever comes down to it, I got your back.”

“Well, thank you, sis,” you indulge and twist your head to look for him. He’s still outside, cigarette between his lips, beer bottle in one hand and the other arm raised as he tells a story, the brother of a married-in cousin bending with laughter.

“Maybe things will finally settle,” you hear yourself say. “Maybe we just needed to get it out of our system and now things will look up. He’s been-“ you hesitate, but you’ve already started and she eagerly leans closer, almost spilling her mulled wine all over your legs. “—he’s been talking about moving.”

Immediately, her eyes narrow.

“Moving where?”

“Buying a house.”

She spits her wine all over the candy.

“A house?”, her eyebrows are somewhere in her hairline, eyes as wide as saucers. “He better put a fucking ring on you before thinking he can buy a house. Financial ruin my ass, he better cover you and make sure you get everything in case he falls off the roof.”

The wine makes her anger comical. You know she’s just trying to look out for you, the memories of you calling her crying fresh in her mind. Still, you defend him with a smile.

“We talked about getting a dog or at least a pet of some kind.”

“Get a fish…”

“I meant something big and fluffy and with it’s own mind…”

“Are you saying fish are stupid?”

“I’m saying fish are another level of pet than dog or cat…”

She dramatically rolls her eyes and you take the chance to backtrack.

“I don’t need a ring from him. I’m not sure if he’s ready for that… he—he doesn’t have to be. I don’t think I need a ring. What I need is his loyalty, his honesty…,” you trail off, watching him through the window where the tree and fairy lights reflect everywhere and make him shine. “—his smile.”

“Oh,” your sister laughs at you, “you’re so cooked.”

You know. Damn, you know. Absolutely love-struck, even years down the line.

You let her make fun of you, let her tease you and laugh at your expense. She’s mesmerizing when she’s having fun.

“Are you happy?” you ask in return and her eyes shine bright, wine tinging her cheeks and nose and ears.

“I’m having a blast,” she claims, eyes roaming over the gathered people to beam at her partner, following her kids where they chase through the room. Endless energy just like their mother.

As your sister gets lost in thought, your eyes trail back to Sukuna, only to find the garden empty, all smokers having quietly filed back inside. Only that he hasn’t found back to you. Awkwardly twisting and turning, you scan the room to find him near the bookshelves, cornered by a plant and some light-weight romance books for middle-aged women.

There, your mother stands before him.

He’s lost the bottle, lost the laughter. Instead, his eyes are wide and there’s some defenseless affection in his stance, his face, the curve of his lips. Your mother stands before him and smiles, hands raised to cup his cheeks, lips moving as she speaks to him with words you can’t catch.

The blush has deepened on his face.

What you would give to know what she was telling him but as you watch how soft her eyes are, how gentle her hands cradle him, you know it’s something he’s desperately needed. Unaware of the weight of it all, your mother might just have given him the greatest gift in the world. Affection, love, trust - something hopeful and eager as she regards him.

When he blinks, you watch a tear fall down his cheek, watch your mother coo and wipe it away, tug his head into her shoulder and hug and sway him like a child while his body shakes and he cries for the first time in a long, long while.

Both of them are crying when he shifts in her hold, teary-eyed and overwhelmed they stand there and it takes everything you have not to run and hug them both. You let them have their moment. Grateful to be a witness.

You don’t mention it when your sister pulls you back into light conversation, a child back in her lap, the cat Dumpling back weaving about your feet. You keep them in your periphery and glance over every once in a while and each time you find Sukuna smiling, relaxed, tender under her motherly gaze.

When someone rings a bell and yells “Presents!”, everybody springs up and over each other to get to their spot. Some dedicated and yet sober volunteers hand out the presents that have gathered beneath the tree and when you reach your place on the table, there’s already a neat little stack of gifts. Sukuna’s spot next to you looks the same. Several neatly wrapped packages sit like a little tower in front of him and when he joins you, a hand snaking around your waist to pull you close, still with hot cheeks and watery eyes, you keep quiet as he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, fingers digging into your flesh.

Quietly you turn in his hold and hug him back, hold him for as long as he lets you while he tries to get a grip. The beat of his heart has changed, excitement more than anxiety.

Down the table, your mother smiles warmly at you. Whatever they’ve said, it has her in a chokehold, too.

The kids are the first to unpack, cheerful and with stars in their eyes as toys and gadgets find their new owners. Some kind of fairy starts whizzing through the air and lands on top of a shelf on the other side of the room. Another kid throws the ball it got and almost shatters several pictures that hang on the wall.

Beside you, Sukuna has gone oddly still.

When you face him, he stares at the gifts as if unsure what to do. You entertain him, lean close and ruffle his hair that’s long since lost any structure you tried to knead into it - it’s how you like him best anyway: wild hair, wild eyes, wild heart.

