isa

general info

i write fanfiction, mostly for the matrix, mha, marvel, dc, jjk, star wars, etc!

requests: open!

🔞 this blog will contain nsfw content, so 18+ only. minors, please don’t interact!

feel free to send asks, comments, or just talk about characters with me, i love talking!

navigation: get to know me!, masterlist, masterlist 2

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include character(s), prompt or vibe, and any kinks/genres you want or don’t want

i write at my own pace. i might not get to every request, thank you for understanding!

i reserve the right to decline anything i’m uncomfortable with or not inspired by

if there isn't a fandom that you're interested in listed on my masterlist, that doesn't mean i won't write for it! ask me about it and i'll most likely add it if i know and enjoy!

i love juicy, tropey, slightly crazy ideas, so don’t hold back!!

Thanks for stopping by! 💕

you almost don’t recognize him in daylight.

no hoodie. no stage lights washing him out. no curtain of hair to hide behind.

just choso kamo in a loose gray t-shirt, leaning against a brick wall, waiting for you outside the little diner yuji swore had the best pancakes in the state.

you’re almost late.

he doesn’t comment. just gives you that look — the one that lingers like smoke — and holds the door open.

the bell jingles above you, and suddenly he’s… normal.

ordering black coffee. sitting in a cracked vinyl booth. squinting at the sunlight like it’s an unfamiliar key he doesn’t know how to play in.

and you can’t stop staring.

because he looks soft.

like a boy, not a frontman.

like someone who belongs to nobody but himself.

you talk about nothing at first.

maki’s terrible driving.

a weird guy at last night’s show who tried to climb on stage.

yuji nearly falling asleep during soundcheck.

but then you slide into something quieter. something not for anyone else to hear.

he’s looking at you over the rim of his coffee mug, thumb running over the chipped ceramic.

“you’re quieter in the morning,” he says.

you blink. “you’ve only seen me in the morning once.”

“once was enough.” his mouth curves. “you’re less… untouchable.”

your chest aches in a way you weren’t ready for.

you look down at your plate, at the way the syrup glints in the light, at anything but him.

“you ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t… this?” you ask.

his brows lift. “music?”

“yeah.”

he leans back, eyes on the window, as though the question’s been living in him longer than you knew.

“probably fixing cars. or tattooing. something with my hands.”

“you’d be good at that,” you say.

he looks back at you. his voice drops.

“i’m good at this, too.”

your lips part, but no words come out.

and suddenly the diner feels too warm, too small, too alive.

you end up outside after, walking nowhere in particular.

no disguises. no rushing. just the soft scrape of your shoes on pavement, the lazy pull of summer wind through his hair.

a couple stops him — not to gush about the band, just to ask for directions.

and you watch him smile. smile. wide and unguarded, showing a side of himself no stage ever sees.

he glances at you after they leave, like he’s embarrassed to have been seen being human.

“what?” he asks.

you shake your head. “nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“you’re different when you’re not hiding.”

he goes quiet at that.

then, almost too soft to catch:

“so are you.”

you end up at the park. sitting on the edge of a fountain, knees brushing, watching kids run through the grass while an old man feeds pigeons nearby.

he pulls something out of his pocket — a pack of gum, crumpled and half-empty. offers you a piece.

you take it.

“you ever think about what this is?” you ask, voice low.

“this?” he echoes.

“us.”

he doesn’t answer right away.

just leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking at the water ripple in the sun.

then —

“every second.”

you watch him, heart in your throat.

he looks back at you, mouth parting like he’s about to say something heavier. something dangerous.

but then a ball bounces near your feet, and a kid comes running, and the spell breaks.

he leans back, blinking against the sunlight.

“we should head back.”

you want to ask what he was going to say.

but you let it go.

for now.

on the walk back, he brushes your hand.

not by accident.

he doesn’t take it — not yet.

but he lets his knuckles linger against yours, and that feels louder than a kiss.

when you reach the hotel, he opens his mouth like he’s going to speak.

but instead, he just holds the door, watches you walk through, and murmurs,

“don’t disappear on me.”

you glance over your shoulder.

“don’t give me a reason to.”

the studio isn’t fancy.

a rented space with peeling foam on the walls, a busted couch, and a board that hums louder than it should.

but it’s private.

no bandmates. no crowd. just you and him and four walls that don’t know what they’re holding.

he’s already there when you arrive, guitar across his lap, head bent low.

it’s not a performance posture — it’s the way you sit when you’re trying to fix something fragile.

“you’re late,” he says without looking up.

“you didn’t tell me when to be here.”

he glances up at that.

and god, the look in his eyes — like you walked in carrying the exact chord he’s been trying to play all night.

“come here,” he says.

you sit on the floor across from him, knees almost touching.

no words for a minute — just the quiet shuffle of papers and the faint hum of an amp running too long.

he’s been writing. you can see it in the mess: napkins covered in lines, scraps torn from notebooks, ink smeared where his palm dragged across half-finished lyrics.

“play it,” you say softly.

he doesn’t ask which.

he just starts.

it’s raw.

unfinished.

more emotion than structure, the kind of song that would fall apart in anyone else’s hands.

but his voice —

low, cracked, steady in all the right places —

turns it into something holy.

“you’re the quiet i can’t turn down

the hum in my chest when the lights go out

you’re the one note i always bend

and pray it doesn’t break.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until you feel it on your lip.

you swipe it away quick, but he notices.

he always notices.

“too much?” he asks.

“not enough,” you whisper.

he exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding something in all night.

you sit closer now.

not on purpose — or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

but your knees are touching. and his hand is so close to yours on the floor you can feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“you’re gonna ruin me with this one,” you murmur.

he shakes his head.

“nah. you’re gonna ruin me.”

your throat goes tight.

you try to joke it off — “bold of you to assume i haven’t already” — but your voice comes out soft.

too soft.

and his expression changes.

like he’s hearing the truth under everything you’re not saying.

he puts the guitar down.

leans forward.

“can i ask you something?” he says.

“anything.”

“why are you still here?”

you frown. “what do you mean?”

“you could follow anyone. i see the way people look at you at shows. you don’t need to be chasing after a guy who barely keeps his strings in tune.”

you swallow.

“maybe i’m not chasing.”

he goes very still at that.

eyes dark. searching.

“then what are you doing?”

“waiting.”

the air between you feels electric.

not the sharp kind — not stage-light lightning —

but the kind you feel before a storm, when everything’s humming just under your skin.

“waiting for what?” he asks.

“for you to stop acting like you’re not worth it.”

he stares at you, breath caught in his throat.

and you know if either of you moves an inch, this whole thing tips over into something neither of you can pull back from.

he doesn’t kiss you.

you don’t kiss him.

but he reaches out.

twines his fingers with yours, slow and sure.

and you sit there like that for a long time —

hand in hand, knees touching, no words, no music.

just the sound of the amp buzzing,

and your pulse beating way too fast,

and the terrifying, beautiful realization that this isn’t just yearning anymore.

this is real.

you stay later than you planned.

you only meant to hear one song, maybe two. but then he pulled out another page, another chord, another fragment of something he swore wasn’t ready. and you couldn’t leave.

by two a.m., your head’s resting against the torn arm of the studio couch, feet curled beneath you.

by three, your eyes slip closed while he’s still bent over his guitar, humming something that hasn’t found words yet.

you don’t hear him stop playing.

but you feel it — the shift in the air when his attention turns from music to you.

choso sets his guitar down like it’s glass.

crosses the floor in soft steps.

he doesn’t touch you — not yet.

just crouches by the couch, watching the way your lips part slightly when you breathe, the soft furrow between your brows even in sleep.

he wonders if you’re dreaming.

if it’s about him.

his hand hovers, almost brushing your knee, before he pulls it back like it burned him.

instead, he reaches for the blanket crumpled by your feet.

lays it over you carefully.

and then… he just sits there.

writing.

humming.

letting your quiet fill the room louder than anything he could play.

when you wake, it’s still dark — but there’s a different kind of quiet.

the amp’s off. the guitar’s leaned against the wall.

and choso’s on the floor, back against the couch, head tilted, eyes closed.

a notebook balanced on his knee, pen still in hand.

you shift, blanket sliding, and his eyes open instantly.

“did i fall asleep?” you mumble.

“yeah.” his voice is soft, still scratchy from hours of singing under his breath.

“sorry,” you add.

“don’t be.” he leans back against the couch again. “you… uh. you were out cold. i didn’t want to wake you.”

you blink, still half-dreaming. “what time is it?”

“almost five.”

you sit up, rubbing your eyes. “did you stay up all night?”

“had to finish something,” he says.

but there’s a tension in his voice, like “something” really means “everything i’m too scared to say.”

you glance at the notebook in his lap.

“can i see?”

he hesitates.

then turns it around, slow.

the lyrics are rough. scribbled. but you can make them out.

“you’re the silence between my sentences

you’re the hum in the wires when the room goes dead

you’re the thing i’d ruin just to hold—

but i don’t want to ruin you.”

your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

“this is about me,” you say quietly.

he doesn’t deny it.

just looks at you — unflinching, raw.

“everything’s about you now.”

the words hang there, heavy as feedback hum.

and for a second, neither of you breathes.

you slide off the couch, sit beside him on the floor. knees pressed together.

“that’s dangerous,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the silence between you feels louder than any song.

and when he finally speaks again, his voice cracks just enough to sound like a confession:

“i don’t know if i’m writing this because i need to say it… or because i’m scared to.”

you swallow. “say what?”

his hand twitches on his knee, like he wants to reach for you.

instead, he looks down, lashes shadowing his eyes.

“that i’m already in too deep.”

you don’t look away.

you don’t give him an easy out.

“then drown,” you whisper.

he finally looks at you — really looks — and it feels like the whole room tilts.

he still doesn’t kiss you.

but his hand finds yours, slow, deliberate, until your fingers are tangled in the dim studio light.

and it feels louder than any chorus he’s ever played.

you can tell something’s off the second you see him.

he’s quieter than usual before the show — but not the tired kind of quiet.

the charged kind. like every thought in his head is fighting to get out at once.

yuji cracks jokes in the green room. maki scrolls her phone. but choso just sits on a battered amp, guitar in his lap, thumb running over the same string until it squeaks.

his leg keeps bouncing.

“you good?” you murmur, low enough for only him to hear.

he glances up.

“ask me after the set.”

the venue is packed. low ceilings, hot lights, air so thick with sweat and sound it almost buzzes. you’re wedged near the stage, shoulder against a speaker, close enough to see every twitch of his fingers on the frets.

the first few songs are loud, fast, familiar. you mouth the words without thinking. the crowd shouts them back, bodies moving like one big living thing.

but then the lights shift. dimmer. sharper.

and he steps up to the mic alone.

“this one’s new,” he says, voice even.

“not on the setlist. not on the record. not… for anyone except one person.”

your stomach drops.

oh.

he starts to play.

you know it instantly.

the song from the studio.

the one he wrote around you while you slept.

but it’s changed. fuller. louder. less fragile, more sure.

“you’re the hum i can’t turn down

the break in the sound i can’t fix

if i’m wrecking, i’m wrecking on purpose—

if i’m ruined, i’m ruined for this.”

he doesn’t take his eyes off the crowd, but you feel every line like it’s burning straight through your skin.

a thousand strangers screaming and not one of them knowing it’s yours.

when it ends, the room explodes — cheers, whistles, phones in the air.

but choso just steps back, face unreadable, like he’s given away something he can’t take back.

you don’t wait for him after the set.

he finds you first, pushing through the hall outside the stage door, still sweating, still breathless.

“what the hell was that?” you ask, voice low, sharp.

“a song,” he says simply.

“that wasn’t just a song, choso.”

he leans against the wall, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded but burning.

“yeah,” he says finally. “it wasn’t.”

your pulse stutters.

you take a step closer, heat rolling off him in waves.

“you just told a whole room you’re—”

“in too deep?” he cuts in, voice rough.

your breath catches.

“you said that, not me."

“doesn’t make it less true.”

you’re too close now.

the hallway feels too small.

his shirt clings to him, damp with sweat, and you swear you can feel the heat of his chest from here.

“you can’t keep doing this,” you whisper.

“doing what?”

“writing me into every chord and then acting like it’s nothing.”

he straightens, eyes locked on yours, voice low enough to shake.

“you think it’s nothing?”

you open your mouth — but no words come out.

and he steps closer.

so close the wall’s at your back, his breath warm against your cheek.

he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t dare.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you can’t.

“choso…”

“just say it once and i’ll leave you alone.”

but your silence says everything.

his forehead presses to yours, slow, careful.

his lips hover so close it aches.

“do you want this?” he whispers.

your voice barely works.

“yes.”

his breath shudders out of him.

but instead of kissing you, his hand finds your hip, slow, reverent, thumb pressing just enough to make you feel dizzy.

“then let me do it right,” he says.

like a promise. like a threat to himself more than you.

he doesn’t kiss you in that hallway.

he just walks you out the back door, hand barely brushing yours, the tension strung so tight it’s almost unbearable.

but you can feel it in the way his fingers linger at your side.

next time, he’s not stopping.

it doesn’t happen fast.

it never could.

it happens after the show, after the alley smoke clears, after everyone else goes home and the world feels a little too quiet.

you’re walking back to the hotel, side by side, the low hum of the city filling the spaces you don’t dare to.

he hasn’t stopped looking at you since the set — not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it in the air, the way it tightens every time you glance up and catch him.

“you’re quiet,” you murmur.

he shakes his head. “no. just… loud inside.”

the hotel room is dim when you get there.

curtains drawn, streetlight seeping through in pale gold slits.

he locks the door behind you, then stands there like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.

you kick off your shoes.

drop your bag.

look at him.

“are you gonna play me something?” you ask.

your voice is soft, teasing, but it lands too heavy.

“not tonight.” his voice is rough. “i don’t have the words for this.”

“for what?”

“for you.”

you don’t remember crossing the space between you — only that you’re suddenly close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, close enough to see the pulse jump in his throat.

“you’re sure?” you whisper.

he exhales like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“been sure since the first time you looked at me.”

his hands hover at your hips, not touching yet, trembling like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard.

“kiss me, choso,” you murmur.

he does.

it’s not frantic.

it’s not careless.

it’s slow — unbearably slow — the kind of kiss that feels like he’s memorizing your mouth, like every second apart has been building to this exact moment.

his lips move against yours like music, like a verse he’s rewriting in real time, tasting every syllable.

when his hands finally settle on your waist, they’re gentle, reverent — like he’s holding something fragile.

like you’re not a person but a song he can’t afford to get wrong.

you fist your hands in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left, until you can feel his heartbeat thudding through fabric and bone.

he breaks the kiss just to breathe against your jaw, voice ragged.

“god, i’ve wanted this—”

“show me,” you whisper.

he walks you backward toward the bed, lips never leaving your skin — jaw, throat, the soft curve beneath your ear.

it’s not rushed.

he treats every inch of you like a lyric, every sound you make like a hook he needs to hear again.

when he lays you down, his forehead rests against yours for a long moment, breath shaky.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

“you could never be too much.”

the way he kisses you after that feels like an answer to something neither of you dared to ask out loud.

he doesn’t take your clothes off at first.

he maps you through them — palms sliding slow over your sides, thumbs tracing your ribs, fingers curling reverently over your hips like he’s learning your shape by heart.

you can feel the weight of everything he’s been holding back in every touch.

no hurry. no wasted motion.

just worship.

it takes forever to get to skin, and somehow it’s still not long enough.

his lips trail lower, his hands everywhere at once but never rough, never grabbing — just holding, tasting, savoring.

“you’re unreal,” he breathes, voice so low it’s almost broken.

“so are you,” you whisper back, tugging his hair until he groans.

the sound rips through you like feedback hum.

when it finally happens — when clothes are gone, when there’s nothing between you but heat and want — it’s not messy or careless or frantic.

it’s slow.

agonizingly slow.

like he’s determined to memorize every second, every gasp, every way you tremble under his hands.

like he’s writing another song, and this time the lyrics are your name.

after, you’re tangled in sheets and breath and silence, his face buried against your neck.

“you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod against his hair, fingers sliding through it.

“you?”

he laughs, low and shaky, like he doesn’t trust it.

“no. i’m… ruined.”

and you smile, because you are too.

you wake to warmth.

not the sharp heat of stage lights or crowded rooms. not the thin burn of neon buzzing over a parking lot.

this is softer. thicker.

the kind of warmth that smells like skin and faint detergent and something sweeter — sleep-heavy and unguarded.

the curtains are half‑open, spilling gold light over the tangled sheets. your legs are twisted with his. his arm draped over your waist like he fell asleep mid‑promise.

choso sleeps like he lives — intense even at rest, brow faintly furrowed as though he’s still listening to something only he can hear.

you lie there for a while, just watching. the slow rise and fall of his chest. the soft strands of hair fallen into his face. the faint smudge of eyeliner he didn’t bother to wipe off last night.

it feels unreal. like you’ve stepped into a photograph you’re not supposed to touch.

when you shift slightly, his arm tightens automatically, pulling you closer without waking up all the way.

“don’t,” he mutters, voice gravel‑low. “too early to run.”

you almost laugh. “not running.”

his eyes blink open slowly — heavy‑lidded, unfocused at first, until they find you.

and then he smiles. not a stage‑smile. not sharp or practiced.

a real one. soft at the edges. sleepy.

“morning,” he rasps.

you hum a quiet greeting, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

for a while, neither of you moves.

you lie there in the hush of early light, trading small nothings: how late it is, how bad his hair looks, how you’re both sore in ways that make you grin instead of wince.

but then your hand drifts down — unthinking — over his chest, over the dip of his ribs.

his breath catches almost imperceptibly.

you glance up.

he’s watching you now, fully awake, gaze darker than morning should allow.

“careful,” he murmurs. “you start something, i’m not stopping.”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “and if i don’t want you to stop?”

something in him shifts at that — subtle but seismic.

his fingers slide up your side, slow enough to make your skin prickle, tracing the shape of your waist through the thin sheet.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he says quietly. “you know that, right?”

the air goes thicker.

time slows the way it always does when two people know exactly what’s coming and neither of them wants to rush.

he kisses you lazily at first — still tasting of sleep, lips soft and unhurried — but it deepens fast, the kind of kiss that drags heat straight to your lungs.

his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while yours curl in his hair, tangling in soft, messy strands.

the sheet slips lower. so do his touches. every movement is unhurried but deliberate, like he’s memorizing each reaction — a scientist cataloging what makes you shiver, what makes your breath stutter.

you barely register when the kisses trail lower, when the soft light turns gold against bare skin.

it’s not frantic.

it’s reverent.

you feel him everywhere: his hands, his breath, his voice low and rough in your ear when he murmurs things that make your pulse skip.

the world narrows to this room, this bed, this impossible gravity between you — the way he treats your body like a song he’s determined to get exactly right.

you don’t notice when it tips from soft to something sharper — a build so slow it’s almost unbearable.

he keeps you there, hovering at that edge, like he wants this moment to last forever.

you can hear his breath catch against your shoulder.

feel his heartbeat where his chest presses yours.

his voice breaks on your name like static on a line.

when it finally crests — when that tension snaps and you’re both lost in it — it feels like the loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

after, the room is warm and still again.

your skin sticks faintly to his; his arm’s heavy around your waist.

he’s the first to speak, voice soft, as though the quiet might break if he’s too loud.

