#widows pique
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Widow's Pique - Chapter 31
Overview: Penny is a 41 year old mother of one, existing day to day in the normal world until a chance encounter changes everything, for everyone.
Author’s Notes: Hey Tumblrs! So this is my first ever story (not counting the shit I created at school). So be easy on me! I apologise for any typos, and for my misunderstanding of basic punctuation. This story has a little bit of Yours Truly woven into it. It’s a slow burn, full of angst, inner monologues, and insecurities but promises a happy ending of sorts! Using just my imagination and countless hours “researching” Mr. Cavill, I hope I can portray a different side to this fascinating man. Please indulge me …
Pairing: Henry Cavill x Plus Size/Curvy OFC (Penny)
Chapter: 31 of ?
Word Count: 10.5k!
Warnings: Angst. Pregnancy. Alcohol. Weight issues. Foreplay.
Disclaimers: This is all fiction baby!
Over 18’s only. No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material, and claiming it as your own.
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Big kisses in advance for your Re-blogs, Comments, and Likes - they mean SO much to me xxx
There is a Spotify playlist that accompanies this story - to listen click here
Widow’s Pique
"White or Pink Pen?"
"White, always white" Penny shouted from her office over the sounds of Dusty Springfield.
She was dancing on the spot as she worked on an intricate collage piece at her idea bench. Moments later a large, warm pair of hands crept onto her hips as Henry joined her.
"I'm sorry to interrupt the artist at work honey, but I just couldn't resist those wiggling hips".
Penny spun around and laced her hands behind Henry's neck, continuing her swaying. Henry took the opportunity to steal a kiss from her smiling lips and a squeeze of her ample backside in the process.
She rested the side of her head against his chest as they continued to move to the music. Henry peppered her hair with more kisses as he squeezed her close.
"You ok mama?" he asked as the song finished.
"I'm good thanks." she spoke dreamily.
"What can I do for you, get for you?"
"Nothing Honey, I have everything I need." she rested her head back against his chest as she rubbed her hands over his strong, smooth back, tucking her hands up under his t-shirt to feel his soft, warm flesh.
"Was that Fernando on the phone?"
"It was indeed."
"All ok?"
"All is ok. Going swimmingly in fact"
Henry had kept his word and had made the wedding planning as stress-free as possible. In the space of two weeks the date had been set, invites sent, catering and entertainment sorted and even the flowers. By using the professionals (and throwing undisclosed amounts of money in their direction), most of the hassle was out of their hands, leaving Henry and Penny just to make the fun decisions. The venue was easy; Penny's back garden was perfect for an informal late summer wedding. The field behind would house a marquee for the meal and evening entertainment. All that was needed to finalise was Henry's suit and Penny's dress.
"So are you excited to sort out your dress tomorrow, Pen?" he asked, knowing she was apprehensive.
"I am, I just hope they can make me something comfortable and pretty. God knows how much bigger I'll be in another two weeks time!"
Henry rumbled a small laugh, placing his hand on the side of Penny's stomach, rubbing it gently.
"You're going to look stunning Pen, I have no doubt."
He was careful with his choice of words, knowing how uncomfortable she had become lately. He was also worried the baby might arrive before they had the chance to get married. Penny certainly looked ready to go. She hardly complained though, in fear of him becoming even more over protective of her.
Henry insisted on driving Penny to the dressmakers, parking up in a secluded alleyway to access the discreet entrance for high-profile clients. Marianne and Helen were already inside, sipping champagne despite it only being 11am. He wore a tracksuit and baseball cap as his 'disguise' as he graciously helped Penny out of the beast. He made sure Penny was happy and comfortable inside the boutique before being shooed away by his mother.
"I'll meet you all back at yours later ok?"
"Yes dear, now clear off darling, you're not supposed to be here." Marianne quipped as she waved her hand dismissing Henry from the lavish room. Henry grumbled and kissed Penny gently on the lips.
"Any issues, call me ok honey?"
Penny nodded and crossed her heart as she helped move him towards the door.
A tall elegant lady and two young assistants wafted into the room to greet Penny.
"Ms Green? I'm Lily. It's a pleasure to meet you, thank you for choosing us to make this special piece for you."
Penny blushed, not sure she was up for all the fussing. "Thank you, Lily. And thank you for seeing me so quickly, as you can see, time is of the essence." she laughed as she patted her bump.
Although Penny had been trepidatious, the experience was unfolding to be much more relaxed and enjoyable than she'd expected. Despite spending most of the time in just her wedding underwear she enjoyed being swathed in different fabrics, Lily draping and folding the most stunning lace and silk around Penny to find the look that worked best. There were even a couple of pre-made maternity wedding dresses that Penny could try on. Unsurprisingly these were too small still for Penny, making her feel huge again. Lily was so serene and patient, listening intently to everything Penny liked and disliked. The idea of the dress slowly came together from shape ideas and inspiration from the other dresses she was shown. All of Penny's concerns were met, and Marianne and Helen even managed to keep their stronger opinions to themselves.
Once Penny was back in her own dress she hugged Lily and popped to the loo whilst Helen brought her car around to the side entrance.
Helen's drove a Tesla Model 3, which seemed like it was on the ground when Penny tried to sit elegantly in the passenger seat. She regretted wearing such a figure hugging outfit, adding to her inflexibility.
"I hope you're hungry ladies as I've booked a table for lunch at Bertrand's."
"Oh, I thought we were going back to yours Marianne? Won't Henry be waiting?"
"He'll be fine with Colin, It'll do you both good to have some time apart."
Penny wasn't sure what she meant by that but her stomach growled happily in the anticipation of food.
The beautiful Art Nouveau facade of the swanky restaurant opened up into a vast maze of eclectic but lavishly furnished booths, perfect for discreet dining. On their way to their table they hardly saw any of the other diners, but the hubbub of conversation proved that the place was full. Penny was glad of this, really not wanting to get recognised in her current state.
After a delicious array of crudités Helen and Marianne revealed their motivation behind the lunch.
"Penny, we wanted to talk to you about the wedding." Hells began, glancing nervously at Marianne.
"We, well a few of us are a little worried that this might be a bit too much for you at the moment. If you wanted to change your mind no-one at all would think bad of you."
Penny finished crunching a radish as she took in what was being said. Marianne took this as a bad sign.
"Penny, dearest. You know I adore you both, and I know Henry better than he knows himself. Once he puts his mind to something he's a force to be reckoned with. We just want to make sure that you're not feeling too pressured. We just worry, that's all."
Silence fell on the table as Penny slowly sipped her water.
"Honestly, you have nothing to worry about. I'm ridiculously calm about the wedding. It's as much my idea as it's Henry's, he's not pressurising me into anything. I swear. If anything it's been taking my mind off birthing this huge-ass baby."
Helen snorted, and instantly covered her mouth in embarrassment.
At that moment Marianne's phone rang, it was Henry.
"We're just grabbing a bite to eat darling. Penny was famished." Marianne winked at Penny as she continued to 'uh-huh' and 'ok' to Henry's call.
"She's fine Henry, we are taking good care of her, it's all very private here too so please don't stress. See if you can help your Dad move the treadmill upstairs while you're waiting." All three ladies chuckled at the thought of Henry wrestling the machine up the staircases.
After the call, lunch progressed as normal. Talking of their outfits and the guest list.
"Henry's requested no phones at the wedding too, that'll be interesting. He's also hired security! I've never heard of security at a wedding, I think it's a bit OTT really."
"It's all quite standard for this kind of do Penny. Let's just hope the press don't get a whiff of it beforehand, you don't want helicopters buzzing over the house." Helen joked, but Penny suddenly sat up a bit straighter, looking concerned.
Marianne held her wrist "Are you ok my dear?"
"Could that really happen? I not a big fan of paparazzi or helicopters." Penny shuddered thinking back to the time Henry was whisked away from her.
"There's always a small chance of it being leaked, but Henry is more than on top of the privacy for everyone, especially you my darling." Marianne squeezed her wrist again before finishing her fish.
Penny sat back, feeling a small braxton hick threatening. Her appetite for her fancy sandwich suddenly lost.
Four days before the big day the house and grounds were already buzzing with people. The marquee was set up. the walkways being laid, the car parking mats covered the field next door, and swathes of festoon lights were being hung in every space. A small barn-style building was being constructed at the end of the garden. This was the covered area for the wedding, where Penny and Henry would stand. It was beautiful, even before it was decorated. Penny wondered if they could keep it.
Today Lily was visiting with the final fitting of the dress, Penny couldn't wait to see it. Henry's tailor was already downstairs, making final adjustments to Henry and Ben's suits.
"Jesus George, the waist is cutting into me, is that right?" Henry complained, feeling a bit hot and bothered.
"Well, Henry that will be because you are a little bit fatter than the last time I measured you. I'm going to have to let this out, quite a lot too by the looks of it."
Henry breathed in and looked in the mirror. Ben sniggered at him.
"Hey, short stuff, the same will happen to you when you get to my age." Henry joked as he breathed out again and patted his pooch. He'd not paid that much attention to his own physique of late. Especially as he'd cleared his schedule and had cut down on the training. What he'd forgotten to cut down on was his calorie intake. He looked again in the mirror as George fussed around his waistband, getting impatient with Henry's movement.
"It's not too bad is it George?" Henry rubbed his stomach, purposefully pushing it out even more for comedic effect.
"Hmm, nothing that a girdle wouldn't fix, now keep still."
Henry looked at Ben and pulled a face like a naughty school boy.
"No competition for Mummy's though Ben, right?" he joked "Don't tell her I said that please!" he added, suddenly becoming serious.
Ben motioned locking his mouth and putting the key in his t-shirt pocket.
The gate buzzer seemed to be going off every 10 minutes with one delivery or another. This time Colin was sent to answer the door as Lily and her two assistants arrived carrying a huge garment bag between them. He smiled, nodded and again wordlessly ushered them towards the stairs.
Penny was in her bedroom with Kate helping her tie her hair back. She was already suffering in the heat, a large fan blasted warm air at her in an attempt to cool her down. She fiddled with the back of her white bra as Kate swotted her hand away and sorted it for her. She'd resorted to bearing a belly band to support her bump. Henry helped her with it every morning now, it gave her some relief on her aching back and hips. He'd also cradle her bump for her as he stood behind her. It was such a relief until he gave up complaining it was uncomfortable and pulling his back.
A light knock on Penny's bedroom door signalled the arrival of Lily and The Dress. At this point Penny just wanted something white that fitted. Lily greeted Penny like an old friend, Penny loved how elegant and serene she was. She hoped some of that would rub off on her right now.
"Are you ready for this Penny? Any adjustments we can make today, we have our kits with us, so don't worry at all ok?"
The garment bag was hooked onto the top of the door frame as the two young assistants Eloise and Suni slowly unzipped and lifted it out to present to Penny.
"Oh, my, god Lily! It's absolutely stunning, you're a freakin' wizard! The detail, the fabric, it's, it's, just beautiful - so beautiful." Penny covered her face as she shuddered a huge cry into her hands. Kate rubbed her back as she too hitched her breath with tears in her eyes.
"Right, enough of the hormones Mrs Bump. Let's wrangle you into this and see how it looks." Kate barked, knowing that they needed to get a move on.
Another knock at the door signalled mild panic thinking Henry was trying to come in until Marianne spoke from the other side.
"Is it here? Can I see it Penny?"
Carefully, the several pairs of hands helped Penny step into the silk slip under-dress. Lily skilfully began lacing the back as the cool, soft fabric began to mould around Penny's curves. The bias cut of the fabric clung to Penny's shape without restricting her movement.
Next was the sheer lace part. Suni and Eloise laid this out on the floor in front of Penny. She carefully stepped into the centre as the delicate fabric was lifted up carefully. Marianne stood with her hands over her mouth. Tears in her eyes, unable to speak. Kate was also uncharacteristically quiet as she swallowed her emotions, not wanting to set Penny off again.
Slowly Penny threaded her arms into the long sleeves, thankful that the fabric had some give to it. Nothing felt tight, everything fitted so well. Lilly and Suni began to fasten the tiny buttons at the back as Eloise adjusted the fabric to the right position. Penny smoothed her hand over the beautiful open mesh cotton lace, tracing the large swirls and leaves.
"Now Penny, the good news is that we just have half a dozen buttons to reposition, tell me, how does it feel? How do you feel in it?
At this point Eloise angled Penny's floor mirror towards her. She stared at her reflection, unable to find the right words, amazed at what she was seeing. Her large bump looked perfectly at home within the dress, something Penny never expected. Her hips were smooth, her arms looked slender, and even her boobs were flattered but tamed within the stunning outfit.
Realising that everyone was waiting for her to speak, Penny cleared her throat.
"I - I bloody love it!!" as she jumped up and down on the spot squealing.
Everyone else followed suit as downstairs in the kitchen Henry, Colin and Ben stared up at the ceiling.
"Either the dress looks good, or there's a huge spider in the bedroom", Henry joked as he picked up Ben for a hug. "Let's go check on the progress outside, short stuff." and they went to track down Fernando, the wedding planner.
After lunch more pampering arrived for Penny, a fresh hair colour and spray tan whilst Marianne and Colin readied the spare rooms for more guests.
Even Callum was helping by re-gravelling the track and tidying up the entrance through the farm.
Penny had needed another nap so Kate left her to rest whilst she surveyed the back garden, marvelling at how pretty it already looked. She found Henry in the marquee looking frazzled.
"Hey, hot stuff - how's it all going?"
Henry blew a sweaty curl from his forehead as his face cracked into a tired smile.
"It's ok, there are a few delays with some bits and bobs, but on the whole, ok. There's just so much last minute stuff. Is Penny ok?"
"Yeah, she's having a cat nap. I thought you had a guy for all this running around?"
"I do, I just want it to be perfect."
"Well it won't be perfect if your blood pressure is through the roof and you feel like shit will it? Now come inside and have a drink and a sit down - no buts."
"Yes Mrs Roberts" he saluted as he followed Kate back through the garden, his beady eye checking off other things he still needed to ask Fernando about. Kal bounded up to him, knowing he need a bear hug.
"Leave the dog Son and come and get a cold one, you've done enough for today." Colin instructed.
Henry laughed at everyone's concern, he felt truly grateful of how helpful everyone had been. He grunted in discomfort as he sat down at the dining table, grabbing for some buttered bread.
"Why don't you get an early night after you've eaten poppet?" Marianne suggested.
"You all trying to get rid of me or something?" he muttered with his mouth full.
"Not at all, you just need to save some energy for the big day son, and of course tomorrow evening."
Henry had refused a stag do, convincing himself he would jinx everything and send Penny into early labour if he were to go somewhere, so instead his brothers were coming to the farm to give him some kind of a traditional send off.
Kate had organised a similar evening for Penny despite her reluctance too. Henry had pleaded with Kate not to do anything too rowdy.
"It's not a stag do Pops, just a few of us having a couple drinks and playing some poker ok?"
"Of course, of course." Colin winked at Ben, who had been clinging to his new grandad like a limpet since he arrived.
Henry decided an early night was very appealing if it meant escaping the fussing, and the chance to spend some alone time with his Penny.
"Hey sleepyhead." Henry whispered as he kissed Penny's forehead.
"Oh, shit. It's dark already, you should have woken me up." Penny groaned, as she shuffled and shifted to sit up. Henry went to help her but she clamped her arms down in defiance "I'm fine Henry, I can sit up myself!"
Henry stood back, hands in the air. Too tired to laugh or get annoyed at her snapping. Instead he began undressing on the way to the bathroom to clean his teeth.
Moments later Penny appeared to use the toilet.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't wait." she apologised for her unladylike gesture.
"You can poop in front of me my dear, I really don't mind."
"I'm not pooping, just having a wee. Your daughter is using my bladder as a yoga mat."
Henry chuckled, she was always 'his' daughter when she was causing trouble. He had a feeling this would still be the case once she arrived. He was more than ok with that, already knowing she would have him around her little finger from day one.
Back in bed, Penny remained sitting up as Henry plonked himself down face first and wrestled with his pillow for a comfortable position.
"You're exhausted Hen." Henry murmured into his pillow. Penny reached over and began rubbing his shoulder muscles, Henry groaned again. After a couple of minutes he shifted to lay on his side, taking Penny's hand and kissing it.
"You shouldn't be fussing over me, I should be fussing over you, my love"
Penny smiled softly "You've not stopped for days, you're going to be exhausted by Saturday."
"I'll be fine. I'm strong, like ox" he joked as he flexed his bicep half heartedly.
"I'm sorry for snapping earlier, I know I've been a prize bitch lately."
Henry smirked and blinked slowly. "You've not been a bitch, you wouldn't know how. So you've been a bit testy. So would I carrying around our not so little beany baby 24/7. You're doing so well honey, I'm so very proud of you."
Penny's skin shivered with his praise. Henry schooched up to sit closer, his large warm hand atop Penny's round stomach. Henry dipped his head towards her belly and kissed it. Penny rested her hand over his.
"Mummy and I can't wait to meet you our darling girl. Just keep on baking nicely, ok?" he kissed her again as Penny wrapped her arms around her beautiful, sweet man. Overwhelmed with happiness and emotion. She began to cry, a regular occurrence lately, as Henry shushed her, peppering her hair with kisses as they both drifted off to sleep together.
The next day seemed just as hectic as the last few. Not helped by the arrival of more Cavill's.
Kate's sole purpose seemed to be in following Penny everywhere she went, making her sit down and drink and eat enough. Whilst Kate had to visit the loo Penny escaped into the back garden to check on things. She found Henry and Callum helping roll barrels of beer towards the marquee. It was only 10am but the sun was already scorching hot. Both men were red faced and very sweaty.
"You know there are dozens of guys here that are hired to help with this kind of stuff!"
Henry straightened up, his back obviously hurting him.
"Why are you out here Penelope?" he scowled at her, ignoring her comment.
"Because I'm sick of being under house arrest, I want to help."
"Somehow I don't think you're going to be much help at the moment Penny." Callum joked.
Henry shot a worried glance at Callum.
"I'm pregnant, not useless Callum." Callum looked at the ground, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut.
"Pen, most of the stuff is lifting and shifting stuff. You really think that's a good idea?"
She pursed her lips, knowing she had a weak argument.
Surprisingly Henry added "Find Fernando, he's in the marquee, he might have a job for you."
Penny perked up and turned on her heel as she tried her best not to waddle away towards the marquee.
Callum gave a surprised look in Henry's direction.
"Don't worry, Fernando will send her away. He's terrified she's going to have the baby any second now." Henry laughed.
"Aren't we all?" Callum added as they shared a concerned look at each other.
The plan that evening for the 'non' Hen and Stag do's was for Helen's girls to host a fun games and pizza night for the children upstairs, whilst the men tested out a section of the marquee and the bar outside. This left the ladies with the downstairs of the house. Whilst Penny was upstairs trying to find something to wear the other ladies were setting up balloons and decorations as a surprise. Henry poked his head in through the back door only to be shooed away by everyone.
Out in the marquee, Colin was mixing up cocktails as Charlie and Simon cooked up a meat-fest on the barbeque. Tom was in the DJ Booth, reliving his youth whilst Callum helped Piers and Nik set up the poker table. Henry purposely didn't want any celebrity friends there tonight, despite feeling guilty for not inviting them. Some he'd invited to the wedding though but he didn't want it to feel like a showbiz event, it was about him and Penny.
Callum was surprised to get an invite tonight. He wasn't sure if it was the best idea considering his feelings towards Penny. Over the past few months, he'd tried to keep his distance, but Penny and Henry both tried to keep him in their lives.
Henry arrived back from the house "So let's get this fucking party started then boys!" Much to the amusement of the other Cavill brothers. Despite strict orders from Marianne, they were going to make their brother's 'stag do', an evening to remember.
Kate found Penny rifling through her wardrobe, piles of clothes already discarded on the bed. Penny was red faced and swearing under her breath as she fanned her face with her spare hand.
"Oi, Green, what the hell are you up to?"
"What does it look like? Trying to find something to fucking wear! Nothing fucking fits!"
"Woah, alright Gordon Ramsay, chill. Let me chose. Where's the first thing you tried on?"
"On the bed." Penny gestured, with a petulant look on her face.
Kate could help but smirk at her attitude, but was careful not to rile her up too much. She flipped the pile of clothes over and found a simple round neck bodycon dress made from a beautiful dusky pink stretchy fabric.
"What was wrong with this one Pen?" Kate asked.
"Too clingy, looked like Kim K on a very bad day." Penny tried to joke, knowing she was being difficult.
"But does it fit?"
"Yes.."
"And is it comfy?"
"Hmm, I guess so…"
"Great, that's what you're wearing. Put it on and stop your whinging woman."
Penny sighed and stomped over to grab the dress from Kate.
"Henry bought me this, I look like a fucking sausage in it Katie."
"I don't care, no-one cares. They just want to see you and celebrate with you ok. Stop being so difficult woman." Kate knew she was pushing her luck being so bolshy with her, but she figured it was the only way to get the night started.
Penny readjusted her boobs once she pulled the dress down. Kate grabbed some hairspray and fluffed up Penny's hair. A quick flick of mascara and lipstick and Penny was finally ready.
"Fucking Kim K would wanna look like you Pen, you look hot honey!"
Penny daren't even look in the mirror, knowing Kate was just trying to make her feel better.
After copious amounts of barbequed protein, the men readied their bravado for the poker game. The Cavill brothers, in particular Charlie, seemed supremely confident that he would fleece everyone before the night was over. Colin quietly smirked, knowing from experience that the opposite would be more likely.
"Deal me in, I'm just going to check on Pen." Henry slurred, already several beers in.
"Woah, woah, woah!" came the combined protest "Leave the woman alone, if there was a problem, you would hear about it Hank - so sit the fuck down." Piers barked.
Henry sat down with a pout.
Kate led an anxious Penny past Ben's room after goodnight kisses, and loudly announced her arrival to the gaggle of girls downstairs.
"Surprise!!!! Happy Hen, Engagement, Baby Shower Penny!!!" the well practiced chorus sang out.
Penny clutched her chest and held back more tears as she saw the beautiful balloons and banners that the girls had put up whilst she was getting ready.
"We thought we'd roll them all into one Pen, as you don't like to waste any time!" Kate whispered as she patted Penny's backside.
Julia walked up to Penny, giving her a huge double cheek kiss and then tying a pretty flowery belt around her waist as Charlotte placed an equally tasteful floral crown atop Penny's head.
Several photos were taken with the custom balloon backdrop as Marianne poured the Prosecco.
Penny reluctantly agreed to a couple sips before complaining it was giving her heartburn.
Her dress was a big hit, with everyone admiring Penny's impressive bump.
"When I was pregnant with Hughie I swelled up like a balloon, do you remember Pen? It was fucking awful, you're just all belly Pen Pen, like you were with Ben. So not fair how you can look so good when you're so pregnant!"
"Did Henry pay you all to make me feel less huge ladies?" Penny asked, half seriously as she was feeling super self-conscious in her figure hugging outfit.
"I see Hank is trying to compete with you Pen in the belly department." Heather joked, nudging Penny with her pointy elbow.
"Heather, now that's enough. You know better than to comment on Henry's weight, he can get very sensitive about it." Marianne chastised.
"He's always the first to take the piss out of my Charlie if he's starting to look a little chubby, it's nice to see the tables turned." Heather continued, as Vicky and Charlotte nodded in agreement.
"Well I love his new tummy, it suits him too." Penny added, feeling bad that Henry's weight was being discussed.
"That man can make anything look good, even a gut!" Kate chuckled.
"Well that's enough fat-shaming our lovely Henry, let's all grab some food and then we can get the games underway." Helen instructed.
"Games?" Penny asked reluctantly.
"Read 'em and weep." Piers gloated as he laid down his winning hand amidst groans and obscenities from the rest of the table.
"Fuck this, I need a piss." Tom threw his cards down and headed off into the dark field outside, tripping over two guy ropes on the way.
"So bloody lucky Piers, next year we're going to Vegas son." Colin added
"You're on Pops, as long as we can take Hank to pay for everything."
Henry sat up from resting his head on the table, struggling to keep his eyes open after the constant flow of whiskey.
"Shall I run in and get coffees?" David suggested, being the most sober of the group.
"I'll come with you." Henry lurched out of his seat.
Callum stood to support him, "Maybe let Dave go for now Henry, you might want to sober up a bit before you go back inside."
"Hmm, kay." he agreed, feeling lightheaded from standing up so quickly.
"Let's finish up this meat and get the after party started boys." Charlie added with a chicken drumstick already in hand.
"Report back on the situation inside will you Dave?" Nik asked as David wove his way back to the garden.
The Hen party was well underway as David tried to sneak in the back, it took 5 seconds for Helen to spot him.
"David, what are you doing here?"
"Coffee." was his deliberately short response.
Helen was too tipsy to question him, "How civilised!" she chuckled before heading back to the makeshift dance floor.
Penny was trying her best to keep up with everyone despite being the only fully sober adult in the building. 'My humps' came on the sound system and one by one the ladies grabbed cushions, bowls and spare clothing to shove up their dresses to mirror Penny's impressive humps of her own.
Penny was screaming with laughter at the ridiculous sight before her. Glad that Kiri and Marianne were taking lots of photos to document it. Penny joined in as best as she could rubbing her bump against the others.
David looked up from the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement.
"There we're doing what?" Colin asked, confused by David's explanation.
"They'd all wedged cushions up their dresses to give them big bellies, like Penny's." he repeated as he set the heavy tray of coffee and cups on the bar.
"What the fuck? That's hilarious." Tom piped up.
"What was Pen doing?" Henry asked, now leaning against the bar, messily making himself a coffee.
"Dancing and laughing."
"Jesus Christ, if those women put her into labour there'll be hell to pay." Henry grumbled, trying to squint through the opening in the marquee towards the house.
"Chill bruv, she's in safe hands." Simon added, trying to stop Henry worrying.
"Maybe we should go back in the house with cushions up our tops and join them." Piers joked.
"Dad and Henry won't need the cushions though P" Charlie quickly quipped.
Henry broke the laughter with his angry rebuttal "Fuck off Chuck, I knew you couldn't help but take the fucking piss."
"Ah come on Hank, I'm only joking, so what, you're carrying a little extra timber these days."
"Don't they call it a sympathy belly?" Nik retorted with a snigger.
"Both you and Simon did the same when your girls were expecting." Nik pointed to Charlie.
"I can still take you all down brothers, just remember that."
"Let's fucking have it then!" Charlie shouted with excitement as he practically ripped off his shirt and ran towards Henry, attempting to wrestle him to the ground.
Several minutes later a bemused Tom, David & Callum leaned against the bar as they watched the five large men act like kids again, shirts off, clumsily trying to pin each other down onto the floor. Henry was bearing the brunt of most of this after his challenge.
"Are they always like this Col?" Tom inquired, as Colin sighed and nodded.
"Fucking hell Piers, mind my face." Henry grunted as he tried to get away from his brothers. They helped him to his feet as he grumpily wiggled his nose, checking for damage.
"Let's try something a little more civilised shall we chaps?" Tom began, as the Cavill boys wiped their faces with their tops. "A little arm wrestling competition will sift the boys from the men I think…"
Callum looked up at the ceiling and chose to Irish up his coffee…
After an enforced break to let Penny rest, the classic baby shower games began. Labour or orgasm faces, famous baby photos, nappy snacks, and guessing the weight of the baby.
Ben sneaked down to check on Penny and see if he was missing out on any fun. He made sure to give Penny the biggest hug, with a kiss for his baby sister too before he scampered back to his own party.
Penny was helped up to go and cut the stunning three tiered buttercream cake. It had edible flowers pressed into the icing and a beautiful gold crepe paper flower on the very top. The ladies had all worked up an appetite, so before long they all were tucking into the deliciously moist masterpiece.
Penny stood looking out into the back garden, the festoon lights making everything look romantic. She could see some movement inside the marquee, but it was too far to make out what was what. She could guarantee that Henry was already three sheets to the wind, but she was glad he was letting his hair down after how hard he'd been working lately.
"Right-ho, everyone pair up and get comfy. Remember the rules gents, and may the best man win."
Tom announced as he sat down to square up to Charlie. David was against Simon, Callum against Piers, and Henry against Nik.
They took turns so they could watch each match. The aim was to all arm wrestle each other, and the two with the most wins face-off at the end.
Callum was reluctant to join in, not sure if he was up for the testosterone-fuelled challenge, but he was also a little curious to see if he could beat Henry.
Nik, Tom, Henry, and Callum all faired well unsurprisingly. Tom gloated knowing they'd underestimated his natural strength. All that rock climbing was finally paying off. Charlie pouted every time he lost, only managing to beat David. Henry was being pretty cocky, sure that no one would be a match for him. He knew Nik was his biggest opponent, so braced himself for a challenge. But his flippant attitude to Callum led to a quick surprise defeat. Henry's pride was dented. His brothers found this beyond hilarious. Tom and Callum were deadlocked in their match for so long that the others started to get bored. They were both evenly matched. But Callum's larger frame eventually won for him. Finally once the scores were totted up the last match to decide the winner was on. Henry vs Callum.
Both men shook their arms and stretched. Trying to revive their overworked muscles after so many matches. Both tried pretending that they weren't too fussed about winning, but once they sat down, face to face again the atmosphere changed. This time Henry wasn't going to underestimate the farmer, he knew Callum would love to have bragging rights from this, but Henry wasn't going to allow it. He was fucking Superman for crying out loud, his inebriated brain kept reminding him.
After the first minute, both held up their sides. Each huffing and puffing with exertion. Sweat dripped off the end of Henry's nose, whilst Callum's neck and face were bright red.
"Ready to quit yet Supes?" Callum goaded.
"Just about to ask you the same thing Giles." Henry spat, with gritted teeth.
The other men shouted out their support and tried to put them off at the same time. Charlie was filming on his phone, adding to Henry's annoyance.
After another few minutes of stalemate, Colin piped up.
"Boys, you're going to cause yourselves some mischief like this, let's just call it a tie now."
Both ignored Colin and looked into each other's eyes. Neither wanted to give up, but neither felt they could keep this up much longer. Henry's bicep and forearm were on fire, his fingers threatening to cramp. The tendons in Callum's neck looked painful as he breathed heavily through his flared nostrils.
"Decorative muscles don't always equate to real world strength Cavill." Callum muttered, using what felt like his last attempt to put Henry off.
"And shoving your arm up a cow's arse does too then?" Henry added with a cocky smile.
From nowhere Callum found some extra energy as he managed to push Henry's arm to the side. Henry dug deep and used every ounce of strength, but at this compromised angle, he just didn't have the power to come back. He grunted loudly and suddenly the back of his hand hit the table, he'd lost.
"What the fuck Hank?" Charlie shouted at him.
Henry stood up, knocking his chair over in the process as he angrily walked back to the bar to reclaim his drink before heading out into the field.
Callum was amazed he'd properly beaten him, after accepting that their first match was a lucky punt. Disappointingly he didn't feel as elated as he'd expected either. He stood up, rubbing his arm as he received several pats on the back in congratulations.
Penny leaned against the kitchen island nibbling on some red peppers, one of her main pregnancy cravings, as she shifted her weight to her other foot. Marianne walked up behind her giving her a small back rub as she passed.
"Do you want me to check on them Penny?" she asked.
"Who?" Penny replied, knowing exactly who she meant as the kids had only just been checked on by Helen.
"The boys outside my dear, I can see that you're fretting a little."
"Am I that obvious?!" Penny chuckled, holding her bump as it moved. "I guess I'm feeling a little needy, I just hate being apart from him at the moment. I feel safe when he's around."
Marianne wrapped her arm behind Penny, giving her a tight squeeze.
"That's very sweet my dear, not needy at all. And perfectly natural in your condition too."
"I'm sure they're having a good time, and don't need us checking up on them," Penny admitted, making herself drag her focus away from the garden.
When Henry didn't return to the tent Callum poured a couple of whiskeys and went in search outside.
