#And now things that I think first that she would like I end up liking myself a bit more than I have in the past

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 47: The Reunion

Summary: You get to spend some time with your family after a surprise reunion

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,363 words

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, Alternate Universe, slight angst, emotions, language, family stuff, a little rehashing of the reader's past

A/N: Well, here it is. I'm not very proud of this one but I just don't have it in me to try to do more. This chapter has drained me so much. I didn't think it would be this hard to write it when I was planning out this part. Oh well. Also things do get a bit descriptive when it comes to the reader's age for plot reasons.

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Sugar cookies.

She smells like sugar cookies. Just like you remember.

The scent floods your nose, seeping into the back of your brain, seeping into memories that you thought you had forgotten. Warmth fills your body, flowing through your veins to your limbs, from the top of your head to your toes. It’s cold outside, but you can’t feel it, too caught up in the moment to care that you’re in nothing but a t-shirt.

Her arms are warm around you, squeezing you in an embrace so tight it almost hurts. You’d never complain. You want her to squeeze you tighter, never let you go.

Tears wet her jacket, soaking into the fabric as you desperately cling to her like she might disappear any second. It hardly feels real, but she is real. She’s really here. She’s really with you.

“Mama…” You sob, fingers gripping her jacket, clinging to her in desperation.

You thought you’d never see her again. You thought she was gone forever from your life.

Now she’s here. She’s really here.

“I know,” She sniffles, crying just as hard as you are. Both of you are shaking, clinging to each other. “I know, baby, I’m right here.”

No words come to your mind as you stand there, hugging your mother for the first time in years. You thought you’d never get to see her again, that the image of her heartbroken face as you were ripped away would be your last memory of her. You’d spend the rest of your life wondering where she was, if she was okay. You’d wonder about the rest of your siblings, what became of their lives. You’d be alone, cut off from all of them, just as your father wanted.

He didn’t get what he wanted in the end.

Something about that feels satisfying.

Your mother slowly pulls away from you, cupping your face in her hands. “Look at you.” She says, still teary-eyed. Her thumbs are soft, gentle as they wipe the tears from your cheeks. “My little girl all grown up.”

She still looks just as you remember. There’s still the warmth behind her eyes she never lost, not even in the worst of times. Some might call omegas soft, weak, vulnerable, but you know better now. There’s a strength to omegas overlooked by most, a strength you’ve always acquainted to your mother. She never lost any of her strength, even after she lost you.

“I missed you.” You say, leaning into her touch.

“I missed you too.” She says, giving you a soft smile, unchanged from what you remember. “More than you know.” She releases your face to wipe the tears off of her own.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” You say, wiping your nose.

“We thought the same.” She says, turning slightly to the man that had accompanied her.

“Jeremy?” You blink in disbelief, staring past her.

“Hey, sis.” He says, opening his arms.

You hug your brother tightly, breathing in his strong scent. Woody and warm like a campfire. Just like you remember. Jeremy’s only two years older than you, the brother you were closest with due to being so close in age. Though you missed all of your siblings, Jeremy was who you missed the most. Despite being an alpha, he wasn’t like your dad or your older brothers. He was kinder, softer, less willing to bend to your father’s expectations.

It’s a relief to see him. Very much a relief.

You pull away, staring up at them both. You can hardly believe it. They’re really here. They’re really with you again.

“I missed you both. So much.” You say, blinking back tears again. You’ve moved into the house, your pack making themselves scarce after introductions were made. You’re seated on the couch in the living area with your mother, Jeremy taking the chair.

“We missed you too.” Jeremy says. “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to see you’re alright.”

“We tried to contact the institute after your father died, but they wouldn’t give up any information.” Your mother says.

“Dad died?” You blink in disbelief. You had a feeling, considering the fact your mother was here at all, but hearing it was something else entirely.

“Mhm.” Your mother says, taking your hand. “Almost two years ago. It was when your youngest brother Darren presented as an omega. He got so mad, ranting and raving and carrying on. You could see it in his face, how worked up he was getting, then he just...dropped. A massive heart attack, the doctors said.”

You should feel sad. You should be upset at the news of your father’s death, but in the end, there’s a sense of relief there. He’s gone from the world, from your lives, your mother’s life. His steel hand and influence have died and with it all the abuse you endured. A deep part of you almost feels glee that he got what he deserved.

“It was a long time coming.” Your mother continues. “He was never the same after he sent you away. I think deep down he regretted it, but he never would have admitted to it. His health declined steadily. He had to retire due to heart issues but you know him, he refused to listen to the doctors. There couldn’t be anything wrong with him, just like there couldn’t be anything wrong with the family. I thought he was going to go when your youngest sister Sarah presented as an omega.”

“He sent her to an institute too, didn’t he?” You ask quietly.

Your mother nods, tears gathering in her eyes. You squeeze her hand, your heart aching for your little sister.

“We tried to get her back after he died, but...you know how institutes are.” Jeremy says.

“Yeah,” You say, leaning your head on your mother’s shoulder. “Maybe someday soon we’ll get to see her again. I mean, you found me after all this time.”

“Well, in a way you found us.” Your mother says, kissing the top of your head.

She’s not wrong. John found her for you. Even though it was Kate that had brought them, you know it was John that put in the request.

“What happened after dad died?” You ask, curious as to how things got to where they are now.

“I left not long after dad sent you away.” Jeremy says. “I couldn’t stand that he did that to you. I went no contact with him but stayed in contact with mom. I was the first one she called after it happened.”

“I kept Darren with me.” Your mother says. “I wasn’t going to lose another child to an institute. I moved in with Jeremy after the service. David and Brandon both rescinded that responsibility. They’re both still in the military with their own packs now. They didn’t want me to still be in that life. So Jeremy took me in.”

“I refused to join the military.” Jeremy says. “I didn’t want to wind up just like dad. I went to college and now I work in marketing.”

“You always were good at convincing people to do things.” You say jokingly.

Jeremy laughs. “I was. Still am too.”

“Jeremy has his own pack too.” Your mother says proudly.

“Did you marry Jane like you said you were going to?” You ask playfully.

Jeremy gets a bashful look on his face. “Yeah.”

“No way!” You blink in surprise. Jane was your brother’s high school crush. He talked nonstop about her, constantly regaling you with stories about how she looked each day and how smart she was. You had no idea they had even started dating.

“I’m so happy for you.” You say, giving your brother a big smile.

“Thank you.” He says, beaming with pride.

“What about the others?” You ask curiously.

“Hannah went to college,” Your mother starts. “I think your dad was willing to be a little more lenient with her being a female alpha. She’s a CEO now.”

“She always was bossy.” You say.

Your mother chuckles. “She was. Alex got into West Point. Despite your father’s distaste for the Army he was proud of him.”

“Little genius boy.” You say, remembering just how smart your little brother was from very early on.

“He is that.” Jeremy says. “Darren still lives with us. We’re giving him a chance to take his time in finding a pack.”

“He deserves it after everything that happened with you and Sarah.” Your mother says.

“I’m glad he’s getting that chance.” You say honestly. “At least one of us gets a chance to be normal.”

Your mother cups your cheek, giving you a sad smile. “I’m so sorry. I should have fought harder, for both you and Sarah.”

You shake your head, leaning into her touch. “It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. Dad had his mind made up and there was no changing it.” You lean into her, resting your head on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you. I know if it had been your choice, you wouldn’t have done it. Besides, if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have wound up here.”

Your mother rests her cheek against your head. “Are you happy?”

You smile softly. “I am.”

“They seem lovely. I can tell they care about you a lot.”

“They do. They wouldn’t have done this if they didn’t.”

“I’m so happy for you.” Your mother kisses the top of your head. “It’s a relief, knowing you’re well taken care of. I’ve worried about you since the day you presented.”

You smile softly, relief flooding through you. You’d never tell her the truth, at least all of it, about what happened to you. You’re not entirely sure you can. She doesn’t need to know all of the details. All that matters is her knowing you’re happy and well taken care of. That is the truth. You are happy. You are being well taken care of. Sure there have been bumps and hurdles, but that’s expected. There always would have been those moments regardless of what pack you found yourself in.

You’re just lucky you found yourself in such a good pack. They may be a bit dense and ruled by their jobs, but they are good to you. They’ve made more of an effort over these past couple months than you ever would have expected. Things have changed for the better, and despite everything, you know they will continue to get better.

They’re trying and that’s what matters.

Reuniting you with your family shows you that the most.

The nine of you go out to dinner in town that night. The restaurant was mostly empty, since it’s not tourist season, but you can hardly complain. You know your pack was relived as well. Despite the fact Shepherd is dead, that instinctual need to constantly look over their shoulders is still deeply ingrained in their heads. They can never be too careful, too cautious when it comes to you and your safety.

It should annoy you, but instead you feel charmed by their deep desire to keep you safe.

Your mother and brother are staying in town for a few days. You can hardly contain your excitement at the prospect of getting so much time with them. This half a day would be enough to last you a lifetime.

Her scent still lingers in the air when you return to the cottage. It has comfort and warmth spreading through your entire body. Your mom really was here, she really is here in England with you.

It feels almost surreal.

You sink down onto the couch, curling up in a ball, pressing your face into the pillow your mother had been leaning against. Her scent floods into your brain, your omega purring contently. It takes you back to the simple times when you were still a pup, being held by your mother, her gentle touches when you scraped a knee, her protective embrace when your brothers got too rough. The way she’d tuck you in and kiss your head even when you grew into a teenager. She did it for all of her kids, even though your brothers complained about it when they got older.

Tears blur your eyes again and you squeeze them closed, pressing your face into the pillow.

“Ye alright?” Johnny asks, standing near the fireplace. He had been halfway through lighting it again.

You sniffle, nodding into the pillow.

“What’s wrong?” Kyle asks, his fingers brushing over your head.

Your response is muffled by the pillow, inaudible to their ears.

“What?” Kyle asks, leaning closer.

You turn your head to free your face just a little. “I’m just so happy.” You cry.

“Aww, love.” Kyle coos, brushing his hand over your head. “I can only imagine how this must all feel.”

You sniffle, resting your cheek against the pillow. “I never thought I’d see her again.”

“We would have found a way for you to see her again.” John says, taking a seat on the other couch, facing you. “I’m just sorry it took this long to happen.”

A small smile forms on your face, but the tears keep falling. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Well, I at least understand a little.” John says, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You deserve to have your family in your life.”

Kyle continues stroking your head, sinking his fingers into your hair to massage your scalp.

“Too bad your dad’s dead. Would have liked to kill him myself.” Simon grumbles, sitting next to John on the couch.

You can’t help but laugh, morbid as the statement is. You don’t doubt your pack would have gone after your father given the chance. Once more showing their desire to protect you. There is a part of you that’s glad your father is dead. It’s what he deserves after everything he did to you and your family. Your mother is finally free and living happily without being in his shadow. Part of you feels sad, though. He was your father and deep down you cared for him. He was family after all, no matter how badly he treated you. As much as you wished he could have suffered, deep down you’re glad he died quickly.

You know you wouldn’t have gotten this chance had he still been around.

You also don’t doubt your pack would make good on their promises.

It shouldn’t fill you with glee at the thought of your pack being so protective, yet you can’t deny your omega preening happily at the thought.

It’s late. You’re tired yet you’re far too worked up from the excitement of the day to sleep. There’s a happiness, a content feeling deep in your soul. For the first time in weeks, months even, things feel like they should, like you’ve dreamed they would. Lying in your bed at the institute, you were guilty of daydreaming, picturing what life would be like with a pack, if they’d be nice and let you see your family again, if you’d be well taken care of.

What you got was far from what you had imagined, but despite all of the hurdles you’ve had to overcome, you’re beginning to fell more and more like you’ve finally made those dreams a reality. You have a pack that loves you, even if they are bad at showing it sometimes, you have your family again, you’re well taken care of.

You may not be able to get anything you ask for, but still they would walk over fire for you. They have, in a way. They went to such great lengths to keep you safe, such great lengths to save you when you were in danger, such great lengths to allow you to heal in a place you’d find ideal. Even John leaving when he did no longer hurts quite so much. You know he did it for a reason, a good reason. He’d have left no matter what. He had to do it. He had to ensure Shepherd really was dead, otherwise he’d never be able to truly rest and allow you to live your life as you deserve. As he thinks you deserve.

You were well taken care of while he was gone.

Your hand lifts to trace your fingers over the soft scars on your left shoulder. Given to you just over a year ago now. How time has flown yet how it has dragged on.

The hand shifts over to the right side, feeling the rough and ragged skin from the still-healing mark on your right shoulder. How far things have progressed in such a short amount of time.

How far things have come from where you were a year ago. You never thought you’d be here, but then again, laying in your bed at the institute, you could have never imagined this would be how your life would play out.

You truly are lucky.

Footsteps thud quietly on the steps, breaking the silence in the house. You hold your breath, listening as they get closer to your door. You pull your blankets up to your chin, watching. There’s nothing to be afraid of, yet you can’t stop the nervous twisting in your stomach. No one got in, no one is coming to hurt you. The threats against your lives are gone, wiped out. You’re free from that worry now.

There’s nothing that can hurt you.

The door slowly opens, darkness seeping in through the slowly growing gap opening itself up like a mouth waiting to devour you. A familiar face appears through the darkness, illuminated by the soft glow of your nightlight.

“Still up?”

You nod, slowly relaxing and lowering the blanket from your face. “Can’t sleep.”

John hums, slipping in before closing the door behind him. “Any particular reason?”

“Just thinking too much.” You say. “As usual.”

He smiles softly, lowering himself down on on the edge of the bed. “Your mind does like to wander.”

“It’s a character flaw, really.”

“That’s what Simon would say.” He leans on his arm, staring down at you. “How are you?”

“Fine.” You say, shrugging. “Happy.”

“Good.” He smiles. “I’m glad you feel that way. If it were possible I’d have it so you’d felt that way from the start. But the dedication to our jobs blinded us to the reality of the situation. When you spend years dedicating your life to the machine of war, it’s easy to forget how much it affects those around you.” He reaches for your hand. “It wasn’t fair to you, but we can’t undo it.”

“We can only move forward.” You say, quoting what Dr. Keller used to say.

“We’re going to do better by you going forward.” He says, brushing his fingers across the back of your hand. Just as rough and calloused as you remember them being despite the fact he hasn’t handled a weapon regularly or trained regularly in months. “I’m going to do better by you going forward.”

You hum at his words, shifting your hand to press against his palm. His hands are so big compared to yours, his fingers so long. Hands that have done unspeakable things in the name of keeping the world safe. Hands that have wrought violence against other humans, hands that have killed.

Hands that have cradled you so delicately.

“You know you could join me in here.” You say, lacing your fingers with his.

“Wasn’t sure you’d want me to.”

“Why not?” You ask, releasing his hand to press yourself up to sit.

“I know you’re not exactly happy with me.”

“Well, that’s true. But reuniting me with my family does give you a leg up from where you were.” You say, pulling the blankets to the side. “But it still doesn’t forgive you entirely.”

“Fair enough.” He says, maneuvering himself so he’s next to you.

You roll yourself so you’re next to him, staring up at him as he lays on his back. He shifts his arm over your head, offering. You take that offer, wiggling up against his chest. You wrap an arm around him, squeezing him gently. He’s softer than he used to be. He’s always been soft, but he’s lost more of his muscle mass in the time away from the military. All of them have gotten softer, something you can’t bring yourself to complain about. You like them like this, well fed and relaxed. There’s something so domestic about it, such a contrast to the harsh sterility of life on base.

John sighs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You press your nose into his chest, breathing in the deep, damp earthy scent of him. It sinks into your mind, starting to quiet the thoughts racing through your head. They dampen to a dull drone, your eyes slipping closed as you lay there in your alpha’s warm embrace.

The wind whips around you, blowing salty air around you. It’s sunny out, but the wind is cold coming right off the ocean. You stand right on the edge of the wet sand, watching the waves flow in and out.

“It’s beautiful here.” Your mother says.

“It is.” You say, staring out at the horizon in the distance.

“You seem happy.”

“I am happy.” You turn to glance at her, meeting her gaze. “I’m very happy.”

“Good.” She pats your hand where it rests on her arm. “I can rest knowing you’re somewhere you’re well taken care of and happy.” She goes quiet for a moment, staring out at the sea. “They really love you. I can tell just by looking at them. Those boys would burn down the world for you.”

“You think so?” You ask, even though you already know she’s telling the truth.

“Of course.” She says, squeezing your hand. “I always hoped you’d come to be free of the military, but of course we can’t always control what happens. I suppose it was wrong of me to judge every service member based on those your father chose to surround himself with.”

“He did have a bad taste in friends.” You murmur. You’d never tell her about Phil and how you were reunited. You’re not sure you could tell her.

“Birds of a feather…”

You hum, watching the waves flow in and out across the sand.

“What happens after your vacation is over? Do you go back to living on base?”

“I suppose so.” You say, swallowing thickly. You’ve been trying not to think that far ahead, but now that Shepherd is gone, there’s nothing forcing your pack to stay at the cabin. You’ve always assumed as soon as things were safe, they’d go back as soon as they could. It’s their livelihoods, their life missions to serve in the military. No matter how much the idea makes you twitch, you know in the end it’s not up to you. You’ll follow them like you’re supposed to. It’s not like you have any other choice.

If you’re lucky, maybe they’ll get a house close to base and let you live a semi-normal life outside of the barracks. You’re not sure you could ever return there after everything that’s happened.

Then again, you might not have much of a choice.

“What would you want to do, if you had the choice?” She asks you, breaking you out of your thoughts.

What would you do? Your instinct is to follow them, all of your institute training tells you to be happy wherever they take you, to make a life out of what you’re given and ignore what you would prefer.

“I’d stay here forever.” You say, voicing exactly what it is you want. You’d live in that small cabin for the rest of your life if it meant you got to live somewhere like here.

“And they know that?” She asks.

You turn your head to glance back at them. Simon is lurking like a shadow, watching you as he leans against a rock. Ever attentive and watchful.

“You should tell them.” She continues. “You have a good pack. I think they’d be more willing to listen to what you want than you think.”

You turn back around, leaning over to rest your head against her shoulder. She is right. You can voice your thoughts and desires to them. Maybe this time they’ll listen and take you into consideration.

“Tell them.” She leans down, kissing the top of your head. “Don’t get stuck like I did.”

“We brought some stuff to cook, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not in the slightest. Make yourselves at home.” John steps aside for your mother so your mother and brother can enter.

“What did you get?” You ask, stepping up to them to try and look in the bags.

“Eager little thing.” Your mother says, wrapping an arm around you. “Thought I might make some of your favorites.”

“Aw, mom you don’t have to do that.” You say as she guides you towards the kitchen.

“I know, but I want to.” She kisses the side of your head before releasing you. “What am I here for if not to spoil you a little.”

Jeremy sets the bags on the kitchen table before starting to unload them. You pick up a tin of cocoa, staring at it for a moment.

“Mom, are you making brownies?” You ask.

“Of course.” She says. “They are your favorite.”

You can’t stop the tears pooling in your eyes as you hug her again, holding her tightly. “I have missed your brownies.”

“Brownies and enchiladas.”

“Mom you don’t have to do this.” You say.

“Of course I do. I want to spoil you while I can.” She says, running a hand over your head.

“At least let me help you.” You say.

“I suppose I can allow that.” She says, winking at you.

The two of you head into the kitchen, getting started on cooking. Jeremy takes a seat at the table, striking up a conversation with Johnny.

“That could be dangerous.” You say, glancing at them.

“Let them have their fun.” Your mother says with a smile.

The two of you continue to cook, talking quietly while the conversation at the table gets more and more animated. Both Johnny and Jeremy are speaking loudly and laughing, and paired with the sounds of you and your mother cooking, are making the cottage seem more and more domestic. It reminds you a lot of life before the institute, at home with your family. Your brothers always loud and rambunctious, the younger kids playing in the living room, the TV playing some show in the background while your mother cooks away in the kitchen.

It has a warm feeling spreading through you, this glimpse of normalcy.

What you wouldn’t give to have this all the time.

“Smells good.” Dr. Keller says, entering the kitchen.

“Thank you. You’re more than welcome to have some once it’s done.” Your mother says.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m actually heading into town for the evening.” She says.

“To see Ashley?” You ask, wiggling your brows.

She gets an almost bashful look before clearing her throat. “Yes.”

You grin. “Don’t have too much fun!”

Dr. Keller gives you a smile before stepping out of the kitchen.

“Ashley is Kyle’s sister.” You explain to your mother. “Her and Dr. Keller have a...thing going on.”

“I see.” Your mother says with a smile. “I can only imagine what Ashley must be like after seeing Kyle.”

“They’re both absolute angels blessed with good genetics.” You say.

“Lucky them.”

You continue to cook, mixing the brownie batter while your mother pops the enchiladas into the oven. Kyle joins the pair at the table, Simon taking a seat as well, but as usual he stays distant from the conversation. Instead his eyes are on you, watching as you cook with your mother. Sometimes you wish you could sink into his brain and hear his thoughts. Is he thinking about his own family? You know he’s not exactly close with them, or at least he keeps himself at a distance. You’d like to meet his own mother sometime, but you’re not sure he’d be up for that.

You’d like to meet the rest of your pack’s families eventually. Considering you are family to them as their mated omega, it only seems right to meet their families. You don’t know much about their families outside the basics, and it would be fun to get to see what shaped them into being who they are today.

Cooking goes by quickly and before you know it you’re sitting at the table in your usual spot, across from John. The others are squeezed into the small space, your mother and brother on either side of you and Johnny, Simon and Kyle squeezed next to John. It’s a tight fit but it reminds you of home, a full table with delicious food. It makes you miss it, having a big pack surrounding you. A smaller pack is easier to manage, but you do miss the chaos of a big family.

“This might be manna from heaven.” Kyle says, his eyes closed as he swallows another bite of enchilada.

“Fucking delicious.” Johnny moans in agreement.

“Thank you, boys.” Your mother says.

You’ve hardly come up for air, inhaling every bit of food you can. It warms you to your core, the familiar taste of one of your favorite meals growing up. It’s just like you remember, perfect in every way.

Kyle and Johnny insist on doing dishes, the rest of you settling in for tea while the brownies cool.

“How much longer do you think you’ll be here?” Your mother asks John as she sips her tea.

“Not much longer.” John answers. “We have to go back to real life eventually.”

You’re not sure how much John told her. They’d spoken the previous day on the beach for a while, and you’re still curious as to what the conversation had entailed.

“It’s nice here.” Your mother says, looking around the cabin. “Cozy.”

“I’m sure we’d all like to stay here if we could.” John says. “I know someone in particular would.” He gives you a look.

Your face warms and you look down into your teacup bashfully.

“She always did like it when we lived close to the ocean.” Your mother says. “She’d go every day if she could.”

“She still would.” John says. “She’d go in bad weather if we’d let her.”

“Not if it was raining.” You say, trying to defend yourself.

“You sure that would stop you?” John asks, lifting a brow at you.

You try to convince yourself to say yes, but you know he knows you’d go even in the worst weather. Maybe not during a storm as that could be dangerous, but you’d still go and watch it at least for a while. “No,” You admit honestly, lifting your mug to your lips.

The occupants at the table all chuckle at your answer, all of them knowing what it would be. You’d sat outside in the rain enough times they know by now it wouldn’t stop you from doing much of anything.

“I’ll go dish up some brownies.” Your mother says, rising from her seat as Kyle and Johnny finish dishes.

“Let me.” John says, motioning for her to stay seated. It warms your heart a bit, seeing your alpha willing to do something so your mother doesn’t have to.

John dishes out brownies, Kyle helping him carry them to the table for everyone. The sweet smell of them has filled the cottage, hanging in the air making your mouth water. You’re excited, refraining from immediately stuffing your piece in your mouth as soon as it’s in front of you. You’re sure no one would complain, but the last thing you want is to draw attention to yourself in case you cry.

Just smelling them you might.

They’re still warm and gooey in your fingers as you lift the brownie slowly, bringing it to your lips. The sweet, rich flavor explodes on your tongue as you take your first bite, your eyes closing as you savor the taste you’ve been missing for years. You missed having brownies after your last heat and this has just healed that desire ten fold.

You really could cry.

“I’ve never tasted anything so good in my entire life.” Kyle says, earning satisfied groans of agreement around the table. “Don’t tell my mom I said that.”

Your mother chuckles. “Thank you, honey. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I can see now why you’ve been craving brownies, kitten.” Johnny says, his mouth full of chocolate.

“I missed these so much.” You say, taking another bite.

“I’m glad everyone is enjoying them.” Your mother says.

“Fantastic.” John agrees, wiping the chocolate from his fingers with a napkin.

You’re not quite so polite, licking the gooey chocolate from your fingers. A low rumble vibrates in your chest and suddenly your skin prickles. You glance up, finding all of the eyes at the table on you. You lower your hands, clearing your throat. “It was really good.”

“Good.” Your mother runs a hand over your head. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I don’t know how you read in such low light.”

You glance up over your book at John. “Because I’m not old.”

“That’s rude.” He says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not that old.”

You look him up and down before giving him a look. “Could have fooled me.”

John leans over, wrapping an arm around your waist. “C’mere.” He drags you across the bed to where he’s sitting, making you giggle and drop your book. “Little brat.”

You brush the hair out of your face, staring up at him. There’s a box in his hands, something you hadn’t noticed when he came in.

“Here.” He hands it to you. It’s not very heavy, and taped closed.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Something I think you’ll like.”

You give him a look before opening it. You wrap your fingers around the cold metal, pulling it out of the box.

“A phone?” You ask, turning it in your hands.

“No point to you not having one now.” He shrugs. “This way you can keep contact with your mother.”

You smile, hitting the on button. The screen lights up, already set up of course. You wonder what they downloaded on it before they gave it to you. “Thank you, John. This really means a lot.”

He smiles softly, brushing a hand over your head. “This way we won’t have to worry about you either.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving me by myself now, too?” You ask.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” He says. “You’d be hard pressed to convince Simon to allow that.”

“But there’s no threat anymore.” You say.

“Doesn’t mean something won’t happen in his mind. He’s very protective of his pack, especially you.” John says, brushing his fingers across your cheek. “He’s grown a lot from how he was at the start. I never thought I’d see him go that soft for anyone. Not even Johnny.”

“Johnny can take care of himself.” You say, already having figured out Simon’s thought process. “I can’t. Not fully. Especially not now, so out of practice.”

“We’ll get you back into shape. Not that you’re not still in shape, but back to practicing again.” John says.

Your stomach clenches a bit at his words. That must mean you’re headed back to base soon, back to the way things were before. They’ll continue on with their jobs and you’ll always be the one left behind. It makes you feel disappointed. John voiced how he knew you’d want to stay here, or somewhere like here. You thought maybe that would change his mind, or at least make him think about other possible options.

Looks like you weren’t going to be that lucky.

“It’s been so good seeing you.” Your mother’s voice is muffled in your shoulder as you hug her tightly. “A wonderful gift I’ve been given, having you back.”

“I don’t want you to go.” You mumble into her jacket.

“I know.” She says, pulling away. She cups your face gently. “I wish I could stay here forever, but we have to go back to the real world eventually.”

She’s not wrong. Your time here in this quiet retreat is coming to an end as well. There’s nothing necessitating you stay in hiding anymore. Part of you hates it. Part of you wishes they’d never found Shepherd and you’d have to stay hidden forever. But then you would have never been reunited with your mother.

“Call me.” She continues. “I want to hear about everything.”

“I will.” You say, fighting tears as you stare at her, memorizing her face. It’s the face you remember, albeit a bit older now. Then again, you’re older than she remembers too.

A small smile pulls at her lips, tears gathering in her own eyes. “I love you so much, baby.”

You pull her into one last hug, breathing in her scent to commit it to memory once more. “I love you too.”

She kisses your head before pulling away. She cups your cheek, taking one last look before she steps away. Jeremy takes her place, pulling you into a tight hug.

“It was good to see you, sis.” He says.

“You too.” You say, squeezing him tightly.

He pulls away, patting your head. “Don’t give them too much trouble, alright?”

“I try.” You grin through your tears.

“You need anything, you call alright?” He gives you a pointed look.

“I will.” You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the top of your head, giving you one last squeeze before he heads for the car.

You stand there in the gravel watching it pull away. A couple tears slide down your cheeks, cooled by the light breeze blowing. You’re lucky it isn’t raining, though that wouldn’t have stopped you from standing out here. Warmth presses in against your sides and your back as you stand there, watching the car until it disappears around the bend.

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[tsunodaradio]

only exception ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

there are things lando doesn’t like to do, but he supposes he can make some exceptions.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.7k. ꔮ includes: tooth-rotting fluff, romance. profanity. established relationship. ꔮ commentary box: first 1-2 finish of the year, babyyy! my co-driver @norrisradio wrote an oscar version of this here ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ the only exception, paramore. more time, alfie jukes. loverboy, young friend. c u girl, steve lacy. white ferrari, frank ocean. everyone adores you (at least i do), matt maltese.

LANDO DOESN’T LIKE WATCHING CARTOONS.

Or, at least, he doesn’t like watching them anymore. He’s in his mid-twenties, he’ll tell everyone. He has no reason to tune into things like The Simpsons or Wallace and Gromit. Lando thinks he has much more refined tastes nowadays, thank you very much. 

It’s why he had grumbled and kicked up a fuss the first time you tried to get him to sit down for something. Your yearly rewatch of Avatar: The Last Airbender, you’d said.

He was initially resistant. It didn’t matter how many kisses you promised him, how many hours you vowed to let him game uninterrupted. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about the first couple of episodes, and you let him go with a roll of your eyes. 

But then the stupid flying bison went missing, and Lando couldn’t help himself. 

You liked to watch in his living room, where you could sprawl out on the couch with a bowl of crisps. That made it so much easier for him to move from one room to the other, his eyes flitting a little too long on the television screen as he refilled his water bottle or came home from a quick jog. 