“you okay?”

you turn to face him. “more than okay.”

he studies you for a long second, thumb tracing a slow line along your hip.

“we need to talk about this,” he says finally.

“about what?” you ask, teasing — but there’s no real defense in your tone.

“about what we are.”

you sit up slightly, sheet dragging with you.

“okay,” you say. “what are we?”

he pushes himself up too, hair falling into his face, eyes steady on yours.

“i don’t want this to be casual,” he says. “i don’t… do casual. not with you.”

your chest tightens. “so what, you’re saying you’re mine now?”

his mouth curves — not a smile, exactly. something softer.

“been yours,” he admits. “just took me a while to say it out loud.”

you reach for his hand, fingers lacing with his.

“then i guess we’re on the same page.”

you stay in bed longer than you should, trading lazy kisses, sharing bad hotel coffee, making plans that don’t sound temporary anymore.

and when you finally leave the room, it’s with his hand in yours and no one bothering to pretend you’re not exactly what you both said you are.

yayy it's the end…!! honestly i wasn't sure how to end this bcs i got a wee bit bored…! nonetheless i hope this little mini fic was enjoyablee and thank yewww for reading mwah!

the world has always felt heavier to you than to others. growing up in a crumbling apartment in london’s east end, you were a child of quiet corners, sketching feverishly to escape the shouting matches between your parents.

your mother, a painter who never sold a canvas, taught you to see beauty in decay—rusted pipes, peeling wallpaper, the way light fractured through cracked windows. your father, a dockworker with calloused hands and a temper, saw your art as a waste, a childish indulgence. when you were fourteen, he left, and your mother spiraled into addiction, her vibrant spirit fading until she overdosed when you were seventeen.

the grief carved a hollow in you, one you filled with charcoal and paint, your sketches becoming portals to worlds where pain could be reshaped into something bearable. but the dreams came too—vivid, relentless visions of shadowed figures, endless corridors, and a man with stars in his eyes who watched you from the edges of sleep.

you were twenty-eight when you first truly met him, though you didn’t know it then. your art had gained a cult following—galleries called your work “haunting,” your canvases filled with surreal landscapes that bled emotion: crimson skies over broken cities, figures dissolving into mist.

you’d moved to a small, cluttered studio flat, the walls covered in half-finished sketches, your nights plagued by dreams so potent they left you waking with charcoal-stained fingers, as if you’d been drawing in your sleep.

one night, after a gallery showing where a critic called your work “a glimpse into the subconscious,” you collapsed onto your bed, exhausted, only to find yourself standing in a vast, impossible library. shelves stretched into infinity, books whispering secrets, and there he was—morpheus, lord of dreams, his black coat blending into the shadows, his pale face sharp as moonlight, eyes like twin galaxies fixed on you.

“you’ve been painting my realm,” he said, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated through your bones. you froze, heart pounding, unsure if this was a dream or something more. he stepped closer, holding one of your sketches—a canvas you’d painted of a raven perched on a shattered throne, one you swore you’d never shown anyone. “how do you see this?” he asked, not accusing but curious, his gaze piercing. you stammered about your dreams, how they spilled onto your canvas unbidden, how they felt like memories of places you’d never been. he listened, silent, his presence overwhelming yet magnetic, like standing at the edge of a storm. “you tread dangerously close to my domain,” he warned, but there was no malice, only a flicker of intrigue. he vanished, leaving you to wake with a start, your sketchbook open to a new drawing of his face, one you didn’t remember creating.

weeks passed, and the dreams grew more vivid. you saw him again and again—in a garden of glass flowers, on a beach where the sea sang laments, in a city where stars fell like rain. each encounter was brief, his words sparse but heavy, always laced with a question: why do you create? why do you mourn?

you told him of your mother, her art, her death; of the loneliness that clung to you like damp rot; of how painting was the only way you could breathe. he shared fragments in return—his endless duty to shape dreams, the weight of eternity, the loss of his son, orpheus, a wound that never closed. you felt a kinship, two souls bound by creation and loss, though he was endless, and you were fleeting.

your waking life blurred with the dreaming. you painted obsessively, your work growing darker, more intricate—canvases of morpheus himself, his form woven into tapestries of shadow and starlight. critics raved, but you barely noticed, consumed by the need to capture him. he appeared in your studio one night, not a dream but real, his presence chilling the air.

“you summon me with your art,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “do you know the cost?” you didn’t care. you invited him to sit, offered him tea—a absurdly human gesture for a god. he declined but stayed, watching as you painted, his silence a weight you craved. nights like this became routine, him appearing unannounced, you sharing stories of your life, him offering glimpses of his endless existence. he spoke of his siblings, destiny and death, of his imprisonment by mortals decades ago, the scars it left.

you showed him your mother’s old sketchbook, the pages brittle but alive with her spirit. he touched one, and for a moment, his eyes softened, a god touched by mortal grief.

the tension built slowly, a thread pulled taut. his visits grew longer, his gaze lingering on your hands, your lips, the way you moved when lost in your work. you felt it too—the pull of him, not just his power but the man beneath, lonely and vast, a storm contained in flesh.

one night, after a dream where you walked hand-in-hand through a forest of mirrors, you woke to find him standing by your bed, his coat discarded, his shirt open at the collar, exposing pale skin. “why do you draw me?” he asked, voice raw. you admitted the truth: because he was the only thing that felt real anymore, because your dreams of him were the only place you felt whole. he stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek, cool and electric. “you are mortal,” he murmured, a warning, a plea. “and you are endless,” you replied, fearless.

he kissed you then, and it was like drowning in starlight. his lips were cold, then warm, tasting of night air and something ancient, his hands framing your face with a reverence that made your chest ache. you pulled him closer, fingers tangling in his dark hair, the world narrowing to the heat of his breath, the press of his body. he lifted you onto the bed, his movements deliberate, worshipful, as if you were a dream he feared would fade. your shirt fell away, his hands tracing every curve, every scar, his lips following, mapping your skin like a sacred text.

you gasped as he pressed himself against you, the hard lines of him grounding you in a way nothing else could. “tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice trembling with restraint, but you didn’t. you wanted this, wanted him, wanted to burn in the fire of his touch.

the night unfolded in a haze of sensation—his fingers digging into your hips, your nails scoring his back, the rhythm of your bodies a dance older than time. he whispered your name like a prayer, his eyes locked on yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. it was more than physical; it was a merging of souls, your mortal heart entwining with his endless one.

when you climaxed, it felt like the universe shuddered, his release following, a quiet groan against your neck as he held you close, trembling. afterward, you lay tangled in sheets, his arm around you, the silence heavy with unspoken truths. he spoke of the dreaming’s fragility, how his absence could unravel it, how your love, however real, was a thread he couldn’t fully grasp. you traced the lines of his face, memorizing him, knowing this couldn’t last but refusing to let go.

dawn crept in, gray and unforgiving. he dressed slowly, his coat slipping back on like armor. “i cannot stay,” he said, and you nodded, tears burning but unshed. he kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then vanished, leaving only the scent of night and a new sketch in your book—a portrait of you, asleep, drawn in his hand.

the dreams didn’t stop, but they changed, tinged with longing, each one a reminder of the night you’d claimed each other. you painted on, your art now a bridge between worlds, a testament to a love that defied the boundaries of dream and reality, eternal yet impossibly fleeting.

yippee yippee i loveddd writing this omhmg. im trying something different recently so that my writing seems longer and more put together lmk...

the sun hung low over the horizon in hau’oli city, casting long shadows across the sandy beaches and the modest homes that dotted the alolan landscape. it was a typical evening in the region, where the air carried the faint scent of saltwater and blooming plumeria flowers. professor samuel kukui, known to most simply as professor kukui, was winding down after a long day at his lab. at thirty-something, with his sun-tanned skin, muscular build from years of pokemon battles and fieldwork, and that signature lab coat often thrown over casual island attire, he was a beloved figure in alola. his passion for pokemon moves and his role as a mentor to young trainers like ash ketchum had made him a local celebrity. but tonight, he was alone in his beachside home, a cozy two-story bungalow with large windows overlooking the ocean. his wife, professor burnet, was away on a research trip to another island, and his rockruff was out for a walk with a neighbor. kukui poured himself a glass of fresh pinap juice, settling into his living room couch with a stack of research papers on z-moves.

little did he know, you were watching from the shadows. you, a twenty-five-year-old drifter named alex, had arrived in alola a few months ago under false pretenses. born in the bustling streets of castelia city in unova, your life had been a series of misfortunes. orphaned young, you bounced between foster homes, learning early on that survival meant taking what you needed. petty thefts turned into bigger scores, and when the heat got too intense in unova, you hopped a ferry to alola, posing as a tourist. but money was tight, and desperation clawed at you. you’d heard rumors about kukui’s lab—valuable pokemon artifacts, rare items from his travels, and perhaps even some cash stashed away. breaking in seemed like a quick fix. you’d cased the place for days, noting his routines, the lack of heavy security (alolans were trusting folk), and tonight’s opportunity with burnet gone.

as dusk deepened into night, you slipped through the back door, picking the simple lock with practiced ease. your heart pounded, adrenaline sharpening your senses. you were dressed in black—hoodie, pants, gloves—to blend into the night. a backpack slung over your shoulder held tools: duct tape, zip ties, a small crowbar, and a poke ball containing your sneasel for quick escapes. the house was quiet, save for the distant crash of waves. you crept through the kitchen, eyes scanning for valuables. a glimmering z-crystal on a shelf caught your eye—jackpot. but as you reached for it, a floorboard creaked underfoot.

“who’s there?” kukui’s voice boomed from the living room, deep and authoritative, laced with the alolan accent that made him sound both friendly and formidable. he stood up, his tall frame filling the doorway, muscles tense under his white shirt and shorts. his dark hair was tousled, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

panic surged through you, but you adapted quickly. pulling a small knife from your pocket—not intending to use it lethally, but as a threat—you stepped into view. “don’t move, professor. this doesn’t have to get ugly. just hand over the valuables, and i’ll be gone.”

kukui’s eyes widened, but he didn’t back down. he raised his hands slowly, assessing you. “woah, cousin, easy there. you’re making a big mistake. pokemon league’s got eyes everywhere. put that down, and we can talk this out.”

you smirked, though nerves twisted your gut. “talk? nah, i’ve heard enough of your lectures on tv. empty your pockets, and show me where the good stuff is.”

he complied partially, tossing his wallet onto the floor, but his stance remained defiant. “that’s all i’ve got on me. lab’s got the real treasures, but it’s locked up tight. you think you can just waltz in here?”

frustration built. this wasn’t going as planned. you needed time to search properly, but with him alert, he’d call for help the moment you turned. an idea sparked—bind him, gag him, buy time. but making him do it himself? that added a layer of control, humiliation. you’d read about such tactics in old crime novels, a way to break someone’s spirit.

“alright, professor defiant. we’re doing this my way.” you gestured with the knife. “there’s duct tape in my bag. get it.”

kukui’s jaw set, eyes flashing. “you serious? i’m not helping you rob me.”

“do it, or things get painful.” you stepped closer, voice low and threatening.

reluctantly, he grabbed the tape from your backpack, his movements deliberate, as if buying time. “you’re gonna regret this, kid. alola’s not kind to thieves.”

“shut up.” you snatched a pair of his underwear from a nearby laundry basket—clean, but the intimacy of it would add to the degradation. “stuff this in your mouth.”

his face twisted in disgust and anger. “what? no way! that’s sick.”

“do it!” you barked, pressing the knife’s edge lightly against his arm, not cutting but implying.

kukui glared, defiance burning in his eyes. but self-preservation won out. he balled the underwear, shoving it into his mouth with a grimace. “mmph!” he muffled, the sound already garbled, tasting the fabric.

“good. now tape it shut. wrap it tight around your head, multiple layers. make sure it’s sealed.”

he hesitated, hands shaking slightly with rage. “mm nnph!” he protested through the stuffing, shaking his head.

“now!” you insisted.

grumbling incoherently—“ghmmph nn thmph!”—he tore off a strip of tape, pressing it over his lips, then wrapping it around his head several times. the tape stretched taut, sealing the underwear in place, compressing his cheeks. his breathing turned nasal, eyes shooting daggers at you.

“strip. everything off.”

“mmph?! nn wwy!” he mmph’ed vehemently, crossing his arms, body language screaming refusal.

you grabbed his shirt collar, yanking him close. “you think you’re in charge? strip, or i’ll do it for you—and it won’t be gentle.”

defiance lingered, but the knife’s proximity made him comply slowly. he peeled off his shirt, revealing his chiseled chest and abs, honed from years of training. then shorts, socks, until he stood naked, muscular form exposed, a flush of humiliation creeping up his neck. “ghrrph!” he growled through the gag, covering himself instinctively.

“hands off. now tie yourself up. use the zip ties—ankles together, wrists behind your back.”

“mm nnph hlp!” he protested, but picked up the ties. he sat on the floor, looping a tie around his ankles, pulling it tight with a zip sound. then, awkwardly, he maneuvered his hands behind, securing his wrists. click. bound and gagged, naked on his living room floor, kukui glared up at you, mmphing defiantly. “yw’ll ghth cghth!”

satisfaction washed over you. now, time to search. but as you rifled through drawers, pocketing cash, z-crystals, and rare poke balls, a darker impulse stirred. kukui was attractive—strong, defiant. the power dynamic thrilled you. robbery could wait; this could be more.

your plan crystallized. burnet was away for a week. kukui’s students expected him at the lab tomorrow, but you could impersonate him via text or calls, citing illness. his phone was in your hands now. you’d keep him here, hidden, over days, indulging while ensuring no suspicion.

that first night, you dragged him to his bedroom upstairs, the house dark and isolated. he struggled, mmphing protests—“ltt mh gh!”—but bound, he could only wriggle. you dumped him on the bed, securing his ankles to the bedpost with more tape, wrists to the headboard. his naked body stretched out, muscles straining, a bead of sweat trickling down his torso.

“comfy, professor?” you taunted, running a hand along his thigh. he jerked away, moaning angrily. “nnph! ght ff mh!”

ignoring him, you explored his body slowly, fingers tracing his abs, teasing his nipples until they hardened. he arched, defiant moans turning involuntary. “mmph… ghnn…”

as the night wore on, you escalated. stripping your own clothes, you straddled him, grinding against his hardening length despite his protests. “yw’r shck!” he mmph’ed, but his body betrayed him, hips bucking slightly.

you lubed up—finding some in his drawer—and entered him slowly, savoring his muffled cries. “ghmmph! nn… ahhnn…” pain mixed with unwanted pleasure, his defiance cracking into moans as you thrust deeper, building a rhythm. the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, his gagged pleas, your grunts.

hours passed in a haze of intimacy. you edged him, denying release, then finally allowing it, his body shuddering, moaning through the tape—“mmmnnn!”—as he came. exhausted, you untaped his gag briefly to feed him water, but he spat defiance. “you won’t get away with this, cousin. someone’ll notice.”

“oh, i have a plan,” you whispered, re-gagging him tighter, with fresh tape over the soiled underwear.

day one dawned with sunlight filtering through curtains. kukui woke bound, aching, mmphing groggily. “whth thph hll…”

you’d sent texts from his phone: “feeling under the weather, cousins. lab’s closed today. rest up!” to his students and friends. no immediate replies raised alarms.

you fed him breakfast—mashed fruits through a straw poked under the tape—while he glared. “eat, or starve.” he complied reluctantly, mmphing complaints.

the day dragged with more exploration. you massaged his sore muscles, turning therapeutic touches intimate, stroking him to hardness. “mmph… stph!” but his moans grew horny, “ahhnn… ghmm…”

you took him again, this time face-to-face, kissing the tape over his lips as you pounded. his defiance waned into conflicted pleasure, body responding eagerly.

by afternoon, you unbound his legs temporarily, forcing him to walk around the house naked, gagged, hands tied. he tried to bolt, but you tackled him, manhandling him back. “bad boy.” punishment: spanking his ass red, each smack eliciting “ghmp!” moans.

even manhandled, he gave attitude, headbutting you lightly, mmphing taunts. “yw’r wwk!”

evening brought a bath—you washed him thoroughly, soaping every inch, fingering him under water. he moaned loudly, “mmmnn… nnph!” horny despite himself.

night two: more texts sent, “still sick, might need a few days.” a friend replied concerned, but you assured as kukui.

intimacy intensified. you edged him for hours with toys from his secret drawer—vibrators, plugs—his moans constant, “ghnnn… plsh… mmph!”

day two blended into three. routine set: feed, tease, fuck, rest. kukui’s defiance persisted—attempted escapes, biting at tape—but weakened by pleasure. you’d re-gag him daily, forcing new underwear stuffing, tape fresh.

by day three, suspicion loomed. a student knocked, but you hid kukui in the closet, bound tighter, mmphing muffled. “mmph! hlp!”

you answered the door as a “friend,” sending them away.

intimacy peaked: marathon sessions, multiple positions, his body slick with sweat, moans passionate. “ahhnn… yw bsthrd… mmnnn!”

day four: burnet texted return plans. panic. but you’d grown attached to this control. final acts: intense, loving almost, despite non-con roots.

as days ended, you planned escape, leaving him bound for discovery, but the passion lingered, a twisted bond formed in captivity’s shadows. kukui, defiant to the end, mmph’ed one last curse as you vanished into the night.

mm idk how i feel about this, i kind of rushed it because it took me so long to get to it and i felt bad 😞 i hope this turned out how you imagined, and thank you soooso much for the request! i hope you enjoyed 🩷

in the bustling streets of domino city, where the echoes of ancient duels still lingered in the air like whispers from the pharaoh’s tomb, joey wheeler had carved out a life far removed from his teenage escapades. now twenty-five, with broad shoulders honed from years of street fights and gym sessions, his golden-blond hair still tousled in that rebellious way, joey had traded the intensity of duel monsters tournaments for a more grounded existence. he worked as a mechanic in a small garage on the outskirts of the city, fixing motorcycles and cars with the same fiery determination he once poured into his red-eyes black dragon. life was simple, predictable—nights spent with friends like yugi and tristan, sharing beers and reminiscing about the good old days, or occasional dates that never quite ignited the spark he craved. but deep down, joey felt a restlessness, a void that no amount of oil changes or friendly banter could fill. he yearned for adventure, for something exotic that would pull him out of the mundane.