“You okay?” you ask and are very careful that your voice is soft.

“They don’t even know me-“ he starts and blinks. You wonder if it’s the alcohol that makes him so emotional or just the overwhelm of a situation he’s never before found himself in.

“Well,” you start, scratching your nails over his scalp in a way that usually soothes him. “You belong to me and so, you get the same treatment as I do. You’re part of this family, Sukuna. And you deserve all the love that’s given to you.”

He turns his head your way, stares too long and says too little and you let him take his time, watch the emotions ripple over his face where the mask has long since slipped and smile at the wonder you see there. He was never granted a life where love was the easiest option. You intent to teach him. You intent to show him.

He doesn’t have to know that two of the gifts are from you, a failsafe in case nobody got him anything. You yourself are surprised that there’s so many in his spot. Probably your mom, your sister, maybe some aunts and grandparents because they take joy from giving. You don’t mention it either way, scratch his hair and pull him down for a kiss.

“You deserve this,” you mumble into his mouth and hope he believes you. Eventually, it will have to stick.

When he unpacks the first gift, his smile is too wide for the world. You don’t care for your own presents while you watch him unpack, fingers clumsy from eagerness as he tries not to rip the paper, instead carefully tugs his finger beneath each stripe of scotch tape and folds it together as if he could use it again. The first thing he finds are candies - chocolate, candy canes, bonbons and a whole packet of cookies. Like a child you watch him bounce and choose the next present.

It’s a whole gift in itself to watch his inner child get the holiday spirit he always wished for. In the end, a whole pile of candy sits before him, a 3-in-1 shower gel that you just know is from your sister because it’s been her go-to present for every man in the family since she moved out. A handmade scarf from your mom in his favorite colors, a gift-bag from a store he loves and a little, kitschy tea-light holder that depicts a winter night with glitter snow and yellow windows. Absolutely not his kind of shit but you watch him get all soft and corny over it. He turns it in his hold for at least three minutes before setting it down so gently that you wonder if he’s ever held anything made of glass before.

Then come your presents for him, generic multi-pack of socks in an attempt to get him to throw out the ones with a hole.

You make a show by nudging him, pointing at the simple stack of footwear.

“Oh look at that, how convenient. Now you get to throw out the ones with holes.”

“Ha-ha,” he gives in return but it lacks all the bite.

Then there’s the more personal one, a calendar you’ve made for the closest in your family, 12 pages of memories in HD and full color. For him you’ve made an extra one. One with just the two of you, favorite adventures and gatherings and times. A selfie in the mountains, a picture from your friend’s wedding. Sneaky pictures in bed and sneaky pictures in the evening. Selfies during mundane and special times. Your favorite picture of him next to that of him and your mom, him and your sister. There’s a raunchy one in there too, the month of his birthday where you’ve taken a risqué shot of yourself in lingerie he’d once convinced you to buy and that has never seen the light of day.

When he unpacks it and is faced with the cover, fancy font that spells “Our Year!” and your favorite pictures of the two of you, a shaky selfie on the first date and a picture your mom took during a shared dinner - both of you in the kitchen, him at your back, your head craned backwards to watch him with a smile so wide it physically hurt. He looked at you with so much love and when your eyes wander from the photo to him, he now does too.

“Babe…” he starts but it’s all choked up. He notices too, chooses silence instead of words and lifts the first page.

“Na-ah,” you hastily interrupt, covering the calendar with your hand. “No peeking. Hang it somewhere nobody gets to publicly see it. It’s for you - you only.”

He makes a comically funny face after that, absolutely catching the hint you throw his way and the grin that follows in it’s wake is wicked.

You let him feel what he has to feel as the grin morphs into something else. Into wobbly lips and a tense chin.

“You didn’t have to, you— you already gifted me something.”

You shrug and make sure he knows it’s no problem.

“Well, I love you, couldn’t help but shower you in that a bit more.”

He takes your face in his without compromise, without a way out and kisses you so urgently that your breath leaves you in one, big woosh!

Down the table, your sister whistles. A few old people make inappropriate comments and an uncle turns it into a joke. But you don’t care what they say, don’t care that they are witnesses to his love for you. And to your surprise, to your relief, to your utter shock, Sukuna doesn’t care either. He kisses you and keeps kissing you and when he finally lets go, his pupils drown out most of the color of his eyes and you smile so wide it hurts just as good as on the picture you chose for the front page.

He’s not one for PDA. The most he does is let you loop your arm through his or hold his hand if it gets too crowded. So, today, has been a gift in many ways. He’s been nothing but touchy, borderline clingy. Proudly and openly displaying his affection for you.

You don’t care if he follows an agenda. You don’t care if it’s to appease your mom or relatives or claim you in front of cousins who ask for a ‘twin’. The fact he does it despite his usual unease has your heart all fluttery and soft. You’re nothing but pudding in his hands.

