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[fishsinsareacknowledged]

Something about Simon coming home. Pounding on the door like a madman before he just kicks it down like it was a day job. Bloodied hands greet your eyes first before he does. Still catching his breath as his eyes reach you, shaky and dilated.

You couldn't even recognize him before he catches you into a kiss. The clang of metal catching your attention as he drops a knife in his distress. Hands covering up your eyes and face when he sucks in your bottom lip, tongue invading to greet you. Mouthing an I miss you down your throat even when your lungs burn and your eyes sting.

You're not one to push away a kiss from him but he's downright terrifying like this. It takes him a bit to separate and his eyes are quick to notice when tears slip down your eyes. Hands turn from tight to gentle nearly immediately. Moving from your hand to loosely hanging around your hips as both of you catch your breaths.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, sorry-", the moment he catches your eyes. Terrified of himself and what he's done- no- what he looks like-

"I'll clean up before I come home next time yeah? Just needed to make sure you were safe. You're safe right?", right?

In a killer's arms you already knew what he does for work, covered in another man's blood he did it to protect you right? Right? Yeah you're safe enough.

He calms down when you nod. Bending down to grab the broken door and forcing it back in its frame, kicking it back when it doesn't work yet he tries to be more civilized when he sees you shake.

He just wants to try to make it up to you :(

[yodeler12]

Tim is at least in the house. Dick found him on a rooftop with a telephoto lens while on patrol and instantly clocked him as “baby bird” material. He convinced Tim to come with him easily, he’s the kid’s hero, just offer him some food and a chance to ogle the Batcave.

Bruce meanwhile, was taking the night off of patrol to brood in Crime Alley for the anniversary of his parents death. He snapped out of brooding when he heard a clang and a tiny voice cussing and came back to find Jason Todd weighted down under three of the Batmobile’s tires.

So while Dick is upstairs trying to fill this tiny gremlin full of Alfred’s nutritious food, Bruce is in the cave trying to convince the street kid that “I’m not trafficking you, please come upstairs for a good meal you’re so skinny. “🥺

By morning Alfred has one new grandchild in Jason and one possible grandchild or great-grandchild as both Bruce and Dick are fighting over Tim.

He takes this in stride of course and the only adjustment needed is the extra two settings at the breakfast table.

Alfred, after Robin and Batman return from patrol: Master Bruce, I expected it from you. But you too, Master Dick?

Dick, holding kid Tim like a rabid racoon: In my defense, if we didn't get him, someone else would.

[captain-hawks]

“stop checking your phone,” rin’s voice cuts sharply through the murky sea of idle thoughts simmering in your head, and you let out a defeated puff of air before placing it face down on the coffee table. 

letting your eyes slide back to the television screen, you make a feeble attempt at figuring out what’s going on in the movie that’s playing—though it’s been on nearly an hour now, and you can’t even remember what it’s called. 

suddenly, your phone vibrates, and you jump, reaching out to grab it. rin makes an annoyed sound, pushing it just it out of your reach with his foot. 

“rin!” you huff, leaning further off of the couch to grab it. 

your fingers just barely graze the tip of it before your entire body is swiftly pulled backward, and you land halfway in rin’s lap. 

the phone vibrates again, the noise clanging loudly against the table’s surface. 

rin’s arms slip around your middle before you can even try to move this time, holding you firmly in place.

(and your heart fumbles for several reasons.)

“what if it’s—” you protest weakly.

“he cheated on you twice.” rin’s breath is hot against the shell of your ear.

“but what if he—”

“ignore him,” rin murmurs, his nose brushing against your hair as he turns his face into the side of your head. “please.”

you shiver.

(he has every right, considering how you showed up sobbing on his doorstep last night.)

(—and given the way he told you not to give his brother the time of day in the first place.)

it’s confusing—this hot, dizzy swell of emotion fluttering in your chest. this urge to sink further into your best friend’s touch, to look him in the eyes and tell him to make you ignore sae.

(you wonder if he would.)

(you wonder what he’d do.)

itoshi rin's never one to back down from a challenge, after all.

[corroded-hellfire]

Food, Football, and Friends - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish story

Summary: With so many people coming over for Thanksgiving dinner, it's no surprise things get a little chaotic.

Note: Happy Thanksgiving!

Warnings: chaos that is typical of this family, Eddie's breeding kink doesn't take a holiday off, Dustin is married to someone that is not Suzy sorry

Words: 3.7k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Not bothering to knock, Steve opens the front door to the Munson household and pops his head inside.

“This looks like a nice house,” he says as he pushes the door all the way open. “Might be able to steal something nice.”

A huff comes from behind him and Mia pushes in the house past her father. The six-year-old scowls as she leans down to unbuckle her shiny Mary Janes.

“We’re not thieves!” Her voice carries throughout the house, summoning the little person who has been waiting all day to see her.

“Miaaaaaa!” Eliza’s heavy tread thumps down the hallway as she runs into the living room at full speed. The friction of her white tights against the carpet halts her when she reaches her destination. 

Before Mia can answer, Steve crouches down in front of the youngest Munson. He frowns and tilts his head, a few chestnut locks falling in his eyes.

“What about me? Am I chop liver?” 

Your toddler giggles and leaps into her uncle’s arms. She wraps her arms around his neck for a hug, but before she can pull away, Steve stands up, hoisting her over his shoulder in an attempt to keep her from her best friend.

“Noooo!” Eliza whines, her little legs kicking. 

“Oh, fine,” Steve sighs as he lets her down.

Eliza straightens her black and white dress before looking up to see Wayne walk in the door right behind Nancy.

“Grandpa!”

“There’s my girl!”

Wayne scoops her up and peppers kisses all over her face. The small girl giggles and tries to push his face away, his scruff tickling her.

“Where’s Daddy?” Wayne asks.

“Dunno,” Eliza answers with a shrug.

“He’s outside,” Luke says as he strolls into the room.

Nancy can’t help but notice how her youngest’s face lights up when the twelve-year-old Munson walks into the room. She clamps her lips together, trying not to giggle at Mia’s adorable crush on Luke, acting like she doesn’t notice the hearts in the young redhead’s eyes.

“Should we lock him out?” Steve asks about your husband.

Wayne sighs. “Eh, he’s scrappy, he’ll find a way back in,” he says as he sets Eliza back down. 

The moment her feet hit the ground, the toddler runs over to Mia and throws her arms around the girl’s sparkly silver dress. Concentration on Luke broken, Mia laughs and falls to the ground with Eliza, giving her a hug in return. 

“Yeah,” Steve says as he watches the girls. “I think the little munchkin would let him in.” He nods towards Eliza.

“She can’t reach the door,” Danny points out to his dad.

“Eliza finds a way to do anything,” Luke says, his tone conveying all the experience he’s had in that regard.

Before anyone else can add to the conversation, the sound of clinking and clanging pots and pans rings out from the kitchen. Automatically, everyone's heads turn in that direction. 

“Shit!” Your voice echoes out into the living room.

Immediately, Nancy brushes past her husband, patting him on the chest as she goes by.

“Play nice,” she tells him as she continues into the kitchen. The sight before Nancy has her biting her lip to keep in a grin for the second time in a matter of minutes. There you stand, holding a pot lid in one hand, holding the top of your head in the other. Your friend cocks an eyebrow at you. “Everything okay in here?”

Lamely, you raise the pot lid and give her a small wave with it.

“Gave myself a concussion looking for this so the mashed potatoes better taste damn near perfect.”

“I’m sure they will,” Nancy assures you, coming closer to take the lid out of your hand. She gently sets it on the pot simmering on the stove and turns back to you. “Anything I can do to help?”

Steve’s voice booms out from the living room before you can respond.

“You’re on, Munson!”

Eyes rolling skyward, you heave a sigh and shake your head.

“Keep our husbands from injuring themselves before dinner?” you ask.

“I’m afraid not.” Nancy winces. It’s an impossible task, you both know that.

As you open the refrigerator to grab the milk, Luke runs into the room–never one for just walking–with a grin on his face. 

“We’re going to play football!” he announces.

You raise an eyebrow as you measure out the cup of milk to add to the mashed potatoes.

“Who exactly is ‘we?” you ask.

“Me, Ryan, Theo, Danny, Uncle Steve, Grandpa, Daddy…and uh, maybe Natalie.”

The mention of your husband has you turning to give your son your full attention, letting the measuring glass of milk clank down on the counter.

“Your father is going to play football?”

“He’s gonna try,” Luke says with a mischievous snicker. You completely agree with your sports-loving son’s disbelieving and amused tone. You’re not even sure Eddie knows what the different positions in football are called.

“Is that what he and Steve were bickering about?” Nancy crosses her arms over her chest and rests her hip against the edge of the kitchen table.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “Mia is gonna stay in the living room with Liza.”

“Luke, come on!” Theo calls out.

“My daughter is a little mother hen,” Nancy says with a smile as Luke runs out to join his new team. Mia may be the youngest sibling in her family, but that means she takes the responsibility of having a toddler best friend very seriously. 

Noise clatters from your backyard and you take a few steps to look out the large window over the kitchen sink. Through it, you can see Steve and Eddie standing next to each other, pointing at the mass of children that are in front of them—all of them except Ryan and Natalie.

“Come on, it will be fun,” Ryan says from the next room just as you’re wondering about him.

The unmistakable sigh of a teenage girl is heard before Natalie agrees, “Fine.”

Their footsteps fade out the door and Nancy raises her brow at you.

“I’m impressed,” she says. “No one can get Natalie to do anything anymore.”

“Hormones?” you ask, turning back to the stove as some boiled water sloshes over the side of a pot. The steam hisses and floats off into the air.

“Oh, yeah. Having a teenage daughter is great.”

“Oof, I do not miss being a teenager,” you say.

“What, you stopped, like, last year?” 

You spin around to see Nancy smirking at you, and you whip your kitchen towel at her in an attempt to wipe the shit eating grin off her face. She laughs and swats the rag away, affectionately wrapping an arm around your waist as she comes to stand beside you.

“Come on, now let me help you,” she chides.

“Fine,” you relent. “Want to chop those carrots?”

“No problem.”

Loud footfalls stampede towards the kitchen, but they’re not quite as heavy as Eliza’s usually are, so you’re not surprised when Mia comes racing into the kitchen. One of these times these running children are going to hurt themselves.

“Auntieeee?” she asks you as she comes to a stop.

“Miaaaaaa?”

“Eliza is hungry,” she tells you. “Can I get her a snack?”

���Sure thing, cutie.” You wipe your hands off on the towel and walk over to the pantry. The Cheerio box is right at eyelevel as you reach for it and hand it to Mia. “Just make sure she doesn’t eat too many, okay?”

“Okay!” she calls over her shoulder as she runs out with the box.

Just as you’re about to reach for a knife, the doorbell rings. You head out to the living room, smiling when you see Eliza and Mia sitting in front of the television, sharing Cheerios and watching the rerun of the Thanksgiving Day Parade. The big Snoopy balloon passes by as you grab the doorknob. There stand Lucas and Max with their daughter Tiffany, and Dustin with his wife Anne and their baby girl, Molly. The moment she sees you, Tiffany launches herself forward with a squeal. She wraps her arms around your hips and hugs herself against your body.

“Well, hello there,” you greet her. To allow everyone else into the house, you pick up the six-year-old and take a few steps back from the door. “You wanna join Eliza and Mia?” When she nods, you let Tiffany down to go join the other girls.

The moment your arms are free, you’re being pulled into more hugs with everyone and wishes for a happy Thanksgiving. Last but not least, you pluck Molly from her mother’s arms and give her a big kiss on the cheek.

“I can’t believe how big she is!” you coo. Now well over a year old, the last time you saw the youngest Henderson was when she was nine months. 

Dustin grabs her walker from the car, since she’s still new to the whole walking thing and not the steadiest. He sets it down in the living room and you plop her down in the Minnie Mouse themed rover. She instantly takes off in the direction of the television, as if knowing she wants to be a part of this little girl gang.

“Eliza?” you call. “Do you want to come say hi?”

It takes her a second, but finally, Eliza finishes the Cheerio that’s in her hand and pushes herself up on to her feet. She toddles over, smiling when she sees her Aunt Max—who is arguably her favorite person who is not a Munson or Harrington. Her aunt gives her a big hug. Then, Eliza stops in front of Dustin. Saying nothing, she just stares up at him, her big brown eyes blinking a few times.

“Hi, Eliza!” When your daughter doesn’t answer, Dustin kneels down to be at her level. “Remember me? Uncle Dustin?”

She just keeps staring.

Lucas laughs at the little girl’s nonreaction and snatches her up into his own arms. “Mwah!” he presses a kiss to her cheek. Instantly, Eliza grins and wraps her arms around his neck for a hug.

Dustin pouts up at the scene before him, lower lip jutting out dramatically as he stands back up.

“Hey! I’m the cool uncle!” he protests. And it’s true; if the other kids were in the house right now, they’d all be climbing over Dustin until the poor man gets lost in a sea of children.

“Guess not anymore,” Lucas says with a shrug.

“It’s gotta be because I live further away,” Dustin argues. “She sees me less.”

“Sure,” Lucas says, his tone far from sincere.

Max rolls her eyes at the two men’s bickering, presumably tired of it after hearing it for almost a decade and a half. The redhead takes Eliza from her husband’s arms and turns to face Dustin’s wife.

“These stilly boys,” Max says to Eliza. “Say hi to your Aunt Anne?”

Your daughter gives a small wave, but it’s clear from the blank look on her face that she just wants to be put down to go back to Mia. Sensing this as well, Max grants her wish.

“Where’s Ed?” Dustin asks.

“In the backyard,” you say. “Playing football.”

“Football?” Dustin almost chokes on his own spit out of shock.

“I know,” you say.

“I have to see this,” Lucas says, looking towards the back door and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. 

He and Dustin go to join the game in the backyard while Max and Anne follow you into the kitchen. Nancy greets the new arrivals while you take up your previous position at the stove. As you lift the lid off the pot on the back burner, you listen to the women behind you talking and laughing. It brings a smile to your face to be surrounded by women friends. Besides a two-year-old, the only others in the house are guys. And as much as you love them, it’s not the same as having other ladies around.

Two sets of running feet zoom past the kitchen and the sound of the squeaky hinges on the backdoor let you know the two six-year-olds have gone to join the fun outside. You peek back out the window and chuckle to yourself when you see Mia and Tiffany cheering on the sidelines. Unsurprisingly, they seem to be cheering for the team that Luke is on. Mia’s idea, no doubt.

There are only a few more potatoes to add to the pot in front of you, so once those are in you go out into the living room to check on the younger girls. A gasp strangles out of you when you first see the two. Then as your brain has a moment to adjust and see that everything is okay, you break out into laughter.

“What did you do, little girl?” you ask your daughter. You shake your head in amusement as you walk over to the two of them, both covered in Cheerios that are also scattered around the living room floor.

Eliza grins up at you, small pieces of Cheerios still sticking to her baby teeth.

“Molly hungry!” she tells you.

“Oh, okay,” you say with a nod. “So, you thought to give her a snack like Mia did for you?”

“Mhmm!” She sounds quite proud of herself, and it makes your heart melt.

“Well, that was very thoughtful of you.”

Laughter erupts from behind you, and you look over your shoulder to see Max walking into the room. She takes in the mess before her and looks between the two babies.

“What’re you troublemakers doing?” she asks as she comes up beside you. 

A timer in the kitchen drags your attention away from the conversation and Max waves you on in that direction.

“Go ahead, take care of that. I’ll clean this up, then take these two outside. They can be the referees.”

“Thank you.” You give Max’s shoulder an appreciative squeeze as you walk past her.

Back in the kitchen, you turn off the timer and pull the green bean casserole out of the oven. 

Cheers ring in from the backyard, bringing a smile to your face. Anne steps up to look out the window at everyone.

“I think I’m going to go make sure no one is doing anything stupid,” she says.

“Nurse is never off duty, huh?” Nancy asks with a smile.

When Anne steps out of the room, you turn to Nancy and raise an eyebrow. 

“She wants to make sure no one is doing anything stupid?” you ask. “She clearly doesn’t know that is most of what our husbands do.”

Nancy laughs and nods her head in agreement.

“We should keep her here as an on-call nurse.”

“She’d be busier here than in the ER,” you joke. 

You and Nancy work silently side by side for a little while, before Nancy notices you starting to buzz around the kitchen more, a hectic mood settling over you. She licks over her lips before looking in your direction.

“Is something burning?” she asks.

“What?”

You whip your head around to stare at her before looking at the stove. 

“Smell it?” she asks, grabbing a paper towel to wipe her hands off on.

You take a few deep inhales, and a frown pinches your face.

“No,” you admit.

“That’s because there’s nothing burning,” Nancy says, taking a few steps closer to you. She rests her hands on your shoulders and looks you in the eye. “But it got you to take some deep breaths. Take a few more, okay?”