Lando hadn’t really tuned in for the first season— or Book 1, as you so often like to correct him— so he’s a little bit lost, but he picks up the necessary context clues. You’re so invested in it, too, despite this being your nth rewatch of your self-proclaimed comfort series. 

Every now and then, Lando will linger by the door. He’ll even throw in a comment or two. A mumbled “that Ba Sing Se shit is creepy” or an offhand “fucking Zuko,” and you would respond with small sounds of approval or dissent. 

And then he graduates to standing behind you on the couch, his hand on his hip and his gaze fixed firmly on the episode playing. He’s too stubborn to concede just yet that he’s invested, so you settle with this weird getup where Lando kind of just hovers until you call him out. 

By the time the Fire Nation’s prince joins Team Avatar, Lando has given up on feigning disinterest.

“You’re telling me she ends up with baldie?” Lando grunts disapprovingly, his arms tightening around you.

He’s referring to Katara and Aang. You had tried to keep your teasing to the minimum, not wanting to have him revert back to his whole too-cool-for-cartoons shtick. Still, you can’t help the way your lips twitch upward as you lean into Lando’s side. 

“She does,” you say absentmindedly. The Ember Island Players episode is playing, depicting some bastardized version of the main characters’ love lives. “There’s a sequel to this one where they talk about their married life a bit.” 

“There’s a sequel?” Oh, you love it— Lando’s voice pitching slightly higher with enthusiasm, then his attempt to hide it by clearing his throat and repeating, voice suddenly deeper, “I mean, there’s more?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “We can binge The Legend of Korra after this one.” 

Lando doesn’t say anything more. He locks right back into the Avatar episode, but you can feel that excitement thrumming through him like a current. 

Alright, so— maybe Lando likes to watch some cartoons. 

LANDO DOESN’T SET MORNING ALARMS. 

Being jolted awake is the worst feeling in the world for him. His years of conditioning had made it easier for him to adapt his body clock to whatever he needed it to be, without the help of a phone blaring some grating tune. 

He knows how to wake up at any given time. It’s one of the things you’ve teased him about, being the heavy sleeper that you are. 

Nowadays, though, Lando sets two alarms. 

You don’t know about them. How could you? He’s always up before you, hoping to get a run in before the sun has risen, or needing to jet off for work at absurd hours. You’re used to waking up to his empty side of the bed. 

When he remembers, he leaves something. A crude doodle on a scrap of paper with a dozen x’s and o’s. A misshapen attempt at a towel animal, inspired by whichever country he had been in last. 

For the most part, though, it’s the indent of his body in the mattress and the lingering scent of him in the sheets. 

Here’s what you don’t know— 

The first alarm is set 15 minutes before he actually has to get up. It’s set on a low vibrate, just enough to rouse Lando to consciousness. 

Half-asleep, he’ll reach over to find your sleeping form. The two of you tended to toss and turn in your sleep, making it so that he’d sometimes wake up to you on the far end of the bed or facing away from him. 

Whatever it is, Lando holds you. He spends the aftermath of that first alarm cuddling into you, whether it’s his chest to your back or his head buried in the top of your head. Nowadays, it’s become a habit; enough that he sometimes finds himself doing it to hotel room pillows whenever he’s off at races. 

Sometimes, he spends the fifteen-minute gap waking up. Most times, he drifts back into sleep, but with the knowledge that his touch is a little more intentional now. 

When his second alarm goes off, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and peel away— facing the morning with the knowledge that he has you for one more day. 

LANDO DOESN’T LOSE. 

He has spent his entire life competing, so it’s practically instinct at this point. When a challenge is laid out before him, he has to win. No ifs, no buts, no second-place podiums. It’s the kind of thing that bleeds into every aspect of his life— from serious things like his career, to absolutely ridiculous things like who can brush teeth faster in the morning.

“No need to pout, baby. What are you so mad about?” Lando taunts as he leans back against the couch. The Mario Kart results screen is still flashing on the television, bright and damning.

His name in first place; yours, a distant fourth.

“I’m mad because you’re a cheat,” you accuse with a dejected sniffle, your grip tightening on the controller. 

Lando gasps and presses a hand to his chest. “I would never.” 

“You so did.” As he expected, you’re already slamming buttons to bring the two of you back to the selection screen. “One more round.” 

He purses his lips, attempting to hide the shit-eating grin threatening to break on his face. “You sure you wanna lose again?” he asks innocently. 

You don’t dignify him with an answer, already selecting your character with newfound determination. Lando, for his part, grins like an absolute menace. He spins his joystick as if he’s warming up for battle, his attention divided between you and the game. 

Lando doesn’t lose. But sometimes, he lets you win.

Not in a way that makes it obvious, because his ego is much too big for that. He plays it smart. He’ll take the lead for most of the race, just enough to keep you engaged, to keep your frustration bubbling. Then, right at the last second, he’ll “accidentally” mistime a drift. Maybe he’ll take a turn just a little too wide, letting you zoom past him in a blur of victory.

He does it because he likes the look on your face when you win— the way your eyes light up, the way you throw your hands in the air like you’ve just conquered the world. It’s the same way you look at him after a good race weekend when he’s standing on the podium, champagne dripping from his curls.

It’s a look he wants to keep earning, over and over again.

So when you finally cross the finish line ahead of him, when the words 1st Place appear over your character, Lando groans in exaggerated frustration, dragging a hand down his face.

“Nooo,” he whines. “I had that in the bag.” 

He’s not about to earn any Oscars for his performance. He knows that much. You’re gracefully oblivious, though, and you’re grinning like this is some grand prix instead of a lazy Saturday afternoon. 

“In your face, loser!” you cry, launching yourself at him in celebration. 

Lando lets out an oof as you land half on his lap, half on the couch. Your arms fling around his neck. He laughs, warm and fond, and presses a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. “Best two out of three, twerp.” 

He’ll actually try this time, he swears. But he’ll keep throwing every other match if it means seeing you smile like the game isn’t the only thing you’ve won. 

LANDO DIDN’T REALLY CARE ABOUT THE MUSIC HE LISTENED TO. 

His brief stint picking up DJ-ing as a hobby had proved that he cared mostly for house music, the kind of pulsing beats that made for a good night out. Other genres, though? He never really gave them much thought. He was content shuffling through whatever was trending, never attaching any particular emotion to the songs he played.

That is, until you gifted him a Spotify playlist for when he was away.

It had been a simple thing. Just a shared link and a text message that read: For long flights and hotel rooms. So you don’t forget home.

He hadn’t expected much. But then he found himself listening to it across a dozen different countries. 

Your playlist became his soundtrack while stretching at the gym in Bahrain, watching the rain streak down his hotel window in Japan, lying awake with jet lag in Miami. The songs you chose weren’t just good; they were you. A mix of things he recognized from car rides with you, songs you’d hum absentmindedly while doing the dishes, melodies that reminded him of mornings tangled in bed.

And so Lando gets an idea. 

He’ll make you a playlist, too.

He thinks he’s absolutely rubbish at it, thoughts. He agonizes over every song choice, wondering if it fits, if you’ll like it, if it says enough without saying too much. His Notes app is filled with half-written ideas— Do I put that one song from our first road trip? Too cheesy? What about the song that’d played at the café of our first date? Which one was that, even? 

He changes the order a dozen times before finally forcing himself to stop, heart hammering as he prepares to give it to you. 

It’s stupid. He’s being stupid. This isn’t some wedding proposal or anything; it’s literally just a collection of songs. He half-expects you to laugh when he presents it to you, shoving his phone into your hands with a muttered, "Made you something. It’s probably shit."

But you don’t laugh.

You scroll through the playlist slowly, taking in each title. Then, to Lando’s surprise, your eyes well up, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Hey— hey, what’s wrong?” he panics, immediately regretting everything. “Is it that bad?” 

Damn it, he’s thinking. Probably should’ve booted that one Post Malone song. 

You shake your head, pressing your lips together to keep them from wobbling. “No, it’s just…” You sniffle, smiling up at him with something so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. “You made me a playlist.”

Lando exhales. “Well, yeah. You made me one first.”

“You made me a playlist.” You repeat the words like they mean something more, something bigger. And maybe they do.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dunno. Guess I kinda like music now,” he says, suddenly a bit shy. 

You’re on him in the next minute, the force of your kiss sending him reeling. He laughs against your mouth even as you mumble something like shutupshutupshutup. He holds your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your happy tears, and he resolves to make you a dozen more of these little collections. 

Somewhere, his phone screen is still lit, the title of the playlist staring up at the ceiling.

For when I’m home.

LANDO NEVER SAW THE APPEAL IN JOURNALS. 

Pen and paper never really meant much to him. He wasn’t the type to jot things down, wasn’t one for sentimental scribbles. Nobody else probably expected it of him, either.

Which is why the media nearly combusts when, during a post-race broadcast, the camera catches Lando hunched over a spiral wirebound in the garage. He’s seen scribbling something with uncharacteristic focus, and then he’s tucking the notebook away like it’d never happened. 

People on Twitter are quick to speculate. One viral tweet claims it’s Lando’s Death Note, where he’s listing the names of all the drivers he decimated at the day’s qualifying session. 

By the time media obligations roll around, it becomes part of Sky Sports’ list of queries. Once the usual stuff is all ran through, the interviewer pounces on the opportunity for a more lighthearted, humanizing angle. “So, Lando, what’s in the notebook?” the reporter asks, shoving her microphone a little closer to the driver. 

The Brit stiffens.

All around the world, people see the open surprise on Lando’s expression. The oh, shit moment where he seems to realize his ‘private’ moment had been put on full blast. 

He recovers quickly. Tries to evade by dodging the question with a joke. It’s obvious that the media isn’t going to give in, though, so by the time it’s a beIN SPORTS journalist posing the question, Lando can only sigh in defeat. 

“It’s a gratitude journal,” he admits, half-grinning. 

There’s a pause. A beat of disbelief before the interviewer laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, inspired by my girlfriend waiting at home.” Lando winks straight at the camera and waves exaggeratedly. “Hi, baby!”

(You don’t find out until much later, when the clip has gone viral on TikTok. The comments are all to be expected— calling Lando a simp, claiming he’s down bad and absolutely gone. It’s equal parts amusing and mortifying.) 

The interviewer chuckles. “Well, given today’s pole position, I’m guessing that’s your number one?”

Lando’s eyebrows raise. “No,” he says, his voice tinged with disbelief. As if it’s unimaginable. “I mean, pole’s great and all, but I always have the same thing at the top of my list.” 

“Which is?” 

“Her name.” 

LANDO DOESN’T ‘GO SLOW’. 

He’s not built for it. 

It’s just not in his nature. Not when he spent his entire life learning how to push the limit, trim down lap times, find milliseconds where nobody else could. He thrives in speed, in the way his pulse thrums when he’s threading a car through corners, the rush of adrenaline when he crosses a finish line. He isn’t known for patience, either, or waiting, or any of those things that require taking his foot off the gas.

And yet. 

And yet. 

“Lando,” you say amusedly, glancing at the speedometer. “Are you seriously driving below the speed limit?”

Lando doesn’t look at you. He just shrugs, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Just being safe, baby.”

Your lips twitch, suspicious. You’re onto him, because of course you are. It’s embarrassing how obvious he’s become. In his defense, he never used to do this. Never used to ease into turns, never used to take the long route home, never used to pray for red lights and stop signs if it meant keeping you in his passenger seat a little longer.

But nowadays, he does.

“Baby,” you sing-song. “You do realize I live with you, right? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

You shake your head, but the look on your face is fond. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Lando risks a glance at you then. His heart stumbles at the sight. 

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, eyes shining, hair mussed from where he’d flicked at it earlier. You look so impossibly soft in the glow of the streetlights, and he’s struck with the kind of certainty that rattles him down to the bone— that this, right here, is his favorite kind of drive.

His hand tightens over your thigh. “Guess you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “I am pretty ridiculous.”

Lando still lingers at the next red light. ⛐

[22ayla21]

Can I request Amphoreus man's react to their wife calling their name in the tone they know 'they fuck up' and be send to sleep on the couch. I love men who sometimes scared of their wives.

Bonus if their children join them on the couch make them think maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

Feel free to skip and I really love your writing ❤✨

"Honey, we need to talk"

They screwed up and realized they were now sleeping on the couch.

As soon as he hears her voice, cold, even and too calm, a shiver runs down his spine. He doesn't immediately understand what he did wrong, but he knows for sure that it is not up for discussion - he screwed up. And a harsh sentence awaits him.

He doesn't even try to argue. No, seriously, Mydei is certainly a mighty warrior and one of the strongest on Amphoreus, but he gives in to his wife immediately. His best strategies are submission and attempts at rehabilitation.

When he enters the bedroom, a neatly folded blanket and pillow are already waiting for him. He sighs heavily, realizing his fate for the coming night. Maybe if he is especially nice tomorrow, he will be allowed to return to bed?

But the real blow of fate is when the children come running to him. First one, then the other. They jump on the couch, make themselves comfortable next to him. "Daddy, we are with you!" They are so confident in their support for him in exile that he doesn't even know whether to laugh or cry.

Of course, they don't do it for no reason. First, they love spending time with their father. Second, they are simply curious about what he did wrong. The children begin to whisper theories: "Maybe you forgot the anniversary?", "Or did you accidentally break something important?", "Or maybe you ate the last piece of pie that Mom saved for later?"

The most annoying thing is that sometimes they guess. And when they happily exclaim: "Aha, so it's about the pie!", he understands that his life has become more difficult at that moment. His wife, passing by, only casts an expressive glance at him. He makes pitiful puppy eyes, but she already knows all his tricks. Not today, darling.

In the end, he resigns himself. He hugs the kids, wraps them in a blanket, and thinks that maybe this night on the couch wasn't so bad. But the next day, he does everything he can to earn forgiveness. Breakfast in bed, compliments, apologies - the whole package. And if he's lucky, he'll spend the next night in their shared bed, not in exile.

When his wife says his name in a certain tone – calm, but with such a hidden subtext that even the animals in the house tense up – Anaxagoras immediately understands: he has screwed up big time. Of course, he could object, try to defend his position, but no... He is too smart to push. Better to take the sofa in advance.

While he settles on the sofa, he thinks about what exactly he did wrong. Maybe he forgot something important? Or went too far in an argument? Or accidentally broke something that his wife valued again?

The children, noticing that their father is sleeping on the sofa, drag their pillows and blankets with smiles, settling down next to him. They say that they just don’t want him to feel lonely, but Anaxa suspects that they just like watching him being “punished”.

As they lie in the darkness, the children whisper: “Daddy, what did you do?” Anaxa is proudly silent – even if he himself is not entirely sure. But if his youngest son hugs him and says: "I still love you, dad," he feels a little better.

In the morning, his wife passes by, watching the "couch meeting" with a slight smile. The irony is that she is not surprised – she already knew that the children would be on their father's side. The next day passes under the sign of reconciliation: flowers, favorite sweets, hugs. In the end, he values his wife and does not want to sleep on the couch for long.

However, sometimes he still forgets and again finds himself in exile on the couch. But this is only part of family life – and he does not mind, because now he knows that he has allies in the form of children.

As soon as he heard his wife calling his name in a low, dangerously calm voice, everything inside him sank. He immediately understood that something had gone wrong. He turns around and sees her: crossed arms, slightly narrowed eyes and this expectant silence. No screaming, no emotion - and this is much more frightening.

A list of all his actions today scrolls through his head. Where did he screw up? What exactly did he do? Or, even more frightening, what didn’t he do?

He tries to justify himself, but her slight nod towards the sofa immediately makes him resign himself. A deep sigh, a proud bow... and a slow retreat to his place of exile.

When he has already settled down on the sofa, first one child appears next to him, then the second.

“Is mom very angry?” the eldest whispers.

“Will she forgive you?” the middle one asks.

Phainon only sighs and hugs them both.

It looks pathetic, but cozy in its own way. In the end, he lies on the couch with a couple of children's heads on his chest, knowing that at least he won't suffer alone. In the morning, when the wife sees this picture - her husband and children sleeping peacefully on the couch - her anger softens slightly. Maybe he has a chance to get his place in the bed back... but he may have to work a little more to atone for his guilt.

[shaiyasstuff]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

writer’s note : The girl mentioned in the story is supposed to be MC from the game but let’s pretend she isn’t :)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

[storm-and-starlight]

I've always been under the impression that the major culprit behind Zuko's "weakness" as a firebender is his own frustration and impatience: when he gets angry, he's prone to slipping up and forgetting the basic foundational skills that would actually let him become a master (partially due to his own character flaws, partially due to Ozai Fuckery)

Even just in s1ep1 The Boy in the Iceberg, where Iroh is training him in firebending he notes that Zuko's issues are a matter of impatience, not necessarily true lack of skill.

ZUKO: Enough! I've been drilling this sequence all day. Teach me the next set! I'm more than ready! IROH: No, you are impatient. You have yet to master your basics. Drill it again!

Zuko has "yet to master his basics", which is kind of strange to me given that he's 16 and has clearly been training in firebending since at least 10-11, as seen in the flashback sequences in s1ep7 Zuko Alone - but in those same flashbacks, we get this scene.

OZAI: Now, would you show Grandfather the new moves you demonstrated to me? (Azula demonstrates) She's a true prodigy! Just like her grandfather for whom she's named. YOUNG AZULA: (to Zuko) You'll never catch up... YOUNG ZUKO: I'd like to demonstrate what I've been learning.

Azula, as the prodigy, performs a presumably quite complicated firebending sequence and then goads Zuko into trying to do it, even though he's clearly not ready. It's not a question of power or fire generation ability - even in the opening "salute" section of the sequence, he's much shakier than she is on the forms, but he tries anyways and doesn't make it. This is probably where that tendency came from. He was clearly pushed as a kid to keep up with a sister he couldn't possibly keep up with, but never had the patience to actually drill the basics of firebending enough to actually learn, so he pushed too hard and too fast and ended up doing significantly worse for it.

In the Agni Kai with Zhao, we see the consequences of this - he's losing pretty badly up until Iroh reminds him of the importance of his basic stance.

IROH: Basics, Zuko! Break his root!

And right from that moment, the camera focuses not on Zuko's firebending, but on the movement of his feet and the strength of his stance, which allows him to drive Zhao back and eventually win -- and which gets mirrored beautifully in the Agni Kai with Azula, with that same grounded stance as seen in OPs gif, but also in another close up of his "root" during the first set of attacks, where he's slipping backwards until he takes a stronger stance.

to

I think that this is a cool callback between the two Agni Kai's, but also a cool callback to the things Zuko's learned from Iroh - patience, focus, and not to get so frustrated that you end up becoming your own worst enemy (because pre-s3 Zuko does that A Lot).

I think about Azula shooters often and their common refrain of "if Azula hadn't had a mental breakdown, she would've won" and I'm here to tell you that no, she wouldn't have.

There is no universe in which Azula was winning that fight with Zuko (or Katara, for that matter).

Azula spent so much of Book 2 being built up as this deadly terrifying force against whom the heroes are badly outmatched that it can be difficult to catch exactly how quickly Zuko is advancing.

Back up a bit to Book One. For the fearsome exiled crown prince of the Fire Nation, Zuko's not that impressive a firebender. He's not bad by any stretch, and he's able to lay the untrained Sokka and Katara flat pretty easily. Then he gets in the ring with Aang, who is an airbending master, and the difference between a regular bender and a master becomes apparent when Aang literally puts his ass to bed:

People have attributed this to the fact that no one's fought an airbender in 100 years, but I think it's also worth noting that Aang (a 12 year old from a pacifist nation) has probably never fought anyone before. Like, ever. And yet the second Aang thinks "okay, I'll attack back", the fight's over.

Zuko's got the same genetic predisposition for firebending talent that Azula does, yet it never seems to manifest because of his mental blocks. At the beginning of the series, he's already so beat down that all he really has is conviction, pride, and anger, so even with training from Iroh (the firebending master, thank you very much), he struggles. Yet throughout Book 2, when he has no time to train because he's on the run, he actually seems to advance faster. The fact that his bending is literally tied to his character arc (as his morals become tangled and he has to fight off aforementioned mental blocks) is pretty brilliant. Like, by the time of the Crossroads of Destiny, Zuko getting his ass handed to him by Aang is a pretty consistent feature of the show--he just can't match wits with him.

Hell, at the beginning of the series, he and Iroh (again: the actual firebending master) launch a combined power surface-to-air attack...which Aang casually swats away into a nearby ice wall. Come the Crossroads of Destiny, however, and Zuko by himself launches this bigass fireball that blows through Aang's defenses.

Zuko advances so quickly that it's scary. That prodigious talent is in him even if it doesn't come through as cleanly as with Azula. Who, by the way, was busy about to get flattened by Katara some few dozen feet away, until Zuko took over and then effectively stalemated her himself.

All of this in retrospect makes it abundantly clear why Zuko's firebending seemed to skyrocket so much when he learned true firebending from the Sun Warriors: it was really the only thing left. He's hard a hard road learning how to fight waterbenders, earthbenders, and airbenders, and even if unconsciously, he's applying the philosophy Iroh taught him about augmenting his bending style with aspects of other styles (see also, the waterbending-like fire whips he uses in the above gif). Once he actually understands fire and how it works, he's got it mastered. Hence why any gap between him and Azula effectively disappears as soon as their next fight--before her friends have betrayed her and her stability goes out the window. There's no real sense of urgency to their fight at the Boiling Rock prison. True, Sokka's presence with the sword helps, but Zuko doesn't look remotely worried and he counters Azula's every attack perfectly.

All her life, Azula only ever learned fire. She was taught by the best people the fire nation can employ, so she knows all the cool tricks, but she's still poisoned by the corrupted firebending practiced in the modern ATLA timeline. Unlike Zuko, who managed to get the basics if nothing else from Iroh (fire comes from the breath, and can be used to survive as much as to kill), Azula has always used fire as a weapon and a means to hurt others. She has no true knowledge of the craft, meaning she's got the same weaknesses as Zhao, she's just better disciplined to the point she can make up for it.

Zuko's victory was a given considering Azula's complete loss of control by the time of Sozin's comet, but even had she been in a perfect mental state, she'd have lost, because in many ways Zuko is simply the better firebender.

And that's the truth of it.

[evermarch]

“like the geese, we really did mate for life.”

an interesting thing about the sotr epilogue is that, despite its placement in the early years post-war, where haymitch would be in his mid-40s, it feels like it’s set at the end of his life. his tone is reflective. he speaks often in past tense. he talks about lenore dove coming to him, and he uses her language, saying that he’s not sure he’ll be in the “old therebefore” much longer. how his liver’s destroyed and he’s not sobering up, even if he’s not drinking for the same reasons.

but this is the same book where we saw one poor little girl transformed into another. the same series where skin grafts grow easily in a lab. where “genetic manipulation” class is part of the core curriculum before university. where mutts with practically supernatural abilities are designed at will. where the capitol populace has a notable substance abuse problem. in my mind, there’s no way transplanting a liver, a regenerating organ, particularly in a district whose new industry is medicine, isn’t possible.

so, to me, haymitch isn’t near the end of his life unless he chooses not to pursue a future. which he very well could. as he says, “when my time comes, it comes, but i’ve no idea when that will be.” but i think there’s a lot of evidence that he would choose to stick around. or at least, to try. namely, his lenore dove telling him he can’t go to her yet. because he needs to look after his family. and geese, for one thing, have an average life span of 10, 15, 20 years.

whether haymitch is or is not at the end of his life, i think it’s clear that he has not and does not intend to marry or have children beyond katniss and peeta. but i think the wording of the line which best establishes that is notable. “lenore dove likes it best [in the meadow], and I’m content where she’s content. like the geese, we really did mate for life.”

when he reflects on the life he’s already lived, he uses past tense. when he talks about his life now, on his reasons for sticking around with katniss and peeta, haymitch uses present tense. lenore dove exists in both places. throughout the epilogue, she exists in the present. she grows older with him. so i think it’s interesting that haymitch uses past tense tense for this one line. “we really did mate for life.”

that’s not to say that haymitch ever “moves on,” because that’s a false characterization of people who lose their loves in the first place. however, i think this line is past tense because it makes this question, like the rest of haymitch’s life, ambiguous. it also opens up discussion on what “mating for life” means. it’s a statement which implies exclusivity, but i don’t think necessitates it. because it’s not true that geese mate for life. they mate until one dies, after which the surviving goose mourns and then finds a new partner.

there’s room for a version of haymitch, who lives many years past the epilogue, who finds romantic attachment again.

if he does, he would not be replacing lenore dove. he would not be disgracing their romance or defiling their love. and 16 year old haymitch, believing he’s about to die, caught in the throes of the exploding tank and grief over ampert’s death, knew it, too. he was “furious” with himself that he didn’t tell lenore dove to “move on” from his death, because he was terrified of her living out her life haunted by his death. even while he desperately clung to her as he faced his imminent end, he was hoping she’d go on without him.

to love someone like all-fire is to love them enough to let them be free to go on after death. and that’s how haymitch loves lenore dove. and that’s how lenore dove loves him, too, because she is his goose. except haymitch has never been free to go on. the life haymitch was terrified for lenore dove to live is exactly the life he does live. from the end of the book, we know that he is doomed to repeat the 16th year of his life over and over again for 25 years. there’s no reprieve until katniss and peeta come into the picture.

yet, the epilogue’s tone is entirely different. it’s melancholy, but hopeful. he is no longer the 16 year old boy living in a repeating cycle of his own tragedy. when he next revisits it, it’s on his own terms. from that point on haymitch is finally allowed to grow up. to live a life in the “after.” to truly enter his mourning period. for someone new to join him in this new life would not mean he leaves behind lenore dove, or that she’s no longer his mate. because we know lenore dove stays with him, and will continue to stay with him, always.

and it’s likely that anyone with whom he finds comfort in his remaining years would carry someone with them, too. there’s no shortage of people who lost their loves in panem, whether from the war or before. there’s no shortage of people who would understand that his love likes it in the meadow. because maybe theirs tells stories around the fireplace in a creaky house in the seam. or fashions snares in the woods around district 12.

maybe 5, 10, 15 years in the future, when his geese are all grown up and two new goslings hatch, he’ll be an example of a different kind of love. of how new love is not a dilution of the love that was lost. of how lost love never dies, even as life goes on. of how love is not finite.

regardless of whether haymitch finds something resembling romantic love again, i am at least comforted by the thought that his end is much more peaceful than we dreamed it could be. because he has a family again. and because lenore dove is with him, too. and, no matter how long it takes for him to leave the old therebefore, she’s waiting for him in the next world.

[spiicii]

the usos / raw tag team champions

x fem!reader word count → 1.9k summary → this is literally just pwp. the usos have a breeding kink (change my mind!)  notes → thank you @wishyouloveme for the idea! and thank you @minteagalaxea and @acute-crashout-jeyuso for beta reading!  links → masterlist / taglist  tags → breeding kink, unprotected piv sex, daddy kink, threesome, possessive behavior, overstimulation, degradation, crying, the twins want you pregnant so bad

“You playin’ it risky, girl.” Jimmy chuckled in your ear, his cock buried so deep inside of you that you were seeing stars. “You know we ain’t gonna be changin’ it up.” 

You knew they wouldn’t. In the year you’ve been dating the twins, they never pulled out. Never wore a condom. It was why you’d been so conscientious about taking your birth control pills in the first place. But when you’d forgotten your pills last week, you knew that you would still end up here: on your back, legs spread with both Uso twins between them, pumping you full of their seed again and again. 

“I think we’ll be okay.” You whispered, forcing your brain to focus even as Jimmy’s dick tried to turn your thoughts into radio static. “I just had my period. It isn’t time yet.” 

“Hm.” Jimmy hummed noncommittally, his thrusts never slowing even as you began to writhe beneath him. “You better hope so. Otherwise you gon end up pregnant. Is that whatchu want?” 

You shook your head, trying to focus on his words even as his pleasure shot up your spine with every thrust. Jey chuckled beside you, his fingers tangling in your hair to tug your head back. You let out a moan at the feeling, your eyes opening to meet Jey’s piercing gaze. 

“I dunno, uce. Maybe she planned this whole thing. Tryin’ to baby trap us and shit.” 

Jey’s smile was mischievous, his fingers tugging again on your hair just to hear you moan again. “Knew she was a slut, but I didn’t think she’d stoop that low.” 

You tried to shake your head but Jey’s grip on your hair made it impossible. “Please.” You gasped, your eyelids fluttering. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to.” 

“Yeah, right.” Jimmy huffed, his rough hands now grasping at your thighs to pull you closer. “You knew whatchu was doin’. Is this what you wanted, slut? For us to pump you full and knock you up? For us to make you a mama?” 

Jimmy shifted his hips and his next thrust hit your g-spot with devastating accuracy, causing you to let out a cry at the feeling. Arousal and delicious heat were beginning to lick across your limbs like wildfire. 

“I guess that’s why she did it.” Jey chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple even as Jimmy’s thrusts caused you to roll your eyes into the back of your head. “But maybe she’s on to somethin’, uce. I think she’d look real pretty knocked up.” 

Their words were getting to you. The image of being pregnant with their child, not even sure which one of them was the father, was causing lightning bolts of arousal to shoot through your body. Your pussy spasmed helplessly around Jimmy’s length and he laughed, his grip on your quivering thighs tightening. 

“I think she likes it too, uce. Startin’ to think you right. Trappin’ us so we can’t ever leave her alone. That’s what you really wanted, wasn’t it, girl? Don’t wanna let us go, do you?”  

You were having trouble hearing him, the pleasure in your core beginning to overtake your other senses. And when Jimmy finally spilled inside of you, you were quick to follow, your orgasm leaving you shaking and breathless. 

Jimmy didn’t give you long to recover, quickly pulling out so that him and his brother could trade places. Jey didn’t waste any time, immediately burying himself inside of you before any of his brother’s come leaked out of your hole. You didn’t miss the way his hand pressed possessively against your stomach, right above where your womb sat. 

