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lostfracturess · 3 months

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【 ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇꜱ 】 ch. 07

x pairing professor!gojo x med student f!reader (medical au)

x summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

x wc 12.2 k

x warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood / abuse, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

x author's note dive in and let me know what you think—i love hearing your thoughts! & pls like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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You shifted your weight from one leg to the other.

Then again.

No use.

No position was comfortable anymore. How long have you been at it?

"Everything okay?"

You looked over to Satoru, nodding slightly. "I'm fine, just a bit stiff."

"We're almost done." Satoru seemed entirely at ease, his hands moving with his familiar precision and confidence as he navigated through the brain in front of him.

It's almost criminal how good he was at masking his withdrawal.

"Can you hold on a little longer?"

"Yeah, I'm good." You forced yourself to push past the discomfort, ignoring the growing ache in your limbs. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other again. The sterile brightness of the operating room harsh against your tired eyes.

You mirrored his movements, every action synchronized seamlessly with his. As you retracted the tissue to reveal the implantation site, Satoru's sharp eyes caught something unexpected.

"Hold on a second," he interjected. "Come closer."

You leaned in, your focus shifting to where he was pointing his instrument. Amidst the intricate web of nerve fibers, a distinct cluster caught your attention, its arrangement defying the textbook descriptions you were used to seeing.

"This is an excellent example of neuroplasticity," Satoru explained. "See how the brain has restructured these pathways? It's adapting, compensating for lost functions. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it really is."

"That's something you won't find in books. Real-life experience is the best teacher."

"Thank you for showing me, Dr. Gojo."

Satoru turned to meet your gaze, his smile noticeable even under his mask. "It's my pleasure to teach you, first-year."

As Satoru carefully adjusted the microelectrodes to align with the neural pathways, you kept the surgical field clear, suctioning away any obstructions and adjusting the lighting to ensure Satoru had an unobstructed view of the implantation site.

"Speaking of teaching," Satoru began without looking away from his work. "What's the significance of the basal lamina in epithelial tissue organization?"

Caught off guard, you blinked. "What?"

"Was my question unclear, or are you pondering your answer?"

Oh my god. Not this again.

"It provides structural support and filtration, separating the epithelium from underlying connective tissue," you replied, focusing on assisting him while recalling your histology lectures.

"Correct. How about the roles of astrocytes and microglia in the CNS?" he continued, not missing a beat as he made another precise adjustment to the neuroimplant.

"Astrocytes support and protect neuronal cells; microglia act as immune cells within the CNS."

Satoru's smile grew slightly. "And the process and significance of axonal myelination in the CNS?"

"Oligodendrocytes wrap axons to form the myelin sheath, speeding up nerve impulse transmission," you explained as you handed him the next tool he needed.

"Excellent," Satoru acknowledged. "I wonder why you did so badly in your histology exam."

"Huh?"

Satoru turned to meet your gaze. "Your histology results. I've seen them. You didn't do well."

"That's because someone has been taking up all my study time," you said in a low tone. "Besides, stop snooping around my exam scores."

"Ah, so it's my fault, is it? Here I was, thinking I was quite the teacher."

"That's a bit of a stretch, considering you're the main reason I'm was behind the whole semester."

Satoru's grin widened. "But it helped with your anatomy exam, didn't it? And your pharmacology results were among the best."

You raised an eyebrow. "That had little to do with you."

"Anyway, shall we test the neuro connection now?" he suggested, flashing you a playful smile as he concluded the surgery.

As you both began the preliminary checks to ensure the equipment was ready for testing, the operating room door swung open. The anesthetist, a woman in her thirties with striking black hair and a prominent scar crossing her face over her nose, re-entered the OR and resumed her position.

"You know, as the anesthetist, I'd think your place is here, inside the OR, not out," Satoru commented.

The anesthetist waved it off with a dismissive gesture. "With a surgeon like you at the helm, Dr. Gojo, my worries are few and far between," she quipped. "Besides, I knew you had everything well in hand."

What is her mission here?

Your eyes wandered over to Satoru who seemed unfazed by her playful tone.

"Let's start with the diagnostic checks to confirm the implant's responsiveness. Pay close attention to the readings; we're looking for any signs of synaptic activity that align with our projections," Satoru said to you.

You monitored the screens closely, watching for the telltale signs. Satoru, too, kept a keen eye on the data streaming in, his expression tense. After a few moments, the first signs of success appeared. Relief washed over you.

"Looks like we're in business." Satoru's eyes meet yours, his lips curling into a smile. "Let's close the patient up."

"Would you like to do the honors?" Satoru asked, a slight nod towards the suture materials prepared on the tray beside him.

"Yes, I'd like that."

"Then come here," he said, adjusting the overhead light for you. You moved into Satoru's position as he stepped back. Satoru hovered close, his eyes never leaving your hands as they began their work.

"You can use a bit more tension." His hand briefly covered yours, guiding the needle with the precise pressure needed. "The skin has a few scars from past surgeries. If you stitch scar tissue too loosely, you compromise the incision's integrity."

His hands were a comforting presence, guiding but not controlling, allowing you to feel the right amount of tension necessary. "That's it, nice and steady. You're doing great." He stepped back to let you finish independently.

The room fell into a concentrated silence. The process was methodical, each movement deliberate, as you worked to close the incision, layer by layer, ensuring the integrity of the closure.

"Good girl," Satoru whispered as you secured the final stitch. "Didn't expect anything less form you. The patient is going to be thankful for such a neat closure."

You glanced back at him. "Thank you Dr. Gojo."

"Always my pleasure."

After the surgery, you both scrubbed up in the washing room, the warm water cascading over your hands.

"Our first successful surgery," Satoru mused, his gaze meeting yours. "Looks like this summer's going to be a breeze."

"It will sure be an interesting summer with that anesthetist."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't get it? The anesthetist was practically throwing herself at you earlier."

"Really?"

"Yeah, seriously. She wasn't very subtle."

He grinned. "What, are you jealous?"

Just as you were about to respond, the door to the washing room opened, and the anesthetist walked in. "Dr. Gojo," she began. "That was an impressive surgery. It's always a pleasure to work with such a skilled surgeon."

Wow. Thank you.

She talked like you weren't even there.

Satoru offered a polite smile. "Thank you. But It was a team effort."

Undeterred, the anesthetist stepped closer, her intention clear. "I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner sometime? To discuss more about your work, maybe?"

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of running water. You stole a glance at Satoru, who appeared momentarily paralyzed. You cleared your throat, reminding him that the anesthetist was waiting for his answer.

"I'm sorry, but I'm with someone," Satoru finally managed to say.

Huh?

The soap bar slipped from your grip at his words. It crashed into the sink with a sound that felt disproportionately loud in the tense silence that followed.

Satoru turned towards you. "You okay?"

"Yeah." You hastily reached for the soap again, your movements a bit too quick, a bit too shaky.

The anesthetist's expression faltered, a brief flash of embarrassment crossing her features before she quickly composed herself. "Of course, sorry. I should have seen that," she said, her gaze flickering between you and Satoru.

Oh fuck.

"Seen what?" Satoru asked.

"That you're dating. I just thought it'd be rather unusual for a professor and a student, but I'm not—," she stumbled over her words. Her exit strategy crumbled as gracefully as your grasp on the soap bar, which slipped from your fingers once more, causing another loud thud as it hit the sink.

"I should go now," the anesthetist hastened to add. She left the room in a rush, leaving you and Satoru alone once again. You felt as if all blood had drained from your face.

"Are you good?" Satoru asked again, his gaze piercing as if silently questioning your ability to perform surgery when you couldn't even hold a damn bar of soap in your hands.

"Yeah, I'm good." You quickly tried to shake off the lingering awkwardness. "You should probably clear that up."

"She's actually from another hospital. She's just here for today's surgery."

"Still, Satoru."

"Alright, alright, I'll clear things up with her. You have my word."

The hospital was a breeding ground for gossip. The last thing either of you needed was speculative gossip. Yet, Satoru seemed to find an odd sense of appeal in the idea.

"Actually, part of me thinks it wouldn't be so bad to let the rumor spread," he mused, running a towel over his hands. "It would certainly be easier than all this sneaking around."

"Are you out of your mind?"

He laughed. "Perhaps a bit." His eyes sparkled with mischief as they met yours. "But imagine it—no more tiptoeing around, no more fear of getting caught."

Before you could react, Satoru leaned in. His hands slipped around your waist to pull you closer. You pushed against him, a feeble attempt to keep some distance.

"You know, we're not in a relationship, Satoru."

"What, you're banning me to the friend zone?"

"It's not like you've ever left it."

"Harsh. That cuts deep."

You rolled your eyes. "Sure."

With a soft sigh, he released you, stepping back. "Come with me. There's something I want to show you."

─── ·✧· ───

Without further explanation, he led you through the quiet halls of the hospital to his office. The moment you entered Satoru's office, you were welcomed by the rhythmic pattering of rain against the windows. The office was dimly lit, the only light coming from the stormy sky outside.

Satoru shrugged off his coat and collapsed onto the couch, a deep sigh escaping him. For a moment, he lay still, his eyes fixed on his phone as he navigated through it.

You joined him on the couch. "What's this?" you asked as he handed you his phone.

"Just watch."

You pressed play on the video.

It showed the young patient from the first surgery, now equipped with his biometric arm you both had painstakingly worked for. The patient was in a training room, demonstrating an impressive range of motion and dexterity with the new limb. His movements were fluid and controlled. Almost perfect.

You couldn't help but smile.

Satoru's voice could be heard in the background, praising the patient's progress. The patient's face lit up with a broad smile as he looked into the camera.

The video ended.

"He was here yesterday for a checkup," Satoru said, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "This is your doing. You made this happen."

"It took all of us to get this done."

"No. You led the surgery. It was your doing. And now, he has a chance at a new life. All thanks to you. Feels good, doesn't it?"

"What?" You handed the phone back to him.

"Knowing that we can actually change things," Satoru mused as he flipped the phone idly in his hand, replaying the video. "Make a real difference in someone's life."

"It does." Your smile turned bittersweet as you observed him closely. "You look tired, Satoru."

Satoru glanced at you, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. He rubbed his slightly bloodshot eyes. "Do I?"

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look 'fine.'" You gently pushed the damp hair away from his forehead. His reaction was immediate; his hand captured yours, drawing it down to caress his cheek. He leaned into your touch, a sigh escaping him as he closed his eyes.

"You should really consider just taking some clonidine."

He exhaled deeply. "You really not stopping with that."

"Because you keep being stupid," you replied, pulling away to stand. "Where do you have it?"

"In my bag."

You crossed the room to where his bag lay, rummaging through its contents until you found the medication. Holding the clonidine in hand, you turned back to face him. Satoru had shifted to a sitting position, his gaze fixed on you.