Catching on to her scheme, you narrow your eyes at her as you do indeed take a few more deep breaths.

“You’re sneaky,” you tell her.

“I have to be with four kids,” she replies. 

It’s not long before the game outside comes to an end and people start coming back into the house in waves. Eddie finally comes in and your heart stutters in your chest when you see him. His face is flushed from the exertion, his breathing a little labored for the same reason. His hair is frizzier than usual and when he comes closer to you, you can feel the chill coming off of him. It’s only confirmed when you put your hands on his cheeks and feel how cool they are to the touch. His smile makes you dizzy, not even registering how cold his lips are against yours when he leans in for a kiss.

“Everything smells good,” he mumbles against your mouth.

“Did you win?” you ask, reluctantly going to check on the turkey.

His sigh tells you the answer before his words do.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he grumbles.

Both you and Nancy share a chuckle as he sulks out of the room. Ryan pops in right after, going over to the sink to wash his hands. His face is flushed like his father’s, but his hair is faring far better. Wayne, Theo, and Danny come in behind your son and Wayne goes into the fridge to grab water bottles for all the boys.

“Can I help?” Ryan asks you as he dries his hands.

“Of course, sweetheart.” You press a kiss to his head as you slip by him to grab the salt. “Do you want to get started on the stuffing?”

“Sure.”

Danny wrinkles up his nose as he takes a sip of his water.

“Cooking is for girls,” the eight-year-old declares.

“Danny!” Nancy immediately snaps. 

“Hey,” Wayne says, nudging the boy on the shoulder. “I was a cook in the army. That don’t sound girly, does it?”

Danny shakes his head, looking cowed.

“No,” he says softly.

“What do you say?” Nancy asks.

“I’m sorry.”

Ryan ruffles the boy’s hair before pretending to spill the bowl of breadcrumbs he’s carrying all over him. Danny laughs and runs away before Ryan can actually make a mess of him.

“Hey, all available squirts!” Eddie calls from the next room.

“I’m not available,” Ryan mumbles, obviously not keen on whatever his father has planned.

Luke trails into the kitchen and looks around, confused like he hasn’t lived there for years.

“Uh, I’m supposed to set the table. Where’s the stuffs?” he asks.

“By yourself?” you ask, showing him where you already have the cookery and cutlery out and ready to go.

“Nope.” 

Luke lets out a small chuckle but before you can ask what’s so funny, Mia follows in behind him. It’s clear she volunteered to be your son’s assistant.

“I’m here to help!” she announces. 

Carefully, you load up both kids with as much as you think they’re able to handle. Luckily, a parade of other small humans comes in to finish the job.

“Quite the operation you’ve got going here,” you say to your husband as you step into the dining room. “Putting the kids to work.”

“They’re my elves,” he says with a shrug. 

You giggle and press a kiss to his cheek before walking back into the kitchen.

Ryan and Natalie amble in, neither looking too happy. Eddie doesn’t ask why; he knows they’ll tell him.

“I don’t want to sit at the kids’ table,” Ryan whines. For a fourteen-year-old, Eddie thinks Ryan gripes more than his literal baby sister.

Natalie looks at the adult table, then at the kids’ table. There are nine chairs seated at each and she’s clearly trying to figure out how two can be added to the larger table.

“Me neither,” she says while mentally calculating. 

Lucas steps into the room behind the teens and Eddie sees a great opportunity. 

“Okay, you guys can sit with us,” he tells them. “As long as you contribute to the conversation.”

“Really?” Natalie asks, instantly perking up. It amazes Eddie how quickly she goes from looking like Wednesday Addams to Pippi Longstocking.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He looks over at his former Hellfire Club member and nods at him. “By the way Lucas, did you see that the DOW is down three points today?”

Lucas doesn’t miss a beat.

“Huh,” he muses. “You know, I was just talking to my broker about that over a rousing game of golf. He suggested I take another look at my portfolio.”

“Ugh fine, we’ll sit at the kids’ table,” Ryan groans.

The two of them slink off to the other side of the room as Eddie and Lucas share a quiet laugh.

“Don’t even know if I got all the terms right,” Lucas admits.

Eddie, Ryan, Nancy, and Max all help you take the food out to the table—well, tables. Eliza watches it all as Wayne settles her in her highchair at the kids’ table. She’s practically salivating as her chocolate eyes move from dish to dish. Even Mia taking the seat between her and Luke doesn’t take her attention from her dinner. 

Annie settles Molly into her own highchair—Eliza’s old one that she outgrew. When Eddie had gotten it out of the garage both of you got a little misty-eyed that your daughter is getting so big.

The turkey is placed at the head of the table, right in front of Eddie’s seat. He picks up the large carving knife and Luke over-dramatically gasps from his place at the kids’ table. You finish scooping some mashed potatoes onto Eliza’s plate and playfully tug on one of Luke’s curls.

Eddie glances up from time to time, watching as you make sure each kid has a little bit of everything on the plate in front of them. 

“You’re gonna lose a finger, boy,” Wayne warns. The older man smiles though, at the way his nephew looks at his wife. 

Eddie sets the knife down and discreetly pops the wishbone out of the bird. If he doesn’t set it aside now all the kids will be arguing over it and Eddie isn’t sure there’s enough wine in the house to deal with that. This way, Eddie can show the kids the carved-up turkey and point to where the wishbone “should be” and shrug, telling them they’re out of luck. He looks forward to using it with you after the kids go to bed. 

You giggle as Molly reaches up and puts a dab of cranberry sauce on your nose. Eddie grins as he watches you. He had thought that seeing you with a baby wouldn’t hit him in quite the same way after Eliza was born, but it hasn’t quelled the yearning. 

Taking advantage of the kids grabbing the rolls in a frenzy, he slips the wishbone into his pocket. He already knows what his wish will be.

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[VD: A clip from Dandadan. Aira, offscreen, says, "I'm sure that four-eyed otaku is happy now, too" while Ayase telekinetically manipulates an extremely big metal tub to float off a shelf and then drop onto Aira's head with a comically loud, resounding "clang", making her stagger. End VD]

[ID: A tweet by faith!? @/soggystyrofoam (who has the same profile picture and username as the commenter of this post) that says, "the sound is so absurdly loud here it makes me wonder if aira's behavior for the rest of the series is partly because of an untreated concussion". End ID]

[the-kr8tor]

For you Ekko reqs, may I suggest R and Ekko hurt/comfort where Ekko slowly confides with R about what happened at the end of show (like probably a year or 2 of Ekko trying to process everything) and how he sometimes wished he stayed at the alt timeline? 🥲 Just him processing his grief of everything while R comforts him. Mans deserves better

-😅

Ahhhhh writing this made me tear up ngl 🥲 I hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, can be read as platonic, cw violence mention, cw injury mention, cw blood and death mention, hurt/comfort.

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ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“Ekko?” Your call is carried by the cool autumn wind, breeze fluttering your lashes as you stare at his back. You see him shrink in his seat, face hidden on the crook of his elbow. Walking closer, footsteps clanging against the metal balcony where you always find him on the same day it all happened. “You'll catch a cold up here.”

Piltover shines in front of you, warm light flickering off by the windows as people settle in for the night. But the glimmering fire paper still flies above the city, its light fading as it burns out in the breeze. It's the anniversary of that day, the day Piltover and Zaun saw war right on their doorstep.

Your arm aches, a phantom pain ebbing in and out when your mind goes back to that exact day where the sky was covered in searing smoke, and the streets splashed in warm crimson. Thumb brushing along your scar, it's a mark, a reminder of what was lost that day.

After a minute, Ekko sighs, still unmoving on his spot. “I'm not leaving.”

“I'm not trying to make you leave.” You fetch the blanket that was folded and draped over your shoulder. “I have a blanket for you. If you want it.”

He turns his head slowly over to you, mind playing tricks on him as he sees the flash of you bleeding and yelling for him. Eyes bloodshot, skin clammy and marred with blood. As fast as it came, he blinked and it's gone. Vision returning to the present, the present that wouldn't be possible if not for his sacrifice.

“Don't just gawk at me, bossman,” you smile gently at him, the blanket now unfurled in front of you, ready to drape it over his trembling form. “Do you want it or not?”

The corner of his lip curls up in a small smile, his eyes are tired, weighed down by the world. “Come sit down?”

He has never asked you to join him. You always left him alone up here whenever the anniversary comes around, thinking that's what he needed. But you always waited patiently just outside the door, sitting down on the cold steps while you let grief wash over you like the tides. Until it's time to pick yourself up again at the sound of the door opening. His hand helping you up wordlessly, grief holding the two of you in place, mourning together silently. When morning comes, everything seems to go back in place. The sun still shines, the world still breathes. But it lingers, that grief that has etched itself in your bones, sorrow that lives in his chest, weighing him down but never letting it fester and spread.

You two continue to fight, to improve the very place where blood has been spilled. Carry their memories, their names and their voices until the end. Lest their sacrifices would be in vain. Ekko's sacrifice would be in vain. He deserves better, to not bear the heaviness left in his soul.

“Are you just gonna gawk there or will you take a seat?” He uses your own words against you.

“Can't help it,” you say, heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat right next to him. Giving him enough space, but close enough to see his heavy eyes marred by unshed tears. “You look good under the moonlight.” You joke in an attempt to make him smile.

Ekko manages to chuckle softly, letting you drape the fluffy blanket around his shoulders. Your warm fingers grazing along his cool skin, sending goosebumps on his lean arms.

“Do you find my frown charming?”

You smile kindly, knuckles brushing down his goosebumps. “It’s the tear stained cheeks that gets me everytime.”

He scoffs with a small smile, attention turned towards the Piltover sky. The smell of burnt paper and violets linger in the air, frown deepening at his racing thoughts.

“Will you stay?”

With trepidation, you take his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away. He doesn't, instead, he weaves his fingers around yours. His grip is weak, but you can feel how much he needed it by how his eyes stare at your joined hands.

“Of course, whatever you need, Ekko.” You'll stay forever if he asks.

He nods, eyes staying downturned. “I wanted to stay at that place.” Letting out a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, trying to remember what they look like in his mind's eye. Faces that he once thought that he'll never see again. Faces that he had to say goodbye to. “But that would be selfish. I couldn't—” you squeeze his hand. “—I couldn't just leave this place and let it burn.”

The last two years have melded together in your head. All those months of waiting for him at the edge of the hideout, never losing hope, not even when they declared him dead. And then the war came, and you two didn't have the time to reunite, until it ended with you laying half dead on the streets of Piltover. Waking up to him holding your hand in a grip, wishing for you to open your eyes. And you did. A year later, he comes to you, angry and furious, wanting to let it all out. You still remember the day he told you exactly what happened when he disappeared for months like it was yesterday.

He recalls it all like it was a dream, a dream that was destined to be forgotten once he awakes. He didn't want to wake up, not when everything he always dreamed of was there. He gripped onto you tightly that day, held onto you until the sun rose. Nothing was left unsaid, his story left a hole in your heart, wishing that you've seen it for yourself. But you're afraid that you wouldn't be strong enough to leave, as strong as him who made a difficult choice to leave.

He has experienced unthinkable loss, a longing you've never felt. You don't have the exact words to comfort him, to soothe his want, so you move closer to him, fixing where the blanket has fallen and wrapping it over his body like a warm cocoon. You could only hope that it's enough, but you know it will never be enough.

Ekko tucks his head on your shoulder, hand finding its way over to your raised scar. His thumb traces along the skin, feeling your warmth and in turn comforting you. He knows the pain you're in too, he witnessed it, all the nights you've hid away only to come back with red eyes and grief etched on your face.

“I couldn't leave you and Zaun behind.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

Your heart wretches out of your chest. “It wouldn't be selfish.” You say, whispering it into the air around you. “I think— I would've done what you wanted to do. I wouldn't be strong enough to leave, but you did.” He leans away, eyes soft and shining under the moonlight as he meets with your eyes. “You're brave, Ekko. You might not want everyone to know what you had to do to save everyone, but I know. And I'm forever grateful for what you did. For what you have sacrificed so we could live. I'll remember it until I can't, even then, I'll try not to forget.” Cupping his jaw, you watch as a tear slides down. You wipe it away gingerly, smiling at him as he leans against your warmth, eyes closing, shoulders slumping with every word you utter. “You did well, Ekko.”

He moves forward, leaning his forehead against your own, affection radiating off him. “Thank you.”

“We'll be okay. We have time.”

“I know.” He has seen it, one day that dream will come true.

With a tender squeeze, his hand takes the other edge of the blanket, pulling and covering you with its warmth right next to him.

[itneverendshere]

INVISIBLE STRING - r.c series (eight)

pairing: pogue!rafe x sweetheart!kook reader. chapter warnings: mentions of domestic violence; unhealthy relationships;

It takes another week for your bruises to disappear entirely and for you to get comfortable enough to join Rafe downstairs while he’s working away with Jerry.

He didn’t mind though, he liked watching you heal, loved seeing you devour whatever he cooked for you. It was almost like he was healing himself too.

Rafe glances up from under the hood of the Chevy, the clang of metal on metal breaking the heat of the afternoon.

He isn’t sure what draws his attention, but there you are, sitting on the porch steps with sunlight catching in your hair, watching him and Jerry work like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

It devastates him—how much happier you look. A week ago, you'd barely let him leave your side without that haunted look creeping back into your eyes. 

You sit there comfortably, legs stretched out, looking eerily like the girl he remembered from so long ago. Almost.

He wipes his hands on the rag tucked into his pocket, taking a moment to breathe you in. Seeing you there, in his space, still feels unreal.

Somehow, the universe had given him a second chance when he’d never thought he’d get one, hee wants to keep you that way, safe, comfortable, smiling.

“Rafe,” Jerry’s voice pulls him back to work, and he tears his gaze from you reluctantly, not before he catches the way your lips quirk just a little more when you realize he’s been watching.

He ducks his head back under the hood, focusing on the busted engine. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but the truth is, he’s already planning what to make you for dinner. Maybe spaghetti?

You’d eaten three helpings of it the other night like you couldn’t get enough. He’ll make extra.

He grins to himself, a small, private thing, as he tightens the bolt on the alternator. He isn’t usually one for kitchen work but he’d been experimenting ever since you got here, he'd been cooking more than ever.

Figured out how to make pancakes the way you liked them, even if it meant burning the first couple batches, learned the trick to getting mashed potatoes just right, and spaghetti? He can make that blindfolded by now, if it means seeing you sitting, all full and satisfied, looking at him like he’s doing something right for once.

He peeks your way again, can’t help it.

God, he could write poetry about you if he had the words, if he was smart enough for that shit. Something about how your skin soaks up the sun like it’s meant just for you, or how you make the whole world quiet just by sitting there, looking at him.

You stretch, raising your arms over your head and his chest hurts so good. You don’t know what you’re doing to him, do you? You have no idea how much he wants to drop this wrench, cross the yard, and pull you into his arms, just to feel you against him, like the good old days.

“Rafe,” Jerry calls again, this time a little more assertive.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” He mutters, running a hand through his hair, smearing grease. The old man shoots him a look but says nothing.

He blames you, how is a guy supposed to focus with you sitting there like that? Looking all pretty and sweet, like you belong nowhere else but on his porch, waiting on him to finish up.

He wonders if you’d blush if he told you.

Maybe later, at dinner, he’ll get you talking about something—something that makes your eyes light up and your hands move like they always do when you got excited. Not the whole thing, of course, not the part about how he wants to keep you here forever, how he spent the last week falling asleep next to you, scared out of his mind to wake up and you’d be gone.

He can’t say that, not yet.

He still doesn’t feel deserving, the years haven’t dimmed you a bit—if anything, you’re brighter, and stronger, especially after what had happened, after you showed up on his doorstep with bruises and trembling hands, you’re still here, looking at him like he’s someone worth trusting.

He can’t stop thinking about what your parents said, all those years ago. How they’d made him feel like the scum on their shoes, but he isn’t that same kid anymore, is he? He built a life here, fixed cars, learned to cook, stayed out of trouble. You came back to him.

The sound of pawsteps across gravel draws his attention before he even realizes he’s been listening for it. A familiar shadow pads around the corner of the garage—a big mutt with a patchy brown coat, floppy ears, and a wagging tail that never quits.

Rafe chuckles under his breath. “Look who finally decided to wake up,” he drawls, wiping his hands on his jeans as the dog, Ace, makes his way toward you, bypassing him completely.

Traitor.

You sit up straighter on the steps, blinking at the unexpected visitor, “Who’s this?”

“That’s Ace, the one I told you about,” He explains, leaning against the Chevy, arms crossed. “Sleeps in the garage most nights. Jerry feeds him scraps when he thinks I ain’t lookin’.”

“Bull,” Jerry mutters from under the hood, but Rafe just grins.