Sukuna lets you stare at him for a while, hearts in your eyes until even his patience runs out and he nods towards your untouched pile of presents.

“Ever gonna open them?”

“Hmmm,” you hum and can’t really find the words. “I think I already got the best gift.”

He clicks his tongue and presses the first present into your hand. “Start unpacking, woman.”

As it turns out, you get the usual gifts. A scented candle, candy, a bunch of lotion in different scents. You, too, get a tea-light holder that matches his and new mittens your mom made you and you requested not so subtly about two months ago when your old ones tore.

There’s a little heart and your initials stitched into the cuff of the left one and you throw your mom a kiss as you catch her eyes over the table.

Your sister gifts you a wellness-weekend for two and immediately invites herself as the second person.

“I got the other ticket!”, she shouts and wriggles her eyebrows. “Gonna find me the finest masseur in the whole building.” You laugh and she shoots finger guns your way and you still laugh when you unpack the next thing on your pile, a plain envelope with your name on it.

The card it holds is a cute one, no glitter or tinsel, just a nice drawing of a star in the middle and a cute little line beneath. When you open it, it’s Sukuna’s handwriting that finds you, enough to fill both sides, another line awkwardly squeezed along the edge of it.

You let him have this moment, don’t look for him when you start reading.

It has you in tears after the first two sentences. He’s never been very flowery with his speech and he sure as hell isn’t in this card but it’s earnest, direct, honest in a way he’s always been and emotional by the way he gives each thing he feels a name. In it, he thanks you for believing in him, for never giving up on him when he himself has done so continuously. He calls you the love of his life, promises he wants to keep trying, improving, working hard to give you the life you deserve. A tear of yours falls on the card and makes the ink spread like languid seaweed. You sniffle and force yourself to continue, power through it because you know once you stop you can’t start again.

At the end, he tells you of his other gift.

Quietly, without you noticing, he’s worked overtime and raked together enough vacation days to whisk you away off season, a hide out you’ve always wanted to have, two weeks where there’s only going to be you and him and nature.

You bawl your eyes out and can’t read the sign off, already falling into his arms where he waits with nervous eyes.

He holds you like your mom held him. Gentle and dedicated and with a hand at the back of your head as if you’re in danger of falling over. When the tears finally ebb off and you find your voice all husky and congested, you take his face in yours and ensure you’re the only one he’s looking at.

“You already gifted me something, why the hell are you doing this extra? I— I didn’t even notice. Where did you even put all those hours in, you came home as usual?!”

He’s almost sheepish when he explains himself. Going to work earlier than usual, refusing to wake you and instead sneaking out in the dark of night to already stack up 3 to 4 hours before his usual shift begins.

“You’re insane,” you quip and he smiles with guilt in his eyes. Oh, he’s so aware he’s got a loose screw.

“And I love you,” you shoot, gather his face and shower him in kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Not just for this, but also for this, but for everything you do and for tonight and for yesterday and for tomorrow. For all the days to come.”

This time he’s more in control. Fights an honest fight against the tears before they well up and spill and you two just cry together, your mind already racing to that get-away with only him. Soft mornings, soft noons, soft evenings, soft nights. Soft everything with a tad of spice. Maybe a lot of spice, depending on where you are in your cycle. Maybe you have to line it up properly, make sure to make the most of it when there’s no neighbors and work schedules and noises to bother you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your skin and you don’t care how corny the two of you are, all over each other at the dinner table.

You don’t know how much time has past when a ball of wrapping paper hits the back of your head and half the table cheers. Your sister, triumphant and grinning, asks you without asking and you give a thumbs up and hope it will suffice.

Sukuna says something about bringing a gift because he wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was. You squeeze his arm and tell him he did everything right but that he didn’t have to.

“Didn’t have to, my ass,” he mutters, eyes narrowing towards the calendar before him. “You had another gift, I would have looked like the worst fuc-fudging guy if it wasn’t for the card.”

“Nobody would have noticed,” you try to appease but he’s hellbent on proving his point and only lets up once the whole table starts moving and thanking each other.

Later, when you’ve got all the gifts of you and him in your basket and the kids are all asleep scattered on couches and tables and arms, you dig out your phone and ask him if he’s ready to leave.

Not even once he’s used the emergency signal and now that you’re all lazy and heavy-lidded from alcohol and socializing and good food, he gets his own phone, reads your message and shoots you a smile and a nod.

As if she already sniffed it out, your mom emerges with a hand full of leftover food, stacking it atop your presents and pulling you both against her.

“I’m so proud of you two,” she says, all thick with emotion and slurred by the wine.

Sukuna laughs, almost awkwardly, mostly shy and you squeeze her and tell her you love her.