“Wouldn’t mind knocking you up, sweetheart.” Jey murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration as he began thrusting into you. “Think you’d make the prettiest mama. Whatchu think?” 

You didn’t have any words for him, not while his cock was filling you so perfectly. The pleasure from your last orgasm was still simmering low in your core, the tension beginning to build again. It felt impossibly wet between your legs, your juices and some of his brother’s come beginning to leak out and drip onto the mattress. 

“That whatchu want, sweetheart?” Jimmy cooed in your ear, his hands on your face as he began to pepper your cheeks with kisses. “To carry our babies? Make sure the world knows who you belong to?” 

You let out a high-pitched keen when Jey hit your g-spot again, overstimulation beginning to prick at your muscles as he began picking up the pace. He began pounding you into a new fervor, seemingly spurred on by his brother’s words. 

“And what happens when you end up with twins?” Jey asked, his voice an octave deeper than usual. “You think you can handle allat? You can barely handle the twins you got now.” 

Jey wasn’t normally one to finish quickly, but you could tell it was all getting to him. The thought of your belly round, your breasts filled with milk, carrying another Samoan into the world…it was all sending him spiraling towards orgasm much quicker than usual. You knew they loved the idea of getting you pregnant, but you hadn’t expected them to act like this the second it became a real possibility. 

Jimmy was still pressing kisses to your face, his large hand palming at one of your breasts. “You ain’t gotta do all this to get us to stick around, baby.” He teased. “You know we ain’t ever leaving you. You know we ain’t lettin’ our best girl go.” 

Jey finished inside you with a grunt, still keeping that possessive hand over your womb as he buried himself as deep as possible, ensuring you took every drop. He didn’t seem interested in pulling out, his eyes dark as he stared at you trembling beneath him. 

“Please, please, Jey…” Your voice was wrecked. “I can’t…I need…” 

“Shhh,” Jimmy was quick to shush you, kissing your sweaty forehead with a new tenderness. “I know, sweetheart. Too drunk on cock to think, ain’t you? Don’t worry, you know we gotchu.” 

Jimmy was quick to replace his brother, once again lining up at your entrance before thrusting inside again. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess, the arousal and overstimulation causing your body to feel hot and feverish. Still, you couldn’t help the next word that came out of your mouth. 

“Daddy.” It came out as nothing more than a whisper, but the twins heard it all the same, both of them chuckling.

“That’s right, mamas.” Jey cooed in your ear, grabbing your jaw to meet your eyes. “Gonna knock you up and be your daddies. Just like you wanted, huh?” 

You couldn’t help but nod, the arousal building inside you once again. “Want it so bad.” You admitted, opening your legs even wider to grant Jimmy better access. “Please, I need it.” 

Jimmy’s grin was wicked. “Oh, baby. You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for.” 

*****

You knew that the twins had stamina, but you had no idea they could go for this long. You’d lost count of how many times they’d come inside you, continuing to breed you late into the night. Your cunt was sore, your body exhausted from how many times they’d made you come. You felt full now, your womb flooded with the many loads they’d given you. You weren’t even sure how they could keep going. They seemed determined to fill you to the brim, triggered by the primal urge to come inside you and get you pregnant. 

The room smelled like sex, the sheets beneath you completely soaked. You might have felt disgusted about it if you could even think. The world around you was hazy, even as you stared up at whichever twin was between your legs now. You were pretty sure it was Jimmy, but your thoughts were so scrambled you couldn’t be sure. 

“So sweet. You take it so good, baby.” 

The voice in your ear was Jimmy’s, so the cock inside you must belong to Jey. Probably. But did it really matter? 

You felt warm and euphoric, the pleasure causing your body to thrum like a live wire. You couldn’t get enough of them.

“Such a good girl.” Jey cooed, his thrusts somehow still steady despite the multiple loads he’d given you. “Knew you’d take it like a champ. Just made to be bred like this, huh?” 

It shouldn’t have been possible for him to come inside you again, but he did, leaning over you to press a sweet kiss to your cheek before pulling out again. 

“Just one more.” Jimmy whispered in your ear, already leaning up to take his brother’s place again. You knew it was a lie, but you didn’t mind, allowing him to slip inside your wetness with ease. You’d let them go all night if they wanted. 

“Daddy, please.” you whined, yet another orgasm building inside you. They were almost painful now, their perfect cocks wringing as much pleasure from you as possible. “I can’t…I don’t-”

“It’s okay, mamas.” Jey crooned in your ear, reaching up to wipe some of the sweaty hair from your forehead. “Just let go. We gotchu. It’s alright.” 

The tension snapped and you came again, somehow gushing around Jimmy’s cock as he continued to pound into you. 

“Shit, you really want a baby, huh?” Jimmy panted, his thrusts so hard you were certain your cervix would bruise. “Lemme give it to you, mama. Gonna fill you again. Gonna knock you up so everyone’ll know you’re ours.” 

It went on like this for hours. By the time they finally finished, it was almost sunrise. You knew you wouldn’t be walking for days after this, your legs completely numb from how many positions they’d put you in. You tried to shift the best you could to relieve some of the pressure on your lower back, but a hand on your inner thigh immediately stilled you. 

“Can’t waste a drop, sweetheart.” Jimmy murmured, using his fingers to stuff the come that was leaking out of your hole back in. “How else you gonna get what you want?” The feeling of his fingers prodding at your sore pussy caused shockwaves of overstimulation to wrack your body, a low moan tearing from your throat. 

“Hush, baby. It’s alright.” Jey’s arms were wrapped around you, pressing soft kisses to your neck as he held you close. “Don’t cry. It’s okay.” 

Were you crying? You couldn’t be sure, not when your thoughts were this muddled, your body feverish and oversensitive. 

“Daddy.” It seemed to be the only word you could think of, your brain struggling to formulate a coherent thought. The twins didn’t seem to mind, both of them cooing sweet words to you as they leaned over to kiss you.  

“Such a sweet girl.” One of them said, their lips soft against yours. “We’re pretty lucky our baby mama’s the prettiest of the bunch. Ain’t we, uce?” 

“Mm hm.” The other hummed in agreement. “Gonna take care of you, mamas. We ain’t going anywhere.” 

You knew they wouldn’t. You could already see it now: a little boy, his head full of dark curls and his skin a familiar bronze. He’d have Jey’s eyes and Jimmy’s smile. You couldn’t help but feel a warm glow inside you at the thought, letting a small sound of happiness as the twins placed their possessive hands above your womb. They were looking at you hopefully, no doubt thinking the same thing as you. 

Maybe forgetting your birth control pills wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

_____

besties: @acute-crashout-jeyuso @mindairy @amandairene88 @askullasunflower @partypoison00 @brianochka @femdisa @luvrsluxe @zephyrazzz @scorpiochaos @gardencottage @minteagalaxea @annyanse @nbanenefrmdao @wishyouloveme @glittergirl7 @bloodline-fanacc @key05marie @mzv11 @neytiri-20 @solarrexplosion @ayeeeitsmiracle @buttercup0024 @punksyeet @pr0wlerpunk @lilucey @cassrox @cosmiccandydreamer @sarlaccussy @fearlesschimera

[boyfriendsmalec]

I want to thank you so much for this video and for all of your work in the Byler fandom.

I used to be a casual Stranger Things fan, but fell off in S3, for several different reasons. One being that I could not stand Mike and Eleven's relationship and how Mike's character abruptly changed. While there were other non-Mileven related reasons I stopped watching (which I won't get into in this post), it was only when randomly stumbling across this analysis video that I actually went back and finally finished S3 and S4.

Of course Stranger Things being such a popular show, I heard way back in 2022 that Will's character was confirmed to be gay and in love with Mike. But I still didn't watch the show. Because while I was happy to hear that confirmation (as I suspected Will was gay in S1/S2 as a CASUAL watcher) I never anticipated that Mike could return his feelings. I remember in S2 thinking they were cute together and mourned the fact that they couldn't be together, because Stranger Things was a "mainstream" Netflix show, and I didn't think they'd ever have the guts to establish a main romance between two male characters.

However watching this video changed something fundamentally in my perception of the show. I realized how much I had been burned by other queer-baiting shows and how that led to me misinterpreting the queer subtext with Mike's character.

I went on to watch more and more analysis videos of Mike on YouTube, and finally came back to Tumblr after a long hiatus to read long threads on Mike's character analysis and Byler evidence posts.

Mike's character to me is now fundamentally changed and saved by the queer analysis of his character. Mike reminds me in some ways of my own journey of both denying and discovering my own queerness, and I'm honestly shocked I missed the subtext in the earlier seasons. So it's no wonder that if I (and many other queer fans) missed that subtext on first viewing that most heterosexual GA members would completely miss it, leading them to be dismissive toward the idea of Mike being queer, and even the idea of Byler being a possibility.

And while I of course can't be one-hundred percent certain that Byler will be canon, I feel after all the analysis I've consumed, that it's a high possibility.

Ultimately many things lead me to believe Byler will most likely be canon, but the largest one that convinced me was when you spoke about the characters' arcs.

As you said, El is learning to not need others and is learning to be independent/defining who she is on her own terms. Mike, however, desperately wants to feel needed (he's the paladin/the protector of the group). And Will is the only one who needs (loves) Mike the way Mike wants to be needed (loved). Byler ending up together would be the only narratively satisfying way of resolving the El-Mike-Will love triangle.

There's so many other good points you brought up throughout the video. The blocking of the characters, the color theory, the little details in their costumes and set designs for their bedrooms -- it's all given waaaay too much thought to be coincidence. And Byler isn't given the same dismissive treatment that many other show creators give to "fanon" ships. It's respected (and even celebrated) by the actors on the show, and treated as though it's a genuine possibility. Netflix has even marketed Stranger Things with an emphasis on Byler over Mileven!

Again I thank you for your service to the Byler (and Stranger Things) fandom, and for allowing me to see the light!

My video "A LAWYER'S EVIDENCE that Mike and Will become a romantic pair in Stranger Things" is out!

Many of you have followed me ( @teambyler ) or read my essays analyzing Byler (I've linked some of the most-shared ones below). I am actually also a LAWYER who has a YouTube channel called RONALD OFF THE RECORD, and I just released my big video on Byler! (I also have another YouTube channel with 45K subscribers that I mention in the video)

I'm prepared to put my professional reputation as a lawyer on the line to comment on a piece of science fiction, because goddammit this is important to me! It is not "delusional" to think Will and Mike will become a couple, and there is nothing wrong with you if want it to happen! This is a video essay I've been planning for at least SIX MONTHS, and I put a lot of work into it. Please share, and please leave comments. Enjoy! =D

0:00 Why this video 1:38 Hate for Byler on the internet 10:16 Case for Mileven 15:21 Case for Byler: Starting premises 17:56 If Will were a girl… 25:30 The evidence! 29:05 EXHIBIT A: The Snow Ball 31:34 B: Mike's reactions to El and Will being upset 34:21 C: Season 3 ending montage 39:16 D: Airport reunion 47:51 E: Rink-O-Mania argument 51:28 F: Heteronormativity, audience expectations 58:25 G: Throwing away the letter 59:55 H: 2nd heart-to-heart scene 1:05:43 I: Mike can't say he loves El 1:13:27 J: Platonic reunion 1:15:12 K: Will's role convincing Mike to say "I love you" 1:20:08 L: Effect of the "love confession" on El 1:39:54 M: The Painting Lie 1:43:22 Honorable mentions 1:45:27 Non-diegetic evidence 2:01:23 Actor statements 2:10:34 NOT how you write an unrequited love story 2:16:07 Why Byler SHOULD happen (queerbaiting, etc.) 2:28:21 A more powerful story 2:35:45 A personal note

I'm now making this my new pinned post, so I'll list a few of my posts here for people to check out.

ADDITIONS: -28:00 On "We should normalize same-sex friends being affectionate, they don't have to be gay," I should have been clearer. HOMOPHOBIA is the reason for that stigma. Straight friends feeling like they can be affectionate in our society HAS to include normalizing LGBT+ people. -1:16:55 I should've said this more clearly: Will reminded Mike that who HE is, HIS unique qualities, make him worthy of love and make El love him, not dumb luck. And Will of course could convey that because Will loves the actual nerd MIke and everything he is. -1:17:06 Mike making El "not feel like a mistake" doesn't fit El, because she says that Mike looks at her "like I'm a monster, too". Nor did she "push you away because she was afraid of losing you". That's Will, not El. Mike felt love because Will was describing himself. -1:52:36 I forgot to mention that, in the original Nina opera, Nina's lover is ALIVE and DOES return. The Duffers changed the story so that Nina's lover does NOT return, to further suggest Mike won't return! -2:35:22 I'm kicking myself for not being more specific about Mike and Will being heroes in more than one way: I think the theme of bullying from s1 will return, with Will (and also Mike) having to face bullying for being boyfriends in Hawkins.

EDIT: I hit 1000 subs, only to discover THIS VIDEO CANNOT BE MONETIZED. ='( I think I put over 100 hours of work in this video, and this isn't sustainable for me unless I get support. This also means I can't make public videos with the same quality -- using show clips and music makes a stronger impact. I've considered deleting and reposting an edit, but that would losing all the wonderful comments and CUTTING OUT THE LAST SCENE. ='( ='( ='( NO. FUCKING. WAY.

So this is what'll happen: future videos NOT use clips and music to the same extent, except versions I post on my Patreon. And I need Patrons because I don't make money as a social-justice lawyer, and rely on that plus YouTube ads. Here's the Patreon link! (Any future video will be clipped, with the full version on Patreon) https://www.patreon.com/c/theruleslawyer

Some other @teambyler posts:

Mike was saying "I love you" to Will

Questions to ask if ever you have Byler doubt

How the Duffers have set Will up to have a happy ending in Season 5

The most heartbreaking way Byler can culminate (and how I predict it will) (I know this is less likely than an "escape from Camazotz" possession scenario, but I still want this to happen =D )

How the Duffers likely will make the general audience AWARE of Byler and CHEER for Byler

-teambyler

[thelov3lybookworm]

Misreading Letters

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Day 4: character A thought it was a date and character b thought they were going as a group

Summary: Maybe misreading letters sometime lead to happy nights.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1283 (longer than i thought it would be honestly)

Warnings: a bit of angst ig? heh

A/n: i wanted this to be SO, SO ANGSTY, but then i was like eh lets see where this goes, and its kinda fluffy i think! so ig thats a plus? as always, with me not liking my fluff fics, i think i could have done better with this one, but i wrote half of this in like 30 mins lol (dont we love procrastination 😍😍😍)

ANYWAYS. not proofread but hope yall like it!!

my entry for day 4 of @starfallweek <3

ANYWAY ENJOYYYY 🥳

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Sometimes, Y/n had learned, the cold that seeped into her bones was not always a bad thing.

Sometimes, instead of the cold heralding an impending arrival of doom, the feeling grounded her. It made her focus on getting herself warm and ignore the nervousness spreading through her veins like venom.

On the evening of starfall, it was the giddiness of finally having her mate to herself that induced the feeling.

For months now, Y/n had felt like she had been waiting for this very day. The two had barely been mated for six months before the high lord had him deployed at the outskirts of a city on another continent, one too far for Azriel to be able to winnow or fly home easily. And so Y/n had endured, written letters that barely got a response, usually two sentences detailing his health, inquiring about hers, and a small, little promise at the end, telling her he’d be back soon.

The day before starfall, she finally got more.

The cold I’d acquired a week ago is gone. How are you, love? Be ready for starfall. I’m visiting for the night. Though I won’t be able to stay. Let’s make the most of our time together, right?

Yours,Azriel.

She hadn’t been able to sit still for more than a few moments since she had received the letter. Nerves made her jittery, her heartbeat erratic at any given moment.

Most of her day had passed making cookies, the same ones she had baked the day they had accepted the bond. It would be a nice touch, she hoped, for their first starfall together. It gave her a reprieve from her thoughts too, from the constant buzzing in her head. It gave her something to do with her hands, gave her something to focus on.

Just before night dawned, the table was spread with aromatic foods, all his favourites, and desserts. He had a sweet tooth, something Y/n adored. She was dressed up too, hands on her hips, surveying the sparse ornaments she had decorated the space with.

It was perfect for the two of them, she thought.

The sun set. Moon rose.

Candles were lit, the faelight enhancing the soft glow.

And yet, the one who Y/n waited for didn’t arrive.

But.. she had waited four months.

One hundred and twenty one days.

Two thousand nine hundred and twenty hours.

Another hour of wait wouldn’t kill her.

She glanced out the window. No trace of shadows.

And another hour.

Y/n picked up a book, having covered the feast she had prepared.

And one more.

Starfall was almost about to begin.

Finally, the sound of wings descending stole her attention, and Y/n was out of her seat and opening the door before she could even think about it.

"A… Cassian?"

The general smirked. "Oh don’t look so disappointed. Any other day, I’d be sobbing if you greeted me with that look."

Y/n straightened her shoulders, pushing a smile onto her face. "I’m sorry! It’s just- I didn’t expect you-"

"Oh hush. I was just teasing." His smile softened as he took a step onto the porch, his eyes moving behind her, taking in the decorations inside. His brows furrowed. "Were you… expecting someone?"

Y/n tucked her hair behind her ear. "Az. He said he’d be home for starfall."

Cassian’s eyes widened with understanding and something close to…pity? "Oh. He didn’t tell you that we were meeting at the river house?"

Y/n blinked in confusion. "He… is at the river house?"

Cassian nodded matter of factly. "He was asking about you."

Her heart dropped a little, yet she ducked her head, a bashful smile on her face. "I- I must  have misread his letter. I-"

"It’s okay. Happens sometimes. Come, he’s waiting. Let me take you." His voice was gentle, understanding, like he knew she was lying. She had not misread the letter. After all, there weren’t enough words to mis-read. She had just assumed he’d want to spend time with her after months of absence.

Y/n nodded, her shoulders bunching inwards as she closed the door behind her, feeling the scrutinising gaze of the general on her back. His grip was gentle when he wrapped her in his arms, and Y/n could tell he was trying to purposefully look anywhere but her.

In a way, she was glad. She did not want to see the pity in his eyes.

The flight was quick, leaving her with little time with her thoughts. Another blessing on a ruined evening, one she was grateful for.

Soft laughter poured from the sitting room as Cassian landed, and Y/n hurried to find her balance and waited for Cassian to lead the way.

"Well, fly safe, Az."

Y/n’s heart stopped at the high lord’s voice.

Was he already leaving?

There was no response, except a quiet hum that ignited the longing residing within Y/n’s heart that she had tried so hard to hide from her mate, lest he abandon his mission. And if he had to leave now…

Only one glimpse. That’s all she wanted. She wouldn’t stop him. This was important to him.

He was still in his leathers when the main door opened, the siphons on his body glowing like a beacon in the dark night, beckoning Y/n closer like she was prey. His wings were slumped, almost imperceptibly, but Y/n noticed. Not in the way they slumped in her presence, relaxed, but… dejected. That’s what he looked like. Like his expectations for the night weren’t met. And she had an inkling why. After all, she felt the same.

His eyes were rimmed by darkness, the spark in them dimmer as they swept the foyer, waving to his family. And then he turned, his eyes landing on Cassian walking up the steps towards him. Azriel’s brows furrowed.

"Where were you?"

Cassian shrugged, pointing behind him. "Happy starfall, brother."

Azriel’s eyes flared the moment they landed on Y/n

His body jerked lightly, as if it were trying to move towards her without command. The corner of his lips lifted as he began towards where she stood, frozen.

"Thank- thank you." Azriel mumbled softly to Cassian, who nodded, shooting Y/n a teasing smile. Azriel reached out to clasp his brother’s shoulder gratefully before he began down the steps towards her, the door closing behind him and giving the two a reprieve from the curious stares.

"Az." Y/n mumbled, her gaze fixed on his.

"Y/n." He whispered, his eyes tracing over her figure. "I… I’m sorry."

She shook her head. "Did you forget to tell me that we were having dinner with them?"

He swallowed. Nodded. His hands reached out to lightly caress her face, his shadows already twining around her fingers and hair. "I was in a hurry. And excited. And it is no excuse. Forgive me, love."

Y/n wrapped her arms around him, an involuntary sigh escaping her as her figure relaxed into her mate’s body. "It would have been nice knowing I was not going to have my mate all to myself, but… I forgive you, Az. It’s no big deal."

He scoffed, his arms winding tight around her. "The hell it isn’t."

Y/n huffed out a laugh, pulling back to search over his features. "So… you’re leaving now?"

He offered her a gentle smile. "No. Bullied Rhys into letting me stay till tomorrow."

Her heart soared, and she stepped out of his embrace, her hand’s clutching tightly at his forearms. "Really?"

He grabbed her jaw, pulling her into a soft, quick kiss. "Really."

"Let’s go home?"

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[cuntyji]

TOMORROW IS GONE ౨ৎ Part One ⊹ ࣪SukuGo x Female Reader

Synopsis: When the past claws its way into the present, Sukuna is left standing in the wreckage of a fate he swore he’d never repeat. A part of him died screaming the name of one he loved, and now, in a cruel mirror of history, you and Gojo are slipping through his fingers the same way—another lesson that love, no matter how fierce, is never enough. As blood stains his hands and regret poisons his soul, one question lingers: was he always meant to lose, or was his name the curse that doomed him from the start? ( AO3 )

Content Warnings: Med student SukuGo x female reader, bicurious/bisexual sukuna and gojo, polyamory, college setting, heavy angst minimal comfort.

Trigger Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. Descriptions of illness and hospitals, toxic family/friendship dynamics, alcohol and drug use, body dysmorphia, sexual harassment.

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The administrative office was one of those places you had subconsciously ignored for months, half out of laziness and half out of sheer disinterest. It took you nearly a year to find it—nearly a year of wandering through halls, asking for directions, and giving up halfway before you finally ended up here. And now, standing at the entrance, you weren’t sure why you ever thought you needed to. The air smelled faintly of old paper and stale coffee, the walls were a shade of beige that could only be described as “government-issued,” and the woman at the front desk looked like she had seen far too many students come and go to care about one more. But you weren’t the only one here.

Sukuna stood at the counter, a furrow between his brows as he gripped his schedule like it was an offense to his entire existence. He had an air of frustration about him, the kind that made the receptionist’s fingers slow down on her keyboard, her voice dipping into something almost resigned. “You’re enrolled in eight courses,” she said, barely looking up from the monitor. “Yeah, that’s the problem,” Sukuna deadpanned. 

“I signed up for five.”

You blinked. That was odd. If you had to guess, you’d think Sukuna would be the type to take extra classes, not less. In lectures, he was always the first to answer, his tone flat and uninterested but efficient—like he had better things to do. Then he’d be the first to leave, slinging his bag over his shoulder before the professor even finished dismissing everyone. You watched as he adjusted his rimless glasses, the movement so quick and practiced you almost missed it. They didn’t suit him—not because they looked bad, but because they sat at odds with the dark tattoos that stretched over his skin. They framed his face, carved sharp and intimidating, but no one ever said a word about them. They wouldn’t dare.

Sukuna wasn’t the kind of ‘nerd’ people bullied. No, he was the kind who could shut someone up with a look, the kind who carried himself with an ease that made his intelligence seem more like a weapon than a quirk. He was built like a tank, broad shoulders filling out his sweater, a hint of softness at his waist hidden under layers of fabric. He never seemed to care about how he looked, never spared a glance in the mirror, but people still watched him. Followed him. The other ‘outcasts’ gravitated toward him like he was some kind of messiah, and you could see why. He didn’t go out of his way to include anyone, but he never pushed them away, either. He was the kind of person people just wanted to be near—like being in his presence alone was enough to make things feel less… bleak.

And maybe that was why it startled you when his eyes flickered to you.

For a second, he hesitated. The papers in his hand crinkled under his grip, his jaw tensing. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth discussing in front of an audience, he brushed past you, his shoulder nearly knocking into yours. He smelled clean—something deep and woody, but not overwhelming. The administrator barely looked up.  “Come back if there’s an issue,” she called, but he was already gone. 

You exhaled. The receptionist raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Next?”

-

The next time you saw Sukuna, it was somewhere you never expected—inside the small, fluorescent-lit pharmaceutical store tucked between the campus clinic and a convenience store. The place smelled sterile, a mix of rubbing alcohol and something vaguely minty. Shelves lined with neatly arranged medicines and hygiene products stood like silent sentinels, and the low hum of a refrigerator filled the quiet space. You had been standing near the register, shifting from foot to foot, hesitating. 

It wasn’t that buying pads and painkillers was embarrassing—it was just awkward. And seeing Sukuna standing at the counter, tapping his fingers against the glass display case, only made it worse. You thought about waiting for him to leave, you really did. But your cramps had other plans, gnawing at you in slow, insistent waves. So, with a resigned sigh, you stepped forward and muttered your request to the pharmacist.

Sukuna didn’t react.

Not when the cashier rang up the items, not when he pulled out his wallet, not even when he casually slid the bag across the counter toward you. It was smooth, efficient—like this was something he did all the time. “Total?” he asked, as if buying pads and painkillers for you was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him, fingers hesitating over the bag’s plastic handles. 

“You—”

“It’s fine.” he barely glanced up as he handed the money over, his face set in its usual unreadable expression. You thought he might say something about the administrative office. Maybe a passing remark about the scheduling mess, some acknowledgment that he had seen you before. But he didn't. He didn’t even look at you properly—not in a way that felt like recognition.

Just a face in the crowd.

You weren’t sure why that thought stung. It wasn’t like you two had ever spoken. You shared a class, sat in the same room, but that was all. Still, you had assumed—no, hoped—he would remember. But he didn’t. And you couldn’t decide what hurt more: the fact that he had helped you so easily, or the fact that, to him, it was just another errand.

-

Sukuna, as a matter of fact, does know who you are. 

How could he not? You were the only one who made him feel like there was a tight coil wound up in his stomach, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It annoyed him at first. He wasn’t the type to dwell on people, to let fleeting interactions fester in the back of his mind. But with you, it was different. 

It had always been different.

He saw you first, months before you ever noticed him, on a day much like any other. The school was noisy, filled with the shrill laughter of children and the exhausted murmurs of staff trying to keep up. Sukuna had been waiting by the gate, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, when he saw Choso dart toward you. “High-five!” Choso had grinned, holding up a tiny hand, and you—without hesitation—had smacked your palm against his. 

“Oowww,” you exaggerated, shaking your hand like his hit had been anything but soft. “You’ve been working out, huh?” Choso beamed, giggling, before running toward Sukuna. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He doubted you even realized he was there. But he saw you.

You, the student volunteer who had crouched down to tie a kid’s shoelace without being asked. You, who always lingered a little longer after activities, chatting animatedly with the staff. You, who smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. Sukuna should have forgotten you. But he didn’t.

He didn't have time to entertain things like this. His days were rigid, structured around class, assignments, and taking care of Choso. It wasn’t like he minded—but Choso wasn’t just a responsibility. He was his little brother, left in his care because the Kamos were too busy moving around to take him along. They sent money every month, an automated transaction with no warmth, no questions, just numbers on a screen. It was a clean, methodical process, and sometimes, when his phone pinged with a deposit, it felt almost mocking. Choso, too young to understand, would ask meekly, “Did Papa call?” and Sukuna—because he was good at fixing things, at making sure Choso never had to feel unwanted—did what he could do best. 

He wrote.

Letter after letter, careful and practiced, as if Noritoshi himself had penned them. He bought envelopes, stamps, made sure they were sealed just right. Every Sunday, he’d hand Choso a fresh letter, watching as his eyes lit up, tiny fingers fumbling with the paper, reading words that were never really written for him. He spent extra money on those stamps, even though they’d never reach a destination. But it was worth it. Just like seeing you again had been worth it, even if you didn’t think he remembered you.

-

Sometimes, you’d ask Gojo about Sukuna—not because you were desperate for information, but because it was easy. Casual. Gojo took the same courses as Sukuna, purely by coincidence, which meant he saw him more than you did. and Gojo being Gojo, never just summarized. No, a passing comment about something Sukuna said in class would turn into a full-fledged, word-for-word recollection, complete with exaggerated impressions and hand gestures. 

"He said," Gojo would begin, voice dropping into something low and mocking, "'If you can’t even grasp the fundamentals, then why are you in this class?'" he'd scoff, pushing up his glasses. "Can you believe him? Such a condescending bastard. Almost as condescending as me. Almost."

Sometimes you’d think Gojo was the only one who could match Sukuna in brains. Brawn, though? Not so much.

Gojo liked to claim he had a “lean, sleeper build,” a phrase he used with utmost confidence whenever the topic of strength came up. But you knew better. You had known him long before he became the loud-mouthed, effortlessly brilliant guy everyone saw now. You knew him from sleepovers as kids, nights when he'd collapse on the floor, unable to move, his body betraying him in the cruelest way possible.

Rhabdomyolysis. Rhabdo, for short.

It wasn’t fair. It never was. Just when you thought he was getting better, he’d push himself too far, ending up in unbearable muscle pain that left him unable to do anything but grit his teeth and wait for it to pass. But that was what you admired about him—no matter how many times it knocked him down, he got back up, thrice as strong, twice as stubborn. He studied and studied, pouring himself into his work, determined to get into med school. His mother had asked you to look out for him before you both left home. It was a simple request, spoken softly but weighted with unspoken worry. 

"Make sure he doesn’t overwork himself," she had said. But how were you supposed to do that when Gojo lived to push his limits? Rhabdo came from overworking muscles, and Gojo did exactly that—gymming to prove a point, lifting heavy boxes just to impress whoever was watching. He tried too hard, stretched himself too thin, all because he didn’t want to be seen as just a ‘nerd.’

It made you wonder. Why was he so ashamed of his intelligence? Why would someone like him, who had knowledge in abundance, ever think it was something to hide? You just hoped that, in his pursuit of finding friends, he didn’t lose himself.

Sometimes, you’d try to talk to him about it. About the late nights at the gym when he should’ve been resting, about the way he pushed his body past its limits like he had something to prove. "Satoru," you'd start carefully, voice threading the needle between concern and hesitation. "You know you don’t have to do this, right?" 