Ace stops a few feet away from you, his tail still wagging but slower now, careful, he sniffles the air, head tilting as if he’s sizing you up.

You extend a hand tentatively, and Rafe’s heart damn near fucking stops when Ace leans forward, his big nose brushing your fingers like he’s been waiting all his life to meet you.

“Oh,” you breath, your lips curving into a blinding smile as you tenderly scratch behind his ears. Ace practically melts, pressing his head into your palm like you’re the best thing that had ever happened to him and Rafe feels like someone punched him, at least a hundred times, square in the chest.

Even the fucking dog is in love with you.

“He’s sweet,” you coo as you stroke Ace’s scruffy coat. “Aren’t you, boy?”

The dog lets out a contented huff, flopping onto the ground at your feet like he’s ready to stay there forever, Rafe can’t blame him.

“He doesn’t warm up to folks like that,” He finds himself admitting, “Usually takes him a while to trust people. Guess he’s got good taste.”

You look up at him, and there it is—that little spark in your eyes that makes his knees weak. “He must take after his owner, then.”

He lets out a noise, between a laugh and a swallow, scratching the back of his neck, looking down at the ground because he knows if he looks at you too long, he’ll probably do something stupid, maybe kiss you right there in front of Jerry and the whole damn yard.

“Nah,” he concedes finally, “Dog’s got way more sense than me.”

You laugh, that sound was always better than any song he ever heard, even if you haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

“You’ve got your moments.” You tease, still scratching the mutt behind his ears.

“Moments, huh?” He smirks, slow and lazy, the way that always makes you blush. 

Your cheeks are still flushed, just like he hoped they would, and you shake your head, but he doesn’t miss the way your grin only grows.

God, you’re so beautiful it hurts. He wants to bottle this moment up and keep it forever—the sun on your skin, Ace curled up at your feet, and that look in your eyes.

Jerry clears his throat loudly, and Rafe drags his attention away, turning back to the engine with a muttered, “Don’t you got somethin’ better to do, old man?”

Jerry snorts. “Not when you’re makin’ moon eyes at her like that, might as well sell tickets.”

He shoots him a glare, his ears turning pink, and you cackle again, a little louder this time. It’s worth the ribbing, worth all of it, just to hear that sound. Rafe sighs, long and dramatic. "Don’t you have a crossword or somethin' to keep your mouth busy?"

The old man sniggers, his laugh scratchy and full of life as you look between the two of them, enjoying the show.

“So,” you pipe up, resting your chin on your hand, comfortable enough around Jerry to finally ask, “How did you two meet? Officially, I mean.”

“Cameron didn’t tell you?”

He groans, already regretting everything. “Oh, come on—don’t—”

“Shut up, kid,” Jerry clicks his tongue, waving him off, turning turned to you, his eyes already sparkling with mischief in the late afternoon sun. “It was, what, five years ago? Somethin’ like that. I was in the middle of the hardware store, cussin’ out a kid who bagged up the wrong screws for me.”

Rafe ducks his head, mumbling, “It wasn’t that bad.”

Jerry ignores him, his hands moving as he speaks. “And here comes this scrappy little punk, all long limbs and attitude. He’s hanging around the counter, lookin’ like he’s ready to swipe somethin’. I figured, well, either he’s desperate or he’s an idiot, so I hollered at him.”

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at Rafe. “Scrappy little punk? I remember that.”

He sends a faux glare your way, “Don’t gloat him on.”

“Could’ve called the cops on him,” Jerry goes on, enjoying himself. “But I didn’t. Somethin’ about him looked...he just needed a break. I handed him a sandwich instead. Figured, worst-case scenario, he’d run off and I’d be down a couple bucks.

“But he didn’t.”

Jerry beams, “He sat right there on the curb and ate the whole damn thing like he hadn’t had a meal in days. Then, after he was done, he asked me if I had any work for him.”

You try to keep your expression even, but your throat tightens a little as you take a peek at Rafe’s reaction. He isn’t looking at you, his hands are busy wiping grease from a bolt that needs no more attention.

Your mind paints a picture you don’t want to see: him, still just a teenager, sitting alone on a curb in a strange town, starving, with no one to turn to. You remember the boy you’d known back then—the one who laughed loudly, talked too big, and held your hand like you were the only thing he had in the world.

The thought of him losing all of that, of losing you and ending up so desperate, breaks something inside you.

Jerry isn’t oblivious; he sees the flinch when he mentions Rafe’s first meal here. He catches how your shoulders tense, how Rafe avoids looking at you, the old man has a knack for reading people, so, still with a knowing smile, he pivots.

“Speakin’ of this kid’s early days,” Jerry claps his hands, “Y’know, I had half a mind to send him back to whatever dock he washed up from.”

His free hand dragged down his face. “C’mon, Jerry—”

“No, no, she’s gotta hear this,” Jerry insists, grinning again now. “You ever heard the phrase, ‘bull in a china shop’? That was this one.” He jerks his thumb toward him. “I handed him a wrench, told him to take off the oil pan on an old Ford. Figured, simple job, even he couldn’t screw it up.”

You tilt your head, curious despite yourself. “And?”

“The next thing I know, I hear this god-awful bang—like a car had fallen off the lift. I run over, and there’s Rafe, sittin’ on the ground, oil pan in one hand, half the damn exhaust in the other.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle, your eyes widening. “No!”

“I was new!” he defends, albeit childishly, his neck turning a faint shade of pink. “I didn’t know cars back then, alrigh’? Boats are different.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jerry chaffs, “Different enough that I had to spend half my day puttin’ that exhaust back together.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but there’s a sheepish tilt on his lips. “You’re lucky I didn’t quit after that.”

“You?” Jerry cackles, slapping his knee. “You were lucky I didn’t fire you!”

“Alright, that’s enough outta you,” Rafe grumbles, though his tone is more affectionate than annoyed. “She doesn’t need to hear every stupid thing I did.”

Jerry winks at you, “Stick around long enough, and I’ve got plenty more stories where that came from.”

Rafe sighs dramatically, shaking his head, he turns back to the car, he doesn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it makes you laugh.

You’re still petting Ace, murmuring something that he can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. The way your lips move, the gentle tilt of your head—it’s enough to send his heart hammering.

He doesn’t know what he did to get you back in his life, but he’s sure as hell not going to mess it up. Not this time.

Ace moves at your feet, rolling onto his back, his tail thumping against the ground and you laugh again, that heart-wrenching melodic sound.

He doesn’t even care that Jerry caught him “makin’ moon eyes” earlier—because this is what love looks like, he’ll gladly wear the fool.

“Everything okay over there?” you call, a teasing tilt in your voice.

He clears his throat, coming up with something to say,  “Yeah, just—uh, makin’ sure Jerry doesn’t mess up the alternator.”

Jerry barks a laugh from behind the car. “Kid, I’ve been doin’ this since before you could walk. Go ahead, tell her about the time you tried to put windshield wiper fluid in the oil tank.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe mutters as your snort spills out, unrestrained and perfect. He wants to record that sound, keep it for the nights when his demons get too loud.

Jerry pops back up, smirking as he wipes his hands on a rag. “She oughta know what she’s dealin’ with.”

He shakes his head, the faintest grin on his lips. “She knows enough. Don’t you, darlin’?”

The nickname slips out without him meaning to, but it feels right. 

“Yeah, I do.”

Jerry slaps him on the back, pulling him out of his head. “Alright, kid. Let’s fire her up, see if she’ll run.”

He nods, tossing the wrench onto the workbench. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

He steps around to the driver’s side, sliding into the worn seat, the key turns in the ignition, and the old Chevy grumbles to life, sputtering a little before settling into a steady rumble.

Jerry whoops, giving the hood an affectionate pat.

You’re clapping, beaming brighter than the sun dipping low on the horizon, the pride in your eyes, you’re looking at him like he just moved mountains instead of fixing an old truck—it’s overwhelming.

He kills the engine, stepping out of the car, wiping his hands on his jeans as he crosses the yard, Jerry mutters something about grabbing a beer and heads inside, leaving the two of you alone with the fading light and the lazy wag of Ace’s tail.

Rafe stops, suddenly nervous, scratching the back of his neck, his attention flickering between you and the ground. 

“I like watching you work. You look happy.”

Happy, such a simple word, but hearing it from you feels monumental, you’re giving him something he didn’t even know he was missing.

“Yeah, guess I’m not used to having an audience,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into a small, sheepish grin.

You tilt your head, studying him and he feels completely exposed, knowing you remembre all the cracks, every scar, every damn thing about him, but instead of turning away, you lean forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand.

“You’re good at it, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

He looks away, swallowing hard, “Already promised I’d make you that pasta again, don’t need to butter me up, princess.”

You roll your eyes, as you wave him off. “Don’t let it go to your head, country boy.”

He chuckles, the sound wrapping around you. “Too late for that.”

Ace stirs at your feet, letting out a happy huff as your hand absentmindedly scratches his belly. Rafe watches the way you’re with the dog, so effortless and full of love, and his heart swells.

“Y’know,” he says, his voice more serious, “it’s nice, havin’ you here. Feels... right.”

You brush a strand of hair out of your face, glancing down at Ace before looking back up at him. “It feels right to me too,” you admit.

Rafe’s breath catches, his hand twitching at his side like he wants to touch but doesn’t know how. Instead, he clears his throat, tilting his head toward the garage. 

“Guess I should, uh, finish cleanin’ up.”

You nod, smiling a little. “Don’t let me stop you, grease monkey.”

He gives you a tongue-in-cheek smirk, the side of his cheek puffing out slightly, shaking his head as he stands, but not before he leans down, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, and whispers, “Keep callin’ me that, and I might start likin’ it.”

He knows exactly what he's doing when your lips part in a gasp as he leans in, how your eyes widen before you try act unaffected—it’s like you’re both teens again. He didn’t mean to flirt, not at first, but the way you look at him, it’s impossible not to. 

He pulls back, letting his smirk settle into place, giving you that lazy, self-assured grin you always pretended to hate when you were younger.

By the time you think of a comeback, he’s already halfway to the workbench, his smug grin unmistakable even from a distance.

Jerry returns with a beer in hand, catching the tail end of your flustered expression. “What’d he say this time?”

“Nothing,” you reply quickly as you scratch Ace behind the ears again.

“Uh-huh,” Jerry says knowingly, settling into his chair and shaking his head with a chuckle.

Dinner comes slow but is worth the wait.

The sun's long since tucked itself away, and by now, the house smells like garlic and tomatoes, the scent that makes you feel like you’re right where you belong. 

Rafe stands in the kitchen, his back to you as he plates up the spaghetti he promised. He’s in a worn t-shirt and jeans, the grease scrubbed from his hands but still faintly streaked along his forearm.

He’d gone all out—spaghetti with his homemade sauce, garlic bread, and even a side salad, though he figured that would mostly be for show. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” he calls, leaning on the doorframe as you appear from the hallway, fresh-faced and relaxed after cleaning up from earlier. You smile at him, and his heart stutters like it always does when you stare at him like that, turning with two plates balanced in his hands, “One gourmet pasta dish, comin’ up.”

You laugh, sitting cross-legged at the table. “Big words for a guy who learned how to boil water when he was seventeen.”

“Now, that’s just mean.” He sets the plates down with mock offense, but there’s a light in his eyes, the kind that only shows up when you’re here.

The first bite is heaven—simple, hearty, comforting.

You can’t help the little sigh that escapes as you twirl more noodles around your fork. He watches from across the table, leaning back in his chair, one hand loosely gripping his beer. He’s not subtle about it either, letting his eyes wander over you like he’s cataloging every detail.

“This is amazing,” you say after swallowing. “Seriously. You’ve been holding out on me.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a bite of his own. “Nah, just figured if I burned a few meals first, you’d lower your expectations. Keep the bar manageable.”

“If this is you being ‘manageable,’ I’m almost scared to see what happens when you’re trying.”

“Careful, princess,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Might start thinkin’ you’re tryna keep me in the kitchen.”

“Well, you do look good in an apron,” you bite back a shit-eating grin as his face warms ever so slightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, stabbing a piece of garlic bread and pointing it at you playfully. “Keep it up, see what happens.”

He takes a sip of his drink, watching the way your shoulders relax, and how you reach for another piece of bread without hesitation. It’s everything he wanted when he planned this—just to see you like this, comfortable, at home.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” you say after a moment, gesturing toward the food. “It’s kind of... surprising.”

Rafe shrugs, his lips twitching into a crooked smirk. “Figured it was time I learned somethin’ useful. Can’t live off fast food forever, y’know?”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You’ve changed.”

He doesn’t look at you right away, focusing instead on twirling his fork through his pasta. “Time does that, I guess. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it ain’t.”

“I think it’s good,” you say, and the sincerity in your voice makes him glance up. Your eyes meet, and there’s something there—something that makes his chest feel all empty and full at once.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, “I like this version of you. Feels like you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

You talk about the past like as if it’s something distant, like it doesn’t still linger in the cracks of who you’ve become. He hates it—hates the way your voice wavers. Hates that, for five years, you’d been fighting to survive while he wasn’t there to stop it.

He should be grateful for the words, for the way you look at him like he’s the version of himself you can believe in. But all he can think about is how wrong you are. How he was supposed to be there—not here. If he says it out loud, the mood will drop, and the hope in your voice will disappear. He can’t take that from you—not when you’ve fought so hard to get here.

So instead, he swallows the words.

You’re still smiling and he lets himself pretend that this is how it’s always been—that you’ve never known anything but moments like this, safe and warm. The corner of his mouth twitches upward as he watches you, but that tightness in his chest refuses to ease.

“You’ve got something...” He gestures vaguely, and when you blink at him in confusion, he reaches for his napkin. “On your lip.”

You laugh, startled, and quickly swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Did I get it?”

“Nah,” he says, smirking as he leans forward slightly. “Other side.”

You try again, this time swiping with your thumb, but it’s no use.

He chuckles low, shaking his head, his heart squeezing as he watches your eyes crinkle at the edges. He’d give anything to go back and rewrite the past, so you’d never know the pain you went through.

“C’mere,” he says softly, his voice warm like the honey he used to sneak into your tea.

Before you can whine in protest, he’s reaching across the table, thumb brushing gently against the corner of your lips. His touch stays a second longer than it should, his eyes locked on yours and he doesn’t pull back. 

Instead, his hand moves to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone.

You don’t pull away, and that quiets the voice in his head screaming at him to back off, to give you space. The last thing he wants is to upset you. Your breathing hitches slightly, your attention flickering to his lips, and that’s all it takes to shake whatever restraint he has left.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, feeling a desperate need for your permission. “I’ll stop.”

You shake your head, just barely, the motion subtle but enough, “You don’t have to.”

Five years. Five years of silence, of distance, of trying to live in a world that didn’t feel like home without the other. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to turn away. But you don’t—you couldn’t if you tried, not with the warmth of his palm against your skin, the way his breath ghosts over your lips.

And then, finally, his mouth meets yours.

The kiss is not as gentle as he expected.

It’s desperate like the years apart have snapped every ounce of longing into something unbearable. His lips move against yours with a reckless abandon, the kind that whispers I’m sorry  I missed you and I never stopped loving you all at once. It’s messy and clumsy in the best way—you’re both trying to relearn the map of each other, chasing something you thought you’d lost forever.

The kiss deepens, the world falling away until all you can feel is him, and you wonder how you ever survived without this.

But as suddenly as it began, he pulls back. 

Rafe’s breathing is uneven, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still brushing over your cheek as if to soothe, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for everything. For not being there. For—”

You cut him off with another kiss, softer this time but no less meaningful. It’s your way of telling him there’s nothing to forgive, that every broken piece led you back here, to this moment.

“You’re awful quiet,” he says, “That’s never a good sign.”

You glance back at the remnants of dinner. “Just thinking,” you reply, deliberately neutral, but it doesn’t fool him.

“About what?”

You hesitate, “About the first time we met.”

That catches him off guard. His eyebrows knit together, and he straightens slightly, “What about it?”

You huff out a chuckle, “I was just remembering how much of an ass you were. You were so mean.”

“You make it sound like I wasn’t justified.”

“You were so angry that day. You had this scowl—like you wanted to scare me off.”

“I did,” he admits, his hand dropping to the table, fingers brushing yours, “Didn’t work, though. You figured me out pretty quick.”

You're studying him like you’re reading the pages of an old, familiar book. Your fingers curl around his, “It’s easy when you find your soulmate.”

Rafe’s breath catches, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for a sign that this is another one of your teasing remarks. But when he sees the sincerity in your face, the way your lips curve into a gentle, knowing smile, he feels a warmth spreading through his body. 

“Yeah?” 

You nod slowly, your fingers gently brushing his. “Yeah, don’t think I ever really had to figure you out. I just had to see you.”