Holding out the medication, you met his gaze, urging him silently to take it. But Satoru hesitated, a slight pout on his lips. "I can't."

"Why not?" Frustration edged into your voice. "Satoru, it's for your own good."

"It's not that simple."

"It is. You're making it complicated."

A tense silence filled the space between you, the rain's steady patter against the windows underscoring the moment. "I... I just can't take it like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't stand the taste."

He really got some nerves.

"Don't make me force you to take it."

Satoru's lips quirked up in a half-smile. "You couldn't make me swallow it if you tried."

"You think so?" you countered, your patience thinning.

Deciding on a more direct approach, you moved closer and sat down on his lap, straddling him. His eyes widened as you did so. He let himself fall back against the couch, his hands instinctively settling on your hips.

You reached for one of the pills, your movements deliberate under Satoru's watchful gaze. "What are you about to do?"

Holding the pill between your fingers, you met his gaze squarely. "I'm making sure you take this." You placed the pill on your tongue, savoring its bitter taste.

His breath caught in his throat as your lips met his. Still, his tongue eagerly met yours.

He swallowed the pill without a second thought.

That's it, isn't it?

You should withdraw.

Withdraw your lips from his soft and tender lips.

God, his lips were soft against yours. Just like you remember. How you missed it.

Ah fuck it.

His lips moved against yours. His kisses became more urgent, more possessive, as he hungrily devoured your lips. In that instant, nothing else existed except the two of you. With a sudden tug, Satoru pulled you closer until there was hardly any space left between your bodies.

"I thought we had an agreement?" Satoru gasped between kisses.

"Did we?" you said, throwing your own principles overboard.

They didn't stick around very long, did they?

I'm not judging you, reader. It's Satoru Gojo after all.

We would all bend the rules for him, wouldn't we?

His lips twitched into a wicked smile. His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, working their way up your back. Drawing closer, your body melded seamlessly with his.

You shifted slightly, arching your spine to grind against him, causing a low moan to escape his chest. In return, his touch grew urgent, fingers pressing into your flesh as if seeking comfort in your warmth. He kissed the side of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, urging him onward. His lips moved down, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went. Then, with a tantalizing flicker, his tongue traced the curve of your neck, turning your core molten.

The world outside faded, the only sound the pouring rain outside and the whisper of fabric against skin—until the abrupt light from his phone broke the spell, its screen illuminating the dim room.

"Ignore it," he murmured against your lips.

Ignoring the insistent vibration of his phone, Satoru deepened his kiss. You could feel his longing pulsing through him, matching your own. As if in response to the sound of the phone, his touch became bolder and more intense, leaving heat wherever he touched you.

Yet, the persistent buzzing of the phone became impossible to ignore. You turned your head slightly to see who was calling him for the third time in a row.

"Don't," Satoru whispered, cupping your chin to bring your focus back to him. "Focus only on me." His lips sought yours once more.

But you couldn't help it when his phone rang a fourth time. You cracked open one eye and glanced at the screen. "Satoru, wait," you pulled away from his lips. "It's Director Yaga."

Groaning in frustration, he reluctantly released his grip on you.

"Hello?" he answered.

Satoru's brow furrowed as he listened, his occasional nods doing little to reveal the nature of the conversation. Finally, Satoru hung up.

He looked at you, his expression grave. The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a chill through you, the air around you suddenly felt colder.

"Yaga wants to see us. In his office. As soon as possible."

"What? Why?"

"Didn't say anything."

"What did he say then?"

"Only mentioned it's urgent and that we both appear." He dropped his head back onto the back of the couch. "God, Yaga is such a cockblock."

You leaned back slightly, worry creasing your brow. "It's probably because of that student you punched. He must know something."

"He doesn't know anything."

"What if that student presses charges? What if rumors already spead? What if he wants to fire you?" The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them.

Satoru cupped your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Whatever it is, I'll handle it."

"How can you be so sure? What will we even say?"

"Trust me, I'll do the talking. Just stay quiet, okay?"

"Okay," you whispered, trying to push aside your concerns as you took a deep breath to steady your nerves.

The storm outside suddenly seemed much louder than before.

─── ·✧· ───

The clock was ticking.

It was the only sound in the tense silence.

Director Yaga sat behind his desk, his expression inscrutable, yet the sharpness in his gaze suggested a brewing storm. He watched the two of you for what seemed like an eternity.

He then leaned forward. His hands clasped on the desk. His gaze bored into Satoru with an intensity that made even the famous neurosurgeon shift uncomfortably.

"Director Yaga—" Satoru started, but then Yaga spoke himself.

"Why the hell did you punch that student in the face, Gojo?"

"Because he drugged one of my students." Satoru said. "I found out that he slipped something into her drink during the faculty party two weeks ago."

"And you thought the appropriate response was to physically assault the student?"

"I couldn't let it go, sir. What he did was dangerous. She could have been seriously harmed."

Yaga leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Dr. Gojo, your method leaves much to be desired. We can't have our staff resorting to violence every time they're upset."

Satoru's jaw tightened. "I understand, sir. It was a lapse in judgment. But considering the circumstances—"

"Circumstances?" Yaga interrupted, his tone rising. "This is a university, not a back alley. We have protocols for dealing with misconduct. You know this."

"I do, sir. And I apologize for overstepping. But with all due respect, those protocols might not have protected her in time."

"And you think a punch was the immediate solution?"

"It was what I felt necessary at the moment."

Yaga's gaze hardened again. "Dr. Gojo, your 'momentary feelings' are becoming a liability. This isn't the first time your actions have caused complications. Your skills as a surgeon are beyond question, but your impulse control is, frankly, concerning."

"I understand the gravity of my actions, sir," Satoru said. "And I am prepared to face the consequences."

You needed to say something.

Do something.

You opened your mouth but Satoru raised his hand slightly from his lap so that only you could see it. He didn't want you to say anything.

Yaga studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "I'll deal with the student's misconduct appropriately. As for you, Dr. Gojo, there will be consequences. I expect better from you in the future. Much better."

Satoru nodded. "Thank you, sir. It won't happen again."

Yaga's gaze then shifted to you. "You're spending a lot of time with Dr. Gojo, right?"

Your eyes briefly flicked to Satoru. "Yes, sir. We're working closely on the neuroprosthetics project."

"And how do you find working with Dr. Gojo?"

You hesitated for a second. You could feel Satoru's gaze on you. "It's been an incredible learning experience," you said. "Dr. Gojo is a brilliant surgeon, and working with him has offered me insights and opportunities I wouldn't have had otherwise."

"Indeed," Yaga mused, leaning back in his chair. "It's good to see such teamwork among our staff. But remember, the university and the hospital are a small world. Rumors spread quickly."

Your blood ran cold.

The warning was clear.

"You can leave now," Yaga said, his tone indicating that the remainder of the discussion was meant for Satoru alone.

"Thank you, sir." You stood, casting one last glance at Satoru, who remained seated. Satoru caught your look, offering a subtle nod.

You found yourself pacing the corridor outside, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours. Every scenario imaginable played out in your mind, each more disconcerting than the last.

Finally, the door opened, and Satoru emerged — a practiced smile on his face. Yet, the tightness around his eyes betrayed him.

"Everything's fine," he said.

"Is it really?"

"Honestly, it's nothing to worry about. Yaga just wanted to go over a few things. You know how it is."

"Satoru, if something's wrong—"

"Really, it's nothing. Just the usual Yaga being overcautious. We're fine."

The use of "we" didn't escape your notice.

You knew Satoru well enough by now to recognize when he was shielding you — or perhaps himself — from worry. Yet, his insistence on handling matters alone, on bearing the brunt of any fallout without burdening you, was both admirable and, at times, maddeningly frustrating.

You studied him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of what truly happened behind closed doors. It was then that he stepped closer, closing the distance between you.

"Come on, don't make that face." His hands came up to cradle your face. "Everything's fine."

"You don't have to protect me from everything, you know that, right?"

"Still, you can't stop me from trying." He released you from his hold and turned. "Come on, let's grab something to eat. I'm starving."

─── ·✧· ───

The early morning sun bathed the hospital grounds in a soft, orange light, heralding the start of another beautiful summer day. A gentle breeze, carrying with it the scent of freshly mown grass, whispered through the trees.

As you made your way toward the hospital, your eyes found Geto and Satoru. They were seated on a bench under the expansive branches of an oak tree, bathed in the speckled sunlight that danced through the leaves, casting patterns of light and shadow around them.

Drawing closer, Satoru caught sight of you, his face lighting up with a smile.

"There she is," Geto greeted you, a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. He exhaled a stream of smoke, the wisps dancing lazily in the morning light.

Satoru shifted to make room for you on the bench. "Ready for today?"

You took a seat beside him. "As ready as I can be," you said. "How about you?"

Satoru presented his hand in front of you, somewhat still. "See? No tremors today. All's well."

"I'm glad," you replied, though your eyes couldn't help but trace the faint bruises and scratches that still marred his otherwise flawless pale skin — remnants of the confrontation with that student. As your gaze shifted back to his, he offered you a wink, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Geto broke the sudden stillness. "So, heading into surgery number four today?"

"Yeah, your fourth one, eight more to go," you confirmed. "What do you have lined up for today, Geto?"

With a knowing smirk, Geto exhaled another stream of smoke. "An aneurysm clipping."

Intrigued, you leaned in slightly, your eyes brightening. "What really?"

Catching your reaction, Satoru teased, "Thinking of ditching me for Geto's surgery?"

You rolled your eyes. "Never, but you have to admit, nothing compares to the thrill of an aneurysm."

Satoru settled back, a shiver passing through him. "You know, you're kind of scary sometimes."

Geto let out a low laugh as he stood, crushing his cigarette underfoot. "Well then, I should get ready for my 'thrilling' surgery. Good luck with your procedure today."

Before Geto could stride away, Satoru's voice halted him. "Hey, Suguru, try not to scare your team away this time. We're running out of interns who don't break into a cold sweat at the mention of your name."

Geto turned. "Oh, please, Satoru. Interns come to me to recover from the trauma of working with you."

Leaning back on the bench, Satoru draped his arm across the back, subtly encircling you. "Scaring them is a necessary part of their training. Builds character. After me, they're ready for anything."

"You mean after they recover from the trauma," Geto said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

"You should be thanking me. Makes you look like the good guy for a change."

"That's your plan? Making me look good?" Geto raised an eyebrow. "Well, try not to traumatize them too much, will you?"

"No promises," Satoru replied. "But I'll consider it, just for you."

Geto waved a dismissive hand. "Just make sure you don't scare away this one." He gestured towards you. "She's a keeper."