it was on a sweltering august afternoon, as joey wiped sweat from his brow under the hood of a vintage harley, that the invitation arrived. a courier, dressed in an oddly ornate robe that shimmered like desert sands, handed him a gilded envelope sealed with a wax emblem resembling a lamp. “for mr. joey wheeler,” the man said in a thick accent, bowing slightly before vanishing into the crowd. curious, joey tore it open, revealing a parchment that smelled faintly of jasmine and sandalwood. the script was elegant, almost ancient: “dear esteemed guest, you have been selected for an exclusive retreat at the enchanted sands spa, a hidden oasis inspired by the tales of aladdin. indulge in luxuries fit for a sultan, where every desire is anticipated. transportation provided. rsvp enclosed.”

joey chuckled at first, thinking it was a prank from seto kaiba—maybe the billionaire’s idea of a joke. but the rsvp card included a private jet ticket to cairo, and after a quick call to yugi, who encouraged him to go (“you deserve a break, joey!”), he packed a bag. what harm could a free spa trip do? little did he know, this was no ordinary vacation; it was a trap woven from silk and shadows, designed by a mysterious benefactor who had watched joey’s duels from afar, coveting his spirited energy for a more… intimate purpose.

the flight was luxurious, first-class with champagne flowing like the nile, but as the plane descended over the endless dunes, joey felt a twinge of unease. a sleek black suv awaited him at the airport, driven by a silent chauffeur who navigated the desert roads with eerie precision. hours passed, the sun dipping low, painting the sands in hues of gold and crimson, until they arrived at a sprawling palace that seemed to rise from the mirage itself. towering minarets pierced the sky, walls adorned with intricate mosaics of genies and flying carpets. “welcome to enchanted sands,” a voice boomed as joey stepped out, greeted by a line of attendants dressed in flowing silks—young men, all in their early twenties, with lithe bodies draped in translucent veils, jewels glinting on their bare chests. they were the harem boys, though joey didn’t know it yet: ahmed, with his dark curls and olive skin; farid, slender and graceful with eyes like polished onyx; and karim, whose smile held a seductive promise. each wore golden bangles and anklets, but hidden beneath their garments were golden chastity cages, ornate devices that locked away their desires, ensuring their obedience.

flanking them were the palace guards—older, rugged men in their thirties and forties, clad in leather harnesses and kilts that accentuated their muscular builds. unlike the harem boys, these guards were not hypnotized; they were the enforcers, chosen for their strength and loyalty. captain rashid, broad-chested with a thick beard and scars from untold battles, led them. his second, omar, had piercing green eyes and a voice like thunder. they watched over the harem with unyielding vigilance, their presence a mix of protection and possession.

“mr. wheeler, we are honored,” said ahmed, bowing low, his veil slipping slightly to reveal a nipple pierced with gold. “please, follow us to your chambers.” joey, flustered by the opulence and the attendants’ beauty, nodded, his cheeks flushing. the palace interior was a dream: marble floors cooled by hidden mists, fountains bubbling with scented waters, and air heavy with incense. his room was a suite fit for royalty—a massive bed draped in silks, a private bath with steaming pools, and a balcony overlooking endless sands.

the first activity was a welcoming massage. guided to a dimly lit chamber, joey stripped down to a provided robe, his toned body—scarred from duels and fights—gleaming under the torchlight. ahmed and farid attended him, their hands oiled and expert, kneading his shoulders with rhythmic precision. “relax, master joey,” farid whispered, his breath warm against joey’s ear. as they worked, karim entered with a crystal singing bowl, striking it gently with a mallet. the sound resonated, a pure, humming tone that vibrated through joey’s bones. captain rashid stood in the shadows, his deep voice intoning, “let go of your worries. sink deeper.” joey felt a strange calm wash over him, his mind fogging slightly, but he dismissed it as relaxation. the massage deepened, hands gliding over his chest, teasing lower, but stopping short of intimacy. “this is just the beginning,” ahmed murmured.

afterward, refreshed yet oddly drowsy, joey dined in the grand hall. feasts of lamb tagine, couscous, and honeyed dates were served by the harem boys, who danced gracefully around him, their bodies swaying to lute music. the guards watched, rashid’s eyes lingering on joey with a predatory gleam. as dessert arrived—pistachio baklava—karim struck the singing bowl again. the tone pierced the air, and omar commanded, “feel the warmth spread. embrace the submission.” joey’s vision blurred momentarily, a wave of arousal stirring unbidden. he shook it off, attributing it to the wine, but deep inside, the hypnosis had planted its first seed.

the next morning began with a steam bath. joey entered the hammam, a cavernous room filled with billowing vapors, tiled in azure mosaics. the harem boys awaited, naked save for their golden cages—intricate devices of filigreed gold that encased their manhoods, locked with tiny keys held by the guards. ahmed’s cage gleamed against his smooth skin, a symbol of his denied pleasure. “join us,” farid invited, helping joey disrobe. the steam enveloped them, hot and enveloping, as they scrubbed joey’s body with loofahs soaked in rose oil. hands explored every inch—his strong thighs, the curve of his ass, the hardening length between his legs. joey gasped, aroused, but the boys only teased, their own cages preventing full engagement. karim struck the bowl, the sound echoing off the walls, and rashid’s voice boomed, “surrender to the touch. your body craves obedience.” joey’s resistance waned; he leaned into their caresses, his mind hazy.

as the bath progressed, the intimacy escalated. ahmed knelt before joey, lips brushing his inner thigh, while farid massaged his back, fingers dipping between his cheeks. karim’s tongue flicked over joey’s nipples, eliciting moans. the singing bowl hummed persistently, each strike deepening the trance. omar stepped forward, his massive frame imposing, and whispered commands: “feel the lock in your mind. desire builds, but release is forbidden.” joey, entranced, allowed them to fit him with a golden cage—cold metal encasing his erection, clicking shut with a finality that sent shivers through him. “beautiful,” rashid growled, his hand cupping joey’s caged form.

the afternoon brought oil wrestling in a sunlit courtyard. the harem boys, oiled and slick, demonstrated first—ahmed and farid grappling, bodies sliding in erotic tangles, cages clinking. joey joined, his skin glistening, muscles flexing as he wrestled karim. the contact was electric—sweat-slicked skin, grunts of effort, accidental brushes against caged arousals. the guards circled, rashid barking encouragement. midway, the bowl sang, and omar’s command: “submit to the hold. your will bends.” joey found himself pinned, karim’s body atop his, their cages grinding together in frustrated need. passion ignited; lips met in fevered kisses, hands roaming freely. but the cages denied climax, building tension like a storm.

evening fell with a ritual dance. in a chamber lit by flickering lamps, the harem boys performed, veils swirling, hips undulating in hypnotic rhythms. joey watched, caged and aching, as they invited him to join. guided by ahmed, he learned the steps—sensual sways, teasing reveals. the bowl resonated, rashid commanding, “dance for your masters. obedience is pleasure.” joey’s movements grew fluid, his body surrendering to the trance. the guards approached, omar pulling joey close, his rough hands exploring, fingers probing joey’s entrance with oiled precision. “good boy,” he rumbled, as joey moaned, the hypnosis deepening.

night deepened into orgiastic indulgence. led to the harem quarters—a lush den of cushions and silks—the group converged. the harem boys serviced joey first, mouths and hands worshipping his caged form, tongues lapping at the bars. then, the guards took charge. rashid, stripping his kilt to reveal his uncaged, throbbing manhood, positioned joey on all fours. “open for me,” he commanded, as the bowl hummed. joey, fully entranced, complied, his body yielding as rashid entered him slowly, inch by thick inch, the stretch burning into ecstasy. omar joined, his cock presented to joey’s lips, filling his mouth with salty heat. the harem boys participated, their caged arousals pressed against joey, hands stroking guards and each other.

the acts unfolded in exhaustive detail: rashid’s thrusts built from gentle rocks to pounding rhythms, each impact sending jolts through joey’s core, his prostate ignited. omar’s grip in joey’s hair guided deep throating, saliva dripping. ahmed and farid licked joey’s sides, nipples pinched, while karim fingered himself nearby, moaning in vicarious pleasure. switches occurred—joey riding omar, his caged cock bouncing futilely, as rashid claimed a harem boy. the air filled with grunts, slaps of skin, the incessant hum of the bowl reinforcing commands: “you are one of us now. harem boy forever.”

hours blurred, bodies entwined in every configuration—joey penetrated by guards while harem boys rimmed him, or in a chain where he fucked a boy anally (cages allowing partial access for penetration but denying erection). climaxes came for the guards, hot seed filling joey, marking his transformation. but for joey and the boys, denial heightened the passion, their minds locked in submissive bliss.

by dawn, joey was fully hypnotized, a harem boy in golden cage, serving with eager obedience. the enchanted sands had claimed him, his old life a distant dream, immersed forever in the palace’s erotic embrace.

gorgeous, beautiful, amazing. truly just sosoo fun to write. something a bit different that got me out of my comfort zone a lil!! thank you sosooo much for your request. not proofread so if there are any mistakes lmk! i hope this was sortaa what you imagined and that you enjoyed, thanks for readingg!!

the note doesn’t leave your pocket for days.

you don’t read it again. you don’t have to. it’s burned behind your eyes now—every curl of ink, every unsaid thing heavy in its silence.

i dreamt of you last night.

you wonder if he dreams often. if he still sleeps at all. if the weight of what he’s built—this strange sanctuary of half-truths and sharp beauty—lets him rest.

the temple grows busier. more people filtering in, drawn by rumor, grief, or desperation. you see them on the walkways in the early morning, some alone, some in small clusters, wrapped in silence and awe. they’re not followers, not yet. but they’re hungry for something.

and suguru feeds them.

with words. with presence. with a gaze so calm it borders on dangerous.

you watch him from the edge of the courtyard, hood drawn low, body pressed between a column and the wind. you’ve become good at not being seen. but he still sees you. always.

he doesn’t call you out. not publicly.

but sometimes, he lingers on a word when you’re there. mercy. salvation. truth.

like he’s speaking to you, even as he addresses the crowd.

flashback – the mission that changed him

it was a retrieval. just a first-year escort. you weren’t on the team. neither was gojo. just suguru and nanami, back when everything still felt repairable.

you remember when he came back.

his eyes were different.

flat, rimmed with horror. he walked past you in the corridor, blood still on his uniform, without a word.

you followed him into the washroom. locked the door behind you.

“what happened?” you whispered, reaching for him.

he flinched from your touch.

“they made me kill a child,” he said, voice scraped raw. “because she was cursed. because she was scared. because she could see."

you had no answer.

just arms that held him when he finally let himself fall apart.

present

you know gojo is near before you see him.

a ripple in the air. a spike in pressure behind your ribs. a headache blooming somewhere near your temples.

you find him outside a corner store just after sundown, sipping a canned coffee like he doesn’t bend the laws of the universe for fun.

“you look tired,” he says.

you don’t smile. “you shouldn’t be here.”

he hums, eyeing you with that old, knowing glance. “then neither should you.”

“i’m gathering intel.”

“so am i.”

you fold your arms. “you don’t have clearance.”

“and yet,” he shrugs, “here i am.”

you want to scream at him. hit him. beg him not to go after suguru like he’s just a mission. like he’s already dead. but the words won’t come.

gojo’s gaze softens, just slightly.

“he’s too far gone,” he says quietly. “you know that.”

you bite your lip. “you didn’t even try to reach him.”

“and you think you can?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t need to.

later that night, you return to your room and find suguru waiting.

not inside. not pressing. just leaning against the outer wall, moonlight clinging to his robes like frost.

“you met with satoru.”

not a question.

you sigh. “he’s being reckless."

suguru nods once. slow. “he always was.”

you sit beside him. knees drawn up. it feels normal. almost.

“he said i can’t save you,” you whisper.

suguru looks at you, expression unreadable. “do you believe him?”

you shake your head.

“no,” you say. “but not because i think i can save you.”

he tilts his head. curious.

“because i don’t think you’re lost,” you finish. “just… wounded. and still bleeding.”

for a long moment, he doesn’t speak.

then he leans back against the wall, sighs through his nose.

“you always saw more of me than i wanted to show.”

you smile faintly. “you always let me.”

he nods.

and says, so quietly it almost disappears into the night:

“if i asked you to leave with me—would you?"

your heart stutters.

“leave where?”

“all of this. the war. the factions. the sides.”

you look away. toward the stars. toward the city skyline in the distance.

“i’d want to,” you say. “more than anything.”

“but?”

“but i want to believe the world can still be saved.”

suguru closes his eyes.

his voice is barely a breath.

“i stopped believing that when they made me slaughter the innocent to protect the cruel.”

you reach for him. your fingers brush his.

he doesn’t pull away.

you dream that night.

not of the temple. not of gojo. not even of the war.

you dream of a quiet house near the sea.

you’re in the kitchen, hands wet from washing fruit, hair braided down your back. suguru’s voice calls from another room, something domestic. you laugh. the sound fills the space.

in the dream, you don’t feel afraid.

you just feel home.

you’ve always known that peace is temporary. that it comes in borrowed moments and stolen hours. that it never stays long enough to memorize its shape.

so when the call comes, you’re not surprised.

you find the note slid under your door at dawn. no name. no seal. just eight words in careful, measured ink:

return by sunset. or don’t return at all.

you don’t cry.

you just sit on the edge of your futon, back bent, palms trembling in your lap.

they know you’ve found him.

and you’ve taken too long.

you burn the paper in the temple garden. watch it curl into ash between your fingers. the wind carries it away like it was never there at all.

you don’t tell suguru.

not yet.

instead, you walk the temple grounds like you’ve done for the last six days. watching. learning. breathing him in from a distance.

he spends time with the strays. sits with the old. plays with the children who don’t flinch at the scent of cursed energy. the people here adore him. not because they’re brainwashed, but because they’re seen.

and that, you realize, is the most dangerous thing about him.

he knows how to look at someone like they matter.

and he never stops looking at you that way.

flashback — two years before he left

you were injured. a deep gash through your side, torn by a cursed spirit you never even saw coming.

he carried you back. blood slicking down his arms. fury in his face.

you faded in and out of consciousness, pain clouding everything.

but you remember one thing.

his voice, steady as stone, whispering over and over.

“stay with me. please. i don’t know how to do this without you.”

present

you finally tell him just after dusk.

you’re standing by the koi pond again. same place as before. the water flat, dark, and still.

his expression doesn’t change as you explain. not at first.

but then you say it:

“they gave me until sunset to return. or they’ll send someone else.”

his eyes flicker. “gojo?”

you nod.

his jaw tightens.

you don’t say the rest. that if gojo comes, it won’t be to talk. and it won’t end in forgiveness.

he already knows.

“so what happens now?” he asks, voice low.

you look up at him, throat tight. “i don’t know.”

he turns away.

and then, after a moment:

“leave with me.”

the words strike like a bell in your ribs.

he doesn’t say it like a threat. not like a test.

he says it like a prayer.

“we’ll go tonight,” he continues, voice sharpening. “i’ll tell the others something. a pilgrimage. anything. there are villages to the north that don’t know jujutsu law. they’d welcome us.”

you step back.

“suguru—”

“we can start over. no war. no blood. just us. just—”

“—this isn’t us anymore!” you snap, louder than you mean to.

he stops. blinks.

and in the stunned silence, your voice cracks:

“you think we can run from this? from what you’ve done? from what i’ve become just to chase you?”

he flinches. it’s slight. but it breaks your heart.

“i love you,” you whisper. “god, i love you so much i can’t breathe. but you want me to throw away everything i’ve fought to protect—because you stopped believing in it.”

his voice is hoarse. “i didn’t stop. i was forced to.”

“so was i!” you cry. “but i’m still here. still fighting. still trying to believe in the world you left behind.”

and then it happens.

for the first time in six years, he cries.

just once.

a single tear. silent, gliding down his cheek. he doesn’t wipe it away. doesn’t blink it back.

“then stay until morning,” he says. “please.”

you look at him. really look.

and you realize he’s not asking you to run.

not really.

he just wants one last night.

and you give it to him.

you sit beneath the stars again, this time on the roof, shoulders pressed together, the wind colder now.

you don’t talk about what’s coming.

you just watch the sky and listen to his breathing.

you fall asleep like that—side by side, faces turned toward heaven.

and for the first time in weeks, your sleep is dreamless.

you wake alone.

he’s gone.

his robe folded neatly where he’d lain.

and beneath it—another note.

don’t wait for me.

this is the only way i can protect you.

— s

your breath stutters.

because you know what this means.

he’s going to face them.

alone.

oh no 🙁 i hope this has been enjoyable so farr hehe, thank yewww for reading!! mwah

it starts with silence.

not the kind that’s quiet — not really — but the kind that presses. like vacuum. like suffocation. the kind of silence you only hear in the void of space, or in the breathless moment before someone pulls a trigger.

you sit alone in the cold cell of the finalizer, metal at your back and bruises blooming down your side. they hadn’t gone easy on you when they dragged you from the freighter. they never do. especially not for rebels like you.

the restraints bite into your wrists but you don’t flinch. instead, you sit with your chin tilted up. defiant. heavy-breathing but unbroken. your body aches, and your skin stings where the armor-clad officers had shoved you, but even still, there’s something in your gut that burns.

you survived. you weren’t supposed to. and they don’t know what to do with that.

the door hisses open and he enters like gravity itself — heavy-footed, dark-robed, shadow trailing like smoke behind him. tall. silent. brooding in a way that makes the air colder just from how little space he gives it.

you’ve heard his name whispered like a curse in rebel camps. kylo ren. the butcher. the traitor. the weapon they say used to be a boy. he doesn’t wear a helmet today. his face is sharp and wounded-looking — carved from some furious, lonely place. but his eyes… his eyes don’t match. they’re too young.

he stares at you.

doesn’t speak. doesn’t sit. just stands there, taking you in, as if looking might do more than questions ever could.

your chest rises with a slow, deliberate breath. “if you’re gonna kill me, get on with it.”

he says nothing. his jaw ticks once.

and then, a voice — rich, low, deeper than it should be for how calm it is. “you’re not important enough to kill.”

you snort. “then you’re wasting your time.”

he steps closer. deliberate. gloved hands behind his back. there’s no sound but the hiss of electricity through the force-field behind him and the faint hum of the ship beneath your feet.

he stops just before you, too close. close enough that you feel the weight of his shadow fall over you. and then… he speaks again. softer.

“you’re not afraid.”