He’s quiet, a little stunned, he knows you’re not just talking about the past, about that first meeting when he was all bitterness. You’re talking about the now, about who he’s trying to be, who he’s becoming. He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a second, just soaking in the feel of you—real and here and his.

He swallows hard, unsure how to express himself.

“You’re… you’re the love of my life,” he admits. It’s not a grand confession, there’s no dramatic buildup, no orchestrated speech, it’s just a simple truth, spilling from his heart like it’s always belonged there. His heart races under the look you’re giving him, “I know I screwed up. I know I’ve been a fuckin’ mess, but I never stopped loving you, don’t think I ever could.”

Your lips tremble eyes shining with something tender, as you reach out, your hand brushing against his clothed chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.

“I’ve always known,” you say, your voice carrying every ounce of emotion you’ve kept buried. “I’ve always known, Rafe, even when we were apart. You’ve always been it for me.”

The words, the honesty in them, he’s suddenly overcome with a flood of emotions so intense, it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in, his lips pecking yours gently, over and over again, until you’re grinning from ear to ear again. 

“You’re it for me, too,” he murmurs against your skin, “Always.”

Rafe doesn’t let you move far after dinner, you’re not even halfway to the sink with the plates before he takes them out of your hands, his skin brushing yours, lingering just long enough to make you shiver all over again.

“Don’t,” he scolds.

“You cooked,” you protest.

“I always cook,” he retorts lightheartedly as he sets the plates on the counter. “Doesn’t mean I’m letting you clean up. Sit.”

You fold your arms, leaning back against the counter instead, the stubborn tilt of your chin making him laugh. It’s not mocking—but he still shakes his head, muttering something about “always gotta have the last word”, you still let your elbow bump his every so often.

The simple domesticity of it catches you off guard, you never had it before, so it’s not something you would’ve associated with him back then—but here he is, sleeves pushed up, completely at ease. Five minutes later, he pushes off the counter and takes a step closer, 

“C’mere,” he’s guiding you toward the couch with a hand at the small of your back.

Ace follows, tail wagging lazily as he flops onto the rug near Rafe’s feet. He usually doesn’t let him come up here, but you’d begged to prettily earlier, and he couldn’t say no to that face. You settle in first, tucking your legs beneath you, and he sits beside you, his arm draping over the back of the couch.

The night winds down slowly, and by the time you’re both settled, Ace is already sprawled across Rafe’s legs, you’re warm with spaghetti, affection, and a sense of belonging. He moves, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he tugs you closer, his cheek resting against your temple.

“This feels right, doesn’t it?” 

You nod, leaning into him, “Yeah, it does.”

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

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The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

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The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

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It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars. 

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

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The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

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The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!” 

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

[bloggerspam]

Val is angrily pumping a jack to lift a car up when Jay comes running into the garage.

"Val!" She ignores him, unfastening the wheel with rough, jerky movements.

"Val, listen to me—" Jay starts, laying a hand over her shoulder in a bid for her to turn to face him.

She slaps it off, tossing the punctured wheel away with a grunt and a bang. She takes a deep breath.

"You have some nerve," Val shuts her eyes, "to fuck this up so badly."

"He's not answering my texts." Jay paces back and forth behind her, even without seeing it's apparent in the way the air starts shifting abruptly, how his voice travels to her left and right. "I was in the middle of something, a, a family thing and couldn't really answer with a full explanation."

Val focuses on taking deep, calming breaths. She knows that it was a misunderstanding, she does. It was probably a Bat thing, he was probably knee deep in some kind of fight.

"I basically passed out after," Jay continues, pacing and pacing and pacing, "Didn't really fully understand what I sent, I-I—"

That doesn't mean she will play nice when Danny was hurt by it all night, enough to throw himself through the apartment boxes and set everything up, enough to work through the night on that stupid new bike he'll have to build in the Realms, the way it's turning out.

"I texted to, to explain, but he hasn't replied and—"

"Just," Val cuts in, silencing the man and stopping him in his tracks, "shut up."

"I don't know if it was a Red Hood thing," Val starts, voice low and putting up a hand to stave off what no doubt is some kind of exclamation about her knowing, "But if you weren't of sound mind or, I don't fucking know, were in the middle of a shootout—"

"Ninja assassins," Jay breathes out, "I was, uh, getting chased by ninja assassins.."

She pauses, shakes her head.

"If you were in the middle of getting chased by ninja assassins," She growls out, finally facing her wide-eyed boss, "then why didn't you just wait until after to text him back?"

'I…" Jay's face goes that splotchy red again, "I don't…really like to make Danny wait if I can help it."

There's a long silence.

"You're so fucking stupid, are you fucking kidding me?" Val throws up her hands, groaning as she goes to detach the second tire. The angry clanging echoes through the garage.

The garage is actually empty, or she wouldn't have brought up Red Hood at all. The other mechanics went out on lunch, staggering their breaks. Melissa called sick, and there's only a couple cars anyway, light load for a summer day so Val's on her own for another hour.

"Yeah," Jay slumps, flinching when she tosses the old tire with an irritated yell, "Yeah I deserve that."

"He was up all night, unpacking and working on schematics." Val spits out, hefting two new tires up in each arm to attach to the car and finish her up. "His phone was dead, and Sam and Tucker were forcing him to bed when I left an hour ago."

"Okay," Jay breathes out, slow, relieved. "Alright."

"We just got Anita's Mazda, banged up and in need of some TLC." Val tosses a nut at his head. "Work on that, let Danny sleep for a while before you storm our apartment with whatever sappy shit you think will make up for it."

Jay rubs his head, where the nut had hit him, huffing. But he takes off his jacket, heads towards the locker room to no doubt grab some coveralls, mumbling.

"What was that?" Val starts letting the jack down, ready to test the air in the tires.

"I said," Jay pouts, "That we will be talking about the Hood thing later."

Val rolls her eyes. "You are not fucking subtle."

"Red Huntress says what?" Jay snarks, disappearing through the door.

And you know what? That's fair.

Mechanic!Val AU, but make it gay and sapphic.

ya'll can thank the HH discord for this one. Specifically the menace known as @clockwayswrites (and @impyssadobsessions for the art that inspired the damn thing)

Dead on Main and with some future Val/Steph >)

also @belfry-ghost did a doodle for this AU and everyone should go love on his art. Val's so unf.

===

Val’s pretty sure her new boss Jay is actually a crime lord.

She’s pretty sure he’s The Crime Lord, actually. She’s like, 98% sure she works for Red Hood now, and she’s low key mad about it. She squints at the man now, with his white streak and almost imperceptible green sheen to his eyes. 

The problem is that Val did perceive it. Because she used to date a guy whose baby blue eyes changed ever so slightly in the same way. Thinking about Danny makes her even madder.

To be clear, she’s not mad about Red Hood himself. 

She’s just mad that, of all the mechanic shops in all of Crime Alley, she just had to work for her ex-boyfriend’s third place Hall Pass pick. It also makes her miss her friends way more, and Val is hardly what one would call a well-adjusted woman, so she’s mad about it.

She huffs as she lifts the hood of the second car she’s working on today. Being a mechanic wasn’t really on the docket for Val’s life goals, nor was being in Gotham, but she got a full ticket ride on Wayne Foundation scholarships, and honestly? 

Gotham is Amity Park Lite: Gargoyles and Furries Edition. 

Between a full ride to Gotham U and being stuck at Elmerton Community College? The choice was easy. 

So here she is, working for the resident Crime Lord in his civvies. 

Jay pays good, teaches her what she needs to know, and bonus: he sometimes helps with her English Literature class. He’s flexible on hours, and she’s even got rudimentary insurance. 

All in All?  It could be worse—she could still be working for Vlad, after all. 

It's the little things.

[ghouljams]

I have a feeling that last ask about Nikto/ aphrodite reader will not be leaving me alone anytime soon. The pining potential is delicious. Do you think Nikto would react well to visiting him in his forge?

When you wake up in the middle of the night you can still hear the clang of metal from the forge. It's a distant thing, muffled through layers of earth and rock, but it rolls like thunder through the marble halls of Olympus. Your bed, of course, is empty. Your fingers still stroke over the space beside you, searching for a body that's never been there, before you resolve to find your husband.

Although "find" is the wrong word. You know exactly where your husband is, and you follow the soft glow of his forge's fire down the steep marble steps, holding your robe tight against your body to keep Selene's chill at bay. You push open the heavy iron door to a sweltering heat. Your husband stands at his full height, ringed in fire as he inspects a glowing blade, his shoulders are square and his skin glows with rivers of sweat cutting through black soot. His usual mask looks different, with cylinders on either side of it and a hard casing that you don't recognize as animal or mineral. It simply is, black as the coals and matte as the silt of a river.

You're sure he hasn't noticed you as you slip onto your usual stool and pull your knees up to your chest. Not with the way he turns fully back to his anvil and raises his heavy hammer to bring thunder crashing down around you. It's so much warmer here, and despite the noise you find your eyes drifting closed once more, moving only to dust a shower of sparks off your robe as you're pulled back to slumber.

You awake in your bed. The gift on the pillow beside you shines like the sun. It's the most beautiful one yet.

The forge is locked.

[trender-official]

Whiskey Burns My Throat | Part Two

Sevika x Fem!Doctor!Reader | 3.5k

Part One

She looked up and ran her teeth over her lip. She knew he was going to lecture her. The leather coach squeaked as she sat up. “Yeah. A bit.” Her face contorted for a moment, knowing she shouldn’t be disrespectful, but still angry. She could handle hard, fast pains. But dull aches made her irritable.

Silco frowned sharply. “Don’t lie to me. The shimmer isn't helping, is it?” His voice sounded soft, despite the underlying anger. He cared for her, after all, they had been working alongside each other for years now.

She sighed. She didn't know why she tried to deceive him, in a way, when it’s his whole job to deceive other people. She did know why. She didn’t want him to think she’s weak. She didn’t want to think about that. “No. Hasn’t been for awhile.”

“That’s why you’ve been so eager to fight, then. Come.” He beckoned her over. Willingly, she stood. He may irritate her, but she respected him. She’d do almost anything for him. He ran his hands over her metal hand, then looked up at her. “I graced you with the height of Zaun’s technology. Do not disgrace it by refusing its progression.” He stood. “If it is failing you, fix it. Go see The Doctor.” He let go of her and sat back down. “Don’t make me say so twice.”

Sevika closed her eyes and took a breath. He was right. She was being irrational. Fuck, she was being irrational. She turned away, running her human hand across the mahogany desk. She remembers when he got this. He almost didn’t- Thought it may had been a waste of money. But she told him, “You’d impress investors. And scare them.” He listened. He respected her, as much as she did him. She needed to listen.

She let out one last sigh, maybe to make it clear she wasn’t happy with the decision, before taking her leave and making her way to The Doctor’s house. She was supposed to head there soon anyway to escort her to the tent.

Soon enough, she arrived. It was a small place, maybe 800 sqft, made of various scrap metals and sheets. She leaned against it, her eyes closed as she crossed her arms around her chest, enjoying the moment of silence. She usually waited youtside for The Doctor to come out, not caring enough to knock. It felt… too domestic.

She heard some clanging inside, then the “oh so put together”, well, not so much recently, Doctor came out. Her hair wasn’t in her proper place, usually tied back in a careful ponytail or bun. But it hadn’t been in… A week? Two? Sevika couldn’t remember the last time it was. Sevika didn’t care, to be honest. She didn’t say anything to Sevika, she just looked at her and started off in the direction they usually went. Sevika didn’t care about that, either. In fact, she appreciated it. She’s been much less chatty recently.

It took about four minutes to get to the tent, they’d placed it here on purpose to keep her out of the streets as much as possible. Although, the Doctor had been ignoring that recently and going out at night. At least she went to the last drop, staying within Silco’s reach. Sevika had seen her there a few times, only staying long enough to get a bottle of alcohol and leaving after.

When they reached the tent, Sevika finally spoke up. “I’m gonna be the first patient today.” She said, as she sat down on the cot that functioned as an examination table, which was far too small for her and practically screamed as she sat down.

The Doctor paused, a look of shock coming across her face. “Are you sick?” She asked, putting her bag down and slipping on some gloves. She stepped closer, tentatively, eyeing her face to see if there were any signs of sickness.

“No.” She said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Just… The arm. It’s hurting my shoulder.” She said, once again holding the weight of the metal arm with her other hand. “Shimmer isn’t helping anymore. Don’t wanna take too much either. You know why.”

The Doctor nodded. “Can you remove the arm for me?” She asked, getting close enough to make Sevika want to scoot back. Sevika didn’t say anything, but unlatched the arm and laid it down beside her. She unholstered her gun as well. Just in case she didn’t have the arm to defend them with.

The Doctor leaned forwards, analyzing the area, running her hands along it with a furrowed brow. She reached for the arm itself, and almost immediately she could tell the problem. “It’s too heavy,” she said matter of factly. “It’s putting too much strain on your deltoid- your shoulder” she reached back to gently press on the area, nodding. Then she paused, lost in thought, trying to figure out a way to solve the problem.

Sevika frowned heavily as she fiddled with her. She felt like an animal being tested on. She was used to that- With shimmer and all. But she didn’t like it. When The Doctor paused, she raised an eyebrow. The Doctor’s hand didn’t move, to which Sevika glanced at it. She decided to remove it with a light swipe.

The Doctor didn’t react, her brows furrowed, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her first idea was letting Silco deal with it. That would be the easiest and less stressful thing to do for herself. But she didn’t like the idea of not knowing what their plan was for Sevikas pain. The thought frustrated her.

Then it hit her. Jayce. Jayce was a friend she made while she was just starting her schooling. They had become quick friends, despite their separate fields. Jayce was an easy person. He was easy to get along with. She heard news of him working with Heimerdinger now, so maybe he could help them!

“Wait-“ she perked up, slamming her fist down onto her open palm. “I have a friend who lives for this stuff. He’s…”

“A topsider.” Sevika finished for her. The Doctor paused, her face falling as the excitement drained a little from her voice. “Yes.. but he’s talented. Extremely so. Let him take a look at it- it’ll be a few hours max.” She didn’t know why she was trying so hard to get her to agree. Maybe to earn brownie points? But why did she care so much about what she thought?

Sevika thought for a second, her jaw twisting in irritation. Having to go all the way up to Piltover- AND deal with pilties who no doubt were going to gloat in front of her with their arrogance… she hated it. Hated this whole situation, hated feeling weak. In need. And most importantly, hated her. But… she couldn’t deny it any longer. She had people to protect here. Silco to protect. And his kid, that Jinx girl, which she hated to admit she held a smidge of affection for. So with a begrudging sigh, she agreed.

They set off, making their way to Piltover, wanting to do so earlier than later. Sevika had tied the tent up before they left, putting a sign that said, “Closed. Come back tomorrow.”

The Doctor stayed unusually quiet the whole ride. She busied herself thinking about what she was to say to Jayce after not seeing each other for so long. She didn’t know how to say she’d left Piltover and became a citizen of Zaun without explaining why, and he couldn’t know why. Silco made that clear.

As time went on, she grew more anxious, her hands squeezing and messing with the material of her pants as she thought of ways to dodge or distract Jayce from asking any questions relating to her disappearance.

But a part of her rationalized her thoughts. He probably didn’t even notice she was gone. It wasn’t like they were best friends; they just kept each other company during their boring schooling days. Once Jayce started working under Heimerdinger, he had gotten busier, and they didn’t talk much, not unless she came to visit him in his lab. And even then they talked about basic things before Jayce got distracted and pulled back into his work. Hextech, she remembered.

She didn’t even notice they had arrived until a large airship zipped through the Hexgate. It made her realize she hadn’t been here since before the Hexgates were created. She’d heard it was a marvel- But to see it here? Right in front of her? It was… Awe inspiring. This truly is The City of Progress. It made her rethink some things.

Sevike snickered behind her. “Amazed?” She asked, her voice holding that patronizing tone to it. The Doctor blushed and looked away, even though she knew there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Sevika had been here many times since the Hexgates were created, running shimmer back and forth for Silco, so the sight was just… Normal to her now. It’s strange, how that happens.

As they made their way to the academy, The Doctor couldn’t help the twist of anxiety brewing in her gut. Sevika was unpredictable, she didn’t know what she’d do or say once they got there, and she really didn’t want to break up a fight, or have any physical altercations between her and the guards. Or even worse; Jayce himself. Jayce was kind, and understanding. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a hot-head. Things set him off pretty easily, which also worried her.

And the thing that bothered her the most was the idea of Sevika not accepting Jayce’s help; that she’d be in pain until Silco could find someone in Zaun to fix up her arm. It confused her, and irritated her all the same. Why should she care if Sevika was in pain? She was a grown woman after all. Not a very nice one either.