He found Henry sitting on the wooden ceremony platform at the back of the garden. He'd watched as Penny looked wistfully out into the garden and her sweet interaction with his mum. Tears had tumbled down his cheeks.
"Hey" Callum announced.
"Hey", Henry added, sniffing and wiping his face as he gladly accepted the scotch.
Callum plonked himself down beside Henry, almost losing his balance in the process.
They sat in silence for a few moments, just watching the ladies inside, smiling at their happy faces and bursts of laughter.
"Looks like they're having a good time?" Callum interjected.
"It does."
"You ok Henry?"
"Yeah, just needed some air."
Callum swigged the last of his whiskey down with a grimace. He was feeling bad thinking he'd upset Henry.
They both looked up again as a loud cheer was heard from the house. They could see Penny hugging Kate and creasing up in laughter.
"You're a fucking lucky man, Cavill."
Henry turned to look at Callum, wondering where this praise was coming from.
"I know - I know it's no secret how I feel about Penny, but above all I'm just glad she's happy again. You make her happy. Despite your noodle arms."
Henry chuckled and nudged Callum sideways, grabbing him before he toppled over.
"Thanks mate. I never thought I'd find her, I thought I'd never find this kind of happiness. We just need to find this for you too buddy." Henry put his arm around Callum.
"I'm working on it. I'm working on it."
"Don't fanny about this time though, Life is too fucking short."
Callum nodded, sucking in his emotions as they threatened to escape.
"Come on, let's go back to the lads." As he hauled himself up and held a hand out for Henry.
Karaoke was the next segment of Penny's Hen do. Heather and Charlotte started off the proceedings with their duet of "Islands in the Stream" and Helen continued the theme with her very warbly version of "Nine to Five". Penny was quite enjoying being the sober one amidst the gaggle of loud, sozzled women. Kate decided to attempt her favourite Van Morrison tune, dedicating it to Penny, even though she had blue eyes. A few of the kids sneaked downstairs to see what all the noise was about before deciding that they preferred their video games to their mothers vocal talents.
Heather was desperate for Penny to join in, but she felt far too comfortable in her chair, and sober to be tempted. So Heather roped Marianne and Julia into a murdering of 'It's Raining Men'.
Back in the marquee Tom was back on the decks to his one loyal fan, Charlie. Reliving their Ibiza days. Henry walked straight past, spying the last sausage and grabbing for the scotch. Piers beat him too it as he flung his arm around his little brother and poured them both another drink.
"Can't believe you're finally tying the knot little brother." he shouted.
Henry nodded, and grinned. "About bloody time eh?" Henry raised his glass, "To my beautiful bride to be." he shouted as he staggered back slightly. All the men raised their drinks.
"To Penny!" they all cheered.
Tom returned to the main table where the conversation had turned to ex-girlfriends.
"Si, remember that girl you used to date with the lazy eye?" Charlie began, getting far too excited by his recollection. "whatever happened to her?"
Simon gave Charlie the death stare and raised his middle finger to his annoying younger brother.
"She broke my heart Charles, you know that you little runt."
The rest of the brothers and Colin all found this hilarious.
"What about that Spanish girl Charlie?" Simon retorted. "the one you bought a car for and she left you the week after?"
"She was Portuguese actually, and it was only a Fiat 500, not a fucking Porsche, no biggie." as he returned the middle finger gesture enthusiastically.
"What about that nice young girl that you used to court Henry? The one with the dubious family background." Colin asked, with a knowing grin already on his face.
"She was lovely, but unfortunately her brothers were the next Krays and frightened the absolute life out of me." he turned to Tom "They threatened me with castration if I dishonoured their sister!"
"Castration eh? Who would threaten such a thing?!" he winked back at Henry.
A quite lull in the conversation allowed the baseline of one of the karaoke songs to drift through the night air.
"They fucking singing in there?" Nik shouted, standing up to look outside. "Right boys, I think it's time we merge these parties, who's coming?"
"Finally!" Henry shouted, feeling glad to see his Penny again.
Helen was just starting 'Copacabana' As Charlie, Tom and Piers noisily flung open the back doors to announce their arrival.
"Someone ordered the Dreamboys Ladies?" Charlie shouted as he made a beeline for Heather with his sexiest walk.
Penny craned her neck to see the newcomers as she spotted Henry and Callum stumbling through the door together. Henry's shirt was partially unbuttoned. And what buttons were fastened were in the wrong holes. Callum was still topless as was Nik after the arm wrestling tournament.
Callum suddenly felt a little conspicuous now with several females eyes upon him.
"What the hell have you lot been up to? You all look like you've been pulled through a hedge backwards." Kate laughed as she tried to fix the mess that was her husband's hair.
Henry reached the back of the sofa and kissed Penny's forehead as she leaned back to smile at him. He then dramatically rolled over the back of the chair, narrowly missing Julia's drink.
"Woah, steady on honey." Penny added, chuckling at her lumbering man.
Henry composed himself and with a soppy smile manouvered himself to sit close up to her.
"My beautiful Pen Pen. I missed you." he smooched, lips searching for hers.
"Missed you too Yogi, did you have fun?"
"I did, I may have had a lickle too much to drink though, sorry." he pouted, looking up at Penny with puppy dog eyes.
"That's ok Hen, I don't mind. Just don't throw up on the carpet later."
"Right!!" Tom spoke loudly into the mike, making Penny jump. "All you lovely ladies have been making the sweetest of sounds, but now it's time for the men to show you all how it's done. Big man, come here and serenade your betrothed." He gestured to a reluctant Henry as Penny smiled and pushed him a little to gee him up. Everyone shouted encouragement and before long he relented and hauled himself off the sofa, slightly swaying as he finally straightened up. Tom walked over to him and ushered him back to the karaoke machine.
"So, what will it be cherub? Pick something that'll make her cry." Tom whispered into his ear.
After a bit of deliberating Henry pushed his hair out of his eyes, rotated his shoulders, and took a deep breath as the first chords began. All eyes were upon him as Penny cringed in embarrassment.
She grabbed a cushion to hide behind when she realised what he'd chosen, knowing she'd be in tears before too long.
Henry's deep baritone attempted the American screech of "Oh Lord, won't you buy me, a Mercedes Benz.." Only Penny knew the significance of this and laughed as the others looked at each other and her in mild confusion. Henry kept his gaze fixed on Penny during the whole song, enjoying her reaction. They both thought back to that bitterly cold, grey Saturday in January. Such a chance meeting. A real turning point for them both. It truly felt like fate had intervened in their lives to make their paths cross. As Henry finished the last note Penny shuffled to stand up, Henry's strong arms ready to help her as she stood and they embraced. Their tears weren't the only ones after witnessing their dedication to each other.
"Oh honey, that was beautiful." she managed to say, as Henry's broad shoulder muffled her face. Henry kept hold of her for the longest time until Charlie grabbed the mike…
----
Penny had just finished what felt like her thousandth toilet visit of the day to find Henry waiting for her outside in the corridor. A naughty look in his eyes.
"Henry."
"Penelope." he replied as he stepped towards her and swept his hands around her curves. "This dress is un-fucking-believable Pen. I've been trying so hard not to ravish you in front of our friends and family. I'm literally struggling right now." He took her hand and led it over the impressive bulge in his dress shorts.
"You're kidding right? I look like an over-stuffed sausage Hen." Penny blushed, enjoying Henry's continuous exploration of her stomach, boobs and bottom. She tilted her head back as he gently pushed her back against the door.
Henry ignored her comment, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers.
"Can we have lots of babies honey, I want to keep you like this forever." Henry breathed heavily his eyes dark with arousal.
Penny raised her eyebrows at him "Christ almighty Cavill, you're practically feral tonight. Let's just get this little Princess sorted first before we talk about any more. And then we'll see how frisky you are when there's a newborn in the house."
Again, Penny's words washed over his inebriated brain and he continued to paw at her and kiss down her neck, pulling at the neckline of her dress attempting to find her nipple.
Tom walked around the corner nonchalantly and smacked Henry on his backside.
"That's what got you into this situation you horny fuckers, move aside, I need to drain the lizard."
Penny chuckled, relieved it wasn't either of Henry's parents that caught them.
"Come on honey, let's get you some water to cool you down." Penny suggested as she ushered her big bear back towards the party and Heathers singing.
Henry was stolen away by Simon, Charlie and Colin to sing Bohemian Rhapsody whilst Penny stood stretching her back against the kitchen island, wondering whose hangover would be worse tomorrow morning.
Callum sidled up to her.
"You ok Penny?" he asked, trying his best to sound more sober than he was.
"A little achey, but enjoying the entertainment." she chuckled.
"You look amazing by the way." he mumbled, instantly regretting his compliment. His cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Penny looked up at him, trying to judge his emotion after his unexpected praise. He looked over at the others with an unconvincing passive expression on his face.
"Thanks Callum, everyones been so sweet trying to make me feel less like a bloody whale."
"No!" he stated, louder than they both expected. "It really suits you - being - being, pregnant. You're - glowing Penny." Penny looked back up at him, to see him looking back down at her. A strange expression on his face. Penny smiled, hooking her hand around his arm and giving him a small side hug.
"I'm genuinely happy for you, you know that right?" he continued, Penny looked over to see Henry's eyes on them briefly.
"Thanks Callum. You ok?" she asked, squeezing his arm and resting one hand on his shoulder.
He nodded and smiled. His eyes glassy with tears as he drank from his beer bottle.
Penny opened her mouth again to say something, anything. But an increasingly loud squeal broke the moment as Julia and Kate (who were getting on like a house on fire) barrelled up to Penny to grab her away.
"Pen-Pen, you can't say no. They've fucking got it!" as she pulled Penny away reluctantly. She looked back as Callum smiled and shooed her away. Julia unsubtly stayed behind to seize her opportunity with the farmer.
"No, No, No. It's been too long." Penny protested, seeing what she was being dragged towards.
"Come on Pen, let's have it!" Tom encouraged as Nik and Charlie joined in.
Henry stood watching this with a befuddled expression as Marianne adorably re-buttoned his shirt for him.
"Can't chicken out now Pen, unless you're too old to be cool babes." Kate goaded.
"Fuck off Roberts, give me that mike." Penny narrowed her eyes at her bestie as she abandoned her awkwardness for the challenge.
Penny launched into her memorised and well-practised rendition of 'Alphabet Aerobics', not dropping a beat or missing a word. Most of the Cavills were agog at Penny's unexpectedly skilled rap, Charlie was bouncing around like a puppy with excitement.
"Shit the bed Penny! You were fucking amazing!" Charlie shouted, draping one arm heavily over Penny's shoulders. Henry appeared to rescue her as Charlie switched to Henry's shoulder. "Did you know about your woman's hidden talents Hank?!"
"She's a woman of many hidden talents young Chuck." Henry purred with a dramatic arched brow.
"Rap Battle it is then Penelope Green." Tom announced as Penny shook her head.
"I'm too pregnant for all of this Thomas!" she protested.
"Come on! You don't hear Dre making that fucking excuse do you?" He began to giggle, finding his own joke hilarious.
Penny relented easily and performed several more hip hop classics alongside Heather, Kate, Tom, Charlie, and even Henry.
The lyrics to 'It's Tricky' coming out of Henry's mouth were hilarious for all involved. Henry hammed it up as only actors can do and gave it his best shot. Penny genuinely thought she was going to wet herself at one point with laughter.
Eventually, the singing turned into a more chilled end to the evening of chatting, drinking, and more eating. Penny was back in her comfy spot with Henry and Kate sat on either side of her, both having their own conversations with her unborn child.
Kate leaned forward, hands cupped on the globe of Penny's stomach. "Listen up short stuff, Auntie Katie will be making such a fuss of you when you finally get here. You might have been a surprise.."
"Kate!" Penny exclaimed as Kate dismissed her with an annoyed wave of her hand
She continued "You might have been a surprise, but you will be so loved and will bring us all so much bloody happiness. Now stay in until the 10th as I have money riding on that date."
"Katie, you're incorrigible, and so bloody soppy. Love you." she reached as well as she could and pulled Kates head towards her lips.
It was Henry's turn to offer his wisdom. "Mummy's done a fabulous job of baking you, my little cupcake. Can't wait to see your pretty little face and kiss your tiny toesies. Now just keep chilling for a few more days, my little girl." He instantly held his hand over his mouth. Realising his slip up.
"A girl?!" Kate asked "A Girl!!" she then shouted as everyone's attention was caught.
Penny shot pretend daggers at a cringing Henry as their news was out. She didn't really mind, and seeing the joy it brought everyone who now knew she couldn't be angry at him.
Kisses, handshakes, and hugs came from all directions as Marianne burst into tears. "Just perfect darlings, we needed more girls. Wonderful news." she sobbed as Colin patted her back.
Penny stifled another yawn just as Henry looked around.
"Right Mama, you need to sleep, let's hit the hay."
Penny protested politely, but was more than ready for her bed after such a full on evening.
Henry grasped her hands and slowly helped her stand, he could tell she was in a reasonable amount of pain despite her smiles.
"Thank you everyone for making this such an amazing evening, I'm sorry to be such a lightweight but feel free to keep the party going!" Penny spoke as Henry held her tight.
"Thanks guys, love you all!" Henry added as he ushered Penny past several more kisses and hugs.
If Henry had been sober he would have carried Penny up the stairs seeing how uncomfortable she was. Instead, he tried his best to guide her hips forward to take some of her weight. He also couldn't resist grabbing her arse in the process too.
They poked their heads into Ben's room to see them all fast asleep and the room filled with bodies. Penny had never known so many people to be in her house overnight.
Despite his lack of coordination Henry tried to help Penny to clear away the pile of clothes on the bed, left from Penny's earlier stress. After removing her floral decorations she began to wriggle out of the dress. Unsurprisingly Henry appeared to help. Kissing her shoulders in the process.
"Hmm, Pen, you're gonna get me all worked up again honey," as they stared at each other in the floor length mirror. Both watching Penny disrobe. Henry abandoned his clothes by his feet as he stood behind Penny and watched his reflection massaging her heavy breasts and taut stomach.
"Hold that thought, Cavill. I need to pee." as she made a dash for the bathroom. After cleaning her teeth and removing her makeup she returned to the bedroom to find Henry asleep on the bed.
"Gah!" she complained, as she haughtily pushed his knee over to his side of the bed so she could enter her cave of cushions. After finally finding a reasonably comfy position Henry snorted himself awake.
"Ung, fell 'sleep" he mumbled "Sorry baby," he said, his voice muffled by his pillow. He reached his arm up and plonked it heavily onto Penny's bump.
"I noticed." Penny said with subtle annoyance, hoping to get some time alone with her bear.
Henry sat up, with one eye open. Penny chuckled at his comical expression.
"I'm awake now!" he stated with a cheeky grin. He sidled up to Penny, mirroring her pose.
"Did you have a good night honey?"
"I did indeed, although I missed you lots." he admitted coyly.
"Missed you too Yogi, even though you were only in the field."
After a moments silence Henry piped up.
"Pen. Do I….. do I look fat?" he asked sheepishly, staring down at his stomach. "I'm sorry I've let myself go lately, I'll work extra hard to get back into shape."
It took everything Penny had not to laugh at his endearing comments, but she knew how much of a sensitive subject this was.
"Henry, honey." she took his hand and squeezed it. "First off, you don't look fat, you're not fat. You can be whatever shape you want to be, whatever makes you happy. Not me, not your family, not your fans, you honey. You're so used to trying to maintain an unrealistic physique, exhausting yourself, depriving yourself, and for what? A few photos, a few moments in a movie. It's crazy. And actually unhealthy in lots of ways. This is normal honey." she rubbed his softened stomach.
"You still think I'm sexy Pen?" he asked in all seriousness.
"You're fucking kidding me right? I'm sat here like this and you're the one thinking you're fat and unsexy?!"
Penny stared at him, seeing that he was still full of doubts and insecurities.
She pulled his head towards her chest as his arm cradled her belly.
"Baby, you're such a doofus at times. Do I really need to tell you that you are the sexiest freakin' man alive?!! That all I want to do every time I see you is run my nails down your back and lick your chest."
Penny flung aside her largest pillow and with all her strength swung her leg over Henry and straddled him.
"Fuck, Pen. Steady on honey." he gasped, as his hands automatically grasped her waist. "Christ almighty" he continued as his hands roamed up and down her. She was wearing a soft cotton sleep bra and matching knickers. She rested on her side and slipped off her bottoms before sitting back over Henry again.
"Pen, oh god. This is so fucking hot. But Pen, Pen." he threw his head back onto the pillow as she grasped his cock, tugging it and then rubbing herself over it. He rutted upwards as he grasped her thick thighs, Penny supported her back as she moaned loudly in pleasure.
"Pen, stop, we can't."
Penny took Henry's hard dick and lined him with her entrance. Henry was torn, reaching out to massage her breasts. She began to slide down onto him slowly as he grasped her arms.
"No! Pen, we can't risk it." again she ignored him, lost in her passion.
"Stop!" he shouted, finally able to make her listen.
Penny looked at him in confusion and hurt. "Why?" she asked.
"The baby, Pen. What if you go into labour?"
Penny continued to sit down further onto Henry, feeling the delicious stretch. She clenched, making him throw his head back in pleasure again.
"I'm fine honey, I've got weeks until she's due."
"I just don't want to risk it before the wedding Pen Pen." He held his large paw against the side of her pouting face. "Lay back down and I will help ease your frustrations, my love."
Penny relented, pouting, feeling tired and uncomfortable now the moment was lost. But she soon perked up on feeling Henry's strong digits delving between her legs. Penny ground against his touch, needing more friction. Henry's tongue swirled noisily around Penny's nipples as he readjusted his position, kissing her as he moved. He knelt on the bed, between her legs. Smoothing his hands up along Penny's legs, hips, waist, and breasts. A greedy grin on his face. Penny clenched at his electrifying gaze. His desire and lust felt ready to explode. Unexpectedly he froze and scrunched up his face. He raised a finger.
"Hold that thought, Pen" as he leaped off the bed, hopping as one foot was wrapped in the sheets, heading for the bathroom. At first, Penny thought he was going to throw up, which would have made her feel absolutely devastated, considering where he'd just been, but the familiar sound of him peeing like a racehorse echoed from the ensuite, and a loud "Ahhh…" on top.
Penny chuckled as she waited for him to return. After some noisy hand washing and fumbling in the dark, Henry plodded back over to her, locating her feet first and climbing between her legs again.
"Right. Where were we..?"
"Actually, Hen. I'm feeling super tired again, sorry…"
"Oh.." he said, surprised by her sudden switch. "Ok, my sweetness. I'm sorry for ruining the moment."
Penny didn't disagree with him. "Just make sure our wedding night is more romantic honey," she said, sleepily. Tucking her pillows around her as she made herself comfortable.
Henry leaned over and kissed her shoulder, helping tuck another pillow behind her at the same time.
"Just you wait Penelope, Daddy's going to pull all his tricks out of the bag."
They both giggled at his bravado as Henry snuggled up behind her, smoothing his hand up and down the contours of her hip and thigh as she quickly succumbed to her sleep.
Authors Comments
I hope you enjoyed the run-up to the big day. The interactions with their friends and family. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I hope you liked reading it!! Thank you all for your continued support with this epic saga that is slowly coming to its natural end xxx
Chapter 32 coming soon...
#henry cavill fic#henry cavill#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill rpf#henry cavill imagine#henry cavill fan fiction#henry cavill fantasy#the cavillry#henry cavill fluff#henry cavill smut#henry cavill thirst#henry cavill x reader#henry cavill x curvy ofc#henry cavill x ofc#henry cavill x pregnant reader#dad!henry#Widows pique#widows peek chapter 31
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Fatal Blunder: revealed to the funeral party that I sing the parting glass and they started shushing everyone to give me the floor
#the widower asked me to sing an encore bcos he didnt hear me the first time so i had to do it again#n like it made ppl happy n it was a song they sang at the funeral n it started a whole singalong so it was worth it in the end#but in that moment senior-cycle music was not worth it#strategically not revealing to them that one of the songs i sang was in japanese bcos god bless them their interest would be PIQUED#and i cannae deal w that at midnight in the frosty cold
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Mercenary! Reader - 141, Los Vaqueros + Konig
So I recently rewatched Deadpool, and I was thinking about what the boys reactions would be to finding out that (r/n) is a mercenary - gave them a little bit of Wade's personality too~
Mentions of violence, strong language, little bit of angst if you squint.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Oh, he definitely doesn't trust you.
He's impressed by your skills on the battlefield, and knows that you're very good at what you do - otherwise you wouldn't be a mercenary - but he absolutely wouldn't turn his back on you.
Price would have probably already told 141 about you, but even if he hadn't he probably would have put two and two together on his own.
Doesn't judge you...much - he's done some pretty fucked up things, it comes with his line of work, but being a mercenary is on another level.
Your sense of humour piques his interest, his humour is dark at the best of times so the fact that you can match his dark comments with some of your own is fine by him.
Don't get it twisted though, if he thinks that you're trying to double-cross his team, he wouldn't hesitate to kill you.
If you were recruited to help 141 on a mission, it would probably mean that the mission was going to be hell on Earth; I can see Shepard hiring you - his intentions were probably never disclosed to you, which makes you trust him less and less.
Given that you're not part of the British Army, your clothing and gear probably wouldn't be similar at all; picture the suits from Black Widow, because Yelena is a goddess~
He definitely hasn't secretly admired your arse when you're not looking - Soap definitely caught him once and was given a glare as a warning to keep his mouth shut.
You'd have to prove yourself to him before he lets himself feel any of the feelings of attraction he has for you - mans has a lot of past trauma that he doesn't want repeated, so until he knows that you're trustworthy, he's going to be cold and calculative as always.
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
While he may be a generally friendly guy, Johnny is far from stupid; he'll make small-talk with you in the beginning, but knows not to let his guard down - no matter how much your sense of humour makes him chuckle.
Watches you take down 4 soldiers almost twice your size with ease, and almost pops a boner.
If you're anything like Wade, he's a bit of an over-sharer; when you tell him about parts of your past that led to you becoming a mercenary - some parts which may have been slightly traumatic and concerning to hear - with a smile on your face, he's a bit worried for you.
Definitely flirts with you on the regular - Ghost just gives him a blank stare, wondering why Soap likes to gamble with his life since the team barely even know you.
Once you prove that you're trustworthy, he opens up to you more; we've seen how he acts with Ghost, undeterred by the big guy's cold exterior.
He asks to train with you - doesn't mind being thrown to the mats a hundred times over, "I don't mind the view from doon here, like ;D" [doon = down], "Aye, I knew you'd look great on top a' me"
Asks to try out your weapons - some are not too different from his own, while some are quite clearly black-market issue.
All in all, Soap's an easy-going guy - so as long as you don't try to kill him or anyone he cares about, you're golden.
Captain John Price
Another one who doesn't trust you at all.
He's been in the military for a long time, and he's encountered mercenaries from across the globe - most of them weren't the friendly type, especially when they were after the same target.
He's definitely angry when Shepard tells him that you'll be accompanying his team on the next mission; he's offended, for one, as it makes it seem as if his team are incompetent or not skilled enough to go it alone.
Doesn't take his eyes off you for a second - in his eyes, you're not a soldier, you don't abide by legalities and you essentially kill for money so you might as well be a fully-fledged assassin.
Doesn't bat an eyelid at your humour either, and doesn't let his guard down.
Your fighting skills are undeniable - you're very good at what you do, and you're clearly very intelligent, but don't mistake this for respect.
You probably don't show your face at all - revealing your identity would probably incriminate yourself and put yourself and anyone around you in danger; this doesn't phase him, but it makes it harder for him to trust you.
For Price to trust you would take a hell of a lot of work; you'd have to prove yourself, not just in the field but from a moral standpoint too.
If you do manage to prove yourself to him, then he might gradually start to see you in a different light.
Soap may or may not have caught him eyeing you up appreciatively - but a stern look from his Captain shut him up immediately.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
I can see Gaz keeping out of your way as much as possible.
Out of everyone in 141, he's the youngest and hasn't been in the military for very long either, so he hasn't encountered mercenaries before.
That being said, he knows what a mercenary is and knows that Price doesn't trust you at all - the fact you were hired by Shepard is questionable in itself, so he keeps his interactions with you to a minimum.
Doesn't know what to make of your humour - sometimes your comedic timing and the things you come out with are quite funny, he can't deny that. But other times, you come out with some twisted shit that makes him wonder about your mental state.
He's naturally curious at to how you went from being a soldier to a mercenary - he doesn't have to ponder for long, sometimes you'd just openly remark about things that happened in your past and he was able to figure it out on his own.
He'd never admit it out loud but watching you rile up Ghost with your sarcastic comments and dark humour was entertaining - even if he did fear for your safety when the hulking soldier was due to blow a gasket.
If you showed him your face, he would be pleasantly surprised - Price definitely gives him the disapproving Dad face whenever he catches Kyle oggling you after that.
Alejandro Vargas
*I used google translate for both Alej, Rudy and Konig so if the translations are wrong I apologise*
Oof, he is angry.
We saw how he reacted with Valeria, he doesn't like soldiers who turn their back on morality for money.
He doesn't even attempt to hide his distaste for you.
"Eres un maldito traidor y un asesino." ["You are a fucking traitor and a murderer."]
Finds out you're working with 141 and he's just >:(
"¡¿Por qué diablos están aquí?!" ["Why the fuck are they here?!"]
Warns you that if you betray the team - his friends - that he'd be coming for you, and he would kill you without hesitation.
Your dark humour would probably rub him the wrong way, further solidifying his perception that you were a soldier who walked down a path that you couldn't come back from, "No tienes verguenza?" ["Do you have no shame?"]
I think that even if you did prove yourself, he still wouldn't fully trust you - it would take years for him to look you in the eye with a modicum of respect.
If he sees you getting along well with 141, it might slightly make him think differently of you - especially if Ghost seems to be okay with you being around them.
But it would take him a while to see you as anything other than a killer; "No eres malo, pero recuerda, traicionarnos y estarás muerto antes de que puedas correr." ["You're not bad but remember, betray us and you'll be dead before you can run."
Rudy Parra
Rudy's naturally quite a quiet guy, so I doubt he'd say much to you anyway.
However, this silence doesn't mean acceptance.
He keeps a close eye on you, analysing every move you make.
Would probably ask for your opinion on things when you're on a mission; it's partially out of curiosity, a way to see how your mind works, and other parts to air on the edge of caution because your sense of humour consisted of coming out with some crazy shit.
I reckon if he did trust you, he'd still be very cautious and aware of what you were and what you were capable of; after seeing you take down soldiers like it was nothing, he's inwardly grateful that you were fighting on the same side...for now.
If you let your guard down and told him about aspects of your personal life, it might change his mind a bit - it shows that you're human, you have a life outside all of this...but that being said, he's never seen your face, so you could walk past him in the grocery store and he would never know. It's unnerving.
If you do trust him enough to show your face, he's conflicted; "No te ves como esperaba que te vieras." ["You don't look how I expected you to look.] You look perfectly normal, minus the black paint around your eyes - pretty, even.
Alejandro doesn't like you one bit from the jump, and is constantly hovering around you both like >:(
It'll take a while for Rudy to trust you, but rest assured if you were to break his trust, it wouldn't end well at all - he's a Sergeant Major, and don't let his quiet nature fool you, he too is capable of doing damage.
König
The big guy is unphased - he's a mercenary too, so if he were to judge you then that would make him the biggest hypocrite of all.
Nonetheless, he doesn't trust you either - if you're not from KorTac, and he doesn't know who you are, then he's not letting his guard down at all.
Your sense of humour could go one of two ways with him:
If he's out on the field, and you're making dark jokes and sarcastic comments, then he'll probably laugh and join in; he's a completely different man when he's working, it's what makes him so good at what he does.
But if he's back on base...he's probably going to be a little awkward - the adrenaline's worn off and he's back to being his normal, shy self.
Wants to train with you but is hyperaware of his size and strength - he's seen you take down soldiers his size, but he's still concerned that he'd seriously hurt you.
Pin him to the mat and watch as his eyes widen and he averts his gaze, cheeks heating up under his mask; "Du kämpfst gut." ["You fight well."
There's a slim possibility that he would show you his face - you made the mistake of teasing him and he almost backed out, "Show me yours' and I'll show you mine~"
If you show him your face, he won't be able to look at you the same; how is he supposed to focus now when he knows you're attractive?!
#soap mactavish#simon riley#captain price#john price#kyle gaz garrick#konig#alejandro vargas#rudy parra#soap mactavish x reader#simon riley x reader#captain price x reader#konig x reader#alejandro x reader#alejandro vargas x reader#rudy parra x reader#rudy x reader#john price x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#call of duty#cod mw2#multifandomimagin3s
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Short love: Chp 4
Just a little skip
Summary: The is about widowed father Bradley Bradshaw who enlists his brother-in-law Jake Seresin and childhood best friend Robert Floyd to help raise his three daughters, eldest Donna Jo Margaret (D.J for short), middle child Stephanie and youngest Michelle in his San Diego home.
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader
Warning: Fluff, flirting
As Saturday morning dawned, Y/n and Jake found themselves nestled together on the couch, wrapped up in each other's warmth as they savored the quiet moments of the morning. The soft light filtering through the curtains cast a warm glow over the room, creating a sense of coziness and contentment that enveloped them like a warm embrace.
With a contented sigh, Y/n snuggled closer to Jake, resting her head against his chest as she listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It had been a month since their first date, and in that time, their bond had only grown stronger, deepening with each passing day.
As they sat together in comfortable silence, lost in their own thoughts, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, signaling the arrival of DJ and Stephanie. Before they knew it, the two girls came charging into the room, their laughter filling the air as they launched themselves onto the couch with reckless abandon.
"Morning, Aunt Y/n! Morning, Uncle Jake!" DJ exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she settled herself next to Y/n.
Stephanie followed suit, giggling as she climbed onto Jake's lap, her tiny hands reaching out to playfully tug at his hair. "Morning, guys! What are we doing today?" she asked, her voice filled with excitement.
Y/n and Jake exchanged amused glances, their hearts full as they looked upon the two girls who had become such an integral part of their lives. With a smile, Y/n wrapped her arms around DJ, pulling her close in a tight hug.
"Well, first things first, how about some breakfast?" Y/n suggested, her voice filled with warmth.
Jake nodded in agreement, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he reached out to tickle Stephanie, eliciting a chorus of giggles from the little girl. "Sounds like a plan," he replied, his tone playful.
And as they settled in for a morning filled with laughter and love, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment, for the chance to share in the joy and excitement of being together with Jake and the girls.
As Y/n, Jake, DJ, and Stephanie enjoyed their Saturday morning together on the couch, they were joined by Bob, who descended the stairs with Michelle cradled in his arms. Bob's face was alight with excitement, his eyes sparkling with anticipation as he greeted the group.
"Morning, everyone!" Bob exclaimed, his voice filled with enthusiasm as he made his way into the living room.
"Morning, Uncle Bob!" DJ and Stephanie chimed in unison, their faces lighting up at the sight of their uncle.
Y/n and Jake exchanged knowing smiles as they welcomed Bob into their midst, knowing that he had something special planned for the day. It wasn't every day that Bob had a big show, and they were eager to hear what he had in store.
"Hey, Bob! What's got you so excited this morning?" Jake asked, his curiosity piqued as he leaned forward to listen.
Bob grinned from ear to ear, his excitement palpable as he bounced Michelle gently in his arms. "I've got my big comedy show tonight, and I've been practicing my jokes all morning!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement.
Y/n and Jake exchanged amused glances, knowing that Bob's comedy shows were always a hit with the audience. His quick wit and infectious humor never failed to bring a smile to their faces, and they had no doubt that tonight would be no exception.
"That's great, Bob! We'll be cheering you on from the audience," Y/n said, her voice filled with encouragement as she reached out to ruffle Bob's hair affectionately.