“should i be?”

he leans in slightly, eyes narrowing as they drag over you. and you feel it. the scan. the inventory. not like an officer measuring threat level, but like a man starving in a dark room and suddenly noticing a warm, untouched meal.

you can see it — in the way his gaze lingers on the swell of your waist, the plush curve of your thighs where you sit shackled. in the way his jaw tightens when he sees the neckline of your shirt, how the fabric strains a little over your chest. how your arms are soft, not sculpted. how you take up space.

he doesn’t expect it. they never do. the empire has always taught their soldiers to see rebellion in sharp angles, hunger in tight bellies, beauty in something chiseled down to silence.

but you — you are round and real and alive. and it disarms him in a way you feel.

you smirk. “something you like, commander?”

he looks away — but not out of disgust. no. there’s something else there. like shame. like hunger.

he leaves without a word.

but he returns. again. and again.

you lose track of the days. your wrists remain bound, though they loosen the restraints when you eat. the food is bland and gray, like everything else on this ship, but you take it. you survive. and every day, he comes to see you. not always with questions. sometimes just to look.

at first you think he’s just trying to unsettle you. play some mind game. but then you notice the way he always brings a chair now. the way his eyes trail when you shift, when you roll your shoulders and stretch your arms, and your shirt lifts just enough to show the soft dip of your belly.

you catch him looking at your waistline with a kind of obsession that makes you flinch. not out of shame. but because it’s so unfamiliar. because it doesn’t carry the heat of mockery. it carries… reverence.

no one’s ever looked at your extra skin like that before. like it’s precious. like it’s his.

one day, he brings you a different meal. still gray, still basic — but warmer. richer. it’s quiet between you, but he watches as you eat every bite. he says nothing. not until your plate is clean.

“you deserve more than this ship can give,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself.

you look at him. he’s still watching you — that stare burning into the parts of you most people avoid. you raise an eyebrow. “you gonna write me poetry next?”

his eyes darken. “i’ve never seen anyone like you.”

you blink.

“…someone who survived?”

his voice is low. but sure. “someone who exists like you do.”

it lands somewhere deep in your ribcage. you don’t know what to say. for a second, all the sharpness leaves your mouth.

and then he’s up again. pacing. hands flexing like he wants to reach for something and doesn’t trust himself not to break it. you realize, suddenly, that the gloves don’t come off. he hasn’t touched you. not once.

but he wants to.

you see it every time he stares too long at the crease of your arm or the soft give of your thighs as you shift in your seat. every time his gaze falls to your stomach when you laugh — because you still do, even here — and the way it moves in folds. every time you breathe, and your softness rises and falls like a landscape he is desperate to memorize.

his obsession is not cruel. it is not clinical.

it is craving.

it happens after a skirmish. the ship takes damage. alarms blare. you’re thrown into the floor of your cell, shoulder crashing against metal, the world tilting. and then suddenly, he’s there.

no helmet. no gloves. just ben.

ben, not the commander. ben, not the dark side.

and you see it in his face. the panic. the unguarded fear that something might’ve happened to you. to your body. he rushes in, breathless, and grabs you before you can move.

and then he freezes.

because his bare hand is on your waist.

you both go very still.

your shirt has ridden up slightly. his palm rests just beneath the fabric — not on skin pulled tight or flexed into hardness. but on something soft. yielding. real.

and he doesn’t move.

instead… he sighs.

not out of exasperation. out of relief.

his thumb brushes against your skin — and it feels like lightning. his breath is shallow now, his voice almost hoarse.

“you’re—” he swallows. “you’re okay.”

you look up at him. “you’re touching me.”

his eyes meet yours. wide. unsure. reverent.

“…should i stop?”

you shake your head.

and just like that, it all breaks.

he pulls you against him — not rough, not like the monster you’ve heard stories about. but like a man finally giving in to something he’s starved for. his hands cup the swell of your stomach like he’s been dreaming about it, sliding under your shirt to hold you there, fingers spreading wide to memorize every inch. he breathes like he’s drowning.

his lips are at your ear before you can speak.

“i want to feel all of it.”

you shiver.

and then he does.

there is something sacrilegious in the way he touches you.

not because it’s wrong — not because of violence or power — but because of the devotion. because ben solo touches you like he’s desecrating a shrine he never believed he was worthy to pray at. and now, kneeling at the altar of your skin, he worships with trembling hands and a silence too raw to be anything but reverent.

you’re still on the floor of your cell, bodies pressed together like the aftermath of impact. except there’s no violence here. just his hands at your waist — rough palms cradling the softest part of you. not squeezing. not testing. cradling. like he’s afraid it will vanish if he lets go.

and his face — force help you — his face looks wrecked. mouth slightly open, brow furrowed, eyes trained downward like he’s watching the stars blink out of the galaxy and all that’s left is this.

you.

“you’re—” he breathes, dragging his hand slowly from the base of your stomach up to the curve of your ribs, under your shirt. “you’re so… soft.”

your breath hitches. not from shame. not even embarrassment. but from how genuine it sounds. like it guts him. like the softness of your belly is some unbearable kindness the universe has decided to show him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stare up at him. his hair falls in his face, unkempt and wild, his cheeks flushed. you reach up, slowly, fingers brushing against his jaw. “ben.”

he flinches slightly — not away, but inward, like no one has said his name like that in years. maybe ever.

he blinks.

“say it again.”

“ben.”

his mouth crashes to yours like the vacuum of space just split in two.

the kiss is not clean or composed. it’s raw. gasping. full of contradiction — years of silence combusting into sensation. he kisses you like someone whose mouth doesn’t know what pleasure is supposed to feel like, but wants to learn you. and his hands — stars, his hands.

he holds your belly like it’s sacred. spreads his fingers against it like he wants to shield it from the cold. from the galaxy. from everything.

his voice breaks as he murmurs into your mouth, “i’ve dreamt about this.”

you inhale sharply. “about my—?”

he cuts you off with a groan, sliding lower, placing open-mouthed kisses across the underside of your belly. “this. all of this. your stomach. your thighs. how you feel. do you know what you do to me?”

you try to speak, but his tongue licks a slow line against your skin and your thoughts disintegrate.

you’re not used to this. no one has ever made your body feel wanted like this. not fetishized. not tolerated. but devoured.

he drags you gently down onto your back, hands worshiping every inch as he follows. his mouth trails down your front with something between awe and hunger. when he reaches the stretch of skin beneath your belly, he pauses — stares.

“i never knew softness could feel like this.”

he mouths at it. presses his face there like it’s home. and when he begins to kiss lower — between your thighs — it isn’t out of duty. it’s out of desperation.

you gasp, body jolting.

he looks up at you from between your legs like you’ve hung a moon between them. “can i?” he asks, like you’re the one in command. “please.”

you nod, breathless.

what follows is not fast. not pornographic. it’s not animalistic or greedy. it’s not rough.

it is worship.

he tastes you like he’s trying to learn a language, slow and attentive and stunned by every sound he pulls from your throat. his tongue moves reverently, hands anchoring against your thighs, pulling them closer around his head like he wants to drown there. and the sounds he makes — low, guttural, involuntary — make you shake.

“fuck,” he pants, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. “i’ve never— i didn’t know it could be like this.”

you arch, fingers tangling in his thick hair. “ben, please—”

he groans, deep and hoarse, and grips your hips tighter, pulling you up into his mouth. he doesn’t care about being gentle now. not because he’s lost control, but because he’s realized what he wants.

you. all of you. your softness, your sounds, your fullness, your flavor, your belly against his cheek while you fall apart.

when you come — and stars, you come — it’s with a cry that echoes off the metal walls. and he doesn’t stop. not for a second. not until you’re trembling, moaning, gasping, and begging.

only then does he lift his face. his mouth is wet, his cheeks flushed. he looks wrecked. happy. alive.

you pull him up to you, and when your lips meet again, it’s no longer about hunger.

it’s about belonging.

you feel the line break in him then — like his center of gravity has shifted. like he’s not the center anymore. you are.

he settles against your chest, face buried in your skin, hand spread across the swell of your stomach like it’s the most important place in the galaxy. and then, voice hoarse:

“don’t leave.”

you freeze. not out of fear. not out of resistance.

but because of how small he sounds. how honest.

your fingers curl into his hair. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he exhales. and the breath he lets out feels like it’s been waiting years to escape.

umm yeah thats all :) thank yew for readinggg!! i hope you enjoyed.

the light in tokyo always had a way of looking washed out after it rained. like the sky had cried so hard it bleached everything in grayscale. and that’s how you feel, too—dimmed. dulled. not broken, not yet. just emptied out in quiet ways you don’t know how to name.

you step off the train near roppongi, collar turned up against the soft mist. your suitcase rolls behind you, quiet on the slick platform. you’re not here for long, just a week. a mission, a lead, a name whispered in the kind of circles you hoped you’d never have to walk in again:

geto suguru.

you don’t say it aloud. it tastes too raw, too ancient. like a prayer you’ve lost the right to speak.

you used to know him better than anyone. better than gojo. better than shoko. you used to wake up to the warmth of his breath at your back, to his hands tracing divinity across your skin, and the sleepy, amused weight of his voice murmuring things like:

“you smell like heaven.”

“maybe i died and came back just for this.”

“promise you’ll never leave me behind.”

he left you. and that’s the thing that still bleeds. not the why. not the how. just the sheer fact of his absence, echoing inside you like the hollowed bell of a church no one prays in anymore.

you check into a quiet inn. it’s always the quiet ones, tucked in alleyways, lanterns swaying like tired eyes. you’ve already donned your civilian face—low energy, no trace of cursed energy, a wide-eyed smile that passes as harmless. you’re good at playing nothing. it’s what they trained you for.

they think he’s forming something like a cult. they think he’s beyond reason.

you think… if it’s really him… then something must have broken so completely inside him, he couldn’t tell right from mercy anymore.

but god, if you’re honest?

a part of you hopes it’s him. because at least then you’ll see him again. and there’s still a corner of your chest that never stopped waiting.

flashback – six years ago, tokyo jujutsu high

you were standing in the garden behind the dorms. you used to hide there, sneak a cigarette, maybe, though you were never a real smoker. mostly, you just liked the silence. the way the wind moved through the sakura trees in spring like it had a secret.

“you shouldn’t be here,” suguru had said, stepping beside you.

“neither should you,” you’d answered, smiling up at him.

he never smiled first. not back then. but when he did, it was like watching sunrise in a place you’d only ever seen in grayscale.

you used to think that loving him was a quiet kind of religion. something sacred. something bigger than you both.

and maybe that was the problem.

present

the lead you’re chasing is thin. a temple that’s been attracting more pilgrims than it should. reports of non-sorcerers walking in broken and walking out… changed. healed. zealous. sometimes cursed.

they say there’s a man behind it. tall. dark hair. a voice like thunder behind silk.

you wear plain clothes— loose slacks, a soft shirt, your hair bound up simply. you attend a service, half skeptical, half aching. you sit on a tatami mat with a dozen others, the scent of incense heavy in the air.

and then you hear it.

that voice.

“the world does not deserve your suffering.”

“but you were born into it anyway, weren’t you?”

“i can take that pain from you.”

your blood goes still in your veins. you’ve bled before. fought curses, lost comrades, sewn wounds shut with trembling fingers. but nothing has ever cut like this.

you look up.

he stands on the raised platform, barefoot, clothed in black robes that shimmer like midnight, and his eyes are the same.

those deep, tired eyes. suguru’s eyes.

and he sees you.

not a flicker of surprise. not a tremor.

just a slow inhale. and the smallest tilt of his head.

like he knew you were coming. like he waited.

you don’t remember rising to your feet. only the way your knees felt strange beneath you, the way the breath caught between your ribs like it was afraid to move. people around you remain in reverent silence, heads bowed, fingers curled into the hems of robes or sweaters or nothing at all.

he steps down from the platform, slow, graceful. you know that walk. it used to carry toward you with warmth behind it—after missions, during dusk, always ending with a hand on your cheek or a thumb at your chin.

but now?

you feel the weight of him before he even reaches you.

the air bends around suguru geto like it recognizes something divine—or something terrible.

“you came,” he says. voice low, steady, and not surprised.

you swallow. your voice is paper in your throat. “it’s really you.”

a small smile curves his lips. soft, but dangerous. “of course it is.”

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. and in that moment, silence becomes the most intimate thing in the world.

he looks older. not physically, not quite, but the shadows under his eyes are deeper now, like grief carved valleys there. his hair is still long, tied at the nape in that familiar loose knot, but there’s a stiffness to him now, like he’s always braced for war. even here. even now.

“i wondered if they’d send you,” he says, tilting his head.

“they didn’t,” you admit. “i volunteered.”

something flashes across his face. a quick, sharp thing. almost pain.

but he recovers quickly.

“curiosity?” he asks.

“closure,” you lie.

his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “then come with me.”

you hesitate.

“please,” he says.

and it’s that word. the one he never used lightly. the one that once meant i need you.

you follow him.

he doesn’t take you far. just behind the temple, through a sliding door, up a narrow stairwell that smells faintly of sandalwood and old blood.

his quarters are sparse. clean. monastic. a low table, cushions, one narrow bed pushed against the far wall beneath a paper lantern.

he gestures for you to sit, and he pours tea with the same careful precision he used to fold your laundry in school, always neatly, always methodically. you remember teasing him about it. he’d just shrug, smile slightly, say:

“even chaos should have some order.”

he hasn’t said your name. not yet.

you break first. “what are you doing here, suguru?”

he hands you the tea and sits across from you, legs folded, posture upright.

“healing,” he says. “showing people another way.”

you blink. “with cursed energy?”

“with truth.”

you exhale, slow. “you’re drawing non-sorcerers into this. you’re warping them.”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “i’m freeing them.”

you set the tea down untouched. your hands shake.

“do you even believe that?”

his voice softens. “do you believe you’re saving people, living under the thumb of a system that sends children into battle and calls it purpose?”

the words hit hard. they always do, when he says them.

because you don’t know if he’s wrong.

but you also don’t know if he’s right.

you bite your lip. “we used to believe in the same things.”

“we still do,” he says.

“no, suguru,” you whisper. “we don’t. you’re hurting people. i’ve seen the aftermath. there are bodies.”

“there are always bodies,” he replies, quiet and steady. “at least now they die for something better.”

your chest hurts. there’s no other way to say it. he still speaks like he’s on a mission. like he’s righteous. but there’s something hollow behind the conviction, like the echo of a voice you used to know before it cracked in two.

and maybe that’s what breaks you, a little.

because for all the horror, for all the wrong—

he’s still him. still yours, in some unbearable, unreachable way.

you press your fingers to your temple. “why didn’t you say goodbye?”

his silence is sharper than a blade.

and then he says:

“because if i had, i wouldn’t have been able to leave.”

you close your eyes.

you stay the night, but not because you want to. because it’s too dangerous to leave without drawing attention. because he insists, and a part of you, deep down, still wants to understand.

the bed is untouched. he gives you the room.

he doesn’t touch you.

you don’t sleep.

you wake before dawn and find him sitting on the roof, hair loose, eyes watching the horizon like he’s waiting for the sun to confess something.

you sit beside him, knees pulled to your chest.

neither of you speaks for a long time.

eventually, you ask, “do you regret it?”

he doesn’t look at you

but his voice cracks—just once.

“only losing you.”

the sky over tokyo swells with bruised light. pale orange bleeding into slate blue—morning, but barely. you sit beside him on the temple roof in silence, knees brushing now and then, and neither of you flinch from it.

he hasn’t moved since you asked him if he regrets it.

only losing you, he’d said. the words echo in you like thunder in a deep well. not just heard, but felt. reverberating through bone.

you don’t know how to answer. how do you speak when your ribs still remember what it was to house a heart that beat for him?

finally, he says, softly, “it wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

you keep your voice steady. “what was it supposed to be?”

he shrugs, slow. his hair shifts in the breeze. “a future.”

“for who?”

he turns his face to you, expression unreadable. “for us.”

the next day, you leave the temple grounds under the pretense of gathering supplies. you need air. distance. a chance to think.

what you don’t expect is for your phone—long-silenced, hidden in the lining of your coat—to buzz.

it’s a scrambled code. not a number. but you know who it is.

gojo.

your thumb hesitates over the message. you used to answer him in seconds. now, your whole body clenches before reading it.

—mission reassigned. intel suggests geto confirmed. await extraction. do not engage.

you okay?

you stare at the screen.

it’s not the warning that makes your stomach twist.

it’s that last line.

you okay?

are you?

you don’t answer the message.

instead, you walk. through the narrow streets of tokyo. past vending machines humming softly. past salarymen on bikes. past the quiet normalcy of a world that will never know the truth of what moves beneath its skin.

your mind drifts.

flashback – three years before the split

a snowed-in mission. a cursed spirit hiding in an abandoned inn north of aomori. you and suguru, barely twenty, confined to one small tatami room after clearing it out.

you’re curled on a futon under too many blankets, still shaking with adrenaline.

he lays beside you, not touching. just watching the window, snow falling sideways in thick swirls.

“do you ever think about just… leaving?” you’d asked, quietly.

his eyes didn’t leave the snow.

“all the time.”

you turned toward him, heart thudding. “and if i left with you?”

he’d looked at you then. really looked. and you knew, in your marrow, that he’d thought about it.

“i wouldn’t let you look back,” he whispered.

present

you find him again in the shrine garden, late afternoon, speaking softly to an elderly woman as she sobs into his robe. his hand rests gently on her shoulder.

he looks up as you approach. something flickers in his gaze. not surprise. just gravity.

when she’s gone, he says, “you didn’t have to come back.”

you shrug. “you said you’d answer my questions.”

“and you trust me now?”

you meet his eyes. “i never stopped.”

the silence between you stretches. thickens.

finally, he motions toward the stone walkway. “walk with me.”

you walk for a long time.

he tells you about the people who come to him. the broken ones. the ones like you once were, hollowed out by duty, grief, the weight of a world that never says thank you. he calls them strays, and his voice is tender when he does.

“they deserve peace,” he says. “even if it comes through means they don’t understand.”

you nod, slowly. “but do they deserve your peace? or just peace?”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he stops beside a koi pond. the water reflects the sky in fractured blue.

“you think i’m lost,” he says.

you shake your head. “i think you’re bleeding in a place no one can see.”

he looks at you.

“and i still want to stop the bleeding,” you add, voice soft.

for a moment, his expression cracks.