Finally, they arrived inside. Some people gave them a wary and uneasy look, while others downright glared at them, as if to say “You don’t belong here. Go back to the Undercity”. The Doctor frowned. She had never gotten those looks before. She, unconsciously, moved closer to Sevikas side. It was true that she felt safe with the bigger woman. Who wouldn’t? After all, Sevika didn’t look bothered.

The Doctor asked around, inquiring about Jayce’s whereabouts. She was met with a lot of suspicion, but she eased their concerns with smooth talking, and stories of their college days, proving she had a legitimate tie to the man. Once they had their directions they were off, and in time they found his workshop.

The Doctor raised her fist to knock, when the door opened. A man she didn’t recognize stood there with a tilted head. “Hello?” He said with a strange accent.

“Um- Hello!” The Doctor started, “I’m here for Jayce…” she shifted nervously on her feet.

“I’m sorry, he’s not taking meetings today, would you like to leave your names?” He said monotonously. He seemed to do this often. And he didn’t seem bothered by Sevikas stark presence behind her.

“Oh- but-“

Suddenly the smaller man was nudged, making an irritated sound leave his throat as jayce appeared above him.

“What are you doing here?!” Jayce asked excitedly, pushing past the shorter male, his arms instinctively reaching to hug The Doctor. His hands snaked onto her lower back, squeezing; A familiar, practiced motion.

“Jeez!” The Doctor laughed, her arms returning the hug quickly, her head being shoved into his chest. He was just about the same height as Sevika.

“Careful or you’re gonna kill me before I even tell you why!” The Doctor teased as Jayce pulled back, his eyes bright, excited. He looked good, face bright, but still equipped with the eyebags that came with being a scientist.

“Right, right.” Jayce pulled back, his hands still on the small of her back. “Well come in-! I have much to show you!” he took her hand, pulling her inside the workshop.

The unnamed man stood behind them, a hip popped out to the side with a grumpy looking face. The Doctor couldn’t tell if he was simply leaning on his cane or being sassy…

“Before we start I think introductions are needed.” The Doctor looked happy, a genuine smile on her face as she gestured to the man and Sevika behind them. “I know how you get when you get into things, Jayce.” There it was again, that familiarity.

Sevika wanted to glare at him. She wanted to scare him away- Make him stop asking questions. But she knew how to play this. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She faked a smile, strained and thin, still intimidating despite it, and stayed silent.

In return, Jayce just rolled his eyes playfully at The Doctor, before nodding to Sevika, returning the same smile, it being a little bigger than hers. He turned quickly, and gestured to the man leaning on his cane. “This is Viktor. He’s been my partner while working under Heimerdinger.”

The Doctor nodded in acknowledgment. “Hello, Viktor. I’m a friend of Jayce’s from the academy.” she stuck her hand out to shake.

“Oh!” Viktor’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh. Hello.” He said, taking her hand gently. His hands were bony, his fingers long. He didn’t know how to shake a hand well, he simply laid his hand in hers and let her guide it. He sounded uncomfortable, but not negatively. Simply, in a new situation. The Doctor guessed he likely didn’t get much positive attention from topsiders, based on his reaction, so she put in extra effort to lightly cup his hand and smile as she shook it. He must be from the lower city. Or perhaps it’s because of his disability? She didn’t know, but her heart ached just a little for him.

After she pulled her hand away she turned towards Sevika. “This is Sevika. A…” she paused, not really sure what to call her. She decided on the simpler method. “A friend of mine. We met at a bar a few months ago.” She introduced.

Jayce took no time in raising an eyebrow, his mouth turned into a teasing smile. “Right.. a friend” He said, his voice dipping low. He knew The Doctors type, they did go to the academy together after all. Nights of parties and bar hopping, they had learned each-others type in people. And Sevika? She was definitely her type. Not to mention, The Doctor never brought people to meet Jayce. It was all too suspicious.

Sevika recoiled, looking The Doctor up and down. “Her?” She snorted. “No. Just friends.” Even that felt strange in her mouth. Referring to this woman as anything but a nuisance was wrong. Although, Sevika wouldn’t be surprised if The Doctor was into her. Honestly, a night or two with her wouldn’t be terrible. Sevika wasn’t new to hate sex- But anything else? Pure insanity.

The Doctor herself sputtered, caught off guard. Sevika and her? The thought made her cheeks warm, her heartbeat increasing.

Jayce’s other eyebrow shot up, with his hands as he backed away. “Sure, sure… Sure.” He said with a shrug. “I won’t push.” He said, with a wink. He turned away, his neck straining to look at them behind him. “Come on! I’ll show you the lab. You can tell me why you’re here.”

They made their way inside, Jayce showing off his recent discoveries, though not going into too much detail. He would stop and move on whenever Viktor gave him that warning look- the look of they don’t need to know this.

Finally they settled, taking seats at one of the bigger desks near the back. “So, not that I mind you visiting, but why are you here?” Jayce asked, absentmindedly helping Viktor into the chair next to him, like he’d done it a million times. He didn’t even take his eyes off of hers as he did it.

That had The Doctor raising an eyebrow, but she stored it away for later. She wasn’t one to ask those types of questions in front of others.

“Sevika’s arm has been giving her some trouble. It’s too heavy for her muscles to handle for such a long period of time. Do you think you could take a look and see if there’s anything you can do to remove some of the strain?” She asked them, her voice now poised and Doctor-like.

Jayce blinked, “… that’s it?” He asked, almost shocked. “I thought it’d be something way more complicated. Sure, put it here.” He patted the spot in front of him.

“Show off…” She muttered, and looked back to Sevika expectantly. Sevika wanted to sigh heavily but she restrained herself. She waddled over to the area, gripping her arm and lifting the weight off.

“Just… be careful.” She said grumpily before allowing Jayce to touch her. “It’s delicate.”

“I will be.” Jayce smiled, gentle but large fingers gracing her skin. He looked back to her for approval, receiving it hesitantly, before lifting her arm. He ran his hands over the seam, and her harness. “There seems to be some pressure points here, probably causing some pinching.” He ran his hand over her arm, examining the mechanisms. “How is this powered? There’s no way you could charge something like this in the undercity with basic power lines.”

The Doctor stiffened, honestly unsure if they should tell Jayce. On one hand, being honest would make sure they got everything fixed. On the other hand… she wasn’t sure how he’d react to Sevika using shimmer. It didn’t exactly have the best reputation…

But before she could speak Sevika did for her. “What do you think?” She asked gruffly. She looked down at the floor, her gaze slowly trekking up his body.

His eyes widened, backing away. He looked to The Doctor as if she’d have a different answer. She simply stumbled over her words, then looked down and bit her lip. “I…” He said. “Shimmer? You have me working on shimmer tech?” He said with a laugh of disbelief. “You can’t- You’re against shimmer! You know what it does!” He stood up, his chair flying out from under him, screeching as it slid back.

Viktor tried to quickly stand, but fumbled, falling back into the seat. “Jayce-“ He started.

“No. Viktor, I can’t work on something running on that.” He pointed a finger at him, then at Sevika. “And I want her out of my lab.” He frowned, looked her up and down, then turned and made his exit.

“That went as well as I thought it would.” Sevika mumbled with a scoff. The Doctor sighed, seeming used to it.

“Can’t tell you how many doors we had to replace in his dorm room.” She grumbled.

Then she turned her focus to Viktor. “I’m sorry we caused a stir. I hope he’s not like that often with you. Let me know if I need to have a discussion with him about minding his temper.” she seemed.. pissed, her eyes narrowing. It was, admittedly, hot, Sevika thought. But that thought was quickly squashed.

Viktor huffed a laugh. “You know him. He’s… Passionate.” He stood slowly, balancing on his crutch. “But… You should know, I am as talented as Jayce.” He placed a hand on The Doctor’s shoulder. “Meet me here. Tonight. We will talk.” He smiled at her and continued on, hobbling out the door. Presumably to follow Jayce.

The doctor grinned to herself. It seems as if Jayce found someone that could keep up with him and then some. Good. He needed someone like that. She watched him leave, her hip cocked a bit.

She turned to Sevika, “Well, that solves that.” She said, offering a pleasant smile to her, hoping to receive back… well, praise, if she was being honest with herself. It’s what she thrived off of, what kept her working so hard, being noticed and appreciated by others. Well, that and improving people’s lives of course.

“Damn. I didn’t expect the little guy to go against him.” She said with a laugh. “Good for him.” She stood up, giving The Doctor a pat on the head. “Good job not entirely fucking up.” She said with a slight smirk. That was the best she was gonna give.

The walk back to the undercity was distinctly not in silence, unlike before. The Doctor seemed rejuvenated, and Sevika couldn’t tell if it was because she got to see Jayce, or if it was due to herself. Part of her wished for the later, which irritated her.

When they parted ways, Sevika made her way to the brothel again. Distinctly looking for a woman, Clara, who may look distinctly similar to The Doctor.

[moodymisty]

Author's Note: hi

Relationships: Perturabo/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Sex machines, Overstim, I guess you could consider dubcon if you squinted, Oral (male receiving), Cum on face, brief mention of squirting

Unlike Perturabo, who at some point will tire, or more realistically grow bored, this accursed creation of his is unyielding.

It's will is truly iron clad, because it has no will at all; Only circuits and wires.

Perturabo watches of course, evaluating.

This is all just some sort of analysis for him. The newest of his torture devices- you've insisted on calling them that despite the fact that for all intents and purposes, they've provided enough sexual satisfaction for days on end at the cost of your sanity- must live up to the impossibly lofty exceptions he has set for himself. Even if it's not a machine of war, not a tank or an anti-air gun, he still treats his work with an unfathomable amount of rigor and discipline. He accepts no less than perfection.

He's not going to slack and make something subpar, even if it is just something to make his wife lose control of herself and soak his spare workbench.

He's jerked himself off in his desk chair a few times already, though he swiftly realized it was inconvenient to get up over and over again to cum on your face; He wasn't going to just waste it. He's fucked your mouth, silencing your cries and pleas and making your throat burn more. The vibrating sound of your sobbing teased the thick head of his cock and threatened to make his head loll back as he stood in front of you.

You feel like a sloppy mess. Not that you have any control over it. You're done when he says you're done. Or you pass out. Right now it seems the ladder is the more possible option, though you've passed out before during evaluations of his machines, and oftentimes he lets them continue until you return to consciousness.

The wood of the table is harsh against your knees; It was against your forearms as well, but you've since fallen resting on your cheek. The metal digs into your wrists and ankles, biting your skin. Your body is too tired to do much more than just lie there pliantly as tears stream down your face.

You've lost count of the amount of climaxes, both from your brain turning to mush between your ears and the fact that they've by and large stopped- now it's just a nonstop string of near painful sensation that overwhelms you at the precipice of too much. Your cunt clenches around nothing, hips twitching uncontrollably, clit bullied and quivering. Each vibration feels like it's going up your spine and directly into your brain. You swear there's stars in your eyes.

It presses against your cunt just hard enough that you can't wiggle away from it no matter how much you move, your hips gyrating around trying to find a spot of reprieve even if for just a moment.

You found one briefly for a moment awhile ago, and once Perturabo realized he stood up, cock still in hand, and adjusted it to take your solace away. You'd caterwauled at the sudden return of the overwhelming sensation directly on your clit, and you're sure every Iron Warrior on this side of the base could hear your profuse sobbing.

You already have trouble looking them in the eye.

He's turned down the power a bit since, though the amount of time you've spent tied up like this makes even the softest sensation feel like a punch to your aching gut the jolts down to your groin. Sometimes he briefly turns it back up for a moment, if only to briefly listen to you squeal and thrash, the metal of the restraints clanging.

The pleasure he gets from this is clearly worth the hours he spends building these contraptions. He has so many, each torments you a different way and he's more than receptive to tinkering with them if they fail to impress on the first go around.

Sometimes you wonder if watching you get fucked by his creations is more pleasurable to him than fucking you himself.

Perhaps so, though you also know it's not often he gets to build things that are outside of his legion's usage, and you suppose he enjoys the deviation. Even if it's at your expense.

The room filled with nothing but the sound of your sopping wet and puffy cunt getting vibrated to oblivion and the hapless defeated groans you let out, Perturabo finally gets up and walks towards you.

He turns the accursed thing off, unlocking your wrists before gently grabbing your jaw and tilting your head sharply up to look at him in the eyes. His grip is gentle, but forceful.

"Now go get dressed up. Some of the other primarchs will be at dinner."

Spit dribbles down your chin, your hair a mess from writhing. You're still shaking and your heart hammers in your rib cage, body aching from hours of tensing. Your thighs are sticky and wet from your own release and sweat. You look up at him agape and stupid, eyes struggling to focus, your forearms and knees sticking to the table, and all you can let out with your raspy, scream scarred voice is a dumb sounding:

"...What?"

[soulofapatrick]

"I’m your idiot" - Senami Shinazugawa x female reader

Summary: You get injured and Senami panics for once

Words: 4K 

Warnings: blood; injury 

Notes: I just finished Demon Slayer hehe

Y/N’s POV 

The Butterfly Mansion is so close now. Its rooftops peek through the dense forest, like a distant promise, barely visible above the treetops. The faint clash of swords echoes on the wind, sharp and rhythmic, a sound that’s both reassuring and agonising. Every step I take feels heavier, as though my body is being pulled down by invisible chains. My legs tremble beneath me, struggling to carry my exhausted frame. Blood, sticky and hot, pools beneath my uniform, seeping through the fabric and staining my skin. It’s a constant, unrelenting flow, a reminder that I’m barely holding on.

Sanemi’s going to be furious.

The thought cuts through the fog of pain clouding my mind like a blade. His voice, sharp as always, rings in my ears: Why didn’t you call for backup? What the hell were you thinking? Those words will bite—harsh and unforgiving—but what stings more than the anger in his voice is the worry that always follows. It’s the worry that weighs heavier on me than anything else.

I stumble, my foot catching on a loose rock, and I barely manage to grab hold of a tree trunk to stop myself from crashing down. My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself forward, one step after another, despite the waves of dizziness that threaten to swallow me whole.

The courtyard is so close now—just ahead, an open space where the Hashira train. My heart stutters in my chest, a jarring mix of relief and dread. I don’t want him to see me like this, vulnerable, broken. But I know I can’t make it much farther. I’m too far gone.

By the time I reach the courtyard, my vision is nothing but a blur of shapes and colours, spinning as if I’m caught in a storm. The sound of sparring fills my ears—Mitsuri’s laughter, light and infectious, Obanai’s dry remarks laced with annoyance, the sharp clang of steel meeting steel as Giyuu’s blade clashes against Sanemi’s. The noises are distant, muffled, like they’re reaching me through a thick veil of water, as though I’m standing at the bottom of a deep well.

I take one more step.

My body betrays me. My legs give way beneath me, and the world tilts violently. The ground rises up to meet me, hard and unforgiving, as I crash to my knees. My palms scrape against the dirt, rough and raw, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots through my side. I choke on the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, swallowing back a cry that threatens to escape.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. The world spins, my vision darkening at the edges. The pounding of my heartbeat fills my ears, drowning out everything else. But then, through the haze, I see them—the Hashira—training under the sun, their movements swift and fluid, their presence grounding me, even as my strength fades.

“Y/N!” Mitsuri’s voice slices through the fog, high-pitched and laced with panic. My head jerks toward her, and I catch the sight of her wooden sword slipping from her hands, forgotten as she freezes in horror. Her eyes widen in disbelief, her face draining of colour as she takes in the sight of me.

Her cry cuts through the air, sharp and unrestrained, drawing everyone’s attention in an instant. Giyuu’s movements falter, his typically serene composure briefly disrupted by a flicker of concern that crosses his stoic features. Obanai stiffens, his eyes narrowing as they fixate on me, sharp and calculating, the gears in his mind turning in silence. And Sanemi—

Sanemi freezes mid-swing, his body tensing as if time itself has slowed. His sword, once poised to strike Giyuu with practiced precision, slips from his grip and crashes to the ground. The clang of metal against stone echoes across the courtyard, the sharpness of the sound making my already fragile heart skip a beat.

“Y/N!” His voice shatters the tension, cracking with raw, unfiltered panic, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

I barely register the rush of his footsteps—fast, determined—as he breaks into a dead sprint toward me. My arms tremble, the last vestiges of my strength giving way, and before I can crumple entirely to the earth, his presence is there, like a storm rushing in to steady me.

Sanemi drops to his knees beside me with such force that the earth beneath us seems to shudder in response. His hands are on me instantly—rough, urgent, but somehow tender—as he pulls me against his chest, cradling me like I might slip away if he isn’t careful.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely a whisper but full of panic and disbelief. His eyes rake over me, taking in the blood soaking through my torn uniform, the tremors that wrack my body with every shallow breath. His fingers press against my side, and I can’t help the sharp intake of breath, a flinch of pain that I can’t hide. “What the hell happened to you?”