"Thanks, Y/n! I appreciate it," Bob replied, his grin widening at her words.
And as they settled in for the morning, Bob regaled them with a few of his favorite jokes, his infectious laughter filling the room as they all joined in. With each joke and punchline, the anticipation for Bob's big show grew, and they couldn't wait to see him take the stage and bring joy to everyone around him.
With a mischievous grin, Jake reached out to take Michelle from Bob's arms, a twinkle of excitement dancing in his eyes. "Let me give it a try," he said, his voice filled with playful determination.
Bob chuckled, handing Michelle over to Jake with a knowing smile. "Be careful, Uncle Jake. She's a wriggler," he warned, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Undeterred, Jake cradled Michelle in his arms, his heart swelling with affection as he looked down at her tiny face. With a flicker of mischief, he lifted her high into the air, eliciting a chorus of delighted squeals from the baby.
"Whoa, look at you, little daredevil!" Jake exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement as he playfully tossed Michelle into the air, catching her with expert precision.
Michelle's laughter filled the room, her chubby cheeks flushed with joy as she reveled in the exhilarating game. With each toss and catch, her giggles grew louder, filling the room with the sweet sound of her happiness.
Not content with just tossing her in the air, Jake leaned in close, blowing raspberries on Michelle's tummy, eliciting even more laughter from the baby. Her tiny fists flailed in the air as she squirmed with delight, her infectious laughter spreading like wildfire.
With a soft chuckle, Y/n leaned against the doorframe, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watched Jake toss Michelle into the air, the baby's laughter filling the room like music.
"Looks like someone's having fun," Y/n remarked, her voice filled with warmth as she approached Jake and Michelle.
Jake glanced up at Y/n, a bright smile spreading across his face at the sight of her. "Hey, Y/n. We're just having a little playtime, aren't we, Michelle?" he replied, his voice soft but filled with affection.
Y/n laughed at the sight before her, feeling a sense of joy wash over her at the playful interaction between her boyfriend and niece. "I can see that," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement.
As she joined them on the couch, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment, for the chance to share in the laughter and love that filled the room. With Jake by her side and Michelle in their arms, she knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be. And as they continued to laugh and play together, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and contentment wash over her, knowing that their bond was only growing stronger with each passing day.
As Jake and Y/n enjoyed the playful moment with Michelle, Jake couldn't resist letting a mischievous grin cross his face. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned in close to Y/n and whispered, "You know, maybe we should have one of our own."
Y/n's eyes widened in surprise at Jake's unexpected suggestion, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she chuckled nervously. "Slow your horses there, Jake," she replied, her tone teasing but filled with affection.
Jake laughed at Y/n's response, his heart swelling with love for the woman beside him. "Hey, I'm just kidding," he reassured her, reaching out to squeeze her hand gently. "But can you imagine how cute our little one would be?"
Y/n couldn't help but smile at Jake's enthusiasm, feeling a rush of warmth flood her heart at the thought of starting a family together. "Yeah, I can imagine," she replied, her voice soft but filled with tenderness.
As they sat together on the couch, surrounded by laughter and love, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment, for the chance to share in Jake's dreams and aspirations. With him by her side, she knew that anything was possible, and she couldn't wait to see where their journey together would take them.
And as they continued to laugh and play with Michelle, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building within her, knowing that their future was filled with endless possibilities and the promise of a lifetime of love.
tagging:
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@djs8891
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@itsmytimetoodream
@jessicab1991
@ahh-chickens
#jake seresin#hangman x reader#hangman top gun#top gun hangman#jake hangman seresin#jake seresin imagine#jake seresin x reader#jake seresin x you#jake seresin x y/n#jake hangman fic#jake hangman x reader#jake hangman x you#jake hangman imagine#hangman imagine#hangman seresin#hangman fanfiction#hangman seresin x reader#hangman seresin x you#hangman x y/n#hangman
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Just want to say that I am so in love with your art style/OC’s story/characterization of Shane that I have scrolled your blog front to back multiple times, I can’t get ENOUGH 🥹
A while back you mentioned reading lots of good (Shane?) fic, are there any titles or authors you’d be willing to share??
THANK YOUU!!🥺;;;;;; I‘m so happy you enjoy my stuff!!!
Also yes omg let me share the fic that really cemented my terminal obsession with this goddamn depressed chicken guy:
It got everything I need man😩🤌 It hurts me in all the right ways. I love the way they implemented the Dark Shrine of Memory as the main premise. The way Shane‘s written is really close to my personal headcanon of him. Also I eat up every fic that has Shane being an actual dad in it, I have such a soft spot for this. I don’t want to spoil anything more because going in blind gave me a whole rollercoaster of emotions but I can wholly recommend this one!
Another one that I‘ve recently found contains nsfw content and is quite different from the one above but I really enjoy the dynamic between the farmer and Shane. I’m constantly checking in if there were any updates yet so it definitely got me invested:
And yet another I just discovered a few days ago piqued my interest because //shocker// it got a widower Shane👀😭 (why am I like this) and it’s the first fic I‘ve found that explores this premise and I feel so seen🖐😔 So excited to see where it’s going in the future!!:
So yea, if anyone knows some other good Shane fics please let me know!! :] (especially when it’s about him being a dad or getting widowed ) (also lmk if you also like „Memory“ as much as I do ;;; I could gush about it for hours)
#stardew valley#sdv shane#stardew shane#shane#sad chicken man#shane sdv#shane stardew valley#sdv fanfic
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Blood In Our Wine by SeriouslyCalamitous
Ongoing | M | 3,873
Murder Mystery AU | Strangers to Lovers | Detective Pac | Widow Fit
“You're right. We hadn’t met before this, but it was a lovely service.”
“I see,” the widow hummed. Pac’s interest piqued as a gloved hand was extended outward. There was a single, gold band around the widow’s finger. It was woefully plain in comparison to the elegant jewels adorning his neck. “Then, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, stranger. I am Fit.”
“Fit,” Pac repeated, savoring the taste of it on his tongue. He took the offered hand, and gently lifted it. A soft gasp escaped the widow as a kiss was pressed to his knuckles. The metal of the ring burned Pac’s cheek where they brushed together. “I am Detective Pac. My sincere condolences.”
~ or ~
Pac is a detective with a case to solve, and Fit is a stylish widow with a big secret.
(The Official Hideduo Murder Mystery AU)
#qsmp#qsmp fanfiction#fan fiction recommendations#ao3 link#m rating#qsmp fitmc#qsmp pactw#fitpac#hideduo#author: seriouslycalamitous#qsmp fitpac#qsmp hideduo
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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee
Summary: Kate and Arthur share a tender moment in the quiet of the night.
Ao3
Wattpad
Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.10
Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Ch 9 - A Hundred Months Have Passed
After a few days had passed, the ebb and flow of camp life settled back into its usual rhythm. The air buzzed with the familiar hum of activity—girls diligently tending to chores, men venturing out in search of employment. Micah, having wisely refrained from his lewd remarks, seemed to steer clear of Kate since the encounter with her blade at his throat.
Kate, ever the reliable hand, lent herself where needed: scrubbing alongside Mary-Beth and Tilly, deftly stitching with Abigail, and even lending a hand in Pearson's kitchen to ease Sadie's burdens. The oppressive heat of Lemoyne clung to everyone like a stifling cloak, making afternoons feel interminable. Yet, the proximity of the lake provided a much-needed reprieve, promising a cool respite at the day's end.
Arthur slipped back into the role of the camp's indispensable jack-of-all-trades. Strauss had once again tasked him with money lending duties, a responsibility Kate chose to abstain from this time. Arthur, sensing her unspoken concerns, pledged a new approach—doing things properly this time. His efforts brought a smile to Kate's lips; she recognized his earnest attempts to turn a new leaf, even amidst his continued forays into stagecoach heists and homestead robberies.
This morning, Dutch and Hosea, accompanied by John and Arthur, ventured into Rhodes at the deputy's behest, hopeful for legitimate work. Kate felt a surge of pride knowing they were earnestly striving for honest wages, unaware of Dutch's clandestine designs. Rumors of a longstanding feud between the affluent Gray and Braithwaite families had piqued Dutch's interest, his mind already scheming.
While the boys were occupied, Kate found herself free from chores, engaging in a serene game of dominos with Tilly and Javier. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the camp.
“I don’t like being this far south,” Tilly commented, her voice tinged with fear. “I feel like we ain’t safe here. I ain’t safe here.”
“You’ll be alright, Tilly. We’re all looking out for you,” Kate reassured her.
Tilly sighed and shook her head solemnly. “This lot don’t like folk like me, Kate. My mother was a slave until she was 15 years old.”
“We’ll keep you safe, I promise,” Kate urged.
Javier, who had been quietly playing dominoes with them, placed his domino and joined the conversation. “I don’t think these folks like anybody who isn’t white, if I’m being honest,” he said with a dry laugh. “I’ve been called ‘greaser’ by almost every pendejo in this country.”
Kate sighed as she played her domino, earning a few points. “This town is full of a bunch of drunks stuck in the past. They never recovered from the war, and they’d rather hang onto their grievances than move on.”
Tilly placed her last domino, earning no points, and stood up with a grunt of frustration. “Yeah well, I just hope we don’t stay here too long. We’re supposed to be going back west, not south.” She walked away, her steps heavy with frustration.
Now alone with Javier at the small wooden table, Kate leaned back and blew out a breath. The air was hot and heavy, weighing down any motivation to work.
“Is that why you haven’t left camp much?” She inquired, her voice tinged with concern. “Because of the way people are treating you down here?”
Javier shrugged nonchalantly. “Sorta, but it doesn’t really bother me that much.”
Kate’s expression softened. She hadn’t known Javier well, but since the night of the raiders and borrowing his guitar, he had opened up more. She sensed he was a quiet presence, always listening but rarely speaking. She also noticed how much it bothered him when other gang members picked on him, especially Micah and Bill.
She chuckled softly. “Well, you certainly have a lot of patience. I’m amazed you haven’t stabbed Micah yet.”
Javier grinned and met Kate’s gaze. “Oh, I’ve thought about it many times.”
He leaned back, stabbing his knife into the table. “People like Micah don’t scare me. You know, it’s been five years since I left Mexico. Those men chasing me, I still have nightmares about them. Those are scary men.”
Kate listened intently, intrigued by his story.
“If I go back there, I’m as good as dead. They killed my mother, and I mourn her every day. But I never got to bury her. My sister married a man and ran away, and I hope she’s safe, but I’ll never know for sure.”
“Why were those men chasing you?” Kate asked quietly, curious about his past and how he ended up in the gang.
Javier scoffed, memories fueling his frustration. “My crime? My crime was wanting food and fairness—for myself and for my people. That’s why they hunt me. When I came here, I found that it was not so different.”
Kate nodded in understanding. “This land is wild, far beyond being ‘free.’ I know that as much as anybody, and like most, I learned the hard way.”
“Everyone here steals and lies. The only thing they do better here is make you think it’s not that way,” Javier said, his frustration evident. “Mexico could be a land of plenty, but those cabróns in our government won’t even pay us a fair wage.”
He looked at Kate with a sad expression. “I know I’m a thief. But at least I don’t steal the lives and hopes of others.”
Kate spoke before he could leave. “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”
He shook his head sadly, “I’ll be shot on site if I do.” Javier left her with those words.
Kate sat quietly, her eyes roaming over the camp. In the short time she’d been with this group, she had come to know many of their stories, and each one tugged at her heartstrings. There was no joyous reason that a band of misfits like them would ride together, yet the more she learned about each member, the more she understood their pain. They were all seeking a way to escape, all fleeing from something in their pasts. Some were orphaned, like Arthur and John, taken in by Dutch and Hosea. They were provided for, cared for, and yet, Kate couldn't help but doubt the sincerity of that care.
Dutch hadn't spoken to Kate since they arrived at Clemens Point. She wasn’t seeking an apology for Micah’s actions—Dutch wasn’t responsible for that—but his silence troubled her. During her time in the camp, she had observed how Dutch treated Arthur. He was dismissive yet domineering, always assuring Arthur of his position as his right-hand man, yet often prioritizing conversations with Micah. When Arthur approached Dutch for conversation, he always seemed preoccupied, only granting him full attention when there was work to be done and money to be made. Kate sensed a tension between them, a dynamic that left her uneasy.
As she gazed across the camp, Kate couldn’t shake the feeling that Dutch’s intentions for their group's safety and future were not as altruistic as they seemed. She wondered if their pursuits were leading them toward a better life or simply deeper into trouble.
━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━
Arthur shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You know, I think you have finally lost your mind," he remarked, eyeing Dutch with amused disbelief.
The boys had ridden into Rhodes earlier that afternoon, on a peculiar mission orchestrated by Dutch. The notorious gang leader had struck an unlikely alliance with Sheriff Gray, a key player in the ongoing feud between Rhodes' wealthiest families, the Grays and the Braithwaites. Their task? To reclaim stolen moonshine from the Braithwaites, which had found its way into the hands of Lemoyne raiders.
Dutch, ever the showman, had orchestrated their involvement under the guise of "helping the law." Now, adorned with shiny silver stars that marked them as deputized lawmen, the outlaws-turned-vigilantes cut an absurd figure in the bustling town.
"Amongst these drunkards, hillbillies, and slavers... good honest thieves like us, we’re bound to be moralizers in a place like this!" Dutch declared, arms outstretched as if claiming dominion over the entire town.
As they wrapped up loading the stolen moonshine into the wagon, John and Hosea offered to take the wagon to a secluded spot near camp, assuring the Sheriff that they would take care of "disposing" of the last of the moonshine. The Sheriff nodded knowingly, pocketing a couple of jugs for himself.
Before Dutch and Arthur departed, they couldn't resist indulging in their hard-earned spoils, taking more than a few swigs of the fiery alcohol to celebrate their successful mission before making their way back to camp.
“Hey you know what, why don’t I race you back to camp,” Dutch quipped, saddling his horse in an unsteady manor.
Arthur, equally unsteady on his feet, chuckled and climbed into Belle's saddle. "You're on," he agreed, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Later that evening, Arthur stumbled back into camp, his usually confident steps a bit less steady. The setting sun bathed the campsite in a warm orange glow, adding to the relaxed atmosphere. A faint scent of moonshine lingered on his breath, a testament to the drinks he and Dutch had indulged in before returning.
Kate looked up from where she sat near the fire, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Welcome back, Deputy Morgan. Looks like you've found yourself a new career path," she teased, giving a playful flick to the shiny silver star on his chest.
Arthur chuckled, brushing off her comment as he settled beside her by the fire. "Ah, quit it. I ain't cut out for lawman duties."
He turned slightly towards Kate, a warm glow in his eyes fueled by both the alcohol and the comfort of her presence. "How was your day, Kate? You tired of being surrounded by outlaws yet?" he asked, steering the conversation.
Kate smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting genuine contentment. "Honestly, Arthur, I've never been more grateful for the company," she admitted, her voice softening with sincerity. "After so long on my own, it's nice to be part of something, even if it's a band of outlaws."
Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the fire. Despite the daily lively chatter and the camaraderie of the gang, a pang of loneliness tugged at his heart. He had always been surrounded by people, yet somehow, he often felt a deep sense of solitude. The only time he felt seen, felt solace, was when he was with Kate. Her presence made him light up, whether it was a fleeting smile in the morning as they greeted eachother before going about their duties. Or on evenings such as this, when they talked about their day by the fire and simply enjoyed eachothers presence. She calmed the raging storm in his heart, and each day he grew more and more fond of her company.
The warmth of the fire and the alcohol in his belly emboldened him slightly. "Well, if it's all the same to you, Kate, I quite enjoy your company," Arthur admitted, a bashful smile playing on his lips as he shifted closer to her, their shoulders nearly touching.
Kate's eyes sparkled with amusement as she leaned in to meet his gaze. "I'll admit, Arthur, I enjoy your company more than most," she teased, a playful glint in her eyes. "But don't tell the others that," she added with a wink.
Arthur chuckled softly, the sound blending with the crackling of the fire. They settled against the log, warmed by the fire's glow. As the night deepened around them, they shared stories of their day. Arthur recounted their new duties as lawmen and the complexities of the feud between the two families, outlining Dutch's plan to navigate the situation without causing undue trouble.
The sun had long set, casting a cool, gentle darkness over the camp. Most of the gang had retired for the night, leaving only the crackling fire and the symphony of nighttime sounds—crickets chirping and frogs croaking.
Amidst the tranquil atmosphere, the peace was shattered by the distant voices of Abigail and John, their argument drifting from their tent and cutting through the night's quiet. Arthur and Kate exchanged a knowing look, their conversation momentarily interrupted by the reminder of the discord that often simmered beneath the surface of their makeshift family.
Arthur sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and empathy as Abigail's voice rose in frustration. "Why don't you use that tiny brain of yours? Whatever you think is right and proper, do the exact opposite! Then, you'll raise a man!" Her words were hushed, as if she were trying to contain her anger despite the intensity of her tone.
John's retort came swiftly, equally filled with annoyance. "Just like your mama did? Raise a real man, like you?" His jab was met with a sharp slap from Abigail, the sound echoing through the camp.
Kate winced, noticing Arthur pinch the bridge of his nose in response to the escalating argument. Before she could interject, the soft patter of footsteps approached rapidly. In a flash, Jack emerged from his tent, clad in nothing but a nightgown, and flung himself into Arthur's lap.
Unfazed by the sudden intrusion, Arthur pulled Jack close, his voice gentle and soothing. "Hey kiddo, can't sleep?" he asked, his tone calming.
Jack nodded against his uncle's shoulder. "Mama is mad at Pa again," he murmured, his voice small and weary. Turning his head slightly, he glanced up at Kate. "Hi, Auntie Kate," he greeted quietly.
"Hey, little man," Kate responded warmly, brushing a stray hair from his eyes as his cheek rested against Arthur's shoulder.
As the voices of John and Abigail rose again, Jack buried his face against Arthur. Concern flickered in Arthur's eyes as he glanced at Kate, who suddenly had an idea.
"Why don't we go get Lorena ready for the night? You wanna help, Jack?" Kate suggested, offering a diversion to distract Jack from the tension brewing between his parents.
With a silent nod, Arthur rose from his seat, cradling little Jack in his strong arms. Kate couldn't help but watch the scene unfold before her. His towering figure enveloped the small boy with an unexpected tenderness and care. As Arthur held Jack close, his protective embrace painted a stark contrast to the tough exterior he often projected.
In that moment, Kate glimpsed a side of Arthur that stirred her heart. The way he handled Jack with such gentleness and love sparked a yearning within her. She imagined how Arthur might have been as a father—patient, kind, and devoted.
The campfire's warm glow cast a soft light on them as they moved away from the escalating voices. Arthur's features softened as he whispered reassuring words to Jack, his gaze filled with warmth and understanding.
Kate fell into step beside them, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of Arthur's caring demeanor. Despite his gruff reputation, she sensed a depth of compassion that drew her in, melting away the rough edges.
As they approached Lorena, her mare nickered in recognition, sensing familiar company. Kate reached out, her hand running over the sleek mane of the horse affectionately. Before she could retrieve her brush from the saddlebag, Jack, nestled in Arthur's arms, spoke up with innocent curiosity.
"Does she like it when you sing her lullabies?" His voice was small and earnest.
Kate's smile softened at the question. "Yes, she does. It helps calm her down and makes her feel safe, knowing I'm right here to sing her to sleep," she replied, her voice warm with affection for the horse.
Jack looked up at her, a hint of sadness in his tone. "Mama used to sing me lullabies, but she says I'm too old for them now."
Arthur chuckled softly, his hand rubbing Jack's back comfortingly. "Well, you ain't a baby anymore, Jack. Yer gettin’ older and bigger," he reassured him.
Kate's gaze lingered on Jack as Arthur cradled him in his arms. It felt like a hundred months had passed since she held her own child, since she last sang a lullaby. A pang of longing swept through her. She understood Abigail's perspective—Jack was nearly five years old—but in that moment, Kate would have given anything to sing to her baby again, no matter the age.
Jack's eyes met hers, his innocence shining through. "Can you sing me a lullaby, Auntie Kate?"
Her heart swelled with warmth as she nodded in response. Jack reached out his small arms towards her, and without hesitation, Kate embraced him.
Arthur glanced at Kate, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He trusted her, but he didn't want to burden her with his nephew's needs. He had already come to terms with taking responsibility for the young child.
"Kate, ya don't have to—" Arthur began.
But Kate interrupted gently, reaching out to take Jack into her arms. "I don't mind at all, Arthur," she said sincerely, her voice warm with compassion.
Kate hadn't held a child since she laid her own in a dark casket with her father. The familiar weight of a child on her hip, his breath against her neck as he nestled his head on her shoulder, brought a mix of comfort and grief. She pushed the painful memories down, focusing on the present moment with Jack in her arms.
Arthur watched with a mixture of admiration and tenderness as Kate held his nephew, her cheek resting against Jack's head. As her eyes closed and she began to sway gently on her feet, rocking him as if he were a newborn, Arthur couldn't help but imagine what she must have been like as a mother—devoted, kind, and filled with love.
Kate started singing softly, her voice carrying a soothing melody into the quiet evening air.
When I was young, younger than before. I never saw the truth hanging from the door,
Now I’m older, see it face to face. Now I’m older, gotta get up, clean the place.
I was green, greener than the hill. Where the flowers grew and the sun shown still.
Now I’m darker than the deepest sea, just hand me down, give me a place to be.
I was strong, strong in the sun, I thought I’d see when the day was done.
Now I’m weaker than the palest blue. Oh, so weak in this need for you.
Arthur studied her features in the soft moonlight, savoring every detail—the graceful movement of her lips as she sang, the way her hair danced in the night breeze. Kate's gentle circles on Jack's back gradually lulled him to sleep, his breathing slowing, arms going limp around her neck. A smile touched Kate's lips, and she continued to hum softly, ensuring Jack remained nestled in slumber.
As Kate swayed, Arthur felt something profound stir within him, a warmth he had never experienced. It was as though her presence kindled a fire in his heart, leading him closer to her warmth. In her company, he felt alive, radiant like the earth basking under the sun, humming with a joyful tune from the lips of a woman. For the first time in years, he began to reflect on all the moments he had missed with his own woman and child.
Kate ceased her humming, her closed eyes and furrowed brow revealing the depth of her emotions. She released a shaky breath before speaking softly to Arthur, her voice laced with vulnerability. "When I held my baby girl for the first time, I saw her future branching out before me. Every possibility filled with something wonderful"
Arthur closed the distance between them, as if to shield her from the memories that still haunted her. Kate nestled her cheek against Jack's head, her voice trembling with unspoken sorrow. "I could have been a good mother," she whispered.
Gently, Arthur brushed his thumb across her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Kate's eyes fluttered open at his touch, reflecting the moonlight like shimmering pools of emotion. They held unshed tears, a testament to her resilience and the burdens she carried. Despite life's hardships, she fought to maintain her kindness, a quality that only deepened Arthur's admiration.
Moved by the connection between them, Arthur closed the final gap, his lips meeting hers in a silent embrace. The kiss was soft yet filled with unspoken longing, a gentle affirmation of the feelings blossoming between them. The world around them seemed to fade as they shared this intimate moment, each touch and breath carrying the weight of unspoken words and shared emotions.
Kate removed her hand from gently rubbing circles on Jack's back, finding a new warmth against Arthur's cheek. She tilted her face, deepening their kiss as Arthur's arm wound around her waist, drawing her closer. He smelled of moonshine and tobacco, a scent that mingled with the smoky air of the campfire.
As their mouths met, Kate sighed softly, feeling their connection deepen with each tender touch. Arthur's heart raced within his chest, the world around him blurring as if the only anchor to reality was the sensation of her lips against his. Her tongue brushed against his, a silent invitation for more.
Just as the kiss intensified, Jack stirred in his sleep, breaking Arthur from the spell. Reluctantly, he pulled back, his breath slightly labored, a silent turmoil brewing within him.
"Sorry," Arthur murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of desire and uncertainty. "I, um,” he hesitated, “I-I should take Jack back to his ma."
Kate nodded, her eyes reflecting a shared hesitation. "Of course," she replied softly, gently handing the boy back to his uncle.
Arthur carefully settled Jack more securely in his arms. He offered Kate a tender smile, though his eyes betrayed a hint of inner conflict. "G’night, Kate," he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and unease.
"Goodnight, Arthur," she replied, her tone gentle yet tinged with an unspoken question.
With a last lingering glance, Arthur turned and made his way toward Abigail and John's tent, Jack's form cradled protectively against him. As he disappeared into the shadows, Kate stood by her sleepy mare, her heart echoing the silent uncertainty that had clouded the moment.
Later that night, Arthur lay awake on his cot, the memory of their kiss haunting his thoughts. Moonlight filtered through the canvas, casting ghostly shadows around him. The scent of campfire smoke lingered on his clothes, a tangible reminder of the evening's events.
Arthur couldn't shake the yearning that had blossomed between him and Kate, nor the underlying unease that accompanied it. The fleeting intimacy they shared left him grappling with doubts about the future, and more importantly, about himself. He cared deeply for Kate, admired her resilience and kindness, yet the complexities of their lives and the dangers they faced loomed like shadows in his mind.
His own truth ached to be revealed, how he longed to tell her about his own son, but the guilt and shame he carried with the memories clouded all means of opening up. Kate missed her family dearly, that much was painfully obvious to him. He feared if she knew the truth about him, she wouldn’t see him the same. He too had a family once, and his own recklessness cost them their lives. He feared she would not forgive him for being so careless.
Lost in contemplation, Arthur sighed heavily, his thoughts drifting back to Kate's soft lips and the warmth of her touch. He couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, a desire for connection amidst the chaos of his existence.
In the quiet solitude of his tent, Arthur wrestled with conflicting emotions, uncertain of what lay ahead for them. The night stretched on, filled with unanswered questions and the restless beating of his heart. He reached for his journal, its leather cover worn and familiar, and opened it to a blank page.
With a sketching pencil in hand, he drew an image from memory—the sight of Kate cradling Jack against her cheek. Underneath the tender sketch, he penned his thoughts:
Kate has a way about her that makes a man feel alive. She’s fierce, and she's kind. She’s strong and she’s passionate. She’s utterly beautiful. And she’s too sweet for me.
I kissed her tonight, I don’t really know why. The way she was singin’ and cradlin’ little Jack, it made me think of Eliza and Isaac. For the first time in years, I thought about all the moments I missed because I was off being a fool instead of a father.
I see things still haven't changed. You’ll always be a fool Morgan.
I think I’m falling for Kate. I just hope she can let me down easy. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes on the way down.
Closing his eyes, Arthur tried to still his restless thoughts. He imagined Kate's smile, the curve of her cheek as she cradled Jack, the warmth of her presence against him. The weight of his feelings tugged at him like an anchor, both comforting and disquieting.
With a heavy sigh, Arthur surrendered to the embrace of exhaustion. The world around him faded into darkness, and for a fleeting moment, his turbulent heart found respite in the realm of dreams.
#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x original female character#arthur morgan x reader#dutch van der linde#fluff#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#angst#ao3#ao3 fanfic#journal#archive of our own#fanfiction#fanfic#eventual smut#eventual romance#mutual pining#kisses#john marston#abigail marston#hosea matthews#jack marston#ao3 link#red dead fandom#red dead redemption community#x reader#hurt/comfort#angst with a happy ending#arthur morgan x oc#oc x canon
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forgive me ive been in the hospital for almost a week and im being unwell about professor layton again
yknow being a wretched old man in the layton fandom it has been truly interesting to see how the sexyman ecosystem has shifted
bc like, clive was our onceler for so long. like he was our sad sad shaking lil sopping dead parents british evil orphan man and his chokehold over the tumblrinas was legion for the longest time
and like during the lmda/lmj era before nwos was announced i remember randall was kind of contesting the spot a bit but like a crazed hamster in a petco enclosure clive was still totally cannibalizing the competition
but now that nwos is coming every time i boot up the tumbler and check on my layton mutuals like im an emotionally removed scientist checking on the fucked up mice utopia, all i see is them being aggressively undiagnosed about desmond sycamore
and like call me hershel in the curious village intro scene the way this be piquing my intellectual curiosity. bc like i always figured if any part of that fucked fake french man would be a sexyman it would be descole. like hes always been part of the wretched patheon of sexymen, and imo was tied with randall in terms of ppl who were studying him like a bug
but like now ppl are just in heat like 900k word ABO fic style over desmond sycamore, not his objectively more fucked up and evil frenchman fursona, and its BOGGLING my mind like i dont get it.
how did we go from this is my scrimblo scrumbly clive who massacred thousands of people in his sad parentless fortress to this is my scrimblo scrumbly desmond sycamore who is widowed and such a sad miserable wet geek crying all the time in his failcringe little airship i want to impregnate him like what is going ON
#this isnt a hatepost btw like not in a million years#desmond tumblrinas i simply want to place you lovingly in a glass jar full of enrichment and study u#professor layton#pl#desmond sycamore#pl descole#azran legacy#pl nwos
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wormwood | gojo satoru/reader
Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.
“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”
I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.
But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.
Absence festers in the presence of little yellow wormwood flowers, and you come to learn about how it goes hand in hand with lingering bitterness when you meet Gojo Satoru.
or,
As the young God's only friend, you are punctured with the burden of his companionship, regardless if you deem yourself unworthy of it.
―
pairing | gojo satoru/reader
tags | angst with a happy ending, canon compliant, childhood friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, codependency, new beginnings, healing.
warning/s | domestic abuse, abusive parent/s.
word count | 25,270 words.
ao3 link | spotify playlist
―
The sun pierces through the crevices of the paddle. The light flashes across your arm as soon as the surface hits the hago, successfully sending it straight to the ground—and then your feet momentarily leave the grass, jumping high while hitching the ends of your kimono up—light shines brighter and it pools against the surface of your cheeks, gleaming.
“I won!” It’s a joyful exclamation: your opponent, a cousin of yours, can only offer you a meek expression in return. “I’m the greatest!”
The hagoita slips off of your careless hand, though you find yourself not caring about it at all. You circle the nearest patch of flowers, cheering and skipping, tainting the hem of your clothes with mud and soil; you could almost hear the impending disdain that your mother would let you hear as soon as you were fetched for lunch; at the moment, however, you were far too consumed in your pride to ever dwell on what comes next.
“That’s not true,” a voice, quite as small as yours, “I am.”
You slowly stop running around, your head tilting immediately to the side, a grimace overtaking your previously ecstatic expression. There’s a certain kind of blue in the distance, faint like ice cubes though they shine like glitters stuck in glue, and you think to yourself that it’s growing on you the longer you try to focus on what shade it is. “But I was the one who won at hanetsuki.”
“I could beat you.” The boy walks closer toward you, taller people trailing directly behind him, wearing yukatas that bore a more muted shade of his attire. You didn’t know this boy. You didn’t know the women behind him, either. Though your previous opponent seems to know him, judging how she immediately ran away at the sight of him. “Do you want me to?”
“You’re mean.” You pop out your bottom lip, clenching your fists beside you. “I don’t want to play with mean kids.”
You watch him tug on the silk ribbons hanging by the hips of his guardians, ushering them to bend down to his size. You stand there, unknowing, oblivious to whoever this boy was and the purpose of his presence. You don’t question it; instead, you chant it inside your mind, the words of your mother: refrain from something-something questions. You’re visibly confused now.
“She said she doesn’t want to play because I’m mean.” He copies your action from before, tilting his head to the side as well, almost as if he picked up the context of the gesture. This somehow only irritates you. “Is it because she’s weak?”
Your ears perk up, and you’re close to exploding, but the boy’s guardians immediately step in front of him as soon as you pick up your fallen paddle and wave it menacingly towards his direction. Barely six years old, and he was calling you weak! Your mind is going rampant; but you’re a kid, too, and you’re also barely six years old, but you deem that fact irrelevant inside your own brain. The women send you an apologetic glance, instead kneeling down to help straighten your kimono. The boy remains quiet with his shade of blue, uttering no words.