As Geto disappeared into the hospital, Satoru turned to you, the smile still lingering on his face. "See what I have to put up with? It's a tough job, but someone's got to keep him in check."

"Seems like you both do a good job of keeping each other grounded."

"Yeah, we do. Couldn't ask for a better friend, even if he is a bit of a menace."

You observed him for a second. "How are you really feeling today?"

Satoru hesitated for a moment before extending his hand towards you. It was a subtle, but his hand was trembling, the fine tremors betraying his withdrawal. "See? Steady as ever," he joked, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just need a bit of caffeine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, but," he edged closer, "you know, you could always help steady them."

You stood up and began to walk towards the hospital. "In your dreams, Satoru."

"Oh, so we're playing by the rules now?"

"The rules bend to my will. They're mine, after all."

"Wait," he interjected. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

You stopped, turning to face him. "What is it?"

"Next week, I've been invited to give a guest lecture at another university about our neuroprosthetics research. I was hoping you'd join me for the presentation. Would you be interested in co-presenting?"

"Me? Co-present with you?"

"I can't think of anyone better to share the stage with."

"But what about Geto? It's as much his project. Shouldn't he be the one to present with you?"

He shrugged. "But I’d rather have you with me. Besides, he won’t be mad at me for choosing you.”

"I don't know if I'm the right person for that, Satoru."

He leaned forward. "You won't be up there alone. I'll be with you every step of the way. Haven't we always worked best as a team?"

You watched him for a second, considering.

"There's more," he added. "The university, it's a bit far away. We'd have to stay overnight."

"And let me guess, you need someone to look after you?"

Without missing a beat, Satoru's grin widened. "You know, with my problems and all, I could use someone to keep me in line."

"Are you seriously using your addiction to guilt-trip me into this?"

"Absolutely. But seriously, I need you there. Not just for me, but for this. For us."

"You're impossible." You let out a sigh, defeated yet somehow exhilarated. "Alright, Satoru. I'll go with you."

"That's all I wanted to hear," Satoru beamed, his eyes softening. "Now, let's go open some skulls."

─── ·✧· ───

The morning air held a cool bite.

When the door creaked open, Satoru stood there, looking like someone who had just rolled out of bed. His hair stood in every direction, his eyes blinking against the daylight, and his clothes — a rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants — spoke volumes of his unpreparedness.

"Uh, good morning?" His greeting came out more as a question as he took in the sight of you, fully dressed and ready, suitcase and all. "You want to move in? Not that I would complain."

"You seriously forgot?"

"Forgot what?"

"We're supposed to head to the university today. Our meeting with the director is at noon. The lecture, Satoru. Remember?"

"That was today?" he murmured, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

"Yes."

"Fuck." Satoru stepped aside and let you enter his apartment. "Give me ten minutes. Fifteen, tops."

You stepped inside, setting your suitcase down by the door. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant sounds of the city outside and Satoru's hurried movements from room to room. "Be right back," he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

The sound of running water soon filled the space.

Left to your own devices, you began to pace the living area of his apartment. "So, what's the plan? Did you even prepare the lecture?" you called out, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the shower.

From the bathroom, Satoru's laughter echoed. "I'm always prepared, as you can see."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." You meandered around the room, straightening out a stack of papers here, realigning books there — a small attempt to bring order to Satoru's organized chaos. "You really haven't prepared, have you?"

"Ah, you know me too well," he called back. "Didn't you prepare something?"

"Of course, I did."

After a few minutes, the water turned off, and the apartment fell into a brief silence before Satoru reappeared. His hair was wet and slicked back, giving him a more put-together appearance, despite the fact he was only in his underwear. Droplets of water glistened on his skin, trailing down his chest and abs. Your gaze shamelessly lingered.

"I knew I could count on you," he teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Sometimes I wonder how you even managed to become a professor."

"Do you really hold such a low opinion of me? The lecture's all set on my laptop. We'll go over it during the drive," he reassured, before striding towards his bedroom.

You followed him, leaning against the doorframe. "And here I was, worried you'd forgotten about the professional part of being a professor."

He laughed, pulling on a pair of trousers and beginning to button up a shirt. "Never doubt my commitment to teaching. My methods may be unconventional, but the results speak for themselves."

He then began throwing random cloths on his bed to pack. His shirt, only half-tucked, fluttered with each brisk movement.

You stepped into the room to offer some semblance of help — or at least moral support. Making yourself comfortable on the bed beside the pile of cloths, you observed his somewhat arbitrary decision-making process, each choice seemingly dictated by a 'that'll do' attitude.

"Shall I help pick out a tie that will adequately convey 'accountable professor,' or have we already moved beyond such formalities?"

Satoru shot you a look. "Haha, very funny," he retorted. "I'll have you know, I perform excellently under pressure."

Adjusting his shirt, he secured his belt with a metallic click. "Besides," he continued, now fully dressed and giving off an air of readiness, "I was counting on your impeccable sense of organization to make sure we didn't forget anything important."

You arched an eyebrow. "So, I'm your security plan? Here I thought I was the co-presenter."

He paused, his gaze intensifying as he crossed the room in two strides. Climbing onto the bed, his presence loomed over you, his nearness overwhelming.

"You're much more than that," he said, his voice softer this time. "You're everything."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the early morning light casting long shadows that danced around you both. Without another word, Satoru leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. It was a fleeting touch, yet it sparked a longing that begged for more.

He didn't wait long to deepen the kiss, pressing his lips even harder against yours. Your lips locked together as if starved for each other's embrace. Savoring every moment, they explored each other deeply. Before parting, Satoru's teeth nipped at your lower lip.

Parting, Satoru's eyes shimmered in the morning light, his fingertip delicately tracing the line of your cheekbone. "Now, let's make sure we're not late because of my supposed unpreparedness."

─── ·✧· ───

The drive to the other university unfolded under a sky so clear and blue it seemed almost surreal. it was an eight-hour drive, maybe more. You may have slept half the way.

The closer you got to the coast, the more the air changed, imbued with a freshness that hinted at the vast expanse of water nearby. When you finally arrived at the university, the salty tang of the ocean breeze greeted you, wafting through the warm air. You stepped out of the car, stretching your legs and taking a deep breath.

Satoru led the way across the campus with a stride that suggested familiarity. The university itself was an impressive collection of modern and classical architecture, its buildings bathed in the golden light of the sun.

You followed Satoru closely as you navigated through the lively campus. Students and faculty alike went about their day. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting playful shadows on the paths that crisscrossed the grounds.

"I have a feeling this isn't your first time here," you said.

Satoru glanced over at you, a smile playing on his lips. "Ah, the director here is an old friend of mine."

"So, this is a bit of a reunion for you two, then?"

"In a way, yes." The sun accentuated the subtle lines of amusement around his eyes. "But to be honest, he's always been a pain in my ass. We've been challenging each other since our university days. Always trying to outdo one another, whether in academics, research, or... well, less scholarly things."

What's that supposed to mean?

Satoru didn't hesitate as he approached the director's office. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. You stood by his side, a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your mind.

"Come in," called a voice from inside.

As Satoru pushed the door open, you both entered.

The director was a man in his thirties, the same age as Satoru, you guessed. His hair was loosely combed back, and his hair had a light pink blush that you found rather unusual. What caught your eye, however, were the geometric line tattoos adorning his arms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves.

The director rose from his chair upon your entrance. The familiarity between him and Satoru was immediate. "Toru, it's been ages!" he exclaimed.

Toru?

That casual nickname threw you for a moment.

The two of them embraced each other in a firm hug that seemed almost painful to an outsider. "Sukuna, you haven't changed a bit."

Turning his focus to you, Sukuna's sharp eyes found you. "And you must be the talented co-presenter I've heard so much about," he said, his voice carrying a smooth confidence that bordered on arrogance. "How was the drive over? I hope Toru here didn't bore you too much with his old university stories."

Stop calling him Toru, for fuck's sake.

Before you could muster a response, Sukuna took your hand in his, bending slightly to press a kiss to the back of it — a gesture that felt oddly out of place and left you feeling momentarily disoriented. "Please, call me Sukuna," he insisted, his grin wide.

I'm going to call you an asshole if you don't let go of my hand right now.

Sukuna stepped back and leaned against his desk. "So, Toru," he began, "are you still trying to save the world one brain at a time?"

"Someone's got to do it, especially when others are too busy terrorizing the next generation of doctors," he retorted.

Sukuna laughed. "Ah, but you know, adversity breeds excellence. Or so I keep telling them. I remember times, where you did the same."

Satoru chuckled. "You know me, always up for a challenge."

"That's for sure" Sukuna scoffed, he then adressed you. "You know that your professor always trying to beat me at... Well, anything, really."

"That's because you set the bar so low," Satoru shot back.

"Me? Low? I just see one person in this room leading a whole university."

Satoru leaned back in his chair. "That's just because I hate paperwork. I can't believe they even suggested you for this job after you barely making it to morning rounds for years."

Sukuna laughed, leaning forward. "Ah yes, but who was it that set the record for the most successful procedures in a single semester? Remind me, Toru."

Satoru's smirk grew wider. "Must have been the same person who had to repeat almost every exam."

Sukuna waved dismissively. "Details, details. But what happened? You became so tame."

"Grow older, you know. Wiser. Would suit you as well."

Sukuna chraked a smile and turned to you again. "Ah, so it's your influence, then?" You winced. "Impressive. I've never seen anyone manage to keep Toru on a leash before."

What is wrong with this guy.

Satoru's reaction was immediate, his eyes narrowing just a touch. "Don't go there Sukuna. We're here for a lecture you asked for, not for you to come at my student."

Sukuna raised his hands in a mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I give in. It seems you've finally met your match."

Sukuna pushed away from his desk and walked around it. "I'm looking forward to your lecture. The students and faculty are in for a treat. But now I have to go, I have a meeting in 10 minutes. But, maybe we can catch up later, reminisce about the good old days."

"Sounds like a plan," Satoru said, rising from his seat.

"I'll call you." Sukuna collected some papers and his bag, nodding to both of you before leaving the office.

"I didn't expect you two to be so close," you commented as you both made your way down the sunlit hallway. "You seem like a different person around him."

Satoru raised an eyebrow. "Different, how?"

"It's just... It's like you're returning to your university self."

He pondered your words for a moment. "Sukuna was a close friend of mine during my university days. We went through a lot together. But somewhere along the way, our paths parted. He climbed the academic ladder, and I... well, I found my calling in neurosurgery."

"It must be nice to catch up after all these years."

Satoru nodded. "It is. We've both changed in many ways, but some things remain the same."

As you both made your way out of the university and to the car, the afternoon sun made the door handles almost too hot to touch. "So what are we gonna do now?" you asked as Satoru opened the passenger door for you.

"I know a place."

─── ·✧· ───

"Feels like holiday here," you observed, taking a sip of your ice-cold drink.