The words barely reach my mind through the haze of pain clouding everything. I try to respond, but my throat is so dry, parched, that all that escapes is a weak, rasping sound—an echo of a voice that feels like it belongs to someone else.

“Damn it, don’t talk,” he snaps, his voice harsh, but the fury in his words is quickly undermined by the trembling of his hand against my side, the softness that lingers despite the anger in his tone. “You’re bleeding everywhere—how long have you been walking like this?”

I summon what little strength I have left to lift my gaze to his, meeting his eyes—stormy and frantic, filled with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something softer, something buried deeper that I can’t quite place. With great effort, I force my lips into the faintest of smiles, even though every fibre of my being aches in protest. “Didn’t... want to bother you,” I whisper, each word a struggle, each breath like shards of glass in my chest.

His expression contorts, his lips parting as though to say something, but no words come. For a moment, he simply stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as though he's at war with himself. He’s torn, and it’s painfully evident—torn between the fury that surges within him and the vulnerability that threatens to break through.

“Bother me?” he growls, his voice thick with emotion, his hand tightening around me, but not in a way that would hurt. “You’re—” He stops himself, inhaling sharply through his nose as though trying to calm the storm inside him, trying to keep himself from unraveling.

Behind him, Mitsuri hovers anxiously, her hands clasped over her mouth, her wide eyes filled with worry. Obanai stands a few steps back, his usual calm indifference replaced by a rare flicker of unease. The atmosphere around us is thick with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“Giyuu, go get Shinobu,” Sanemi barks, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, his command sharp and unwavering despite the chaos swirling inside him. He doesn’t look up from me, his focus entirely on the fragile weight of my body in his arms. He’s shaking, but he won’t let it show—not yet.

I hear the rapid retreat of Giyuu’s footsteps as he races off to find Shinobu. His footsteps fade into the distance, and in the silence that follows, Mitsuri takes a hesitant step closer. Her voice trembles, barely more than a whisper, as she asks, “Is she—Sanemi, is she going to be okay?”

Sanemi’s jaw tightens at the question, and his lips press into a thin line, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. He lifts his gaze to hers, the flicker of panic momentarily giving way to a controlled mask of determination. But when his eyes dart back to my face, the fear he’s trying so desperately to hide is unmistakable. It’s there, in the way his pupils constrict, in the way his hand—still cradling me—quivers.

“She will be,” he says, his voice firm, though the conviction falters like a thread pulled too tight.

His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel his breath—hot, uneven—against my skin. His presence envelops me, grounding me in a reality that feels dangerously distant. “You’re an idiot,” he murmurs, his voice low, cracking with restrained emotion. His words sting, but it’s not the anger that cuts deep. It’s the tremble beneath them—the rawness, the fear. “You could’ve died out there, and for what? To spare me a little worry?”

I manage a weak laugh, though it comes out more like a dry, desperate wheeze, and a bitter taste coats my tongue. “Figured you’d... yell at me less.”

His fingers tighten against my side—almost painfully so—and his shoulders tremble with the weight of emotions he’s fighting to suppress. “You think I care about that right now?” His voice cracks, fragile and breaking. “You think I care about how much I yell at you when you’re bleeding out in my arms?” His words are strained, raw with anguish, and the desperation that laces his voice sends a chill through me, more potent than the pain. “I just—” He stops himself, biting back whatever else he wants to say, his chest rising and falling as he draws in a shaky breath.

“Sanemi...” I whisper his name, my voice barely audible, but it seems to carry the weight of everything unsaid between us.

His lips tremble, and then, before I can even blink, he interrupts me, his forehead pressing harder against mine. “I’ve got you,” he says, his voice a fierce promise, though the cracks in his tone betray the fear that’s clawing at him. “You’re going to be fine. Just—just stay with me, okay? Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Mitsuri kneels beside us, her hands hovering over me, as though afraid that the slightest touch will make everything worse. “Sanemi, I think—” she begins, but her words falter in the air, swallowed by the tension.

“I know,” he snaps, but then his voice softens as my breathing catches in a strained gasp. “I know,” he repeats, almost to himself, a mantra in the silence that follows.

The world around me tilts, fading further into a haze as the darkness creeps at the edges of my vision. But still, I feel him—his strength, his warmth—as he gently, but urgently, lifts me into his arms. The movement is careful, as if he believes that any jolt will shatter me into a million pieces. And still, his heartbeat pounds in my ears—loud, frantic, wild—but steady enough to hold on to. His arms are like iron bands, yet there’s a tenderness to them, a desperation that breaks through the tension.

As he rises to his feet, his voice drops to a mutter, too low for anyone else to catch, but not too low for me. “You’re everything, you idiot,” he breathes, his words laced with an agony so pure it almost cuts through the darkness threatening to swallow me whole. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

And even as the shadows tug at my consciousness, pulling me deeper into oblivion, I cling to him. To the sound of his voice, jagged and frantic. To the heat of his body, holding me together. To the promise buried in the depths of his words, a lifeline tethering me to the world, even as everything slips away.

——

The first thing I register is the sterile scent of herbs and salves, mingling with the faint scent of wood and fire. My body feels heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, but the softness of the futon beneath me is a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving battlefield. Each muscle aches as if I’ve been torn apart and stitched back together again, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m allowed to rest.

I try to shift, but a warmth at my side stops me, pulling me back into the stillness. Slowly, my senses sharpen, and I realise my hand is wrapped in something rough, something solid. A warm, unyielding presence. I blink, my vision blurry at first as the light filters through the window, and my gaze lands on him.

Sanemi.

He’s slumped in a chair beside the bed, his body curved toward me like a lifeline, his head resting gently on my thigh. His white hair spills messily over the edge of the blanket, soft strands caught in the light like streaks of moonlight. His grip on my hand is firm, almost desperate, as if even in sleep, he’s afraid I might slip away.

I blink back the sting of tears at the sight of him, his exhaustion written across every line of his face. His brows are furrowed even now, as though he's still fighting, still caught in some nightmare he can’t wake from. I feel a pang deep in my chest—this man, this warrior, so strong and unwavering, yet here he is, vulnerable, caught between the worlds of dreams and fear.

My free hand moves without thought, trembling fingers sliding gently through the mess of white hair, like I can anchor him to me in the way he’s always done for me. His hair is coarse, yet soft to the touch, like him—tough and unyielding, but full of unexpected warmth. I thread my fingers through it, offering a gentle, soothing stroke.

He stirs almost instantly, his head lifting slightly, his eyes blinking open slowly, groggily at first. The confusion on his face fades almost immediately, his eyes locking onto mine with wide-eyed shock. And then, a relief so intense it fills the room with the weight of it.

“Y/N?” His voice is rough, hoarse, as though he’s been yelling at the world for days, his throat raw from disuse. But the fear in his eyes, the way they soften when they settle on me, tells me everything I need to know.

“Hi,” I whisper, my throat dry and scratchy, the words barely leaving my lips.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. His whole body freezes, like he’s afraid if he so much as blinks, I’ll vanish. Then, his hand tightens around mine, and he leans forward, his face hovering just above mine.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, his voice cracking, his face inches from mine. His hand drops from my hand only to cradle my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a gesture so gentle, it feels like the softest of prayers. “You—damn it, you’ve been out for four days.”

Four days?

I echo his words softly, my voice faint, barely audible. “Four days?”

He nods, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. His breath is shaky, uneven, and I can feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he’s carried these past days, all of it pouring out in that single exhale. “Four damn days of you lying here while I—I thought I might lose you,” he mutters, the words laced with the kind of pain I’ve never heard from him before.

My hand moves again, resting softly against his cheek, feeling the roughness of his skin beneath my palm. His eyes snap open, and I smile faintly at him, the curve of my lips weak but genuine.

“I’m here, Sanemi,” I murmur softly, my voice a quiet assurance against the storm he’s been weathering. “You didn’t lose me.”

His breath hitches, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. He only stares at me, his jaw clenching as if he’s fighting to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. And when his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s barely a whisper—so quiet, yet so charged with everything he’s been holding in.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, his voice low and trembling, the words laden with an intensity that shakes me to the core. His grip on me tightens, and I feel the weight of his heart pressing against mine, raw and unfiltered.

“Don’t,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp but his touch impossibly gentle. “Don’t apologise. Just... just promise me you won’t do something that stupid again. Promise me, Y/N.”

His words slice through the air with a force that makes my chest tighten. There’s a desperation in his tone that I can’t ignore, an unspoken fear that tugs at the deepest part of me. He’s trying so hard to be the brash, no-nonsense Sanemi—the one everyone knows, the one who wears his pride like armour—but here, in this moment, with me, he’s stripped bare, vulnerable and raw in a way I’ve never seen before.

“I promise,” I say, and the weight of the words makes them feel like a vow. I mean it—more than I can even put into words. I won’t put him through that again.

His shoulders sag in visible relief, and for a moment, he just holds me there, his forehead still pressed against mine, grounding me. It feels like time slows, the world outside of this room falling away until there’s nothing left but the two of us—this fragile moment, this fragile promise.

Then, almost as if remembering who he is, he pulls back slightly, his face hardening in the way only Sanemi can. But his hand doesn’t leave my face, his thumb still tracing idle patterns along my skin, a touch so soft it contrasts with his words.

“You’re still an idiot for not calling for backup,” he mutters, the sharpness in his voice still there, but it’s tempered with something softer, something more... tender.

I can’t help but smile at him, the corners of my lips lifting in a small, genuine way. “I’ll call next time,” I promise, the words coming easy now.

His brows furrow in mock frustration, but the softness in his eyes betrays him. “There better not be a next time,” he growls, and despite the threat, there’s a protective warmth in his gaze that melts something inside me.

I laugh weakly, the sound light, but enough to ease something in him. He lets out a breath, low and quiet, like he’s been holding it in for days, and then... he leans down. The pressure of his forehead against mine relieves some of the tension that’s been mounting in his body, but then, as if drawn by some invisible force, he presses his lips—barely a touch, a whisper—against my forehead.

It’s fleeting, a soft, warm caress that holds more weight than any words could. The kiss sends a spark racing through me, igniting something fierce and unrelenting in my chest. The fear, the pain, the exhaustion—it all fades into the background, leaving only one undeniable truth in its place: I almost died without ever telling him how I feel.

I can’t let that happen.

Before I can overthink it, my hand shoots up, fingers curling around his jaw. His eyes widen in surprise, and I see the shift—his guard goes up, just for a second, before I tug him down, closing the space between us. His lips are still warm from the kiss on my forehead, but this time, the kiss is mine to give.

He doesn’t pull away. There’s a hesitation, a moment of shock in his eyes before they soften, and then he’s kissing me back. The world outside of this moment ceases to exist—there’s only the feeling of his lips on mine, the pressure of his body against me, the taste of relief and longing. His hand moves to the back of my head, holding me to him like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he lets go.

When we finally break apart, my breath is shallow, my heart pounding in my chest as if it’s trying to make up for lost time. His forehead rests against mine again, and I can feel his pulse—rapid, frantic—matching my own.

“You’re... you’re still an idiot,” he whispers, his voice a little more hoarse than before, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Something he hasn’t allowed himself to say, something I can feel through the way his fingers tremble lightly on my skin.

“I know,” I breathe out, my voice shaky. “But I’m your idiot.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh, his lips quirking into a small, lopsided grin. “Damn right you are.”

The weight of everything we’ve been through lingers in the space between us, heavy but comforting, as if we’re both silently acknowledging the unspoken bond that’s been forged through our shared trials. It’s a quiet understanding—one that only the two of us can fully grasp.

Then, without warning, he leans down again, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that’s softer this time, slower. There’s no rush, no desperation. It’s about something deeper, something more meaningful. Every brush of his lips against mine feels like a confession, a promise of everything he hasn’t been able to say. It’s a tenderness I’ve never seen from him before, and it catches me off guard in the best way.

But, of course, nothing can stay perfect for too long.

Behind us, there’s a faint cough—awkward, yet still loud enough to interrupt. Sanemi jerks back slightly, his body stiffening as he glares over his shoulder, his face flushing an impressive shade of red. Mitsuri stands a few feet away, her hands pressed against her flushed cheeks, eyes wide with an excitement she’s struggling to contain.

“I—sorry!” she squeaks, her voice high-pitched and practically vibrating with excitement. “I didn’t mean to interrupt! I just—um—should I get Shinobu?”

Sanemi’s scowl is quick to return, but the harshness of his usual tone is absent, replaced by something softer, more resigned. “Go!” he barks, though his voice is far from venomous. The slight embarrassment in his eyes gives away his true feelings. “Just... go.”

Mitsuri, clearly trying not to burst out laughing, nods eagerly before darting off, her excited giggles trailing behind her like a whirlwind. I bite back my own laughter, my hand still resting gently on Sanemi’s face as I meet his gaze again.

The shift in energy is palpable. What had been a tender, quiet moment now feels lighter, more relaxed, even though a faint blush still colours his cheeks. Sanemi’s scowl softens as soon as he looks at me, and I can see the weight of his emotions finally beginning to settle.

“We’re going to talk about this,” he says, his voice firm, though there’s no anger behind the words—just an undeniable sense of care.

I can’t help but smile, the corners of my lips twitching up as I stare at him. “About what? The fact that I’m still breathing?”

His eyes narrow in mock suspicion, and I can see the mix of affection and frustration swirling in them. “Don’t push your luck,” he mutters, though there’s a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze.

“I’m serious,” I tease, my fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Sanemi. Not now. Not ever.”

His expression softens again, and for a moment, it’s like the world outside of this room has stopped spinning. It’s just the two of us, wrapped in the aftermath of everything we’ve survived and everything we’ve yet to face. The unspoken words between us are more powerful than any argument or confession could ever be.

He finally gives a small nod, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “I know,” he says quietly. “I just... I wasn’t ready for it. But I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

I laugh softly, the sound light and free. “Good,” I say, my voice full of affection. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere either.”

Demon Slayer Masterlist To be made TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

[starmapz]

what you know - ch3: grade a(sshole) || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 12.1k.

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The sounds of metal clanging and engines revving are somehow more grating than usual as Sukuna hangs the phone back on the wall. His head rests against the smooth surface beside the phone and he lets out a deep sigh, thankful you can’t see the frustration strewn across his face. Of fucking course Uraume’s in class right now and really, why had he ever expected his uncle to pick up? If he were good for anything, Sukuna wouldn’t be a parent to his siblings while in college.

“Ryomen! I need a hand!”

He rolls his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension in his body from having no other choice but to call you, the source of all of his problems as of late, before pushing off the wall. He doesn’t say a word as he makes his way to his colleague, ignoring the man’s questioning. Just like everyone else in his life, his colleague doesn’t need to know anything about him.

The day drags on for Sukuna. He’s sluggish and worn out, covered in a sheen of sweat and grease and he can feel the oil he accidentally combed through his hair without thinking while speaking on the phone with you.

And then there’s you. Why the fuck won’t you leave his head? Why the fuck did he have to loosen and re-tighten the bolts on a set of tires because the thought of you had distracted him so much he’d tightened them a few too many times? Why had he done it on multiple tires?

As the day wraps up and he leaves the shop, the cool night air is welcome on his skin. He lets out a sigh as he begins to walk home, running a hand through his tousled hair once again. The feeling of oil coating his bare hand leaves him with a scowl and he wipes it on his coveralls, but they have enough grease on them that it hardly helps. His lip curls in disgust as he shoves his hands into his pockets, staring at the sidewalk as he makes his way back to his apartment.

The walk is too short to deliberate what the hell he’s even gonna say to you when he knows for a fact he owes you. Again. Yet that’s hardly the issue, when he knows he hurt you when he saw you last and now here he is asking for a favor. Fuck, how it pisses him off.

His hand pauses over his front door before he knows it, letting out a sigh as he unlocks the door and pushes through. He’s met immediately with the sight of you, dressed in a skirt and a beige knit sweater sitting on the couch. He goes to drop his keys on the table beside the door but pauses before they can clatter on the wood as he realizes Choso is sound asleep on top of you.

He sucks in a sharp breath, meeting your gaze. The world seems to hold its breath as you both stare at one another, completely silent.

“Hey,” your voice is smaller than you intended as you decide to break the tense silence. Sukuna’s piercing gaze flickers between you and Choso before he finally shuts the door behind him, his expression unreadable.

“They fell asleep?” He grunts.

Grimacing as he blatantly ignores your greeting, you nod. “Yeah. Choso wanted one more movie, but-” you pause, casting a glance at the young boy. “He didn’t make it long.”

Sukuna takes a step forward to look at the TV, quietly playing The Iron Giant. “That’s his favorite.”

You nod slowly, but your eyes never once leave Sukuna. He looks tired as ever again, like he hasn’t had a break in a long time, but you know better than to offer help now. That, and the way he hurt you still hangs over your head even if you aren’t upset with him.