“Dear,” one of the ladies calls out to you, “I apologize for that. Would you like to take me to your guardian?”
You push your eyebrows together, hard as you could. The lady doesn’t waver. After a few minutes, you’ve convinced yourself already that she’s prettier than your mother.
“Okay.” You extend your hand towards her, though it’s too short to quite reach her person. “Will you hold my hand? I think I messed up the rocks in the garden when I was running around. I don’t want to trip. I’d scrape my knee if I did.”
She does not pause at all. You find her charming because of it. “Of course.”
Your opponent from earlier was long gone, but the boy with snowy hair was still there, and he’s behind you, and you’re forcing yourself to ignore him before you say something rude. That would show him.
“I can take you to my mother, pretty miss.” Your formalities are still a work in progress, but the woman shows her understanding when she pats your head, a beautiful smile casting itself on her expression. You’re in awe.
“Alright, little one. What should I call you?” She asks, soft as she could. You ponder on the question for a few minutes, blinking uncertainly three times before finally comprehending her query.
“My sisters call me [Name].” You smile at her. “I don’t know how to spell it, though…”
“Heiwa [Name]. That’s okay. I got it,” was her only response; you drop it after that. The sun is setting, you point out. Your little fingers are wrapped securely around the nice lady’s hand, and only when you smell the distant fragrance of the fireworks do you remember that it’s New Year’s day. You’re beaming, possibly more cheerful than you ever were before, almost as if you were not at all close to bursting into a fit of irrational irritation earlier. So, you twist your head until you can see the boy through the corner of your eye. You force yourself to remember his head of white hair.
“I won’t lose to you if we play! I won the first round, which means I have ultimate luck this year!”
You stick your tongue out, and he copies you again. You make a fool of him inside your head: you snicker to yourself when you address him as the boy who knew not of hanetsuki. Though this would not be the last time you’re meeting Gojo Satoru, you are praying silently, in that little head of yours, that it was.
―――
You’d come to know, later on, that the boy with hair much like snow has a personality that heats up quicker than the sun: not because he’s warm, but because he possesses the same kind of grandeur. Most powerful man alive. Your cousins whisper rumors of a young God walking within the estate, and you wonder if that’s what he is.
―――
There’s a patch of healthy soil in one corner of the garden directly outside of your quarters in the clan's estate; it’s empty, and it’s dying soon, but you don’t know how flowers work, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help. You’re past the age of eight but you’re still, undoubtedly, the one who fills the Heiwa clan with boisterous noise. The servants know better than to try and subject you to their scoldings; they know their words have no place in your mind.
It’s an unspoken fact around the estate. The only person whose words carry weight is your mother.
“Master Gojo will be visiting again later.” Your mother, with ugly wrinkles below her lashes, tells you over a cup of tea one morning. “You will play nice, won’t you?”
You stare at her and her empty brown eyes. Your mother was the eldest daughter of her clan; conservative, unspeaking, as though she was but a vassal with a ring on her finger. Her hands hold the tea cup as if it were the most precious thing to her at the moment, and you find it compelling—how she tends to clutch onto the most mundane objects in your household, how she does her duties with utmost urgency in spite of how little they matter, how she sees the importance despite the dull, gray, lifeless ceilings of the estate. The wrinkles under her eyes are prominent; the years of her exhaustion are painted keenly on her face.
In your head, you try to acquiesce her life as something you’d soon have in the future. It sends nothing more than shivers down your back.
“What does the Gojo clan want with us?” Your lips curve downward. “The Heiwa clan has nothing worthwhile to offer.”
Sharp glare; however accustomed you are to your mother’s piercing glances, the lingering fear remains, swirls unsteadily on the forefront of your brain—that if you do not keep your words in line, she will one day treat you as a duty and not a daughter: clutch you tightly until you’re suffocating from your lack of control. She knows you’re afraid of her.
“Quiet, stupid girl.” She hides her lips behind the rim of her teacup, eyes fluttering close. “If they hear you, you are finished. Not even I can save you should that happen.” There’s a pause in between her words, a bitter lump in her throat. You nod slowly. Nor would I want to save you. Somehow, the words she left to die in her throat roared louder than the ones she spoke. Eyes down on the floor, no higher. Barely nine years old, and yet you are already grieving for the life you have to force yourself to be satisfied with in order to survive.
“The Gojo clan is the top sorcerer family,” this time, she gently pushes an empty cup toward your side of the table along with a woven rattan coaster, soon pouring tea resembling liquid gold in it. “They do not need us for anything at all except for companionship. We are the only clan who will not bring harm to that boy as he continues his education.”
You urge her to continue, taking in the aroma of the tea. Golden rooibos, most probably with caramel. Her favorite brew.
“Do not forget what I am about to tell you,”
The wife of the Heiwa clan chief stares at you with eyes that look as though they’re about to pop out; you’re terrified in the calmest way possible, unnerved by your mother’s demeanor. When you nod carefully after a few seconds, she eases her posture.
“Gojo Satoru,” she begins, ignoring the grimace that creeps up your expression, “will inevitably become the greatest sorcerer alive, if he is not that already. Do not think, even for just one second, that you will one day be worthy to stand beside him. You are here now only to entertain. You will be gone soon enough.”
You blink twice, and things start to make sense. The wrinkles beneath your mother’s eyes are not the results of years and years of hard work around the household: they are the proof of her responsibility, how she bore a child for her now-obsolete clan and how she was raised to act exactly as she is at the moment. Thirty-one years old and the values her clan engraved in her head are seeping out through the words she’s telling you now. You will not matter if you are not useful. You are unworthy because you are nothing. You will remain nothing if you do not fulfill your duty.
You do not know how to tell your mother that you do not want to end up like her—so you keep your mouth closed. The silence is overbearing. You do not understand why you were already labeled unworthy before you could even prove otherwise. You do not understand the weight of your worth yet.
“My lady,” a servant interrupts, entering the room, “the Gojo family has arrived.”
Your mother sends the servant away with a flick of her wrist. Somehow, when she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, you are more terrified of her than before. You steal a glimpse of the garden right outside your open window, flowers and shrubs lined up neatly near an empty patch of soil, painting the landscape with vibrant green and dying yellow. When you hear your mother blowing away the steam of her tea, you gently stand up from your seat, bowing first before exiting through the door.
And there he is.
It’s the same head of white hair—like snow. Much, much like snow. He’s your age, you’re almost sure, though you are still taller than him by a few inches. You don’t feel like a kid when you see him: you feel as old as your mother, that when he waved you over, you imagined long, tired lines beneath your eyes, as though you bore the very same wrinkles she had on her skin.
Gojo Satoru notices your despondence, your bitter frown, though he does not care about you enough to ask. This is your sixth time meeting, and yet you feel as if you’ve known him for hundreds of lives prior to this one. Soon, the vestige of his pupils glean with arrogance; he’s about to open his mouth, but you decide to beat him to it.
“Are you really the greatest sorcerer alive?” You whisper.
The young God looks at you with interest, as kids often do. You pull painfully hard on the braid holding your hair captive, sucking the insides of your cheeks in until you were keeping your gums hostaged between your teeth. Gojo stares at you.
“I am.”
You do not allow yourself another second of hesitance. “Then teach me how to garden.”
He raises his eyebrow, “I don’t do stuff like that at home.”
“Then,” you turn away from him, eyes falling to the grass at the same time your foot prances on it. “Doesn’t that mean you’re...not that great at all?”
He whistles a tune, trailing behind you, and you recognize it as the nursery rhyme you often heard from your tutors. “Not being good at one thing doesn’t discredit my strength.” He points to the healthy patch of soil in the distance, and then he snaps his fingers, “though I bet I can still plant better than you even if I don’t know how to.”
You tilt your head, curious, “That’s just stupid. I watch our gardeners everyday. You are okay with losing to me?”
“I won’t lose to you.” His tone isn’t cruel, though his next words almost pierce through your heart. “You’re weaker than me.”
You point to the garden, now your turn to copy his actions. His blue eyes are reflecting the sun; you would find them to be a lovely shade if only you weren’t driven down underground every time you look at them. The shade is still lost in your head. Faint like ice cubes, though they shine like glitters stuck in glue. Hypnotizingly so.
“Let’s do it, then.” You flash him a small smile. “But you can’t call me weak anymore if I win.”
He laughs at your statement, his small fists stuffed neatly inside his haori’s pockets. Gojo does not say anything for a while, only stares at you with amusement. In the back of your head, you’re trying to ascertain whether or not he was patronizing you.
Gojo gets a hold of your sleeve and tugs you to his guardians. You find yourself thinking if the continuous act of obliging is what you were born for.
“Follow me.” On his lips is the widest smile you’ve seen him fashion out of the six times the two of you have met, “I saw a pack of wormwood seeds somewhere.”
―――
You are the second daughter of the Heiwa clan’s current head, though you can count the times you’ve conversed with him with only your fingers in one hand. That’s normal.
You hear he’s kind and soft-spoken in spite of his rugged exterior; your father has a scar, slashed straight across his left eye, and it curves all the way to the top of his head. You were taught, at a young age, that you were not to disturb the head of Heiwa unless you were at death’s door. The guards in the estate stood beside the entrance to his dojo, hands clutching the handles of their swords, almost as if they did not wish to waste too much time swinging them out of their scabbard when danger approaches. You understand, of course. Your father is an important man; although polite, he is still a diplomat first before he is ever anyone’s friend. The servants in the estate know that. The guards know. You and your siblings know; which is why his absence mattered very little to all of you. With only the recurring presence of your mother in tow, and occasionally the presence of your younger sisters, you were subjected to a life free from the company of a patriarch.
Even still, he constantly gave his daughters enough attention to inform them that he breathes the same air. Your father wishes for you to finish reading the Kojiki within the day; the book awaits you in the library. Your father requests that you perfect your Nihon buyō lessons in a week’s time. Your father is in the middle of preparing calligraphy lessons for you and your older sister, my lady. It was always these abrupt lessons, always interjecting when you’re trimming your bushes and watering your flowers. Truth be told, though, at age 12, you were only beginning to grasp the true meaning of what it means to be the second daughter; a secret known only by you—and, well, a certain friend as well.
The Heiwa family resides in Nakatsugawa, a quaint city nestled between Kyoto and Tokyo, with rivers and valleys that trail on for miles. The clan was established shortly after the peak of sorcery in Japan: the finishing years of the Heian period. Heiwa Tsukeniyo, the very first leader of the family, was on the run from life as a sorcerer when he built the foundations of the ancestral home. It is written in the transcripts in the library, in dark ink that’s been restored and printed on durable parchment.
Tsukeniyo longed to spend his remaining days in peace; growing trees, playing shogi, recording the compatible flora in the ancestral home’s surrounding area. Since then, the clan hasn’t been recognized to be particularly strong, though it’s well-known to be a family of great silence, comfort, as members do not stray from the ancestors’ traditional values. You do not know anything else about your family’s history—however, you do know that Tsukeniyo was said to be deaf, bleeding and half-dead, when he wrote the detailed description of the cursed technique that was to be passed down for generations to come among Heiwa women. Cursed Sound: Cacophony. The technique was out of your territory, however, as only the elders and as well as the inheritors of that ability were allowed to truly touch upon the topic.
As a non-sorcerer, your duty as one of the honorable daughters was to prove that you were a woman worth marrying. A bargaining chip of sorts, to maintain the peace that your clan upheld, to strengthen its relations with other sorcerer families. Your fate has been sealed, and yes, in spite of being only 12 years old, you dedicate most of your time to making sure that you do not disappoint the high elders.
A good wife is obedient and wise; though her intellect is needed rarely, there could be no harm in honing her brain with history and culture. That is all women are good for. No politics. Nothing of the sort. A good wife has a husband for those things.
It’s baffling, really. History and culture are inherently political. Perhaps their brains are the ones in need of honing.
“What are you reading?”
Admittedly, though, you never expected that one of the bridges you would have to cross in order to become a Heiwa daughter worth honoring is the companionship of the boy who altered the balance of the world—that is, tolerating him and his annoying, silly questions whenever he visited you.
“The Kojiki.” You yawn, not bothering to rip your gaze off of the page you were reading. “Have you not read this, Gojo?”
The male scrunches his nose, abruptly placing his chin on top of his palm as a means of support. Gojo huffs, leaning forward to catch a peek of the page you were on. Almost immediately, he ends up rolling his eyes.
“It bored me.” He shrugs. “Pay attention to me instead.”
You shake your head, grumbling. “What are you? A child?”
“I’m twelve. Of course I am.” Playful glare; you feel his focus glued on you. “And you are, too. Come on, act like one already!”
“No.”
“You are so boring.” He groans, rocking your chair back and forth with one hand. God, this kid is irritating. At this point, that was all you could think of; if he weren’t regarded as the most powerful, strongest, what -fucking- ever sorcerer in the entire world, you would have punched him square on the jaw. He’s relentless. “Play with me already, Heiwa!”
Light pink dusts the high points of your cheeks when he calls out for your last name; you brush it off before it gets worse. “Please stop. You’re making me dizzy. I still have an afternoon filled with lessons and assignments to trudge through.”
He cocks a brow. “Geez, what even for? They should just make you attend those standard elementary schools. You’re not a sorcerer, anyway. You’re so normal and boring and—”
“Weak. Yes, Gojo, you are absolutely correct.” In recent years, you took pride in the fact that his words never went past the guards around your soul; the boy, in general, is hard to predict and even harder to understand, though you were certain of one thing—the names he calls you, the insults, the words he utilized in order to remind you that he was stronger were said with little to no thought. Most times, he didn’t even mean them. “However, the lessons are necessary in order for me to fulfill my duty as the Heiwa leader’s daughter.”
Curious. Gojo pokes your side. “And what duty is that supposed to be, anyway?”
You fake a cough, covering your mouth behind the sleeve of your yukata. You refuse to look at him.
“To marry into a sorcerer clan,” you begin, voice going an octave lower, “in hopes of bearing a child who possesses our family’s cursed technique.”
Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise, almost as if your response was something he wasn’t at all expecting to hear. You get it. Just getting reminded of your responsibility is enough to make you pause and speechless; to this day, you could not wrap your head around the idea of meeting suitors and getting yourself mixed into an arranged marriage.
He’s quiet; that even when he speaks, his voice no longer has the same volume. “That’s stupid. You’re stuck in the seventeenth century. You’re no better than that Zen’in clan from Kyoto.”
You shush him, your eyes panic-stricken, quickly scanning if any of the servants tending to the shelves in the library heard Gojo. “Are you crazy? My family will hear you!”
“They can’t touch me.” He’s too confident, you tell yourself. “I’m stronger than everyone here.”
“That’s besides the point. Our family values tradition, they uphold it, I cannot simply just run away from what I was born for.” You glare at him, the book you were enjoying now lying idle on top of the table, closed and bookmarked. “You wouldn’t understand. As you’ve never failed to remind me, Gojo, you are strong. That is the difference between us.”
Gojo scoffs, soon getting a hold of the Kojiki, turning to a certain page and pointing at one of the illustrations. You follow the tips of his forefinger, and you recognize the drawing from the first volume. It was of Izanagi and Izanami, the deities who solidified the ocean in order to shape the first landmass; getting wed thereafter. It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him.
“We could be like them,” he beams at you, too irritatingly wide for your liking, “just marry me, then. So you can drop your boring book and pay attention to me all the time.”
You flush, losing composure. He does not yield.
You do not bother pointing out that Izanagi, in their far off future, sees what remains of Izanami’s decaying figure in the underworld and denies her of his love; in your head, you wonder if he knew that, too. You wonder a thousand times with pink cheeks and a quivering frown if Gojo would leave you once you’ve grown out from your appearance; it stings. The thought of being left behind by your only friend to date. The fact that you knew anyway that Gojo could visit you each summer, spring, each free week without training, and still he’d always leave, regardless of your attachments.
You stand up from your seat, head held high and away to avoid his careful gaze.
“Gojo, you are so annoying.”
―――
Days after that, the young God asks you to call him Satoru. The rest of the world knows him as Gojo, he says, but Satoru is reserved for those he cares for. Gojo would carry on to be the strongest. Satoru would carry on to be the most beautiful; stringing along with him various packs of garden seeds, offerings for when he visits you. You think this must be what it feels like for divinity to cast its gaze on you.
―――
The anxiety that came with you when you strutted through the door of your father’s premises dwindles down when the entrance shuts close with a harmless squeal. You did not turn back, and instead chose to bow your head down, your knees indefinitely glued to the wooden floor. You felt his eyes on you; you understood on the spot that your father is a kind man to his constituents, his peers, although significantly colder when face to face with his children.
First, he recited your name in a way that made him sound hesitant, as if he was unsure if that was even your name; then, “Raise your head.”
You did as you were told, not quite eye to eye with him yet. It was his turn to understand.
“The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. We do not participate in feuds.” He spoke calmly, a stick of cigar sandwiched between his lips. “That said, I am formally entrusting you with the task of keeping Gojo Satoru company when he is within our estate. It would be foolish to make him an enemy.”
You swallowed a thick lump of words you could not say down your throat, your hands practically shaking. He stared you down as hard as he could, and you were one step away from running away and succumbing to the punishments he would bestow on you thereafter. You crumbled under the gaze of the clan leader. Everyone did. Your mother, your sisters, the clan elders.
“Do you understand?”
You do. The tension deviantly crawls out from your throat. The smell of smoke blew past you, your nose scrunching in instinct. “Yes, father.”
You feel yourself going back to earth shortly after, a catalyst breaking you out of your trance. You suck the insides of your cheeks. That memory was one of the longest, if not the actual longest, conversations you’ve had with your father. You’re 15 years old now, and it’s been quite a few years since then, but you still cower under the intensity of his gaze. Or, cowered, anyway.
The worst has happened.
You direct your attention to the woman who forcefully pulled you back to the ground, staring at her unknowingly, unable to ascertain what your purpose is. She’s clad in black, her hair disheveled, and she’s ripping through the paper of the shoji in front of you. You do not know how to extinguish her anger; you do not know where it stems from.
“That fool,” she mutters, over and over, and there’s nothing else you can do except watch. “How dare he die before I did?”
She doesn’t stop repeating the words, each time speaking them with more venom, more spite. You don’t stop staring at her either. In the back of your head, you’re trying to figure it out. Your sisters are all standing beside you, it’s the first time that all of you remained in the same room for longer than 30 minutes. You wonder if they’re trying to make sense of what’s happening to your mother, too. But they’re just there: they’re like you, just standing there, barely keeping up with what she’s doing.
In the back of your head, you wonder if your mother hated your father. If she’s loathed him ever since, then you didn’t notice at all. It’s the end result of having to be married off to a cold man—of having to be forced to marry someone she did not love, of having to instill it in her mind ever since she was young that she had to follow what was laid out for her. Her responsibility, role, her lack of freedom and control of her own life. It is the end effect of now having to bear the weight of the duty your father left behind. The clan elders decided two days after his parting: your mother would assume the role as clan leader, and she was to fulfill the things he left untouched until a more suitable candidate presents itself.
The worst has happened. Your father has died.
“[Name].”
Someone tugs on the hem of your yukata; you have to coerce yourself to pry your eyes away from your mother, soon learning that it’s one of your younger sisters, Yasu. You kneel down to level with her, combing her hair, albeit you weren’t quite close enough to be doing so. She doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.
“What is it?” You whisper, eyes on the floor. Always on the floor.
“Someone’s waiting for you outside.”
You place a chaste kiss on her forehead, rendering Yasu just as surprised as you are, before nodding in acknowledgement and turning away from the scene you were fixated on. Your sisters send you reassuring glances, some even going as far as squeezing your shoulder as a means of comfort, and you find it endearing that they actually seem to be nice girls. You do not have enough space in your head to wonder if you would have gotten along with them smoothly if your circumstances weren’t so perplexing.
You escape through the back door, taking silent steps to not trigger your mother’s mania further.
It doesn’t take long for you to see your visitor, and in all honesty, it doesn’t surprise you at this point that it was none other than Satoru, without the presence of his usual guardians. He’s wearing a uniform, full-black, with round sunglasses of the same color adorning his face. Your lips quiver, and he notices in an instant.
“Hey,” he waves, pushing himself off of the wall he was previously occupying, “Let’s take a walk.”
As soon as you nod, he gestures to you to follow him. There’s a certain kind of silence that overtakes the surrounding atmosphere; not quite uncomfortable, though you can’t say that it didn’t leave your mind wandering off to obscure places. The night is growing darker with each step the two of you take towards the empty garden across the pond in your estate, in the left wing. The two of you are five meters apart and the bridge you have to cross in order to head to the flowers you frequently tend to doesn’t seem to be wide enough at all to accommodate your distance.
You’re walking side by side now, and he stops you, tapping your shoulder before leaning on the railing for support. You copy him.
“So,” he begins, voice flowing like honey, “how’d the old man go?”
You wince upon hearing the question. You don’t want to answer it.
“He was ambushed,” because of you.
“Any names come to mind? Did he have enemies?”
“No.” You sigh, instinctively smiling when you say your next words. “The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes.”
He was killed for protecting you.
Satoru immediately rolls his eyes, a small smile adorning his lips. The moonbeams carve through his hair and you take note, inside your head, of how it resembles the streaks of clouds in the sky whenever it’s bright. No longer like snow. You shake the thought away.
“What-fucking-ever. Sounds stupid.” He grimaces. “Your clan is too conservative.”
You stick your tongue out at him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before soon trying to locate the sentences to speak next. That’s neither here nor there, you almost want to tell him; but the silence is back. You don’t like it. It feels empty, devoid of anything substantial.
“Did you come here to say goodbye, Satoru?”
He visibly flinches, concealed eyes directing themselves to your figure. You allow yourself to lean on the railings until you could swing your foot playfully out of the boundary, nearly slipping a few times.
“On the contrary, I came here to say hello.” Satoru grins fondly, pointing to one of the buttons on his uniform. “Before I leave for Tokyo again, anyway.”
“Jujutsu Tech, huh.” You hum in response. He watches you with his careful eyes. “One step forward towards taking over the sorcery world, I suppose.”
The boy clicks his tongue, one eyebrow raised. Fifteen years old and he still looked like the Satoru you met almost nine years ago; he’s never going to change. Not in your eyes, at least.
“Two steps forward, actually.” He shrugs. “If you decide to marry me.”
The tension is back to how it usually is when it’s just you two—sweet, light, almost with a hint of love mixed into it, though not the romantic kind, you assure yourself. He flicks your forehead, and you don’t quite register that into your head until his face is only a few inches away from yours.
“What’s it going to be?”
This is tradition, you tell yourself, and then you smile. “Satoru, please. I do not wish to give my father a heart attack in the afterlife. That is not what he would have wanted.”
Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.
“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”
I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.
But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.
And you realize, almost as quickly as the thought arrived, that Satoru was more cruel than your family, your elders, your upbringing. He was cruel for dangling the idea of a good life alongside him with empty words. Cruel, evil, heartless of him to get your hopes up only to inevitably crush them in the end. You were weak, you are weak, and he knows that—you hate him for it. You hate him for being strong. You could hear his steady breathing, you could see his unyielding arrogance spilling out through his facial expression, and you can feel his hand slightly inching towards where yours was placed on the railing. He’s testing just how far you could go without breaking away from what your family taught you. You hate him for being strong. Maybe if he were weak—weak like you —then maybe you two could be together without being tied down to fear. Satoru is a cruel, cruel man and you want nothing more than to give in already to his petty games.
But the harsh truth is that you cannot— must not.
“I want…” You look away, gently pushing his chest until there is finally enough space for you to breathe again. “I want you to have an enjoyable time in Tokyo.”
Satoru looks almost disappointed—you refuse to believe in that, however. He shrugs, now raising his head to turn towards the sky, carefully picking out his next course of action.
“I’ll visit every week, you know.” He states confidently. “So don’t get too lonely.”
“Every week? There’s no need for that. You act as if we will no longer be seeing each other because of your big move.” You poke his sides teasingly, red filling your cheeks. “Besides, Tokyo is only four hours away.”
He hums in agreement. “You say that like you have plans to visit me.”
“What do you know? Maybe I will.”
“And risk your flowers getting mishandled by your sisters? Yeah, right.”
There is no more serving of awkward silence, no more traces of uncomfortable air. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you sneak a glance at your garden; the growing flowers on them. Satoru whistles a tune beside you.
“I’ll be busy over there.” He says.
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “I know.”
“You should write to me if you have time.���
You turn to face Satoru and you meet him with a grin, the thought of your father now only idle in your head. You’d have to pay your respects later, you think to yourself, as you do not know just yet how to make Satoru leave your brain. He’s a cruel man. He doesn’t even think of just how lovely his presence is, how he affects you more than he should, and how he makes you want to tell your responsibilities to go to hell, so you can pull him until you’re but a cusp of a breath away from each other.
“Satoru,” you mutter. Your voice captures his attention; he’s wrapped around your finger, though you do not have even the slightest idea, “I don’t need to write to you, idiot. We have phones.”
―――
Your days, ever since your father’s passing, consisted of tending to what needed attention inside the estate. Your eldest sister had been married off as soon as she turned 18 years old; your mother sat as the matriarch of the clan, which meant that the mundane was left for no one except you to take care of, being the second daughter of the current clan leader, anyway.
Even though they passed by relatively fast, certain days felt like long seasons filled with only the harshest wave of winter; you wake up to the cold, the chill, you are freezing even when you’re wrapped in your delicate kimono, even when you’re under the heat of the sun. Between working, working, working, and non-stop studying of your history and other prerequisite lessons needed for you to get a certificate that indicates your completion of home-education, frankly you’ve been exhausted: as though the bags weighing underneath your eyes would gradually grow to be the same lines that your mother had beneath hers.
At 17 years old, however, your days of working will not come to an end yet, nor will it disappear so easily.
“Sister,” Your sibling calls out to you. She looks similar to how you look, the main difference being her wide eyes and distinguishable mole. She goes by Ichika; ten years old, barely even scratching the surface of what it means to be a Heiwa daughter. You tilt your head to the side.
With a hagoita on hand, you hit the incoming hago, successfully receiving it and watching it flutter towards your younger sister’s side of the game. “What is it?”
She lunges forward, struggling to hit the hago with her paddle, though she manages to do so anyway. Her hair blocks her eyes for a moment, disheveled and curly, urging a small smile to creep up your lips. Over time, you’ve learned to develop your relationship with your sisters, one by one befriending them until they feel comfortable enough to search for your company. You do not want them to grow up like you did: alone, terrified, shackled only to responsibility without a means of leisure in tow.
The eldest daughter is known as Kameko. She’s older than you by a year, bearing the same hair color as you, although her eyes are much more similar to that of your father’s. You are the second daughter: [Name], with features that automatically associate you to your clan. The third daughter, one of your younger sisters, is Yasu; four years younger than you, freshly 14 years old. She’s quite quiet; the most elegant one out of all of you, in your eyes. The next one is Yua, just a year younger than Yasu. Intelligent; she had her nose stuck inside a book all the time. The next one is Ichika, the one you’re with right now—as said before, she’s ten years old, being only three years younger than Yua.
The sixth daughter is possibly the one most detached to the rest of you: Chiasa, seven years old, plagued with the burden of inheriting the cursed technique. She’s typically busy inside the Heiwa dojo; if not with her combat, then with her music lessons, with her fencing lessons, whatnot. The youngest ones in your family were Ikuyo and Chiyoko, a pair of lovely twins that had a habit of poking fun at everyone in the estate, manners be damned. Two years younger than Chiasa; five years old, though they were only two when your father passed away.
“Your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?” Ichika’s voice is as high-pitched as a ringing bell, but it’s eloquent all the same. You ponder on it for a few minutes all the while keeping your head in the game.
You affirm with a hum. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have remembered if you didn’t point it out.”
The sun rains its fury down on the both of you, kissing your skin fervently, each time burning the surface of it until you want nothing more than to wallow under a shade. Your sister remains rather enthusiastic, however, rendering you unable to satiate your exhaustion. She has her focus on the hago swinging back and forth between the both of you, though you could safely say that she’s planning to tell you something, judging solely on how she keeps opening her mouth and closing it in order to focus on hitting the target with her hagoita. You find it endearing.
“You’re turning eighteen this year,” she pauses. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll have to find someone to marry soon?”
You fall apart slowly, and then all at once.
Slowly: your eyes glimmer when they see the sun and your lips instinctively curve up to a smile, a formality. You kiss your teeth.
All at once: your world cambers over and you’re given insufficient time to realign it to its rightful place. You stop dead on the spot, your eyes fixated on the incoming hago, though you cannot feel your hand doing anything to receive it and pass it toward Ichika’s side. There’s a subtle ringing against your ears. You feel your throat closing up, and when the hago finally hits the pavement, you flinch away from your sister. Ichika frowns.
You smile at her, a formality, though it comes out stiff.
“Ah.” You rub your nape. “I lost. That means you’ll have great luck this year.”
Her eyes stay glued on you, and you know that she’s noticed just how uneasy you’ve become. She takes a few steps forward, her hand extending to reach out for you, but you refute her actions by turning your back on her and walking away.
“Sorry. I have to go make a call.” You take note of your hands, how they were gradually growing more numb the longer you stayed there, “I’ll leave my hagoita here. Maybe ask Yua to play for a while.”
You bolt out of the area, crossing the familiar bridge, skipping through the puddles near the pond. You run and you refuse to heed the calls of the servants and relatives you’re passing by, most of whom are asking if you’re okay, why you’re running away, but you don’t need their comfort—not when they’re not going to stand up for you when the time comes, not when they’re all accomplices to this wretched tradition of marrying away children in order to maintain the peace that they all disgustingly uphold, when they’re never going to be willing to help you. You hate it here. You hate everything. You can’t breathe.
Your knees give up on you behind a particularly tall shrub, your skin now riddled with light scars that came from the rocks you slid against. Hot tears cascade your cheeks: you look ridiculous, you’re almost certain. Not marriage-worthy in the slightest—which still remains irrelevant in the grand scheme of things; this family will not, will never, fail to see their goals through when they put their minds to it.
In a flurry of panic, you take out your phone, flipping it open and quickly skimming through your contacts until you finally reach his number. You’re flippant. Angry. Explosive. You want nothing more than to accept his offer and live a life free from the hands of your family; always dragging you by the ankle, down, down, down until you ultimately turn into the likes of them. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You are a Heiwa daughter. You must not let us down. You must not fail your duties. You must not be the first to rebel.
The plants around you are blurred out by the tears: it reeks of herbs, freshly watered, and it reeks of wormwood, rosemary, and sage.
[name]: satoru, i am accepting your marriage proposal.│
You stare at your email. You can no longer rein yourself towards your responsibility: not when it’s too difficult. This is the last of your patience.
[name]: satoru, i am accepting yo│
You can’t bring yourself to click the send button.
[name]: satoru, i am acce│
You’re running out of time; something’s chasing you. You’re running out of time and you do not know how to get to the finish line: when will it all end? How long do you have to endure, endure, endure?
[name]: s│
The last of your message dissipates into the screen, the backspace hitting its limit. Your tears are still apparent, staining your cheeks, but the remnants of your desperation fade alongside whatever resolve you had in the past. You are shackled to your family and running away from your fate is as futile as it could be: destiny has cast its gaze on you and it told you to endure, endure, endure until your dying breath. You know better than to involve Gojo Satoru in your own fate. Why would a young God trifle with a life as pathetic as yours? No reason for that at all.
[name]: i hope you are doing okay there, satoru. visit soon.
sent 01/01/2008
―――
Gojo Satoru does not visit for a while, and you hear whispers of a man named Geto Suguru going rogue. The sorcery world is in shambles. When Satoru returns to you, he is splintered and bruised and drowning in insurmountable grief.
―――
You do not know how you ended up in this position.