“don’t,” he says, barely audible. “you shouldn’t want that. you shouldn’t want me.”

but the look in his eyes says something different.

like maybe he wants you to want him.

like maybe he always did.

later that night

you return to your room. the temple is quiet. the stars are soft above the paper roof.

and there’s a note beneath your tea cup.

handwritten. familiar ink.

i dreamt of you last night.

you were standing at the edge of a field. but when i reached you, you turned to light.

no signature.

no need.

you sit on your futon for a long time, staring at it.

then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes.

there will be a part twoo!!! i have an ending planned i just haven't figured out how i want to get there yet...buuuut, i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading xx!!

satoru gojo

you never thought you’d see him again.

not in the flesh, not standing in the doorway of the sun-drenched vineyard chapel you chose for its warmth and quiet. not with that face — the one etched into your dreams and half the songs on your playlist, framed in soft white hair and haunted by blue eyes too bright for this world.

but there he is.

gojo satoru.

standing like a ghost at your wedding.

the story of you and gojo was never tidy.

it began, like most tragedies, with something impossibly beautiful. a meeting in the dead of night on a rooftop in shibuya, the city stretched like static beneath your feet. he was chaos incarnate, laughter and danger and light, the strongest sorcerer in the world — and you were the one person who looked at him without awe.

he liked that about you.

you didn’t need saving. you didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer. you were smart enough to understand what his life meant, what it cost. and still, you stayed.

you stayed through the late-night missions, the calls that came at three a.m., the blood on his hands that never quite washed clean.

you stayed through the grief, too — the loss of geto, the weight of a crumbling world he never asked to carry.

but what no one tells you is that love isn’t always enough.

because eventually, the man who claimed to protect everyone forgot how to protect the one thing that mattered most.

you.

you remember the day you left as clearly as your first kiss.

his phone had rung — another emergency, another curse — and he didn’t even look at you as he walked out the door.

you’d been crying.

not loud or dramatic. just quiet, broken tears at the kitchen sink.

he never noticed.

and it wasn’t that he didn’t love you — you knew, in your bones, that he did. but loving you wasn’t enough. not when he couldn’t show up. not when he always had one foot out the door.

you gave him one last look as he reached for his coat.

“this is the last time, satoru.”

and he smiled, distracted. “we’ll talk when i get back.”

but he didn’t come back.

not that night. not the next. not even with a call.

so you packed your things.

you left the keys on the counter.

and you disappeared from his world.

it’s been three years.

three years of rebuilding your life in soft, quiet places.

three years of letting yourself be loved, not with fireworks, but with steadiness.

and now, here you are.

the vineyard chapel is filled with light. wildflowers curl around the windows. your guests murmur softly, the music starting to play as your soon-to-be husband smiles at the altar.

his name is naoki.

he’s good. he’s kind. he looks at you like the sun.

and most importantly, he always comes home.

you take your first step down the aisle.

and then, the doors burst open.

gasps echo across the room.

your breath catches.

gojo stands at the entrance, panting slightly, like he ran the whole way here. he’s not in uniform — no blindfold, no jujutsu regalia. just a black suit, slightly rumpled.

his hair is the same. his eyes, too.

but he looks… older.

he looks like someone who’s spent years looking for something they lost.

“y/n,” he says, and it shatters the air like a blade.

your heart stumbles. you grip your bouquet harder.

you can feel every eye on you — your mother, your friends, naoki’s family, naoki himself — but the only thing you see is satoru.

and for a second, it’s like nothing changed.

like you’re twenty-four again, barefoot in his kitchen, laughing into a kiss. like he’s going to crack a joke, call you “sweetheart,” pull you back into his arms and tell you it was all a dream.

but then you remember.

you remember the nights you cried alone.

the silence after you walked away.

the fact that he never came to find you.

until now.

“what are you doing here?”

your voice isn’t angry. just tired.

he takes a few steps forward. no one moves to stop him. not even naoki.

“i found out last week,” gojo says quietly. “shoko told me.”

you blink. “and you thought crashing my wedding was the right move?”

“i had to see you.”

his voice cracks.

it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him this unguarded. this… desperate.

“satoru—”

“i still love you.”

he says it without apology.

“i never stopped. i let you go because i thought i had time. because i thought you’d always be there when i figured things out. and i was wrong.”

the air trembles. your fingers go numb around the flowers.

“you don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “not now.”

he takes another step. “i know. i know i’m late. i know i don’t deserve a second chance. but if there’s even a piece of you that still—”

“you’re not him anymore.”

your voice cuts through his plea. soft, but final.

his eyes go wide.

you take a step toward him, hand falling to your side.

“i waited. for months. i hoped you’d come back. i left the door open, satoru. and you never walked through it.”

you pause. swallow.

“naoki did.”

gojo flinches like you slapped him.

you press on.

“he held me when i cried. he learned how to cook my favorite meals. he listened. he showed up.”

you glance down the aisle, at the man who looks at you like his heart’s breaking, and yet hasn’t moved to interrupt.

“you were my great love. you were fireworks and chaos and passion. but he… he’s peace. and i need peace.”

gojo doesn’t speak.

his jaw clenches. his shoulders shake.

for a moment, you think he might cry. but he doesn’t. he just lowers his head.

“…i’m sorry,” he says.

you nod. “me too.”

he turns, slowly.

walks back toward the door.

and this time, you’re the one who watches him leave.

you get married.

you kiss naoki at the altar, and it’s soft and sweet and real.

but as the music plays and the guests cheer, you glance toward the door, already closed.

and somewhere, far from this chapel, gojo satoru walks away in a silence too loud for even him to outrun.

choso kamo

the chapel smells like cedar and rain.

you chose it because it reminded you of a cabin — quiet, humble, tucked in the mountains. not the kind of place you’d expect to be walked down the aisle, but perfect in a way you couldn’t explain.

like peace had a scent.

and for the first time in a long time, you could finally breathe.

you adjust the veil in the mirror. your best friend wipes away the last tear from your cheek. “you okay?”

you nod. smile. “i’m okay.”

and you are.

after everything — after the years of waiting, hurting, healing — you’re finally okay.

you take your father’s arm. the music begins. your guests rise.

and you step into the light.

you don’t see him at first.

the aisle is long. the candles flicker. all you can focus on is the man waiting at the altar — gentle, nervous, smiling like you put the sun in his chest.

but then something shifts in the air.

a hush.

not fear. not yet. but… unease.

a murmur near the entrance. someone turns. then another.

and then your name.

“y/n.”

the voice doesn’t belong here.

it belongs to the underworld. to memory. to blood.

it belongs to choso.

you turn.

and time, in its cruelty, folds in half.

he stands in the back of the chapel in black.

his hair is longer. his eyes darker. his expression unreadable — the kind of heartbreak that’s learned to hide itself.

your father’s grip tightens.

you step forward. slowly.

“what are you doing here?” you ask.

choso doesn’t blink.

“i came to stop you.”

you met him on a rooftop.

not the romantic kind — no stars, no wine. just sirens in the distance and blood drying on your sleeve.

he’d just finished a fight. so had you.

you were both strangers, half-broken, bleeding.

but when your eyes met, it was like a thread pulled tight between your ribs.

you weren’t supposed to fall in love.

he was a death god in denim. a brother who’d buried too many. a soul wrapped in loss.

but somehow, with you, he softened.

you remember waking up in his bed, tangled in sheets and breath.

the way he’d pull your hand to his chest like it was an anchor.

the way he flinched when you kissed his scars.

you remember when he started talking.

not about curses. not about death.

but about music. art. the brothers he couldn’t save.

you remember the first time he cried.

how he apologized for bleeding on your shirt.

how you held him, and said, “i’d rather have blood than nothing at all.”

but some wounds never close.

choso tried.

he tried to be soft for you. to be normal.

he made breakfast at midnight. he learned how to fix the kitchen sink. he bought flowers, even though he didn’t know what kind you liked.

but every time he left the house, you didn’t know if he’d come back.

and every time you waited up for him, heart pounding, phone untouched — you lost another piece of yourself.

until one night, you said it.

“i can’t keep waiting for you to choose me.”

he didn’t answer.

he just sat there.

and in his silence, you found your answer.

you left two weeks later.

he didn’t chase you.

now, here he is.

standing in front of your wedding, three years too late.

“you should go,” you whisper.

his jaw clenches.

“i thought i could live without you,” choso says. “i thought you’d be safer. happier. and i thought… if i just let you go, maybe you’d forget what it felt like to love someone like me.”

you blink, throat tight.

“but i was wrong,” he says, voice low. “because i never forgot you. not once.”

you shake your head.

“you didn’t come for me then.”

“i didn’t know how.”

“but you know how to walk into my wedding?”

he flinches.

you step closer. “i begged you to fight for me, choso. i begged you. you stood there and watched me fall apart, and you let me leave.”

he looks at the floor.

“and now you want me back?”

he nods once.

“why?”

his eyes lift.

and for the first time, they aren’t blank.

they’re full.

of grief. of longing. of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“because the worst thing i ever did wasn’t being a killer,” choso says, voice trembling. “it was letting you think i didn’t love you.”

you close your eyes.

and for a moment — just one — you let yourself imagine it.

the version of him that came home on time.

the one who chose you without fear.

the one who never made you doubt.

but that man never existed.

and you’re not the girl who waited up anymore.

“i loved you,” you whisper. “i still do. but i don’t trust you with my heart.”

choso looks like he might shatter.

you reach out. brush your fingers against his.

“you were my greatest what-if,” you say.

and then you let him go.

he walks out without a word.

and the door doesn’t slam.

it closes slowly. gently.

like an apology that came too late.

you turn back.

and your fiancé — your future — waits with tears in his eyes and open arms.

you take his hand.

and when you say i do, you mean it.

because sometimes, love is choosing what doesn’t hurt.

and choso… choso will always hurt.

geto suguru

you don’t dream about him anymore.

that’s what surprises you the most.

not that he’s here — standing at the back of your wedding, framed in shadow like a scar — but that seeing him doesn’t collapse your chest.

not the way it used to.

not the way it did in the early days, when you couldn’t step outside without feeling the ghost of his presence in the wind.

you dream of other things now.

warm kitchens. slow Sundays. mornings where the sun doesn’t hurt.

and today, you were meant to walk into that life — clean, unburdened, whole.

but the man who once broke your heart wide open just walked into the chapel.

and he is not a dream.

he is real.

he is here.

and he’s looking at you like he never stopped being in love.

the guests don’t recognize him.

not the way you do.

to them, he’s a tall man in dark clothes, long hair pulled into a loose bun, quiet and unreadable.

but to you, he’s the boy who once fell asleep on your chest mid-sentence.

the man who made tea at midnight because you couldn’t sleep.

the voice that whispered, i’d give up the world for you, just weeks before he did.

“suguru,” you whisper.

your voice is not unkind. just… shocked.

you haven’t said his name aloud in four years.

not since the massacre.

not since the goodbye that never came.

not since he chose grief over you.

you walk to the back of the chapel.

people turn. murmur. the music fades.

your fiancé — kind, steady, beautiful — does not follow.

he trusts you.

you wish he didn’t have to.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you say softly.

geto doesn’t look away.

his eyes are gold and broken, rimmed with exhaustion, weighted by something you’ll never fully understand.

“i know,” he says.

and somehow, that hurts more.

you met in college — both already working in jujutsu, both already tired.

but somehow, with him, life felt less brutal. less sharp.

he made you laugh. he walked you home. he never flinched when you talked about the curses that haunted your sleep.

he told you he loved you on a thursday.

kissed your temple like it was a promise.

and every moment with him felt like you were standing at the edge of something sacred.

until it didn’t.

you remember when things changed.

not all at once.

slow. creeping. like rot beneath a floorboard.

he stopped smiling.

stopped returning your calls on missions.

stopped coming home some nights — and when he did, he smelled like blood.

you asked what was wrong.

he said nothing.

you said, “please.”

he said, “you wouldn’t understand.”

you said, “i’m still here.”

he said nothing.

he left on a Sunday.

no note. no message.

just his closet empty.

his toothbrush gone.

your heart split wide open.

and then — the news.

he killed them.

the civilians.

the innocent.

he became a curse user.

a murderer.

the boy who once made soup when you were sick was now a name whispered in fear.

and you mourned him like a widow.

because in every way that mattered — you were.

now, four years later, he’s at your wedding.

and he looks older.

tired.

not monstrous.

just… lonely.

“how did you find me?”

“shoko,” he says. “don’t be mad at her. she didn’t mean to.”

you shake your head.

your hands tremble.

your heart pounds so hard it hurts.

“what do you want from me?”

“one answer,” he says.

his voice is quiet.

reverent.

“if i had stayed… if i had chosen you… would that have been enough?”

you inhale.

sharp. wounded.

“you’re asking if love could’ve saved you.”

he nods.

you step forward.

and for a moment — just one — you let yourself remember.

the laughter. the lazy mornings. the hands that never shook when they touched you.

you loved him. more than you knew how to survive.

but love is not enough.

and mercy doesn’t always save.

“i would’ve died for you,” you whisper. “but that’s the thing, suguru. i was already dying. every day you pulled away. every time you shut me out. loving you cost me everything.”

his jaw tenses.

you blink back tears.

“you didn’t just leave me. you left yourself. and i couldn’t follow.”

his eyes fill.

not with tears — he never cries — but with the pain of someone who wishes he could.

“i thought i was protecting you,” he says.

“i didn’t want protection,” you say. “i wanted you.”

you stare at each other in silence.

until it breaks.

“is it too late?”

you glance back.

your future waits with soft eyes and patience.

he’s never raised his voice. never walked out.

never asked you to carry what wasn’t yours.

you smile.

and when you look back at suguru, your voice is clear.

“yes.”

he breathes in. slow.

like the sea pulling back before it disappears.

and then, for the first time in four years —

“i’m sorry,” he says.

he walks out.

not a villain. not a myth.

just a man who waited too long.

you get married.

and when your husband kisses you, it’s like a soft sunrise —

nothing like the storm you once survived.

and for the rest of your life, you remember geto suguru the way you remember a flood.

not for the pain it caused.

but for the things it left behind.

megumi fushiguro

megumi was always quiet.

it’s what drew you to him.

not the silence itself — but the way he carried it.

like it was armor. like it kept him from unraveling.

and for a while, you thought maybe you could be the one to help him take it off.

not to fix him. just to make the weight feel lighter.

you never wanted to be his salvation.

just his someone.

but it turns out silence can be louder than any scream.

and on the day you decided to stop waiting for him to speak —

you learned that love doesn’t always come with the words it needs.

the wedding is small.

you wanted it that way.

quiet.

peaceful.

just the people who mattered.

your dress is simple, flowy.

your makeup barely more than what you wear to work.

but you feel beautiful.

not because of how you look.

but because, for the first time in years, you’re sure.

sure of the man waiting at the altar.

sure of the life you built without looking back.

you don’t expect him to be there.

not megumi.

but when the music starts, and your guests rise —

you see him.

in the back.

dark suit.

hands at his sides.

expression unreadable.

and suddenly, the quiet doesn’t feel so kind.

you pause in the aisle.

your fingers tighten around your bouquet.

for a moment, your vision blurs —

not from tears, not yet.

just the dizzying rush of memory.

because this is the first time you’ve seen him in three years.

the last time was a fight.

not a loud one. megumi never yells.

but it was the kind of silence that cuts deep.

you’d said, “i can’t keep guessing how you feel.”

he’d said nothing.

you’d asked, “do you love me?”

and he’d looked away.

you’d waited.

he never answered.

so you left.

the music falters.

someone whispers.

but you’re already turning.

walking past the guests.

past the altar.

past the man who would never make you cry like this.

you don’t owe him anything.

you know that.

but some parts of you never stopped waiting.

even when you stopped hoping.

you reach him at the back of the chapel.

he doesn’t speak.

you’re the one who breaks the silence.

“you shouldn’t be here.”

he nods. slowly.

“i know.”

his voice is deeper than you remember.

more tired. more hollow.

“why are you?”

his throat moves.

he doesn’t look at you.

“i wasn’t going to come,” he says quietly. “but then i saw your name on the registry. someone posted it online. i thought… if i didn’t come, i’d regret it for the rest of my life."

you blink. hard.

“and what were you planning to do? drag me out of my own wedding?”

he flinches.

“no,” he says. “i just… i needed to see you. one last time.”

you exhale.

slow. shaking.

“you don’t get to do this. not after everything.”

he nods again. “i know.”

you stare at him.

and suddenly, all the words you once begged to hear are there.

not spoken. not offered.

but sitting just behind his eyes.

and god — you wish he’d just say them.

but he doesn’t.

not even now.

“did you ever love me?” you whisper.

his breath catches.

you step closer.

“just once. say it. please. because if you did, and you never said it — if you let me walk away without ever knowing — i don’t think i’ll ever forgive you.”

his hands tremble.

his voice, when it comes, is a whisper.

“i did.”

you close your eyes.

the ache is instant.

hot.

worse than you imagined.

“then why didn’t you say anything?”

megumi swallows.

“because i didn’t know how to say it without needing you to fix me.”

you freeze.

“i thought… if i loved you, you’d expect more than i could give. and i didn’t want to hurt you. i didn’t want to become someone who let you down.”

you look up.

and for the first time in years, his walls are gone.

there’s no armor.

just a boy who didn’t know how to be soft.

“i never needed you to be perfect,” you say.

he nods.

“i know that now.”

you breathe.

long. slow.

and it doesn’t make it better.

but it makes it real.

“are you happy?” he asks.

you turn toward the altar.

you see your fiancé’s eyes — warm, full, waiting.

not jealous. not angry.

just patient.

always patient.

“i am,” you say.

“does he love you the way i did?”

you pause.

“no,” you whisper. “he loves me in all the ways you didn’t.”

megumi closes his eyes.

you watch him.

wait for the apology.

but it doesn’t come.

he knows better now.

and that, somehow, is enough.

“goodbye, megumi.”

your voice is soft.

he doesn’t move.

you walk away.

not fast.

not furious.

just… ready.

you get married.

you kiss your husband under the soft blush of afternoon sun.

and when the day ends, and you close your eyes, you don’t think about what could’ve been.

you think about what was.

and you let it go.

quietly.

finally.

nanami kento

nanami kento was never late.

not to work. not to dinner. not to anything that mattered.

except when it came to you.

he was always ten minutes behind —

just long enough to miss the storm.

just long enough that you had to clean up alone.

but still, you loved him.

fiercely.

patiently.

in ways even he couldn’t understand.

because for all his distance, his silences, his quiet pain —

nanami kento made you feel safe.

until one day, safety wasn’t enough.

and you left.

now, five years later, you’re about to become someone’s wife.

someone good.

someone present.

someone who doesn’t come home with blood under his nails and apology in his eyes.

the sun filters through the old stone windows.

the chapel smells like hydrangeas and soft bread.

your veil hangs light on your shoulders.

your heart beats steady in your chest.

and then the doors creak open.

and he’s standing there.

tie loose.

hair wind-swept.

coat barely buttoned.

like he ran here.

like it matters now.

you don’t freeze.

not at first.

you simply… stop.

a single step from the altar.

you blink.

twice.

like maybe it’s a dream.

like maybe he’s just a ghost in a three-piece suit.

but he speaks.

soft. raw. broken.