“He really likes sad movies,” you comment in an effort to cut through the tension in the air, but it hardly helps, enveloping you in its grasp once more.

A puff of air leaves Sukuna’s nose in an acknowledging laugh. “You watched The Land Before Time didn’t ya?” There’s a hint of a smile on his face that you mirror back at him despite the lingering unease.

“And Pokemon.”

Sukuna’s brow raises as he nods. “Yeah. Dunno why, he’s always liked those three.”

In an attempt to lighten the mood, you offer a teasing smirk. “Maybe he takes after you. These are all your movies, aren’t they?”

Sukuna looks between the TV and you again, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. Staring down at his hand that he forgot was covered in oil, he huffs at the realization that it’s now on his face. “They were,” he mindlessly answers, turning back towards you. He gently sets his keys on the table, noting the fact that you have a little smirk and are very obviously staring where he just wiped his hand. Yeah, he has oil on his forehead. “D’ya mind staying while I shower? I’ll be ten minutes. I’ll carry Cho to his room after.”

“That’s fine, you could use a showe-”

“Shut- your mouth, Prom Queen,” he quietly hisses, his tone lacking the aggravation of someone truly frustrated.

You shoot him a small smile, laughing quietly as a semblance of normalcy finally returns. When he kicks off his shoes and pads quietly further into the apartment, disappearing into the washroom, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

It’s not like you weren’t expecting this to be uncomfortable, but you’d expected Sukuna to be as brash and vexing as usual, not whatever this is. The palpable tension, the somber silence and the complete and utter lack of frustration from Sukuna- it’s like you’re treading through a potential minefield, yet now you have no clue what could set him off this time. Do you even owe him that given how he snapped at you when you last saw him?

Throwing your head against the back of the couch, you sigh, deciding to give your attention back to the movie to force yourself not to get overwhelmed by your own overthinking. Choso shuffles in your arms, snoring softly as his hair falls over his face.

The sounds of doors opening and closing only a few minutes later makes your heart speed up when Sukuna emerges after a moment, dressed in a tight black tank top that hardly leaves anything to the imagination and gray sweatpants. You blink a few times as you make a conscious effort not to stare at his abs but god is it hard.

It’s almost like your mind forgets that you’re upset with him because he’s just that attractive, and that only makes your cheeks heat up because, come on. You’re better than this. Swallowing, you force yourself not to look at his bulging biceps or the veins in his forearms or the obvious six pack that the tank top doesn’t hide one bit. Why is it so tight anyway? Is he showing off?

But Sukuna hardly seems to notice your turmoil, his usual frown plastered on his face as he runs a hand through his hair, now oil-free. He closes the distance between you as he crosses the living room in two easy strides, standing tall in front of you.

“How’s Yuji?” He asks, clearing his throat.

“He’s been asleep most of the day but he didn’t throw up after I got here. He had a couple of spoonfuls of soup but he’s not hungry.”

He nods. “Good. I think.” Tense silence settles between you and you have to avert your gaze as you grow uncomfortable. “I’ll take Cho to his bed,” Sukuna mumbles, effortlessly lifting the young boy into his arms. Choso doesn’t so much as shuffle as Sukuna carries him to his and Yuji’s room. Fiddling with your neatly manicured nails, you stare in the direction Sukuna left. He’s back in only a few moments, looking relieved as ever that the day is over.

“Um, are you o-” you begin, realizing too late that both you and Sukuna have begun talking at the same time.

“You can go home.”

You stare at one another with wide eyes as you both speak over one another. Laughing uncomfortably, you chew on your lip. “You don’t want to talk about…?”

Sukuna’s brow furrows. There’s his irritation. Of course he would think the best thing to do is avoid the subject entirely.

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks in an impatient tone as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Your lips part as you search for words, treading carefully now that you have Sukuna’s attention. “You were a dick,” you offer as a starter, knowing that of all of the things you could say, this wouldn’t actually bother him that much.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sukuna mutters with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re still being a dick.”

He pauses this time, narrowed eyes observing the way you’re fiddling with your nails and chewing on your lip. He sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m an asshole,” he agrees. “I-” he pauses, rubbing his fingers over his eyes in exasperation. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, somewhat muffled as he rubs his hand over his face.

Your eyes widen, blinking once, twice, three times at him. In your experience with him, he usually avoided apologies and thanks, as though they taste bitter on his tongue. Even now, he seems to be avoiding the subject as best as he can, muttering it behind his hand like the weight of the word is too much to bear.

“I didn’t get everything handed to me on a silver platter, you know.”

Sukuna stares out the window across the apartment. “Didn’t think ya did.”

“Then why did you say it?” You ask, tilting your head.

“‘Cause I was pissed, okay? I apologized already,” he grumbles, wanting to be done with this conversation. Everything about it makes his skin crawl between the way your brows are knit together and the hurt that glimmers in your eyes to the way you look so small and uncertain in front of him. God, the way his throat tightened when he saw his little brother asleep on top of you too, his hair stood on end in discomfort at the feeling.

He doesn’t know what to make of you and he hates that he pushed you away only to need you. To need your help. To embarrassingly need to call you three times and grovel for you to look after his brothers that only you know about because you just keep slithering your way into his life. He wants to blame it so badly on you being a pain in the ass, but you’re not. You’re kind. You’re kind and thoughtful and you’re only here because you’re a good person.

You’re still here even after he treated you as though you were replaceable, because you’re a better person than he could ever be.

Sukuna sighs loudly in exasperation, rubbing his temples. “Just… fuckin’ ignore me, okay? I was just taking shit out on you.”

“Like a dick.”

Sukuna lowers his hand from his face, staring at you with narrowed eyes. “Do you just really want me to say I was a dick?”

You tilt your head with a saccharine sweet smile. “Mhmm.”

“Does it really make that much of a fuckin’ difference?”

“I want to hear you say it.” Your tone has a teasing sort of charm to it that has him huffing and puffing in front of you.

“You gonna forgive me if I do?”

“I’ll think about it,” you grin back at him.

“Fuck, fine. Fine. I was a dick.”

You giggle as the burly man scowls at you, crossing his arms over his broad chest again. Once your laughter subsides, you offer a more sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry too, Sukuna. I shouldn’t have pushed you to begin with.”

His brow twitches as you apologize. He can’t in his right mind figure out why you think you would need to apologize for his outburst when really you weren’t all that pushy. The last thing he needs right now is to get stuck in this conversation that feels as though it’s physically bringing him pain for any longer than necessary, so he lets it go with a hum.

“Did the brats give you a hard time?”

You shake your head, relieved as the tension fades and Sukuna takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, legs spread as he slumps into the cushions. “Yuji was crying when I got here, but he quieted down pretty quickly. Choso seemed a bit worried but he helped me cook and just wanted to watch movies,” you twist your body to face him as you speak.

He sighs, an elongated curse falling from his lips as he stares at the ceiling. “I owe ya. I already paid the sitter, but I’ll-”

“Don’t worry about it!”

He stares at you like you’ve grown another limb. “What? This shit took up your whole day.”

“I like spending time with them,” you insist with a shrug. “They remind me of simpler times.”

“What if you get sick?” At this point, Sukuna is reaching for something, anything, so that you’ll give in to him. But that’s just not who you are, is it? You’re selfless and kind, and you won’t accept anything he throws at you and that thought absolutely wrenches his gut. It twists in a type of discomfort that’s becoming entirely too familiar and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Then I get sick. Oh well,” you shrug again, shooting him that same sweet smile from earlier.

A muscle in his jaw tightens as he stares at you. “Are you always this much of a pain?”

You scoff humorously. “I don’t take your money and I’m a pain?” Your tone is teasing as you lean towards him.

“A pain,” Sukuna emphasizes the word as he stretches an arm along the sofa, his fingers draped along the back near your face. “That’s how shit like this is supposed to work. I pay you, you look after the brats.” He looks expectantly at you.

Your eyes soften as you realize just how different your views of the world are. Of course Sukuna wouldn’t expect someone to help them out of the goodness of their heart if it was just something he’d never experienced before. In his eyes, everything is transactional. You know he hates the idea of asking for help as well, so you can only assume that he would want to return the favor if it means it isn’t a plea for help. It’s an exchange of services. It makes it easier on his ego.

“Consider it a thank you for turning in the visual portion of our project on time,” you insist, trying to worm your way carefully between the thin line that separates this being help and this being an exchange.

“What?” He lifts a brow in disbelief, crimson irises narrowed as he observes you. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. That’s my project, too.”

“Well-” you pause, staring down at your manicured nails. “I honestly just thought you hadn’t made it on time.”

His finger taps the back of the couch by your head. “What gave you the idea I just wouldn’t turn my own project in?”

“Well you didn’t show up to our second meeti-”

“Y’know what?” He flicks your forehead with a mischievous smirk, all thoughts of repaying you gone from his mind. “Forget I asked. Don’t answer that.”

You pout at him, bringing a hand up to rub your forehead although it didn’t hurt. “Dick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whine about it,” he grumbles, but he’s smirking as he eyes you. You can’t help but giggle at his behavior, something about it comforting as Sukuna relaxes into the cushions. He mindlessly rolls his neck, leaning back as silence falls over you.

The sound of cars outside and the quiet dialogue from The Iron Giant is nothing but background noise as you bask in the comfortable air of the still apartment. Being around Sukuna feels almost nostalgic in a sense- sure you had only been apart for a week and a half, but after ‘getting over him,’ as Shoko put it, it almost feels like a warm hug.

It’s a shame it can never last as long as you’d like, as you catch a glimpse of the window and realize it’s dark. Afraid of intruding, you get to your feet and make your way to the door. “I should head out,” you tell him. His eyes follow you, though he gives no other indication of hearing your words. “Will I see you in class on Friday? We get our grade for the project.”

“Nah, not if the brat’s sick. Just email me our grade.”

Your lip twitches downward, and you can only pray Sukuna doesn’t notice. He gives no indication that he does, so you do your best to plaster a look of understanding on your face. “See you around?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything more, still spread across the couch. He’s so tall and bulky that somehow the three-person couch looks too small for him, it may as well be a feat.

“Later, Kuna!” You trill in a sing-song voice as you make your way to the door.

“Night, Prom Queen,” he huffs, a humorous sneer to his tone.

–

Although he’s stuck at home with Yuji, Sukuna sends you a couple of emails updating you on him. The first one caught you off-guard but it warms your heart that he seems to want to talk to you beyond the project. Each email causes your chest to flutter a little more but you don’t entertain the thought that it’s anything more than physical attraction. There’s no point, really, when you can’t seem to go a single day without upsetting him in some manner.

Not that Shoko seems to agree with that sentiment.

“Hey!” She calls as you wait at your usual spot to make your way to the lunch hall.

“Hey, Sho!” You reply cheerily.

“So are we not best friends anymore, or…?” She asks, narrowing her eyes.

Incredulously, you blink at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t text me to tell me how last night went.”

“Oh, with Sukuna?”

With a deadpan stare, she sighs. “Girl, don’t act stupid.”

Harsh. “Sorry, it was pretty late when I got back, I would have otherwise!” You apologize with a wry smile. “It’s not all that interesting anyway. I just looked after the kids until he got back and then I went home.”

“You’re impossible. That’s obviously not what I’m asking about,” she groans, pushing you further as you beat around the bush of the situation. “You literally haven’t seen him in like a week and a half because he was such a prick, puh-lease tell me he apologized. You better not let him step on you.”

You sigh, giving in to her nosiness. “Yes, he apologized. I think it caused him physical pain,” you giggle to yourself.

“Good,” she snorts, “he deserves it for hurting you and he’s lucky I haven’t smacked him yet for breaking your heart.”

“He didn’t break my heart,” you roll your eyes as the two of you find your way to your usual table at the lunch hall.

Shoko takes her usual seat across from you. “No of course not, you were just sulking for fun.”

“I thought you were supposed to be my best friend?” You ask in an effort to derail the conversation as Haibara and Nanami take their seats beside you.

“That’s why I’m grilling you over that asshole in the first place,” she grins.

“That’s why you shouldn’t be giving me a hard time,” you counter but she just shoots you a sweet smile as Gojo and Geto arrive. Even she won’t subject you to their form of torture when it comes to teasing.

Nanami clearly catches on to what’s going on from where he sits beside you. Leaning over, he keeps his voice down as his observant mahogany eyes take in that you seem fairly bright today in comparison to the last few days.

“He apologized, yes?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t be afraid to ask for my help, okay?”

“I’m fine, Ken, I promise,” you insist. Satisfied, he smiles and pulls out his lunch. You do the same, pulling out a container of fruit and a panini sandwich. For the first time in just under two weeks, you don’t feel a miserable wrench in your chest as you stare at the sandwich.

–

It’s no surprise when Friday rolls around and Sukuna doesn’t show up to class. Yuji is sick, and that’s his priority, as it should be. You feel a pang of disappointment but it’s heartwarming just how much he cares for his little brothers when he comes across as cold and indifferent a majority of the time. Even if he’s a bit rough around the edges, there’s a certain charm to the quiet and docile moments you’ve shared since working with him.

You can hardly sit still through the class as you await your grade, easily the most stressful part of projects worth this much. Your entire scholarship hinges on each of these massive projects and tests and you can’t risk the consequences of failing.

Ten minutes before the end of the lecture, just as the professor is about to go over the project, the door slowly inches open, and a tall and broad-shouldered student slips in with his hood up. The professor is used to it by now and doesn’t say a word. Rather than heading to his usual seat, the student quietly slips into the seat beside you, nudging you softly. He pulls down his hood and your eyes light up at the sight of your project partner.

“You made it!” You whisper, grinning up at him. Your stomach flutters as he smirks, setting his forearm on the back of your chair as he leans closer to you. Heat radiates from his body as his breath fans your neck, warming your skin despite the shiver that runs up your spine.

“You looked like a kicked puppy when I told ya I needed to stay home, so I pulled some strings.”

You tilt your head to look at him, feeling your breath hitch when you realize just how close he is to your ear. Your cheeks undeniably heat up as you force yourself to stare at the front of the class. “I didn’t look like a kicked puppy. I was just… hoping you could make it.”

“Yeah, well, can’t have the Prom Queen thinkin’ I don’t show up now, can I?”

Your cheeks are burning so hot you think your head might be spinning and it’s only when he finally leans back into his own chair that you realize you were holding your breath. Rubbing a hand over your face in an effort to cool your cheeks down, you cast a glance at Sukuna.

He’s manspreading right into your personal space, leaning back into his chair as he listens to the professor with a look of indifference. In a rare circumstance, he looks more well-rested than usual and seems fairly at ease. His leg isn’t subtly shaking and his eyes aren’t darting down to his watch as he debates when to leave for his next shift. For once, he isn’t Sukuna with two jobs, two dependants, and the world on his shoulders, he’s just a student.

Your heart aches at the realization that he’s so drained from the weight of the world that it’s only in rare moments like this one that you see more of the real Sukuna. A man who smirks and teases, who relaxes into his seat and simply lets life go on. He’s not always cold and tense, there’s a side to him that only those lucky enough to get close to him get to see and the worst part about this realization…

… is that you want to see more of it. Not out of the goodness of your heart and a want to do something nice for someone deserving, although that is a part of it, but for selfish reasons.

Fuck. Shoko is right. Shoko is right and you’re hopelessly crushing over the notoriously hot campus asshole.

You swallow hard, pulling your gaze forward as you realize you’ve been staring. Chewing on your lip, you hardly put together that the professor is passing out project grades until he stops in front of your seats. You blink a few times to reorient yourself.

“You two surprised me immensely as a pairing,” he begins. Although you weren’t paying attention, Sukuna is well aware of the fact that the professor had been dismissing other students as he passes out grades, opting to bring yours up last. He can only assume that means one thing and he’s already smirking. “Although I would prefer you keep the in-class chatter to a minimum-” he pauses to shoot a glance at Sukuna, who’s now huffing with a glance to the side as the smirk falls from his face, “-this is by far the best iteration of this project I’ve seen in all my years of teaching.”

Your jaw hangs ajar, eyes wide as you process his words. Sukuna’s smirking again, hardly seeming shocked.

“Your thesis is worded eloquently and explores the depths of the meanings of each painting, while your visual portion is stunning and displays an understanding of the importance behind each piece to the artist,” he explains. The cocky grin on Sukuna’s face doesn’t leave as he outstretches his arm onto your chair. “This is the first time I’ve ever given out a perfect score, and for that reason I’d like to have you both present your work in front of the class.”

You pale, shooting a fearful glance at Sukuna. He seems mildly irritated by the thought, but shrugs, returning your glance. “Whattaya say?” He asks, his calm facade faltering as he takes in your expression. Crimson irises flit between your eyes as you slowly shake your head.