Or, more specifically, you do not know how you ended up standing on the peak of Mount Ena, 45 minutes past one in the morning, huddled over on the ground with your head buried in Satoru’s chest. You’re shaking, though it’s not because of the cold breeze that December often brought with it, and the ground, as far as you could ascertain, is as stagnant as it could be; so it couldn’t be because of that. Your limbs are numb. Satoru is staring at you cluelessly, having no idea how to comfort you.
Twenty-two years old, and you’re falling apart against the chest of the most important person in the world. His arms are flat beside him, however, as though he does not know which parts of you he can touch without breaking.
“I’m a failure.” Your voice is riddled with choked sobs, breaking open each syllable to the point that you’re barely coherent, “I’m a failure, Satoru, except I do not know what I did to deserve to be one.”
That rings the truth. You’ve paid your dues. You have done good deeds, you have strayed away from the bad, from anything that could possibly instigate your downfall, and yet still you are 22 years old, deemed unmarriageable, all because the world thinks you have been dirtied by Satoru’s hands. Your life is over. Your mother, the elders, they’re all looking down on you and you have no choice but to keep your head low: eyes on the floor, always on the floor, as you are always the one cowering under their stares. You are always the one inconvenienced by their traditions.
“I have done everything. I have studied, I have trained myself, I have forced myself to accept my fate and I have tried, Satoru, I have tried so hard to endure.” You’re speaking quickly. You can’t help it. The words are spilling out and there’s no way to stop them now—almost as if the dam has been broken open and the water will keep gushing past, regardless if you want it to stop—and they wrack your body until you could feel nothing else.
“Stupid girl,” he whispers, though it’s softer than he probably intended for it to sound, “your first mistake is letting them dictate your life for you.”
You clutch the fabric that clung on to his torso, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. He doesn’t say anything more. “Big talk, hotshot. You act as if you are the one who chose to bear the weight of the shaman world.” You shake your head. “You will never understand, no matter how hard you try. You and I live in different worlds. Vastly different worlds.”
Satoru huffs, one hand reluctantly finding its place on the top of your head. “Stupid girl.” He says, this time with more emphasis, “that’s irrelevant. You choose to be weak. You have me. You can tell me to have your clan dissolved and you’d be free. But you’re too weak for that. Weaker than you’re supposed to be. You can’t handle it.”
Even with each stab of his knife, you could not bring yourself to hate him and his words, regardless of how cruel they are when they reach your ears. You’ve endured so much. All you did in that house was endure, accept, endure again until you’re sucked dry with no ambition left inside your body. Until you’re an empty shell they can easily fill with their own desires. Satoru’s right. He could have the Heiwa clan dismantled if you so graciously asked him; he’d probably do it faster than an apple could reach the ground, even.
But you are too dragged in, too scared. Gojo Satoru notices your dejection, debility, your suffering, and he does not know what to feel about it. There’s something similar to anger—the loose threads of it, the beginnings of it, though you’re too worried of the outcome if ever you were to aid him in unraveling it. “I’ve always known that I’m weak.” You mutter. He clicks his tongue. “So allow me just one night to grieve for the life I will never come to have because of it. One night, Satoru, and I will go back to enduring,” slight pause; the tension is strangely palpable, “and you can go back to not caring at all.”
The breeze carries something terribly sweet in the air as though it is mocking you for being so undeniably angry at the world during the beauty of winter. Your sobs are worsening, his jacket’s absorbing most of them, and he’s shushing all your cries by stroking your hair awkwardly. He doesn’t do this kind of thing—not well-versed in the art of caring, art of comforting. Caring is one step away from loving. Satoru thinks he is meant for a lot of things, nearly everything, except that. He doesn’t do love. Not since Suguru. Perhaps not at all, perhaps never once more. A cruel thing.
You’re speechless against him. You want him to put his arms around you. You know he won’t.
This began during the early hours of the morning: initially, you were going to be summoned in the main hall to meet a few suitors from middle-rank sorcerer clans hailing from Kyoto. You were up at around six in the morning, in order to begin the preparations, to tidy up yourself before the meet; after all, three years have passed ever since you began looking for one, and you were still left with no viable options. You were growing restless. You wanted things to be over and done with already.
Come lunchtime, or at least an hour before it, representatives arrived in your suitors’ stead, all poise and held certain candor in their person. They spoke of their sudden disinterest, their reluctance to be associated with your name specifically, all because they heard that Gojo Satoru had his eyes set on you, and that he had tarnished you already. It’s all over the sorcerer world, Heiwa. Do you truly expect your daughter to marry at this rate? Try your luck with the next one. No one would want to marry those who have been touched by that Gojo.
Your mother made sure that you could feel her disappointment, her utter aggravation because of how worthless you are in the end; she made it clear when she slapped you straight across your face with her cane, leaving the color chartreuse on your cheekbone, eyes red from how hard you cried in front of her. As I expected. No one wants to marry Gojo Satoru’s whore. What am I supposed to do with you now?
Eventually, after hours of crying, you found yourself dialing Satoru’s number a few minutes past 11 in the evening; he answered with the same glee, though he was met with the sound of your whines. He almost instantly hung up on you, leaving you to your thoughts, but you’d come to realize that Satoru could warp now—which was hard not to figure out, seeing as he made it from Tokyo to Nakatsugawa in a matter of seconds.
A few hushed whispers inside your room, and you had your arms thrown around his shoulders, feeling his all-consuming cursed energy surround the both of you until you were, undoubtedly, on the peak of Mount Ena.
Currently, you could feel his chest reverberating with light laughter. An hour has passed.
Satoru repeats his words; warranting you no time to get hurt by them. “Stupid girl.” He faces upward, nose held up toward the sky, eyes staring at the sublime as though he had an idea of what the constellations across the heavens were even called. “Stop being so stubborn and marry me instead,” he says in gentle waves, almost careful. He pushes you backward in order to meet you eye to eye. “What better way to fuck with them than to marry the strongest man alive?”
You sniffle. This is tradition. Keep your eyes on the ground.
“I cannot marry you, Satoru.”
Your mother’s words echo in your head, like distant gunshots, You are unworthy. You will never live up to Gojo Satoru. To bask in his presence is a luxury. Know your place.
Satoru looks at you displeased. You scoff inwardly. He is so, very, terribly cruel to you even when you’re most vulnerable. You want to hate him so much that it hurts—but you don’t know how to. You’re wrapped around his finger and like him, unaware of just how far you’d go just to appease him, just to feel as though you could have a place in his world.
You are nothing and you will stay nothing. You are worthless. Know your place.
“Why not?” Toothy grin. You were trying to stifle your tears, and he’s out here looking as if this is just another day in his life. The moonbeams never fail to weave wonders whenever they shine on his hair; he looks exceptionally, undeniably lovely. Like milky streaks of the lune. “Think about it. You’d get out of there. We can reform the world however we please. Maybe I’ll kill your mother for you. You won’t miss her.”
You stare at him as if he’s a mad scientist professing profusely incoherent formulae of topics barely comprehensible; and although you know that that’s exactly what he is, he couldn’t possibly be serious. There was no way in whichever universe that his words rang true—not when he’s always been cruel. Not when he’s said these before and done nothing to show for it. Not when his promises have always been empty, hollow, selfish.
You deflate alongside with the wind. “You should choose the people you associate yourself with. It would be too much of a burden for you to marry one as weak as me, no?”
There’s a shift in his reaction, a sudden surge of irritation, it’s palpable and thick that you couldn’t bear to even remain near him so much that you take a step back. It happens quietly. A breeze swishes through and he purses his lips into a thin line, bathing underneath the light of the sky once more, but unmoving this time. It happens quietly. You wonder if this is his anger—if it is, then it’s just as beautiful as he is, and you hate it—or if this were just another one of his cold, blatant personas, reserved for those he despises. It happens quietly. Maybe he despises you.
A hitch gets caught up inside his throat, and you barely notice it. “Since when has that been,” Satoru hisses, wrapping one arm around your back, “for you to decide?”
The wind whistles past again and the two of you are near the edge of the cliff, free to fall anytime if either of you choose to make the wrong move, but instead you’re focused on each other, both fiercely trying to figure out what to make of this conversation: you’re certain now that you hit a nerve, but it’s unfair—he’s been insufferable, for almost two decades now, but you’ve never been in the position to complain. His eyes meet your own and you fixate your gaze on the space in between his. Decades have passed, and yet you are unable to look at him, still. You stare each other down, neither of you refusing to yield.
Until—surprisingly enough—he does. It’s his turn to keep his eyes glued to the ground.
(Satoru is the first one to look away, but the both of you know who truly lost.)
“Doesn’t matter if you’re weak or strong.” I’m always going to be stronger. An unspoken thing. He interlocks your arms together, drawing out a small squeal of surprise from you, “I still have to do my job, either way.”
Before you could ask him what happened, the same feeling from earlier surrounds your body; the flow of his cursed energy rendering you speechless for the nth time that night. In a matter of seconds, you’re back to your room, and the clock is only further adding to your anxiety with its constant ticking.
“Satoru.” You mumble out, tugging on his jacket. “What’s going on?”
When Satoru quickly lets go of your arm, the cold seeps through your bones more quickly this time.
“Whatever. It’s nothing.” He whispers, getting ready to part ways, “just think about what I said.”
―――
In dreams, the both of you fall off the cliff in Mount Ena and you are able to experience what it feels like to be at peace. In dreams, Satoru is as strong as he says and he does not hold back from saving you; he is not broken and torn and as weak as you are. He is whole, he does not mask away his mourning, and he does not put you on the receiving end of his cold blue eyes.
―――
“Okay,” You reach out for a hair tie, leaving it hanging on your lips while your hands work to comb your hair, “and then what happened?”
Looking forward, you watch the sunshine bounce on the frame of your silver laptop; although the corners were riddled with scratches from being overused, you brushed over that detail and stared at your screen once more. Painted across the surface of your monitor, Gojo Satoru looks even more unreal; the years have made themselves apparent on his skin, but not in a way that made him look unflattering. Not exactly. Not in the slightest, even.
“I exorcized it, of course.” He shrugs. Based on the interface, Satoru was inside his room, wearing an exhausted white shirt with noticeable folds on it. “When a curse is about to swallow a colleague, I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”
You roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. “Smartass. I was making an effort to sound invested in your story over here.”
Satoru feigned offense, his hand clutching the left part of his shirt. If you could see through the bandages wrapped neatly around his eyes, you knew you’d be facing the most sour eyebrow furrow in the entire world. You chuckle silently at the thought of that.
“Are you telling me you’ve been faking the whole time?” He shakes his head. “And here I thought we were having a nice conversation. Am I not enough for you these days?”
You hum in response, watching him spiral down within his faux dejection even more. “These days? Please, Satoru. You know I never would have been interested in you if not for my family duty.”
The both of you throw your individual arguments back and forth, not once pausing to take in a breath in fear that you’ll be forced to log out of your Skype account again any second now. The blue frames in your screen taunt you as you brush your hair: and you stare at them, at Satoru as well, memorizing each pixel as though this would be the last time you’re seeing it.
Life within the Heiwa clan estate was humbling, but not frugal. Of course, your family lived off of generational wealth and as well as the livelihood of the sorcerers in the clan; there weren’t many, but there were some. You knew that your older sister was one—Kameko, who was recently widowed—and you knew that one of your younger sisters was set to become a sorcerer as well; a few aunts and uncles, but none relevant enough to remember the name of. Technology was still widely new to the clan, and quite frankly, it wasn’t as accessible as you and your sisters had hoped. Even the laptop you were using now was a present from Satoru nearly a year ago.
Now, at age 24, over two years after the events in Mount Ena, you put on your most vibrant satin dresses all for the sake of landing a suitor. Your name was still clouded with bad rep, and yet the search did not yield; your mother, ever stubborn and ever prideful, would not let one of her daughters forget, after all, that they will suffer the same fate she did.
“You are so dramatic.” You finally say after a while, leaning comfortably against your chair. You watch the ends of his lips curve up to form a smile, unfolding his arms in order to lay them quietly by his side.
“Theatrics have never hurt anyone,” he leans forward, his face taking up most of the screen. You scrunch your nose. “Not that you would know, anyway. Have you even stepped foot inside a theater?”
“Hey! You know I’m a homebody.”
“Are you? I think you stay at home because they don’t allow you to leave,”
Satoru grins at you even as your glare pierces through his screen. You choose to ignore it, instead basking in the comfortable silence that followed suit. You turn towards the mirror situated right next to your device, soon picking up your brush again and dabbing it lightly into the powder; soon bringing it up to dust your face with the mixture. Satoru watches you idly.
You know he’s about to ask what you’re preparing for again when he attempts to open his mouth; but you stumble over yourself, you sputter out words faster than he could, “Fushiguro! He’s—Well…how is he?”
He purses his lips to a thin line, studying you through his side of the screen. The warm breeze of summer swishes through your room, billowing the puffy cloak wrapped around your shoulders. You pondered if your screen had lagged again; but you knew Satoru simply took his time.
After a while, his shoulders slump down and he leans against his chair. “He’s doing okay. You can call him Megumi, you know. He doesn’t mind.”
“You sure?” You pout. “I haven’t met him in person yet. I’m not even sure if we’re friends.”
As soon as you finish talking, the sorcerer flares up with laughter, his laptop nearly falling off his desk when he slammed his palm on top of it. You tilt your head to the side, defensively holding your cheek brush in front of you. “What are you laughing so hard for?”
“Man, you’re really worried about whether or not you’re friends with an eleven year old.” Satoru combs through his hair, shaking his head. “You must have nothing to do over there.”
There are three blunt knocks on your door, and all too quickly, one of your sisters peeks inside your room to gesture you out, brows glued together. Yua’s fingers furl and unfurl themselves; you hear Satoru humming in confusion, something-something What’s the matter? What’re you looking at? You tune him out, surprisingly enough. When your sister finally takes her leave, your grip on your brush tightens. You dwell over that simple thing for a few seconds—you hate it, you finally ascertain, you detest the way you hold onto things tighter than you should. You peer at Satoru, and you realize you do the same thing with him. Your mother did it too. She held onto teacups, fans, wrists with a death grip as proof that she had control, authority over mundane things, as if mundanity was the only thing she had.
You put a pin on it. Spiraling down was out of the question today.
“Hey.” You start, finding it rather difficult to string your sentences together. “I have to…go. Somewhere. I have to get going.”
He stares at you for a while.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Satoru grins, propping his chin atop his palm. He shakes his head. “No, actually—you know what? You look like I just asked you to marry me again.”
When you laugh, it rings insincerely against Satoru’s ears. For a moment, his face twists into a brief expression of distaste, you immediately know he doesn’t like it.
“Yeah.” You raise your hand, waving dismissively. “Don’t miss me too much, okay? Be careful over there.”
Satoru clutches the left part of his shirt again, now without a look of disbelief to accompany it. In its stead, a smile rests on his lips, his other hand presumably reaching for his computer’s mouse. “Can’t promise you that. I’ll see you around.”
The line ends after that. It was an unspoken rule between the two of you: you could call him whenever you needed a distraction at any point of the day, but he has to be the one who ends it. Something about him knowing you’ll end it as soon as you start to shy away. Something about not wanting you to hide away from him as well.
You close the lid of your laptop. It was an unspoken thing as well, you thought; the way you knew, almost instinctively, that Satoru was always going to be careful for the rest of his life.
―――
The train hums down, the faint squeals from before blending into the sound of the bustling station in the heart of the city. You pull your hat further down, waiting for the other passengers to finish pushing themselves out of the train. In your head, you remind yourself that this is unlike quaint Nakatsugawa; no, Nakatsugawa had less than 100,000 in population—Tokyo had millions. If you lag behind now, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.
Still, you swallow thickly; it’s completely normal for your legs to feel like they’re about to give up, right?
You stand abruptly from your seat in the train, now holding onto one of the handles to keep your balance. The line towards the exit was relatively neat, but you could subtly feel people shoving each other in order to finally get out of the cramped space. You knew that Tokyo’s morning rush hour was hectic as hell, but you had nothing to base it on back at home; had you known it would have been this bad, you would have opted for an earlier ride.
You string together small Excuse me’s and Sorry’s as you make your way out of the crowd, clutching your bag closer to your chest. In exchange, you receive a bunch of Get out of my way’s and Watch where you’re going’s. Neat. City folks are interesting.
Once you are finally able to step foot outside of the public transport, you heave a sigh. Within mere seconds of your arrival, you see Satoru—clad in a black sweatshirt, plain black jeans, and a black mask over his eyes in lieu of the usual white bandages—waving at you in the distance, soon showcasing a small salute.
The sun was not at its peak yet, and you already felt like melting. Nine feet away, Gojo Satoru still resembled the annoying kid you grew up with. Though he was taller now, and maybe stronger as well, he looked no different from how you remember him. He fashions a shit-eating grin, his free hand hidden inside his pocket; you wave back at him, jogging towards his direction with a smile etched on your expression as well.
“Look at you, city girl,” he shoots you a wink, “How was your trip?”
You give him a light slap on his shoulder, more relieved than you are annoyed. It’s been a year and a half since you last saw Satoru in person; up until now, it had mostly been video calls on Skype or continuous emails. He’s been busy with work (“Tokyo’s a shitstorm right now. You wouldn’t get it.”) , and you’ve been busy with preserving the estate (“Clearly you haven’t seen Nakatsugawa during winter.”); so when the opportunity came up, the opportunity being your mother heading to Osaka to meet with some relatives, you contacted him immediately and got on a train bound to the beloved capital—consequences be damned.
“It was a bit cramped in there, but I managed.” You reply, proudly patting your bag as though it were your chest. “Do you mind if we eat first before I show you my itinerary, Satoru?”
Interlocking his arm with yours, he hums, “I do mind, actually. I have an itinerary of my own, so you better adjust your pace to mirror mine, sweetheart.” Satoru, ever the menace, drags you forward with him without even letting you protest—combing through the sea of people quickly, checking every now and then to see if you were still conscious.
You were going to kill him before the day ends. The both of you know that. You tug on his hand. He stops walking.
Then, Satoru cocks an eyebrow. “What?”
“I’m seriously going to pass out if I don’t eat,” you reply, your voice slurring around the edges, ”I know you’d hate that. So, please?”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes, dragging you to the nearest vending machine, slipping in a few coins in order to get you a tuna sandwich. You flick the back of his head.
“What was that for?” He exclaims, smoothing out the folds on his sweatshirt.
Grumbling, you reluctantly take the sandwich he acquired, stuffing it inside your satchel. “You’re so stingy, Satoru. Can’t even take me to an actual restaurant.”
He winks at you again, before nudging your sides. Your irritation slowly bubbles up inside.
“That’s for tonight, baby.” The nickname makes you blush, but you try to pay little attention to it. “I told you, didn’t I? I have an itinerary of my own.”
— ꕤ —
Your first few hours in the city go swimmingly. Satoru makes sure to hold you close enough to him, especially during hectic crowds, so that you don’t get lost and get stuck in the middle of nowhere.
As it turns out, Satoru wasn’t talking out of his ass; he did have an itinerary. He planned the whole day, in fact, down to the tourist spots to visit, to places to eat during lunch, snack time, and dinner. See, he’s never been one for planning—thinks that spontaneity has its own quirks to it, something something—so it surprises you, beyond reasonable belief, when he pulls out a sheet of paper (neatly folded, too!) from his back pocket. He doesn’t show you anything specific on the page, but you steal a few glances midway and make out the time slots allotted to each activity he had scheduled for the day.
It’s precise and actually coherent.
(You have two theories. First: he somehow got Megumi to draft it out for him, either through coercion mixed with extortion or annoying persuasion. Second: trip-planning is unexpectedly another one of his natural, god-given talents.)
(The latter is most likely the answer, but it feels ridiculous to admit.)
He took you to the former Yasuda garden, firstly. He had signed the two of you up for a full tour beforehand, and he even took you straight to the stalls lined up near the entrance in order to purchase a variety of memorabilia and souvenirs. You were opposed to the idea of visiting a garden at first, especially since you already see enough plants back at home anyway, but Satoru promises to make it worth your while.
And, he delivers. You end up crying amidst the shrubberies. The green is so terribly, wonderfully healthy that you fall apart. (“Don’t you think it’s poetic, Satoru? Healthy roots still run through the ground of this land, in spite of the blood and anguish it’s witnessed before.”) (“Please stop crying. The other tourists are staring.”)
You end the tour on a good note. He buys you pastries from the vendors nearby.
Next, he warps the two of you down to the Kameido Tenjin Shrine in Koto City, which wasn’t a far jump from Sumida, but he insists that there isn’t time to lose today. The token purple flowers from the garden there were out of season, but he pulls out a shard of hardened resin from his pocket: inside, there are violet wisteria flowers, pressed and dried and pretty, it makes you swoon. There’s a chain attached to the top of the shard, and you realize shortly after that it’s meant to act as a necklace. (“It’s unorthodox, I know. But I heard it’s trendy these days to propose without a ring.”) (“I’m not marrying you. Thanks for the necklace, though!”)
You take a lot of photos with him. Next to a random tree, next to the tall walls surrounding the shrine, next to the field of not-so-blossoming flowers. In most of the pictures, you and Satoru smile as wide as the other, and his arm is covertly wrapped around either your shoulder or your waist.
Nakamise shopping street was the third place on the list, apparently. Before you went there, the two of you spent a few minutes (close to an hour) wandering around the food vendors, trying out street food and beverages. Satoru pays for everything, unsurprisingly. Something about being ‘loaded as hell’? You tried your hardest to tune out his cockiness, so you remain unsure.
Once you reach Asakusa, minutes begin to drift to hours. The two of you spend an awful lot of time hanging around each nook and cranny of every intriguing store.
By the end of it, Satoru warps out momentarily to drop all of you guys’ shopping bags to his apartment. His absence is brief, but you feel it strongly. When he returns to you after no more than five minutes, you cling onto his arm as you weave through the busy crowd.
The afternoon sun strikes through your pupils, but you think it to be lackluster next to the way Satoru smiles at you.
— ꕤ —
Hours after that, you feel your entire body closing in on you.
And that shouldn’t even be possible.
After visiting the busy shopping district, Satoru teleports the both of you to a restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata. Sumida again, according to the sign, and the aroma immediately flows through the air when you enter, so much so that it makes your mouth water. You don’t realize just how tired you are. Not until you sat down in one of the empty booths, your feet finally finding some remedy beneath the warm cloth of the kotatsu.
When your forehead meets the top of the table, it’s enough for Satoru to realize that you’ll be out of it until further notice: so he orders on your behalf, beaming at the waiting staff. You tune him out.
Minutes later, when the steam worms its way to cloud your face, you raise your head only to be greeted with the sight of your companion watching a video on his cellphone. You yawn, before stretching your limbs out. “How long was I out?”
“About fifteen minutes. The pork’s almost done cooking.” He tells you, stirring the pot situated in front of you two.
You blink twice, adjusting your eyes to the light of the room. “Are we heading to your place after this?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll pour my soup down your pants. Tread lightly.”
“I’m joking!”
“It wasn’t funny!”
Satoru pokes you with his elbow, a smile gracing his lips. He shrugs after that. “We’re not heading back just yet. We still have to visit one more place. And then I’ll let you steal my bed for the night. Alright?”
Satisfied, you nod. “Alright.”
You don’t say much after that, too exhausted to strike up another topic. You’ve been talking to Satoru non-stop ever since you got to Tokyo, and although the two of you were technically catching up because you haven’t seen each other in months, his affinity for being absolutely insufferable for no reason drained you out impeccably.
When you feel as though you’re back to being a functioning human being (and not an empty battery shell), you take in the ambiance of the restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata is a fairly small restaurant, with quaint interiors and a lively staff to juxtapose the plain, cozy feel of the place. The cloth entrance to the restaurant is bordered with a red wooden doorframe, a few festive ornaments positioned near the windows and doors, signifying the coming holidays. The place is crowded tonight, mostly by couples and families. It has a certain familiarity to it—this restaurant, as though people have come here time and time again and worn out the furniture enough to make the room scream home. It’s a silly thought. You get lost in it, anyway.
“You okay?” Satoru asks you, after minutes of evident silence, momentarily dropping the stirring spoon down on the small plate right next to the pot. “Are you really that tired? You want me to carry you later?”
His question elicits a small laugh from you. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.” Shaking your head, you think you like how he cares about you. Satoru is typically very affectionate, but often he hides it under the guise of being unbearable, so it appears unapparent. But you know he cares, he shows it during moments that matter: maybe not through words all the time, but it’s always been enough for you.
It takes you back to your childhood with him, more than anything. Cheek pokes in the library, distasteful jokes when you’re crying, hiding your plant seeds from you when you’re sick. Tasting food first for you, getting you a glass of water when you’re tired. Folding your blanket in the morning.
You sigh. He does a lot for you.
“Do you ever miss it?” Choosing your next words, you lean your head against his shoulder. “Nakatsugawa, I mean. Our estate. You used to stay there a lot.”
Satoru sends you a questioning stare. “I don’t go there for the estate, so why would I miss it?” After that, he flashes you a cheeky grin, his chin perched atop his palm. He plays with the straw of his drink. “Is that your silly way of asking if I miss you?”
Your cheeks flush a light shade of red. Embarrassed, you turn away from him, training your focus on the bowl of food presented neatly in front of you. You huff. He was being annoying, as usual. It’s not like you wanted to know if he missed you just as much as you missed him. No, not really. Not at all. You pick up your chopsticks, deciding to dig into the hot pot already as a way to ease the feeling of having his attention fall all on you. “No. I was just wondering, idiot. You’re so full of yourself.”
Satoru pouts. “How can you say that, when I’m paying for this sick ass meal?”
“I can say what I want!”
“And you say I’m the one who’s full of myself.”
You stick your tongue out at him after that. He chuckles lightly, taking hold of one napkin and using it to wipe the broth beside your lips. It’s a simple thing, and you’re used to it, so your cheeks cooperate with you this time around. You don’t blush a deep shade of red, but you feel your pulse beating through the cuffs of your jacket. Satoru hums a tune under his breath. You try to focus on that instead.
“Have you been eating well?” He asks, suddenly. “Or are you skipping your meals again?”
You ponder on his question for a bit, before answering, “I’ve been eating better, I suppose. You know, I cook my own food now.”
The young God grins again, and then he reaches out to pat your head. He keeps doing this when you two are together—touch you, hold you, anywhere. Satoru is typically very affectionate. It could just be his pinky finger grazing the back of your hand, it could be his palm finding its place on top of your head, or his arms snaked around your waist. It was always like this, in recent years. You’re used to Satoru living loudly, but you’ve come to notice that he lived especially obnoxiously around you. It’s an intimate thing. You understand why, but it’s foreign, still.
“That’s good to hear. Don’t want you passing out under the sun when you’re gardening, now, do we?” Satoru chuckles, later straightening his posture and picking up the chopsticks that were laid out for him, too. He breaks it apart, before blowing the steam off the bowl he served himself. “You’ve got to cook for me sometime, nerd.”
You roll your eyes. “Why would I do that?”
“‘Cause I told you to, of course.” He sips his broth. “Can you say no to this gorgeous face?”
“Quite easily, actually.”
“Come on!"
— ꕤ —
The darkness combs through the sky faster than you’d realized, and the cool air it brought along squeezes itself through the slits of your clothes. You stare down at the world, from over 400 meters above the ground, with your hands clasped tightly on top of your chest.
Below you, the city twinkles like minute christmas lights, flickering all over. In fractions of different hues, blinking towards the next and the next and the next, until it all blends into a portrait of frenzied gradients. They glimmer all over, and it’s difficult to find a focal point.
So, you choose to stare at the most beautiful thing, instead. You lean the back of your head against the glass, and then you train your eyes to Satoru, beaming. “I don’t know how I can enjoy my hometown after this. I love it here.”
“I keep telling you.” He bumps his shoulder against your own one. “You should just marry me. You won’t need to go back there if you do.”
Before exiting the restaurant earlier, Satoru specifically waited for the daytime sun to dip down the horizon. The setting sun colored the clouds with a duller shade of orange as you were walking towards your next destination, blending into the golden hues of the sky perfectly as eventide neared. You remember distinctly—he reached out to take off the fabric masking his eyes, eyelids relaxing upon being touched by the sun’s rays. The blue in his eyes mirrored the vibrance so perfectly well; it fluidly circled around his pupils each time he directed his attention elsewhere, pristine and wonderful and startlingly beautiful.
Satoru has always been lovely; his eyes, most especially. Unmasked, they looked up from the depths and immediately caught the sun: and somehow Satoru was able to shine along with it. Somehow somehow somehow.
You sigh in displeasure. Now, at Tokyo Skytree, the top floor is devoid of other people. The halls are empty, save for the two of you, and it evokes a specific kind of anxiety and peace at the same time. You're not quite sure what to make of it yet, but you know there's satisfaction underneath it all. In that moment, in the one you’re in now, and perhaps in more moments to come, you could think of nothing else that you would want more than being able to be an onlooker for the way Satoru effortlessly dares to be the most beautiful man alive. You think you might deserve it. You would like to feel like you do, maybe one day, maybe now, maybe soon enough.
But you don’t. What have you done to deserve someone as grand as him? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Your head throbs, so much so that you remember the words of your mother. You think you might deserve it—what? What do you deserve? Remaining to be within reach enough to watch Satoru from afar? A scoff wants to escape your throat, and you hate how easy it is to mock yourself over your desires. Meek as they are. When it comes to him, there is no question of what you deserve. The only thing that matters is if he has gotten tired of having you around. It is not a question of whether or not you are worth something to him—no, not really—because so long as he thinks your companionship is necessary, then there should be no complaints on your end. You don’t deserve to be his friend, and yet you are, so you swallow the pain even if it tastes like tiny shards of glass. You are worth nearly nothing, and yet he spends his money on you as though you aren’t. So, what? Be thankful, then. Say nothing and be thankful. That’s all there is to it.
You do not deserve him. It doesn’t make sense for you to deserve him. One as weak as you and one as strong as him? No. No. No. It wouldn’t make sense. No. Not really.
You should just marry me. He says it so often, but he doesn’t mean it. Satoru doesn’t owe you honesty; that’s why he keeps asking, no? On some level, he knows the tradition just as well as you do. He keeps proposing because you keep shooting him down. Your rejection is inevitable, and he gets to live normally the next day. Satoru does not love you enough to take you seriously. He cares about you, that much you are certain, but he does not love you enough to offer you truth.
But you do.
“I am already engaged to a man from the Zen’in clan.”
Quiet.
You refuse—no, incorrect—you can’t look him in the eye. You can’t bring yourself to. “We are to be wedded in two years.”
You say this in a way that evidently shows that you’re waiting for a reaction from him. Anything, really. Satoru knows you more than anyone in the world, which meant that he knew the ins and outs of everything that went on inside your head. He probably already knows that you don’t want this marriage. He knows that you’re doing this for your mother.
He knows that you cannot verbally tell him all of these things, and he knows you are waiting for him to make the first move. It’s a silly thing, really. Awaiting his compassion. As though you deserve to have it.
(You don’t. Nobody does. Gojo Satoru does not owe the world anything at all.)
The city lights continue twinkling underneath, and it’s starting to feel more like chaos.
Though Satoru’s grin stays plastered on his expression, and it grounds you. “That doesn’t sound like a no.”
―――
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m s-
The hurt does not subside regardless of how relentless your pleas are. You keep your eyes shut: as though doing so would help you tune out the world around you.
It doesn’t. It will never.
“Should’ve known you would be a failure,” the ghastly widow says, loose hair curled up against her sweaty forehead. She nibbles on the tips of her fingernails, pacing around the room tirelessly, the heavy pounding of her steps posing as enough reason for one to avoid the room the two of you were locked in. Your yukata rises above your knee, barely covering each patch of cold violet; they are reminders. Reminders of all the times you have failed the family. “Should not have put it past you to be such a disgraceful whore. Had I intervened sooner, I—” Your mother clutches the skin of her cheeks tighter than anything else she’s ever touched. “—I could have stopped this from happening. You could have been sold off to another clan. I would not have to be stuck with you.”