She lingers while you gather your things, say your goodbyes, hug your sister and favorite relatives. Sukuna follows you dutifully, granting smiles and ‘thank you’s and ‘goodnight’s.

At the door, your mom presses a kiss to your forehead and a kiss to his. She waves until you’ve made it the whole pathway to the street and you’re sure she keeps waving even once you turned a corner.

After wrangling all the things into the trunk and maneuvering yourself into the cold inside of the car, you close the door and stare at him.

He does the same, dark eyes and exhaustion finally settling in. The smile on his face is genuine, if a bit tired. He reaches over the center console to hold your hand, squeezes until you squeeze back and then pulls close to press a kiss over your knuckles.

“I love you,” he says again, earnest and eager and raw.

“I love you too,” you echo and mean it. “I’m so proud of you,” you continue, try to show him how deep you feel it by holding his stare.

“Didn’t do anything,” he mutters but you deny anything he might throw your way.

“You did so well. And if my mom gets to be proud without argument, so do I. I’m proud of you. And I love you so, so much.”

He lets himself smile, soft and tired and real.

“I don’t deserve you…,” he starts and you already want to object again but he talks over you before you ever get going, “… but I’m so glad you saw something in me that I couldn’t and that you love me despite my short-comings and all the stupid fucking mistakes I make. I love you so much.”

“Don’t make me cry again,” you scold and let your head sink against his shoulder. “I love you, Sukuna.”

“I love you.”

When the two of you eventually manage to untangle and buckle up, he lets the radio hum in the background, soft jingles and softer voices as he starts the car and takes off, world smearing by.

You rest your head against the window and smile.

Pride warms your chest, love drums in your heart in rhythm with the music.

You love him with all you have and he loves you with all of him. That has to be worth something.

And as your head grows heavy and your eyes tired while stars and fairy lights and snow drifts by, you feel a gratitude fill you that you haven’t felt in a long time. Gratitude for the people you have in your corner, for the life you get to life, for the man at your side who’s choosing you every single day.

When you watch him, you smile and when he notices, he smiles too.

But you had made a promise.

A quiet one. Years ago. The kind of promise that settled deep into your bones and refused to loosen its grip no matter how much time passed. You had promised yourself that you would become the best. Not just a Marine, but a marksman no one could rival. Unfortunately, being stationed in Loguetown had come with a complication.

A very large, very stubborn, very bright-haired complication.

Captain Smoker.

If it hadn’t been for him, things in your life would be different by now. Maybe you would’ve moved up the ranks already. Maybe you wouldn’t feel that slow, creeping disillusionment every time you put on your uniform. And maybe you’d be somewhere quieter, somewhere your work actually meant something to you again.

Somewhere far away from him.

But there was no point lingering on all the what-ifs. The story of your ambitious past self had already been written and unluckily you hadn’t been the one holding the pen.

With a quiet exhale, you rested your gaze on the water stretching out beyond the harbor, your hands moving on instinct as you polished your rifle. The familiar weight grounded you, even as your thoughts drifted back to that one fatal mission, as they always did. A scoff made its way past your lips.

Years had passed, and still you couldn’t let it go.

You had the shot.

Perfect angle. Perfect distance. Wind accounted for. Breath steady. Finger poised.

And then-

Smoke.

Thick, blinding, suffocating smoke.

Your vision had been swallowed whole in an instant, your perfect shot gone, the world reduced to nothing but white smoke and frustration. By the time it cleared, it was over. The target was down.

And Smoker stood at the center of it all. Praise following him like a shadow. Commendations. Recognition. A successful mission.

Your mission.

Your shot.

Lost to the haze in nothing but a mere handful of seconds.

Your grip tightened slightly around the rifle before you forced yourself to relax. There was no use replaying it again. It wouldn’t change anything. Nothing ever did.

“There you are. Have you been out here all day?”

You didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice.

Tashigi.

Footsteps approached—quick, purposeful. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye, noting the way she was slightly out of breath, her glasses slipping just enough to tell you she’d been running around town in search of you for a while.

“That depends,” you said dryly. “Who’s asking?”

Adjusting her glasses, the younger girl stepped in front of you. Blatantly ignoring your quip.

“He’s working himself into his grave.”

Ah, so this was about Smoker. Of course it was.

You didn’t even look up at Tashigi, just shrugged and dragged the cloth slowly along the barrel of your rifle like the answer might be hidden somewhere in the metal if you polished it long enough. “Then I suggest you let him,” you said, voice flat. “It’s not like he listens to anyone anyway.” Tashigi didn’t respond right away.

That, more than anything, made your hand still.

Finally glancing up, you studied the girl. Tashigi was fidgeting. Sure, she was trying her very best to hide it, but it was there. Adjusting her glasses twice in the span of a breath, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fingers curling against the hilt of her sword like she needed something solid to hold onto.