"That's why I brought you here," Satoru replied with an easy smile.

Seated at a cozy corner of a beachside bar, you and Satoru found a spot in the shade. The bar was open-air, offering an unobstructed view of the expansive beach and the calm sea beyond. Around you, the soft chatter of other guests and the gentle sound of the waves in the background.

With cold drinks in hand, you both relaxed into the comfortable silence, taking in the sight of the azure waters and the feel of the light sea breeze.

Curiosity eventually got the better of you. "So, how did you and Sukuna meet?"

Satoru leaning back, glancing at you over his sunglasses. "You're really asking a lot about him."

"Just curious."

"Sukuna and I did our undergraduate together, and eventually we both decided to do an exchange semester here," he explained, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. "This place, this university, it holds a lot of memories."

You watched him, waiting for him to continue.

"Sukuna was always the more... adventurous one, I guess. Always pushing the limits, dragging me along for the ride."

"Sounds like you had quite the time."

Satoru laughed. "Guess you can say that. Sukuna had this knack for finding trouble, and somehow, I always ended up being his wingman."

As a silence fell between you, you found yourself biting your lower lip, a sense of unease growing within you.

After a moment, Satoru broke the quiet. "What's on your mind, love?"

Taken aback, you paused. "It's nothing, really."

Satoru's expression softened. "I can see that something's bothering you." As he spoke, he reached across the table, his hand finding yours. His fingers wrapped around your hand, offering a comforting warmth as his thumb began to softly caress your skin.

"Just a bit surprising to see this side of you. It's so different."

He exhaled softly and turned his attention back to the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a seamless blend of colors, his hand still holding yours across the table. "Because I was different then. But Sukuna's idea of adventure was often too close to the edge for my liking. Still, I let myself get swept along." His eyes met yours again. "But not anymore."

You offered a faint smile in response.

The calm moment was abruptly shattered when Satoru's other hand unexpectedly twitched, causing his drink to slip from his grip. The glass hit the sand below with a loud thud.

You jumped at the sudden sound. "Are you okay?"

He looked down at his hand, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Seems so." He flexed his fingers as if to reassure himself. "Hm, that's new." His attempt at nonchalance did little to mask the undercurrent of concern in his voice.

Satoru turned his attention back to you. "Really, I'm fine," he reiterated, seeing the worry that hadn't quite left your eyes.

"How much clonidine did you take today?"

"I haven't taken any. Thought I'd try a day without." Satoru read the concern on your face, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Don't give me that face."

"What face?"

"That worried face. I'd rather see you smile."

"I wouldn't be so worried if you could just take your damn medicine."

Satoru suddenly rose from his seat, closing the distance between you two. His hands found the arms of your chair. He leaned in, his voice a low, coaxing whisper. "Then perhaps you'd be willing to administer it more... personally?"

"Satoru, we're not alone here," you reminded him, though the intensity of his gaze made the rest of the world seem momentarily distant.

He grinned. "Does it matter? No one here knows us."

"Still—"

Your protest was barely audible before he interjected, "I know something better." Before you could process his words, or even respond, you found yourself lifted effortlessly, the world tilting as Satoru slung you over his shoulder in one fluid motion.

"What? What are you doing?"

He strode towards the water's edge, the sand beneath his feet giving way to the firmer, wet surface as the waves lapped gently at the shore.

"Put me down, Satoru!"

"Why so fierce, sweetheart?" His voice was teasing, laced with amusement.

Suspicion flickered in your eyes as you sensed his intentions, the vast, open sea just steps away. "Satoru, don't you dare—"

It was too late for warnings. With a mischievous grin, Satoru charged, plunging both of you into the shallow embrace of the ocean waves. The water was surprisingly warm, enveloping you both as you made a splash, your clothes instantly soaking up the sea.

You were underwater for a second, before you broke the surface. Satoru shook his head, water droplets flying from his hair, which now clung to his forehead and temples in dark, damp strands.

You pushed away, swimming a few strokes back to put some space between you. "You're insane!" you exclaimed as you splashed water in his direction.

Satoru shielded himself with his hands, still laughing. "You have to admit, it's refreshing!" he retorted, dodging your playful splashes with ease. The sunlight, now a rich golden, bathed the water around you, each splash shimmering like liquid gold in the dying light.

"Come here," he said as he swam over to you, pulling you close to him in the water. The water lifted you both, gently swaying you in its embrace as you floated together, suspended between sea and sky.

His hand reached up to cradle your face. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he held you close. His eyes, reflecting the sky's ever-changing hues, held yours. You held your breath, momentarily lost in his gaze.

"Promise me this," he said, "as soon as I'm clean, we drop the act. No more hiding, no games. I want you, only you, and I want us to be official. I want you to be mine."

As he spoke, there was an honesty in his crystal blue eyes you hadn't seen before, a vulnerability he rarely showed. He was not the confident surgeon you knew, not the serious professor. He was just Satoru, raw and sincere, laying his heart bare before you — laying his love bare before you.

In that moment, with the waves gently crashing around you and the last rays of the sun setting the sky aflame, you knew there was no turning back. You were his, completely and irrevocably, and nothing could change that.

"I've always been yours," you whispered.

It was a promise, a plea, a surrender, a confession all at once. Because you felt like surrendering — surrendering to him — but it was easy — surrendering to him was easy. Because every moment you weren't in his embrace was lost. Empty. Meaningless.

Because in the end, nothing else mattered but him.

And he smiled.

His chest emptied of a breath he must have held for a long time.

And then, as naturally as the tide finds the shore, his lips found yours.

The kiss was soft, unhurried, as if time itself had slowed to savor the moment between you. Every worry, every fear melted away, replaced by the conviction that you were exactly where you were meant to be. It was a promise. It was home.

For in his kiss, you had found your home.

And he found his.

Your mouths part ever so slightly as you breathe out. The salty taste of the sea lingered on your lips. Satoru smiled at you, his forehead gently resting against yours. Then, with an intensity that spoke volumes, his lips found yours once more.

This kiss was different from any before, making you feel alive in a way that nothing else ever could. Beneath the water's surface, he pulled you even closer, his touch electric against your skin. You responded in kind, wrapping your legs around his hips as he held you both above the water's edge.

With the waves softly cradling you, you floated weightlessly, your bodies intertwined like seaweed in the gentle currents. And in that fleeting moment, you knew one thing for sure:

This man would either be your forever or your ultimate downfall.

─── ·✧· ───

As you entered the hotel lobby, the air conditioning hit you like a wave. The hotel staff cast sidelong glances your way, noticing the faint trail of saltwater you inadvertently left behind on the polished floor.

Your hotel rooms were conveniently located next to each other. The saltwater had left its mark, clinging to your skin and hair. After a refreshing shower, you were just in the process of drying your hair when a knock came at your door.

You opened it to find Satoru leaning casually against the doorframe. He had changed into a fresh set of clothes, his hair still slightly damp from his own shower, giving him a carefree, almost boyish appearance.

"Hey, how about a game of pool?" he suggested with an easy smile. "Sukuna challenged us and I thought it might be fun."

You blinked. "I've never actually played before," you said as you dried your hair with a towel.

Satoru's smile widened. "Perfect, then I'll have the pleasure of teaching you. It'll be fun, I promise."

"But wouldn't it be a bit... weird? I mean, with me being a student and you both being professors..."

Satoru shrugged. "It's just a game of pool. Besides, we're not at the university now, and Sukuna's not one to care about formalities. Trust me, it'll be fine."

You watched him for a moment, pondering.

"I really want you to come," he insisted, leaning in a bit closer.

"Okay," you said. "Let me just get dressed."

Satoru's grin widened. He pushed off from the doorframe. "Great! I'll wait for you outside."

Soon enough you found yourself leaning over a green baize-covered billiard table.

In the dimly lit ambiance of the hotel's bar, the sound of clinking glasses and muffled conversations created a backdrop to the night's unfolding scene. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and the faint hint of cigar smoke.

The weight of the cue in your hands felt foreign. Your focus narrowed to the white cue ball that awaited your command.

Satoru moved closer, his body brushing against yours as he positioned himself to guide your shot. "Just lean over the table a bit more," he said, his voice low and close to your ear. He placed one hand on your back to guide you down. "Yeah, like that."

"Now hold the cue like this." His hands gently cupped yours, adjusting your grip. His fingers intertwined with yours. The warmth of his hands seeped through your skin, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. "And aim just there," he continued, pointing to a spot on the cue ball.

In the background, Sukuna leaned against a nearby wall across from you, observing the scene. His eyes sparkled with an amused interest, clearly entertained by the exchange. Every now and then, his gaze would meet yours, a silent challenge, or perhaps a tease, lurking within their depths.

"Focus on where you want the ball to go," Satoru whispered, his breath ghosting over the nape of your neck as he spoke. With a deep breath, you attempted to steady your nerves, to push aside the awareness of Satoru's proximity and the curious gaze of Sukuna.

You pulled back the cue, your eyes locked on the target, and with a push, sent the cue ball rolling across the table. The crack of the balls colliding echoed through the room. A stripe sank into a corner pocket.

"Well done." Satoru stepped back to allow you space to straighten up, yet his hand remained on the small of your back. "See, you're a natural."

"Don't let him fool you. He's just happy to have found someone who'll listen to him ramble about angles and force," Sukuna's voice cut in.

Satoru laughed. "Maybe, but it seems to be working."

Sukuna pushed off the wall. "Watch and learn, kids." He set aside his glass of liquor and made his way over to the table.

Beside you, Satoru pulled you close, his arm casually wrapped around your shoulders.

It felt oddly normal.

Oddly normal — the way his arm was around you, the way you shared a laugh with an old friend of his, the way the world's expectations drifted into insignificance.

It was easy, in those moments, to forget the roles you each played in the outside world. Here, you were just two people, enjoying the company of each other.

The cue slid smoothly between Sukuna's fingers as he took aim. The shot was clean, the ball rolling into the pocket with a satisfying thud. "That's how it's done," he declared, turning to face you and Satoru, a broad grin on his face.

"Not bad, Sukuna. But you're not the only one with skills here," Satoru quipped. He drew you closer for a fleeting kiss on your temple before pushing away to snatch the cue from Sukuna's grip.

It all felt oddly normal.

As the game wound down and it was once again your turn at the table. You focused on lining up your shot, the cue stick feeling more familiar in your hands now. Satoru stepped back to give you space, joining Sukuna at the side of the billiard table.

"Didn't think you'd ever fuck a student," Sukuna said, in a not so low tone.

"Shut it Sukuna. She can hear you."

Yeah. You could hear him.

"You're not even denying it?" Sukuna pressed.

You could feel their eyes on you as you took your shot, the balls clattering against each other but not quite finding their way into the pockets.