He'd barely look up, stretching out his arms like he hadn’t been deadlifting a weight that could snap him in half. “Do what?”

“This.” you motioned vaguely—at the gym bag at his feet, at the faint tremor in his fingers, at the exhaustion lurking beneath his grin. “You already have enough on your plate, why are you pushing yourself so hard?” 

Gojo scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off your words. "Why wouldn’t I?"

"Because it’s hurting you," you said, and for a split second, something in his expression wavered. Then, just as quickly, it hardened.

"Look," he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "I don't want to be strong in just one way. You think I like how people look at me? Like I'm just some brain on legs? I want to be the strongest. Not just in brains. In brawn too." His voice was sharp, edged with frustration, but beneath it, there was something raw. Something that made your chest ache. But how could you tell him that it was impossible? If you took this from him—this goal, this driving force—what would he have left to fight for? That very thought scared you. 

So you hesitated. You let it go. 

But a voice inside nudged you. 

Just try.

So you did.

"Satoru," you murmured, softer now, "You don’t have to prove anything to anyone."

His head snapped toward you so fast you almost flinched. His porcelain skin flared up with anger, jaw tightening as his hands curled around his glasses, gripping them so tightly you thought they’d snap between his fingers. "You don’t get it," he hissed. "We’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to run behind me like some duty-free nanny."

The words landed like a slap, sharp and unexpected. And then—just as suddenly as it appeared—that fire in his eyes died out. "Shit," he whispered, like the air had been knocked out of him. His hands trembled as they loosened around his glasses, and he reached for you, fingers barely brushing your wrist before stopping short. His voice cracked when he spoke again.

"I—I didn't mean that."

Of course he didn’t.

Because Gojo, for all his bravado, had never been good at watching his words when he was scared. And right now, he was terrified.

Terrified that he had pushed you too far, that you’d finally had enough, that this—the only thing he was sure of—would slip away. 

But you wouldn’t go. You could never go. 

Because he was your best friend. 

Because you only had each other. 

So you exhaled, slow and measured, before placing your hand over his. 

"I know," you said simply. "But you have to stop doing this to yourself, Satoru." 

He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away. 

Maybe he wouldn’t listen now. Maybe he never would. But at least he knew you weren’t leaving.

-

Sukuna knew of Gojo. Not just because they shared multiple classes, but because Gojo was impossible to miss.

White hair, piercing blue eyes, skin so pale it almost looked translucent under harsh fluorescent lights—he somehow fit the conventional beauty standard for men while simultaneously sticking out like a sore thumb. Sukuna had seen him in class, answering questions with an ease that was almost infuriating. Where sukuna would take a split second to process, Gojo would already be speaking, words spilling out like they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

But Gojo never noticed the brief glances Sukuna threw his way. Never noticed the way Sukuna, seated at the back of the room, would lean back just enough to watch him.

Gojo surrounded himself with people who seemed eager to bask in his brilliance but unwilling to match it. Sukuna saw them for what they were—leeches. People who, if they tried hard enough, would wring Gojo dry for notes, explanations, anything to make their lives easier. But Gojo didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he even liked it.

But Sukuna knew a different Gojo, too.

He saw him once at the gym, attempting a deadlift well beyond his capacity. Sukuna had expected him to fail. Not because he doubted Gojo's strength, but because he had seen too many people try and fail at the same thing—pushing past their limits just to prove a point. 

But Gojo did it. 

Somehow, through sheer force of will, he lifted the weight. Held it. His hands trembled violently by the end of it, but he still slammed the bar down with enough force to rattle the plates. Then, without a word, he stormed into the locker room.

Sukuna followed shortly after, towel slung over his shoulder, fully expecting to see Gojo hunched over in exhaustion. But instead, as soon as their eyes met, Gojo straightened, flexing as if that was the reason he had come here in the first place. "Not bad, huh?" Gojo grinned, still slightly breathless. His voice carried its usual arrogance, but there was something else beneath it. Something less sure.

Sukuna had seen this before.

People pushing themselves to extremes for validation, for praise, for their masculine ego. But this wasn’t just about validation. This was about approval. About being seen. 

Gojo wanted acknowledgement.

So Sukuna gave it to him. 

"Not bad," he said simply, drying off his face with his towel. 

It was barely anything. Just two words. 

But Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly, barely noticeable, before he turned away to grab his bag. 

Sukuna didn’t miss the tremor in his hands as he walked out.

-

Sukuna sat in front of his home altar that night, after putting Choso to sleep. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, the fabric of his ratty t-shirt stretching slightly before settling back into place. It barely fit him now—too tight across his chest, too loose at the waist. A weird, unbalanced fit that he should probably care about, but didn’t.

He used to, once. Back when he was a teenager, obsessing over online gym influencers, starving himself to get the perfect cut. But life had softened him, just a little. The kind of softness that clung to a body despite the strength underneath. Now, he didn’t care if there was a bit of pudge, didn’t punish himself over it. He was past that, or at least he told himself he was.

He cleaned the altar with slow, deliberate movements. Wiped down the framed photo. Lit the incense. Set down a bowl of noodles, still steaming faintly, the scent curling around him like something almost familiar, almost comforting. And then, finally, he looked up.

Yuuji.

His younger brother. His bright, beaming, sunshine of a little brother, frozen forever in the photo before him. The four-year-old with a grin wide enough to split his face in half. The kid who used to grab the nearest marker and scrawl on his own cheeks, lines crooked and smudged, just so he could match Sukuna.

"Look, ‘Kuna! S’like you!" 

The words echoed in his head, so clear it was like Yuuji had just spoken them. His chest tightened.

"Yeah, yeah, dumbass," Sukuna had grumbled back then, rubbing at the mess Yuuji had made with a sigh. "You got it all wrong. Here, lemme do it properly."

He'd taken the marker from Yuuji’s tiny, eager hands, the tip cool against his baby-soft skin as Sukuna traced the lines carefully. Yuuji had giggled, scrunching his nose when the ink tickled, eyes crinkling in that way that made everything feel weightless.

Sukuna could still feel the shape of his little brother’s face under his palm. Could still see the way Yuuji had reached out to return the marker with those trembling hands—hands that shouldn’t have been shaking at all. He should’ve known. Should’ve seen the signs. 

But he hadn’t.

The viral infection that led to Rhabdo. The fever that burned too hot, too fast. The weakness that shouldn’t have been there in a boy so full of life.

"‘Kuna... one more? Please?"

His voice had been so small. So unlike him.

"You dumbass," Sukuna had muttered, uncapping the marker, ignoring the sickly pallor on his brother’s face. "Fine."

He never finished the last line.

Because Yuuji’s body had slumped forward, eyes fluttering shut before Sukuna could even realize what was happening. Before he could scream his name. 

Before everything fell apart.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Gojo's trembling hands flashed before his eyes. The way they shook after the deadlift. The way he flexed to cover it up. The way he reached for Sukuna’s acknowledgment like it was something vital. It was too similar. Too close.

Sukuna’s throat felt tight.

The incense burned low, curling in on itself, the faint scent of sandalwood thick in the air. But Sukuna didn’t say goodnight. He stood up, turned away from the altar, and left the room without looking back.

-

The next day, you saw Sukuna again.

His rimless glasses were fogged up from the weather, condensation clinging to the lenses as he stepped out of your shared English class. He didn’t seem to care, though. Didn’t bother wiping them off, just adjusted them with a casual push up the bridge of his nose before shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants. You should’ve just walked away. Should’ve focused on anything else. But your mind, traitorous thing that it was, dragged you back to that night at the pharmacy. 

A simple transaction. Nothing more.

So why did it replay in your head every time you sat behind him in class, watching the slow rise and fall of his broad shoulders as he shifted in his seat? Why did your gaze always drift to the way his fingers tapped absently on the desk before he spoke, answering questions with that same calm, clipped confidence? It was driving you mad. 

But you didn’t talk to him this time either.

Just like every other time, you let him leave, let him walk past without a glance in your direction, and you told yourself it didn’t matter. 

But then your gaze flickered past him, to where Gojo sat at the back of the class, surrounded by those same people—the ones who laughed too loud at his jokes, who clung to him like his presence alone could elevate them. And then there was Sukuna, head tilting ever so slightly in Gojo’s direction.

Watching. Not speaking. Not interacting. Just observing, like he always did. Gojo probably didn’t even notice. 

But you did. And that realization made something settle uneasily in your stomach. 

Because as much as you hated even formulating the thought, you were jealous of Gojo.

Gojo, who got Sukuna’s attention, even if it was just a fleeting glance. Gojo, who didn’t have to wonder if Sukuna saw him, because Sukuna always did.

You hated it.

So you stood outside class after it was over, lingering near the hallway, watching from a distance as Gojo continued to talk, his voice carrying over the chatter of students filtering out.

You watched him laugh with people who didn’t care for him the way you did. Who didn’t know the late nights spent studying, the way his body ached after pushing too hard at the gym, the exhaustion he tried so hard to mask. They didn’t know him. Not really. 

But Sukuna was still watching him.

And you didn’t know which hurt more.

-

Gojo always found you after class.

For all his cocky bravado, for all the laughter he surrounded himself with, he always ended up here—beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pressing his weight into you like you were the only solid thing in his world.

"Man, did you hear that guy today?" he huffed, his voice light, teasing. "He really thought he had that answer, huh? God, Sukuna looked like he was about to hurl his textbook at the wall." 

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. "You always notice Sukuna."

"‘Cause he’s always looking at me," Gojo shot back, grinning, "like I personally ruined his day just by existing."

You didn’t reply. You didn’t tell him that Sukuna wasn’t just looking at him—he was watching him. You didn’t know why you kept that to yourself, but you did. 

Gojo's arm was heavy around you, and you should’ve been used to it by now—the sheer presence of him, all six feet and something of him, always larger than life. But something felt off today. His shoulder, where it pressed against you, was sharper than you remembered. The bone jutted out just a little too much.

He was getting thinner.

You swallowed, keeping your expression even as he kept talking, hands gesturing wildly, voice brimming with excitement over something you weren’t even fully hearing.

"And then I said—"

But you could feel it, even if he didn’t say it. The exhaustion. The weight he wasn’t carrying properly.

"—and then he just stared at me like I had six eyes! Can you believe that?"

"Totally," you murmured, forcing a small smile. You wondered—would he ever tell you? Would he say something if you asked? Or would he just laugh it off, throw another joke at you, distract you with that brightness of his, the same way he always did? 

So you did what you did best. 

You listened. 

You allowed yourself to smile, just a little, as he cracked another joke, his laugh ringing through the chilly afternoon air. And as his arm draped over you, you leaned into him just enough to keep him steady. You hoped—no, prayed—that he’d keep leaning on you, that he’d never think he had to bear it all alone. Because people looked up at the starry sky and saw the universe. But you? You saw it in Gojo's eyes. And you’d be damned if you let anyone take that universe away from you.

"You’re making that face again."

Gojo's voice jolted you from your thoughts, and when you turned to look at him, he was grinning, sharp and teasing, like he had you all figured out. 

"What face?" you asked, playing dumb.

"That face," he said, gesturing vaguely at you. "The one where you overthink so hard I can hear the gears turning. What's up? You didn’t even react when I said I'm going to a house party tonight."

"That's because I don't think you should go," you admitted, crossing your arms.

"Awwww, come on," he groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. "Don’t be a grandma about this. I need to socialize! Be young! Make questionable decisions!"

"Satoru," you deadpanned. "You’re literally three chapters ahead in every class, you barely sleep, and you push yourself to the limit every single day. Do you really think a house party is what you need?"

"Yes!" he said, beaming. "And for your information, I sleep plenty. I had a whole two hours last night. Very refreshing."

"Oh my god." You wanted to strangle him. Or shake him. Or both. 

"Look," he said, throwing an arm around you again, "I get why you’re worried, but I'm a big boy, yeah? I can handle myself."

"Can you?" you countered, raising an eyebrow. 

"I can," he said, then smirked.  "But I love that you’re worried about me. Makes me feel special."

You rolled your eyes, pushing his arm off you. "I'm serious, Satoru. You know what these parties are like—drugs, alcohol, fights. You—"

"I won't drink," he cut in.

"You say that now," you muttered.

"I won't," he insisted, poking your cheek. "C’mon, don’t you trust me?"

You exhaled, shaking your head. "Of course I do. But I also know you."

"So you know I'm very responsible."

"That is literally the last thing I'd call you."

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

You bit your lip. There was a part of you that wanted to just say it—to tell him to stay, to stay with you instead. But what right did you have? Didn’t he deserve the full college experience too? 

But then a traitorous voice whispered in your mind—at what cost?

"Satoru," you said softly. "Just… promise me you’ll be careful?"

His expression shifted, just for a second—so quick you almost missed it. Something softened in his eyes before he gave you a lopsided grin.

"I promise."

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

-

The music was deafening, the bass thrumming through your bones like an impending sense of doom. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and something suspiciously smoky, but none of it mattered. None of it registered, not when your eyes were locked onto the scene before you.

Gojo Satoru, your best friend, was wasted beyond belief.

His usual porcelain skin was flushed a deep, terrifying red, his glasses skewed on his face as he wobbled dangerously on his feet. The crowd around him whooped and hollered as he laughed—too loud, too bright, too fake—before stumbling forward to lift yet another girl into his arms. She squealed, giggling, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he staggered, his grip unsteady.

"Gojo, Gojo, Gojo!" the jocks chanted, banging their fists against the counters, urging him on. You felt something hot and ugly curl in your stomach. 

This wasn’t him. Not the Gojo you knew.

The Gojo you knew didn't need lipstick-stained validation. He didn’t need to prove himself to a bunch of people who wouldn’t even remember his name tomorrow. But here he was, drunk out of his mind, chasing approval like a dying star chasing its last bit of light.

And then he swayed—his knees buckling slightly, his grip on the girl faltering. The crowd jeered, booing, throwing crumpled napkins and shot glasses onto the table. "Aw, c’mon, Gojo! Don’t quit now!" someone shouted.

That was the final straw. You pushed forward, shoving past the sweaty bodies in your way until you reached him, grabbing his wrist in a bruising grip. "That’s enough," you snapped. Gojo blinked down at you, his pupils dilated, sluggish, unfocused. 

"Wha—"

"I said that’s enough," you repeated, tightening your grip. 

He yanked his arm away. "Get off me," he slurred, his voice sharp, venomous. "I'm having fun."

"Yeah?" you challenged, your jaw clenching. "Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it." 

He laughed, the sound bitter and mean. "Oh, what—now you’re my mom?"

"No," you said. "I'm your best friend. And right now, you're acting like an idiot."

His expression twisted, and for a second, you swore you saw something crack—something real. But then it was gone, replaced by drunken bravado as he threw his arms out dramatically.

"Well, excuse me for trying to live a little," he spat. "Not all of us can be perfect little worrywarts like you." 

The words stung, but you didn’t let them show. Not now. Not here. 

"We’re leaving," you said instead, grabbing his arm again. 

"Like hell we are!" he barked, wrenching himself free so violently he almost fell. "Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?"

Your stomach twisted. In all your years of friendship, he had never spoken to you like that. But you pushed past it. "I'm the only person here who actually gives a shit about you," you said, voice steel. 

His breath hitched, but before he could say anything else—before he could throw another drunken insult your way—you pulled him forward, ignoring the protests, the boos, the groans of disappointment from the crowd.

"Party’s over, Satoru."

He cursed at you the whole way out. You just hoped it’d be the last time he ever did.

-

The sound of glass shattering against concrete snapped you out of your daze. You whipped around just in time to see Gojo toss an empty bottle of vodka into someone’s backyard, his fingers still twitching from the force of it. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" your voice wavered, barely above the sound of the crickets chirping in the distance. Gojo just laughed—sharp, bitter, nothing like the laughter you knew. "What? You gonna scold me now?"

"You promised me, Satoru," you said, stepping closer, your hands shaking at your sides. "You fucking promised me."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I lied."

The words hit like a slap to the face.

"Why are you doing this?" your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. 

"Doing what?" he threw his arms up, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Having fun? Being normal? Sorry, babe, not everyone wants to be a fucking saint like you."

"You think this is normal?" you gestured wildly to him—to his red-rimmed eyes, his trembling fingers, the way he swayed even while standing still. "You think blacking out at some shitty house party, letting those assholes use you, is normal?"

"You don’t get it," he muttered, voice slurred as he ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "You never get it."

"Then help me understand!" you grabbed his wrists, forcing him to look at you. "Talk to me!"

But instead of answering, his lips curled into something ugly. Something cruel. 

"You wanna know why I drink? Why I do this shit?" he leaned in close, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. 

"Because it’s the only time I don’t have to be fucking alone."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You’re not alone—"

"Bullshit," he snapped. "You—you think you know everything, don’t you? Think you know me so fucking well?"

"I do know you," you pleaded. "Satoru, please—"

"No, you don’t," he shouted, yanking his hands away. "You don’t know what it’s like! To be—" his voice cracked, his face contorted with something too raw to name. "To be the smartest guy in the room and still feel like a fucking idiot! To have everyone watching, waiting for me to be perfect—"

"No one is asking you to be perfect, Satoru!"

"Oh, yeah? Then what the fuck do you want from me?!"

"I just want you!"

Silence.

The only sound was the ragged breathing between you two, the wind rustling through the trees, the distant hum of the party still raging behind you. Gojo's lips trembled, his hands balled into fists at his sides. And then, before you could stop him—

"Fuck you," he spat.

Your stomach dropped.

"Fuck you for always thinking you know what’s best for me. Fuck you for always trying to fix me. Fuck you for—" his voice broke, but he kept going, as if he couldn’t stop. As if the words were being ripped out of him unwillingly. "For making me feel like I matter when I fucking don’t—"

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled, hot and relentless, and the worst part? Gojo was crying too. Cursing at you, hurling insult after insult, but his hands were shaking, his entire body trembling like he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably. 

"You do matter, Satoru," you whispered, voice barely audible over the wind.

"Don’t lie to me," he choked out.

"I'm not lying," you said, gripping his arm again, tighter this time. "And you know I'm not."

He let out a shaky, bitter laugh, wiping at his face harshly, as if trying to erase the evidence of his tears. But you didn’t let him hide. Not this time. 

"We’re going home," you said firmly, dragging him away, away from the party, away from the people who didn’t give a shit about him.

He didn’t fight you this time.

But as you walked, your hands still gripping his, you realized something. You and Gojo both lost a piece of yourselves in that house tonight.

-

The neon glow of the pharmacy sign flickered against the inky darkness of the night, the hum of a faraway streetlamp buzzing in your ears as you half-dragged, half-supported Gojo toward the entrance. You didn't even know why you had come here—maybe it was the light, maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was the simple fact that you had nowhere else to go. "Just—just sit here for a second, okay?" you muttered, trying to ease him onto the curb.

"Nah, fuck that," Gojo slurred, shoving you away with an alarming lack of coordination. He stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the concrete before catching himself. "I can stand. See? Perfectly fucking fine."

And then he banged on the glass door. Loudly.

"Satoru, stop—" you hissed, grabbing his wrist, but he just laughed.

"What, scared the big bad pharmacy guy’s gonna come out and bite me?"

The door creaked open before you could respond.

Sukuna stood in the doorway, his rimless glasses perched low on his nose, eyes flicking between you and the disheveled mess of a man you barely managed to keep upright. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but then his gaze fell on Gojo's slumped figure, the uncoiling tension in his shoulders almost immediate.

"Shit," he muttered.

"I'm so sorry," you started, your words spilling out in a rush. "I know it’s late and we shouldn’t be here, I just—he’s—"

"Hey," Sukuna cut you off, voice even. "Stop apologizing."

You swallowed hard. 

Gojo, meanwhile, groaned, leaning his full weight against you. "Why're you talkin' to him?" he grumbled, his breath hot against your neck. "He’s—he’s a fucking narc, y’know that?"

"Satoru, shut up," you whispered harshly.

"Nah, seriously," Gojo slurred, tilting his head up toward Sukuna with a lopsided grin. "You—you think you’re better than me, huh?"

Sukuna stared at him, expression unreadable. 

"I don't think anything," he said simply.

"Bullshit," Gojo scoffed, shoving at your shoulder weakly. "See? See how he’s looking at me? Like—like I'm pathetic or some shit."

"Satoru—"

"You do think that, don’t you?" Gojo laughed, voice cracking. "Fuckin’—fuckin’ ‘oh, look at Gojo, the big dumb idiot who can’t even hold his liquor.’” His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenching, unclenching. "God, I hate this. I hate you. I hate—"

His voice wavered. His legs buckled.

And before you could catch him, Sukuna was already there, arms braced beneath Gojo's shoulders, hoisting him up with practiced ease. "C'mon," Sukuna said, nodding toward the parking lot. "Let's get him out of here."

You blinked at him. "Wait—"

"You’re not dragging him all the way home," Sukuna deadpanned. "I have a car. Use it."

You hesitated, glancing at Gojo—his head lolled against Sukuna’s shoulder, breath uneven, the fight in him slowly fading.

"Okay," you exhaled shakily.

Sukuna silently led you toward a slightly beat-up Toyota Corolla, the headlights flickering as he unlocked it. Together, the two of you maneuvered Gojo into the backseat, his long limbs sprawled across the worn fabric. As you shut the door and stepped back, Sukuna leaned against the roof of the car, watching you. "He always like this?" he asked, voice low. 

You hesitated. "Not always," you murmured. "But…lately? Yeah."

Sukuna didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The understanding in his gaze was enough. "Let's get him home," he said finally. You nodded, and as you slid into the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but wonder—why did Sukuna care? And why did it feel like, for the first time tonight, you weren’t the only one?

Gojo's breath hitched in the backseat, his chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. His head lolled back against the seat, unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling as if struggling to stay present. His body twitched weakly.

"Satoru?" your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.

Your fingers curled tightly around Gojo’s glasses, the sharp edges digging into your palm as if they could anchor you, keep you from spiraling. The lenses were smudged, still warm from his skin, and yet the weight of them felt wrong—felt heavy, like something final.

"Fuck," Sukuna muttered under his breath, the first real sign of frustration you’d heard from him tonight.

You barely processed the car speeding up, the streetlights blurring into streaks of white and yellow, the world outside moving too fast while your mind remained stuck, frozen on the image of Gojo’s unfocused, half-lidded eyes rolling back, his body twitching weakly against the backseat.

"’Toru," your voice cracked as you turned in your seat, reaching for him, but he wasn’t coherent enough to respond. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale rattling in his chest like a loose screw threatening to give out.

"Shit, shit—" you whimpered, a tremble running up your spine.

"He's gonna be fine," Sukuna said, but his voice was too tight, too forced to be reassuring. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so hard you swore you could hear his teeth grind. Gojo groaned again, his whole body shuddering like it was rejecting itself, and your hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bit into your skin.

"He promised," you whispered, blinking rapidly, your vision going blurry. "He fucking promised me he wouldn't drink."

Sukuna didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer any empty platitudes, any reassurances that would have only made you cry harder. Instead, he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The hospital entrance came too soon and not soon enough.

You barely registered the screech of tires as Sukuna parked, barely processed the way he was already out of the car, yanking open the back door. It all felt unreal, like you were watching from outside your own body as Sukuna hoisted Gojo up without hesitation, barely even wincing when Gojo suddenly convulsed, his body going rigid before he retched all over Sukuna’s sweater.

"Fuck—just hold on, alright?" Sukuna hissed, more to himself than to Gojo, adjusting his grip as he strode toward the ER doors.

You wanted to move. Wanted to run after them. Wanted to do something. But your legs refused to cooperate, refused to carry you forward as you stood there in the parking lot, clutching Gojo’s glasses to your chest like they were the only thing tethering you to reality.

You were useless.

You barely noticed when Sukuna disappeared into the hospital, when the doors swung shut behind him. All you could hear was the phantom echo of Gojo’s laughter from earlier tonight, distorted and slurred, bleeding into the sound of his broken cries as they rushed him to the ICU.

You stood there for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only minutes. Minutes that stretched on like an eternity, the weight of your failure pressing down on you until you could barely breathe.

You don’t remember how you got here, only that one moment you were outside, clutching Gojo’s glasses so tightly your knuckles went white, and the next, you were sitting beside Sukuna in the dimly lit hallway, the sterile scent of disinfectant and the faint beeping of heart monitors pressing against your senses.

Sukuna sat opposite the ICU doors, his sweater now stuffed into a disposable hospital bag, his phone screen casting a cold glow on his face as his thumbs moved across the screen. There was something unnervingly delicate about the way he held it, as if the device was a fragile thing in hands that were anything but.

The moment you sat down next to him, he put the phone away. No hesitation, no lingering glance. It was a simple movement, but something about it made your throat tighten. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before slipping his glasses off and hanging them on the front of his shirt—a worn Nirvana tee, washed so many times the design was beginning to fade.

You hadn’t ever seen him without a sweater before, and the sight of him like this—bare arms, broad shoulders, a body that spoke of quiet strength but with an undeniable softness—made something clench inside you.

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the sheer absurdity of the past few hours, but your lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. Fleeting. Fragile.

Sukuna didn’t acknowledge it, but he didn’t ignore it either.

The silence between you both stretched on, heavy but not suffocating. Your ears strained, trying to pick up anything from the ICU, but the only sound was the distant hum of the hospital, the occasional murmur of nurses passing by.

"Sorry," you finally said, your voice raw, barely above a whisper. 

Sukuna let out a low, almost exasperated grunt, a sound that could have been a scoff if it wasn’t so tired. "For what?" he muttered, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

"For—" you gestured vaguely, feeling absurdly helpless. "For dragging you into this. For—"

"Don't," he cut you off, voice rough but not unkind. "Not your fault."

You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands, the frames of Gojo’s glasses digging into your fingers. You wanted to tell him everything—about Gojo, about yourself, about how this felt like a nightmare you’d had before but never woken up from. But you didn’t. Instead, you let the silence settle again, let the exhaustion press down on you like a weighted blanket. 

Your body ached, your mind felt too full and empty at the same time, and when your eyes slipped shut, you didn’t fight it. Sleep took you like a warm embrace, and somewhere in the haze before unconsciousness fully claimed you, you thought you felt something—an arm shifting ever so slightly, the air moving beside you, the briefest hesitation of warmth before it disappeared.

You didn’t dream.

-

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth—an unfamiliar, solid warmth that wasn’t yours to have. The second was that your head was resting against something firm, the slow rise and fall beneath you steady, grounding.

Sukuna.

You jerked back almost immediately, your pulse spiking as your head left his shoulder. Your absence made him shift slightly, his frown deepening, but he didn’t wake up. Arms crossed over his chest, his head lolled slightly, pink hair mussed from sleep, strands sticking up rebelliously despite his efforts to smooth them out the moment his eyes fluttered open. 

You swallowed hard, trying to fight the mortifying heat creeping up your neck. Your fingers twitched towards the crinkled fabric where your head had rested, some ridiculous impulse telling you to smooth it out, to erase any evidence of your momentary weakness, but before you could, a voice cut through the quiet.

"Excuse me, you’re here for Satoru Gojo?"

The doctor. middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand. You scrambled to stand, Sukuna following suit, his presence now feeling suffocatingly close, too solid beside you. 

"Yes," you managed, voice hoarse.

"Are you his immediate family?"

"No, but—"

"But we’re the only ones here," Sukuna interrupted, voice steady, unimpressed. 

The doctor sighed but didn’t argue, flipping through his clipboard before glancing back up. "He has a history of Rhabdomyolysis, correct?" you nodded, the word hitting like a familiar gut-punch.

"His current episode was exacerbated by excessive alcohol consumption and exertion. His CK levels were significantly elevated on admission—over ten thousand U/L, which is dangerously high. We administered IV fluids aggressively to prevent acute kidney injury, but he’ll need close monitoring. His creatinine was elevated, but not enough to indicate severe renal impairment yet. However, another episode like this could push him towards irreversible damage. He needs to avoid alcohol completely, and any strenuous physical activity should be moderated. He was severely dehydrated, which worsened the muscle breakdown. Do you understand?"

You nodded, but you didn’t. Not really. The words were running together, tangling in your head like a mess of wires, sparking against your rising anxiety.

"He'll also need to monitor for any signs of compartment syndrome—persistent pain, swelling, decreased sensation. If he experiences any of those symptoms, bring him back immediately."

You barely registered the way your breathing was starting to quicken, your vision blurring at the edges.

"Got it," Sukuna said beside you, voice clipped, sharp. The doctor nodded once, glancing between the two of you before turning on his heel. "He’s stable now. You can see him."

You weren’t sure how you moved, weren’t sure how your legs carried you down the hall, but suddenly, you were there. The sight of him nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

Gojo, hooked up to IVs, his skin pale, lips cracked, dark bruising under his eyes.

But worst of all was the stillness.

He’d never been still. Not when you were kids, not even when he was sick. You blinked rapidly, trying to force the image away, but your brain, cruel as it was, offered another instead—

"It's super juice!"

Gojo's voice, high-pitched with childhood excitement, his chubby fingers tapping against the IV line in his arm, legs kicking at the hospital bed as he grinned at you.

"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch."

Your eight-year-old self had believed him. You had nodded solemnly, clutching his tiny fingers in yours as if he’d slip away if you let go.

But superheroes weren’t supposed to be fragile. Superheroes weren’t supposed to collapse in the arms of people who barely knew them, weren’t supposed to have their bodies betray them time and time again.

The first sob tore out of you before you could stop it. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the weight of everything, the years, the worry, the helplessness, slamming into you all at once. Sukuna exhaled sharply beside you, and you didn’t fight it when his hand found the back of your head, fingers curling, firm but not forceful, grounding you as you broke.

-

"It's super juice!"

The words echoed, reverberating in the empty, sterile white of the hospital room. His eight-year-old self swung his legs back and forth, IV taped to the crook of his arm, a beaming grin splitting his chubby face.