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never meant to-
The wedding has been postponed. Somehow, the announcement hurts the mother of the bride more than it should— way more than it should. The elders from the Zen'in clan are on the brink of pulling out your supposed fiancé and calling off the ceremony altogether as soon as they found out about your trip to Tokyo with none other than Satoru. The rest is history. Now, your mother yells as if she has no more daughters left to pawn off to disgusting rich men; like she has realized that her appearance alone is enough to scare a toddler; like she has finally gone mad, once and for all.
Inwardly, you snort. No. Heiwa’s widow has been mad long before she was the clan’s matriarch.
“They think two years is enough to tighten you up.”
Tighten you up because you have been sullied by Gojo Satoru. What good is having a whore for a wife? Give her two years more. That ought to make her clean enough to marry.
Gojo Satoru. Satoru. Your Satoru. He’s not here, he’s not anywhere, he’s nowhere to be found. Where is he? You don’t bother whispering it out; your voice can’t take it, anyway. Where is he? He’ll get here soon. I know he will.
“How long will I be stuck with you? How long until you run back to that arrogant man and restart the process all over again?”
She walks closer towards you, kneeling on the floor. It’s quick. She makes it quick enough. She gathers her hands and she places it around your cheeks. Takes hold of your temple soon enough. Quick. She makes it quick. She runs her hands through the sides of your head and then she pulls your hair—you hear your scalp tearing out, and a scream dies down in your throat—she cries with her forehead placed directly in front of yours. Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain lingers but her fingers leave the scene in an instant.
The ghastly widow stands up and she turns her back on you, her face nears the crackling embers of the fireplace. You pray for her to be one with the ashes.
“You will never learn, will you?” She shakes her head. You watch from your corner in the room, folding yourself smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller. “What must I do to make sure it sticks?”
Her hands find a home in the fire poker beside the spare wood in the room, keenly soaking it into the flames.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I never did anything wrong. Where is he? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
“Yes, yes, yes, that.” She cackles. Sobs wrack through your whole body. “If I write it in seething characters, maybe he’ll leave you alone.”
I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything-
Your mother has always had sharp eyes, and you used to think they burned you like no other.
She makes you eat your own words when the poker carves through the skin of your shoulder, hot and sharp and slow. She hums a quiet tune under her breath, her free hand holding you in place as she engraves your skin with marks that’ll stay. It burns.
Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain is slow but your mother is quick with writing. En - Mei. The name of your betrothed.
The ghastly widow looks like your mother, but she is anything but. You stay rotting in that corner for weeks. The ghastly widow forgets where she left you.
―――
The name forged on your shoulder continues to sting months after it was burned. Not because the scar still hurts, but because you’re unsure of what Satoru would think if he knew you had a man’s name eternally drawn on your skin. Could you still be his? Would he even want you?
―――
The crown molding is barely visible now that the ornaments are there to cover them. Truth be told, no amount of gold in the world could make you like the interiors of this place, anyway. The guests were widespread across the hall, each one either trapped in conversation with clan elders, stuffing their faces with the food served on nearly a dozen tables, or gushing about the portrait of you and your betrothed on the wall.
The party’s boring. You’re sitting beside your supposed husband; people are rushing over to talk to Enmei, and you’re barely there to them, they barely spare you a minute of their time, much less a second glance. You fear the day you’d get brushed over completely and be regarded as nothing more than just his wife, albeit you already knew that this is ultimately the beginning of the rest of your life.
“Why the long face?” You snap your head immediately to the source of voice, already feeling more upbeat. “You’re going to get uglier if you keep at it.”
“Satoru…” You smile, your shoulders relaxing. “You’re here.”
“Well, obviously. Did you secretly have me banned, or something?” Satoru doesn’t even look at Enmei, but you can see through the corner of your eyes that the latter’s not too happy to see your friend.
“I’d ban you as loud as I can, if possible. Surely, you know me better than that?” You patronize.
He doesn’t take his sweet time trying to humor your request for an argument, instead offering you his palm, now standing upright in front of you. “Why don’t we take advantage of the music,” he gestures to the dance floor, “for old time’s sake?”
Politely, you give your fiancé a small smile, only to acknowledge his presence, before reluctantly placing your hand on top of Satoru’s. There’s friction at first, and you feel almost scared to completely graze his skin; but he takes the opportunity to beat you to the tackle by fully entwining your fingers together, now trailing behind him as he led the both of you to the middle, where the other dancers were.
“You allowed me through infinity again,” you smile at him, sounding almost solicitous, though he knew you well enough not to let it get to him. “I must be very special, huh.”
“Not really.” He clicks his tongue, playfully spinning you around, readying himself to reiterate the same thing he’s been saying since you two were six years old. “You don’t pose a threat. You’re still much weaker than me.”
He puts his free hand on top of your waist thereafter; the music slows down, and the both of you melt into it. The silence is obscure tonight. He’s not talking, though he doesn’t at all look disinterested; you like him better when he cares, you take note, enjoying the way he’s hesitating to pull you towards him. You don’t miss a beat—you’re the one who takes the initiative this time, the desire to spread the remnants of his cologne on your dress growing at a rapid rate. You’re dancing with Gojo Satoru, unarguably the strongest man alive, but you want so much more of him that it still doesn’t feel enough.
“It isn’t too late to take me up on my offer, you know.” He grins, it’s frivolous and light, far too casual that you want to wipe it off his expression on the spot. He sways you on the dance floor, lips moving dangerously close beside your ear, “Why don’t you marry me instead?”
The world is steadily crumbling down and you’re letting it. The walls aren’t walls at this point, they’re something out of a dream, or a nightmare, and the paper’s tearing off with each step the two of you take in sync. The whispers around the room are dying down; you’re trying to think of the time that the voices weren’t so brittle.
You don’t want to look around the room and lock eyes with the people you could never disappoint; so you keep your gaze on him, on Satoru, your Satoru, with your lips quivering ever so lightly. He does not miss the way it does.
“Satoru.” Your breathing is growing erratic. “I’ll do it.”
He looks pleasantly surprised; almost satisfied with your answer, though the way he dips you down is quick and brisk and it does not spare you a second longer to figure out exactly what expression he adorned as soon as you responded. The world is continuously shattering into smaller pieces: he isn’t ready to pick them up for you just yet. Satoru’s clutch on your waist tightens; he’s getting so painstakingly close, you could feel the intensity of the room thickening. All eyes on the two of you.
“Just what is your family subjecting you to,” he pauses, his breath tickling your neck, “for you to become so desperate?”
You should hate him for that, but you reserve your anger for the day he doesn’t speak the truth. He’s right. You were desperate. He knew how to get the answers out from you with just his stupid, little jokes. They hurt less than staying in this life: than staying and taking all the burns and reading every single book they ask of you all because you must, and not because you can. Sick and tired of tossing and turning every night, wishing for some miracle, wishing to wake up in another person’s body. You were—you are—so, so desperate to get out. You’ve endured long enough, haven’t you? The burns on your shoulders are an indication of all that you have given up. Have you not paid more than what you are worth?
You try to give him a genuine chuckle, though it falls flat. As if I could tell him all of those things. “Am I engaged to two people now?”
He holds you closer than ever; even with the fabric around his eyes, you could make out his impossibly perfect pupils, wishing inwardly to see it—one last time, before the walls of Enmei’s abode cave in to gradually replace the world you’ve worked so hard on to establish. In the end, it’s true: Gojo, however strong, however powerful, is not mandated to save you, will not benefit from wasting time in order to pull you out of your situation, will never marry you no matter how many times he asks for your hand.
“No,” Satoru’s close, too close, and he’s getting your hopes up with every second that his fingers remain wrapped around yours. “Just one.”
―――
But Satoru doesn’t come back for you after that.
You lay still in the cold corner of the estate, where the empty patch of soil used to be, watering the flowers, the shrubs, the seedlings that would eventually grow to be trees. Hours spent curling and uncurling your toes on steel dry grass, green and prickly and riddled with weeds you’re too exhausted to pull out. Hours spent starting the day seated on the bridge across the pond, hours spent staring at the sun until the light couldn’t pierce through your irises anymore. Days pass by until they turn into grueling weeks that you wind up forgetting. Satoru doesn’t come back to you. Weeks turn into colder months and you think you’d soon forget the shape of his face—eternally erased from your mind, but only because attempting to remember it only further contorts the idea of him you’ve built up for two decades now.
The young God looks human, and most days he is.
In hush murmurs, the servants gossip about Gojo Satoru and the adventures he gets himself into each day: he exorcized a curse in the middle of the sea, he paraded around an abandoned village killing curses left and right with no second to spare, catching rays of the pale moonlight in his eyes each time he fights someone at dusk. Master Gojo probably won’t be visiting for a while. Did you hear? He brought in a new student. Took him in this month even though the kid stuffed a bunch of his classmates in a locker.
Everyone was keenly updated with everything that he did: he lived loudly, unapologetically. Occupied an unusually large space. If he had most of the world wrapped around his finger, where did that leave you?
Maybe you were coiled around his arm, obsessively finding a place to melt in on his palm. Hands roaming around his shoulder, clinging onto it for dear life, because that’s all you’ve ever known. You grew up knowing you could never be worthy of him and yet you think you are important enough to save. You aren’t.
Gojo Satoru has always been unblinking, restless, and you have always been easy enough. Back then, it used to feel like he was millions of worlds away from you, and on some level you know that to be true, but he has been close to you more times than you can count: the young God, although untouchable and great and heavenly and strong, has always been incredibly human beneath it all. Made for grandeur, too weak to take it. Onlookers watch his every move, and yet they fail to see how frail he is at the end of it all. The young God who has everything only has everything because people give him what they think he’s worth. Maybe he used to take, but now he is unmoving and relentlessly yearning, and you feel you are the only person in the world who is able to understand that.
It’s a fickle thing, his desires. He wants something one moment and then he doesn’t the next—because he thinks that is not something he should dream of deserving, thinks wanting small things would be an insult to the people who have given him more—and the cycle goes on and on. He burns like crackling firewood. Fueled by everything people drop on him.
Where did that leave you?
In Nakatsugawa, of course, hands deemed too stained and dirty so they’re tucked inside your pocket at all times. There is a ring in your finger, but the boy from the Zen’in clan thinks there could be no harm in waiting a few months longer before pushing through with the wedding.
(He says you are past your prime, anyway. What’s a few months more?)
You don’t think he is cruel. You think he’s on the same boat as you are. Nursed with care growing up, to make imprinting clan values easier in your head; only to be tossed aside, treated like dirt, forced to face the reality of everything years later all at once, but never rebelling against the traditions you were instructed, all your life, to follow and uphold. In turn, it makes you either miserable or angry, sometimes both, sometimes numb, so it’s neither. Enmei has grown to be the spitting image of his clan elders. Snarky remarks in exchange for a few laughs. Glares that fall flat, because he is not as angry as they are. In fact, when you saw him for the first time, he looked almost as pitiful as you did—cowering underneath the gaze of those that mattered to him, shoulders slouched and tense, hands tucked inside his pockets. Like you.
But, still, he is a man, so the circumstances are different. He is treated like a savior for marrying you. You are taught to be grateful. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he is not as favored as he thinks himself to be. Because if the Zen’in clan valued him so much, then why would he be engaged to you?
His words sting, but you can’t bring yourself to resent him. It doesn’t feel worth it.
“How are your plants?”
A tiny voice, soft and beautiful, unlike anything you were used to. You don’t take your eyes off of the empty flower pot in front of you, too invested in the intricate ways it was made. You hum. “They’re fine. I can’t say much about them.”
Her shadow looks over you, until you could finally make out the silhouette of her person. Kameko, your older sister, crouches down beside you, poking through the garden tools that you had laid out on the ground earlier. “Why not?” She asks. “You don’t like them?”
“I do. I just don’t have anything to say right now. They’re fine. That’s all.”
Kameko offers you no rebuttal after that, choosing to find a place beside you on the grass in the end. She moved back into the estate a little over a week ago, and you know she’s unused to being back to this place. Kameko, your older sister, was forced to return to her little life in Nakatsugawa after her husband passed away at age 28. She’s been unsociable ever since. Cooped up in her old room, painting on empty canvases, though rarely finishing them. Or maybe you were wrong. What do you know about art? When do brushstrokes end, and when do they begin, anyway?
Your ears ring incessantly. Don’t think too much. Kameko, your older sister, probably sleeps wide awake. Encumbered by grief, dragged down by her mourning. You wonder if her baggage is heavier than yours.
After a few careful seconds, she speaks again. “Yua called me the other day. She said she’s settling in at her new house.”
You nod. “Is that so?”
A smile takes over her lips, albeit solemn. She takes hold of the garden trowel. “Yes. She and Yasu are set to visit sometime next week, hopefully. A few days before Ichika’s wedding. That should be fun.”
You nod again. There is nothing else to draw from you.
“Are you okay?”
Another nod.
“Have you grown to resent me, too? For leaving?”
Kameko, your older sister, perfect eyes and perfect hair, the most desirable among you and your sisters, looks vulnerable and dejected but pristine and untouchable all the same. She asks you in a way that makes her voice shake, a decibel lower than usual. She had to leave; how could you hate her for that? She followed through with her obligation, duty, responsibility. Whatever. You turn towards her. An act of defeat.
You shake your head. “No, of course not.” You push the flower pot away from your hands. “Have you?”
She copies you. “No. Why would I?”
The sun kisses your forehead. You cross your legs atop the grass. Then, “I want to ask you something, if it’s alright.” She urges you to continue. “How have you been?”
She smiles at you, and you feel it might be genuine. Kameko tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, hitching the hem of her cardigan up so as to not tarnish it with dirt. “Better. Mornings are still difficult, but I’ve been missing the sun lately. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you grieving?” It’s a stupid question, you note. “Did you love him?” Better.
She looks down. “He wasn’t cruel to me.”
You tilt your head. “That’s not an answer.”
Kameko smiles vaguely at you before shrugging. You turn your focus to the grass.
God, it all felt so indisputably miserable. A life such as this. Having to settle for a husband, having to grieve for his death regardless if you loved him or not. He wasn’t cruel to me. Like that’s enough reason to grieve. He made sure I was treated fairly. Like that’s enough reason to leave home and start a family. You think, No. You don’t start a family because you are asked to carry over a bloodline. You start a family because you are ready to have an extension of yourself, to love that extension, wholly and unconditionally. You think, you think, you think. You start a family because of love. The absence of cruelty doesn’t make it love. That’s tolerance. Tolerance isn’t love. It’s one step closer to hate.
No. Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Your mother has a penchant for grievances; thrives when other people are just as lonely as she is. That’s why things had to be this way. Kameko knows this. Yua and Yasu will come to understand soon enough. Ichika, too. Each and every one of your sisters will come to realize that being a Heiwa daughter means being forced to be one with the ghastly widow—her pain, her joy, her grief—and there will be no way around it, unless someone finally breaks the cycle. Internally, you scoff. None of you will.
“How about you? How have you been?” You’re back on earth when your sister taps your knuckles. Lightly, hesitantly. “Your friend, too. Gojo. Has he visited lately?”
The young God has other worldly problems. He does not have time to entertain you and your silly desires, whims, wishes. You wonder if Kameko knows this as well as you do. “I’m okay. Not much has changed ever since you left.” You glue your lips together tightly. “And, no. He has better things to do over at Tokyo. He hasn’t visited in a while.” A year and nine months. That’s how long it’s been.
You hear a hum from her, and then a sigh. “Do you miss him?” She asks.
Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Gojo Satoru is fleeting and fickle and there is no one else on earth you miss more, and you want to tell your sister this—you want to tell everyone, really—but you won’t, because your longing does not have a place in this world. Don’t think too much. You miss Satoru like how the moon chases the sun. Irretrievably. You miss him because you know nothing else than that. Pining is the only thing you were allowed to do when it came to Satoru. You miss him, but this is also tradition: him leaving, you waiting for him. Satoru always comes back. Waiting has always been worth it.
Quietly, you say, “I do.”
“Why don’t you seek him out, then?”
Because seeking him out means the hurt will be tenfold if he decides to leave. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, after all. You stare at your garden shears. You wish you could tell her the extent of your feelings, but your throat could not echo such words anymore. You’ve been out of commission for a while now.
You tug the sleeves of your sweater closer to your body, and you feel the etched mark on your shoulder sizzle lightly underneath. A reminder. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, only to be met with cold desertion.
“What would be the point of that?” The trees rustle. “He’ll leave in the end, anyway. He always does.”
“But he returns, doesn’t he?”
Don’t think too much.
“Sometimes.”
She frowns. “Are you okay with that?” It’s a stupid question.
You look down.
“He has better things to do over at Tokyo.”
Kameko tilts her head. Solemn.
“That’s not an answer.”
―――
Ichika gets married three weeks before you do and she is whisked away from the estate, quicker than you could bid farewell. The young God does not return to you, and you think yourself to be irrelevant now, so you forget the way his first name sounds on your tongue. Like commonfolk, like everyone else.
It burns you like no other.
―――
He watches you shake your head timidly, the sound of your chuckles repeating inside his head. Somewhere deep inside his ribcage, something aches terribly.
You’re all I’ve ever known. You’re all I know, nowadays, too. Each day, he finds more and more words to say to you. But I’ll lose you too, won’t I? But he speaks none of them out loud. He thinks there would be no meaning in doing so—no satisfaction, either. Just a desperate attempt to humanize himself.
He feels your hand cling tightly on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, your head finding its place on his chest. “I just thought you should know that. You’re invited, after all.”
It feels like a sick joke he doesn’t have the capacity to understand. Something aches. “I haven’t told any of my sisters yet, but I’m sure they know already. I just,” you pause, sucking in a deep breath, “I wanted to tell you this in person. I feel like I owe you that. Does that make sense?”
It does. He’s your best friend. There’s no doubt about it. He nods silently, wrapping both of his arms around your torso.
You’re all he’s ever known. But he’s losing you, too. It's happening too fast. It's happening again.
“Thank you for taking me here, Satoru.”
He hums in response. “Don’t mention it.”
“All the flowers we saw earlier were lovely, too.” You begin, the cracks in your voice growing more audible the longer you speak. “But I love this part the most. I've always wanted to see all of Tokyo with you.”
It feels like farewell. Satoru holds you tighter. “You still haven’t seen it all, you know.”
“I know.” You smile at him. He doesn’t want to let you go.
So don’t go just yet. “We’ll get together some other time, then. I’ll take you sight-seeing again.”
“You don’t have to, Satoru.”
“I’ll take you everywhere. Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ll be there with me?”
The view of the city from the top of Tokyo Skytree will come to haunt him in his dreams, after this. A poignant reminder of that which he left unfulfilled.
“I will. I promise.”
Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he feels as though he will grow to be no more than that.
Within the comforts of his ancestral home, he washes the blood off of his clothes. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is too young to have killed the one most dearest to him—but life has a way of fucking things over until the fruit is too rotten to eat, so he accepts his sins and he shoulders Geto Suguru’s suffering as well. He thinks there might be a meaning to that. Doesn’t know what it is yet, quite unsure if he’ll ever find out, and still he holds onto the sliver of hope that he will.
Unlike his boarding in Tokyo, the Gojo clan’s ancestral home in the countryside houses tall trees and dull grass, untainted with blood. The security within the estate was strict to the point of suffocation. He was the only one who knew how to bypass it. Teleport straight to the center, nine feet to the right. His designated place in the garden. A blindspot—covertly hidden from the eyes of those watching. Snow covers his hair and it soaks through the garments of his clothes as it melts slowly. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is filled with grief much bigger than the space he is used to occupying. Geto Suguru lies idle inside his head: his rotting corpse, the blood on his chest. Geto Suguru dies idle inside his head. Over and over. Gojo Satoru puts him out of his misery. The only person he curses is himself.
First, Gojo Satoru buries himself underneath waves and waves of his coldest regrets. One way or another, he knows he’s bound to do this; drown, that is, under a sea of everything he’s come to fall short on. So much for being the strongest sorcerer alive. He carries the suffering of everyone he has met. Doesn’t understand the weight of their crosses, though he carries them anyway. The burden that comes with wielding power—people start to forget you can only carry so much, too blinded by the light of salvation, that they disregard your well-being altogether. I will carry your crosses as if they were mine. But I will not pass onto you the weight of my pain because it is too heavy for anyone else. He is on the receiving end of everybody’s sins but he is forced to carry his own all alone. The peak is the loneliest part of the pyramid.
Second, he basks in the stillness of the wind. The trees rustle in the distance. During winter, stars are often out of sight in the sky because pounds and pounds of clouds cover them up; not a problem for the young God with Six Eyes—not a problem at all—but he wishes he could see them without feeling the ache of his ability. The hurt takes away the beauty. He knows beauty is supposed to hurt; thinks it shouldn’t be that way.
Third, he weaves through memories he’s long since forgotten while he sits in the middle of an empty garden. The servants are eating inside. It’s Christmas eve—his cousins are probably quietly whispering inside the dining hall, he wonders how many of them he’s actually spoken to. Wonders if anyone is still alive. It’s been ages since he returned to this place; Nakatsugawa had nothing to offer him, and he knows that returning here would only bring him more things to fret over. Nakatsugawa is nestled between Tokyo and Kyoto. Nakatsugawa is quaint and small, and he grew up traveling back and forth and back and forth all because people wanted to be able to meet the young God with Six Eyes. Six Eyes that glew a dazzling shade of blue. He weaves through memories but he has forgotten them long ago. He remembers only snippets of a girl and the packs of seeds he used to send out at the start and end of each season.
Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he has not allowed himself to think of you for the last two years. He can’t. The same ache resides in his heart whenever you enter his mind—even more palpable each time he remembers Geto Suguru. Two people he has lost all because of things he had no control over. So much for being the greatest person in the world. So much for being a young God. I carry so much. Too much.
You, to yourself. Suguru, to time. Gojo Satoru has lost it all and he feels his hands growing more numb by the second. The snow blankets his arms until he could no longer see the droplets of blood on them.
Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and yet he feels as if he were back to being twelve. Lonely. Freezing. Indifferent. He is too young to have loved this much. Too young to have lost so much.
Last, he takes off the bandages wrapped around his eyes and he opens them and he sees the stars. Through the misty white clouds. Through the tears streaming down his perfect porcelain cheeks—chiseled and beautiful, like he was crafted by deities—and he thinks that the pain is worth it sometimes; even if it tires him out, even if it sucks him dry. He lies down on the snow until the cold has swiveled through his clothes, until the wind has carried itself in through each crevice of the fabric.
Today he had killed his one and only. Tomorrow he would see the one he wanted to love get taken away from him by another man. So much for being the strongest. I can’t even protect the people I care for. How could he deserve good things when he doesn't even know how to inflict anything other than anguish?
Today he had killed Geto Suguru and he has forced himself to stop mourning. Tomorrow he will grieve for the loss of someone else: inside his head, he imagines a version of you clad in white clothes, ornate golden jewelry, smiling through gritted teeth with makeup covering the dark bags underneath your eyes. He imagines someone else holding you close and he imagines the wince you’ll be choking yourself over for years—he knows you can’t be heard sighing, whining, complaining: knows you’re only supposed to be prim and proper—and he imagines the rising and setting of the sun and the dread that creeps in each time you wake up, only to do it all over again, over and over, tirelessly, no end. Left with no choice to endure.
Today he had killed the second person he has ever had the pleasure of growing with. Tomorrow he will lose the first one as well.
Gojo Satoru laughs at his misfortune, the irony of it all; the bitterness coats his tongue until it’s all he could taste. The only salvation he could ever know is the end of the knife.
―――
The mirror bears your reflection, and you see the years taking its revenge on your skin.
You resemble your mother, and your loathing is spilling through the hollowness of your irises.
After Ichika’s wedding, you’ve had little to no time to care very much for yourself. Day and night, you’re out and about preparing for your wedding, getting accustomed to the traditions they so greatly uphold in the Zen'in clan. For a while, the most fulfilling thing you could do in one day was to watch the gardeners trim away the grass outside of your residence; listen to the sound of the soles of their boots crunching the crisp grass during summer, their shears flattening out the long leaves during spring, the sound of sweeping when it’s autumn.
The mirror bears nothing interesting today. It’s the day of your wedding, you’re dressed now, you have all of your jewelry embellished on your skin. All that’s left is to seal the deal and live forever as someone who can only look out of the window.
And throughout months of leaning on the window pane, hitching your kimono higher from your knees, staring blissfully as each flower blossoms and falls with the changing seasons—you’ve imagined a life where Gojo Satoru came back for you.
Most days, you imagine him knocking on your door at night, with a pack of flower seeds in his hand. He’s too prideful to give you a bouquet. You know he’d flatter you with an excuse—something, something You could grow better flowers, anyway —and you imagine him telling you to run away with him, leave everything behind the both of you and never look back; in the house you live in, nothing was worth sparing a second glance. Not since they subjected you to a forlorn life of being kept indoors. Most days, you imagine Gojo pulling you out of your prison and helping you get back to the world you carefully crafted with him in the past, when you were children.
Much to your dismay, he never did do any of those things. After years of always falling like putty in his palm, you don’t have the capacity to think that crumbs of reciprocity were ever present in even just a sliver of his person.
It’s real this time , you force yourself to think, I hate him to the point of no return.
He’s a hypocrite. He’s told you over and over and over again—you can only save those who want to be saved. You used to believe him, too. Maybe that was your fault. Or maybe it was his. Maybe your mother was right, in the end, that nothing good will bear fruit from continuing to frolic within Gojo’s world. Everything you could juice out of that pipeline was gone as soon as he graduated high school; he dignified that truth the moment the assassination attempts ceased. And while it was generally a good thing to stop fearing for your life every goddamn minute of every day, it was solemn and painful all the same: it was as though the world was made aware of how irrelevant you were to him. Maybe he screams it out. Or maybe he doesn’t talk about you at all. You don’t know which would hurt more.
Maybe that’s why he never understood. Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it’s not yours, even though it is. How many times has he given you a chance to escape? Plenty. And yet each time he inches closer to asking the right question, you put a firm hand against his chest and you push him away: there is always hesitance, you’ve come to observe, there is always hesitance whenever he backs away. Like he could save me any time but I have always been stubborn and I have always been careful of how to be with him; because being with him is all that I know how to do and I fear that it will change the moment I say yes to the things I’ve always said no to.
Like Satoru lets himself get pushed away because love is something he does not know how to put an end to; because if he dives in, there is no guarantee that he won’t drown me with him; because I am terrified of what comes after and he knows that I am too weak to take a chance on what happens next.
Like ‘I could save you any time, but what if I forget to love you?’
You’re pulled out when you hear the blunt sound of something solid knocking on the glass you’re too familiar with. It’s inevitable. His return, that is, because that has always been tradition.
Your eyes fall to the floor. No higher. You try so hard to tell yourself that he's too late.
Even in the moment, you’re reminding yourself that he's taken too many things from you. To the point that you're sick and tired of just the sight of his hand, always appearing to be there to help you, only for them to quickly turn into instruments that ultimately only mock your entire existence. Gojo has taken too many, too much, and he's about to reach out for you and add insult to injury. And you're sputtering around the room, absolutely ready to do what he asks of you. Give what he requests from you. It's not an honor anymore to be friends with the greatest man alive; it's a curse.
But he slides the window to your room open, so you begin to list down everything he's stripped away from you. The ability to accept your fate.
He's stepping closer, dusting off his shoulders, moving forward with a smile on his face and you hate it. “It's been a while, hasn't it?"
You’re pinching your arm underneath your sleeves, wondering if you’re imagining him again, but that doesn’t even seem relevant anymore. Waiting has always been worth it, but you’re unsure if that still rings true. His return to you has always been inevitable. It’s tradition. It is. But you waited too long this time, so you remain unmoving.
“What are you doing here?” The despair you grew up with. You're breathless, you feel almost hopeful, pulling on your wedding attire to inch away from him. It does nearly nothing, but Gojo takes note of your apprehension, anyway. You do the same thing. Hope is something difficult to resist, more so when it is given by the young God.
It’s the morning after Christmas eve, and somehow the room is increasingly colder not because of the winter air or the yuletide snow: it’s the two of you, whatever pathetic tension’s circulating the area you’re both in. He’s quiet; so are you. You dislike it.
You watch him carefully analyze the room, and before you know it, he's opening your closet, he's rummaging through your clothes. But you're still there, awestruck and angry at him, for leaving you all alone for almost three years right after his promise of a tomorrow you can live with. You don't know what to say. The ability to breathe when he's around.
“Take it off.” His focus is fixated on digging through all the clothes you have. “Take off your dress.”
You don't know what he's saying—you have no idea what he's doing here, what he's referring to, what he's tormenting you for. You could hear the distant ticking of the clock on your wall, taunting you of the minutes left before you're successfully given to the Zen'in clan, but even still, you refuse to budge.
Gojo snaps his head to your direction. “Can you not hear me?” He's tilting his head to the side again, and now you want nothing more than to run to him. Gojo picks up casual clothes for you to wear and pushes them in your direction.
“Change out of your clothes.”
Nearly all of your words.
You reluctantly stand up from your dresser, loosening the knots of the ribbons tied around your dress; your waist feels free after short moments of tugging—after a while, you've stripped down to only your undershirt and white shorts, your confusion growing with each second. You haven’t seen him in three years—you’ve gone on longer with little to no contact with him, but somehow he’s returning to you this time and he’s changed; for the better, you’re still unsure, but you can see yourself in him; the dark bags under his eyes, covertly hidden beneath his mask, the faint lines on his face. Gojo looks as exhausted as you, if not more, as though he was mourning for something that he could not rest without.
“Gojo.” You whisper. “Where are you taking me?”
He helps you put on the sweater he picked out, his fingers combing through your presently-ruffled hair. He carefully places your arms through the sleeves of the top, straightening the crumples. You can’t pry your irises away from him, you realize, as though he was the flurry of fireworks that flash across the heavens during summer festivals. Not before long, he opens his mouth to respond, and in the process, raises a portion of his blindfold that covers his right eye.
“Getting you out of here.” He pauses, his breath lingers on your forehead; he’s freezing cold. “We can live in Tokyo.”
Every ounce of love you're willing to give out.
Tears are streaming down your cheeks now and he's wiping them away for you; you can't move, can't feel your legs, you feel so happy that it's utterly nauseating. He understands. Wordlessly, Gojo—no, Satoru assures you a lifetime filled with reparations of his past mistakes when he gently aids you in dressing up; sliding the jeans up to just below your torso, buttoning them close, not even attempting to joke around to thin out the tension. He takes off his mask entirely like he's done caring for whatever consequence his Six Eyes brought him. You stop yourself from counting after that. His eyes are blurry in your vision; the tears are taking up too much space, but you tell yourself with certainty anyway that his shade of blue puts to shame all scenic views you’ve seen in your life.
And he's done it, you realize, you're a goner. Satoru has taken everything from you and you're in love with him; or you were, and it’s been years since then, but now he's ready to give it all back.
Though the fight's not over, far from it—he's acting as your support as you walk around inside your room together, packing only the important things inside the duffel bag he found somewhere. Your eyes are swollen from welling up with tears. Satoru’s laughing at you. He's squeezing your hand. Calling out your name. You let him. It feels right for once, because it is, and the way it slips off his tongue reminds you of when the two of you were younger: every time he jokingly proposed, all of his antics, the competitions the two of you created and your wins and losses. The fight’s not over, though it certainly feels like time is ready to provide you two with the rest you need. The road has been treacherous, and it has been cruel to the both of you—whether together or apart, that was irrelevant.
You think you hear him speak; low whispers of I’m sorry for leaving. You’re never going to lose me again. Promises. Short ones. I won’t leave you this time. I’ll make you happy again. We can start over. Apologies. Promises. Ones that you knew he’d fulfill. I won’t forget to love you. I won’t.