“He hasn’t slept,” she said finally, voice laced with concern. “Not properly. Not since two days ago. Maybe longer.”

You said nothing, but your grip on the cloth tightened. Why did she have to come to you out of all people? Smoker was none of your concern. He hadn’t been for a very long time.

“He’s been going through patrol reports from the last three weeks,” Tashigi continued, words picking up pace now that they’d started. “Cross-checking names, routes, ship logs, anything even remotely suspicious. And every time someone brings him food, it just… sits there.”

A pause.

“I think he forgot it was there.”

A faint scoff left you before you could stop it. “Sure sounds like him.”

But it came out just a little notch weaker than you intended. Not that you’d ever admit that.

Tashigi stepped closer, lowering her voice like the wind itself might carry her concern back to the Captain’s office. “There’s more. He’s been dispatching extra patrols along the east docks. Double rotations. He says it’s precautionary, but…” She hesitated again, brows pulling together in hesitation. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

That got your attention.

You lifted your head properly this time, eyes narrowing just slightly as you gave Tashigi your full attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” she said carefully, choosing each word like it might cut her if she wasn’t precise enough, “he’s not just preparing for the crowds.”

The harbor stretched out in front of you, deceptively calm. Ships rocked gently against their moorings, seagulls circling lazily overhead. From the distance, it almost looked peaceful.

Up close, however, you knew better.

Nodding, you followed her line of thought. “You think he’s expecting something.”

“I think he knows something,” she corrected softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The distant noise of the town, the shouting vendors and the restless swell of visitors bled into the quiet space between you. Slowly, your fingers resumed their slow, methodical work on the rifle, but your mind was elsewhere now.

Despite your personal opinion of the man, you still knew the Captain. And Smoker didn’t overextend resources without reason.

He didn’t lose sleep over simple things like “precautions.”

And he most definitely didn’t just forget to eat.

“He hasn’t told anyone why he is doing all of this?” you asked.

Tashigi shook her head. “Not directly. Every time I try to ask, he just…” She exhaled, clearly frustrated. “Either changes the subject or tells me to focus on my own duties.”

A humorless smile tugged at your lips. “Sounds about right.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. “You’re not surprised.”

“Should I be?” you countered. “Captain Smoker isn’t exactly known for his transparency.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She crossed her arms, studying you now instead of the situation at hand. “You’re acting like this is normal.”

You shrugged one shoulder, the lazy motion had almost become a habit these days. “For him? It is.”

But even as you said it, something about it didn’t sit right. Because somewhere deep within your conflicted thoughts you knew that Tashigi was right.

This wasn’t normal.

This was intense in a way that went beyond Smoker’s usual stubborn obsession with justice. There was a sense of direction behind it. Intent. And Smoker was many things but he wasn’t reckless without purpose.

Tashigi must have seen the shift in your expression caused by your inner conflict, because her voice softened just a fraction. “He won’t listen to me,” she said. “Or anyone else.”

A beat passed. You blinked. “…And you think I’m the exception?”

“I think,” she replied, meeting your gaze head-on, “you’re the only one on this island who doesn’t care whether he outranks you.”

That earned a short, humorless laugh from you. She wasn’t wrong. Respect had never been the issue.

It was everything else.

With a small exhale, you pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, slinging the rifle over your shoulder out of habit more than need. The familiar weight which settled against your back was grounding, but not enough to quiet the faint unease curling in your chest.

“If he throws me out,” you muttered, brushing past her, “I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fine.”

“And if he starts a fight—”

“He won’t.”

You stopped just long enough to shoot her a flat look over your shoulder.

“Tashigi,” you said dryly, “he’s started fights over way less.”

Tashigi opened her mouth, hesitated, then sighed. “Just try not to provoke him.”

You let out a quiet huff of amusement at that, shaking your head as you started toward the Marine base. “No promises.”

But as you made your way through the crowded streets, weaving between tourists and townspeople alike, your thoughts kept circling back to one thing.

Smoker didn’t act like this without reason.

And if he was right, if something was coming…Then whatever it was, it was big enough to keep a man like him awake for days.

Your grip on the rifle strap tightened slightly.

“…tch,” you muttered under your breath.

Looks like you weren’t the only one who couldn’t let things go.

—

The hallway outside Smoker’s office felt unnaturally quiet, the usual hum of Marine activity muffled as if the base itself had been holding its breath. You didn’t hesitate. Confident steps coming to a halt before you swung the door open with more force than necessary, letting the smoke that hung in the room greet you like an old, unwelcome friend. It coiled in thick spirals, curling lazily around the ceiling and furniture, clinging to everything it touched. The familiar scent made you fight a sneer from creeping onto your face. Not from disgust, but from the sheer weight of the memories it carried.