"S’gonna make me a superhero. Just watch," he declared, looking at you expectantly. 

You, sitting beside him, tiny fingers curled around his even tinier hands, nodded solemnly, as if you were his trusted sidekick. "Duh, ‘course it will," you said, ever the believer, the unwavering supporter.

Satoru grinned wider.

"You still got my Superman?"

Your eyes lit up, and you practically scrambled for your backpack, the zipper catching as you yanked it open. "Yeah, yeah! I kept it safe, promise!" you pulled it out with both hands, presenting it proudly.

Except—

Satoru blinked.

That wasn’t Superman.

His tiny fingers reached out hesitantly, wrapping around the plastic figure, the shape familiar, the weight just right. But when he turned it over—

Not Superman's chiseled jaw, not his perfect spit curl, not the familiar "S" crest on his chest. Instead, two thin black lines slashed across the figure’s cheeks, the eyes a sharp, knowing red, the unmistakable look of—

"Sukuna?"

His voice came out small, confused. He looked at you, expecting the same confusion, the same disbelief, but you just smiled.

"Yeah, he’s strong, isn’t he?"

Satoru's stomach churned. His grip tightened on the figurine, the hard plastic biting into his palm.

"But he’s not Superman."

The words barely left his mouth before the figurine started to melt, its face warping, the red eyes sharpening, almost glowing. The smirk stretched, curling up unnaturally wide, the plastic softening, twisting, until—

"Satoru."

His name was spoken, deep and distant, like an echo through water.

His body jolted. 

A sharp inhale, eyes snapping open—except they didn’t. Not fully.

His eyelashes fluttered, the world around him too heavy, his body sinking into the mattress, into the IVs, into exhaustion. His breath came slow, sluggish, as his gaze drifted, unfocused. A burly figure sat just outside the ICU, salmon-colored hair catching the dim, artificial glow of the hallway lights. Beside him, smaller, curled up, the hair color Gojo oh so loved. His lips barely parted, the thought an exhale—

"How bizarre."

And then, the pull of exhaustion won, dragging him back under.

Gojo knew the sound of your crying like the back of his hand.

It was the sound of late-night movie marathons when the protagonist died and you cursed the director through choked sobs. It was the sound of stifled laughter in class until your tears dripped onto your notes. It was the sound of allergies when spring rolled around, your voice thick with complaints about pollen and your own body betraying you. 

But this was different. 

This wasn’t a sound he knew, and he hated it. 

His throat was raw, his body weak, but the words spilled out instinctively, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he rasped—

"You cryin’?"

He hoped it was in the voice you loved, the playful lilt, the teasing edge.

Your head snapped up instantly, eyes wide and glassy, and for a second he thought you might break all over again. But then relief flooded your face so fast it made him dizzy, your breath hitching as you let out something between a sob and a laugh. "You asshole," you choked out.

He tried to chuckle, tried to match your laugh, but the pain punched through his ribs like a fist, dragging his breath into something sharp and broken. And that’s when he noticed it. 

Sukuna’s arm, heavy around your head, the way your body curled slightly into his side. Gojo's vision blurred—not from fatigue, not from painkillers—something else, something he refused to name.

"So," he coughed, swallowing down the dryness in his throat, "You two get cozy while I was out?" He meant for it to be a joke, but his voice wavered, weaker than he wanted it to be.

Sukuna, who had been quiet this whole time, only tilted his head, crimson gaze unreadable. "Yeah," he said, voice low and lazy, "So don’t do it again, dumbass."

Gojo wanted to snap back, wanted to roll his eyes, but all he could do was watch as Sukuna’s hand, the same one curled around your head, reached forward and ruffled Gojo’s hair. “Seriously," Sukuna muttered, "Don’t scare her like that again."

Gojo blinked, disoriented, but before he could process anything, Sukuna leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, eyes shutting as if nothing had happened. And you just reached for Gojo’s hand, gripping it so tightly, he thought he might actually feel strong again.

You didn’t know when Sukuna left, only that at some point, the weight of his presence had disappeared from the room. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he knew you needed this moment alone with Gojo. 

Gojo, who was trying so damn hard to act like nothing happened. Like this was normal. "So," he started, voice scratchy but still trying for that usual lilt. "I didn't do anything too stupid, right?"

Your fingers curled slightly in the sheets. You stared at his hand, pale and bandaged, IV hooked into his arm, feeding him strength he no longer had on his own. How could you tell him? Tell him about the things he said? The way he spat curses at you, sharp enough to wound, drunk enough to forget? The way he shoved you, both physically and emotionally, as if he wanted to break you just as much as he was breaking?

So you didn't. You forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes, and said—

"Nah. Don't worry about it."

Maybe he’d never remember that night. Maybe you’d never tell him. Maybe that was enough.

Meanwhile, outside the ICU, Sukuna let out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair before pushing his glasses up his nose—a nervous tic he hated, but couldn’t quite shake. He typed out a quick text to his neighbor:

Thanks for watching Choso longer than expected. Will be back soon. Owe you one.

He didn’t expect his pharmacy shift to turn into... this. And just when he thought he could breathe, the doctor from earlier approached him again, clipboard tucked under his arm, mouth pressed into something unimpressed. 

"You the guardian?" the doctor asked, voice dry.

"No," Sukuna replied, just as dry. 

"Could’ve fooled me," the doctor scoffed, flipping through the chart. "You’re the only one asking the right questions."

Sukuna stayed silent, adjusting his glasses again.

"Kid’s got a history of exertional Rhabdomyolysis, probably exacerbated by alcohol consumption. His CK levels were through the roof when he came in—classic case of severe muscle breakdown. Creatinine levels showed acute kidney strain too. Not to mention dehydration, electrolyte imbalance—"

"Yeah," Sukuna cut in, "I read the labs. Is he gonna be fine?" 

The doctor raised a brow. 

"You in medicine?"

"Pharmacy," Sukuna muttered.

"Figured," the doctor said. "He’s stabilizing. IV fluids are flushing out the myoglobin, kidneys are responding well. But if he pulls another stunt like this, he might not be so lucky next time."

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly.

"Keep him away from alcohol, heavy lifting, and anything that’ll push his body too hard for a while," the doctor continued. "Not that kids these days ever listen."

"I'll make sure he does," Sukuna said, voice steady, final. The doctor hummed, giving him one last look before walking away.

Sukuna pushed his glasses up again. He didn’t like being in the middle of things, never had. But if it meant keeping you and Gojo from falling apart, then he’d take the brunt of it.

-

You held your breath as you peeled the hospital gown off Gojo's frame, the fabric slipping too easily over his frail shoulders. He wasn’t supposed to look like this—Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to look small. Weak.

The staff had been hesitant, but between your persistence and Gojo’s insufferable whining, they eventually caved. Sukuna had driven you to Gojo’s house to grab his clothes, and when he dropped you back at the hospital, he didn’t say much—just a curt nod before heading back to wait outside.

Gojo looked down at himself, rolling his shoulders as he flexed his fingers, examining his body like it was foreign to him. And then he clicked his tongue. 

“Damn,” he said, patting his stomach with a frown. “Gotta start bulking again. Gym every day. Soon enough, I'll be strong enough to lift you, too.”

"Satoru." your voice was quiet, hands tightening on the sweater you were about to help him into.

"What?"

You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t know when he was serious anymore, when his jokes were actual jokes or just flimsy shields to deflect reality. Was he just saying this because he wanted to move past what happened? Because he thought he could pretend like nothing was wrong if he made you laugh?

Except you weren’t laughing.

Gojo frowned, catching the way your shoulders curled inwards, the slight tremor in your fingers as you bunched up the sleeves of his sweater. 

"You’re mad," he said, softer now. 

"I’m not mad, Satoru," you exhaled, looking up at him. "I just—" you swallowed, struggling to find the words. 

"—I don't wanna do this again."

He knew what you meant.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let you help him slip the sweater over his head, his fingers brushing against yours when he went to pull it down. The fabric smelled like you. He didn’t say anything about that, either. 

Because if he did, he might be the one to start crying instead.

-

The busted Corolla rumbled beneath you, the engine sputtering like it was trying to clear its throat. Outside, the world passed by in a blur of brightly lit streets, but inside the car, it was just the three of you—Gojo snoring in the backseat, you in the passenger seat, and Sukuna at the wheel, his fingers drumming against it as he drove.

It was cruel déjà vu, the way Gojo was sprawled out in the back, except this time, his snores rattled through the car, louder than the engine itself. His glasses sat skewed on his face, dangerously close to falling off, and the Digimon sweater you picked out for him was riding up slightly, the fabric bunching in on itself. He'd regret that later when the print stretched out weird. 

You should fix his glasses. 

You didn’t.

The silence between you and Sukuna stretched, heavy but not suffocating. You weren’t sure what to say. You’d spent more time with him in the last twenty-four hours than you had since college started, but somehow, neither of you had really talked—not about what happened, not about Gojo, not about anything. It felt weird, like some sort of dirty little secret. You hesitated before finally speaking, voice quiet over the low hum of the radio.

“Thank you.”

You’d been apologizing too much lately—always looking at Sukuna with guilt in your eyes, whispering sorry after sorry like you owed him something for being here. But this time, you just thanked him instead. He didn’t respond right away, just tapped his fingers against the wheel in thought. Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh.

“You finally figured it out.”

You frowned. “Figured what out?”

Sukuna shifted slightly, one hand leaving the wheel to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In the dim glow of the sunlight filtering through the glass, you caught something softer in his features—something that almost looked like amusement.

“That ‘thank you’ sits better than ‘sorry.’”

You blinked. Then, slowly, you smiled. Gojo let out an obnoxiously loud snore from the backseat, and the moment was gone, but somehow, the silence that followed felt a little less heavy.

-

Monday came faster than you could prepare for it, and somehow, you felt more anxious about going to class than Gojo—who, by all accounts, should’ve been the one worried. But no, he was his usual self, strolling through the halls like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ended up in the ICU. 

“You good?” Gojo asked, glancing at you with an easy grin as you walked beside him. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I should be asking you that,” you muttered, eyeing him up and down. He looked… fine. Not great, but fine. His usual oversized sweater swallowed him up more than usual, and there were faint bags under his eyes, but otherwise, he was just…Gojo.

He grinned. “I feel like a thousand bucks.”

“That’s not the saying.”

“Nah, ‘course it is. I'm not even expensive enough to be a full million.”

Before you could retort, a loud chorus of “AYYY, GOJO!” rang through the hallway, and your stomach dropped.

The people from the party.

“Party legend! You were insane, man!” one of the guys hollered, clapping Gojo on the back so hard he almost stumbled forward. “Can’t believe you carried all of ‘em! Thought you were gonna drop the last one, but nope, you powered through, my guy!” 

Another girl whistled, grinning. “You gotta come again this Friday. We’re going all out this time—got some xans, some weed, and a hell lot more fun than last time.”

Gojo blinked, his confused smile wavering slightly. He waved at them, soaking in the attention, but his fingers toyed with the Digimon keychain hanging off his sling bag—a tic, one you knew all too well. He was overwhelmed. Before he could say anything, one of the girls shoved her phone in his face, and you saw whatever color was on his sickly complexion drain completely.

The blurry video was unmistakable—Gojo, chugging shots like water, his face flushed and his limbs loose as he grinned at the camera, girls screaming his name in the background. And then, the next clip: him picking girl after girl up, his movements growing sloppier, his body swaying, but the crowd cheering him on, girls kissing his cheeks, rubbing against him like he was a prize to be won. Your fingers twitched with the urge to snatch the phone and smash it against the tiled floor.

“Holy shit,” Gojo breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper. He laughed weakly, awkwardly, his fingers fumbling with the keychain. “I—uh—didn’t know I did all that.”

“You were a fuckin’ legend, dude!” one of the jocks whooped. “Gotta top it this Friday.”

“Oh, and don’t let your little babysitter here ruin the fun this time,” another girl teased, her eyes flicking toward you. “You don’t gotta pick him up again, babe. He can handle himself.”

“Yeah, let him have some fun, will you?” another chimed in, nudging you with a smirk. “We’ll take care of him if he blacks out. Promise.”

Your nails dug into your palm as your jaw locked. Gojo looked at you then, and it was like you could see the war waging in his head—this wasn’t how he wanted to hear about that night. This wasn’t how he wanted to remember it. But before either of you could say anything, the jocks pulled him along, dragging him to the back of the class as the bell rang. You stood frozen at the front, heart pounding, hands clenched at your sides, watching as Gojo—your best friend—got swallowed up by the very people who nearly destroyed him that night.

Your eyes flickered to the back of the room, where Gojo sat sandwiched between jocks and party girls, still fumbling with the Digimon keychain as if it could ground him. He wasn’t paying attention to the class. Neither were you.

You almost desperately sought out Sukuna instead.

Even in a lecture hall this large, he was always easy to find—broad frame, unmistakable pink hair, a presence that demanded attention even when he wasn’t speaking. He always sat at the front, where he could see everything, where he could be seen. But today, he wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted.

You didn’t even realize you had gotten up until you were meekly approaching your professor at the podium, your voice barely above a whisper as you asked, “Uh, sorry—do you know where Sukuna is?” 

The professor gave you a kind but tired smile, as if she had been asked this before. “Oh, Ryomen? He dropped the subject.”

Your heart skipped a beat. 

“He—he what?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Such a shame, too. He was one of my brightest students. Would’ve aced the finals with his eyes closed.” You stood there, stunned, barely nodding as you thanked her and returned to your seat.

Sukuna dropped the class.

Your mind reeled back to the last time you saw him at the administrative office, his voice low but firm as he argued with the staff about cutting down his subjects. 

“Five. I'll do five, not eight.”

“But you’re more than capable of handling—”

“Five.”

You never thought to ask why. Would it be fair of you to ask now? It’s not like you were friends. 

Whatever the past twenty-four hours had been, it didn’t change the fact that you weren’t in any position to question his choices. 

But still—his absence left a weird pit in your stomach.

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Gojo wheezed, practically skidding to a stop in front of you, his glasses askew, white hair messier than usual, his entire face flushed like he had run a marathon. "You—you're not gonna believe what just happened."

You swallowed the bile rising in your throat. "Satoru—"

"They—" he cut you off, shaking his head in disbelief, hands gripping the straps of his sling bag. "They were teasing me. Under the desk. Like—like actually teasing me. You get what I mean, right?"

Your stomach turned. "Gojo, what—"

"Like, their hands—like, not just one, okay? Multiple." he laughed, breathless, exhilarated. "And they kept saying how much they loved me at the party, how they wanna see more of that side of me—"

Your fingers curled into fists. "Gojo, do you even hear yourself right now?"

But he wasn’t listening. "I mean—fuck, is this what college is supposed to be like? Because I get it now, I get why everyone hypes this shit up—"

"Stop."

He blinked, the grin on his face faltering at the way your voice cracked.

"What?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste iron. You didn’t know what hurt more—the fact that he was telling you all this so excitedly, or the fact that he genuinely didn’t understand what just happened to him. 

"They weren’t teasing you, Satoru," you said, forcing the words out. "They were violating you." 

He scoffed, shaking his head. "What? No, they were just messing around—"

Your nails dug into your palm. "Satoru, do you even hear yourself?"

His smile faltered. "What?"

"They were touching you under the desk," you said, your voice eerily calm. "In the middle of class, while you couldn't do anything about it. And you think that's—what? normal?"

He scoffed, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, it's not that big a deal, right? It's just… college stuff, right?"

"No," you bit out. "It's not."

He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "You’re overreacting."

"I'm not," you shot back, voice tight. "Satoru, you almost fucking died that night, and now they're acting like you getting blackout drunk and barely remembering anything is just some fun little game?"

He flinched. "Okay, but—"

"No, listen to me." you inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay steady. "You don’t even remember half of what happened. They do. They remember everything, and they’re still joking about it."

He licked his lips, avoiding your gaze. "But it’s not like I didn't want it."

Your heart dropped. "What?"

"I mean—" he exhaled, voice uncertain for the first time. "I didn't say no, right?"

Your hands were shaking. "Because you didn't know what was happening, Satoru."

He let out a weak laugh, like he was trying to brush it off. "I mean, isn’t this just how it works? People drink, party, mess around—"

"Is that what you think this is?" your voice cracked, anger and something more bitter clawing its way up your throat. "Satoru, this isn’t some wild college experience, this is them taking advantage of you. You were drunk. Too drunk to even walk, too drunk to even stay conscious, and now they're acting like it was all just some… some fun joke—"

He rubbed his temple, sighing. "I don't know, okay? I don't know how this shit works. I've never—" he sucked in a breath. "It’s just… they liked me. They actually liked me. Isn’t that a good thing?"

Your vision blurred. "Not like this."

He blinked at you, expression crumbling, like he was just now realizing the weight of what happened. His fingers fumbled with the Digimon keychain on his bag, the way they always did when he was overwhelmed.

And for the first time, he didn't have anything to say. 

-

Gojo was late.

Not because he woke up late—he never did. Not because he got lost—impossible. But because he was stuck in his own head. Your argument from English class still clung to him, cloying like the remnants of a bad dream.

"Oh, so now you care?"

"You always do this, Gojo. You joke, you push, and then when people actually need you—"

"That's not fair."

"Yeah? Well, neither is this."

His jaw tightened.

So when he walked into Bio, he was already on edge. He just needed a distraction. 

And if anyone was good at giving him one, it was Sukuna. 

Which is exactly why he practically skidded to a stop next to Sukuna’s desk, breathless, grin stretched wide across his face. "Oi, where the hell were you?" Gojo ruffled his already-messy hair, glancing around as if waiting for Sukuna to tell him it was all a joke. "You weren’t in English today. That’s, like, your thing."

Sukuna didn’t even look up from his notebook. "Dropped it."

Gojo's smile twitched. 

"Huh?"

"Dropped the class," Sukuna repeated, pen tapping against the page like he was already over the conversation. 

Gojo blinked. "You—what? Why the hell would you do that?" He let out a huff of disbelief, his laughter awkward, forced. "Man, should I be celebrating? One less rival for me, huh?" 

Sukuna finally glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable behind his glasses. "Sure."

Gojo's stomach twisted. He didn’t like that tone. He didn’t like the indifference, the way Sukuna looked through him instead of at him. He didn’t like not knowing what the hell was going on. 

Before he could say anything else, a few voices from the back of the room called out.

"Yo, Gojo! Over here!"

He turned.

The leeches. They were grinning, waving him over like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t spent the entire morning joking about him behind his back, like they hadn’t made him the punchline of some twisted little game. He hesitated, and then—

A sharp exhale.

When he turned back, Sukuna was staring at him. Not with pity, not with amusement. Just… staring. Like he was waiting for Gojo to make a choice. Like he already knew what it would be.

Like he was daring him to sit in the back again.

Gojo clenched his jaw, his fingers curling around the strap of his bag.

He turned on his heel and dropped into the seat next to Sukuna.

The room felt different up here, the voices fading into the background. He could practically feel them staring, but he kept his eyes ahead. Sukuna smirked. "Thought you liked sitting back there." 

Gojo exhaled through his nose, gripping his pen a little too tightly. "Yeah, well… I like keeping you on your toes."

Sukuna hummed, not saying anything else. But somehow, Gojo still felt like he had something to prove.

-

Gojo barely took two steps out of the classroom when Sukuna hit him with a question that made his stomach twist.

"So how long have you had Rhabdo?"

His grip on his bag strap tightened. A part of him itched to just wave it off, make a joke, pretend he had no idea what Sukuna was talking about. But Sukuna had seen him at his absolute worst this weekend—half-conscious, barely breathing, hooked up to IVs like some pathetic weakling. Lying was pointless. So he shrugged instead. 

"Since I was eight."

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered.

Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets as they walked, eyes straight ahead. "You know how it is. I was a sickly little guy, hospital trips, IVs, the whole deal. Doctors told me to be careful, to take it easy." he laughed, but it felt hollow in his chest. "But nah, I thought, screw that—I'll just get stronger." 

That was what did it. Sukuna, previously listening with that unreadable expression of his, scoffed outright.

"You’re an idiot."

Gojo's eye twitched. "Wow, thanks, Doc. Real insightful."

"No, really, you're a goddamn idiot," Sukuna continued, looking at him like he was some particularly dense patient. "You think pushing your body past its limits is making you stronger? Rhabdomyolysis isn't some gym bro bullshit where you just 'power through' it. You're literally breaking down your own muscle fibers. Your kidneys can’t handle that kind of strain, idiot."

Gojo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Muscle fibers break down, myoglobin floods the bloodstream, kidneys overwork themselves, yadda yadda, renal failure." He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not dead yet."

"You could be."

Gojo stopped walking. Sukuna had already turned to face him, standing there in that ratty Nirvana tee with his rimless glasses pushed up just enough that his eyes—dark, piercing, too damn knowing—could bore straight into him.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Sukuna asked, voice low, measured. "You’re playing chicken with your own body. Your muscles break down faster than they can repair. You think the answer to that is what? Doing more damage?"

Gojo's fingers curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets. "So what, you want me to just sit around and rot? Let it win?" 

Sukuna exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "This isn’t a battle, dumbass. This is biology. Your body isn't some enemy to be beaten into submission—"

"It is to me."

That stopped Sukuna cold. Gojo clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but at him. "You don’t get it."

Sukuna tilted his head. "Oh, I get it just fine. You think you have something to prove."

Gojo scoffed. "I don't think. I know."

Sukuna watched him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, gaze steady behind his glasses.

"Do you think you’re the smartest because you’re Satoru Gojo," he asked, voice quiet, but cutting. "Or do you think you’re Satoru Gojo because you’re the smartest?"

Gojo's stomach lurched.

Before he could respond—before he could even think of what to say—Sukuna was already walking away, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his tee riding up just enough for Gojo to see the hint of his waistband. He stood there for a moment, watching Sukuna disappear down the hallway, his brain rattling with something he didn’t want to name.

He was Satoru Gojo.

Wasn’t he?

The door creaked as Sukuna stepped into the apartment, exhaustion pressing against his shoulders like a deadweight. He rolled his neck, stretching out the stiffness from the chairs and the sheer mental load of the day, before kicking off his boots with a heavy sigh.

"S’kuna!"

Choso’s voice piped up from the kitchen table, where he sat hunched over his workbook, pencil gripped tight in one hand and his tongue poking out in concentration. Sukuna felt something in his chest uncoil at the sight—his little brother, safe, alive, chewing over arithmetic like it was the most important thing in the world. "You’re back," Choso said, blinking up at him expectantly. "Did Papa send a letter?"

Sukuna felt his stomach drop. 

Shit. He hadn’t written one.

He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing an easy hum out of his throat as he walked over, peeking down at Choso’s workbook instead. "I'll check the post office later," he said, voice smooth despite the guilt curling in his ribs. Choso's expression barely wavered as he scribbled a neat answer beneath a problem. 

"One hundred eleven."

"What?" 

Choso tapped his pencil against the paper. "Twenty-two plus eighty-nine. It's one hundred eleven."

Sukuna let out a quiet chuckle. "Look at you, little genius." he reached out, ruffling Choso’s already messy hair. "Bet you’re gonna be better at math than me soon." 

Choso beamed, tilting his head to lean into the touch, and Sukuna’s tired heart ached in a way he didn’t know how to name. He left him to his numbers, wandering toward his bedroom, but his feet hesitated as he passed by the altar in the corner of the living room.

Yuuji's altar.

It wasn’t much—a framed photo, a small cup of sake, a stick of incense long since burned down. But it was enough. 

Enough for Sukuna to let out a tired scoff as he stared down at the grinning boy in the photo, hair a shade too bright, eyes wide with an innocence that made something curl in Sukuna’s gut. 

"Still making sure I don't forget you, huh?" Sukuna muttered, running a thumb over the dustless edge of the frame. He exhaled through his nose.

He’d lost Yuuji. And maybe that’s why, even against his better judgment, even against the bristling irritation and sheer stubbornness of the brat himself, Gojo was making every last one of Sukuna’s protective instincts claw up his spine. Because if he could stop it—if he could stop someone from slipping through his fingers again—shouldn’t he?

But was that really his job? His jaw tightened, and he shoved the thought aside, heading for his room. Outside, Choso hummed quietly to himself, diligently writing out the next answer.

Sukuna’s room was everything about him and nothing at the same time. It had the bones of a lived-in space—the essentials of a person who had settled, who had chosen this place as home—but it carried none of the weight of belonging.

His desk, a second hand thing with chipped edges, bore the scattered remnants of job postings—cafés, pharmacies, gas stations, pet shops—places that didn’t require much beyond a working body and a willingness to show up. The papers were curled at the edges from handling, some with pen marks circling pay rates, shift timings, and benefits that never seemed to be enough.

His wardrobe sat half-open, revealing stacks of neatly folded clothes, the organization ruined by his own hands as he shoved fresh laundry into the shelves without much care. His bed was plain, a single pillow with a slightly flattened center, blankets that rarely got pulled up beyond his waist when he slept.

His walls were once a shrine to teenage tastes—old posters of bands that blasted from his headphones, rappers whose lyrics he scribbled on the edges of his notebooks. But now they were wiped clean, replaced with laminated periodic tables, skeletal diagrams, biochemical pathways. Sterile and practical. Just like his life had to be.

But sometimes, his gaze would drift to the guitar case leaning against the far corner of the room, untouched for months, maybe even a year. And sometimes to the wooden drawer by his desk, where a collection of fountain pens lay in their felt-lined case, waiting for hands that no longer had the luxury of holding them just for the sake of writing. He could indulge, maybe. But not now.

Not when an EMI still loomed over him, the weight of Yuuji's hospital bills pressing down on his shoulders even after all this time. It was going to be a year since his brother’s death, but the payments didn’t care. They still came, still drained his account month by month, a reminder that grief had a cost even after the funeral ended. 

That was why he dropped classes. Not because he wanted to. God, he didn’t want to. But something had to give. And if it had to be something he liked, then so be it.

Sukuna sat at his desk, the dim yellow light from his study lamp pooling over the page, catching on the slow strokes of his pen as he wrote. The paper was thick, the kind that absorbed ink just right, the kind that made each word feel permanent. He tapped the edge of the page with his fingers, hesitating. A dark thought slithered into his mind, one that had come to him more times than he was willing to admit. 

The allowance. It was always there, always replenished, sent for Choso under the guise of family obligation, of keeping up appearances. The Kamos were anything but poor—they wouldn’t notice if a little more was spent than usual, if Sukuna siphoned off just enough to make the monthly payment disappear.

It would be so easy. His grip on the pen tightened. But what kind of brother would he be then?

He had already failed Yuuji once. To fail Choso too—to take from him what little security he had, what little proof that their father even thought of him—would be unforgivable. His parents’ savings weren’t an option either. Dipping into that would only fuck him over in the future. And what then? He’d still be here, still slaving away, just to replace what he took. Sukuna scoffed under his breath, pushing his glasses up his nose in frustration, as if that could straighten out the mess in his head. 

No. He’d do what he always did—he’d shoulder it. He’d figure it out.

He shook off the thoughts and focused on the letter in front of him. His handwriting was practiced, deliberate, written in the exact way he knew would make Choso’s face light up, even if just for a moment. The words were careful, warm, carrying the weight of a presence that wasn’t really there but needed to be believed.

"Choso, hope you're taking care of your big brother like you promised.  Japan's getting colder these days—I hope you’re wearing the sweater I sent you last time. I have to tell you about this bakery I found, their melon bread is almost as good as the one we make. I'll send some next time if I can.  Study hard and eat well. I miss you."

He folded the letter neatly, sealing it in an envelope with a practiced ease. He reached into his drawer, pulling out a stamp, pressing it into place with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before. When he was done, the envelope looked authentic, as if it had traveled across oceans, as if it had come from somewhere distant, somewhere real.

Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Sukuna stood, shrugging on his leather jacket, the weight of it grounding him for a brief moment. He tucked the letter safely into his pocket, walking toward the front door. “I'm going to check on the letter,” he said casually, forcing his voice into something neutral, something easy. 

Choso, still bent over his homework, barely looked up. “Okay! Tell me if it’s there!” 

Sukuna nodded, stepping out into the cool evening air, exhaling softly. 

Relieved. 

Relieved that Choso still believed him. 

Relieved that, for now, the facade was still intact.

-

The fluorescent lights of the store buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles. Sukuna moved on autopilot, feet carrying him towards the refrigerators at the back. His hand twitched as he reached forward, fingers hovering over the condensation-covered cans.

A beer.

For a second, it was pure muscle memory. All those nights in high school, leaning against some grimy rooftop ledge, cracking open a cheap can just to prove a point—to himself, to the world, to whoever the hell was listening. He scoffed under his breath, annoyed at the thought alone, and instead grabbed a can of Coke, rolling the cold aluminum between his fingers before heading to the counter. The letter stayed tucked securely in his pocket as he paid. 

The automatic doors whooshed open, and he stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. And that’s when he saw—

You.

You, standing under the dim orange glow of the streetlamp, arms crossed as you scrolled through your phone, the light bouncing off your features in a way that made you look softer, almost tired. Something in his chest lurched, but it settled into something quieter when you looked up and spotted him. 

“Oh, hey.” your voice was warm, familiar, and it made something in him loosen just slightly. 

He didn’t know why he lingered. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him—small, but real. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t look like you were waiting for anyone in particular, and neither was he.

“You just get off work?” you asked, eyeing the way his sleeves were rolled up, the leather jacket hanging off his frame like an afterthought. 

“Nah,” he replied, lifting the can of Coke as if that explained anything. “Just needed some air.”

You hummed in response, nodding as if that made sense.

It was quiet for a moment, but not uncomfortable. Sukuna took a sip of his drink, the carbonation fizzling against his tongue, before you sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. 

“Gojo's stubborn,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. 

Sukuna let out something between a chuckle and a scoff. “You’re just figuring that out now?” 

You gave him a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. “No, but… it’s different when you see it from someone else’s perspective.” 

Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “How so?” 