The minutes are catching up, but you have all the time in the world, and you're ready to waste it all hand in hand. The walls are falling away, the world is steadily going back to its axis. He’s aligning himself with the stars in your sky and still he’s the one scooping you in his arms.
There’s a container in the corner of your desk, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that he’s retrieving the pack of freshly pressed flowers, carefully placing them inside his pocket before tightening his grip on you. Then, the window slides open with a squeal again, and you're inside his arms; his shirt smells like summertime, the scent of the wind when the annuals are blooming, the distinct fragrance of wormwood—except there’s no bitterness anymore, nor will there be absence. Satoru, your Satoru, is soaring up the winter clouds with the snow blending into the shade of his hair and you decide, then and there, that you are never going to let yourself look away from him again.
―――
“Plants must hate me.”
“That’s silly. Plants don’t hate you. I’m just better than you at gardening.”
The young God shrugs nonchalantly, rattling his new pack of seeds in his hand. You are kneeled down on the ground with your knees carrying the weight of your person, desperately trying to ignore the way they ache. Gojo watches you with his shade of blinding blue, and yet you could not bring yourself to hold his stare.
Among the two patches of soil, only one had sprouted beautifully into a herb. Yours grew to be small and short; vaguely resembling weeds more than shrubs. You recall your deal from half a year ago. ‘No more calling me weak if I win, okay?’
“This means I win, right?” Gojo starts, plopping himself down on the ground, “I win and you lose,”
Evidently, it doesn’t sting when he says it like that. You lean closer to him, trying your hardest to ascertain whether that coy smile of his was genuine or laced with mockery. He doesn’t yield, his smile growing wider the longer you keep your eyes on him. You had pretty eyes. You knew he liked your eyes just as much as you liked his.
A question comes to mind. Followed by another and another and another; until you are eye to eye with Gojo, intently focused on seeing just how long you could keep his gaze without faltering; without letting your eyes fall back down to the ground, no higher. You wonder if young Gods entertained questions from kids like you. You wonder if you two were friends. If you were, then could he keep coming back for you? Maybe he would want to.
“Are you angry?” He asks.
You shake your head, later tilting it to the side. “Why? Would it bother you if I were?”
Curious. He slowly nods his head.
“I think it would,” he musters out, poking your nose with his forefinger. You find it endearing. “Maybe. I’m not sure if I care for you yet. What do you think?”
You hum. “I think you like me.”
He gestures to you to proceed, silently pursing his lips into a thin line. You think Gojo looks best when he’s not gloating or moving. Like a neat porcelain doll. Thick white eyelashes that made him look otherworldly: he stood out, that much was true, especially considering that your clan consisted of heads of long, dark hair. He was beautiful. Always has been. You always knew that, too.
You shrug, in the end. “Not because you want to like me, but because I’m the only person you know. Can’t really like anyone else if you don’t talk to anyone else, right?”
“Okay.” Gojo pauses, almost like he was trying to make sense of what you were saying. “Then what about you?”
“I don’t know if I like you.” You test carefully, afraid of being on the receiving end of his anger. Gojo doesn’t react to that; he only keeps staring at your pupils. Like they were the most interesting things in the world. And they were. “You never seem to take me seriously.”
He’s about to respond to that, batting his eyelashes at you as though he was about to rebut your last statement. You don’t let him. Instead, you cut him off before he could even begin.
“But I like your eyes,” it’s your time to smile. “I love your hair.”
You’re betting he’s lost inside his own head, because he leans forward and you don’t want to believe that he’s doing that knowingly. You raise your hand, tracing the edges of his messy fringe, lightly patting the top of his head thereafter: and when his hair flows along the gust of wind that follows, the sunlight seeps through the strands.
You force yourself to look away from him.
“And whenever I look at them, I think to myself—” slight pause, your finger taps his chin carefully, “maybe I could like you, too. As you are. And not because of your family name.”
The first and last time you hold his stare, Gojo decides that he’d like it if you thought of yourself as worthy of him. He’d like to be worthy of you, too.
Salvation comes to you in the form of an empty garden and an even emptier bedroom, though Satoru promises you a lifetime’s worth of flower seeds and memories. He promises to tell you about the man he loved before. You’re unsure of who Satoru is to you, but you know you used to love him. You’re unsure if he loved you back then as well—but you know he could love you now.
The timing is off, but the two of you are happy. There is no room for complaint.
The Heiwa clan has long since banned you from ever returning to them, and you’re certain that a few of your sisters have grown to resent you for leaving; however, you know that your older sister understands, and you know that she’s working earnestly in order to help the rest of them understand as well.
Your mother has subjected herself to total isolation, and now there are rumors of the clan being dismantled altogether. Unsurprisingly, you haven’t decided yet if you’re concerned about it. Life has been slow. You’ve been walking alongside the pace it follows. None of your family members seem to be extremely concerned with getting you to come back; understandable, really. You know you wouldn’t want to come back for someone who was taken by Gojo Satoru. You know they think it best to just finally leave you alone.
Though, even still, you think you miss the estate. Tokyo carries a vastly different aura. It was unlike Nakatsugawa. Much unlike the valley you grew up in. You think you miss the patch of dried soil there, barely fertile enough to house the flora you’re interested in growing, and you think you miss all the rooms in the estate where Satoru and you used to hide in as kids. And Satoru thinks it’s funny— hilarious, even—that you are sentimental enough to miss the literal dirt of the home that never gave you any other option than to endure. And he thinks it’s ridiculous of you to miss the rooms. He thinks it’s ridiculous of you to reminisce. If you keep holding onto the past, how are you going to move forward to the future? The past gave you nothing but grief.
(Most days, you wonder if you could tell him the same. The past gave you nothing but grief as well, Satoru. You cannot move forward without mourning. You know that as much as I do.)
You curl your toes on the grass, barefoot and satisfied, the prickly points of the green lightly scratching the soles of your feet. How many hours a day do they try to justify their excuses? To satiate the lingering guilt, rapidly swirling inside them somewhere, because even though they did not take part in chasing away the esteemed young God’s most longest companion, they chose to watch cruelty unfold in front of them? You wonder if they resent you, too. Your grandmothers, your uncles, your cousins. Or if they blame you for having the sorcery world’s eyes on them now. Or if they even feel sorry enough to carry half the crosses you were forced to bring with you when you left.
The last one seems far-fetched, but you give them the benefit of the doubt. You forgive your mother a thousand times over because you find her pitiful the most. You forgive, in the end, even if the thought of doing so alone ravaged the entryways of your throat until it burned.
The sunlight glimmers in the distance, and you could only squint. Winter is not as harsh this year. You could make out the intricate linings of the sun even through the misty white clouds.
“Get your head back in the game, stupid girl.” Satoru waves the paddle to your direction, tossing the hago up and down to catch your attention. He’s clad in beige and muted green, the ends of his yukata trailing just below his ankle. His hair frames the sides of his eyes—shaped like rough paper cranes, folded amongst themselves. You nod in response, shrugging off the nickname he used on you as though his words weighed nothing. Sometimes, you believe that’s the case. Most times, you know he says that out of love, or at least something vaguely similar to that.
“Ultimate luck again,” you whisper cautiously, daring him to serve the shuttlecock. “Hit me. I bet I can win this time.”
“You used to say that every year,”
“Don’t get too cocky now. I had some help back at home.”
The word slips out before you could even analyze the repercussions of what it implied: home, that is, and you do not know what you think of when you say it. Your mind paints a pretty picture of a garden—nourished and delicate, with hanging flowers and crawling fruits, lovely pink, yellow, purple, and orange overpowering the green of it all. Your mind goes back to a decade back: the paddle you dropped to the ground, the sister you left there calling out for your name, the message to Satoru that you erased long before you could even send it.
Your mind is reeling. You say home but you really mean something else. A house, the estate; more than four walls, safekeeping memories both good and bad. Your sentiments feel foreign on your tongue. You think of home, and you wonder if you could paint a different picture. You wonder if an empty room and an emptier garden could be the something new you’d been searching for all your life.
The world stills down, but you stay moving. The brightly colored shuttlecock is passed around between you and Satoru, the tapping ceaseless. The sun drips down in the form of light. Kisses your skin until you could feel no other.
Home. Maybe this could be. Or maybe you were cursed with never having one. Maybe Satoru was the same—or maybe he had it, once, like you did, and he ended up having to search for a new one as well. Maybe the both of you could be something similar to each other—like warmth in midwinter and coats and bottles of scorching alcohol; like wooden closets and worn out socks and hair down the shower drain; like freshly cooked meals, detergents spilling outside the washing machine, broken clothespins. Like having both of your names written on a mailbox, mails addressed to the two of you, words meant to be shared between the two of you, the two of you.
When you pass him the hago with your hagoita, he doesn’t swing it back with a paddle. He catches it with his hand.
You stay adrift, barely awake. “What are you doing?” Confused, you tilt your head to the side. “You know that means you lose, right?”
He emits a low hum, strutting over towards you with his hands stuffed neatly in his coat’s pockets. You watch him with careful eyes, a smile on your lips, and a flushed nose. When you look at him, you remember everything you went through. You remember your old laptop, the Skype calls, Tokyo tower from years ago. The bridge in the estate; the library, the garden, the peak of Mount Ena. When you look at him, you think of the way you used to choke on your own breath all because he took up an unusually large space: he lived rather loudly, one of his charms. Always worked to his favor.
You look at him, you see hope. You used to see nothing.
“Aren’t you cold?” He leans forward, now tossing the hago up in the air and catching it immediately, doing so for a few more times. “We can head back inside if you are.”
“No, it’s okay,” you whisper, fixing your gaze on his hands, “I’m okay. Are you?”
He throws the hago towards your direction, and it flies past your shoulder. “I am.” He says.
You turn around, forefinger pointing towards the shuttlecock. “What are you doing?”
“Cold hands.” Satoru laughs softly. “Must have slipped.”
You roll your eyes fondly, later flicking his nose, and twisting around to pick the hago up from the ground. The feathers are fading out, and you knew that this one’s nearing the end of its cycle already. You’d have to craft a new one before winter. Somehow, it’s comforting to have something to look forward to.
You hold the hago in your palm. Steady and still. When you turn back to face him, Gojo Satoru is down on one knee with a box sitting neatly on his hand.
“Satoru, what are you—?”
“I want you.”
You pause.
“And for as long as I live,” he continues, neither corner of his lips curving up. The silence is palpable. You stare at him, wide-eyed, charged with fireworks coursing rapidly through your veins, “I will continue to want you.”
The grass is covered with melted ice, but still you could feel the warmth of it all. You wonder why you’re not freezing yet; instead allowing your toes to curl against the ground again, almost as if you weren’t close to completely going numb. You kneel down in front of him, too, cupping either side of his cheeks. You nod, a response enough to urge him to continue, bringing your forehead closer to his.
He breathes carefully, calculated, almost afraid. “I’d give you everything if I could.” Slight pause. It’s him who can’t seem to hold his stare this time—you tell yourself that he kind of looks like you; eyes plastered to the ground, no higher. Always to the ground. Were you worth that much? You’d never know unless he’d tell you. You’d never know unless you learn to believe him. “I’d give you everything if that’s what you’d want.”
Then, a thought. His question from before. The day of your father’s burial, atop the bridge, lost in the very little time that had already passed. And how about you?
“If you’ll have me,” Satoru takes the ring off its box, letting the cube drop down to the ground afterwards. He’s careless when he’s not fighting. He’s careful when it’s you. “If you could love me again,” he hasn’t changed at all, you note, and you think you could affirm his statement after this. You could love him again. “Then I wouldn’t want anything more.”
What do you want?
It happens quietly.
You stare at his shade of blinding blue, his hair covered with snow. You take the ring off his hand and you slip it through your finger.
I want to marry Satoru.
There is no harsh truth this time, you note. No room for that, no room for cruelty. There is only sincerity and grief and forgiveness and peace—and more room to grow in, too. More room to learn and relearn everything that he has come to forget. More room to get used to saying Satoru again.
Over the years, the sun has proven itself to be grander than the both of you, and yet you still bask under its loveliness when he kisses you in the end. Your mind paints another picture—this time, more beautiful than the last. Caged within his arms: no more absence, no more bitterness. You’re through with searching. Home.
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jjk one-shot#gojo satoru#gojo#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#jjk x reader#jjk gojo#✧ | juno writes!#apologies for formatting errors i have forgotten how tumblr works
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Hey there you!!
So… a couple of you might have noticed my complete lack of posting the continuation of Widows Pique. I think I’ll have to admit that it is on a little hiatus whilst my own life becomes more hospitable for writing.
I’m sorry for those that are waiting. Especially as I’m so close to finalising it! Hopefully in the new year I will find the time and place to pick this up again.
In the meantime I wish you all love and happiness and hopeful times ahead!
Greeny x
#henry cavill#the cavillry#henry cavill fic#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill fan fiction#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill rpf#henry cavill imagine#henry cavill fantasy#henry cavill fluff#widows pique#henry cavill x ofc#widows peek#henry cavill x curvy ofc
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A scenario that has recently been piquing my curiosity is the possibility that Jin Ling might have uncles and aunts younger than himself. Let me explain.
We know that Jin Guangshan remained sxll active until practically the end of his life. JGS engaged in relationships with young women, and he himself died at around fifty years old. Considering that JGS died when JL was already four years old, it could be possible that JGS impregnated a woman shortly before his death, and that woman gave birth when Jin Ling was perhaps already five years old. And the possibilities of Jin Ling having uncles and aunts one, two, three or four years younger than himself is even higher. At this point it should be noted that, during the imperial era in China, this situation would not be unusual at all. Those who could afford concubines (the rich men) usually had children who had large age differences between them. Taking into account that the average age of marriage at the time was quite low, especially in the upper class, it was not strange that the eldest children had sons and daugthers before the birth of their youngest siblings.
This theory would have to overcome two obstacles: the first being that the novel tells us that Jin Guangyao ended the lives of his bastard siblings to prevent potential rivals. We might wonder if he truly had total effectiveness or if he spared those who were barely babies and their families were not involved with the cultivation world. Jin Guangshan had so many descendants that some could have been saved. The possibility is there. On the other hand, there is also the obstacle of the natural survival of children. In the period in which MDZS is based, infant mortality was huge, even among high-class families. And if we consider the survival chances of a bastard baby, given the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, the scenario is even worse. The possibilities involve following the case of Mo Xuanyu and thinking that some mothers might have hoped that the wealthy father of the babies would eventually take an interest in them.
Let's create a scenario: Jin Guangshan impregnated a poor girl from a merchant family with business connections with the Lanling Jin Clan a few months before his death. The girl gave birth to a boy without being married, and her family pressured her to get rid of the baby. She refused and fled with the child, hiding in some village. Jin Guangyao, in these circumstances, found himself unable to locate the boy. The child had the opportunity to grow up in peace. He received cultural and functional education from his mother, as she comes from a wealthy family, and she received it herself. Shortly after the boy turned sixteen his mother fell ill. They could not afford the necessary treatment, and the boy, whom for convenience we'll call Xiuyin, tried to degrade himself to get money for his mother. His mother stopped him and revealed the truth: he was the posthumous son of Jin Guangshan, former Leader of the wealthy Lanling Jin Clan. The current Leader was Jin Rulan, a twenty-one-year-old young man, grandson of Jin Guangshan and therefore his nephew. Unlike his grandfather, the new Leader seemed to be a decent young man, despite having a somewhat conceited personality.
After their encounter, JGS left his mother a jewel crafted internally by the Jin Clan. The jewel could be his proof. The woman gave the jewel to her son, and he set off for Terrace of Golden Scales after leaving his mother in the care of a widowed neighbor.
Will Xiuyin manage to convince his nephew to help his mother? Firstly, the boy, highly intelligent, had to familiarize himself with the current state of the cultivation world. To do this, he gathered information in taverns and squares. Finally, after a couple of months of travel, he arrived at the gates of Terrace of Golden Scales…
#mdzs#mo dao zu shi#jin ling#jin guangshan#jin guangyao#lanling jin#english is not my first language#From random theory to quick fic#Or the one where Jin Ling gets a new uncle#but younger than him#cql#chen qing ling#tbc
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Select Clientele - Billy Hargrove x Chrissy Cunningham
Summary: Chrissy has her eyes on Billy. Billy has his eyes on Chrissy. He decides to have a little talk with her. What will be her decision?
Author’s Note: The pool flirting scene, but make it Calicheer. Also let me know if you want a part two.
Summertime in the small town of Hawkins meant something different for everyone. For El and Max, this meant sleepovers and playing around with her powers to spy on the boys. For Dustin this meant computer camp to learn and build with the latest in tech ware. For Will, he was hoping for D&D, while Lucas and Mike wondered if their girlfriends were mad at them. As for the older ones, summer internships and jobs to save up for future endeavors. Billy was more than happy to work as a lifeguard if it meant being out of the house. Chrissy, against her mother’s narrow mindedness, worked at the GAP.
Training alongside her friends was a nice change of pace instead of attending bible camp, again. Utilizing her people skills, practicing money management, and keeping the place in tip top shape made the time roll by. Even on days when only a small handful of customers came over, she was happy to be there. Aside from store discounts, she also had the benefit of stopping by Scoops Ahoy! to meet up with Steve and Robin during her lunch breaks. Harrington went on about his failed love life, while Buckley and her rightfully poked fun at him. Dustin was surprised to see Cunningham, feeling apprehensive at first. In time he was able to see that she was actually a nice person. Chrissy thought of him like a second little brother.
Aside from the mall, the community pool was also another big hot spot. The place to be for fun in the sun, much to the boredom of the juniors and seniors working as lifeguards. They did their training and work of course, their faces indicated that they would rather be anywhere than here. Billy was no different, still at least he was able to earn a little extra money and work on his tan. Billy was not ashamed of how he looked, he took pride in his appearance. A number of the mothers clearly took interest. He offered them a charming smile as he passed by, his face dropping immediately once he turned his back on them. He loved the attention of course, but there was only one set of eyes that Billy wanted on him. Eyes as blue as the ocean beneath the Santa Monica pier in July.
Nancy took in the warmth of the bright sun on her skin. Robin preferred to stay under the umbrella with Vickie, worried that the 50 spf wouldn’t be enough for her; despite her reassurances. Dustin was engaged in a battle of chicken, keeping himself steady on Steve’s shoulders. Making his best attempt to push Will off of Jonathan’s shoulders. Lucas and Mike were showing off in front of Max and El, the two girls focusing on each other rather than their idiot boyfriends. Erica and her friends were more than prepared to make fun of the older Sinclair sibling and his friend.
Chrissy’s nose was firmly in a copy of some trashy romance novel that Heather loaned her. A pretty predictable story, but one that she enjoyed nonetheless. In a small, shanty sea town, a faithful woman of god (who so happens to be a widow) crosses paths with a sexy pirate. He steals her, they go sailing, have sex, and that’s it. The words were enticing, the same could be said for the cover art as well. Muscular man with a tan, long flowing locks of golden, curly hair, eyes as blue as the sea, and he’s wearing a shirt that showed off more cleavage than the lady.
“So how are you liking it so far?” Heather asked, passing over a can of Tab to her.
“It’s good. Captain James is wooing Prudence in his quarters,” Chrissy answered back, eyes going back to the page.
“Ooh, you’re gonna love the next chapter. It’s so hot,” Heather purred, sliding a stick of gum into her mouth.
Chrissy wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of romantic smut, but her curiosity was definitely piqued in freshman year. During a slumber party, Heather shared her mother’s private reading collection and the girls all had a good laugh. Chrissy wasn’t sure what the flowery language meant, but she giggled as well. In sophomore year, she would find a private corner at the public library to read those stories; that is until Heather would offer one to get, in exchange for a little tutoring. As they studied for an upcoming science test, Heather noticed how distracted Chrissy appeared during a session. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Cunningham was crushing on Hargrove as he walked by. Heather, in good fun and genuine curiosity, had questions. Chrissy was easy to read: Cheeks glowing, heart thumping, and scowl that wouldn’t scare a rabbit. Heather swore to tell no one and she kept that promise.
Chrissy peaked over her heart shaped sunglasses at the tanned Adonis. She had an inkling that he was looking at her, despite wearing his aviators. She figured that maybe she wouldn’t register on his love radar, boy was she wrong. Billy wasn’t a stranger to certain members on the cheer team, little flings in between after school practice were commonplace. To his surprise, all she did was offer him a friendly greeting and nothing more. He sat behind her in geometry, staring at the gentle slope of her neck. The curled loop of her ponytail looked so pretty, often accessorized with a scrunchie or a bow. Her perfume smelled expensive, costing more than a six pack, a box of Camels, and gas combined. In the cafeteria their eyes met briefly before she went off with her friends. One of Hargrove’s fellow goons made the fatal mistake of jokingly stating that Billy had a crush on Chrissy. A threat and swift punch to the shoulder was enough to shut him up. Wounded pride aside, it was true; Billy did find her fascinating.
Getting paired up in class for a history project led to conversations, allowing for them to talk; even if it was surface level. They began to converse in the hallway and after school as well. People began to talk, Billy didn’t give a shit, but Chrissy did. He wasn’t sure why, but a part of his mind ordered him to keep her safe. If someone made an inappropriate remark at her, Billy was the first to know. If he noticed that she wasn’t in class, he would ask around. Max kept her distance between her step brother and the cheerleader. She figured it was going to be nothing more than another quick relationship that she would end up having to hear from her bedroom, again. Yet he seemed different around her. The last thing Max could do was bring it up. Still, she found it a little amusing that El didn’t understand what Mayfield meant by “happy screams” and why Chrissy wasn’t making any.
“Chrissy? Hello, earth to Chrissy?” Heather stated as she waved her hand in front of her friend’s face.
“Huh? What?”
She chuckled, “You were totally staring at Billy.”
“I was not,” Chrissy hissed back, her blush betraying her.
“Aww, look at you, you’re blushing.”
She crossed her arms, “No! I- I- I’m sunburned.”
Heather leaned back in her chair, expensive sunglasses perfectly perched upon her nose, “Uh-huh sure, whatever you say. I mean, it’s not like he’s been staring at you since you came in or anything.”
Was he? Chrissy wanted to check, but she didn’t want to be so obvious. She placed her own glasses back up, eyes lingering back to the beautiful man. Solar spectacles on, face on the residents having their fun. No one would ever know about the ocean eyes gazing at the strawberry blonde.
Chrissy inhaled slowly and made her way over to the pool. Fake it til you make it as the old saying goes. For Chrissy, her confidence always shined through whenever she cheered. Her feet and legs gracefully strolled over to the water. His eyes kept his sight on her, his mind taking in each and every step that she took. She dawned a two colored one piece swimsuit, purple and white adorned the fabric. She wondered if it was too revealing due to the revealing neckline and how the suit hugged her rear. Heather and Nancy insisted that she looked amazing, Vickie loved the colors, and Robin was speechless before giving her a compliment (well more of a ramble, but Chrissy still thanked her).
The water felt so welcoming along her skin, allowing her to feel so comfortable and so free. She always loved the water, be it rain, lakes, and whenever she took a bath. As a child, she used to pretend that she was a mermaid swimming far, far away into the endless depths. No more responsibilities, no more worries, and no more stress. She could be her own person with a strong, shining tail and locks as long as a kelp forest. If only this mermaid knew just how much the lonely sailor watched her. Billy slowly removed his sunglasses, admiring the incredible form and movement. Chrissy took to the water like a bird to the air, with ease and strength. Her vibrant eye makeup never washed away, strawberry blonde locks darkened to a warm amber hue. She was radiant, lively, and enchanting.
His job was to focus on everybody at the community pool, yet he simply could not look away. He could hear music playing loudly in his eardrums. The booming of drums, the slick plucking of a bass, the melodic riffing of a guitar, and the amorous lyrics from the vocalist all came together. In his eyes, Chrissy moved in slow motion to the tune of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded.” As much as he loved Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, her presence was no longer lingering in his mind. Chrissy was the one to break the surface of the pool’s water, strutting towards him in a red hot bikini. Manicured fingers carefully unclipping her top from the front to reveal her small and pretty breasts. His whistle seductively brushed along his upper lip and tongue, blowing out a loud tweet. The loudness of reality returned, but he kept his eyes on her. Chrissy used the ladder and was pleased to see him walking over.
“Looking good out there, Chrissy,” Billy stated, unable to keep back his smile.
She couldn’t resist smiling as well, “Thank you.”
He offered her a towel, their hands touched for a moment, “Perfect form.”
She felt the pleasant spark, eyes drifting along his sculpted body before she met his eyes, “Well… your form is amazing.”
Oh god, did she really say that to him? She really said that to him. His smile grew, letting out a mischievous chuckle.
She felt the little twinge of embarrassment, “I’m sorry. I’ve seen you… teaching lessons. Swimming lessons.”
Chrissy looked away briefly, asking for the concrete below her to melt beneath her feet. Maybe getting buried in a rock solid hole would be less painful than this. Yet he was still here, more than ready to engage. She hoped that perhaps he could smooth out the wince inducing matter.
Billy’s toothy grin dropped from humorous to a heart palpitating smirk, “You know, I could uh… I could teach you, if you like.”
Did she hear that right? Or did she imagine those words? He fluttered his long, lovely eyelashes when he spoke. Chrissy stood there with her mouth slightly agape.
“Oh?”
He continued, grin still evident, “I know all the styles. Freestyle.” He took a step closer, his expression neutral; enjoying the way she obediently nodded her head and clutched her towel. “Butterfly.”
Chrissy could hear her heart racing many miles a second. Her brain begged her not to say something stupid again. She could feel her body heat rising. She swore that she could also sense the warm sensation of his body as well, despite the short distance between them. Chrissy was so lost in his eyes that she didn’t notice the fresh stick of gum that he unwrapped and fished from his pocket. Gazing at the thick fingers gently holding the treat beneath his lips.
There it was, that smile, that gorgeously handsome smile, “Breaststroke.”
Chrissy did not blink, fingers loosening up as the air from her lungs momentarily vanished. The sound of her towel plummeting to the hard surface brought her back. She bent down to grab it, finding herself looking at Billy’s face when he helped her; his hand brushing hers once again.
“You okay?” He asked, sounding a little concerned and a bit smug.
She wrapped the towel around her waist, trying to hide her shyness with a friendly disposition, “I didn’t think you- I didn’t think you taught other age groups.”
Billy smacked his lips while he chewed, his breath minty fresh, “Well I offer more uh… advanced lessons to select clientele.”
He looked her directly in her gleaming eyes, he could see her demeanor change. Any time they spoke, even if it was just for a few minutes, Chrissy noticed how she felt a little light headed. Being in such close proximity made her lower half pulsate, a feeling that would continue to plague her long after they spoke.
His voice became as soft as the wind, Pacific blue eyes drilling into her soul, “Come to think of it, there is a good pool out at a Motel 6 on Cornwallis. It’s very quiet. You know, very private. Shall we say tonight? Eight o’clock?”
Chrissy’s brain reminded her to breathe, her ears focusing on the sound of his deep, gentle tone amidst the noise of summer fun. She could feel her head nodding, having to stop herself when she gave him a sympathetic smile, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He sounded heartbroken, it was all an act of course, one that made her laugh, “Can’t what? Have fun? Chrissy Cunningham.”
She felt so weird in this unusual predicament, yet she couldn’t help but enjoy this extra attention that he was giving her. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Billy to flirt with others, but she couldn’t imagine herself being with him romantically; and yet her mind did wander to that possibility.
Chrissy ran her nails through her soaked locks, doing her best to calm down her racing heart beat, letting out another chuckle, “No. I… I… I just, uh… I don't think I need any lessons.”
How strange. Her voice sounded different. Breathy and just a little seductive. Billy liked that, he really liked it.
He was closer to her, truly towering over Chrissy, “Oh, you see, I think you do. I just don’t think that you’ve had the right teacher.”
She gulped, this was really happening, “I, uh-”
The smug bastard showed off his best smirk, his voice was like caramel, rich and smooth, “It will be the workout of your life.”
Chrissy wondered if it was possible for a human heart to thrust back and forth through one’s chest the way a cartoon character’s heart does. His wolfish demeanor should have disgusted her, but she couldn’t lie to herself, she was enjoying this. Yet she could sense the judgemental eyes of everyone around her. As if she were bare before all of Hawkins, a sensation that haunted her in life and in her dreams.
Chrissy gasped when she felt Heather’s grasp on her arm, “Hey Billy, don’t you have some cougars to flirt with?”
He rolled his eyes, “Speaking of cougars, how’s your mom doing?”
Heather scowled at him, “You’re such a prick.”
“Well, I’d like to stay and chat, but I have a job to do. See you later, Chrissy,” Billy stated before heading back to his station.
Chrissy covered herself with the towel, “Thanks Heather.”
“Are you okay?”
She nodded, “Yes, I’m fine. Just um… I don’t know… kinda weird right now.”
#calicheer#chrissy cunningham#heather holloway#billy hargrove#billy x chrissy#chrissy x billy#calicheer fic#calicheer fanfiction#calicheer fanfic
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and, okay, let's take two examples of "bad" book pitches that are often brought up in this discourse, both because they're inevitably very identifiable vagues and because I haven't read either of the books in question. xiran jay zhao's iron widow is pitched as "a handmaid's tale meets pacific rim scifi retelling of china's only female emperor" (not an exact quote, I'm pulling from memory). what I get from this short description is that it's probably about examining real world systemic misogyny through the lens of dystopia but still aims for an overall warm/hopeful tone and arc with a lot of high energy action. that doesn't actually tell me nothing, I feel like that gives me plenty of information to potentially pique my interest and get me looking up a full synopsis.
joy demorra's hunger pangs is about queer disabled polyamorous vampires. I'm an avid vampire enjoyer, so I know that vampires have historically been used as deliberate or subconscious metaphors for things like queerness and disability, and I can think of Perhaps one or two examples of notable vampire media that have prominently featured love triangles, so that character identity info tells me that this story is probably a pastiche gothic romance that knowingly plays on and subverts that pop cultural history. again, that isn't nothing, I would say that's enough to catch the potential target audience's attention and get them to follow a link for more details, I sincerely do not think these types of pitches are entirely nonfunctional.
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Short love: Chp 5
Love is in the air
Summary: The is about widowed father Bradley Bradshaw who enlists his brother-in-law Jake Seresin and childhood best friend Robert Floyd to help raise his three daughters, eldest Donna Jo Margaret (D.J for short), middle child Stephanie and youngest Michelle in his San Diego home.
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader
Warning: Fluff, flirting
As Jake and Y/n enjoyed the playful moment with Michelle, Jake couldn't resist letting a mischievous grin cross his face. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned in close to Y/n and whispered, "You know, maybe we should have one of our own."
Y/n's eyes widened in surprise at Jake's unexpected suggestion, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she chuckled nervously. "Slow your horses there, Jake," she replied, her tone teasing but filled with affection.
Jake laughed at Y/n's response, his heart swelling with love for the woman beside him. "Hey, I'm just kidding," he reassured her, reaching out to squeeze her hand gently. "But can you imagine how cute our little one would be?"
Y/n couldn't help but smile at Jake's enthusiasm, feeling a rush of warmth flood her heart at the thought of starting a family together. "Yeah, I can imagine," she replied, her voice soft but filled with tenderness.
As they sat together on the couch, surrounded by laughter and love, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment, for the chance to share in Jake's dreams and aspirations. With him by her side, she knew that anything was possible, and she couldn't wait to see where their journey together would take them.
And as they continued to laugh and play with Michelle, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building within her, knowing that their future was filled with endless possibilities and the promise of a lifetime of love.
As Y/n gave Jake one last lingering kiss, she couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity about the whereabouts of the rest of the family. With a playful smile, she pulled back from the embrace, her eyes searching the empty room for any sign of movement.
"Where is everyone?" Y/n asked, her voice tinged with amusement as she turned back to Jake, her curiosity piqued.