“y/n.”

and it’s not a ghost.

it’s him.

your guests turn.

some whisper.

your fiancé, at the altar, doesn’t move.

he knows.

he’s known about nanami since your first date.

he knows the kind of love you had — and the kind of wound it left behind.

he lets you go.

just for a moment.

and you walk.

because closure is something you never got.

and you’ll never marry right if he’s still inside your chest.

you meet him in the side room — the chapel’s old study.

quiet.

still.

private.

his breath catches when he sees you up close.

“you look beautiful,” he says.

you smile, barely.

“you look like hell.”

he chuckles.

runs a hand through his hair.

nods.

“i probably do.”

and for a second, it’s just you and him.

you and the man who once made you fall in love with late-night conversations and hands that never wandered unless you pulled them there.

“why are you here?” you ask.

“i couldn’t let you go without seeing you one last time.”

“you already let me go,” you say.

his eyes drop.

and it breaks you, a little, to see him look so small.

nanami was never small.

never unsure.

never anything but solid.

but he’s shaking now.

“i loved you,” he says.

your throat tightens.

“i still do.”

you sit in a nearby chair.

carefully.

like you might fall apart.

“you had me,” you whisper. “you had all of me. and you let the world take you from me every day.”

he doesn’t argue.

“i know.”

“you were always so… tired.”

he nods.

“i didn’t know how to stop being tired. not when i was in it. not when there were people to protect. and i thought—”

he stops.

inhales.

“i thought you’d always be there.”

you flinch.

and maybe that’s the cruelest part.

because for so long, you were.

until you weren’t.

you press your palms together.

stare at your lap.

“i waited, kento. for birthdays. for anniversaries. for one single night where we didn’t talk about death.”

his voice breaks.

“i know.”

“and when i finally left, i thought you’d fight. i thought you’d show up at my door. beg. something.”

“i wanted to.”

“then why didn’t you?”

a pause.

and then—

“because i thought letting you go was the kindest thing i could do.”

you laugh. once. bitter.

“then why are you here now?”

he looks at you.

really looks.

like you’re the last sunset before a war.

“because i was wrong.”

silence settles between you like dust.

and in it, you remember.

the morning coffees.

the shared silence on rooftops.

his hand on your lower back at parties, steadying.

the way he touched you like you were fragile — not in body, but in soul.

you remember the ache.

the nights he didn’t come home.

the texts that said sorry, overtime.

the way he said i love you like it was a duty — not a prayer.

you sigh.

“it was never about the job,” you whisper. “it was about how little of yourself you thought you were allowed to keep.”

he nods.

because he knows.

he always knew.

“is it too late?”

you look up.

and his face —

god, his face.

it’s like watching a man beg without ever falling to his knees.

you smile.

sad.

real.

“yes.”

his chest rises.

falls.

slow.

and you know — without him saying it — that he won’t try again.

he won’t make a scene.

he won’t ruin your peace.

he’ll just… go.

the way he always does.

you walk back to the altar.

and as the sun shifts through the chapel windows, your fingers brush your soon-to-be husband’s.

he squeezes once.

firm.

you’re here.

you chose this.

you turn to say your vows.

and nanami kento steps back into the world, alone.

for once, he was too late.

and maybe — deep down — he always meant to be.

toji fushiguro

it’s the kind of day you begged for in silence.

the kind of peace that used to feel impossible.

your dress rustles when you walk.

you can hear the wind outside the chapel.

the world is gentle for once — and so is your heart.

you didn’t think you’d get this far.

not after what it took to leave him.

not after how many nights you spent untangling yourself from the wreckage of loving someone like toji fushiguro.

but you did.

you survived.

and today, you’re going to marry a man who doesn’t look at you like a possession, who doesn’t leave for days without saying where he’s going, who doesn’t spit blood into the sink and say it’s not your problem.

you’re ready.

you really are.

until the door creaks open.

and the problem walks in anyway.

toji fushiguro walks into your wedding like he owns the place.

black shirt.

black slacks.

a smear of dried blood on his knuckle.

grin like sin itself.

he looks at you like nothing’s changed.

like he didn’t ruin you.

like he didn’t vanish five years ago after fucking you up so good you forgot who you were without him.

your stomach turns.

the bouquet in your hands feels heavy.

“what the fuck,” someone mutters near the back.

he ignores them.

his eyes are only on you.

you meet him halfway down the aisle.

you don’t care who’s watching.

“get out.”

your voice is low. dangerous.

he smirks. “hey, sweetheart. long time.”

“you’re not welcome here.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “figured.”

you fold your arms. “what the hell do you want?”

he scratches the back of his neck.

there’s a bruise on his jaw.

his lip is busted.

he probably walked out of a fight to come here.

figures.

“i heard you were getting married,” he says. “wanted to see for myself.”

you blink.

“and what, you thought you’d crash it? drag me out by the hair like you used to?”

his jaw tightens.

“you said i was a ghost,” he says. “you said you didn’t even think i was real anymore.”

you scoff. “yeah. because you disappeared. i thought you were dead, toji.”

“maybe i was,” he says, quietly.

you stare at him.

hard.

and you realize —

he didn’t come to ruin it.

he came to beg.

you met him when you were too young to know better.

toji was a loaded gun in a bar fight.

no last name, no explanations, no promises.

you fell into bed with him because you wanted to feel something.

you stayed because you felt everything.

it was ugly.

it was addictive.

it was real.

he’d vanish for weeks and show up at your door like nothing happened.

you’d yell.

he’d laugh.

he’d pull you in by the hips and say miss me, baby?

and you always did.

until the day you didn’t.

“you left,” you whisper. “no goodbye. no word. just vanished.”

“i didn’t think i deserved one,” he says.

you look down.

his hands are shaking.

you remember what those hands felt like.

on your waist.

on your throat.

in your hair.

you remember the way he said your name when he was half-drunk and bleeding and too tired to lie.

you remember the way you begged him to stay, and he walked out anyway.

“i was poison to you,” he says. “i knew it. you knew it. but you loved me anyway.”

your throat clenches.

he looks at you like he’s drowning.

“i thought you’d be better off without me. and maybe you are. maybe this guy—”

“don’t,” you warn.

he nods.

“i just… i don’t know how to want something the right way. but i wanted you.”

you bite your lip.

hard.

because this is everything you wanted to hear then.

not now.

not now.

“why are you really here, toji?”

he swallows.

“because i woke up this morning and realized i’d rather die than know some other guy gets to wake up to your smile.”

you close your eyes.

your fiancé is at the altar.

you can feel his eyes on you.

you can feel your heart breaking again —

but this time, you’re not going to let it.

you step back.

“you don’t get to do this.”

he stares.

“you don’t get to show up now, after all this time, and say the things you should’ve said when i was still crying on the fucking kitchen floor.”

he says nothing.

you keep going.

“you want a second chance? too fucking bad. i begged for one for years and you never even looked back.”

his lip quivers.

you almost hate him for it.

because he looks like a kid.

a stupid, scared, selfish man who never learned how to love without destroying what he touched.

“i loved you,” you whisper.

and he breathes in like it hurts.

“i loved you so much i forgot myself. and i won’t do that again.”

toji nods.

he doesn’t argue.

he just looks at you one last time.

like he’s memorizing you.

and then —

he walks out.

no fight.

no tantrum.

no last kiss.

just silence.

and for once,

you let him go

without looking back.

you walk to the altar.

you take your lover’s hand.

you say your vows.

and your voice doesn’t shake.

because toji fushiguro was the fire.

but this — this is the shelter.

and you’ve already burned enough.

ryomen sukuna

you never told anyone how it ended.

not really.

you said he left.

you said it was toxic.

you said it was over.

but how do you explain something like him?

how do you explain what it’s like to love a god in borrowed flesh?

to feel his presence in the room before you even see him —

a pressure in your bones, a whisper in your blood.

how do you explain what it’s like to be wanted by something ancient and wrong,

to be touched by hands that wore someone else’s fingerprints,

to kiss a mouth that wasn’t his, but held his voice, his venom, his grief?

you never told anyone.

and now, it doesn’t matter.

because today, you’re marrying a man who sees you —

not as a vessel, or a toy, or a worshiper.

just you.

you take a deep breath in the bridal suite, smoothing your veil, grounding yourself in the moment.

you’re going to be okay.

until the lights flicker.

and something inside you goes cold.

you know it’s him before you turn around.

his presence fills the room like smoke.

like rot.

like grief.

you don’t need to see him to know he’s grinning.

he always smiled when he hurt you.

and still —

when you face him,

your heart stutters.

because he’s still wearing the same skin.

yuuji’s body.

the same boy you once held under soft sheets,

the same boy whose eyes used to shine when he looked at you.

but this isn’t him.

this hasn’t been him for a long time.

“you look divine, little one,” sukuna purrs.

his voice echoes like it’s coming from two throats.

your hands clench at your sides.

“you shouldn’t be here.”

he laughs — low, dangerous, cruel.

“and yet, here i am.”

“leave.”

“not yet,” he says, stepping closer.

the air thickens with his presence.

your skin prickles.

he tilts his head.

“you’re really doing this, then? marrying that—” he sneers, “—mortal?”

“yes,” you breathe. “because he’s kind. and real. and safe.”

“and boring.”

your eyes flash.

“and good.”

he goes quiet.

then —

“i was good for you once.”

“you were never good for me.”

his jaw ticks.

the smile slips, just barely.

“i gave you everything,” he says.

his voice is suddenly quiet. dangerous.

like a predator’s last warning.

you don’t flinch.

not anymore.

“you gave me fear. you gave me pain. you gave me obsession and then called it love.”

he moves again, faster than you can react.

he’s inches away.

“i loved you,” he says, almost like a curse.

“you used me."

his eyes burn red.

“no. i worshipped you.”

you shake your head.

tears sting the edges of your vision — not from sadness, but from the exhaustion of this nightmare returning on the day you were finally free.

“you loved the way i broke for you,” you whisper. “you loved the way i screamed your name in the dark, begging you to stop. you loved that you were the only one who could hurt me like that.”

he stiffens.

for the first time, you see it:

the crack.

the wound.

he doesn’t speak.

so you do.

“and i’m done hurting.”

you used to believe there was a soul somewhere under the curse.

you used to believe he could feel, that he just didn’t know how.

you let him touch you with hands that had destroyed cities.

you let him sleep beside you, whispering your name like it tasted sweet.

and then one day, you woke up and realized —

you were never his salvation.

just another throne.

another temple for the god of decay.

you left him in silence.

never turned back.

never spoke his name again.

you prayed he wouldn’t follow.

“i could kill him,” sukuna murmurs.

“the one waiting for you.

a snap of the fingers.

his heart in your lap.”

your stomach turns.

“and i could scream,” you say.

“i could scream right now and your little host body would be swarmed in a second.”

he chuckles.

“you won’t."

“you think i’m still scared of you?”

“no,” he says.

“i think a part of you still mourns me.”

and maybe you do.

but mourning is not wanting.

he closes the distance again, one last time.

his voice is low.

almost soft.

“i would have torn the world apart for you.”

you look up at him —

the monster in your old lover’s skin.

“and that’s exactly why i can’t be yours.”

he doesn’t fight.

he doesn’t scream or rage.

he just watches as you turn your back to him.

as you walk toward the door, your future, your peace.

and behind you, you hear the ancient god say —

“then i hope your heaven is worth the hell you left behind.. lucky i didn't air this bitch out woman.”

you scoff.

you don’t cry.

you don’t look back.

you step into the light.

and for the first time in years —

you feel clean.

sigh i was gonna do yuuji too but i reached the text block limit or something before i could finish? not entirely sure. nonetheless, hope this was written well enough, and though it was angsty, that it was enjoyable. thank yewww for reading!

you’re too tired to think.

it’s been weeks—no, months—of deadlines you never agreed to and hours your body never signed up for. no rest. no space. no choso.

you sigh into the steam rising from the sink. warm droplets dot your collarbones as you rub cleanser across your cheeks, neck stiff from too long hunched over a screen. the light hum of the bathroom bulb above buzzes, vibrating through the tiled walls. your hands work slowly, almost drowsily, scrubbing away mascara and the faint outline of eyeliner wings that were far too ambitious for how exhausted you felt this morning.

your mind drifts. not to work. not to the unread emails. not to the dishes still in the sink. but to him.

choso.

it feels like you’ve barely seen him. not really. sure—he’s there when you come home sometimes, standing in the kitchen with sleeves pushed to his elbows and hair tied back in a low, lazy tail. he kisses your cheek, brings you leftovers in plastic containers, asks if you’ve eaten.

but you haven’t really touched him. not the way he deserves. not the way he needs.

you swallow hard.

you miss him.

you tug the bottom of his oversized shirt down your thighs as you step into the bedroom, bare legs brushing together. your panties are soft cotton—white with a delicate trim—and slightly loose from too many washes. not your cutest pair, but they’ll do. the fabric slides as you climb into bed, the worn shirt falling low over your hips.

his scent lingers on the collar—sandalwood, blood, and something that’s just him.

you curl under the blanket, cheek pressed to the pillow, lashes fluttering shut.

you don’t hear the door open.

you don’t hear the rustle of keys or the muted clink of his boots being toed off in the dark.

but you feel it.

the sudden warmth of him behind you, heavy and solid, curling around your body like a vine aching for sunlight. you feel the rasp of his jeans brushing your thighs. the quiet, shuddering breath ghosting across your neck.

then—

a low whimper.

you blink awake, the fog in your head thick. disoriented. “choso…?”

“baby…”

his voice breaks.

your lashes flutter, heart skipping as you feel it—something stiff pressing against the curve of your ass. his cock. hard and twitching beneath the denim, desperately rutting into the plush of your covered cunt.

“missed you,” he breathes, like he’s ashamed of the words.

his hips move again—slow, dragging his clothed cock between your thighs, against your damp panties. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

your stomach tightens. heat crawls low and molten through your belly.

“choso… what are you doing?”

he moans softly, nose pressed to your nape. “can’t… can’t wait anymore.”

he sounds ruined. soft. soaked in need.

“baby—” he chokes, hips grinding down—again, again, like he’s helpless to stop—“need you so bad. please. please let me fuck you.”

you swallow, brain still sluggish with sleep and the heavy pulse of arousal building between your legs. “you’re still in your clothes…”

“couldn’t wait,” he pants. “saw you… in my shirt, your thighs, your scent—fuck, i need to be inside you.”

his fingers tremble as they slide up your thigh, pushing the hem of your shirt higher, higher until your panties are exposed. he groans, forehead resting against your shoulder, lips brushing your skin. “you wore this to bed and expected me not to lose my mind?”

you feel wetness soaking your panties.

not just yours.

his precum stains through the rough fabric of his jeans, leaking against your core. and he keeps rutting—slow and frantic, a steady, needy grind that says he’s been holding back for far too long.

his hands find your waist.

he groans again, hips twitching.

“please, sweetheart,” he whispers, a thread of desperation tugging every syllable raw. “please let me fuck you.”

you turn your head, just slightly, catching the trembling curve of his lips.

his eyes are glossy. deep, wine-dark. he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

“i’ve missed you so much,” he breathes. “i dream about you every night. your hands, your mouth, the way you sound when i make you come—please, i need it, i need you.”

your heart aches.

you’ve neglected him. you know that now. too caught up in deadlines and exhaustion to see how quietly he’s been starving for your touch. and now, here he is—pressed against you like he’ll shatter if you say no.

so you don’t.

you part your legs.

he whimpers.

“thank you,” he gasps, already fumbling with his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. “thank you, baby—fuck—i won’t last long, i’m sorry—”

his cock springs free, flushed and leaking, heavy with need.

he tugs your panties aside, panting, tip dragging through your soaked folds.

“gonna come the second i’m in you,” he warns, voice trembling. “been thinking about this all day—fuck, all week—i can’t take it—”

you reach back, hand sliding into his hair, threading through the silky strands. “then don’t hold back.”

he moans—loud and broken—and pushes inside.

you both gasp.

he buries himself to the hilt in one desperate, quivering thrust.

“fuck—fuck—so warm, so soft—god, you feel like heaven—”

his hips shudder as he bottoms out, chest pressed to your back, arms locked tight around your waist. like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again.

you moan beneath him, walls clenching around the thick, pulsing stretch of his cock. he’s big. always has been. but now, with him trembling and whimpering above you, it feels different—deeper. more intimate. like he’s not just fucking you.

he’s coming home.

he pulls out halfway, then thrusts back in.

and again.

and again.

his pace is frantic, uneven. loud whines spill from his lips with every roll of his hips. your name breaks like prayer from his throat.

“you’re mine,” he pants, “mine, mine, mine—fuck, say it—”

“yours,” you breathe. “i’m yours, choso—fuck—”

he sobs into your shoulder, hips snapping faster now, cock sliding in and out of your dripping heat, wet and hot and sloppy.

your thighs shake.

“gonna come,” he gasps, “gonna fill you up—please let me, i need to—need to breed you, baby—”

you whimper, brain melting.

his hand reaches between your legs, fingers circling your clit, desperate to make you fall apart with him.

and you do.

with a choked cry, you seize around him, cunt pulsing and spasming, wetness gushing down his cock as your orgasm hits—fast, brutal, blinding.

he follows seconds later.

“fuckfuckfuck—oh god—”

he moans loud into your neck, cock twitching deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot cum until it drips past your folds, leaking down your thighs. he doesn’t stop grinding—keeps fucking it into you slowly, even as he comes down, as if trying to stay inside you forever.

you’re both shaking.

you feel his breath, warm and damp, against your back. his arms tighten, holding you close.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he shakes his head, nuzzling into your shoulder. “don’t be. just… don’t go away again.”

you kiss his knuckles where they rest on your belly.

“i won’t."

your thighs are still trembling when he finally stills.

his breath is warm against the back of your neck—hot little puffs between murmured apologies, groans, broken whispers of your name. he stays inside you for a moment longer, grinding ever so faintly, his cock still hard but twitching, overstimulated and slick with his own release.

you don’t stop him.

you don’t want to.

his weight is comforting, the full press of his chest against your back, his arms wound tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he lets go.

eventually, with a shaky exhale, choso slips out of you.

you hiss softly at the loss. he murmurs something that sounds like “sorry, baby” as his hand slides down your hip, between your thighs, trying to gently press your legs closed to keep the mess from dripping onto the sheets.

but it’s already leaking.

you can feel it—warm and wet and thick between your legs, soaking your thighs, your panties clinging damp to your skin.