You hesitated, looking down at your feet before shaking your head. “He’s not just stubborn with me, he’s stubborn with everyone. Including you, apparently.”

“Obviously,” Sukuna said dryly, thinking about the way Gojo had planted himself in the front row of biology today, how he had accepted Sukuna’s challenge with that damnable easy grin, despite everything. 

The corner of your mouth twitched. 

“He told me you called him an idiot.”

“Because he is,” Sukuna retorted.

You actually laughed at that, and Sukuna found himself holding onto that sound longer than he should have. But then the conversation shifted, the air between you both cooling ever so slightly as he admitted, “I know about the Rhabdo.”

Your smile didn’t fade instantly, but there was a moment—a flicker of something, so quick that if Sukuna hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed it. But he was paying attention.

You froze for just a second before exhaling, lips pulling into something smaller, wearier. It wasn’t sad, not quite. It was resigned, and he hated it. 

He hated the way you looked as if you had already accepted something terrible, as if you had made peace with a fight you hadn’t even finished fighting yet. Because he knew that look.

He had worn that look when he was eighteen, standing beside a hospital bed, watching a younger version of himself—of Yuuji—grinning through the pain, just as stubborn, just as reckless, just as determined to live on his own terms even if it meant shortening the time he had left. Sukuna’s grip on his can tightened for a second before he sighed. 

“You’re just gonna let him keep doing this?”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly. “What choice do I have?”

“You make him listen.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Have you ever tried making him listen?”

Sukuna huffed, because yeah, fair point. 

But still. 

“So what now?” he asked. 

You let out a humorless laugh. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s your plan?”

“Plan?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’ve met him, talked to him. You really think I can make him stop?”

“You can try.”

You scoffed. “Oh, sure. And when he shrugs it off like he always does?”

“Then you try again.”

You gave him a long, searching look. 

“Why do you even care?”

Sukuna looked away, running his tongue over his teeth.

Why did he care?

Because he had seen this before. Because he knew what it looked like when someone ran themselves into the ground, all while the people around them stood helplessly, watching it happen. Because—

Because it wasn’t his job.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Just… don’t let him push you out.”

Your expression softened, just a fraction. “You make it sound like I have a choice.”

He didn't have an answer for that.

-

Sukuna didn’t even get a chance to set his keys down before Choso practically lunged for the letter, snatching it with both hands like a kid being handed a golden ticket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the familiar slant of the writing as if it would reveal something extra if he looked hard enough. His little lips moved silently as he read, his brows scrunching in focus.

Sukuna didn’t comment, only watching as Choso, after a decisive nod to himself, ran to the dining table. He grabbed the nearest scrap of paper—one of Sukuna’s old worksheets from Biology class—and his blue crayon, already pressing it to the page with an eager grip. 

“‘Kuna, how do you spell squirrel?” Choso asked without looking up, tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Just sound it out,” Sukuna said, stirring the soup he was throwing together for dinner. Choso muttered under his breath, scribbling something. 

“S-q-u-r-l,” he announced proudly. 

Sukuna huffed a small chuckle. “Close enough.”

The little one kept writing, pausing only to tap the crayon against his chin like a scholar deep in thought. He took this seriously, as if he were writing a letter to a king instead of a fabrication Sukuna had created for him. And when he finally finished, he hopped off the chair, clutching the paper to his chest like a secret treasure. 

“Here,” he said, all but shoving the letter at Sukuna as he stepped out of the kitchen. His grin was beaming, the kind that made his dimples show. “Don’t forget to send it, ‘kay?”

Sukuna took the paper carefully, ruffling Choso’s messy hair in response. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice quieter than before. “I won't forget.” 

Choso beamed once more before running off, mumbling something about finishing his addition problems. 

Sukuna exhaled, turning the letter over in his hands before heading to his room. The paper was warm from being held so tightly, the edges slightly crinkled. He shut the door behind him, sitting on the edge of his bed as he finally unfolded it, the glow of the bedside lamp casting sharp shadows on his face. The letter trembled slightly in his hands, but only because he was gripping it too hard. He forced himself to ease his fingers, flattening out the creases in the paper.

The crayon-scribbled letters were large and uneven, but neater than before. Choso’s handwriting was improving. Sukuna should have felt proud, should have smiled at the little details—the way Choso still switched his lowercase ‘b’ and ‘d’ sometimes, the way he made his ‘g’ too round like a balloon. 

But that last line.

dear papa, i did math today. 22 plus 89=111. my teacher said i am very smart. she gave me a star sticker, but it was pink. i wanted a blue one. next time i will ask. today i saw a squrreal. its fur was crazy like when you wake up and forget to comb your hair. it was eating a nut and looking at me like it knew a secret. do squrreals have secrets? i ate biscuits today. the round ones with sugar on top. you said too much sugar is bad, but one is okay, so i only had five. i watched wicked yesterday. areeanna grandday sings nice. the witch was not a meanie. i think she just needed a hug. do you think bad people are really bad, or are they just sad? also i asked my teecher why do people go to heaven. she said god misses them so he brings them back to him. i think god should miss me too. then i can meet yuuji again. i miss yuuji.  love, choso

His chest ached. A quiet, dull throb. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth would snap.

"I think God should miss me too. Then I can meet Yuuji again."

His fingers traced over the letters, smudged slightly where Choso had gripped the paper too hard. In the dim lighting, the deep blue crayon looked almost black, the pressure of the strokes making the paper feel rough under his fingertips. His throat tightened.

For a brief second, he considered grabbing the letter and heading straight back to Choso’s room, waking him up just to—what? Tell him that God doesn’t miss people? Tell him that missing someone shouldn’t mean wanting to disappear? 

Instead, Sukuna pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, exhaling through his nose. He closed his eyes for a second before refolding the letter with careful, precise movements. 

Then, he reached over to his nightstand, opening the drawer where every single one of Choso's letters lay stacked, neat and safe. He placed this one on top.

He should write back. Tell Choso about his day, tell him that squirrels probably do have secrets, tell him that bad people are usually just people who hurt too much. But not tonight. Tonight, he just needed to sit with it.

-

Your room was dimly lit, bathed in the soft amber glow of your bedside lamp. The fairy lights strung along the wall flickered faintly, casting uneven shadows over your cluttered desk. Your chair was still pulled out from earlier, a half-empty mug of tea beside your closed laptop, the steam long since disappeared. 

A couple of books were stacked haphazardly by your pillow—ones you kept meaning to read but never got around to. A Digimon plush, a stupid little gift from Gojo years ago, sat beside them, its wide embroidered eyes staring blankly ahead. And then there was your phone, still warm from the call, resting in your palm as you stared at the screen. 

“Listen, I know I was acting like a little shit,” Gojo started, voice softer than usual, a little hesitant. “I'm, like, marginally self-aware, y’know?” 

You snorted, shifting against your pillows. “Yeah, only marginally.”

“Shut up,” he whined, dragging out the last syllable.

You could almost see him, sprawled out in his bed, tangled in his sheets, glasses pushed up onto his forehead as he stared at the ceiling. “But, uh, really,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I just—I dunno, I don't think those girls meant anything bad, y’know? They were just messing around.”

You sighed. “Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he shot back. You rolled your eyes, rubbing your temple. “Just because they didn’t mean anything bad doesn’t mean it wasn’t. You were uncomfortable, right?”

He was quiet for a second. “I mean…”

“Don’t ‘I mean’ me,” you huffed. “You told me yourself you didn’t even remember most of that party, and now you’re gonna defend them?”

Gojo groaned dramatically. “Ugh, why do you have to be right?”

“Someone has to be.”

“Wow.”

“Mhm.”

A beat of silence passed, comfortable enough, until Gojo suddenly piped up, “Anyway! I'm not going this Friday.” 

You blinked, sitting up a little. “You’re not?”

“Nah,” he said, so casual, so him. “Rather spend my friday night with my favorite girl, playing Digimon.”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, heart clenching in a way you didn’t recognize. You swallowed. “Satoru—”

“Ah-ah-ah, no need to get all emotional on me,” he teased. “Just let me kick your ass in peace.” 

You scoffed, shifting your phone to your other ear. “Please, you wish you could beat me.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

And when you said your goodbyes, when you finally disconnected the call, you stared at the ceiling for a long time, phone resting on your chest. Satoru still had a long way to go. And maybe, so did you.

series masterlist   next chapter

Hello everyone, it's been a hot minute 🙂‍↕️ This was supposed to be a Valentine's day release (dedicated to my lovely mutuals) I started working on from January onwards, but one plotline turned into another and eventually here I am, writing it as one of my first full-length fics. A bit hesitant to post it on Tumblr, but I hope you enjoy :)

the love of my life @nanamiskentos <- aka the best proof-reader and hype woman on this site. i love you so much, thank you for giving me the audacity and confidence to share my fics with the big wide net and making me and my work feel seen <3 no gojo post is complete without @gojao <- my favorite gojo girlie, forgive me for gatekeeping this fic from you but you know i had to keep this one a surprise >⩊< i love u so very much you brighten up my dash with every single post you make my beautiful gorgeous wife from the other side of the world -> @nkopurin, i know this is not a toji post but i still want to dedicate this to you, you've been such a light and my fav writer to work with /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡ thank you so much for helping me always

my favorite desi girls and possibly the only women who hard-carry the community... @baepsays @deathofacupid and @fushitoru. i may not be at your freakuency when it comes to your writing <- because it's just that good, but it doesn't hurt to try :P my iya -> @chososcamgirl, wrote all this bone-crushing angst thinking about you...i hope you're doing well when you see this ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) my baby who inspires me to be a better writer -> @emphistic in another life we are soulmates sitting besides each other as we write our fics. i love you and your work so very much <3

i could not end this without tagging trish <- @starmapz and kale @to00fu, your works inspired me to take up this project again after abandoning it for nearly a month. thank you so much for your contributions to jjkblr and to my motivation as well (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

Obligatory taglist mention, thank you for your interest in my work <3 @poopooindamouf @paradisestarfishh @voideddd @deathofacupid @uselessbitch8008 @jayathelostdragon @sukubusss @starmapz @your-mum3000 @sukunaslilsocks @aaazade @jeonwiixard @skyxxx17

[neda-epik]

I'm so normal about Skylar-Chilli

Skylar-Chilli and Spark belong to @cyucya<3

Anyway, theory time! - Villian! Skylar Chilli

Like imagine Skylar-Chilli decides to run away from home in an effort to get even a little bit of attention from his parents. And ends up at Dr. Eggman, "Maybe they'll show up if they think I got kidnapped?"

And Eggman's more than glad to take him in.

"Of course! Sonic's own child came to me! That blue rat must be around the corner waiting to save him!"

And then like not even a week later of no one showing up he'd say "Damn, kid. They really don't love you, huh?" And I can see an Egg-dad ark happening, yada yada...

What I really can feel in my bones is that SC would definitely go a bit bonkers if he spent time with Egg-dad.

Like.

His parent's worst enemy is better at giving unconditional love than the supposed "amazing heroes" aka his own parents??

(I think Egg-dad at first 'd be like "Ah, yes! Another thing I can use as my pawn for my evil schemes!" and then "You know, I'm actually so proud of this kid doing even something really pathetic, I should make him my successor.")

When Skylar-Chill grows a little older and starts causing some serious ruckus, Sonic and Shadow, now older and weaker are unable to keep up. Spark is the only one capable of stopping him.

She's the only one who really cared for SC from the very start too and feels guilty for how SC ended up (it's not her fault though - she was just a kid)

And Amy is probably dead in this AU cuz if she was here I don't think things would have ended this badly. And we know Rouge likes the kid but I feel like she wouldn't question his actions and just try to support and keep an eye on him, in his "I'm evil now" phase

Sonic and Shadow being peak fail dads:

Aunty Rouge is trying her best</3

Also trying out some new Tools on Sai:)

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

De-aged Danny shenanigans with an adult Damian taking after his father.

Danny, about 6: *drigging through the trash*

Damian, 26: Hello? Are you alright?

Danny, whips around to look at him with glowing green eyes: hissssss

Damian, blinks: Oh, dear....Are you hungry?

Danny, suspicious:... yeth

Damian, nods: If you come with me, we can either go to a batburger down the street or my apartment a block over. I have a washer and dryer I can run your clothes through while you bathe.

Danny: Are you trying to kidnap me?

Damian: If I was, I'd be a fool to say so

Danny: mm twue...why else would you want to help me though?

Damian: one. It would be irresponsible of me to level a toddler alone, in an alley, in Gotham.

Danny, pouting: I'm not a toddler

Damian: Two. I will never hear the end of it from my siblings whether or not I help you, but it'd be more teasing than lecturing if I do help you.

Danny: Why would they do dat?

Damian: If you don't have any place to go, I might just tell you. But only if I can make sure you don't tell the wrong person.

Danny: I'm good wif secrets!

Damian, amused: We shall see. And now third and final reason. Are you aware your eyes are glowing green?

Danny, gasps and slams his eyes shut: You're not supposed to see!

Damian, softly: It's okay. I understand what that means. One of my elder brothers' eyes glow the same way. It must have been very scary for you to die

Danny, sniffling: It was... does his eyes weally glow green?

Damian: They do. His usually glow when he gets angry, is it the same with you?

Danny, now blinking blue glowing eyes at Damian: mmm? No? Green is too much bad emotion

Damian: Bad emotion?

Danny: Mad, um, strezz? No, the bigger one!

Damian: Panic or anxiety?

Danny, points at him with a bounce: Yeah!!

Damian, amused and concerned: I see

Danny: mmm let's see, um, and scared?

Damian: Interesting. Jason's eyes are usually an indicator of angry, but I know he likes to cover his fear and concern with that same anger. I shall look into it. On that note. And what does glowing blue mean?

Danny, blinks: Blue?

Damian: Yes. Did you know your eyes are glowing blue now?

Danny, shocked: No! They didn't do that before!... At least I don't think they did?

Damian: Well, they're a very pretty shade of blue.

Danny: Maybe... Maybe that's how my parents noticed...

Damian, trying not to frown: What did your parents notice?

Danny, turning his big teary eyes on Damian: That I'm not fully human anymore. They didn't notice. They never noticed!

Damian, slowly reaching out to the kid to see if he'd accept a hug: Sounds like your parents didn't deserve you.

Danny, giving into his childish instincts and flinging himself into Damian's arms to sob his little heart out: They didn't even know I died! It's not fair! I'm not weally human and it's their fault! I hate their stupid po-po- THING! It shocked me and it hurt and now I'm dead and it's their fault!

Damian: *gently rocking Danny til he tires himself out*

Danny, sniffling: It's not fair...

Damian: Something I've found is, it never is. Every stray my father has housed has had an unbearably harsh life, and I, being his blood son, was no different. My mother and her father raised me for the first ten years of my life, and I've come to understand that my childhood was not a good one. It took me a long time and a lot of patience from my eldest brother to come to realize what I was missing.

Danny: Like, Jazzy?

Damian: mm? Who's Jazzy?

Danny: My big sister. She's a big know it all, but she tries...

Damian: Well, that's-

Danny, jolts in Damian's hold: Tried! *GASP* Jazzy doesn't know mom and dad didn't kill me!! *pause* um, kill me again?

Damian: Well, we'll have to tell her, won't we? You wouldn't happen to know her full name? I can ask my family to contact her while we get you cleaned up

Danny: Yeah! Her name is Jasmine Fenton! She goes to a big big school here! That's why I came here! I just... I got lost..

Damian: That won't do

Damian, pulls out his phone and calls Barbara while starting to walk to his apartment: Gordon. I have a request.

Barbara: Yeah? Whatcha got, baby bat?

Damian: Can you look up a Jasmine Fenton? I have something she will probably want back.

Barbara: Holy shit! Is that a child??

Damian, sighs: Yes, it's her little brother. He ran away from a bad situation with his parents and got lost trying to find his elder sister.

Barbara: Alright. I'll check out her entire life to make sure she's safe to- wait. Damian, is that kid's name Danny?

Damian, realizing he never asked: One moment.

Damian, looks down at a sleepy, but curious Danny: Is your name Danny?

Danny, beams: Yeah!!

Barbara: Caught that, but, uh, Damian, Danny is supposed to be 20, not...4? 5? Not a tiny child

Damian: umm... Danny did you used to be older?

Danny, shrinks into himself and his eyes turn green: Ye-yeah... I don't know why I'm little... mommy did something and it Huuurt and hurt til suddenly I was free and I ran and hid in a bus

Damian, soothingly petting his back: Okay, it's okay, we'll figure it out.

Barbara: Take care of him for the night, we'll contact his sister tomorrow at a reasonable time. I'm not finding anything too concerning on her yet so she's probably safe

Damian: Copy that. Goodnight, Gordon.

Barbara, teasing: Goodnight, mini-Bruce!

Damian, flushes, but doesn't deny it before hanging up and glancing towards Danny: That was Barbara Gordon. A family friend. She'll help us find your sister, but you'll be staying with me for tonight.

Danny, sleepy: Okay..

Damian, slipping into his apartment lobby and going straight up the stairs, ignoring the gaping attendants: Don't fall asleep just yet. You will be fed and bathed first

Danny, huffs, but straightens up: What food?

Damian: That depends, I only really have vegetarian food so I suppose we'll have to find something you'll eat

Danny: Sam is vegetarian! I eat vegetarian sometimes with her!

Damian: hm? Very good, then it should be easier for me to feed you

Damian and Danny have a wonderful time. Danny is fed, watered, and cleaned up before being set up with a quiet sound machine to sleep. Damian has a crisis over wanting to keep Danny and suddenly understands his father's adoption habit. He sets alarms to check on Danny throughout the night, but it's otherwise uneventful.

[dilf-docs]

Saturday But in Your Sunday Best

bfd!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: joel has a co-worker's wedding in las vegas. everything that can go wrong, does.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., creampie, oral (f. and m. receiving), breast play, fingering, dacryphilia, degradation kink, ANGST (as in i've suffered so will my characters. this wasn't at all what i had envisioned at first for this part), hurt/comfort, a bit of fluff (that's new), pls be nice this writer's block shot me in the foot

word count: 11,121 words

side note: sorry this took so long. between movie watching for the oscars, my other works, midterms, pedro pascal horny hours, my wattpad fic, the max fic you citizens let flop (ĉüřşę ÿoụ āĺļ), the brat taming fic that made numbers among my oomfs on twitter, a very shitty date (the situational irony of letting a man ruin my women's day) a ptwt fic gc in twitter (love u frens), and uni again, i let the ttdik series collect dust, my bad. as compensation, take this girthy chapter altho it makes me kinda insecure IDK. this is why i don't do series okay!! i'm my worst enemy and i fear procrastination is a chronical disease of mine atp

part: prev | masterlist | next

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas

His foot taps anxiously against the marble floor, sound drowned by the bustling crowd.

People come and go. Some hug, others cry. And Joel? Well, he's just waiting for you to come.

He checks his watch, the one Sarah gifted him, and sighs. Should've known better.

It's been two months since the pregnancy scare, and ever since then, you have put a bit of a distance between yourselves.

It was slow, gradual: first the excuses then nights were you wouldn't stay or ask him to. And, even if your affair was that, just an affair, he missed sleeping in the warmth of your embrace. He also missed the way your nose would crinkle when you laughed. You didn't laugh that often anymore, and if you did, it sounded like you were holding in: as if you were afraid to let loose and let him see through you. And to be honest, it was killing him.

So when he reached out to you for this, he should've expected for you to say no. That you wouldn't show up after that I'll see if I'm free text: no, Joel Miller simply shouldn't have harbored that much hope for his daughter's bestfriend he happened to be banging.

If he hadn't confirmed his invitation, he'd probably gone home and layed down. Watch some garbage TV with Sarah and some beer in hand, but here he was, like a lonely loser, luggage in hand.

(Sarah helped him pack. He didn't even know what to wear to a wedding, and then she showed up with his old suit-- that still fit, somehow, albeit a bit more tight, from the dry cleaning. Joel would be lost without her)

The speaker announces his flight is about to leave. Joel gets up, trying not to be dissappointed about the whole thing. He's got no right to, after all.

"Joel?"

He'd end up breaking his neck by how fast he turned.

There you are, and it's like the weight he wasn't aware of, settling on his chest, had been removed.

"You made it" is the first thing that makes it out of his lips.

You softly laugh, "Hello, Joel"

He gets closer to you, slowly, like if he where to do it faster, he'd scare you off. Or you'd be gone, as if a dream.

(It'd be a nightmare, though, because you wouldn't be here)

"Sorry. I-" he cuts off, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. There's some tension lingering in the air, the same when you left his house a week ago. Joel had been too much of a coward to invite you then, rather hiding behind a screen.

But now you were here.

"I didn't think you'd come" he says after a beat of silence.

You tilt your head to the side, eyebrow up as if you hadn't been acting weird at all.

"Why wouldn't I?"

(Because it seems like being in the same room as me tires you. That your eyes don't shine anymore, and the starry sky looks like a storm when you dare search my gaze as we fuck. Every time you breath, its like breathing the same air as me burns)

He rather not press, so instead, he says:

"I'm jus' glad ya' came. 'S all"

You nod, not adding anything at all. Then, both you walk to your gate, side by side in silence, the same that had seemed to seep inside your romance for the past weeks.

Well, romance was definitely a stretch. An affair seemed more like it.

Of course, you're aware the change it's on you. It would've been dumb of you to think Joel wouldn't notice your withdrawal, or how more often than not you'd be stuck in your head. But still, he didn't comment on it, and like you, danced around the subject, afraid for different reasons as yours. Or the same. Yet, you'll never know. No, you're aware you both are too stubborn, and that whatever it started on that day, had settled in between like a burning flame.

(Had you been engulfed by the fire yet?)

You try not to think about it. After all, you had the option not to come. But a weekend away in Las Vegas after midterms? Too tempting to let go.

(And it's not like images of a stood up Joel in the airport, looking miserable, had made you restless the last couple of days after his text)

"Ya' can take the window" he says, even if it's his seat.

He knows you're nervous about flying, a little detail that came up during a post-sex small talk.

(What're you're dreams? Joel asked. You had answered that you'd love to travel the world after graduating, but that you had a fear for flying, despite having only done it once. It may have been because the first time you did, it was to fly for your grandma's funeral. Perhaps it was by association then, that the bad feelings about boarding a plane could be related to that)

"Thanks" you mumble, sitting down. You're avoiding his gaze, but know he's looking at you.

"What?" a little harsher than intended.

He looks taken back, looking at his lap as he let's out a soft whisper, sheepishly:

"Nothin'. Jus' thinkin' you look pretty today"

A light blush creeps up your cheeks as you huff out a Whatever.

Joel let's a breath of relief out his tight chest and allows himself to smile.

(At least, he's still got an effect on you)

The wedding Joel was supposed to attend is in the Ángel De La Guarda cathedral. You'd be staying nearby, at a hotel room Joel's coworker had paid for, the same where the reception would take place.

Being in the same room as Joel one night should be the least of your worries, but then the space is even smaller than it was supposed to (given by Joel's cursing as he paced around, anxiously), and the strain of your relationship settles in the air, physically so, tight around your throat.

Then, it's the bed issue: there's only one. It's not like you haven't slept in the same bed before, obviously, but there's a certain dread deep in your stomach about sharing the enclosed space when you're at your most vulnerable. He moves around a lot during night, and something tells you you'd wake up to his strong arms and hot breath fanning over your neck, hairs rising at the proximity, making it harded to calm your heart.

"You okay?" he's asking, dropping the bags in a corner.

"At what time is the wedding?" you ask.

He checks his watch. "In about seven hours"

The glass bounces a ray right into your face, and you have to close your eyes at yet nother reminder of why this is all so wrong.

Sarah.

"We should rest..." he says, plopping on the bed. His plaid t-shirt rises up at the same time the color of your cheeks does, when the glimpse of soft tanned skin reveals itself. He looks up to your stiff standing figure, bulk arms behind his neck as he rests his head on his biceps. "Don't 'cha think?"

Lay with me. Not outloud.

"No" you say, hastily so, not missing the way a flicker of dull akin to the pain of rejection finds its way to his brown eyes. "I..." your voice softens. "I'd rather take a tour of the place, you know? It's not like I'll come every weekend here"

He's about to raise up. I'm coming with you, again not out loud, in case you'd reject his offering again.

Which you do.

"I'm fine" you say, grabbing your purse. "Just... I need a moment"

Away from you.

"Suit yourself" but there's a sharp edge on his apparent kindness.

Closing the door behind you, it takes all of you to not turn around and see his face one last time.

You wander off through the bright lights and noisy hallways, walking until the sun of the outdoors filters a ray over the carpet through the glass doors. Strides take you to the pool area, kids giggling, parents sunbathing and youngsters chilling.

You sigh, dipping your feet in the pool, chlorine up your nose and water baterly grazing your sundress.

But you're drowning.

Drowning on his presence, every room he's in now smaller. Walls of the room collapsing, as the ones of your lungs, every breath tight if your nose catches a whiff of his scent lingering in the air. You'd wash the sheets almost immediately, crying when your head hit the pillow and it smelled like lavender and not Joel.

It was the only right choice: to erase him out of your life, because with every new kiss and thrust, he'd take another part of you with him, and you don't know how much more you can give of yourself without dying. A part of you dies every time he walks out the door, anxious heart pondering when will he walk out for good. When he'll realize the thrill is gone, that your escapades were all but a product of his crisis, and what started as a mutual use of bodies, ends in the waste of your heart.

Joel has become a drug for you: knowing it's destructive, but the high so addictive, you don't mind the crash. It's unevitable, and a small treacherous voice in the back of your head says you're just postponing a foretold death.

Yet Joel Miller makes you feel alive. Alive as a spring, grassbed full of blooming flowers. As sun carressing your skin: if you stay too long, the warm becoming burning.

A kid walks up to your sad lonely pensive corner, splashing water onto you.

"Hey!" but he's gone, and it's Vegas, so his parents are three mojitos down from the open bar, asleep under the sun. You curse, getting up and back to your room to change.

When you get to your room, is eerily quiet. And dark, the curtains closed.

You rumage through your suitcase, pulling out a change. The dress slips off, falling to the carpet with a pathetic drowned sound. You're about to change into the t-shirt when the lights flicker.

"You back?"

You scream, trying to cover yourself.

"Woah!" Joel covers his eyes, both your reactions ironically funny. Your cheeks burn as you finish dressing yourself up, and if he takes a small peak between his fingers, well, you'll never know. "Jesus, doll. If ya' wanted it so bad, could've asked"

Something akin to anger and deception morph into a burning flame in the pit of your stomach. Even after all this months, after this imminent fight, Joel can't bring himself to ask, dancing around the fragile line that barely holds on with the clap of skin against skin and sweat, as to replace the tears that will never see the light of the day.

"Right, because that's all I want"

He raises an eyebrow at your tone. "S' a joke"

"Jokes are supposed to make people laugh"

He shoots you a look, before standing from the bed.

"What's gotten into ya'?"

He walks closer, yet you give him your back, tossing the sundress with too much force in your bag.

"Don't know what you're talking about" as nonchalant as you can muster.

"Look at me" you keep the harsh packing going on. Joel grows impatient at your confusing demeanor, not just from today, but days ago. He's had enough. He spins you around, losing his cool as he shouts. "Damn it, y/n, stop actin' like a brat!"

"Don't touch me!" you yell back, pulling away.

"So that's how's it now?" Joel lets out a scoff. "Y' get on ma' bed but the moment I put a finger in ya', y'act all coy and angry?"

"Right, 'cause I'm a slut. That's what sluts do: we get on lonely men's bed and fuck them"

He grabs the bridge of his nose, breathing heavily. His voice is laced with frustration, and you know it's your fault.

"Never said that"

Why not talk it like adults? No. Too much of a coward to do that.

"Jus' tell me, doll. What's goin' on?"

I think I love you, and I'm fucking scared.

His voice is soft, pleading. In your lifetime, you never thought you'd see Joel Miller beg. You did once, but it wasn't like this. Please, he'd say. Now, here he is, standing before you like the smallest man who ever lived and not the unstoppable force you made him out to be.

It should be easy. But words never come easy. Not to you. Neither love, so foreign it makes you shiver with fear. So natural, one day you opened your eyes to him laying next to you, Sarah staying in another city for a soccer tournament, and decided that was what you wanted. All his mornings. His bed voice, thick from sleep. His droopy eyes and tired smile, facil hair tickling your face as he says Good mornin', Southern drawl never more prominent, kisses in between. Let's get sum coffee after, because he always had to drink the bitter liquid out of his owl mug or wouldn't be able to make it through the day.

You want him to be the first thing you see when you open your eyes.

You want Joel Miller. Want. Want. Want.

"I hate you"

You have ruined me.

He probably expected anything but that, given his crestfallen face. Joel wishes for time to go back, at the beach. He'd say no, push you away. Fought a little harder. Never gotten into your bed.

The worst part is, he's a fucking liar: he'd probably still choose the same, even if the end is near.

"You ain't mean that" not knowing if he's trying to convince you or himself. "Jus' wanna hurt me"

You don't humor him with an answer.

"I shouldn't have come" is what you say instead, the bitter taste of defeat and hurt etched in your voice.

Would've been easier to stop when we should've.

His words run through the tense air like a bullet.

"I agree"

Weddings had always made you cry.

You weren't even a romantic, but the whole thing-- the promise of forever, it seemed to move your heart a bit.

So, if your eyes shimmer when the bride makes her entrance and the groom, Joel's co-worker, tears up, you feel your chest tight and stomach drop. It clenches with something akin to dread and want, as if suddenly, all that mattered to you was love. A year ago, if you told yourself-- the one who got on her knees to suck Joel's dick at the beach that night, that you'd be here?

You would've laughed.

Falling for the grumpy old man who also happens to be your bestfriend's dad?

Right. Imagine that.

Except there is nothing to imagine. All of it is real.