Jake chuckled, his arm wrapping around Y/n's waist as he guided her towards the living room window. "They're all at Stephanie's dance recital," he explained, a proud smile playing on his lips.
Y/n's eyes widened in realization as she watched the empty street outside, the sound of distant music floating through the air. "Oh, right! I completely forgot," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Jake laughed, pressing a soft kiss to Y/n's forehead. "It's okay, babe. I'm sure Stephanie will understand," he reassured her, his voice filled with warmth.
Y/n smiled gratefully at Jake's words, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. "Thanks, Jake," she said, her voice soft but filled with gratitude.
And as they stood together in the quiet of their home, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for Jake's understanding and support. With him by her side, she knew that she could weather any storm, and she couldn't wait to join the rest of the family at Stephanie's dance recital and share in the joy of the moment together.
As they settled onto the cozy couch, the warmth of their shared space enveloping them, Jake's question hung in the air, casting a gentle aura of anticipation around them. Y/n's heart skipped a beat as she turned to look at Jake, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of curiosity and affection.
"Do you ever think about our future?" Jake asked, his voice soft but filled with earnestness as he searched Y/n's eyes for any sign of hesitation.
Y/n felt a rush of emotion wash over her at Jake's question, her heart swelling with love for the man beside her. With a tender smile, she reached out to take his hand in hers, her fingers intertwining with his as she leaned in closer.
"All the time," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. "I can't help but imagine what our future holds, Jake."
Jake's eyes softened at Y/n's words, a warm smile spreading across his face as he squeezed her hand gently. "Me too," he confessed, his voice tinged with emotion.
Together, they sat in comfortable silence, their minds buzzing with thoughts of what lay ahead. With each passing moment, the bond between them grew stronger, their love for each other shining like a beacon in the darkness.
And as they looked towards the future, hand in hand, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the man sitting beside her, for the love they shared, and for the endless possibilities that lay before them. With Jake by her side, she knew that their future was bright, and she couldn't wait to see where life would take them next.
With a playful glint in her eye, Y/n couldn't resist teasing Jake about his past reputation. "I still can't believe I managed to tame such a wild man," she quipped, a smirk playing on her lips as she nudged him gently.
Jake laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement at Y/n's jest. "Hey now, I prefer to think of it as being tamed by love," he replied, his tone light but filled with affection.
Y/n chuckled at Jake's response, feeling a rush of warmth flood her heart at the sight of his easy smile. "Well, whatever it is, I'm just grateful to have you," she admitted, her voice soft but sincere.
Jake's expression softened at Y/n's words, his heart swelling with love for the woman beside him. "And I'm grateful to have you too, Y/n," he replied, his voice filled with warmth.
Together, they shared a moment of quiet contentment, their laughter mingling with the soft hum of their surroundings. In that moment, surrounded by love and laughter, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the wild journey that had brought them together, and she knew that with Jake by her side, there was nothing they couldn't overcome.
Jake couldn't help but playfully tease Y/n right back. "I still can't believe I managed to snag such a beautiful radio woman," he joked, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes as he leaned in closer to her.
Y/n laughed at Jake's playful banter, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Well, you must have done something right," she replied, her voice filled with mock indignation. "And as for your past girls, well, they just didn't know what they were missing."
Jake grinned, his arm wrapping around Y/n's shoulders as he pulled her closer. "Guess I lucked out then," he said, his tone light but filled with sincerity. "Because none of them matter now that I've got you."
Y/n's heart fluttered at Jake's words, feeling a rush of warmth flood her chest at the depth of his affection. "Smooth talker," she teased, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.
And as they sat together, wrapped up in each other's arms, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the playful banter and easy laughter that filled their relationship. With Jake by her side, she knew that every day would be an adventure, and she couldn't wait to see what the future held for them as they continued to navigate life together.
As Y/n and Jake basked in their playful banter and shared laughter, the sound of footsteps approaching interrupted their moment of togetherness. Turning towards the doorway, they watched as DJ and Stephanie entered the room, their eyes widening in mock surprise at the sight of Y/n and Jake cuddled up on the couch.
"Ooooo, looks like someone's having a moment!" DJ exclaimed, her voice filled with playful teasing as she nudged Stephanie with her elbow.
Stephanie joined in with a mischievous grin, her eyes dancing with amusement as she looked between Y/n and Jake. "Yeah, a real romantic moment," she added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Y/n couldn't help but laugh at the antics of her nieces, feeling a sense of warmth and affection wash over her at the sight of their playful teasing. "Oh, come on, you two. Can't a couple enjoy a quiet moment together?" she replied, her voice filled with mock indignation.
Jake chuckled, wrapping his arm around Y/n's shoulders as he joined in on the fun. "Yeah, give us a break, you two. We're just enjoying each other's company," he added, his voice tinged with amusement.
But DJ and Stephanie weren't about to let them off that easily, continuing to tease them with playful banter and exaggerated gestures. And as the laughter filled the room, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and laughter that surrounded them, knowing that with Jake and her nieces by her side, every moment was filled with joy and warmth.
As DJ and Stephanie dashed upstairs to their shared room, their laughter echoing through the house, Bradley entered the room with baby Michelle cradled in his arms, followed closely by Bob. The two men exchanged amused glances as they took in the sight of Y/n and Jake sitting on the couch, wrapped up in each other's arms.
"Well, well, well, looks like love is in the air," Bradley teased, a playful twinkle in his eye as he set Michelle down in her playpen.
Bob chuckled, nodding in agreement as he took a seat in the nearby armchair. "Yeah, you two lovebirds couldn't keep your hands off each other, huh?" he added, his tone filled with mock incredulity.
Y/n rolled her eyes at the teasing from the two men, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks at their playful banter. "Oh, please. Can't a couple enjoy a quiet moment without being teased?" she replied, her voice tinged with amusement.
Jake laughed, squeezing Y/n's hand gently as he joined in on the fun. "I guess not, babe. Looks like we're fair game," he added, his tone light but filled with affection.
As the teasing continued, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and laughter that filled their home. With Jake by her side and her family surrounding her, she knew that every moment was precious, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
With a playful smile, Y/n rose from the couch and made her way over to Bradley, who was watching Michelle play in her playpen. "Hey, Bradley. Mind if I take Michelle upstairs for her nap?" she asked, her voice soft but filled with warmth.
Bradley looked up with a smile, nodding in agreement. "Sure thing, Y/n. She's been getting a bit fussy anyway. A nap sounds like a good idea," he replied, his tone gentle as he handed Michelle over to Y/n.
Y/n cradled Michelle in her arms, pressing a soft kiss to the baby's forehead before making her way towards the stairs. "Thanks, Bradley. We'll be back down in a bit," she said, her voice filled with gratitude.
As she disappeared upstairs with Michelle in tow, Bradley turned back to Bob and Jake with a knowing smile. "Well, looks like it's just us guys now. What trouble can we get into?" he joked, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Bob chuckled, settling back into his seat as he exchanged a glance with Jake. "Oh, I'm sure we can find something," he replied, his tone playful but filled with camaraderie.
And as the three men settled in for some quality bonding time, Y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for the close-knit family that surrounded her. With Jake and Michelle upstairs and the guys downstairs, she knew that they were in good hands, and she couldn't wait to see what the rest of the day had in store for them.
tagging:
@callsign-magnolia
@shanimallina87
@callsign-dexter
@horseslovers2016
@rosiahills22
@djs8891
@hookslove1592
@emma8895eb
@hardballoonlove
@kmc1989
@dempy
@mamachasesmayhem
@senawashere
@buckysteveloki-me
@sweetwhispersofchaos
@itsmytimetoodream
@jessicab1991
@ahh-chickens
#jake seresin#hangman x reader#hangman top gun#top gun hangman#jake hangman seresin#jake seresin imagine#jake seresin x reader#jake seresin x you#jake seresin x y/n#jake hangman fic#jake hangman x reader#jake hangman x you#jake hangman imagine#hangman imagine#hangman seresin#hangman fanfiction#hangman seresin x reader#hangman seresin x you#hangman x y/n#hangman
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Here's my list in no particular order.
Crazy
(127 notes)
Summary: Sy's girlfriend worries that she's lost him. Can he convince her otherwise?
Why it should be included: Breaking your own heart by jumping to conclusions resonates with me more than I'd like to admit.
The Arrangement
(105 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "When you're friends with benefits with the hottest guy ever and get baby fever."
Why it should be included: Any story that includes sexy time with Henry is worth the read.
Waitin'
(131 notes)
Summary: Defining your relationship with Sy
Why it should be included: A short and sweet little bit of fluffy Sy angst.
The Finish Line
(96 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "You meet a handsome, mysterious man while running a marathon. What will happen when you realize he’s a lot closer than you think"
Why it should be included: Adorable meet-cute and the aftermath.
Widow's Pique
(199 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "Penny is a 41 year old mother of one, existing day to day in the normal world until a chance encounter changes everything, for everyone."
Why it should be included: Henry is stranded and gets help from a single mom and her young son. It's a whole series (23 chapters so far) about meeting, building a relationship, and the struggles along the way. The main character is a plus-size lady. The author includes some great inspiration photos of beautiful, curvy ladies.
the nearness of you
(69 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "He’s nothing less than a piece of fine art himself, and you can’t help but prove it to him when he models for you to sketch. Museums tell you not to touch the art, but they don’t say anything about making the art touch itself."
Why it should be included: It's a really beautifully written combination of art and intimacy that's different from anything else I've read.
Unnoticed
(227 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "He had watch her grown up. He had seen her transform into a beautiful woman, with a strong will but insecurities. Despite being away from time to time, he had fallen for her, hard. She on the other hand, had seen him become a big, strong man. But deep down she knew he had a soft side. She had fallen, hard, for him too. Another thing they have in common? The believe that the other will never feel the same. Will their feelings for each other always stay unnoticed?"
Why it should be included: 1. Plus size main character 2. Brother's friend (one of my favorite tropes) 3. Mutual pining (another favorite trope) 4. It's a series :)
cardio
(166 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "For Henry and you, cardio doesn’t mean running and you like that. VERY MUCH."
Why it should be included: You all know that interview. This story expands upon it ;)
Pineapple
(177 notes)
Summary: (from the author) "Lately you feel depressed and Henry will do everything in his power to make you feel a little less shitty."
Why it should be included: Fluffy, caring Henry as the best partner you could imagine if you were depressed.
Surrender
(167 notes)
Summary: (Prompt) "How is it like to be with the Captain in a nutshell."
Why it should be included: A quick, sexy Sy drabble.
The Veterinarian and the Werewolf
(45 notes - Prologue)
Summary: (from the author) "Jessie struggles to make connections with humans her greatest friends are animals."
Why it should be included: Henry is a werewolf. Need I say more?
Prisoner
(106 notes - Part 1)
Summary: (from the author) "ENEMIES TO LOVERS (SORT OF) - Henry Cavill is a respected Norman baron who has been tasked with finding Lady Thomasin, an ill-tempered Saxon noblewoman, and returning her to London so the king can marry her off to a cruel Norman invader. The two grow close during the long journey, and Henry puts his own life in danger (more than once) to protect the woman he loves."
Why it should be included: Henry, history, angst, fluff, smut. This story has it all.
Thank you for this amazing list @ysmmsy . So many great stories and writers.
Some of them have deactivated sadly, but I'll tag the ones who are still active
@peachyvulpixie @thehunterintrenchcoat @cavillsthighs @greensleeves888 @diegos-butt @writwroteerased @pussyverson @henryobsessed @write-r-die @emyearns
What's this all about? Click here.
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Coded Disagreements | Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader
Masterlist | N.R Masterlist
*REPOST* because Tumblr hates me </3
Words: 4.8k
Summary: Both you and Natasha grew up in organisations that trained you to be assassins and you grew to be close, what is in store for your futures?
Triggers: suggestive themes?, robbing you of smut ;)
✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
You had known Natasha for as long as you could remember. The places that you had grown up in weren't exactly the same, though they might as well have been. Natasha grew up in the Red Room, a brutal Russian organisation that indoctrinates young girls to fight for their agenda, ripping away their autonomy in the process.
You grew up in a Greek organisation, η ακαδημία αρποκράτους, also known as The Academy of Harpocrates. It was incredibly similar to the Red Room. Young people, regardless of gender, were snatched or brought from families and placed into the Academy. The agendas were similar in that they were for self-gain. The Red Room fought for hidden domination, The Academy fought to see the collapse of society to allow them to rebuild, their approaches tended to be more devastating compared to the Russian organisation. But the aim was the same.
Growing up, the organisations collaborated once a year. They thought it was important for the children to spar with those from the other organisations. The two had different training and fighting styles, so sparring against other kids from the organisation allowed them to practice fighting against those with different fighting styles and techniques. It prepared them for the real world of missions and assignments.
It was efficient. No other communication was allowed other than sparring. Children from both organisations were kept apart, the collaborations were mostly held in Russia, and the Greeks would stay on the other side of the building from the Widows. The two places may collaborate and have similar sociopolitical views, but they were in no way complete allies. There was always the opportunity for one to stab the other in the back for self-preservation.
Friendships were forbidden within their own organisations, so if they caught any communications from external ones then it was a guarantee that severe consequences would be had.
Which is why you had to be sneaky.
The first time you and Natasha met, though you didn't remember it, was when you were two. Of course, at that age, you weren't brought along to the Red Room to spar, but you were brought along so that you and the others your age learnt that there were more people in the world than in the little bubble that you were being raised in.
Though you did wonder why you were told you could go and see other children if you weren't allowed to interact with them. But even at your young age, you knew not to question your superiors and just tried to find a crumb of fun on the trip. It was weird being outside of the Academy as those four walls were the only ones that you had ever known. Having been sold at the ripe old age of 4 days old, you weren't really aware that there was much else around the world as you had never been allowed to leave. Until your first collaboration trip.
On day three of the trip, whilst standing by your handler in the Russian's training room, you looked around in awe of how different it all looked. In actuality it didn't look very nice, it was cold and gloomy, but it looked vastly different to your training room at home so your focus was on that.
You took notice of the dark hardwood flooring and cream walls and black arches, with small windows on the side, not allowing for much light. You thought it looked really cool, your training room had a padded cream flooring and the walls were mostly made out of glass. The contrast piqued your young mind.
Though you were soon distracted by noises from the fight that had started, and so snapped your head around to see. But instead of the fight, you ended up staring into the eyes of someone your age with green eyes and red hair. It didn't take long for her to look in your direction with the way that you were creepily staring, and when eye contact was made you both gave sheepish smiles followed by a shy wave.
You let out a small giggle when the young redhead pulled a funny face away from the eyes of her handler, to which you were promptly told to shut up by yours. It should have scared you, but when you saw your counterpart stifling her own giggle, you couldn't help but just smile as you apologised.
Throughout the different sparring sessions for the older kids, you both kept making eye contact and had your own silent competition of who could make the funniest face without the adults noticing. It was the most fun you had had in your entire life. Literally.
So, when it was time to go back to Greece, you both didn't want you to leave. When your handler took your hand and began walking out of the room, you turned back to the young girl who gave a small wave as she frowned. You smiled slightly to try and cheer her up and reached out towards her and did a grabby hand with your tiny fist, which seemed to lift her spirits until you turned the corner. What you didn't know, is that you would be seeing each other exactly a year later, every year.
Up until the age of 8, your interactions were limited. Though your faces when you spotted each other from across the room were priceless. It wasn't always a guarantee that you would see each other the following year, in the organisations that you were in tomorrow wasn't promised. So, when you saw that the other had lived to see another year, you were both ecstatic.
The grabby hand when you left to go back 'home' had become a sort of tradition. Even if your handler was watching you as you left, you made sure to clench and unclench your fist with your arm by your side. It was a 'see you soon, and stay safe', and the other always took notice.
When you reached the age where you were allowed to start sparring was when the interactions picked up. Age 9 was the cutoff point for the collaboration, a random age but it was deemed the point where you were trained enough. There were a few people your age that now reached the threshold, so you hoped that you would get paired with the person that you had made friends with over the years.
You waited in anticipation as you lined up opposite the Russians, you kept your gaze forward just like you had been told to, but your young friend broke the rules, and soon you felt the familiar green gaze on you. Tilting your head to the side slightly, you looked at her and smirked before turning back with a blank face so that you didn't get reprimanded. You had to fight the urge to do the grabby hand gesture as the handlers were all watching you like hawks as you lined up. It was too risky.
It felt like forever before your name was called, so when "Y/N MANIATELLIS" boomed across the room you flinched slightly before making your way over to the part of the room that you had been called over to. You briefly spotted your friend looking in thought, most likely about your name as you'd never been able to introduce yourselves to each other before.
It was only a moment later before you heard "NATALIA ROMANOVA". Of course, you didn't know who that was, so when you saw your friend walking over to you, your eyes lit up, but your face remained blank. It was hard to stay so still with her next to you. You were so close that she was almost touching you, after years of silent communications with each other all you wanted to do was say 'hi'. But you had to wait until your handlers were busy with sorting out the spar session.
Eventually, you heard a small "Привет" (Hello) coming from beside you in a whisper. You knew many languages, and so did she, it was vital that you did. So you replied in your native tongue too, "Χαίρετε".
She let a breathy laugh out through her nose so that no one would notice, and you extended your pinky finger to poke her hand. She batted your hand away subtly and held back a smile, but then both of your faces dropped when you were called up to the ring. In all of the excitement for finally being able to interact, you forgot that you would have to fight. Now, these fights weren't to the death, but they were very close.
The fights lasted until the other person could physically not go on any longer.
Hurting each other was not something that you wanted to do, but there was no choice. The rules of these organisations was kill or be killed, so you walked up to the ring and watched as she climbed up the other side. Your breathing was uneven as you got into your fighting stance, and watched as she hesitantly got into hers. When the gunshot was fired signalling for the two of you to begin, you both faltered until one of the Russian handlers screamed at you to both start.
Immediately out of fear you lunged forward and threw a kick her way. It was blocked and you were thrown back onto the floor, but you manoeuvred yourself in mid-air so that you landed on your back to immediately jump onto your feet before charging at Natalia again. This lasted for a while.
The two of you seemed to be on the exact same level as each other. Your superiors waited half an hour before calling a tie, which had never happened before in the history of collaborations between the two organisations. The atmosphere in the training room was tense as no one knew what it meant, but the adults in charge had terrifying grins on their faces.
You two were the future.
From that moment during every collaboration you two were paired together, and not once were you able to overpower each other. Every fight was graceful, people watched in awe as you both moved around the ring without any faltering movements. A beautiful choreography.
By the time you were 15, you and Natalia had formed a bond that you didn't think you would ever form. The two of you snuck out during the nights of visits and would sit on the roof to watch the stars. Though most of the time, you spent your time gazing at Natalia's side profile. She looked beautiful as she stared in wonderment at the cosmos. But she was your friend, and love is for children. So, you went back to staring at the sky, hoping that your spy friend couldn't read just how nervous you were.
You wanted more than anything to see her more than once a year, and even more than that you wanted to be able to hang out with her properly. Not sneaking in a couple of hours when you weren't even allowed to be talking to each other. But it was the life that you were practically born into, so it was the life that you had to deal with. You weren't made to be a normal person. One who could go out as they please, make friends, play games, and build a career based on your interests.
No. You were a weapon, and weapons don't weep for anything.
When you were 18 and graduated from your different programmes, you were sent on a lot of missions together. Usually, this would never happen. But after the leaders of both organisations saw your dynamic during sparring and how efficient the both of you were, they decided for the first time in their histories to band two of their Agents together for missions that would benefit both of them.
In the intelligence business, the two of you were known as 'The Downfall'. No one knew your identities but wherever you went regimes toppled. No one could match your efficiency and ruthlessness. When the two of you were given a job, it would be done within 24 hours, with a 100% success rate. You were feared everywhere and were one of the greatest global threats.
Though you never saw each other that way. Once you had done your jobs and went back to safe houses, the two of you were the softest people you had ever met - with each other anyway. With most other people you were both incredibly cold and distant, placing no trust in them.
The more time you spent alone with Natalia, the deeper you fell. But you would never let her know. She was the only constant that you had in your life, your only ally. There was no way that you would do anything to jeopardise that. Plus, all of your missions were done with her due to how great the two of you worked together. If anything messed up that dynamic and you started failing missions, then you might as well dig both of your graves. You may be good at your jobs, but in the eyes of your bosses, you were easily expendable. There are always more kids to take. Always more kids to train.
The only problem was for a spy you weren't exactly subtle when it came to being around your redheaded friend. She had cooked up some dry pasta for the two of you to eat after another successful mission and you had settled into some comfortable conversation. Your life consisted of mission after mission, so you had no clue how you managed to keep conversations going with each other with limited material. But you did.
Your fingers mindlessly drummed against your placemat as the other scooped mouthfuls of pasta into your mouth, conversation happening between bites. Sometimes she would say something that made you almost choke on your pasta with laughter. She was perfect.
When your thoughts went there again, you became uncharacteristically quiet, which was picked up by your counterpart. She watched with furrowed brows as you began prodding at your pasta instead of eating it, how your fingers that tapped random tunes on the table ended up being a fist that you kept clenching against the wooden surface, and how you were grinding your back teeth without noticing.
"Всё хорошо?" (Everything okay?), Natalia slowly brought her hand over to your clenched one and gently skimmed her thumb over your prominent, bruised knuckles. The two of you tended to speak Russian in each other's company. There was no reasoning behind it, it's just the language that you both naturally slipped into. Though when you thought about it, you hazarded a guess that it was mostly due to the fact that before your missions your interactions for sixteen years were all in Russia.
Even with Natalia's motives being nice, checking in on you, it was the last thing that you wanted to talk about. She could read you like a book, if you even hinted at the fact that you were in love with your best friend - her - then she would catch on faster than a whip.
"Да" (Yes), you spoke softly and sent her a reassuring smile, though she didn't seem too convinced. Internally you grimaced as you saw Nat tilt her head in a pitying way. Just as predicted, she read you like a book.
She spent a few seconds analysing your body language like you had both been taught to do before she made her next move. "Ты уверен?" (Are you sure?). You were grateful for her concern, but the longer her gaze was trained on you and her hand was atop yours, the faster your heart started pumping, and the more the blush rose to your cheeks. So, you nodded and tried to move the conversation along. But unknown to you, she had sussed you out. You were painfully obvious.
Of course, she noticed the blush creeping up from your neck, the way you had to lick your lips more because your mouth went dry after she made hand contact - which she found hot, and the way your eyes flitted about the room, looking at anything but her. How could she have not figured out your secret?
Another thing that was unknown to you, is that your feelings were not unrequited. At all.
So, after she had figured you out and removed her hand to go back to eating her own dry pasta, she was unusually quiet as she mulled over what to do next. Though on your end you thought that you had made things weird between you or offended her. Neither were ideal.
She felt her own heart rate pick up whilst she overthought everything. There was no doubt about it that you were into her, but when anxious it's very easy for the brain to ignore gut instincts, even if what you think is glaringly obvious.
"Мне жаль" (I'm sorry), you mumbled whilst sheepishly staring at the pasta in your bowl as you used your fork to push some of your food around, trying your best not to let your trembling hand let go of the fork.
At your words, her face snapped back over to you with a slight frown, she didn't want you to feel bad when there was no reason to. She was just trying to figure things out. But with you clearly upset about it, all rational thinking went out of the window, and she dragged her chair next to yours whilst still seated and placed a hand on your jaw to get you to turn to her.
When you did hesitantly turn to face her, you were immediately hit with confusion. The way she was looking at you was one you had never seen before, her pupils were dilated, and her lips parted as she sucked in a breath. You tilted your head and got ready to ask what was going on, but before you could even think about what to say, she tenderly pressed her lips against yours.
At first, you froze, having no idea what was going on, but when your brain caught up with your body, you leaned into it and matched her movements, placing your hands on her waist.
It was better than you ever thought it could be, the two of you fit together like matching pieces of a puzzle. She was clearly in control, and once she thought that it was appropriate, she ran her tongue over your bottom lip and tugged gently on your hair for better access. The movement made you let out a small gasp and Nat briefly smirked at her successful movements before she lightly moved her tongue against yours.
When you both needed to come up for oxygen, Nat resorted to tugging your hair back gently once again for access to your neck and began to place open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and to your collarbone. When she heard you whimpering at the new stimulation, you felt her smiling against your skin before she gripped your waist and expertly moved you onto her lap. You frowned having no clue how she did it without fumbling, but this was Natalia Romanova, she could do anything.
She smiled at seeing your dishevelled state as she ran her hands up and down your sides, leaving goosebumps in her wake, before trailing down to your thighs, making you jolt. "Ты хочешь?" (Do you want to?), she delicately asked, laughing slightly as you began frantically nodding and gripping onto the back of her neck. You were on cloud 9, your mind felt fuzzy. So fuzzy that you didn't even notice the way one of her hands had reached for the zipper of your jeans, the pasta long forgotten.
---
The time that you had spent dating Nat was the best in your life. You were already best friends and knew everything about each other so it felt easy. No one suspected anything, if your organisations found out that you were dating then they would either separate or kill you. So, unless you were in a safe house alone, you had to keep blank faces around each other. It was hard but so worth it.
But nothing lasts forever.
There wasn't a point where you had officially broken up, but one day when on a solo assignment, Nat never returned. You had assumed that she died, and spent months mourning her, crying for her. The love of your life was gone, and you were all alone for the first time. You still had to continue with your own assignments, so that you were not executed by the Academy, but it was so much harder doing it without Nat by your side. You missed her. So much.
Years went by and you had healed, you still thought of her often, but it wasn't as painful anymore. You were learning to live without her. But, when you saw her on the news as an Avenger, you felt your fists clenching and your jaw tightening. You were glad that she was alive, but she had left you. Time and time again you had both talked about escaping, and she had done it without you.
Betrayal was the main thing that you felt. She promised.
The nightmare only got worse when you were on an assignment and got captured by Steve Rogers. America's biggest ass. You had almost got away, what you lacked in strength compared to him, you made up for with agility. You were running rings around him. Until Wanda Maximoff showed up. You were no match for her and her red wiggly woos, so you had no choice but to comply.
Though you did spend your time cussing them out in your native tongue the entire way to New York on their quinjet. Anger was bubbling up inside of you so much that you hadn't even considered the possibility of seeing Natalia again.
Once the jet was all parked up, Steve harshly grabbed your arm and dragged you to the Towers interrogation room. You took note of all the exits that you could on the way there, but you doubted that it would make any difference as the entire place was guarded and had an AI watching your every move. You were stuck.
After being placed in the interrogation room and handcuffed to the table, you were waiting a good twenty minutes before anyone came in. It was during this time that you had the realisation that you might see Natalia again. So you did what any normal person would do. You panicked. Hard.
But you used your training to help you. During interrogations, you cannot show the other people what you are feeling. It stops you from being killed.
After a long wait two women came in and sat in the seats in front of you, they introduced themselves as Yelena and Wanda, and you thanked your lucky stars that Natalia wasn't there. You don't know how you would have kept up your cold front. You expected them to start questioning you, but instead, they sat looking like they were waiting for someone. You masked your confusion as your gaze shifted between the both of them, meaning you were visibly startled when someone else opened the door.
You tore your eyes away from the two in front to the person who had just entered, and your eyes widened as you saw Nat who was frozen in place as she stared at you. You took note of how her face seemed to pale and tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Holding in a scoff at how she had the audacity to cry when she was the one who left you, you tightened your jaw.
"Y/n?", she muttered softly and started to walk towards you, "Как ты здесь?" (How are you here?).
Turning your head around to face the table, you scowled. "You know her?", you heard the woman called Wanda whispering to Natalia, and she must have nodded, not that you had seen, because Wanda didn't say anything else about it.
"Answer her", Yelena poked your hand to get you to look back up, Natalia now sitting beside her sister looking gobsmacked.
"Капитан Америка" (Captain America), you drawled out with a sarcastic smirk, stating the obvious.
Nat gulped at sensing your anger and her leg began to bounce under the table. "Я думал, ты умер" (I thought you were dead), she breathed out with a shaky voice.
"Что?" (What?), your jaw went slack instead of being tight, and Nat began explaining how she had gone back for you, she tried so hard but was told that you had died on a mission. Dreykov had even shown her a photo of your dead body, which she obviously knew to be fake now, but it had looked so real. By the end of her explanation, she had let a few tears slip, which made you hang your head in guilt. You had spent the last six years of your life hating her guts, wishing that you had never tried to befriend her in the first place when you were an infant. But now here you were in that interrogation room, realising that the Russian and Greek handlers had been puppetmasters of your feelings and lives yet again.
"Are you going to cooperate with us?", Wanda asked wearily after a prolonged silence knowing that the two of you were probably feeling quite fragile now. "Yes," you looked up and nodded weakly. Though they still didn't trust you enough to uncuff you, even when Natalia asked them to, making her lean back in her chair with a huff. But once she had gotten over herself, she couldn't help but stare at you as you began to answer the hoard of questions being thrown your way. The corners of her lips tugged down slightly when she noticed fresh and healed scars that littered your face and arms - the only parts of your body that she could see. The only thing that she could think about was that she should have tried harder. Should not have fallen for the Red Rooms' tricks.
Though her train of thought was cut off when she saw your finger tapping rhythmically against the metal table, and recognising the patterns. .. - / .. ... / --- -.- .- -.-- (It is okay).
She smiled softly and began to tap her reply, - .... .- -. -.- / -.-- --- ..- (Thank you).
It wasn't until your next reply that the other two in front of you took any notice of what you were doing, -... ..- - / -.-- --- ..- / --- .-- . / -- . (But you owe me).
"What are they doing?", Wanda looked between both you and Nat noticing how Nat was watching your finger bounce up and down on the table, and how you tilted your head when Nat started doing the same. Yelena squinted as she realised that you weren't just fidgeting and also recognised the letters, "Morse code", she shrugged, leaving Wanda wondering what you two could be talking about in the middle of an interrogation.
.. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -.-. --- --- -.- (I will cook), came Natalia's reply, the other two now silent instead of asking you questions.
-. --- (No).
Natalia frowned and tapped her reply on the table in a much harsher way, the tapping sound much louder than it had been previously, .-- .... .- - / .-- .... -.-- (What, why?).
You smirked and tapped back in the same calm manner that you had started with, -.-- --- ..- .-. / -.-. --- --- -.- .. -. --. / ... ..- -.-. -.- ... (Your cooking sucks).
Yelena let out a small laugh, and Wanda jumped out of her skin when Nat slammed her fist down on the table and pointed at you, "Take that back!".
"No, I am telling the truth", you smiled and gave puppy eyes knowing that even after all these years that she wouldn't be able to resist. And you were right. She melted when she saw your smile again after spending years thinking that she would never see it again, so let out a shaky sigh that you weren't expecting. "Please give me the key", she pleaded to her sister who still looked unsure as she thought about it, but after a moment gave in and placed the small metal key into her outstretched palm.
Nat immediately rushed forward to unlock your handcuffs before throwing herself onto you. Your body instinctively froze, it had been a while since you had been touched in an affectionate way. So, when Nat felt you tensing, she pulled away and searched your eyes as her parted bottom lip jutted out slightly in disappointment.
She was there.
She was right in front of you, and yet your mind hesitated. But when she gave you a reassuring smile after seeing how nervous you looked, your walls broke down and you stood as you brought her back into your embrace, holding onto her like she was going to disappear again. Your heart wouldn't be able to take her leaving.
"I'm not letting you go again", she shook her head against your shoulder, and you nestled further into her if that was even possible.
You had your Natalia back, and you would break the Earth in two to keep it that way.
A/n - Wrote most of the Russian dialogue without translate, Duolingo coming in full clutch (Which also means you can blame me if it's all incorrect).
✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Natasha Romanoff Taglist: @diaryoflife
#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff x reader#natasha romanoff x female!reader#natasha romanoff x fem!reader#natasha romanoff fluff#natasha romanoff angst#black widow x you#natasha x reader#natasha romanoff imagine#black widow#natasha romanoff x you
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