“shit,” he breathes, shifting to sit up. “lemme clean you up.”

you catch his wrist before he can get off the bed.

“don’t go.”

he freezes.

turns.

you meet his eyes.

dark and wide and still a little dazed, his pretty mouth kiss-bitten and parted. strands of his dark hair have fallen from the tie, some sticking to his flushed cheeks.

he looks like he’s still catching up with reality.

like he can’t believe you’re here. with him. letting him love you like this.

“just use your shirt,” you murmur.

he blinks.

then—softly, so softly—he smiles.

“you’re such a menace.”

“you married me.”

“i’d marry you again.”

you flush.

he tugs the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—up your hips, up and over your head. the fabric peels off your damp skin with a sticky little sound.

you lift your arms, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls it free.

then—

gently, so gently, he uses it to wipe between your legs.

the touch is soft. careful. reverent.

his knuckles brush your folds. he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. your muscles twitch, still oversensitive.

when he’s done, he tosses the ruined shirt off the bed and pulls the blanket up over your bare skin, tucking it around you. then he climbs in behind you again, wrapping himself around you like a blanket, like a second skin.

“you okay?” he murmurs, nose pressed to the back of your neck.

you nod, humming.

“more than okay.”

his hand strokes gently over your stomach. slow, lazy circles. thumb dipping just beneath your navel, over the faint curve of your skin.

“didn’t mean to wake you up like that,” he whispers.

“m’glad you did.”

“been thinking about you all week,” he breathes. “every time i went to bed alone, all i could do was picture you here. in my clothes. in my sheets. in my arms.”

“i’m sorry,” you say again. quieter this time. “i’ve been so busy. i didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“i know,” he murmurs. “i wasn’t mad. just…”

he sighs, lips brushing your skin.

“just lonely.”

your chest aches.

you turn in his arms, facing him. he lets you, instantly adjusting to pull you closer.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, but you shake your head.

“no. i want to. i’ve been running on autopilot. always tired. always somewhere else. and i forgot…” your voice trembles. “i forgot how good it feels just to hold you.”

his expression softens.

“you can always come home to me,” he says quietly. “even when you’re exhausted. even when you’re too tired to talk. i’ll be here.”

you stroke his cheek. “i know.”

he kisses your palm.

you sigh, nestled against him, your bare chest pressed to his, legs tangled beneath the blanket. he’s still wearing his jeans, only half undone. you reach down and start tugging at them lazily.

“get these off,” you mumble. “can’t cuddle you properly with denim in the way.”

he snorts, voice low and fond. “bossy.”

“you like it.”

he grins.

eventually, the jeans are shucked off and kicked to the floor. he’s back beside you in seconds, wrapping you up again, sighing like he’s waited his whole life just to hold you like this.

and then—

you both just lie there.

no rush. no demands. no pressure to say or do anything at all.

you talk about everything and nothing.

the dinner you didn’t eat.

the couple next door who won’t stop arguing.

the latest mission he had with yuuji and how he got yelled at by gojo for forgetting the snacks.

you laugh. he smiles.

then you ask him if he still wants to dye his hair purple one day, and he groans and says that was a phase.

“a sexy phase,” you tease, lips brushing his collarbone.

he hums, stroking your back.

you ask if he’d still love you if you shaved your head.

“yes,” he says, immediately, “but i’d cry about it.”

you giggle, and he nuzzles his face into your neck.

“you smell like lavender and sex,” he murmurs.

“you smell like sex and regret.”

he snorts.

silence falls again. soft. safe.

your limbs are heavy now, exhaustion creeping back into your bones. the kind of tired that only comes after your body’s been wrung out, your heart has softened, and everything you need is already in your arms.

“hey,” you whisper, barely audible.

“hm?”

“…love you."

you feel his lips curve against your skin.

“love you more.”

your breaths slow.

your limbs still.

outside, the world turns.

but in this room, it’s quiet. safe. warm.

and sleep comes softly, with the weight of his arms around you and the scent of his skin in your lungs, and the feeling—undeniable, infinite—that you are cherished.

always.

more choso becausee why not :3 i feel like i write a lottt of jjk stuff lol. anyways, hope this was enjoyable! i loved writing it. thank yewww for reading!

everything starts with the silence.

it’s not new. not surprising. not even dramatic, anymore. it’s just… him. the thick, muted withdrawal that bucky barnes uses like armor. the way he lets the quiet grow so large between you that it swallows every attempt to reach him. the way his mouth barely opens when you speak, the way his eyes dart just past your cheek when you’re vulnerable enough to ask.

this time, it was nothing. something small. something stupid. you’d asked if he was coming to sam’s get-together on friday, casually, while you were pulling on a hoodie over your sports bra. and he’d just said, flatly, “no.”

and that was it.

no reason. no softness. not even a glance in your direction. like it didn’t matter. like you didn’t matter.

you don’t know why it breaks something in you. it’s not like you haven’t dealt with his moods before. it’s not like you haven’t learned how to navigate his silences, his moods, the way he clings to solitude like it’s the only thing that’s ever protected him. but tonight, something inside you buckles. maybe because it’s been weeks since he’s touched you without being prompted. maybe because you’re tired of loving a man who acts like he’s still not allowed to be loved. maybe because your heart is sick of reaching while he just stands there and lets you wear yourself out.

you don’t say anything right away. you just nod. go quiet. let him go back to pretending the world is easier when he’s silent. you sit with it. with the way your chest burns. the way your stomach knots. the way your body tenses like you’re preparing for battle, even though he hasn’t raised his voice once. you sit with it as the clock ticks. as he folds his arms and stares at the muted television. as he says nothing, again.

and you realize you don’t want to fight.

you want to fuck.

you want to take all that silence and make him speak. you want to see if he still thinks he can stay quiet when your hips are on him, grinding slow and rough, when your hand is on his chest holding him down like he’s the one pinned beneath all this disappointment. you want to make him look you in the eye when you take from him — what he always offers halfway, what he always gives like he’s apologizing for wanting.

your anger crystallizes into something sharp. something unkind. and you let it in.

you don’t say anything when you straddle him. you don’t ask. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed from earlier — black tee, tactical pants half-unzipped, looking like he was either going to sleep or disappear. you don’t give him the chance to decide. you throw one leg over his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress, your fingers curling into his jaw.

his head lifts slightly, brows pinched in confusion. “what’re you—”

“shut the fuck up.”

you don’t yell it. you whisper it. low. with teeth behind it. and that makes it worse. that makes him blink like he’s been struck.

you don’t give him time to protest. you kiss him — hard. nothing romantic in it, no gentle press of mouths or the soft brush of affection. just teeth. lips dragged open. your tongue shoving past his. your hand holding his face in place like you dare him to move.

he doesn’t.

but his breath goes ragged. already.

your hips roll into him slowly, deliberately. you feel the bulge in his pants twitch beneath you, the barely-there shift of his thighs. good. he feels it. let him. your eyes don’t close when you kiss him again. they stay open. watching him.

his lashes flutter.

he’s turned on.

you pull back, just enough to speak. “you like that?” you ask, voice like venom, hips grinding again. “you like when i use you like this? since you don’t seem to care what i feel, maybe i’ll just make you feel something instead.”

bucky swallows. hard. he’s quiet, but not out of defiance — it’s something else now. like shame. like hunger.

your hand slides down his chest, then between your legs. you’re not wearing anything under the oversized sleep shirt. he finds that out when you take his hand — his right one, not the cold metal one he always keeps distant — and shove it up the hem of your shirt. place it against the heat between your thighs. let him feel what he hasn’t touched in over a week.

his fingers twitch. breath hitching.

you lean down, mouth at his ear. “you don’t get to pretend you don’t want this. not when i’m wet just from looking at you and you haven’t done a thing to deserve it.”

his eyes are half-lidded when you pull away.

good. you don’t want devotion tonight. you don’t want tenderness. you want him under you, aching, silent for once because of you.

you shove his pants lower, just enough to free him. you don’t let him help. when he tries, you slap his hand away.

“don’t touch me unless i tell you to.”

his cock twitches.

you don’t hide the smile that curls at your lips.

“jesus,” he murmurs, voice rough. but not in protest. more like reverence. disbelief.

you line yourself up, slow, grinding against the head of his cock, dragging him through your folds. he bites back a groan. you make sure he sees the look in your eyes — angry. disappointed. sharp. then you sink down on him in one slow, devastating thrust.

he chokes on his breath.

you don’t stop moving.

the rhythm you set is relentless. punishing. not out of cruelty, but correction. you ride him hard, your thighs burning, your hands on his chest, pushing him down every time he tries to sit up. he keeps trying to speak — to tease, maybe, to deflect the way he always does. you don’t let him.

“don’t talk,” you snarl. “you had your chance.”

his face is flushed. his chest heaves. he looks so fucking wrecked, already.

your nails dig into his pecs as you bounce on his cock, the slick sound of your bodies obscene in the quiet room. he’s watching you now — eyes wide, pupils blown. his mouth hangs open like he’s trying to form a prayer and a curse at the same time.

you slap him across the face.

not hard. just enough to shock him.

his breath stutters.

“you like this?” you whisper, leaning down, your lips brushing his as you move. “being used like a warm fucking toy? is that why you shut me out, bucky? because you want me to get mean?”

his hands fist the sheets. not your waist. not your skin.

he’s obeying.

fuck.

you fuck him harder. your orgasm is building fast, too fast, and you hate him for how much you like it. how much it hurts to want someone who keeps building walls you’re tired of climbing. how much it hurts to love someone who doesn’t know how to say it back unless your hips are slamming down onto his.

“you’re pathetic,” you whisper, voice cracking. “you let me ride you like this and you can’t even ask me to stay. you’d rather fuck than feel anything.”

his eyes burn.

your climax is close. his is closer. his hands are shaking.

you slow your hips. just enough to make him beg.

he groans — a choked, ruined sound.

“please,” he rasps.

you tilt your head.

“please what?”

he grits his teeth. “please don’t stop. i—fuck—please.”

you press your lips to his again. not kissing. just breathing into his mouth.

“you don’t deserve it,” you whisper. “but i’ll let you come anyway.”

and when he does — when he falls apart beneath you, loud and unguarded and so fucking open for once — you finally let yourself feel it. everything he wouldn’t say. everything he gave you in silence.

you make it loud.

you come with his name on your lips like a knife.

and when it’s over, you don’t move.

not yet.

because he’s trembling beneath you, breathing hard, eyes glassy. and for once, he’s not shutting down. he’s not hiding.

he’s looking at you like he’s scared of what you saw.

you cup his face again. not gently. not cruelly. just there.

and you say, “next time i ask you a question, barnes, fucking answer me.”

he nods.

he doesn’t look away.

and neither do you.

it hits him after.

not during. not in the throes of it, not while you’re still on top of him, dripping sweat and venom and slick satisfaction, your thighs trembling and your mouth parted like you’re still deciding whether to kiss him or slap him again.

no — it hits after.

when your breathing starts to steady. when your fingers stop digging into his chest. when your weight softens against him, and he realizes you’re not pushing him away anymore, but resting there.

you’re warm. still.

and that’s what makes him break.

you feel it first — the way his chest rises faster than it should. the sudden tension beneath your palm where you’d been absently tracing the edge of his collarbone. you feel it in the shift of his hands, still not touching you, but gripping the sheets like he’s trying to ground himself in something that won’t move.

you lift your head slowly.

his jaw is clenched.

his eyes are glassy.

you blink. “bucky—”

his throat bobs. hard. “don’t,” he whispers.

you freeze. “don’t what?”

“don’t—” his voice cracks. “don’t be nice to me right now.”

you stare at him.

his chest is rising too fast. his hands are clenched too tight. and his eyes — god, his eyes — they won’t look at you now. not like they did before. not like when you were inside that haze of power and heat and anger and hate-turned-desire. no. now he’s looking through you. or past you. like he can’t survive the weight of your eyes on him anymore.

your stomach twists.

you sit up, still straddling him, still naked. but it’s not about sex anymore. it’s never really been about sex, not tonight. it was about something deeper. something darker. something you both weren’t brave enough to name.

until now.

you brush the hair from his face. not gentle. not rough. just… enough.

“look at me.”

he doesn’t.

you raise your voice — just a little. “bucky.”

his eyes snap to you, wide, panicked, shiny.

“i’m still here,” you say, steady. low. honest. “i’m not walking away.”

and that’s what does it.

his face crumples.

you watch it in real time — the collapse of the armor, the unraveling of everything he’s spent years building to keep himself safe. the tears he’s bitten back for hours, days, months. the shame he wears like a second skin, peeling off now that you’ve seen him like that, now that you’ve touched him in the places that were never meant to be touched — the soft, terrified places inside his chest, where all the worst parts of himself hide.

he covers his face with both hands. turns his head to the side like he can outrun it.

but you’re still straddling him.

you don’t move.

he sobs — a full, broken, ugly sound — and it echoes through your ribs like something sacred.

you cup his wrists. guide his hands away from his face. not forcefully. just enough.

and when he lets you — when he lets you see his red eyes, his trembling mouth, the boyish mess of him, raw and hurting and sorry — you don’t say anything.

you just lie down on his chest.

naked. soft. still warm from where you’d fucked him like you hated him.

and now… you just hold him.

his arms come around you like muscle memory. shaking. hesitant. but real.

and you stay like that. quiet.

his breathing stutters. “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes.

“i know.”

“i just—” he swallows. “i don’t know how to be good at this.”

you don’t respond right away.

you drag your fingers up his arm instead. over the curve of his shoulder. the place where skin meets metal. where the line between man and machine feels the most blurred.

“you don’t have to be good at it,” you whisper. “you just have to try.”

he doesn’t speak.

his hand finds your lower back. stays there.

you feel him breathe deeper.

you don’t tell him it’s okay. not yet. because it’s not, fully. and he knows that. and part of loving bucky barnes is understanding that he doesn’t need comfort as a lie — he needs truth. he needs to be seen, not soothed.

so you don’t lie.

you just stay with him.

skin to skin.

grief to grief.

love to love.

eventually, when his breathing evens out and his grip stops trembling, you press your mouth to his neck. soft.

and he turns his head. just enough to rest his lips against your temple.

“don’t hate me,” he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.

you don’t respond with words.

you kiss him instead.

not angry. not possessive. just… true.

and when you pull back, you whisper, “never.”

sweet bucky :( thank yeww for readinggg and i hope you enjoyed!

it starts like all terrible things do—with silence.

not the kind that comes from peace or understanding, but the kind that wedges itself between two people who used to know each other by heart.

he stands on your porch with hands buried in the pockets of his coat, a colder man than you remember. you watch him through the peephole and debate not opening the door. in another life, he’d have let himself in. in this one, he doesn’t even knock twice.

you let him in anyway.

“you changed your locks,” he says, stepping into your apartment like it’s a memory. like it’s something he left behind and expected to find untouched.

“you were gone,” you reply, voice level, eyes distant.

he closes the door with a soft click and doesn’t argue.

he looks the same. tall and impossibly beautiful in a way that hurts to witness. white hair still tousled, lips still bitten pink from stress. but there’s something missing now—something in his eyes that used to burn bright. it’s gone, and in its place is a quiet ache that mirrors your own.

you don’t hug him. he doesn’t expect you to.

you make tea. you don’t ask if he wants any, but you pour him a cup anyway. it sits untouched between you both, the steam curling like breath too soft to be heard. it’s been weeks since he was released. weeks of radio silence on your end. you hadn’t gone to see him. not at the school. not at the hospital. not even at the funeral.

you sip your tea and finally say it.

“why are you here, satoru?”

he flinches.

you never used to call him that.

back then, before everything burned, it was easier.

you were just you, and he was just him. a man too loud, too smug, too quick with a grin that made your insides unravel. he was chaos and sugar in human form. he laughed too hard, lived too fast, and loved like the world owed him eternity.

but even gods fall.

and gojo satoru? he fell hard.

you’d loved him once. maybe still did. you were stupid about it. reckless. the kind of love that made people break things just to see how far the cracks would spread. he made you feel like you could survive anything.

until he didn’t.

until the night he left and never came back.

you look at him now, across your kitchen table, and all you can think is:

you left me here.

you try not to let it slip out, but it does—croaked and broken, voice trembling in ways you hate.

“i waited for you.”

he closes his eyes.

you hate how soft his voice is. “i know.”

you wait for more. for an apology. for an excuse. for something. but all he gives you is silence. again. the kind that kills things.

you slam the tea cup down harder than you need to.

“you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to walk back into my life and look at me like i’m something you miss.”

he opens his eyes. they’re red-rimmed and dull.

“but i do.”

you stand, back rigid. “you don’t.”

he doesn’t argue. just looks at you like you’re air he hasn’t breathed in years.

you hate him for it. and god, you hate yourself more—for the way your heart clenches at the sight of him. for the way your hands shake when you set the cup down. for the way you still remember what it felt like to have his arms around you at night.

he hasn’t even touched you. not once. not even his fingers grazing yours when he took the tea.

maybe that’s what hurts the most.

you turn your back to him.

“you shouldn’t have come.”

his voice is quiet. “i had nowhere else to go.”

you press your palms against the counter, trying not to fall apart.

“don’t say that like it makes this okay."

“i’m not trying to make it okay.”

he stands behind you now, and you feel the weight of him in the room. not touching. just there. like a shadow you can’t shake. like the ghost of something you used to believe in.

he whispers, “i don’t know how to live in a world without you in it.”

you swallow the sob rising in your throat.

you turn to face him. not because you want to. but because you have to. because he’s always had that pull on you, like gravity, like something you can’t ignore.

he looks like he might cry. he never used to cry. not even when people died. not even when the world ended.

but now? now he looks at you like you’re the last thing holding him together.

you shake your head. “you left me here. alone. do you know what that did to me?”

“i didn’t have a choice—”

“you always have a choice. you chose them. you chose to be a martyr. you chose to throw yourself into hell and forget that people were waiting for you to come back.”

his hands are fists at his sides. he doesn’t speak.

you step forward, and suddenly your voice is breaking, and you’re sobbing, and you’re hitting his chest with weak fists like the hurt has nowhere else to go.