From his quiet laughter, the sound foreign and not frequent by the way it rasps against his throat. But now the wrinkles around his eyes are more prominent, forbidden laughs marking his blushing face. as he looks away, embarrassed. You can laugh, you had said, I won't tell anyone, yet he made you swore like the sight of Joel Miller laughing was the worst thing in the world. So had become the grey strands on his hair, more sprouting each time, as his damp curls twisted in your fingers.

It is also in the way his sweat that drops over your body as he tries hard to last longer, to his grunts that fill the room as he fills you to the brim with his warm cum. How his rough seems to meet every inch of your soft skin, like pieces of a puzzle.

Something clicks when you're with Joel, and you can't help but feel it's your fault this rift has been created, aggressively peeling the white off your nails as some form of anxious torture. But, he too, aside from his initial Just glad you came, hadn't said a word about it again. Even if he had noticed it all, before Vegas too. Nothing. And then Joel told you it was best if you didn't come. Fucking great.

You feel him tense next to you, body stiff when your arm accidentally brushes his when you stand up from the bench, making you roll your eyes.

The fallout had been awkward. The elevator ride took forever, and then the space on the cab felt too small. He took you to the back, on the benches near the exit, like he didn't want to be seen with you. It got you fuming: why bother to invite you at all?

In all truth, you could've picked up your bags and left after the fight, yet you stayed. You wonder who's more of a coward. In this weird dancing around you've got going on, walking in circles over the words Stay and Leave, like both are too delicate to say out loud. Even as the couple speak their vows, amid the claps and tears, your mind keeps drifting back to one question: Which would hurt less?

It's not until it ricochets on your arm that you realize the tears are also your own. You brush it fast, but by the corner of your eye, you know Joel notices. Still, he doesn't say anything, which contributes to your spite.

The ceremony is over, and just as you can feel the anticipation of the reception's drinks to buzz your nerves down, someone blocks you the exit. A couple, more like it.

Before fully registering their faces, Joel's hand flies to your back, pressed in a firm manner that oozes protectiveness. It makes your heart flutter, no matter how much you try to suffocate the treacherous butterflies in your stomach. You try not to think too much about it as you take them in: a man, looking in his middle forties, probably around the same age as Joel, so as the woman next to him, who smiles warmly. Not like the man, who seems unwelcoming.

"Joel" he pronounces his name, manners coming out cold. "It's nice to see you made it"

His grip on your back becomes more firm.

"Mark" he uses the same tone. "Well, when ya' confirm, y'gotta come"

"And who may this be?" Mark's wife asks, not thinking there's harm in her words. You swear you can hear him snicker next to her.

"She's-"

Joel stops midtrack. How is he supposed to even call you?

"I'm his girlfriend"

You don't know why you did that but you did. You also don't know why it causes you such satisfaction to see their wide eyes and Mark's disdain.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a girlfriend. How lovely!"

His cheeks go pink. "Thanks, Laura"

"Yes, Joel. Didn't think you'd move on" but his tone isn't like his wife's. "I just assumed that being with someone wasn't on your list anymore, you know, at your age. Especially one so... young"

Laura shots him a look.

Maybe it wasn't your place to get angry, not after how you've subjected Joel to your silent treatment this past months. Not after the fight you've just had hours ago. But he is also the same man who held your hand after you thought you were pregnant. He was the one who stayed. It is too how his shoulders slump, like he believes it to be true. You can't bear to see him sad, as contradictory as that may sound.

"Mark, right?"

The man nods, still sickly smiling.

"To me it sounds like you're jealous. Which is awful, because you've got a lovely wife" she looks away embarrassed while Mark fumes. "Also, when I turn around, try not to stare at my ass. I saw you when we arrived"

There's nothing left to say, so you walk past them.

"I think that was funny. Don't you?"

He avoids looking at you.

"I called a cab. Should take us back to the hotel"

No thanks. Nothing.

"Alright" your tone is dry. "Do as you please"

He opens the door for you, but his movements seem stiff and unnatural. Like he's second guessing every breath and step.

The car begins to move. You lean against the window, seeing the hues of neon through the glass. Joel's eyes burn holes on your head, a glimpse of brown in the reflection.

"I liked the wedding"

Joel looks at you properly for the first time since the fight. Your hair falls gracefully in cascades, hinting at an effort that tries to pass as a nonexistent one. Your makeup is soft, but your lips are in a shade he can't quite name, yet manage to make them even more fuller than usual. God, he thinks of it smeared on his clothes and mouth, feeling dumb all of the sudden. Then there's the dress. He doesn't have a favorite color, but as of now, it may be red: specially if its the red that hugs your curves, pushes your tits up and gives a little peak of your leg with its open cut, dangerously close to the start of your inner thigh. Not appropriate to wear at a church, maybe not a wedding either, but fuck didn't he care. He'd even rip it off, if it was such a problem.

"It was beautiful" he agrees, softly. "Never been to one. Maybe's why I think so"

You remove yourself from the window, now holding his gaze.

"What?" your mouth drops in surprise. "What about yours? Weren't you married?"

He smiles, but it appears to be sad. "Never got time for a wedding thought"

Joel has told you things. Things he'd never say outloud to anyone else. So whenever he opens up, letting you in, you let him, feeling that familiar pleasing ache in your chest at the thought of being enough: enough to be trusted with a piece of him. Of Joel Miller's heart.

The rest of the ride is silent, your mind still on Joel's hand on your back, on his words, and how the sting never goes.

In every thought of yours, he is.

"What'appened to your nails?"

The question catches you off guard. You're surprised he even noticed at all. But your hand lays in the space between his and your dish, stiff, as if waiting for him to hold it.

"Oh" you remove it from the table, placing it in your lap. "I chipped the polish off"

"Why?"

You turn to look at him, brown eyes examining you curiously, as if he didn't know you. Like he hadn't almost whisper those three words you had been tettering around as well.

"Why what Joel?" tone brash.

He scoffs at the change again, shoulders slumping a bit. Probably in annoyance, perhaps in defeat.

"Dunno" he goes back to his dish, cutting the steak with a bit too much force. I thought we were okay again. "S'rry I asked"

Your chest tightens, as it had been doing lately.

Was this the only thing you knew how to do now? Hurting Joel?

"No, I'm sorry"

It's his turn to get back at you. "Sorry for what?"

You swallow the lump that's formed in your throat, avoiding his gaze.

"I-"

Your eyes nervously dart across the room, trying to ignore the churn of your stomach and knot on your throat. You then catch the perfect distraction.

"I think Mark is staring at us again"

"What?" Joel asks in disbelief at your change of topic.

"Mark is staring" you sigh, getting up and dusting your dress off. "Wanna put on a show?"

"I didn't come to a wedding and wore this dress to be seated all night" you extend your hand. A quiet truce settles in between. "Let's dance"

At some point he gets up and takes your hand. It feels good. For a moment, be it childish or foolish, your mind thinks this is how it is: with no one around to know you, you're his and he's yours. It's just the two of you, dancing and laughing under the lights. He'd know the song that's playing, and when you'd ask, unfamiliar, Joel would joke: how could ya' know it, if you ain't even born yet?

For just a moment, it feels like it could be.

The music is soft. It's some sort of rendition of Lady, Lady, Lady by the band Jim hired to play at his wedding.

Joel's clammy hands slip against your cold palms as you walk to the dance floor.

"Nervous?" you ask, biting back a smile.

He squints his eyes at you. "I'm just outta practice, 's all"

You laugh. "I would've never guessed"

He shakes his head, but the ghost of a smirk hides in his lips.

"Cheeky baby. Now you actin' funny?"

Joel's hand finds its place in your waist, holding firmly as the first verses go by.

Dancing behind masks, just sort of pantomime.

But images reveal whatever lonely hearts can hide.

"Maybe I'm just tired" you reply, placing your head against his chest. His heart starts drumming faster, and you hear him gulp.

"It ain't even midnight yet"

You close your eyes, feeling every breath of his chest against your cheek.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about"

Lady, lady, lady, lady

I know it's in your heart to stay

"Y/n-"

Lady, lady, lady, lady

"I'm sorry" this time clearer.

His body rocks yours slowly to the tempo of the music, and for a brief moment, amongst the sea of guests and the voice of the singer, time stops, and it's just him and you.

"Don't"

He can't bear it. Not tonight.

When will I ever hear you say

I love you

Not when your body feels so well against his, your head resting on his chest like all those nights ago, where Joel held you close, the silent promise of never letting you go on his warm strong embrace. Not when just the thought of losing you is too unbearable to even think of. Not when today, he can let his mind drift away and heart beat, dreaming of things that'll make him the butt of the joke. For a moment, you're not wearing this red dress that's making him insane. You're all in white and there's a ring in your hand, just as there's one in his. You'd dance and say I'm yours, forever. A giggle. You can't get rid of me. And he'd smile and reply a Good, wasn't plannin' to.

But now he feels like he's going to lose you forever.

"I missed you" it's your way of trying, again.

His head is a whirlwind of emotions.

"Yeah?"

You lean closer, until his cologne burns in your nostrils.

"Yeah"

Time like silent stares, with no apology

"Joel"

Move towards the stars, and be my only one

This time, he finds it impossible to shut you up. Not when you've raised your head until your eyes meet his, and the constellations he very much loves are ever present in your stare.

Reach into the light, and feel love's gravity

"Yeah?"

You pull in closer, and he can feel the whiff of champagne coming out of your mouth. Your lips are parted, and a shaky whisper is all it takes for his head to spin, drunk in love.

"Please"

That pulls you to my side, where you should always be

Your lips are so inviting. All he has to do is cut the centimeters separating your mouths.

But it's a wall. One filled with doubts, fear and the quiet rage of rejection.

His voice wavers when he starts speaking.

"I think-"

He hasn't even finished his sentence, but your heart is already broken.

No wonder why you've always treated it like a burden: nothing is worst than a heavy heart.

Maybe he'd come to realize just how absurd this all was. Him, much older than you and Sarah's dad. How could he let his daughter's bestfriend go this far. That he was a forty something guy, dancing with a twenty two year old girl. That love comes in all shapes and sizes, but there's no name for this you have going on since last summer. Perhaps, there'll never be.

"Please" you hear yourself repeat.

It started as a plea for a kiss. You don't know what you're begging for anymore.

"No, baby-"

And Joel is the first to step back.

Lady, lady, lady, lady, I know it's in your heart to stay

The cold water of rejection hits you in the face, far from his warm embrace, the contour of his face, centimeters away, now meters.

"We can't"

An ocean away.

"Joel-" your throat tightens, panic bubbling in your chest.

"I think we should stop"

The whole world around you does as soon as those words leave his mouth.

Sorrow is quick to turn into anger, and all those months of guilt, rush, thrill, labored breaths, broken rules and promises you held to your heart as an oath, sweet whispered cons in your pillow that smelled like him. It all comes crashing down with force.

A dry laugh escapes past your lips. Joel winces at the sound.

"A bit too late for that, isn't it?"

"Baby-"

"Don't call me baby" you hiss, feeling your vision blurry. "Don't call me like you meant it"

"I do" the music has reduced to a buzz in the back of your head. His firm voice borders between desperate and pathetic. "Which is why am making 'tis"

"Fucking coward" you spit, feeling your skin on fire.

Don't give up. Please.

Fight for me. Fight for this.

For us.

"Coward?" it's Joel's turn to laugh. His dark chuckle sends shivers through your skin. "Y' shouldn't be talkin' 'bout that"

"Don't put all of this on me" you raise your shaky finger, accusing. "Don't you fucking dare"

"Thought Mark was watchin'. Or 's that 'nother one of y'r lies?" Joel seethes. "Or maybe ya' don't give a shit 'bout it. Jus' like you ain't give a shit 'bout us!"

"You think this is easy?" your voice raises. "You think I wanted this?"

You think I don't care? That I'm doing well? That I wanted to pull away from you? That I knew things would got as bad as they are?

You think I wanted to fall for you?

His eyes darken. "You started this"

Your heart stops beating. People laugh, the band is still playing and chatter bubbles like the champagne flutes waiters carry by.

But all you can hear is the moment your palm meets his face.

"I wish I never met you, Joel Miller"

And then you rush out the door, your heels burning as much as your eyes and chest. Far from the party, far from the world.

Far from him.

"We ain't done yet!"

You hear him bark behind you, yet your legs don't stop, despite the buzz in your ears and the slight stumble in your walk.

Your voice sounds like it doesn't belong to you when you hear yourself speak, without turning around.

"I think we are"

But Joel doesn't give up, making you feel trapped between wanting to hit him again and let yourself be held.

"Y/n!" he calls out just like he used to when you were a kid. Like you knew no better. Reckless. Berating. But now the taste of bitter mingles with his punishing demeanor.

You spin your heel, walking menacingly towards him.

"Don't call me that" you seethe, jabbing a finger to his chest.

"That's your fucken name!" he shouts.

Tears spring in the corner of your eyes. "You know what I mean"

"Enlighten me, doll" the nickname feels like a slap to your face, and for a moment, you wish he called you by your name again, instead of tainting the always sweet calling with his vitriol, as if the four letters meant something sacred he had profaned. "S'a matter of fact, why don't y'enlight me 'bout everythin' that's goin' on. 'Cause guess what? I'ont know what the fuck is happenin'!"

And it terrifies me.

His shout probably ran across the empty hallway. The music coming from inside sounds like a muffled heartbeat, mirroring your own.

To lose you. I might as well have.

"I don't know why you seem'a hate me now" quiet this time, like every word coming from his mouth take his voice little by little. "Why ya' get all sweet on me after weeks of leavin' me, pushin' me to the side... I'm old, doll. I ain't capable of takin' this anymore"

I'm not capable of surviving a broken heart.

The possibility of losing Joel, foever, had never crossed your mind, not even as you closed off, ignoring the way his brown sad eyes would search yours to try and find answers, maybe scraps of the... whatever it was you shared.

Now, it was real, and it shook you to the bone.

"Was fun while it lasted" closing off, trying to shut the doors he let you in, clawing back to that Joel Miller who couldn't be bent. The one Sarah deemed unbreakable. But it's the same that didn't know when to back down, now praying the price of his foolishness.

I don't regret it, but Joel doesn't have it in him to give you more of his heart for you to take. If he cuts it now, from the root, he'll spare his brain from saving more seconds of the image of you he'd have to get rid off: you, taking your coffee with two bags of sugar because you hated uneven numbers, and three seemed too much for your latte. You, standing on his room like you belonged there. You, on his car, the leather having absorbed some of the floral scent you seemed to carry with you. In your clothes, your skin, your hair. He'd have to go to bed knowing he'd never get to feel your strands in his fingers, tickling the remmanents of desolation he'd been carrying like a second skin ever since Sarah's mother walked away.

Your blood runs cold.

"Fun?" the words spill in a bitter incredulous tone, all the while you're trying to hold to him without raising your hand for him to take it, like just the thought of it would be enough to choose you. Words seem to fail you, and grasping at him feels like holding sand: it keeps falling from your fingers, a cruel reminder of your borrowed time. "Joel"

"Fun" he repeats the word, feeling sick. "As in, you'd marry someone who's worth for ya'. Probably choose Texas, maybe you'll stay away. 'Cause you're smart, and know what's good. But if ya' came back, livin' at the same neighbour, in the house across mine, you'd glance up and see my porch, thinkin' 'bout us, and this will become a joke with y'r husband, 'bout your rebel days. To your kids, summ cautionary tale. To you? An'scape of summ sorts of y'r other wise boring life"

Your shaking at this point, not knowing if it's anger, humilliation or sorrow.

I'm sorry. Please, don't give up on me. Stay.

"I'd be an experience. But to me? Doll" Joel chuckles, humorlessly. "You were everythin'"

A choked up sob bubbles from your chest.

"So that's what you think of me?" you laugh, a sound so hollow it makes his skin shiver. "That this is for the thrill? For the fucking anecdote?!"

"Trust me. I've lived long 'nough, kid. You'll understand later"

It's like all those months next to him meant nothing. Like pulling away from your lips was the easiest thing to do.

"Don't you fucking dare call me a kid!" you push him. "I'm not a kid"

"I know you ain't!" he roars back. "But you don't know shit!"

"Neither do you!" your quick to counter. "You think you've got me all figured out, huh? Bet you think that I'm some helpless naive idiot who doesn't know what I want. I don't know what I'm doing, that you're right. But I do know what I signed up for, the price I would pay" losing you or Sarah. Both. "I wanted it, and newsflash: so did you" you breath, running your hands through your hair, trying to comb some sense of normalcy to ground yourself while you try to recover your composture. His arms lay weakly by his sides, restraining himself from running to you and craddle you on his arms. "You chose this. You chose me, Joel Miller" each word pronounced with contempt. "I'm not a victim. Neither are you"

A dry chuckle escapes past his chapped lips. "What are we, then?"

(Two lonely souls who seek warmth. People who fell into the same bed. Shared time they shouldn't have. Selfish. Living on borrowed time. Always tettering around the edge, so easy to fall. History repeating itself. The dancing around. Dirty, like the Texan roads: and they all lead back to his bed)

"So do it" you shove him again, as if by doing so, you could push him away forever. From your mind, from your heart. From your life. "Say it"

He shakes his head, as if you'd insulted him.

"Sweetheart-"

"Say. It" you bark, tasting the venom on your tongue. "Say it!"

"I can't" looking so small, your resolve almost crumbles. Almost.

"Coward" you spit, repeatedly punching him feebly on the chest as tears stream down your cheeks. He tries to grab your hands, to stop you. "Don't touch me! Let me go"

"I can't" this time louder.

Tears sprout with more intensity at the desperate weight on his tone.

A single drop runs down when you say, defeated: "Quit me"

"I can't!" he shouts in your face, voice breaking slightly.

"Why?!"

"'Cause I fucking can't!" Joel breaks. He crumbles in your arms, body shaking as he buries himself in your reluctant embrace. He speaks again, this time softer, "I can't lose 'cha, baby. If that makes me sum goddamn coward, then so be it"

Something in you stirs. Like a lost boat, finding a lighthouse during a storm. Arriving to shore with gentle waves. Home, where it belongs.

"Joel-"

"I'm sorry for bein' selfish" between agitated and terrified, afraid of the silence and what you may say. "For noticin' your quiet and still carryin' on"

"Joel"

"Believe me, doll. I tried to stop. To leave ya'" he swallows, "but then I got invited and my mind went to ya'. Fast. You were the first person in my mind. Always are. I think that's when I knew. S'okay if you don't-"

"Joel!" you shout this time.

He raises his view from his little spot on your chest.

"It isn't just you" in a whisper that could easily pass as the wind that sweeps inside from the main door. Voice so fragile it hurts like glass. "I feel this too"

Just like that, he's both gone and back. His heart beats on his throat, voice raw when he searches for your eyes and asks:

"You do?"

The big unbreakable Joel Miller, looking at you not like a force to be reckoned with, but as a man, worn down by years of solitude and the weight of a secret.

You smile through the tears. "I've been many things, but a liar never"

He chuckles, softly. "Always was a bad one"

"See?" softly teasing, "you can attest to that"

"Twenty one years seem 'nough"

"Soon to be twenty two" pause. "And I would love it if you were there to see it"

A breath hitches somewhere in the middle of the new aphonia that's settled.

"You don't mean all'at. Think 'bout it-"

"I do" you interrupt him, firmly. You hold his gaze while cupping his face, the fright on his face mirroring your own. "You asked before, remember? There's your answer"

Joel is at loss for words. Was never good with them, less when it came to you: like your presence unsettled him in the same way tornadoes made him quiver when he was a child, rattling him to the bone. But there was a morbid fascination to them, in their destructive nature. Like beauty could be horror too, and he had learnt it thanks to your unforgiving winds that had swept him away from his feet.

He was flying. Fucking flying. Never quite landing. Afraid of the fall.

"I'm scared"

Joel leans in, forehead touching yours. His skin is warm, something about it soothing your nerves down.

"Me too"

You bite back a smile. "Big broody Miller, scared?"

"Y' know how'da disarm a man. I'll give ya' that"

You laugh, eyes crinkling while you swat his chest playfully. It's the same sound he missed so dearly. Joel can feel himself breath with relief.

"Now that's the story I'll tell my kids" could be our own. "The one where I won over Joel Miller"

A deep, rich rumble erupts from his chest as he pulls you even closer, this time, your head the one on his chest.

"I'll do you one better" he slowly moves his leg closer to the inner part of your thighs. "Wanna hear how it ends?"

"Jesus, Joel" laugh tense. Your heart pulses like his cock. Hard. "You sure are a mood killer"

He presses further. "But ya' want it, don't 'cha?"

You whimper, weakly. Truth is, you've been wet since you saw him dress on his rather tight suit. Now, after what you just confessed, you're not sure you can hold back any longer.

"Use y'r words, baby"

"Our room" the possesive adjective making his stomach rumble with need. "Now"

Stumbling feet. Whispered breaths oozing with drunk desire. Giggles. Buttons of an elevator pressed forcefully. A crammed space that felt even smaller. More giggles in a hallway full of doors that looked the same. Some mumbling, trying to remember the room. Grabbing the card from his pocket. You somehow make it to your room. Fumbling fingers. One swipe. Two. Try slower, but his voice is as urgent as strained. The door gives in. Finally, couldn't wait any longer. And he's chastising you, for being so impatient. Yet his eyes are all dark and sweet when looking it at you.

"We're here" and then the door closes with a loud thud. And Joel is yours again, just like he was that night, and forever was since.

You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him back fervently. You open your mouth and let his tongue get inside as you moan his name.

"Please" you whine.

"Please what?" Joel chuckles, enamoured at your hanging mouth and heaving chest. Fucking tease. "Use y'r words, doll"

"Please, Joel" and hearing your name fall out of your lips like it's the most sacred prayer brings him weak to his knees. "I need you"

(I need you, as in I need you here. With me. Now. To never let go and hold my hand, not only when we fuck, but also when we walk, side by side, hands brushing like a touch it's too much to bear. Because if we held hands, I'd never be able to pull back. I need you to look at me as you undress me, because I'm bearing all of me for you, scars, body and secrets, trembling like a scared child, because no one's ever had me. Not like you. Not like you)

"'S right, sweet thing" he drawls out in a husky whisper, like his slick tongue was coated in honey. He pulls your head back, nipping and sucking on your skin. "Say ma' name like 's the only thing you know"

And in a way, it is. Because you'd always call Joel, fingers itching at a number you've memorized until it's burned in your eyelids, like when you close your eyes, you can see him standing in front of you, Texan accent and heavy boots in your doorstep, later to be discarded and hidden beneath your bed.

He pulls back, making you involuntary whine at the loss of his lips and tongue on you.

"Tell me you want this" he's saying, and for a moment, past the fire and the need, you see Joel as not the man who can bring you to come two times in a row, but your bestfriend's dad, who's slept in a bed alone for the past two decades, who can't meet you in the eyes when he undresses himself, looking like the one who's got the more to lose when his lips press aginst yours in a soft manner, not out of tenderness but out of fear.

"I do" without hesitation, as if you would tattoo your promise and wear it like your heart on your sleeve. "I want you, Joel"

You want all of him: from his boring Sundays sprawled on the couch watching a rerun of some old sitcom to his greying hair, aching joints and creaking bones, that despite so, would still kneel and eat your pussy like a man starved, tongue sliding through your folds with a learned ache, pouring the same yearn, longing and hunger that he wears on his eyes when they land on you, no matter if his brown are miles away, because they'd always find your own, like a boat lost in translation and a sea of sorrow coming back home, as if you're the only important thing in the world. His anchor. The lighthouse of his vast ocean of forlorness.

"That's my girl" but no smirk adorns his face, rather a small smile that warms your chest, right as he pulls you back in. There's a shift in the aire as he kisses you know, as if not only his tongue is in your insides but his soul, without holding back this time, like all limits have blurred and melted into a pool of desire and affection.

Joel pushes you down onto the wide bed, climbing on top of you as he kisses your jawline, leaving wet kisses along your warm skin. You moan as every contact of his mouth sends shudders to your body, him taking his time as he works over your jaw, down to your chest.

"Such'a pretty doll. And's mine" his calloused fingers fiddle with your bra, unclasping the lingerie until it falls messily discarded next to the bed. "Got summ nice tits on you, baby" and Joel's eyes sparkle with excitement, lighting up like the neon lights of the Vegas sign, "don't 'cha think?"

Your back arches with his touches, mouth ghosting over your nipple, already pebbled at just Joel's breath.

"Fuck, Joel" you mewl his name, dragged with difficulty as he laps his tongue over your breasts greedily. You can feel Joel's cock pulse and throbb in your thigh as his body hovers over yours, lips still wrapped around your nipple as he suckles and nibbles at the tender flesh.

"'S sorry, doll" he's apologizing in a mocking manner as you whimper at the contact of him against you, suckling hard, tongue swirling and flicking over the sensitive bud as he drew it deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. "Ain't know you'd be so fucken responsive with just a lil' lick at y'r pretty tits"

As your body trembles and quakes, he speaks again.

"Open y'r mouth" you do so, because honestly, you'd never deny him a thing. "Want 'cha to suck on 'tis fingers, like the slut ya're. Get them wet so they feel good against 'tis greedy pussy"

You take the fingers as you'd take his cock, sucking on the skin that tastes like salt and gasoline, a slight bitter taste but you take them as deep as you can, until your lips brush his rough knuckles.

"Good greedy whore" he praises. "Now let me help ya' with that"

Joel gestures your damp panties, taking them off and putting them up his nose, inhaling like he did the first time you ever fucked, back at the beach house that summer that feels a life ago, seawaves crashing onto the shore as they drowned out your moans.

"Sweet" as if your arousal was his favorite dessert, gripping the sticky lingerine until his knuckles turn white. "Fucken wet and drippin', and s'all for me"

He feels your greedy hands fumble with his pants and belt, pulling him closer as the feeling of unfairness at his clothed figure dawns upon you.

"I like how you look in a suit, but right now-"

He laughs, a deep rich sound bubbling up from his chest.

"Ma' baby wants it that bad, huh?" you nod your head feverishly, a beg threatening past your lips.

"Please, Joel. I want to suck your cock" the dirty words come out as quick as a breath. "I missed it so so bad" not caring at all about how desperate you come across or the pitiful begging that's a plea away from drooling out of your mouth with an aching hunger.

"'S that what you want? Draggin' me out'a reception 'cause y'r greedy dirty mouth couldn't keep still? Bet you'd crawl on da' floor just to get a taste of this dick" every word makes you mewl. "Might have to see ya' beggin' for it"

"I'll do it" you beg, voice a wanton plea. "I'll do whatever, I just need to-"

"I see ya' really do"

He removes your hands from his body, chuckling as you pout and whine like a baby.

"Love hearin' ya' so eager fo'me" Joel says, tugging the pants finally down. Through the cloth of his underwear, it's impossible not to see the silhoutte of his hard throbbing dick.

The sight of him, hair disheveled, pupils blown wide, white button shirt now wrinkled and sticky with sweat, tie loose and that faint smell of champagne that clung to his mouth and scent like a second layer of his skin.

"Get on the floor. Now" he commands, and you're quick to obey. "Gonna fuck that dirty mouth of yours until my cum dribbles outta your cheek. S' now? Be obedient if ya' want a taste, slut"

You let out a small whimper as Joel frees his cock from his underwear.

"That's right, baby. Like what ya' see?" his cock is straddling your face in your current kneeling form. "Need that mouth to open wider"

You obey in an instant.

"Good girl"

Joel shoves his cock inside your mouth, giving you a few seconds to adjust before pushing a little further. You bob your head forward but the task proved to be hard when he was thrusting at the same time. His big hard dick hits the back of your throat, a gag dying past your busy lips. 

"'S it bad if I tell ya' I like watchin' you squirm and struggle with my cock? 'S fuckin' hot"

You narrow your eyes, struggling to keep your throat relaxed as he thrusts forward, fucking your mouth and throat. Your thighs clasp together, the slick pooling down your legs in the absence of underwear.

Joel's groans become raspier as his body begins to tense.

"'M gonna fuck y'r throat raw, doll. And then, I'm gonna cum. Down y'r greedy throat. 'S my girl okay with that" he can see the plea in your eyes as you choke on his cock once more. "S'alright then. Ya' know I love to spoil ma' girl"

As his body starts to edge closer, his tongue runs loose.

"Love watching you suck ma' dick" he looks down on you, eyes glossy, probably because he was drunk in alcohol and you. "Love how it feels. Love how you feel. Love- I love you"

(There's an involuntary gag somewhere)

Joel's body tenses and it doesn't take that much for you to feel the warmth of his cum go down your throat.

You choke again and he brings his dick out of your throat and let you swallow the rest. 

There's a beat of silence, as dense as his fluids down your throat. You avoid his gaze, heart drumming on your chest.

"Doll..." he whispers, the last bits of climax sweating off his skin; all that's left is shame. "C'mere"

(Say it back, he should plead. I know your eyes don't lie, but if I heard those three silly words out of your mouth, I could die happy tonight. A bigger man would beg, but he's never been good, even if he tried)

He helps you get up, wobbly legs not being of help when it comes to the shock of his confession.

I love you.

As much as a tender touch as a knife slitting your chest open in a clean cut.

(You're bleeding love)

Love.

Such a foreign word, one you've never felt before. Yet, what's scary is recognizing that latent warmth on every stolen glance; brush of a hand. The tingles provoked by getting the largest serving, even if his daughter sat at the same table. The flutter of your chest when he tried to be there for you when you thought you were pregnant, even if he was as scared as you. In every little thing he had done since you first started playing with fire, how you wore his heartbeat as an echo and his skin like a second layer to your own.

His lips are swollen when they take yours.

"'S fine" some kind of tiredness seeping through the cracks of his gruff exterior and composed rejected posture. "Ya' don't have to-"

"I love you" you croack out.

His voice comes out impossibly small as he whispers. "What...?"

A fireworks show explodes out somewhere in the background.

"I love you" you repeat, words dripping with an adoration only known to captain's going down with their sinking ships.

You're drowning, but the water doesn't burn your lungs anymore.