Smoker sat behind his desk, hunched slightly over various scattered reports, a faintly glowing cigar clenched between his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t even look up.

“Has nobody taught you how to knock?” His voice cut sharply through the haze, the deep tone smooth and lethal in its familiarity.

You stepped inside his office anyway, letting the door swing shut with a definitive click. “Has anyone asked for your opinion on the matter?”

Finally, the Captain raised his gaze, piercing and unreadable. That same piercing stare that had haunted your missions, challenged your authority, and made your pride bristle years ago. It was still there, and it still had the same effect. Tension settled like a physical weight around you, suffocating yet strangely magnetic.

“You’re busy,” you said flatly, letting your eyes sweep the papers before settling back on him. “I’ll make this quick. You look like hell.”

“And you look like you’ve got too much time on your hands,” he shot back, his cigar still steadily sending smoke drifting upward.

“Running yourself into the ground doesn’t count as productivity,” you countered, stepping closer until the edge of the desk almost pressed into your thigh. “Tashigi said you’ve been pushing yourself for days. Double rotations, cross-checking every patrol, scrutinizing every log, ignoring food, not sleep—”

“I’m doing my job,” he interrupted, voice flat and controlled. Ever the authoritative Captain.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’re getting,” he said evenly.

Your chest tightened. The familiar surge of anger and frustration from years of professional rivalry pressed against your ribs like a physical force.

“You’ve always done this,” you said, voice low and sharp. “You step in. You act like the mission, the risk, like everything doesn’t matter to anyone else. That’s not how it works!”

The office seemed to shrink around the two of you, the papers and reports fading into the periphery. Your chest was aching with more than just frustration; it was pride, embarrassment, and a gnawing sense of injustice. Every memory of that mission felt like a knife twisting in your heart, as every argument you had had with Smoker over the years about methods and judgment and authority was now resurfacing. It made your blood boil how he had always challenged you, pushed you and kept you in line.

“Every choice I’ve made has always had a purpose,” he said finally, the words slow, deliberate. “Every decision, every order, every patrol—it’s all about keeping people alive.”

Preventing yourself from scoffing, you chose to ignore the hidden meaning behind his words and studied the man in front of you instead. His posture was tense, as if that thick jacket he wore anchored him down to his chair. His white hair was a mess, bright strands poking out in various directions. And not even the thick smoke of the cigar could cover up the dark bags underneath his eyes.

“You look terrible.” you said quietly, your voice not quite as matter of factly as you wished it to be.

“I don’t need your concern,” Smoker muttered, the words clipped but lacking their usual venom.

“No,” you admitted, somewhat softer, fingers mindlessly brushing against a stack of reports at the edge of his desk. “But I don’t care. Right now, you’re my concern whether you like it or not. What you’re doing is reckless.”

Smoker finally leaned back, fingers tightening around his cigar, as he eyed you skeptically. “Why did you agree to come here?”

The question made your heartrate spike, caught somewhere between utter disbelief and frustration. You would have loved to claim that it was just for the greater good of things. That you cared about the wellbeing of the Marines and Loguetown. But some lies are simply so far away from the truth, that even the very man you detached yourself from years ago could easily catch onto them.

“I don’t know,” you admitted truthfully, somewhat defeated. “But I did.”

For a moment, time in Smoker’s office stood still, thick with the weight of unsaid words, tension, frustration and hurt pride. You stood there, barely moving, letting your eyes trace the somehow familiar chaos of his office. Every report, every scribble, every smoldering wisp of smoke was so unmistakably him. Always in control, always relentless, always present and always untouchable. And yet, now in this very moment, something was different. Smoker’s usual armor of certainty, was tempered by exhaustion. The sharp edge that normally kept everyone at bay was dulled slightly, though not gone entirely. You could see it in the way his hands trembled slightly as he tapped the ash from his cigar, in the subtle slump of his shoulders that spoke more loudly than his words ever would.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, voice low, reluctant, almost confessional. “You’ve been at this for days. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. And you’re pushing everyone around you to keep up. What is the point?”

The Captain didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked up to meet yours. “…The point?” he echoed, voice low. “The point is that if I don’t, things go wrong. If I falter, people die. That’s all the point I need.”

“And I get that,” you said, hands gripping the edge of his desk, leaning forward as if the very motion could bring your thoughts across. “I understand duty. I follow orders. But whatever this is, isn’t just duty anymore. It’s obsession. You’re burning yourself out.”

He let out a humorless laugh, the sound harsh and grating. “Obsession? You think this is obsession? You think I enjoy doing this? You think I want to see everyone exhausted, failing, or potentially dead? You’re way off.”