“i begged for you. every day. i begged for someone to bring you back.”

he lets you hit him. lets you fall apart in his arms. lets your anger spill out in cracked gasps and tear-streaked words that don’t make sense.

when your fists finally fall limp, he wraps his arms around you. not tightly. not possessively. just enough to hold you together.

you cry into his shoulder, and for a second, you remember what it was like to love him.

just for a second.

he sleeps on your couch that night.

you leave a blanket out for him. don’t say goodnight.

he watches you disappear down the hallway and tells himself that was enough.

he’s wrong.

in the morning, he’s gone.

not because he wanted to leave.

but because he knew you weren’t ready to let him stay.

there’s a note on your kitchen counter. just his name, signed in black ink. nothing else. like if he writes too much, he’ll fall apart again.

you sit on the couch he slept on. hold the blanket he used. it smells like him. clean and warm and distant.

you close your eyes.

and for the first time since he came back, you let yourself admit it.

you still love him.

but it’s not enough. not anymore.

not after what it cost you to live in the world without him in it.

felt like i was being too nice lately..so some angst. nothing too bad. i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading <3

the first thing he notices when he pushes the door open is the light. not the overhead kind—no, you never leave those on unless you’re reading or looking for something. the glow tonight comes from the small lamp near the bookshelf in the corner of the living room, its shade casting a golden halo across the hardwood floor. it pools at the toes of his boots, stretching out like an invitation. the door clicks softly behind him, and the weight of the day drops from his shoulders before he even sets down the shield.

he exhales through his nose, slowly. quietly. the hallway behind him is full of city noise—horns, voices, wind—but in here, it’s just music.

soft, crackly, old. something from a time he almost remembers. a woman’s voice drifting low and slow over gentle piano keys, the kind of song made for twilight hours and open windows.

the apartment smells like rosemary and butter. something’s simmering.

steve doesn’t call out right away. he’s learned, over the past year, to let things happen gently. so instead of speaking, he moves carefully—placing the shield in its spot behind the armchair, shrugging off his coat and scarf and laying them over the back of the couch like you always tell him not to, though you never seem to really mind.

his eyes scan the room. it’s changed so much from the first time he stepped into it—back when it was just yours, and he was still trying to figure out how to walk through the world without a mission, a title, or a uniform. now there are sketches tacked to the walls, books stacked in uneven piles, throw blankets draped over chair backs. a polaroid of the two of you stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tiny apple pie.

this place is alive. this place is his.

you’re in the kitchen.

he sees you before you see him—moving around the small space like you belong there, barefoot, hips swaying slightly to the music. you’ve got a wooden spoon in one hand and the edge of your shirt clutched in the other to avoid getting anything on it. it’s one of his shirts, of course. soft cotton, faded navy, a little too big on you, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows. your hair is pulled back, a few strands falling loose, and your face is half-lit by the stovetop light.

he watches you for a long moment, letting it settle in his chest. this ache. this awe.

you hum along to the music, lips moving gently. steve could stand in this doorway and watch you forever.

and he probably would—if you didn’t turn just then, glancing over your shoulder with a grin already forming.

“you’re home,” you say, like it’s the best thing that happened all day. like it always is.

he smiles, soft and crooked, stepping into the kitchen. “didn’t wanna miss dinner.”

you set the spoon down and turn to face him fully. “you’re right on time.”

he pulls you into him without another word. one hand warm and broad against the small of your back, the other cupping your jaw as he presses a kiss to your forehead. then your nose. then finally, your lips. it’s slow, gentle, so unhurried. like he has all the time in the world to memorize how it feels to come home to you.

when he pulls back, your hand’s resting over his heart. “bad day?” you ask.

“long,” he murmurs.

you nod. “well. it’s over now. and i made that pasta you like.”

he leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “you’re too good to me.”

“you bring me flowers when you run errands. i think we’re even.”

he chuckles softly and lets himself sway, just a little, in time with the music that’s still playing. you tilt your head, smiling up at him.

“are we dancing?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer with words. just nudges his nose against yours and moves his hand to your waist, guiding you gently into a slow spin, right there between the counter and the table. the pasta simmers behind you, the record hums on, and your arms loop up around his neck like they were always meant to.

he’s not a great dancer. you know that. but he wants to be, when you look at him like this. like he’s not captain america, not a man out of time. just your guy, here, swaying in the kitchen with you in his arms.

you hum under your breath and lay your head on his chest. “you smell like winter.”

he smiles into your hair. “and you smell like garlic and rosemary.”

you make a little sound. “how romantic.”

“extremely.”

a soft laugh bubbles out of you, and he feels it in his ribs. the song changes. he doesn’t let go. neither do you.

after a minute, you tilt your face up to him, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “did you know i used to daydream about this?”

“dancing in the kitchen?”

“well, yes, but no!” you smile, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “you! this. us.”

he looks at you like he’s still trying to believe you’re real.

he cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing along your jaw like you’re made of something sacred.

“you saved me,” he whispers.

you frown, softly. “steve—”

“you did. i didn’t know how to live in this world, not after everything. didn’t think i could. and then there you were. you weren’t loud. you weren’t flashy. you just… stayed. let me rest. let me figure it out. you gave me space to breathe again.”

your throat tightens. you wrap your arms tighter around his middle, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“i didn’t do anything special,” you murmur.

he kisses the top of your head, slow and sure. “you loved me.”

the music winds down into silence. the record clicks, then resets. you don’t let go.

eventually, the pasta boils over a little, and you both start laughing. he grabs the wooden spoon, you grab the towels, and the moment bursts like a bubble—only to be replaced by a hundred more like it.

you eat curled together on the couch, legs tangled, bowls balanced on your knees. he tells you about the people he saw today, and you listen, stroking your thumb over his knuckles. you tell him about the new project you’re starting, and he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

later, he does the dishes while you hum from the bathroom, brushing your teeth. he leaves the porch light on even though you always forget to turn it off. you fold his sweater over the chair where he’ll see it in the morning. he leaves your mug by the kettle so it’s ready for tea tomorrow.

you crawl into bed, cold feet on his calves, and he grumbles like he doesn’t love it.

he falls asleep with his fingers in your hair, your breath warm on his chest.

and the city spins on. the world forgets them again.

but in this tiny apartment, lit by soft lamp glow and warmed by leftover pasta and quiet music and the way your bodies curve into one another like matched pieces—

the lights stay on.

and love stays soft.

and nothing hurts.

not for a while.

sighhh theres just something about imagining dancing with your significant other, in the middle of the kitchen, with music fading into the background. at least to me! this was purely self indulgent. i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww so much for reading, loves.

the hotel is quieter than usual.

no afterparty. no noise bleeding under the doors. no distractions.

just a hallway humming with fluorescent buzz, thin carpets, and walls too beige for the kind of tension curling in your chest.

choso’s door is three steps ahead of you.

you shouldn’t be here.

you both know that.

but you followed him out of the venue anyway.

close behind, close enough to brush shoulders in the elevator. close enough to hear the uneven beat of his breath.

neither of you has said a word since the show ended.

he unlocks the door. steps inside. doesn’t turn around.

but he holds it open—silent invitation.

you cross the threshold like it’s a cliff.

the room is dim. one lamp on. tv off.

the air smells like clean sheets, cigarette smoke, and the faint tang of guitar strings.

he shrugs off his hoodie, tosses it on the chair.

you recognize it. the same one he gave you. the same one you still keep balled up at the bottom of your bed.

he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded in his hair.

you don’t move at first. just watch him.

he’s quiet like he always is.

but it’s a charged kind of quiet.

like the silence after a scream.

“you shouldn’t have sent me that demo,” you say finally.

his voice is low. raw. “i had to.”

“why?”

he lifts his head.

his eyes are dark, tired, unguarded.

haunted.

“because it’s you. all of it. every line. every note.”

your heart stutters.

“that wasn’t a love song,” you say.

he shakes his head. “no.”

“then what was it?”

his hands flex in his lap. “a warning.”

you take a step closer.

your voice is quieter now. “for me or for you?”

his gaze cuts to you—sharp. trembling.

“both.”

you stand between his knees now.

his breath hitches.

your legs are bare. your hands are clenched. your whole body’s screaming at you to do something reckless.

but neither of you moves.

not yet.

“you scare the shit out of me,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“what?”

his voice cracks.

“you make me write songs i don’t know how to finish.”

and fuck.

fuck.

you reach for him.

just your fingertips, light against his jaw. just enough for him to flinch—not away, but into the touch. like he’s wanted it longer than he knows how to admit.

he looks up at you, breathing heavy. “if i touch you right now, i’m not stopping.”

your heart climbs into your throat.

“then don’t touch me yet.”

his brows pinch. “what?”

“just—let me stay here for a second.”

your hand lingers on his face. thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

his lips part.

but you don’t kiss him.

you won’t.

not until he knows.

“this isn’t a game,” you whisper. “i’m not another song you forget how to end.”

he shakes his head. slow. solemn. “you’re the only one i need to end right.”

you lean in—so close your breath grazes his lips.

he tenses. waits.

but you pull back.

just an inch.

just enough.

you sleep on top of the covers that night.

fully clothed. curled into opposite sides of the bed like a storm might roll through the sheets if either of you dares to move.

you don’t touch.

but in the dark, he whispers,

“can i write about this?”

you whisper back,

“only if it ruins you a little.”

and he smiles.

the morning is too bright.

sunlight slices through the cheap hotel curtains and carves sharp shapes on the bedspread. your eyes burn. not from the light—no, from the fact that you didn’t sleep. not really. not with him breathing so close. not with your body aware of every shift, every turn of his in the sheets.

you’d stayed on your side.

so had he.

but neither of you meant it.

the distance between you felt like a line drawn in sand—fragile, temporary, one that would be wiped away the moment one of you moved.

you think maybe he almost did.

at 3:42 a.m.

you’d felt it—his hand twitch, the sheets shift, the brief warmth of him reaching toward your side of the bed before he froze, stopped himself.

and now the sun is rising, and the silence is louder than ever.

you sit up first.

rub the sleep from your face. reach for your phone. check the time.

he shifts beside you.

you feel the movement before you hear his voice, low and rough with sleep.

“…did you dream?”

you blink.

“what?”

he’s on his side now, head propped up, one arm tucked beneath his cheek.

“you were breathing hard,” he says. “like you were running from something.”

you exhale.

your voice is flat. “maybe i was."

a beat of silence.

then—

“were you running from me?”

you look at him.

really look at him.

his eyes are softer now. no stage lights. no noise. just a boy in a band too good at hiding feelings and too bad at letting go.

“no,” you say. “i was running toward something.”

his throat bobs.

and neither of you speaks again until you’re dressed, shoes on, standing awkwardly near the door like this thing between you is too big to pack.

you open the door.

he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

not gripping. not pulling. just holding.

“come to the show tonight,” he says. “please.”

your voice catches in your throat.

“i haven’t missed one.”

“i know.” he looks down at your wrist, then back at you. “but this one’s different.”

you nod.

and leave before you can ask what that means.

that night — venue: basement bar, sold out

the room is buzzing.

electric. tense. packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies that don’t know they’re about to witness something private.

you can feel it in the air.

choso’s been quiet all night.

barely spoke to yuji. didn’t let maki into the green room. refused to rehearse the new song.

you’re pressed up against the side of the stage when the lights go low. the first two songs are old favorites—static bleed, nervewire—loud and raw, like muscle memory.

but then the lights drop to just one spotlight.

and he steps up to the mic alone.

guitar slung low.

hood up.

eyes closed.

he speaks into the mic, voice tight.

“this one’s not on the record.”

the crowd quiets.

“it’s not finished. but… the person it’s about knows the ending already.”

and then he starts to play.

you know it from the first chord.

it’s your song.

the demo. the one he played over the phone. but it’s fuller now. rawer. and the lyrics—god, the lyrics—

“you’re a bruise i press just to feel again

you’re the breath i hold when i want to drown

you’re the silence between my sentences

you’re the only one who sticks around.”

your knees nearly give out.

you grip the edge of the stage like it’ll keep you from crumbling.

he doesn’t look at you.

but you know the song is yours.

the way his voice breaks on the third verse. the way his fingers tremble when he strums the chorus.

the crowd is silent.

when he finishes, he doesn’t bow. doesn’t smile.

just looks out at the sea of faces, straight through them—straight to you.

and then he says into the mic:

“that was the warning.”

after the set, you don’t wait for him backstage.

you’re already in the alley when he finds you, breathless, sweaty, eyes still burning from what you just heard.

he stops a few feet away.

his voice is hoarse. broken.

“you heard it?”

you nod. “every word.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t push.

“did you mean what you said?” you ask.

he stares at you like he’s drowning.

“i never mean anything more than i do when i sing.”

you step forward.

this time, you’re the one who reaches.

hand curling into his shirt. fist pressed against his chest like you’re checking if that song lives there still.

“then why didn’t you kiss me?” you whisper.

his voice is airless. “because i want to do it right.”

you look at him.

look through him.

“then do it right.”

he does.

god, he does.

his hands cup your face so gently it hurts. his mouth hovers over yours, breath trembling, body held taut like he’s been holding this in for years.

and when he finally kisses you—

it’s not fireworks.

it’s release.

like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. like a song that’s been stuck in your throat for too long.

his lips are soft. slow. reverent.

like he’s apologizing for every second he made you wait.

like he’s promising never to stop writing.

he doesn’t let go of you for a long time.

not after the kiss. not after the taste of you is already fading from his mouth.

not even when the alley grows colder and the weight of what just happened settles over both of you like dust after a collapse.

your fingers are curled into the hem of his shirt, fists pressed tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you blink.

he won’t.

he won’t.

not now.

not after that.

the walk back to the hotel is quiet.

he doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t offer it—but you walk close, steps in sync, like your bodies have learned each other’s rhythm by accident.

he opens the door for you.

doesn’t say anything when you follow him inside.

you sit on opposite ends of the bed again, but this time, there’s no distance.

just silence—comfortable, almost holy.

his voice finally breaks it, soft and hoarse.

“i thought if i kissed you, it’d ruin it.”

you glance over.

he’s staring at the floor, hands between his knees. his shoulders tense.

“i’ve never wanted something this bad and not touched it,” he continues. “not wanted to ruin it, just—needed it too much. like if i did the wrong thing, you’d stop looking at me the way you do.”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“…how do i look at you?”

he lifts his head.

and god, the ache in his eyes. like someone who’s starved for warmth and just now realized how close the fire is.

“like you hear something no one else hears.”

your chest tightens.

you crawl across the bed, slow and quiet, until your knees are tucked beneath you and your hand is on his.

“you don’t ruin things, choso.”

his throat works. “i have. i do. i will.”

“not this.”

he looks up, and you let your fingers slide between his—careful, slow.

he lets you. grips back, tight.

“you didn’t kiss me because you were scared of breaking it,” you say. “but you kissed me because you knew it could break you.”

his lashes flutter. his breath stutters.

and when he whispers, “yeah,”

it’s not fear.

it’s relief.

that night, you sleep the way you haven’t since you met him.

in his arms. skin warm against skin. clothes on. legs tangled.

there’s nothing sexual in it.

not yet.

not tonight.

tonight, he holds you like a lyric.

like a verse he needs to memorize before it’s gone.

like you’re the sound that keeps him from falling asleep in silence.

and when he breathes into your hair, he whispers,

“please don’t leave when this ends.”

you wake to the sound of soft guitar strings.

he’s on the floor, knees bent, back against the bed, hair tied up messily with a chord from his amp.

you sit up slowly, blanket slipping off your shoulders.

he doesn’t look at you, but his voice reaches.

“i didn’t think i’d write again after last year.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes. “what happened last year?”

his fingers still.

“…i broke something. someone.”

the room holds the breath between you.

you slide to the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor near his.

“do you regret it?”

he shakes his head.

“i regret not trying harder. not slowing down. not listening.”

he strums once—soft. minor key. aching.

“that’s why i listen to you.”

your voice is small. “you do?”

“every time you’re near, i hear things sharper. the buzz in the room. the tension in the air. the way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

your chest aches.

he finally looks up at you, and his voice cracks:

“you make me feel like music again.”

that night, he plays your song again at the show.

this time, he names it.

“this one’s called feedback. it’s the sound you get when the mic’s too close to the amp—loud, ugly, dangerous. but sometimes, it’s the only way to know something’s really alive.”

and then he plays it.

with full band.

with new chords.

with new lyrics.

“she burns where she stands

but i keep chasing the heat

even when it scars me—

i’d rather be hurt than incomplete.”

the crowd screams.

you don’t.

you just cry, silently, because he’s never sung so loudly in his life.

you don’t go back inside right away.

not after the show, not after the noise. not after that song.

you just… stand.

on the hotel balcony.

wrapped in the hotel’s stolen robe and your own stunned silence, hands curled around a mug of something warm you’re not really drinking.

the night is thick with city air—warm, metallic, laced with old rain and something newer. softer.

he’s behind you.

you don’t hear him at first, but you feel him.

the soft tread of socked feet on cracked tile, the shift in air pressure, the quietest breath in the dark.

“you okay?” he asks.

you nod, though your throat is still full.

he steps beside you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, wrists pale in the moonlight. his hair’s down now—half-dried from the shower, curling at the ends.

you glance at him.

he’s looking up. at nothing. maybe at the stars.

“you didn’t have to name it after me,” you say.

he glances down.

“i didn’t name it after you.”

you frown.

he takes a breath, voice low.

“i named it because of you.”

and god.

that wrecks you more than the song ever did.

he sits beside you, on the old patio chair with peeling paint. you stay standing. it feels easier that way—easier not to fall into him when your ribs are still buzzing from everything he gave you on stage.

your voice is soft. careful.

“you ever think about what this is gonna look like when it’s not in the dark?”

he looks up. “what do you mean?”

“this.” you gesture between you. “us. offstage. in daylight. without an encore to drown out the quiet.”

he watches you for a long second. doesn’t speak.

and then, finally:

“every day.”

your lips part, but no words come out.

he rubs a thumb along his knuckles, quiet.

“i’ve been trying to figure out how to keep this real when everything around me feels… temporary.”

you exhale, chest tight.

“it doesn’t have to be temporary.”

his eyes flick to yours.

and then he whispers, almost like he’s afraid saying it will break it:

“you’re the only thing that doesn’t feel like a phase.”

you finally sit.

not next to him.

on him.

you climb into his lap without a word, blanket still draped around your shoulders, and tuck your knees to either side of his hips.

he goes still.

his hands hover for a second—then land. light on your thighs. steady. grounding.

you rest your forehead to his.

“you know i’m not going anywhere, right?”

his breath catches.

you nod, just barely, brushing your nose against his.

“you don’t have to rush,” you murmur. “you don’t have to call it love. not yet. but i need to know you’re not just singing at me.”

his hands tighten on your legs. not possessive. not desperate.

present.

“i’m not,” he breathes. “i’ve never meant anything more.”

you don’t kiss.

not tonight.

instead, he presses his lips to your collarbone. slow. reverent. like a bow after a final set.

you bury your fingers in his hair.

and for a long time, you just sit there.

his chest against yours. your breath warming his shoulder.

no music. no noise. no crowd.

just heartbeats.

and the soft hum of two people learning how to stay.

i think the end of this lil mini fic is nearing, maybe 1-2 more parts. im not positive yett heheh. i hope you enjoyed and thank yewww for reading!!