"Lemme help with that sore throat of yours" he's tugging down your bottom lip, fingers playing with your mouth to open it. He gazes at you with a look that tugs at your heartstrings. "Open, baby"

Your dry throat and warm mouth welcomes the spit he lands inside.

"There ya' go" and you swallow it, making him curse. "Fuck. 'S so hot seein' you do that, my lil' sweet slut"

"Joel" you whine, hands curled up in white fists as you grab him by the collar of his button shirt.

"Whoa, baby. What's goin' on?" he chuckles softly. "Use y'r words"

"Y-You made a mess-" you blabber, the wet slick between your thigh sticky. "I-It hurts, Joel"

"Hurt?" he cocks an eyebrow. "Care to show me where?"

You sit in the bed, parting your legs, finger pointing out the moist zone.

"Here"

His adam's apple bobs, and the gulp reverberates against the walls of the room.

"Fuck... I see" each word strained. "Don't worry, doll. I can help ya' with'at"

It's his turn to kneel, knees burying on the carpet.

He places one of his big hands on your knee, his calloused fingers tracing absent patterns over the skin. His other hand drums slighty against your trembling leg, so close yet so far. You're so impossibly eager, and a part of him, that fragile ego, is boosted to the roof at your (actual and very real) want for him.

All that glistening pussy was his work. Joel really disarmed you like that.

"If I do this, maybe it won't hurt anymore" his mustache and recently trimmed beard tickle against your sensitive folds as he presses a kiss to your core. You writhe, throwing your head back as your hands fly to his hair, gripping the greying loose curls tightly at the contact. "Will ya' let me eat out this pretty pussy, doll?"

"Please" you let out, breathlessly.

"Love hearin' ya' beg" and he dives in, strong hands holding your thighs on place as he sucks your clit lightly. Your hips buck, his face burying into your cunt to the point his nose touches the warm folds. You moan at the feeling, his tongue now circling against your center.

"J-Joel"

"Feels s'good, right? As good as I feel feastin' on this tight little cunt" and his deep voice sends jolts when it echoes against your walls. You squirm at the sensation, stomach tight with his sucking and licking, misntrations sending you to the edge.

"Joel?"

Barely above a whisper, voice tight.

He looks up to you, pupils blown wide. "Yes?"

"C-Can you finger me, please?"

"Fuck, baby" he whistles. "You really know how'da bring a man to his knees"

And you chuckle at his lame attempt of a joke, not laughing at him but with him.

Joel slides one of his thick, calloused fingers through your soaked folds, feeling the velvet softness of your inner walls clench down on the invading digit, a demonstration of how impatient they were to take his cock. He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves in tight, slow circles.

"Wanna hear you, y/n" just your name alone on his mouth makes you writhe, and Joel's encouragement as his finger dips lower to tease at your entrance. He slides a second finger into your cunt, pumping in and out of your tight walls in a steady, driving rhythm. You roll against his hand as he curls his fingers. "Fuck yourself on my fingers, baby. Wanna see you ride 'em 'til you come undone. Wanna taste your cum on my tongue as you scream ma' name"

He can feel your body start to tremble, pussy clenching down on his fingers as he fucks you with a relentless pace.

"Shit" he groans, tongue lapping firmly at your clit, "s' fucking tight"

"I-I can't help it" you feel the burning sensation in the corner of your eyes, "I-I feel every inch of you in me"

(Up to your body, head and heart)

"And you ain't even had my cock yet" he's quick to tease. "But I know you'll feel s'good, baby. Takin' my cock like da' good girl y'are"

Tears begin to stream down your face freely, the salty drops hot against your warm skin.

You sniffle, and Joel's movements stop for a bit.

"You cryin'?" but you know damn well he's aroused, by the way he licks his lips absentmindedly as his brown orbs stare back at you, dilatated. You still remember the last time you cried during sex, and how his reaction was practically the same, except this time, it's received with a grateful welcome home. "Fuck, baby- I love when you cry like a lil' cocksleeve over ma' dick"

Despite the lewd words, he's wiping your tears away with his thumb in a soft gentle touch.

"S'okay, baby" he coos, kissing up your throat and onto your chin. Then, you feel a wet sensation on your cheek: but it isn't the tears, yet his tongue, licking the hot stream. "I'll give ya' ma' cock if you want it so much. Now quit your cryin', yeah?"

But you keep sniffling, impossible to close the dam once it's broken.

"My sweet crybaby" Joel mumbles, "I love ya', doll"

"I love you too" each time you said it, a new flower blooming in your heart. It could be. "I do, Joel"

He smiles, the kind of smile that is painful to watch. The kind that says: Is this real? Do I deserve this?

"Y'know I'm bad with words, so lemme show you instead"

He's climbing on top of you as you push yourself into the middle of the bed, lips tangled into a demanding kiss, his tongue dominating your mouth like he wants to tame it. He drops his underwear again, but he's still wearing the goddamn shirt. You whine, and for a second, while over you, he stops.

"What is it, baby?" Joel pants.

"T-take it off" you huff, worked up. You let the tie loose first, starting to unbutton his shirt after. "I want to see you, Joel"

His hand is quick to fly and stop you from taking it off. Even in the dim lit room, you can see the faintest of a blush covering his cheeks.

"Sweetheart..." he mumbles, "I dunno-"

"Please" trying to remove his hand.

"You really wanna?" but behind his teasing smile there's both a hopeful and vulnerable glint to his voice.

You extend your hand, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist, and it's just you, your ragged breaths and the light tickle of his growing beard on your palm.

It could be.

"Because I love you" holding his gaze firmly. "All of you"

"Fuck, baby" Joel starts to get off the shirt, "ya' really made those fuckers downstairs drop their damn mouths when ya' walked in with me. Couldn't believe it, such'a pretty girl could be mine" he snarls, grabbing your face by the chin. "Hell, I'ont believe it either. That you could wanna be with me"

But then you're touching his now naked form before you, fingers slowly tracing through his face to his tense jawline. Then across his broad shoulders to his tummy, feeling the soft swell against your stomach as he leans over your eager form. It's the way you look at him, as if he's the most beautiful man in the world, that makes his breath catch on his throat, staggering.

Your sweet broken voice rings in his head.

It isn't just you. I feel this too.

(Scared. Confused. Happy. Grieving. Loving)

It should be his ego boosted and cock stroked, but when his eyes find yours, it's his heart that feels the fullest.

Fuck, he was too old for this shit.

"Look at 'cha, making lame ol' me a sappy motherfucker" he laughs, the same blush from earlier now more prominent. He leans down to kiss you, his moustache brushing your lips. "If ya' don't stop, I'll take ya' right now and we're gettin' married tonight by summ random Elvis guy"

"What If I wanted that?" you challenge as your mouth presses fluttering kisses to his caging arm, lips stopping on each spot and mole peppered through his thick bicep.

"Then get dressed" you feel him squirm under your insistent lips, "'cause I ain't gettin' married again while naked"

"Where you married, Joel?" you can feel the salt air up your nose of the first night again, asking the same questions. The fact that he's opening to you warms your chest in a pleasant way.

He looks at you absentmindedly, humming as to confirm.

"We were too damn young. Had to, for the baby on the way" he tells. You remember Sarah's aversion to the topic, and given his next words, it makes sense. "Then she left"

I would never leave.

"I'm sorry" you offer instead.

"Don't" the atmosphere is quick to change again as thise words leave his mouth. "Now, where were we?"

You're quick to spread your legs to him, gilstening cunt on full view.

"Good girl" he smirks, lining himself with your warm entrance. "If ya' keep behavin', I might give ya' my cum"

His tip against your clit for a few seconds before pushing down against your hole. Joel groans as his length sinks in your gummy walls, feeling the tightness from before.

"You feel s'good" grunting as he slowly pushes in, letting you adjust to his girth. "Always do" 

He presses a gentle kiss to your sweaty hairline. 

"Tell me how it feels"

"Good" you mewl. "Big"

"Ain't that right" he chuckles.

"Need it all. Please" and you grip his neck tightly, arms around it. His nose brushes against yours as he grunts out a You little minx. "Want it, Joel. I can take it"

He bottoms out. "Then do"

"Fuck" you curse, cunt stretched to adapt to his girth. You breath in painfully, and Joel's eyes lace with concern. "I-It's fine"

"Sure? I can wait"

"I’m okay" you assure him, moved by his care for you. You buck your hips. "You can move"

He starts by setting a slow pace, taking all the space insade your clutching heat. Joel groans at the sensation, your walls gripping him like a vice as he continues to move in a slow motion, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes. Yet, as his arms cage you by your sides and you look at him with certainty, he picks up a brutal pace, just as you like it, slamming into you over and over again, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the small bathroom.

"K-keep going" you grip his left arm. Joel lets out a hiss as your nails dig on his skin. "Feels so good"

"Good'nough for you to cum on m'dick?" he groans huskily in your ear, breath ghosting on your skin like a hot kiss. "Gonna fill you up, doll. I'll mark you as mine, now and for da' rest of y'r life"

The way his voice drips with dominance as he commands you, filled with a rough rich baritone tinted with a possesive hunger, his hips moving faster as he drives into you with force, pistoning harder is enough to set you on edge.

He leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss. 

"Cum f'me, baby. Let me hear ya' cryin' over my cock"

Tears. Stars. Grunts. Moans. Cum.

Your cry for his name against his lips is how you announce your orgasm, washing over you. Your walls flutter as Joel lets you ride slowly through your climax.

"There ya' go, baby. Go on, ride it" then, he pauses. His face strains. "Hold on tight. I'm gonna- I'm gonna cum. Right there, baby. Stay"

Somewhere along the moans and the writhes of your soft skin against his hard planes and soft belly, Joel asks where you want it. Inside, you hear yourself say, eager to feel all of him again, filling your insides, invading every inch of your body until a part of himself leaks into your heart. He's then blabbering as your walls and heart flutter, about kids and other things you both want but can't have. Tonight, though, as he Joel buries himself deep inside you, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he starts to come, grinding against you, making sure you feel every last spurt, every last bit of his release, you allow yourself to believe.

He pumps some shallows thrusts inside of your slick dripping cunt, emptying himself, before pulling out and looking down at you with a tired smile.

"I love you" he says again in fervent whisper, as if by repeating it, he could materialize it. "I love you so fucking much, y/n. And if ya' can't accept that, can't believe in that, then... then I'ont know what the fuck I'm gonna do. 'Cause I can't lose ya', baby. I can't"

"You won't" you don't know why it comes so easy, or why the promise slips as natural as a breath. "I'm here, Joel Miller. You won't lose me"

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @loregifs

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hey Gator, it’s the anon who wasn’t doing great a few days ago. Something really scary happened on Wednesday but I’m doing a lot better, took a few days to relax, I’m catching up on some stuff. I just wanted to tell you that I’m doing better, so your advice does help!! Also if you could give some HCs for Viltrumite mark, I don’t really mind which one, I’d love it!!

Viltrumite Mark Grayson x male reader 

Headcanons 

Hi anon, im sorry something bad happened, but happy you are doing better now. Have some viltrumite Mark headcanons, sorry it took a bit.  

I like to imagine that viltrumite Mark is one of the older Marks amongst the variants. Him, alongside Prisoner Mark and Flaxan Mark. 

Being one of the older Marks also means hes one of the strongest, but also most levelheaded when it comes to battle and viltrumite work in general. 

I have a headcanon, that he was born on earth, lived there for a bit, but gained his powers early, but not so early that he was completely brainwashed, like Moustache Mark.  

Viltrumite Mark would still have memories of his mom, of being a normal human, but he has lived much longer under the viltrumite empire. 

 At the time he was so weak he could do nothing but submit and go along with it, and now hes older, but so numb to it all, that he doesnt go against the status quo.  

This also means he speaks in a very flat tone and has a bland expression for the most part. Noticing his feelings can be a challenge at times, as hes so used to hiding them, and just not feeling things. 

You notice through small stuff. Like the small twitches in his brow, pull at his lips, or when he crosses his arms and fiddles with his fingers. Its almost impossible in the beginning, but you learn, and he opens up with time. 

Being one of the older Marks also means that his vilrumite biology is more visible, and stronger. The human DNA is overwritten completely over time, and so his body starts changing. 

This means he runs hotter, has a longer and smooth tongue without tastebuds, doesn't have fingerprints, heals quicker, and he's the smallest physically,,, down there. 

This isn't actually because he's the smallest, it's just that viltrumite biology wants to draw his vulnerable parts back into his body, and he hasn't fully reached the point where it's completely sealed inside his body just yet. 

Having lived so long under a horrible leader, forced to do so many bad things, Viltrumite Mark would search out comfort and safety, without truly realizing. 

He wouldn't express it much, but Mark finds comfort in submitting to his partner. It doesn't even have to be anything sensual, just him pledging himself to them gives him a sense of purpose. 

Maybe it's a result of many many years of being more a tool than a person, of always having to mind his status as a halfbreed and where he stood compared to his superiors. 

Here he didn't have a choice if he wanted to bend his knee to them, but with you, he gets the choice. You loving him and treating him kindly also helps, because this is the first time he has given himself to somebody, and it hasn't hurt. 

Is it horrible that I think he has at least one or two children in his original universe? Specifically with Anissa.  

It would have been her way of showing him that she was superior, and that he was just a tool for the empire and for true viltrumites like her. 

In the end, Mark would have killed both her and the children when he became strong enough, this would be one of the few killings he took great joy in committing, drawing out Anissa's death for as long as possible. 

This would cause the quiet Mark variant to be cautious when you first started showing him affection, even if he arches towards it like a sunflower towards the sun. 

It feels like it's too good to be true, so he would be mistrusting in the beginning, keeping his distance and maybe even striking out like an abused cat. 

Until he realizes that he actually feels comfortable and safe with you, that he can be himself, and be allowed to exist as Mark, not whatever title the viltrumite empire gave him. 

You allow him to be human again, after he's almost completely forgotten how. 

Hes still pretty cold and cruel at times, but never towards you.  

Mark would have extremely little care for humanity though, after he's wiped out so many planets and lived so long, then humanity feels like nothing more than specs of dust int he grand scheme of things. 

He would step up and help though, if you were in danger. Nobody else matters to him in that regard, but because you are from earth and like it here, then yeah, he will help when Mark absolutely has too. 

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[vyntagess]

bathroom

summary; pretty much all smut, bit of aftercare and fluff at the end if u squint. you're at a partyyy... warnings/content; smut, dom!billie sub!reader, no established relationship I don't think, choking, spanking, strap, semi-public sex? (its in a club bathroom so im not sure), teasing. lmk if I missed anything loves

a/n: sorry for going ghost ily guys very much. my longest fic on here, 3.4k words (bare w me i wrote this drunk and edited the spelling sober so some things might be messed up)

The bass vibrated deep in your chest, the thrum of it almost vibrating through you as you navigated through the place. Lights strobed overhead—blue, then white, then a deep, pulsing red that seemed to penetrate your skin. The smell of perfume and sweat, expensive cocktails and something vaguely charged. You couldn't say whether it was the music or anticipation that made your heart thud, but you knew where you were headed. And you knew who was waiting for you. Billie had been watching you all night.

That slow, predatory stare from across the club on the second floor, lips curled in something between amusement and desire. You'd been able to feel her eyes on you with every swallow you drank, every effortless shift of your hips, every relaxed trail of your fingers down the rim of your glass. She'd never needed to speak. She'd never really needed to. A cock of the head, a flick of the wrist inviting you near, and you were moving. It always started the same way. Billie watching you.

You could be anywhere—sitting in the corner booth of some dim cocktail bar, glass between your fingers… or fighting through a throng in a skirt you knew was too short, not that you cared. Either way, each time, you felt it before you saw it. The heaviness of her eyes. Intentional. Like the subtle threat of something hard scraping against the inside of your skin. Tonight wasn't any different. Or maybe it was.

It wasn't the first time you'd followed her out of a club, your heartbeat pounding, your body thrumming.

It wasn't even the first time she'd touched you like you were property. Billie'd been doing that for months, now—seeping into your life like smoke under an unopened door, filling up the spaces you'd never even known were spaces until she'd filled them up. She had a talent for doing that. Consuming. Suffocating. But something was different tonight. As if she'd decided something, and there was a damn thing you could do about it. You'd been out with friends, sipping something at the bar, when Billie arrived.

In lazy, baggy attire with a backwards baseball cap, of course. But it wasn’t the attire that caught you. It was the cool, commanding demeanour that came with her. The way the people parted like stream of water around a rock. As if they didn't want to be in their way–or they wanted to, a little too much. She didn't come to you first. She just leaned on the second-floor balcony, against the glass, gazing at you. Sipping her drink as if she didn't have a single worry in the world. And you? You'd lasted maybe an hour under her stare. Your friends had giggled when you'd gotten away. They knew. Everyone knew. Billie had made sure of that.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing slightly. Billie was inside, leaning against the cool marble counter like she owned the place. Her sleeves reached her elbows, her forearms visible, veins just showing to distract you from your thoughts, filling them with those o f her hands. What her hands might do. What they would do.

You had moved your mouth to speak when she was already pushing away from the counter, slowly. Her fingers wrapped around your jaw, tugging up your face so that her mouth touched your ear.

"Took you long enough," she said, voice husky, rough velvet against your skin.

You started to answer, but she pressed her thumb on your bottom lip, and you stopped. That same thumb slipped between your lips, imperative. You pulled it in greedily, enjoying the taste and feeling. Billie let out a soft sound of approval. "You're flushed," she stated. "Nervous?" 

You shook your head. Lie. 

"Such a good girl, but such a bad liar. It's cute." She clicked her tongue.

The words fell heavy into your gut.

Heat radiated low in your stomach, a slow, seeping burn that made you shift your weight, thighs brushing against each other. She noticed it. Of course, she noticed it. Billie noticed everything. She drew her thumb away from her lips and dragged it down your chin, your neck, leaving behind a wet streak that felt cold to the air. Then, her hand curled around your throat. Not tight. Not yet. The tension was thick enough to cut. Her other hand slid under your skirt, pushing it up impatiently, fingers tracing over the scrap of lace you'd worn tonight. You could tell how wet it was, and so did she, by the smile that crawled her mouth.

"All this," she purred, voice low and throaty, "just because I was looking at you?"

You shivered. She tightened her grip on your throat, just a little, enough to make your next breath shallow.

"Answer me."

You nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes."

Her chuckle was low, rough. "You make it too easy. You're lucky I like you obedient."

Then she was withdrawing her hand from your throat, and you didn't see it for a second, until you noticed she was shoving down her loose shorts and boxers. You got dry. Billie noticed that too.

“You’re going to be quiet for me,” she said, stepping back just enough to strip with efficient, practiced ease. “Or at least, you’re going to try.”

Your pulse quickened, hammering in your ears, louder even than the muffled beat that filtered through the walls. You stepped forward, and Billie grasped your wrist, spinning you around to face the mirror. Marble counter chilled against your hips as she leaned you over it, hands splayed to hold you there.

Her mouth was at your ear again. "Look at yourself."

You did. Wide eyes, parted lips, flushed skin. "I want you to see," she continued, "Every time you ever make a noise, I'm going to make you wish you hadn't." Billie didn't move at once.

She had you hang there, leaning against the marble counter, arms resting on its cool surface. You could see her in the mirror—a silhouette behind you, the reflection smiling slightly as if she already had the outcome. She did. But she waited. She always did when she was going to break you.

Her fingers stroked up the back of your thigh, slow and questioning, as if she hadn't already committed every inch of your body to memory first. She rode your skirt up, pulling it over your hips so that it was bunched around your waist. Her palm ran down your ass, warm and deliberate. And then the first hard slap hit, clean and crisp.

The slap flowered instantly, warmth radiating from where her hand had struck. Red blossomed across the area. You drew in a gasp of air, your body jerking in her hold, but you kept your mouth shut. Billie's hand curved around your hip, holding you still as she smiled with contentment.

"There she is," she breathed, tracing her hand over the new red welt she'd raised. "Knew you'd still be so easy to mark up."

She struck you once more, the crack sharp and obscene the ringing silence of the bathroom. Another blow, and another, until your skin was hot and burning, until you had to bite down hard to suppress the whimper. Billie knew. Of course she knew. She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as her hand rested heavy on your throat again.

"You're doing well," she purred, her thumb caressing idly under your jaw. "But you're holding back."

You trembled, your throat constricting in her grip. "You told me to keep quiet."

"I told you to try," she reprimanded, laughter deep in her voice. "But I'm not interested in your success."

You moaned then—soft, involuntary—and Billie laughed coldly. "There it is."

You felt the head of the strap-on against you, stiff and unyielding, gliding through slippery folds without ceremony. Your hands grasped at the marble as she pressed forward, slow and relentless. It wasn't the first time she'd fucked you with it, but still it stole your breath, still made you gasp around the fullness, the stretch.

"Eyes up," Billie ordered, her hand wrapping just tightly enough around your throat to make you do as she said. You looked at yourself in the mirror, flushed and open and already shaking, and then at her. Calm. Collected. In control. She bottomed out with a smooth, practiced motion, and your legs nearly gave out. Billie's grip around you kept you upright—barely.

"So fucking wet for me," she murmured, rolling hips in a slow circle that left you trembling. "You missed this, didn't you?"

You couldn't speak. Not with her hand clamped on your throat, not with the tension coiling in you. But she didn't need an answer. She knew.

Billie set the pace slow, torturous, each thrust controlled, deep enough to expel the breath from your body. And when you had a fleeting moment of self-control, she squeezed hard enough to strip it from you, cutting off your air until your head went light, your muscles clenching helplessly around her.

Then she'd ease up, letting you pull in a choked breath—only to fuck it right out of you all over again.

"Keep 'em open," she reminded when your eyelashes fluttered. "Or I'll stop."

You forced them open, looking at your reflection. Your lips were red, bitten, your skin covered with a sheen of sweat, and Billie looked just the same as always. In control. Like she could keep you like this all night.

And maybe she could.

Her other hand traced down your back until she was holding onto your hip again. The slap that followed was harder, sharp enough to cause you to cry out in pain before you could catch yourself. Billie froze inside of you immediately.

"Well," she said, mockingly thoughtful, "we did discuss what happens when you're loud."

You swallowed painfully. "Billie—"

Her hand clamped on your neck once more, this time cutting off the apology. "No," she said softly. "You knew the rules."

You nodded as well as you could, dizzy with want, with need, with the ache blooming from where her hand had marked you.

And then she started to move again.

Harder this time. No teasing, no gradual burn. Just Billie, hips snapping forward, her breath hot against your ear as she drove the length of the strap-on into you again and again, forcing your body to take it.

Every time you screamed, she punished you. Another slap. Another tightening of her hand around your throat until your vision flashed white at the edges. Every time you obeyed, stayed quiet, she rewarded you—thumb stroking your throat, a low "good girl" murmur that made you tense around her.

You didn't know how long it lasted. Time melted away. Your body was nothing but sensation—heat and sting, fullness and burn, the desperate pulse of having to cum, and Billie standing holding you on edge.

"Not yet," she said when you leaned too far forward. "You'll wait."

You whimpered. She slapped you again.

"Wait till I say."

Your skin was slick with sweat by the time she finally—finally—gave you permission. Her hand tightened around your throat, her hips driving forward one more time, and her voice was a command in your ear.

"Now."

You came hard, shivering on either side of her, your legs giving under you as tore through you. Billie fucked you through it, unrelenting, her grip tight as you rode out through it, every nerve in your body alight.

When she finished, she slipped out of you, fingers soft now as they smoothed over your flushed skin. You were still gasping for air, still shaking, but you stayed where she had left you—hunched over the counter, eyes half-closed, exhausted. Billie didn’t let you go. Not yet. Her hands smoothed over your skin—soothing, possessive, but there was no mistaking the intent behind her touch. Her lips brushed the curve of your shoulder, a soft contrast to the heat still burning through your veins. She wasn’t done. And neither were you.

“Turn around,” she murmured, voice softer now but still threaded with that quiet authority that made your body obey before your mind could catch up.

Your legs felt like jelly, but you managed it, your skirt still bunched up around your waist as you turned to face her. The sight of her made your breath hitch—shirtless, strap still slick from you, her eyes darker than they had been all night. But the smirk was gone now. What replaced it was something softer. Hungrier, yes, but softer.

“Up,” she murmured, patting the cool marble of the counter.

You blinked, body already moving before you registered what she wanted. Her hands helped you up, lifting you easily so you were sitting on the cool surface, legs dangling off the edge. Billie stepped between them, hands resting on your knees, thumbs stroking softly along the insides of your thighs.

Her gaze flicked up to yours. The dominance was still there, but the intensity had softened, replaced with something… almost reverent.

“You did so good for me,” she murmured, leaning in, her lips ghosting over yours—barely a kiss. “I think you deserve a reward.”

Your breath hitched, lips parting just enough for her to press her mouth to yours, soft and unhurried this time. She kissed you like she was savoring it—like she had all the time in the world. And maybe she did. You melted into her, hands sliding up her chest, clutching at her shirt as her lips teased yours, her tongue flicking just enough to make you whimper into her mouth.

“Lie back,” she whispered, her hands guiding you down gently. The cold marble kissed your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering inside you. Your legs fell open without her asking, knees bent over the counter’s edge, and Billie stepped back just enough to take in the sight of you.

“Fucking beautiful,” she murmured, her eyes dragging down your body, lingering on the slickness between your thighs. But this time, there was no rush.

Her hands were softer now as she traced down your sides, fingertips featherlight as she dragged them over your flushed skin. She pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, lips moving slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“Billie…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the need in it was undeniable.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured against your skin, her breath hot and teasing as she worked her way higher. “Just relax.”

You didn’t realize how tense you were until her tongue flicked over you—soft and warm, a barely-there touch that made you gasp. She was taking her time now, dragging her tongue through your slick folds, slow and languid, like she was tasting every inch of you.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your hips arching instinctively, but Billie’s hands pressed you back down, holding you steady.

“Easy,” she murmured, her lips brushing against you between each gentle lick. “I’m not in a hurry.”

And she wasn’t. She was dragging it out, making you feel every second of it—each flick of her tongue, each soft press of her lips, every subtle swirl that made your body tense and shiver. The intensity of before was gone, replaced with something softer. Something sweeter.

Her tongue circled your clit, teasing, making your body sing, but never quite giving you enough to fall over the edge. Her hands held your hips down when you tried to chase the friction, her touch steady but tender.

“Let me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but full of command.

You let out a shaky breath, your body relaxing again as her tongue worked you over with agonizing patience. Soft. Slow. Building you up inch by inch.

“Billie,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in her hair, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure started to crest.

“I know,” she murmured, her lips brushing over you before her tongue flicked again, a little faster this time. “M'almost done.”

Her fingers joined then—two slipping inside you with ease, curling just right, pressing against that spot that made your toes curl and your breath catch. She knew your body too well. Knew exactly how to unravel you.

“Look at me,” she whispered, her voice thick, and when your eyes fluttered open, she was watching you.

The sight of her between your thighs, lips glistening, eyes dark and full of need—it was almost too much.

“Cum for me,” she murmured, her tongue flicking over your clit again, her fingers curling just right.

Your body obeyed before you could think, the tension snapping as pleasure crashed over you, softer this time but no less intense. Your back arched off the counter, a breathless cry slipping from your lips as Billie held you steady, working you through it with gentle, practiced movements.

“Good girl,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to your thigh as you came down, her hands stroking your sides gently, grounding you. You were still trembling when she stood, her lips brushing yours again—soft and sweet, like she was sealing something between you.

“See?” she murmured, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Told you I wasn’t done with you.”

Your body was spent, your limbs heavy, but you managed a breathless smile, your fingers tangling in her hair as you pulled her closer.

“Are you ever?” you whispered, a hint of tired teasing lingering in your voice. The heat in her eyes told you she didn’t plan to be.

Billie didn't pull you up right away.

Instead, she reached for a few paper towels and used it to gently rub between your legs, her hands soothing, quieting. It was a feeling of quiet sort of luxury—gentle, personal, the kind of tender that hurt in your chest in the best way possible. Her hands moved with a familiarity that was soothing and possessive, as if she remembered the very manner of caring for you right now, the same way she remembered how to take you apart.

"You're okay," she breathed, sweeping your hair off of your face. Her hands were cold against your damp flesh, and you felt your eyes flutter closed to savor it. As she helped you to stand, you were still wavering, but her arms firm around you, holding you tight against the crook of her chest. Her warmth was balm to the cold of the bathroom's sterile environment. She kissed the top of your head, and you leaned on her, permitting yourself to find relief for an instant.

"Took it so well," she breathed softly, leaving a kiss on your temple. "Good girl."

You relaxed into her touch, your breathing normalized, and finally you felt the weight of the moment come over you. The adrenaline of what had happened was fading away, and now all that remained was Billie. Only her soothing presence, her gentle love.

"Thank you," you whispered softly, hardly above a whisper, your throat still tender.

Billie smiled, the real one, the one that was even more powerful than all the others. "I'll take care of you," she said, still low–but softer. "Always." She helped you stand up straight, pushing down your clothes. No rush, no need to rush. Billie extended your hand, fingers twining around yours.

"Let's get back to the bar," she suggested, her voice changing a little, easy now, the edge of teasing back in place.

"You owe me a drink." You retorted back, smiling at her, lighter for the first time all night, the last of the strain easing off your shoulders as you stepped back into the club. The thump of the music surrounded you, but now it was far away, a muffled beat kept from you by the space between you and the people.

Billie's arm wrapped around your waist, her hand heavy and warm against your hip. You went back to the bar, and as you sat down next to Billie, she had your drink of preference brought up with a smooth motion that curled your lip into a smile. It was like none of it happened in the bathroom, but you knew that it had. You knew. The two of you. Billie pressed close against you, lips to your ear, voice taunting.

"I'll make you work for that drink, though." Laughter bubbled up in your chest, flame racing through, the pull between the two of you falling into something familiar, something old. "You always do."

She smiled, and with a flourish handed you your drink. "Next round's on me."