"We're both adults," Satoru replied.

"Is that why you let her do surgery with you?" Sukuna insinuated with a smirk. "Is she that good in bed?"

You hated him.

He knew you could hear him.

He was deliberately provoking you.

"You should stop drinking, Sukuna." Satoru put a hand on Sukuna's shoulder. He then moved closer to you. "Don't take him seriously," he said, gently taking the cue from your hands to take his turn. "He doesn't know when to stop."

Oh really?

You turned to meet Sukuna's gaze. He leaned back casually against the edge of the table. His gaze fixed on you as he took a sip from his drink. The casual flick of his wrist and the confident tilt of his head suggested a man used to getting his way.

"So, Sukuna," you started. "Why have you stepped back from surgery? Couldn't keep up, or were you just not cut out for it?"

Satoru's eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face. Sukuna paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. A low chuckle escaped him.

"Didn't know you had such a sharp tongue," Sukuna remarked, his grin broad and unfazed. "For your information, Satoru and I were pretty much equal."

"Yet, here you are, no longer in the operating room. Couldn't handle the competition?"

Sukuna leaned forward, placing his drink on the table with deliberate slowness. "Competition?" he echoed, a trace of amusement in his voice. "Let me correct that for you. I was the one setting the pace. Satoru here was always two steps behind, trying to catch up."

Satoru scoffed. "If by 'setting the pace' you mean rushing into things without thinking them through, then sure, you were the leader."

"Ah, but where's the fun without a little risk?" Sukuna said.

You tilted your head. "And not missing the risk? Or did the thrill get too much for you?"

"The thrill, dear, never gets too much for me. It's just that I found a bigger game to play. One where the stakes are higher, and the victories, more satisfying. Running a university, shaping the future of medicine — that's where the real power lies."

You stepped closer to him. "So, this is all about power for you? Need to compensate for shortcomings elsewhere?" Without breaking eye contact, you picked up Sukuna's drink, taking a measured sip. "Or could it be that you seek power as a convenient escape from the harsh truth of your own irrelevance in the field of medical research?"

Sukuna's eyes traced over your form, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I see why you like her, Toru."

"Only just realizing that now?" Satoru quipped with a smirk.

Sukuna retrieved the glass from your grasp, his fingers brushing against yours, and took a sip himself. "I'm quite intrigued to hear that lecture of yours."

"Make sure to listen well, you might learn a thing or two. After all, neurosurgery evolves rapidly, and you've been out of the game for quite some time."

Satoru approached you. "Don't tear him apart completely, sweetheart."

"Don't worry, Toru. I can handle a bit of attitude," Sukuna shot back with a grin.

As the evening progressed, the alcohol flowed freely, mostly from Sukuna's glass but Satoru didn't shy away either. You found yourself the only sober one left, Sukuna's teasing escalating in equal measure with his alcohol intake.

Sukuna draped an arm around your shoulder, the scent of alcohol clear as he spoke. "This man here used to be the life of every party," he pointed with his finger to Satoru, "there wasn't a dare he wouldn't take or a line he wouldn't cross. Isn't that right, Toru?"

"Those were different times," Satoru, who had been lining up his shot, paused, offering a tight-lipped smile. "We were just kids doing stupid things."

"But they're unforgettable," Sukuna persisted. "Especially that one night you decided to break the university record for the most girls fucked in a single night. How many was it again?"

The air thickened with tension, Sukuna's provocations cutting deeper with each word.

Why was he doing this?

It felt like Sukuna was intentionally trying to provoke you.

"Maybe we should get back to the game, Sukuna. Your shot," Satoru said.

But Sukuna was relentless. "Oh, but the best parts are yet to come. Like your experimental phase. How many substances did you try to 'expand your mind'? Always on the lookout for the next high, weren't you?"

Wait.

Sukuna knew too?

Why hadn't Satoru mentioned any of this to you?

You felt sick—a tight knot forming in your stomach. You glanced at Satoru, noting the tension in his jaw.

"Sukuna, that's enough," Satoru's voice held a warning edge.

"What? I'm just reminiscing about the good old days," Sukuna said, his tone falsely innocent. "Unless... there are parts of your past you're not so proud of?"

You felt a chill run down your spine.

The way Sukuna wielded these stories like weapons, the ease with which he stripped bare Satoru's vulnerabilities, was nothing short of cruel.

You watched the scene unfold before your eyes. Witnessing. Unable to say anything. Perhaps a part of you wanted to hear it. Hear what Satoru had done in his past. Hear every dirty secret of the man you had fallen for, as you looked into his beautiful blue eyes.

You could see the strain in Satoru's posture, the effort it took for him to maintain his composure. It was clear that Sukuna's words had struck a nerve, peeling back layers of Satoru's past he had hoped to keep hidden.

Satoru set his pool cue down with more force than necessary. "Sukuna, what are you trying to do here? We all have things in our past we'd rather leave there. I'm no exception. But I've moved on. I suggest you do the same."

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Oh, come on, Toru. It's not like you to shy away from who you are. Or has this precious student of yours made you forget who you really are?" His grip on your shoulder tightened, the pressure suffocating.

You felt awful. Every point of contact with Sukuna felt awful. Dirty.

You unwound from Sukuna's hold. "It's late, I'll go to my room."

As you started to walk away, Satoru's hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you. "Please, wait. Don't leave."

"Satoru, I can't just stand here while he taunts you for his own amusement, and you shouldn't either. Come with me."

"He's just messing around. It's been ages since we've been together."

"Don't you see? He's a bad influence, Satoru. It's time to call it a night, for both of us."

Satoru sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sukuna's an old friend. Our history is complicated, but he's not all bad."

"Are you really that blind?" you questioned, freeing yourself from his grip. "Satoru, you should get some rest. We have a lecture tomorrow." With that, you turned and left the bar, leaving Satoru and Sukuna alone in the bar.

You had enough for the night.

─── ·✧· ───

You couldn't sleep.

You tossed and turned in your bed over and over, but sleep eluded you.

The hotel's corridors remained quiet. You didn't hear any sign of Satoru's return.

The digital clock on your bedside table had just flickered to 2:47 AM when you heard soft knocking on your door. Barefoot, you crossed the room, the carpet cool under your feet. You were wearing only a loose shirt and underwear as you opened the door.

Satoru stood before you, a hand bracing against the doorframe. His hair was disheveled, clothes rumpled. The hallway light cast deep shadows over his face, accentuating the tiredness in his eyes and the unusual pallor of his skin.

Your heart tightened at the sight.

"Satoru, what's—"

"I... I need to be with you," he barely whispered, the strain evident in his voice.

You reached out, your fingers lightly caressing his face, pushing back the damp strands of hair from his forehead. "What happened, Satoru? Did you—"

"No," he cut in hastily, straightening a bit to meet your gaze more directly. "I didn't take anything. It's just—," he paused, his brows furrowed as he glanced away, "I wanted to so damn hard. I needed it so damn hard, to feel...better."

"Come inside," you said, stepping aside to let him into your room, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

He moved hesitantly, as though unsure of his welcome. But you urged him inward. He walked into your hotel room, where he sat down onto the bed, his head in his hands.

"It's bad," he admitted after a moment, his voice muffled. "I thought I could manage it, but..."

You approached him, drawing him into an embrace where his head rested against your stomach, your fingers gently combing through his hair. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"Sukuna knows how to push all the wrong buttons." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I should have known better. It just brought everything back. The urge, the need—it's clawing at me."

"But you didn't give in," you said. "That's what matters."

"Does it? Because right now, it feels like I'm losing my mind."

"You're not losing your mind."

His gaze lifted to meet yours, there was a raw vulnerability in his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. It was fear — fear of addiction, fear of a possible relapse and, perhaps most of all, fear of losing you. "I'm sorry, I should have left with you. I shouldn't have let you go. I should have punched Sukuna in the face for what he said to you."

"It's okay. Sukuna is part of your past, it's not easy to cut ties with someone who's been important in your life. I get it. But still, you're stupid."

"Don't be so understanding. Hate me at least a little bit."

Yeah, you were angry with him, angry that he didn't see that Sukuna was an asshole, that he deliberately tried to rile him you and Satoru up for his own sick amusement.

But how could you be angry with him now?

Not when he was so vulnerable.

Not when you could feel the slight trembling in his body.

Not when you could literally feel his craving to get high.

But he didn't. He resisted. Because he promised you to.

Satoru let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. "I don't want to drag you into this mess. You deserve so much more than someone who can't even get his act together."

"But that's not for you to decide," you said. "I'm here, Satoru, because I want to be. Because I care about you. Through struggles and all."

"Even after what Sukuna said about me?"

"Are you asking me if I find you being a whore in your university days worse than you being an addict?" You arched an eyebrow. "Satoru, if I were easily deterred, I would have left the first time I found you high. I think we're past the point where anything about you could scare me away."

Satoru's laughter held a touch of bitterness as he rested his head against your stomach again. His hands trailed up your back, fingers tracing delicate patterns along your spine, sending shivers coursing through your body. "I don't deserve you."

"You're right, you really don't."

In one swift motion, he lifted your shirt, his warm breath cascading over your bare skin. His lips followed suit, planting tender kisses along the base of your ribcage, gradually traversing across your stomach. Each gentle touch elicited a soft sigh from you.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, every word a caress against your skin. "Every inch of you is perfect."

You gazed down at him. "Satoru, what—"

His tongue darted out to lick and kiss the contours of your waist, each movement deliberate and unhurried. Each brush of his lips sent a wave of yearning through you, forcing your body to arch towards him, each touch a silent plea for more.

"I know I'm being selfish," he whispered, his hands finding their place on your hips, drawing you closer to him. "But fuck, I need you now."

He wanted to stop, dear reader. He really did.

He felt awful. But he couldn't. Simply couldn't.

He needed you.

Needed you like air.

Needed you like drugs.

And you obliged.

Without hesitation, you gently pushed him back and straddled him. His arms enveloped you, pulling you close as you leaned in to capture his lips.

His lips tasted like alcohol — they tasted like him.

His lips moved slowly and deliberately at first, tracing the contours of yours as if mapping out every curve. Then, his kiss became more urgent, more demanding. Tongue danced with tongue, awakening a hunger that neither of you could ignore.

"Are you sure about this?" he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin.

"Yes," you responded equally breathlessly.

He released your lips, trailing tender kisses down the side of your neck. His hands wandered under your shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your waist and back.

He kissed down to the base of your neck, where your collarbones met. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as though committing your scent to memory. Then he traced the delicate line of your bone structure with his tongue, making you shiver.

You closed your eyes and let out a soft moan, surrendering entirely to him.