“And you don’t think anyone else cares?” you snapped, frustration finally spilling over. The words hung between you, heavy with anger. You hated him, yes. You hated what he’d done back then, to the mission you’d spent years perfecting. And yet, seeing this force of a man, like this, so human, so vulnerable in ways he’d never allow himself to admit—it made your chest ache. The hate you carried for him tangled with something else, something unfamiliar you weren’t ready to name.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” you admitted, quieter, almost against your will. “But you never let anyone help. You never let anyone in.”

Smoker stared at you from his seat across the table, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to read the weight behind your words. “So, what? You want me to believe that all of sudden you care about me?” he said flatly, like stating a fact rather than asking a question.

“I don’t know if it’s care,” you said quickly, stepping back, as if the distance would help with the turmoil swirling within you. “Maybe it’s just… irritation. Maybe it’s seeing the Captain of the Marine base making irresponsible decisions because he’s being too stupid to let anyone else do his job.”

“And yet here you are,” Smoker muttered, almost to himself, voice low, dangerous in its subtle intensity. “Standing here, letting Tashigi drag you back into it anyway.”

“I didn’t choose to be dragged,” you said, snapping slightly, your hands flying up in a frustrated motion. “I’m not your babysitter and I’m not your subordinate. But I’m not going to let you just pull another bullshit stunt like this.”

His expression darkened just a fraction. “You’re stubborn,” Smoker said quietly, more statement than insult. “And reckless. And still, after everything, you come here anyway. You confront me. You argue. You care more than you want to admit. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

Oh how you wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t know what he was talking about. But quite frankly, you couldn’t. There was a truth in his words you couldn’t deny, a quiet pull in your chest that made your hands tremble slightly as you gripped the edge of his desk again. For years, frustration, pride, and a confusing mix of affection and anger had coiled inside you and now they were all tangled and impossible to separate.

“God, I hate that I even notice,” you muttered, voice low, almost a whisper. “I hate that it bothers me when you push yourself this hard. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

Smoker leaned forwards in his chair, cigar long forgotten, eyes locked on you. “…Figures,” he said simply, but there was a weight behind it which spoke volumes. “You’ve always been too stubborn to ignore what matters.”

And there it was. The pause. The acknowledgment of something neither of you had said out loud yet, a fragile, tense bridge between years of rivalry, frustration, and unspoken care. Despite yourself, your heart twisted painfully. You wanted to scold him, to shake him, to tell him to rest. But you also wanted to stay in this weird space, where you could hold the line between argument and care, keeping that distance you had built up over the years. Because, distance was familiar, it felt safe there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just studying the other’s face. There was something between you now that was as fragile as it was undeniable.

“You get… invested,” Smoker stated, eyes dancing across your features like he was observing you in a new light. “You’ve always done that, haven’t you?”

“I—” You hesitated, furious with yourself for faltering. “Maybe I do. So what? Doesn’t mean—” Your voice faltered, drowned by the overwhelming mix of feelings regarding the Captain across from you. “Doesn’t mean anything!”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Smoker repeated slowly, almost a whisper, though his gaze still never left yours. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something unreadable. The smoke drifted between you, thick and suffocating, yet somehow lighter now, as though acknowledging the fragility of this moment. His chair creaked as he leaned his elbows on the wooden desk, the ash from his cigar falling unnoticed onto the scattered reports beneath it.

“I don’t regret any of the choices I made back then.” he admitted finally, voice low. You froze, his words breaking through the silence and striking you like a physical blow. “…What?” you muttered, not really having expected him to address the matter directly.

“I would do it the same way all over again.” he said, tone sharp now, the tension in his voice tightening as he remembered the events. You could feel hot rage bubbling up in your blood as you tightened your grip on the edge of his desk.

“Oh yeah, that’s not surprising.” You seethed, the tremor in your voice betraying all the emotions you had bottled up for years. “Of course you enjoy all the honor and respect you’ve been shown, and the fact that you hardly had to do anything to earn the glory. Suddenly morale doesn’t matter when it comes to feeding the Captain’s huge ego—”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about the recognition!”

The Captain, who had been sitting at his desk until now, was suddenly standing. The abrupt movement sending his chair scooting back against the wall.

You scoffed in disbelief, your hands finding their way to your hips. “Oh yeah, I am totally buying that ‘doing it all the same again’ doesn’t mean experiencing being admired and cheered by all your peers one more time.”

You almost flinched in surprise when a loud bang echoed through the office as Smoker’s hands suddenly slammed down on the tabletop; the cigar which had previously been resting between his fingers was now nearly crushed to ashes by the impact, and papers were sent scattering across the floor.

“It means that you’re still alive!” His voice was filled with exasperation and anger as it boomed through the space. The sheer volume of it making the windows rattle ever so slightly. You couldn’t move. It was as if not only your body, but also your soul had been frozen in place by the unexpected rawness of Smoker’s emotions.

“There was another shooter.” Smoker buried his face in his hands, as if they could shield him from reliving the memories of the past. Unsuccessfully attempting to steady himself with a deep breath. “Higher ground. You were in their line of sight. You would’ve never seen them until it was too late. I couldn’t risk it. I stepped in, because if I hadn’t, you would be dead.”

You winced at the gravity in his tone, the anger and resentment you’d carried for years warring violently with relief and something else—something that felt dangerously like gratitude. “You never told me,” you said in disbelief , a faint tremor betraying the whirlwind of emotion. The reality of your situation accompanied by the unmistakable sensation of regret. “You just let me hate you for it.”

Smoker shook his head, a humourless chuckle escaping his lips. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d argue. You’d insist you could handle it. You’d risk yourself to prove a point. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not then. Not ever.”

The confession, simple as it was, left your hands trembling. Your shoulders slumped slightly. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, voice low, but softer now, more vulnerable. He didn’t respond, just lifted his head to watch you once more, his eyes unreadable. For the first time in a long time, you realized he wasn’t pushing back to dominate you. He was… letting you stand there, letting you process everything, and somehow, that made the weight of the moment heavier.

“And you’re insufferable,” Smoker shot back, there was a spark in his tired eyes as a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You let out a baffled laugh, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. You weren’t quite sure what exactly you had expected when you had let Tashigi rope you into this situation. However, you most certainly hadn’t expected to have your whole world turned upside down on a random Wednesday.

“Still a nuisance,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“Still here,” Smoker said quietly, the smoldering intensity in his gaze unbroken, but something gentler, too, threading beneath it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to step closer, breaching the distance you had spent years building. Rounding the table, Smoker’s eyes followed your every move until you came to a halt right in front of him, looking up at the Captain. Whereas his posture could have potentially fooled the untrained eye, the exhaustion in his face was impossible to ignore. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you said, softer now, almost pleading. “You need rest.”

“I don’t need your concern,” he muttered, eyes locking onto yours, but the defiance was quieter than usual. “I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said firmly, your hand hesitantly finding his upper arm “Let me help. You’ve been at this for days. Let me help you with the paperwork. Just for a little while. Please.”

The sudden touch, had Smoker’s eyes flickering from your hand to your face. He was startled, as if the idea itself was foreign, almost indecent in its gentleness. A few seconds passed before a sigh of resignation escaped him.

“I suppose a little help can’t hurt.”

Reaching forward, he lifted the strap of your rifle, signalling you to take it off. Once you had slipped it off your shoulder, he took the rifle in his hand and moved to carefully lean it against the far end of the table. You smiled at the gesture, moving to pull his chair back into place.

“Sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Smoker grumbled, his voice amused this time instead of annoyed.

Shaking your head lightheartedly, you went back around the desk so you could take a seat in the chair opposite of his. But before you could sit down, you heard the disapproving click of the Captain’s tongue.

“You’re not much help to me if I have to keep passing the documents all the way across the table.”

You couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh at that, the sound making Smoker’s eyes sparkle with something warm and intense.

“Over here,” he motioned to the seat next to him. “Captain’s orders.”

And so you straightened back up again, grabbing the chair by the backrest and giving Smoker a mock salute before circling the table once more.

“Better?” You looked down at the captain as you came to a halt right next to him, a feigned seriousness in your eyes.

“Mhm, much,” he replied, his hands busy sorting the documents into two piles. Nodding to yourself with a small smile, you moved to sit down, ready to tackle the task at hand.

The desk was definitely not made for two people; the wood of the table offered your legs little room to move. But that was okay; you’d obviously been through worse with Smoker, so if it meant you could explore this new, unfamiliar territory with him, you were sure you could squeeze your legs into a tight space for a few hours.

And so you picked up the first document from the stack closest to you, ready to focus entirely on your task.

But before you’d even made it through the first paragraph, Smoker’s voice rang out again from his spot next to you.

“Turn your chair around.”

The command made you look away from the document to glance at Smoker. The man was trying his best not to acknowledge you, trying hard to come across as focused and nonchalant. However, for someone pretending to be focused on his reading, his eyes barely moved at all. Choosing to play into his act, you turned your chair so that now you were facing him instead of the table.

“I’m not quite sure how that’s supposed to help—” a yelp of surprise escaped your lips as Smoker’s arm suddenly reached down and lifted your legs onto his lap in one swift motion.

You quickly lifted the document back to your face to hide the crimson blush that had spread across your cheeks as a result of the action.

Ever the observant captain.

And even after your heartbeat had calmed down and you were able to focus on your reading again, you could still feel the weight of Smoker’s hand on your leg.

The gesture was so gentle and intimate, as if it came naturally to him.

As if your legs had always belonged on his lap.

As if the spot by his side had always belonged to you.