You began to grind against him, savoring the rough texture of his pants against your bare skin. Your fingers entwined in his hair as you leaned further into him, feeling his arousal pressing against you. You wanted him inside you, needed him to claim you completely.

He tilted his head back, strained moans escaping his throat—fuck, he was so hot when he moaned. You could feel his muscles tense, his breath hitching with every subtle shift of your hips. You felt him growing harder, his arousal swelling against your core.

He plunged forward once more, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss right on the hollow of her throat. The suddenness of the move left you breathless. You clutched his shoulders tightly, trying to ground yourself in the rising tide of longing.

Slowly, he worked his way back up your neck, each kiss more intense than the last. By the time his lips returned to yours, you were panting heavily, your mind spinning with need.

"God, I want you so badly right now," he muttered hoarsely, his eyes fixed on your parted lips.

"Then fuck me already," you replied boldly, your heart pounding in your ears.

He grinned wickedly.

Without breaking stride, he let himself fall onto the bed behind him and dragged you with him. He pushed you up onto him. His hands roamed over your thighs as he guided you to sit on his face.

Satoru wasted no time. He pushed your underwear aside with one hand, the other hand held you in place, fingers digging into your waist. Then his tongue darted forth to claim you, teasing you, causing you to gasp aloud.

Savoring your initial reaction, he continued to tease you, licking your clit with expert precision. His tongue plunged deep into your core, tracing circles around your clit before flickering rapidly across its tip.

He slid one finger inside you, curling it upward to press directly against the inner wall of you. As he continued to thrust into you, you moaned, feeling your walls tighten around him in response. "You taste so good, I can't get enough of you," he purred, adding another finger as you cried out.

He began to move his fingers in a steady rhythm, driving himself deeper and harder into your core. Your legs began to tremble, overwhelmed by the sensation of his fingers stroking your insides as his tongue continued to lick and suck your sensitive clit.

"Yes, right there...oh God!" You cried out as he hit all the right spots. Somehow that man seemed to perfectly understand precisely what you needed to push you beyond the point of mere pleasure and into the realm of wild, unbridled ecstasy.

"Come for me, beautiful," he urged, his warm breath against your skin drawing another moan from you. "Give yourself up to me completely."

Between his fingers and his talented tongue, you quickly approached a fever pitch. You cried out his name as the tension finally broke. Satoru pushed his fingers deeper into you than ever before, enjoying the way your walls contracted around him as you rode out your orgasm.

Breathless, you tried to regain your composure as Satoru continued to lazily lick your clit, making your legs twitch. "You get so fucking tight when you come," he said, then meticulously licked you all up and placed a final kiss on your clit.

You let yourself fall to the side of him. He rolled over to be on top of you in an instant. He wiped his mouth with the flat of his hand before his lips found yours again. The taste of you still lingered on his lips as Satoru deepened the kiss.

His hand reached up and gripped the side of your throat tightly, adding just enough pressure to make you moan into the kiss. Your hands began to move restlessly across his chest, clutching his shirt and pulling him closer.

You couldn't help but notice the way his shirt hugged his broad shoulders, the way his hair fell in soft strands around his face. Then you reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the hard muscles of his torso underneath.

"God, you drive me wild," he rasped, reaching out to stroke the inside of your parted thighs. "The sight of you alone makes me insane." His lips brushed against your neck, trailing kisses along the length of you throat.

Your hands slid down, fingers deftly working at the buckles of his belt. "Take me, Satoru. Don't hold back. Use me however you need me," you whispered as you impatiently tugged at the leather strap.

"Don't say that." Satoru's eyes darkened as he watched you work at his belt, his fingers trembling slightly. When the belt finally came loose, you pushed at his pants, urging them downward until they pooled around his knees.

"Why?" you breathed, your gaze locked with his.

"Because I can't hold back if you say things like that."

"I don't want you to hold back. I want to feel every inch of you inside me, Satoru. Now. Please." With that, you leaned in, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, your body craving his heat and his touch.

At your words, Satoru felt a primal surge course through his veins. You offered yourself to him willingly, with no reservations whatsoever. It was an invitation he couldn't refuse — one that left him reeling with desire. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, leaving only his bare skin exposed.

Satoru grabbed you by the waist and rolled you over, pulling your underwear down.

You gasped as his hands slid down your back, caressing the smooth skin of your back before he lifted you just enough to be at perfect angle to him. You moaned softly, pressing against him as he positioned himself behind you.

He paused for a second, savoring the sight of you before him, the one who had captured his heart and soul in such a short time. It still didn't seem real — that someone like you would choose to be with someone like him.

You gasped as he started to push inside you, stretching you slowly but surely with each inch. As he sank deeper into you, he knew that he would do everything in his power to make you happy, to protect you, to love you.

But right now he only wanted to fuck you like you deserved it.

He grabbed onto your waist, pulling you back against him so he could delve even further into your depths. You moaned as he began to thrust into you, deep and hard, filling you completely. Each time he pulled out almost completely, before he slammed into you again and again.

Your head fell forward, your hair cascading down your face. Each time Satoru pushed deeper into you, low moans escaped his parted lips, his head thrown back. "You feel so good...so right..."

You closed your eyes, your fingers digging into the crisp white sheets below you as Satoru moved behind you. Your senses were on fire, every nerve ending ablaze with the intensity of his touch as you felt Satoru's fingers digging deeply into your skin, leaving bruises that would linger long after tonight was over.

Satoru's hands then moved up your chest underneath your shirt, pulling you close and up against his muscular frame. You're back against his chest as he continued to thrust deeper and deeper into you. His other hand found your throat, grabbing it tightly as you arched into him. His breath hot against your neck as he moaned into your ear.

He quickened his pace, each thrust more fervent than the last. It was almost too much. Sill, you craved more — needed more. "Please, Satoru. Make me yours."

He obeyed, slamming into you with renewed force, pushing you harder and faster toward your orgasm. Every inch of your being focused solely on the sensation of his thick shaft filling you, making you feel alive in a way you never thought possible.

As Satoru continued to move inside you, you felt his hand reach up, parting your lips. Your heart skipped a beat as he slid two fingers into your mouth, pushing them deep inside. You gasped slightly, the sensation electric as he thrust his fingers into your mouth.

You moaned loudly, your head falling back as you surrendered completely to his will. In that moment, nothing else existed outside of the two of you. You didn't care if anyone would hear you. All that mattered was the overwhelming rush that pulsed through you, threatening to consume you whole.

With a sudden force, Satoru withdrew his fingers and pushed you forward, forcing you down on all fours. He wrapped his hand in your hair and yanked your head back sharply, causing you to cry out.

Without hesitation or mercy, he drove himself inside you, pain and pleasure melded seamlessly together. His hips pumped fiercely, pounding into you with an intensity that took your breath away. He gripped your hair even tighter, pushing you further and further towards the edge.

Your walls clenched tightly around him, desperate for release. And when you finally reached your peak, your cries blended seamlessly with his own moans. Satoru's body convulsed with the intensity of his climax as he released inside you. You could feel his muscles contract with each pulse of his ejaculation.

As you both tried to regain your composure and your breathing steadied, Satoru leaned in close, his warm breath caressing your skin. "How do I even deserve you," he whispered huskily.

You turned your head to meet his gaze. "Are you feeling better now?" you asked, the words slipping awkwardly from your lips as you felt a trail of fluid running down your inner thigh.

He leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss on your back before pulling out of you, wincing slightly as he did so. Satoru then collapsed next to you, one arm flung over his forehead, the other behind his head.

Despite his heavy breathing and the slight furrow in his brows, a tender smile graced his features, the dimples on his cheeks deepening. "Yeah," he exhaled with a long sigh. "I feel fucking great."

Turning on his side to face you, his features were illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the window. He tenderly brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, tracing its path down to your cheekbone, he caressed your skin with utmost tenderness.

"Do you want to know what I thought when I first saw you?"

"What?"

"I thought, this woman knows her way around a challenging aneurysm like no one I've ever seen.'" His hand lingered on your cheek, the warmth of his touch caressing your skin. "It was... captivating to say the least. And beyond that, you were absolutely breathtaking."

"Captivating or arrogant to challenge you like that?"

He chuckled. "A bit arrogant, perhaps." His smile broadened. "Yet, I remember thinking, this woman is going to be the end of me.'"

"You're just saying that because you're flooded with oxytocin right now."

"No, it's the truth." He leaned in closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, a moment so full of emotion it seemed to pause time. "You are everything I've ever wanted," he whispered, affirming his words with another kiss.

"And I'm definitely going to talk to Sukuna tomorrow," he added.

"You don't have to. I'm a big girl, Satoru. I can defend myself."

"Yeah, I've seen that," he laughed.

Glancing at the clock, you sighed. "We should try to catch some sleep. We've got that lecture in like five hours."

"Sleep sounds good." Satoru shifted and pulled you closer into his embrace. You nestled into his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. The warmth of his body enveloped you, soothing the lingering tension of the night.

As you drifted into a peaceful slumber, wrapped in each other's embrace, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

─── ·✧· ───

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

x a/n: to be honest, i don't really like this chapter myself, but i've been editing forever, so i'll just post it now and hope i can make up for it in the next one. kinda afraid that satoru comes off like an asshole in this chapter, but he's just having a bad withdrawal day D: he'll protect our dear reader again in the next chapter, as he should! ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11

#gojo saturo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x you

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chicademartinica · 2 years

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No matter how many cops/soldiers he plays that’s his best uniform 🤷🏾‍♀️

#huang jingyu #johnny huang #addicted web series #chinese bl #Gu Hai

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yuzhou43v3r · 1 year

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7 years - 417🥺

#addicted web series #yuzhou #shangyin #gu hai #huang jingyu #chinese actor

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vs120shound · 7 months

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Mother (right) and daughter sharing a cigarette together, consenting to a video in which they talk about their favorite drinks and smoking!

THE VIDEO OF THE WEEK 🚬 (SF HALL OF FAME) 🚬 NUMBER 3 IN THE SERIES!

For the Week of 091023-091623

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ + | Five-Plus "Stars"

From vs120shound staff | ★★★★★ (L)

REVISION/UPDATE: Mom here is called "Bobbi" by interviewer, Austin, the SM web-master/web producer. She is also known as Michelle Conners and Mechelle Montes. ID supplied by gtrtchr120. Correction: September 18, 2023 at 12:38 a.m. Bonus photos of Mom (Bobbi, Michelle, Mechelle) added at the bottom of the post.

By far one the greatest Mother-Daughter scenes in the Greater SF World Community's history. Easily. This is super cute daughter Christy (left) and her sparklingly pretty yet unidentified mother to her side. Mom's photo has been scrubbed from the SmokingModels (Florida, U.S.A.) models page. She was identified for years but we missed the boat on remembering, and that's a collective "My Bad!" without question. And let's not try to kid ourselves or any other SF aficionados for any reason, there have been plenty of sensational scenes with mothers sharing cigarettes with their daughters over the years. This IS our favorite among them! And we're not bashful about admitting the preeminent nature of this claim in our collective view! Not all will agree with this declaration, but some will say Christy and Mommy are deserving of being considered for that immense honor. Others will say, no, they're certainly not bad but there are so many others nearly as fine! We disagree with that position . . . and it is not No. 1 because of their knockout bodies, their sexiness and ample endowments each, although those obvious features only serve to enhance this video's appeal to SF aficionados!

. . . going the traditonal Bo Derek "1 to 10" rating, will say (no range here; just firm numbers for each) Christy is an 8.0 and gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated and mature Mom is a 9.0. We just don't know how they got to this point. Did mom sense that Christy was interested in her smoking and mom questioned her and agreed to help her into transitioning into becoming a smoker? Or did Christy simply say, "Hey, Mom, I'm interested in your smoking habit and I'd like to try it out." And from that point, Mom jumped in and said, "Great, Christy! I was wondering when you'd show interest in cigarettes, I was your age when Grandma showed me the ropes. Let me show you! Would you like to experiment with smoking? Or are you sure right now that you want to become a smoker as soon as possible? I can show you the right way to smoke like a lady." Mom should know; probably picked up the habit as a teenager some 20 years or so earlier.

Most likely it was one of those scenarios with slight modifications. Could have been, however, a case of Christy stealthily sneaking around and pilfering one or a few cigarettes at a time and trying it out, hoping those experimental cigarettes wouldn't be missed or that she'd be discovered? Or, finally, for another possiblity perhaps . . . Christy and some friends, or just Christy and her BFF, forged a pact to try to learn how to smoke together or they had already decided that's what they needed to do, to graduate into becoming full-time, addicted sexy smokers?

We know that hot, young Christy -- possibly as young as 13 or 14 y.o. or maybe as late as 16 or 17 y.o. or even at 18 -- certainly noticed how sexy her mom was when she was smoking, saw all the extra attention her mother got with her hot, seductive style with cigarettes. Young teenage daughters pick up on clues as to how to become more noticeable and sophisticated and more mature in their looks and behaviors. Smoking cigarettes is a sure-fire, great way to attain that ladylike appeal by others. They talk not so much about smoking in this long clip but more on their favorite alcoholic beverages. Young would-be smokers, and newbies to the habit, definitely sense and see the relationship between cigarettes and booze. They experiment; they learn; then they are hooked soon enough: Heavy smoking while drinking . . . chain smoking while binge drinking, when getting super drunk!

Added post-release, on Sept. 18, 2023 at 3:37 p.m.:

Here, in our classic video, Christy and "Bobbi" talk about fashion and style and what works as ensembles for them. Austin, the interviewer and web-master/web-producer for SmokingModels, floats the idea of searching for outfits on the cheap by going online and visiting E-bay! How revolutionary. That portion of the the nearly 8:56 of non-stop conversation dates this video

This post falls within SF Hall of Fame classification because for years by many SF aficionados this video has been considered to be a classic. It is a legendary, iconic video of Mothers-Daughters enjoying their love, friendship, camaraderie, common interests and time together all enhanced and accentuated by their shared habit of smoking cigarettes. Get the feeling that they tried . . . for years after this video was made and published by SmokingModels.com web-master/web producer Austin . . . and continued to try to have cigarettes at the same time, smoking them together. Doubt we are very wrong here, though we could be a tad off.

Re-posted: September 17, 2023

From vs120shound on August 26, 2022 . . .

Bonus photos of mom (Bobbi/Michelle/Mechelle) . . .

"That's her, mom. Just add 10 years on to how she appears in the video, putting "Bobbi" closer to 50 y.o. than the late-30s/early-40s that she might've been in the neighborhood during the time of the post's production and release on SmokingModels," -- vs120shound web-master/web producer

#SF #Hot women who love smoking cigarettes #Smoking cigarettes #Smoking #The Video of The Week (Honorable Mention)!#The Video of The Week (HoF) . . . Hall of Fame!#SmokingModels (Florida -- U.S.A.)!#Smoking interviews!#“Daughter” Christy!

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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petitprincess1 · 4 months

Note

Hey, I just saw a post on Twitter stating something about an uncensored sexual assault scene, and that it's horrible. I honestly don't know what to say about it other than Hazbin Hotel is an ADULT ANIMATED web series with ADULT content. I don't know.

Man, I can't believe there's gonna be an SA scene with Angel Dust, even tho it's been established that he's an SA victim. 😑

I mean, even Addict shows SA. It's not going to be as graphic but still. I even saw someone say that they hope A24 pulls the plug on Viv. They clearly have not seen a single A24 movie or anything if they think that is too much for them.

Also, that same person legit said "nu-uh" when Vivzie said she's an SA victim. Like....how do you say no to that? x3

#hazbin hotel #tw sa mention #angel dust #vivziepop #ask answered #ok 2 rb

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reverieblondie · 3 months

Text

Be Sweet to Me

Chapter 2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara X Fem!reader

Warnings: None for this chapter, but there will be eventual smut, Pining, and teasing. Alternating POVs, wandering eyes.

Summary: He saved you, why did he save you? And why is he so familiar?

A/N: Okay I know I haven't updated this series in a while BUT! I swear I will never just leave a series unfinished! I hate when I get invested in something and the writer doesn't finish! So updates might be slow but that's because I am putting a lot of thought into this. (Plus just slow writer, sorry!)

Word count: 3,523

Part 1

It tingles still….

Miguel rubs his hand on his neck where you had fixed his tie, hours later and he can still feel the tingling warmth your fingertips left behind. Even the slightest touch stirs him still, he thought he would be over this by now considering how often you two bump into each other and all your friendly gestures. Every time it's an electric shock through his system. -Annoying…

Layla says it’s from being touched-starved but he rather eat a pile of rocks before he admits that to himself…though…the sensation only happens when you are touching him. -of course.

From the top of the building Miguel watches as you walk back to your apartment, you have been working late again… he told you to get home on time but of course, you don’t listen to him… it’s dangerous to be walking home alone at night, especially with the hopelessly addicted taking every opportunity to mug people for their fix. Hints why he’s here surveying the city, not you, why would he be watching you? He just happened to be in the area when he spotted you, nothing weird.

Miguel watches as you walk without a care bobbin your head to whatever you're listening to. You shouldn't be walking around at night with earbuds in, how irresponsible…though that thought quickly dissolves into another as his stare lingers in you.

Have you always looked this good? Your hair cascading perfectly down, shining bright eyes, and the way your hips are swaying so…tantalizingly. Miguel groans and turns away from you, shutting those thoughts down instantly. He can’t think that about you, he works with you, you're annoying and touchy, and if he had thoughts about you it could complicate things.

Plus, besides all that being Spider-Man was filled with a lot of responsibility and then there was the multiverse and…everything that went with that….

No, this was best…being alone meant he could be focused, he couldn’t afford to slip up…to let anything distract him…

Shaking off the feelings Miguel’s eyes go back towards you. As he continues to watch you he sees that it’s no longer just you walking down the dark sidewalk but a hood-clad figure steadily approaching with their head down. Okay, Miguel knows from experience what’s about to happen, it’s textbook at this point. The guy is going to pull out a weapon and take your stuff. Miguel or well Spider-Man will make sure he doesn’t get far with your things.

Right on cue, as the man is about to pass you he speeds up, grabbing your bag and pulling. Though this doesn’t go as expected…

Usually, the bag gets grabbed, the person screams for help and the burglar goes off running for him to web up and get the bag back. Instead, you hold onto your bag pulling back, the guy looks at you surprised and Miguel matches the expression.

Pulling the guy's face goes from surprised to irritated, “Let go of the bag!”

You pull back, “You let go of the bag asshole!”

“Don’t make me hurt you!” The man starts to go for something hidden in his waistband and Miguel knows that now he has to intervene.

As the tug-of-war match continues it is interrupted by Miguel or Spider-Man jumping down and scaring the absolute shit out of the two of you. The guy gives one more tug before he relents, pushing the bag back at you and running away. Typically Miguel is just running and webbing up the attacker not giving the attack any attention, but this was you and despite his logical thinking he decides to stay by your side. Very atypical for Spider-Man.

Turning to look at you he sees you on the ground looking up at him completely gobsmacked. Okay, you look surprised…maybe he should say something to ease the tension…

“Usually people just let go of the bag” -nice, meet her actions with judgment.

Tilting your head at him you stand up, “Why would I have done that? I’m not going to let some creep try and take my stuff”

He sighs, sliding his hand down his face and he feels his patience thinning. “What you did was reckless and you could get yourself hurt or worse killed.”

Placing your hands on your hips you cock an eyebrow at him, funny you must have picked up the expression from him. “Aren't you the one who says we have to learn to protect ourselves?”

Miguel can’t help but step forward meeting your combative attitude, clearly, you saw a video of the bus incident, “Yeah but that doesn’t mean act reckless and get yourself killed.”

“And to think, everyone thinks you don’t care about the city or the people,” you say with a giggle. -only you can meet this whole thing with some kind of humor, being friendly to a masked man whom the city hates.

“People can believe what they want.” he turns away to end his conversation with you.

“Well, I believe in you, Spider-Man.”

This makes him stop in his tracks turning towards you once more

“What?”

“I bel-” he holds up his hand silencing you as he approaches you closer and closer. Why is this bothering him?

“I heard you, why?” you're backing away from him, and he reads your face, you should be scared…but you're not…

“Well, I believe that someone who looks after the city like you can’t be a bad guy…”

He's still approaching you, he’s intimidating you back into a wall successfully cornering you. “Maybe they are all right to hate and fear me…maybe you're wrong for seeing me as a hero…”

Why is he doing this…

He has too…

He has to push you away…he has to keep you distant, everyone distant…

Miguel becomes lost in his thoughts, he knows he needs to distance himself, He wants you to be scared, to make you hate him…though he does want your friendship, but he can’t risk it. Not after everything that has happened.

Then a rush of warmth spreads through him, and your soft hand is pressed to his shoulder…it's a comforting gesture like you're trying to console him. To reach out to him. Miguel's breath nearly stops; it feels like lightning rushing through him.

“You're not perfect, but you're not as bad as you want everyone to believe.”

He feels his eyes widen and he knows from the slight tilt of your head that his expression is being reflected through the mask. Miguel backs away no longer caging you between his arms. Shaking off the feeling he turns away from you, irritation blooming within his chest. Why do you always know how to rattle him…

“Just get home without getting yourself killed…”

Shooting his red web he swings off away from you, lighting still lingering through him from your touch.

----

Finally home…

With a groan you take off your shoes and put down your things, stripping away your work clothes as you make it through your apartment towards your bedroom. Today has been…interesting to say the least…

Getting dressed into your comfortable clothes you lay back in your bed staring blankly at the ceiling until you can’t suppress the urge any longer. Reaching aimlessly you grab your pad and search for the thing that has consumed your thoughts on your walk home.

Spider-Man,

Looking him up you see, what you expected, people complaining about him. News outlets saying that he is a menace and needs to be stopped. People talked about him sharing their experiences, the overwhelming consensus being: that people were not too fond of the grouchy spider. You however were more lenient in his behavior.

Having to save a city can’t be easy, sure he could use some consulting with a good PR agent but he's trying his best to protect everyone. He came to your rescue tonight, he just seems like he’s tired. Irritated for sure but not evil.

As you're scrolling through the articles about him you stop on a picture of the masked vigilantly. Unblurred pictures were a rarity and this was one of the very few, considering you just had an encounter with him the picture does little to actually depict the stature of him. How intimidating he is, it's funny you hardly ever get intimidated, the only person who has intimidated you lately…

Your face scrunches and you look back at your tablet looking at the picture again then you quickly open up another screen typing with haste till both pictures are side by side.

It's a picture of Miguel in his lab coat standing for a picture with the whole genetics department, a request made from the higher-ups for all the departments to do group photos. You remember how pissed Miguel was having to take the picture, a permanent frown on his face as the rest of the department smiles brightly, including you right next to Miguel. You had tried everything to get him to smile but nothing seemed to work.

Looking at the picture you see how big Miguel is compared to everyone else. Tall and muscular just like a hero you know, and they both seemed to be rather…grumpy…

Closing the screens you shake your head at the crazy thought. Miguel O’Hara is not Spider-Man there's just no way!

Laying in bed you stare upwards as your brain ticks with the possibilities. There could be crazier guesses but Miguel? Really? How could you even figure something like that out? Plus do you want to know? No, it’s too outlandish…

After a long night filled with dreams of Spider-man and Miguel you can’t help how you're starting to see even more similarities…

At work, you go through your usual duties, bring assignments to Miguel, and checking developments from projects you had sent off, the usual. Miguel of course was at work by the time you arrived, always so early stretching himself so thin for this place that you didn’t even think he truly liked it. Everyone had their views and thoughts on Alchemax but they typically didn’t challenge the higher-ups like Miguel did. Honestly, it's one of the first things that drew you to him, he wasn’t scared to call people on their bull no matter who it was. Though sometimes he is the throwing bullshit that you're quick to tease him about.

That’s kinda heroic, isn’t it? Standing up to big corporations then they are being jerks?

Turning your head you watch as Miguel reads through reports and wipes his hand over his face in irritation…huh, that’s another thing he did…

Instead of wondering what could be making him irritated like a good coworker you just rest your chin in hand and observe…looking for something.

Taking his lab coat off he seems to be getting even more frustrated, leaning it over his chair as he starts frantically swiping at screens. Watching his back you see how his muscles seem to fight the shirt's material like it wants to rip at any moment. Placing his hands on his waist, you can’t help how your eyes follow his strong arms, to his narrow waist, then wandering to his ass…

A part of you is screaming to look away. This is a HR complaint waiting to happen, but as you tilt your head you look at his ass more carefully a thought crosses your mind. The flashing thought of Spider-man walking away from you and then swinging away. Sure, it might be creepy to have checked out the hero's butt, and to now be doing it to your co-worker…just the similarity is uncanny…Can you even recognize someone from their butt?

Very discreetly you pull out your phone to look up pictures of Spider-man. You find one, from behind. As you look at the picture and then at Miguel you think that it is uncanny how similar they look from the back.

Miguel then turns to you suddenly catching your eyes being on him. You feel your cheeks warm and quickly put away your phone and start arranging your work.

“We are going to have to stay late tonight,” he says in a grumble.

Miguel seems tired…the bags under his eyes are more prevalent than normal. Honestly you don’t know if he could handle a late night of work, it looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Usually, you would give some kind of sassy response to the news, perhaps saying how he couldn’t even stay late because of how he looks, but today you decide to remain quiet; this might be a good opportunity for you to do some…investigating…

----

He’s got to get rest, he can feel his head bobbing as he stares at the different samples trying to urge his eyes to focus and his mind to wake up. Miguel is tired and he can feel his body becoming sluggish. It's been 72 hours without proper rest and it's starting to take its toll on him. He can't keep doing this but he has no other option.

Miguel stands up stretching, his muscles stretch and pop and as he extends his hands up above his head. As he gets lost in the sublet moment of relaxation he hears your steps approaching carefully, almost like you're not trying to disturb him. -that's different from how you typically act.

Opening his eyes he sees you waiting patiently with a smile, two hot cups of coffee in your hands.

“Tired?” you ask in a teasing-like manner as if the wrinkles and bags under his eyes were not a dead giveaway to his affliction.

“No” - lies…

Holding up one of the coffees towards him you smile gently. Of course, you thought to bring him coffee, you must have clocked how sluggish he's been moving today. With a careful lazy motion, Miguel takes the cup from your hand and gives you a nod, he can’t bring himself to do more considering how exhausted he is.

Turning away from him Miguel's lazy gaze goes to your figure as you start to pittle away organizing his desk. Miguel feels his eyes rake all over his body in a cloudy haze, you look so…soft…so malleable, he could easily move you around, feeling the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. Miguel quickly shakes away the delirious thoughts and instead starts drinking the piping hot coffee.

As the coffee enters his mouth he suddenly no longer feels the waves of tiredness but the sharp hit of disgust. What did you make this with dirty dishwater?

“I hope you like the coffee, they didn't have what I usually make, so I tried something different.” swinging back around you smile brightly towards him. Typically Miguel would have no problem spitting it out and giving his criticism, but he can't seem to bring himself to do it. All that he can think about when he sees you looking at him expectantly is how kind you are towards him. It brings him to give a tight-lipped smile along with a nod that has you beaming at your experimentation.

Right as you turn around Miguel is spitting the foul liquid back in the cup unnoticed by you, he knew you were not good at making coffee but that crap was ridiculous!

“So…I have a question for you Miguel…” you say casually.

Miguel places the foul drink down while he takes his seat back at his desk. Humming at your question, he’s half paying attention to you. He just needs to fix these reports and then he has to get back to society. As Miguel's mind races with thought he continues to feverishly type, until he hears the word ‘Spider-man’ slip from your lips and he pauses turning to face you.

“W-what?”

“I asked what you think of this Spider-man guy?” Miguel studies you, he feels his nerves on high alert…could you…no. You're smart but you couldn’t have figured that out. Maybe you're just wanting to talk about last night? He just needs to stay calm.

“I don’t,” he responds flatly as he goes back to work.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you plopping down to sit on his desk, looking up he sees that you're already looking down at him. It's kinda intimidating…your look is so intense…focused on him. Miguel can tell you want to say more, and a part of him wants you to. Then your classic sweet smile spreads to your lips.

“Did you hear he got punched by an old lady?” -uhhhgggg…biggest misunderstanding….

Miguel can no longer resist the temptation, “Why are you asking about him?”

“Just curious I guess…”

“Why?”

He watches as you shrug “Just he’s interesting, a guy who seems to hate the city but then he’s always saving it. Makes you wonder.”

Miguel can’t control the words that slip from him next “What do you wonder…”

You look at him surprised before you answer very simply, “How he’s doing”

Miguel and you watch each other for a beat. Right as your mouth opens to say something else his watch starts blaring. -shit…

Getting up quickly he excuses himself, making some excuse but an important call he's been waiting on. Going out of the lab into the empty hallway he ducks into the nearest bathroom to pick up the transmission. Popping up he sees Peter,

“Miguel, sorry to disturb you but there is a problem…we got a lizard anomaly in your area.”

Miguel looks at him confused, “Wait? In my dimension?”

That hasn’t happened in a while…damn, now he has to go handle that. Typically he would send people to deal with it, but he doesn't want to deal with the aftermath of people seeing more spiders in the city. If anyone found out about the multi-spiders or the HQ or what he’s been doing it could lead to catastrophic events.

Coming back to the lab you look at him confused, before you can ask what the call was about he’s cutting you off, “I have to go, go ahead and clean up and get out of here.”

Furrowing your brows you get closer to him as he gathers his things, “Wait what? I thought staying late was your idea. Now you're just leaving? Is everything alright?”

Why must you ask questions… “I am fine, I just have to get out of here, important date…”

Miguel starts heading to the door typing on his watch and finding the anomaly coordinates when your voice calls out to him.

“Where did you go yesterday?”

Miguel stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder back at you, he needs to go deal with the anomaly but your question is laced with seriousness. He sighs…

“Mind your own business, and clean up. Then get home.”

With that he leaves, this just isn’t his night.

----

What the hell? Of course, he runs off, it was his idea to stay here late then he runs off leaving you to have to wrap up everything, and what’s with his cold response? Sure you know it’s not your business, but what is he always doing? And a date? Does he mean a date date or something else? Why is he so infuriating!

Going to his lab table, you grab the coffee he didn’t finish and start cleaning up his desk. What could be so important that he had to leave in such a rush? Why is he so irritated, and tired? As you shuffle together his reports you pause for a moment, what if…

No-

You quickly shake the thought of putting down the papers and going to the sink to pour the coffee down the sink. You're trying to just clean up and not let your imagination get the best of you but the same thought keeps flashing in your brain…Spider-man….Miguel…

Tapping your foot you look around at the lab, and Miguel's desk. You're playing back your interactions in your mind, how frantically he had to leave, how tired he seemed…

Taking out your phone you quickly type the news and see that there is a breaking news update…and just like you suspected there is, pressing the video you watch the alert.

“Citizens in East Neava keep alert, the masked vigilante known as Spider-Man has been spotted in the area fighting an unidentifiable creature. The police report that Spider-man has been inquired and are now taking the opportunity to comb the area to find him, they suspect he can not get far due to his inquiries, and that they will finally bring this menace to justice.”

While the news plays you watch a video of the fight, Spider-man is fighting some kind of reptilian creature. The footage is shaky and grainy but the last thing you see is the creature getting thrown and Spider-Man getting his side ripped into as he lets out a strained cry. Then the video cuts off.

You stand there stiff, You're in the east city…Spider-man is hurt…and that cries…it…it can’t be true…

“Miguel…”

Taking one last look at his desk, you're sprinting for your things, rushing out of the empty building. You're unsure, your mind is clouded with suspicion and confusion. You don’t know if they are the same…but if they are…he needs help…

taglist: @oharasfilipinawife @aisyakirmann @spdrwdw @huniedeux @rosegnome @straw-berry-ghoul @migueloharastruelove @skylertully @keiva1000

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