“I don’t know,” you hesitate meekly, not loving the idea of standing before a lecture hall of students, under far too many pairs of watchful and judgmental eyes.

His gaze drops to the way you’re fidgeting with your fingers, just as you had when you were nervous a couple of nights ago as he puts together that this isn’t something you’re comfortable with. It’s not like that isn’t written across your face right now, but it’s abundantly clear to him through your actions that this isn’t just discomfort, you’re genuinely nervous.

“We’ll do it,” Sukuna says. Your head flips towards him, eyes wide in disbelief as he makes the decision for you.

Before you have a chance to protest, the professor claps his hands together. “Great. I’ll have you present at the end of class next Friday. You don’t have to prepare anything fancy but I will make sure you get extra credit for this.”

You have half a mind to wish he started by mentioning the extra credit portion, you certainly would have hesitated less, but it doesn’t change just how badly you don’t want to do this.

As the professor walks away, you whirl around to face Sukuna. “What the hell, Sukuna?” You whisper-yell, though there isn’t anyone in your vicinity.

He chuckles. “Pick your jaw up off the ground, you’ll be fine. I’ll be there the whole time with you, yeah? I can do as much of the talkin’ as you want.” He leans towards you, setting a hand on the table in front of you both. “‘Sides, you weren’t gonna say no to extra credit. We both know that.”

You chew on your lip, brows knit together as you stare down at your hands, mindlessly fiddling with your nails again. “I guess you’re right.”

The tattooed man lets the silence hang for a moment as he contemplates how shy you’ve suddenly become. You’re meek at times, but this is almost perplexing to him given how bold and saccharine you are towards him when he isn’t purposely pushing your buttons. “So let me get this straight, you were Prom Queen but you don’t like talkin’ in front of people?” Sukuna tilts his head in thought as he shifts to lean on his forearm, edging closer to you.

“That- That felt different,” you insist, leaning forward on your palm as if mirroring his actions. Your eyes trail away from him and Sukuna narrows his eyes.

“I don’t get how that shit’s any different. Aren’t there less people in this class?” He asks, bringing a hand up to scratch his chest. Your eyes flicker over to watch the movement, as though anything is more interesting than actually looking up at him.

“Well, yeah- but-” you pause, your leg now beginning to bounce. Clearly you’re bothered now, but Sukuna can’t wrap his head around what’s made you so shy suddenly- you who so boldly walked your way into his life. He knows people perceive him as scary at a glance, yet that never stopped you. Hell, you hang around Satoru Gojo of all people and Sukuna doesn’t get that either, finding his boisterous presence loud and irritating, but he’s fairly sure that makes you part of a group that would normally be considered popular.

So what in the hell are you so scared of? He doesn’t understand.

“But what?” He pushes, leaning closer to you.

You can feel his breath fanning your face again now that he’s leaning closer to you. It only serves as another distraction and you already can’t seem to find your words. “I- I don’t know, Sukuna!” You huff, pulling back a bit to cross your arms over your chest and put some distance between you.

Sukuna's face twists in confusion, frustration etching itself into his features. “C’mon, it’s easy extra credit. What’s got you so worked up?” He asks with a hint of a sneer as he grows impatient with your avoidance of the subject.

“You wouldn’t get it.” Your voice is firm and there’s a hint of ice forming at the edges of your words that surprises your project partner.

“Try me,” he grunts, leaning as far forward as he can without his chair tipping over.

Your hands move gradually from their position crossed over your chest to hug your frame as your expression turns from one of frustration to a more solemn one. “It’s because I was Prom Queen that I don’t like talking in front of people.”

“Hm?”

“It was a pretty big thing at my school, so some people were jealous, and others were pushy, it’s not like in the movies,” you shrug, as if that’s any sort of explanation in Sukuna’s eyes. Confusion dances across his narrowed red irises and you sigh, letting your guard down. “I don’t know, some girls got pretty jealous, and some people were a bit pushy trying to get my attention and it just ended up being an embarrassment. It was just a lot and I don’t love being in front of groups anymore,” you shrug.

Sukuna sits up straight, staring down at you with a scowl. “Aren’t they supposed to wanna be you or somethin’?” He asks with a frown.

“I mean, they did.”

He supposes you have a point, his observant stare taking in the way you shrink into yourself. “Well this ain’t high school and those assholes aren’t here. Don’t worry about it,” he shrugs in an attempt to reassure you. You finally meet his gaze again, a look of uncertainty painting your wide eyes. “No one is stupid enough to talk about ya like that with me beside you.”

A small smile pulls at your lips and Sukuna’s heart stumbles. He blinks a few times at the feeling in an effort to push it away, focusing instead on the way your eyes brighten. Fuck, that’s not helping him either. He coughs lightly into his elbow, rubbing a hand over his face as you smile shyly at him.

“Thanks, Sukuna. You’re kinda sweet sometimes, in your own way.”

He scowls. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from deep within your chest at his scrunched nose and frown, but you don’t give him an answer, beginning to pack up your bags. Sukuna huffs when you begin to pack up, facing forward with his chin leaning on his palm.

“Hey, thanks for coming in to get our grade.”

He raises a brow. “I didn’t do it for you.”

You pause, gripping your textbook in your bag as you cast a glance at Sukuna. His usual aloof expression has returned, no indication of your prior teasing found on his face.

“What happened to emailing you our grade then?”

Sukuna’s eye twitches as he watches you, returning your stare. “It was a joke.”

Your lips quirk upwards. “Right, how could I forget? It was so funny,” you mock him, reveling in the way he’s on his feet the next moment, the chair scraping across the floor as he glares at you with all the irritation he can muster, that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He sneers, taking a step towards you. He towers over you, shoving his hands into his pockets as your cocky demeanor shifts, your eyes widening when he leans down until his face is mere inches from yours. Your breath hitches as he chuckles darkly when he gets the exact reaction he wants from you. “You were all talk two seconds ago, what happened?”

“I- um-” Getting your bearings, you shove his chest playfully. “You’re a dick,” you mumble.

Sukuna doesn’t move an inch when you shove him, a grin plastered across his face. “Thought we were done with callin’ me a dick,” he teases.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “Yeah, until you decided to be one again.”

Sukuna’s sharp pupils flicker between your eyes for a moment before he stands up straight. Your heart beats in your ears as you’re freed from the close proximity. “Yeah, whatever you say,” he chuckles, calmly smirking at you. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, letting out a breath of air. “I gotta get back home. Uraume only had an hour to watch the brats.”

Tilting your head, you blink up at him, a hand over your chest to slow your thundering heart. “How’s Yuji?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Better than Wednesday. He’s still got a fever, though.”

“I hope he feels better soon,” you say, hesitating as you take a chance. “Let me know if you need me to watch them.”

Sukuna’s expression is unreadable as he examines you, gears visibly turning in his mind. Without another word, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and throws his hood back up, pausing to look at you before he leaves.

Sighing, he pushes his hair from his forehead beneath his hood. “I swear this’ll be the last time. I got offered a shift Sunday.”

He doesn’t voice his question to watch the kids, it’s an unspoken question because he doesn’t want to ask. The question puts him in a position where he’s asking for help and he so badly wants that not to be what this is.

You smile softly. “I’m free on Sunday.”

Pulling his airpods from a case in his pocket and putting them in his ears, he grunts. “Come by mine Sunday at 8:30.”

You purse your lips. “At night, right?” You ask, your gaze following after the man as he casually descends the lecture hall to the door. “At night, right?” You ask, this time louder to get his attention over his music.

Sukuna heard you the first time, shooting you a sly smirk just before he leaves.

Well, fuck that.

–

With a backpack slung over your shoulder filled with textbooks and study materials, as well as your GameCube, you sigh as you click the buzzer button for Sukuna’s apartment. As you wait for one of the three siblings to let you in, you shiver at the chill air. It’s far too early for you to be awake on a Sunday and your body agrees as you find yourself yawning every few seconds.

Between the cool fall air and the early morning, you couldn’t be bothered to dress in your usual preppy style, opting for a cute deep red hoodie with hello kitty on it and a pair of leggings. It’s still cute, but it’s a contrast to your blouses, skirts and heels.

When the door loudly buzzes, you make your way inside with your hood up over your hair, yawning as you rub your tired eyes. Before you can even knock on the door, Sukuna opens it, leaving your fist stagnant in the air. You drop it by your side, staring up at him through your lashes.

Sukuna’s in his polo shirt that seems so out of place on him you would almost assume he was someone else. “Blue’s not your color,” you comment with a yawn. His amused smile at your tired expression twists in offense at your comment.

“Morning to you too, dick.”

You giggle at his teasing. “You got me up early, I’m allowed to be one.”

“Oh, my bad, you fuckin’ princess,” Sukuna scoffs, an air of playfulness surrounding his words that makes you giggle more. He opens the door to let you into the apartment, his gaze trailing your outfit. It’s not your usual attire but something about how different it is on you while still suiting you stirs something within him. The bigger hoodie draping over your body makes him wonder what his own clothes would-

What the fuck is he thinking? He shakes his head, shutting the door and glancing over to the hall where the pitter patter of small feet sounds. Yuji goes running up to Sukuna, a bundle of blankets wrapped around his tiny form. “Don’t go, big brother.” His voice is lower than usual, clearly still sick as he clings onto his brother’s leg.

Crimson eyes flicker down to the little bundle of blankets. “I’ll be back soon, Yu. Play some MarioKart or whatever.”

Yuji’s curious eyes search the room at the sound of MarioKart. You pull down your hood and wave as he spots you. His eyes widen and he gasps, running up and hugging your legs now. You grin down at him, ruffling his unkempt hair.

Sukuna scoffs. “See? You won’t even know I’m gone.”

“Come play with us!” Yuji insists at the sound of his brother’s comment, still clutching your knee as he turns to plead with his brother.

Sukuna’s hardened indifference cracks, something akin to guilt or sadness flickering in his eyes for a split-second. It’s such a short moment that you wonder if you imagined it. He sighs, crouching down in front of Yuji. Even crouching, he’s still monstrously tall and dwarfs his little brother. You suppose that’s what happens when you’re almost seven feet tall and made of solid muscle.

“Maybe later, kid.” He ruffles his hair just as you did moments ago and gets back to his feet. “I owe ya one,” he sighs, brow furrowed as he stares off to the side with a tight jaw.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask-” you pause, a mix of emotions flooding you as you contemplate dropping the question, but ultimately decide it’s worth it. “I could use a hand studying for history.” You chew on your lip. “You know, just if you have time, no big deal if you don’t!” You smile sheepishly.

Sukuna’s eyes flicker between yours, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, sure.” He turns away, trudging to the door. “Be back at 5:30,” he mumbles before he’s gone. You sigh at the sight of the shut and locked door, turning your groggy attention to Yuji, who coughs into his bundle of blankets at your feet.

It’s a miracle you aren’t sick already, and you hope that miracle stays with you again today.

You’re able to study while the boys play games throughout most of the day once Choso wakes up. They’re easy to look after and they add a certain brightness to your day that only they can, reminding you of just how simple life is when you don’t have three projects due and finals on the horizon.

There’s a weight in your chest at the thought of managing that workload alongside two jobs and two kids, something you find yourself pondering often, but if Sukuna won’t accept your help, then what more can you do? Sure, you’re helping him now, but you know he won’t let this go without repayment, which you would happily take in the form of a study buddy. While that’s likely less stressful for him than cash, it’s still another sliver of his already limited time taken up.

“I’m hungry,” Choso mumbles, looking at you as if he didn’t scarf down the lunch you made only a couple of hours ago.

A lopsided smile dons your face as you contemplate making dinner or letting him know to wait for Sukuna, but if he’s hungry, who are you to say no?

“What would you like?”

“Cereal!” Yuji excitedly calls from where he sits on the floor, stifling a cough when his voice cracks.

“That’s not dinner…” Choso mumbles, brow furrowing in thought as he looks at his younger brother, who’s been so picky while he’s been sick that most of their meals have been the same few things that he can stomach. “What about mac and cheese?”

Yuji takes a moment to think, before he decides this is acceptable and nods excitedly.

“I’m sure I can make that happen,” you agree, getting to your feet to peruse the kitchen that you’re growing more accustomed to. Yuji stays in the living room, the sounds of a terrified Luigi echoing throughout the apartment as Choso follows closely behind you. You’ve noticed over your time with Sukuna and his brothers that Choso seems to have a penchant for cooking and loves to help. It’s too cute and your heart swells each time he finds a way to lend a hand while you cook.

Plus, you get a helper, which means less work. It’s a win-win situation, really.

As you work your way through the kitchen, boiling water and letting Choso salt and stir the noodles before pouring them into a casserole dish, you sprinkle cheese between and over the noodles as you wait for the oven to eat up, explaining each step along the way for Sukuna’s brother. Stirring the cheese into the noodles along with some herbs and spices, you tilt your head at the dish.

It’s almost ready for the oven, but not quite.

“Do you have breadcrumbs?”

Choso stares up at the pantry shelves. “Uhh…” He pushes around a few boxes before shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you have bread?”

“Yeah, but it’s old.”

“Old like mouldy or old like stale?” You ask with a thoughtful expression.

“Stale.”

“Perfect!”

Choso wrinkles his nose as he hands the loaf of bread to you. It’s in moments like these that his resemblance to his older brother really becomes apparent.

“I’ll show you how to make breadcrumbs,” you grin. Choso doesn’t seem to have a grasp on what you need breadcrumbs for when mac and cheese’s ingredients are literally listed in the name, but he still watches with intrigue anyway. You cut up the slices of bread into tiny pieces, throwing them in the oven until they’ve dried out, and then tossing them over the mac and cheese and placing the extra crumbs aside.

“Trust the process, Cho.”

He tilts his head curiously as you place the mac and cheese on a rack in the oven. “Trust the process?”

“It means… it may not make sense to you in the moment, maybe it’s messy or confusing, but the end result will be more than worth it.”

“Oh. Okay. Trust the process,” he parrots, before making his way back to the living room just as his brother is sucking up a ghost with a vacuum in Luigi’s Mansion.

While the meal bakes, you grab your history textbook again and get some more studying in. It doesn’t take long for the timer to go off and Choso comes running up with wide eyes to stare at the prepared meal. Yuji follows slowly in his bundle of blankets, happily taking a bowl as you warn them both it’s hot.

“So?”

With a mouth full of macaroni, Choso smiles. “Trust the process,” comes his muffled happiness. The boys chow down on what you assume will be their dinner given that Sukuna should be home soon, and Choso returns to help you clean up.

He grabs a ziploc bag to place the extra breadcrumbs in, holding it open for you. Just as you’re pouring the food into the bag, the front door swings open and you jolt in surprise, causing bread crumbs to go flying.

Sukuna drops his keys on the table by the door, his eyes scanning the room as he spots Yuji before his aloof expression crumbles when he arches a brow at the absolute mess that his kitchen is. Your cheeks heat up as you and Choso stare at him with guilty expressions.

Really, you should be blaming Sukuna for scaring you.

“I’m not fuckin’ cleaning that,” he grumbles, walking slowly over the mess of cables in the living room as he pulls his shirt up over his head in the most ungodly slutty way you could possibly imagine and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes from the sight of his toned back.

Of course, you always knew Sukuna was muscular, but seeing it first hand makes it hard to shake the image from your mind. He could be hung on the wall of a museum, his muscles are so sculpted, rippling with every movement and decorated in tattoos that suit him so well he could be an actual god and you wouldn’t even bat an eye.

Choso pulls you from your thoughts as they border on inappropriate, by tugging at your sleeve.

“We should clean.”

“Right!” You squeak, shaking the image of shirtless Sukuna as best as you can from your mind as you stare at the scattered mess.

“Okay let’s… start with the counter.”

It doesn’t take too long to clean up the mess and there’s still enough bread crumbs left over for Sukuna to make something if he wanted, so it could have gone over worse.

Speak of the devil, he rounds the corner wearing a black muscle shirt with a metal band logo you don’t recognize scrawled across the front and sleeves cut so deep it hardly counts as a shirt, like he’s showing off or something. You don’t even want to begin to think about the fact that he’s wearing grey sweatpants as well like some sort of tease who probably just threw on the first thing he saw and it didn’t even cross his mind how stupidly hot he is.

You avert your eyes, attempting to keep your cheeks from heating up any more than they already have. Sukuna crosses the living room to the kitchen in a few long strides, peering at the floor in search of crumbs.

“The fuck even happened over here?”

“You scared me when you opened the door,” you mumble, leaning back against the kitchen counter where your textbook is resting.

“So you threw shit everywhere?”

Your brow furrows at his accusation. “I just fumbled a bit and spilled what was on the pan.”

“Mm.” Sukuna’s gaze scans the kitchen until he finds the macaroni and cheese casserole sitting just behind your textbook. With a hint of a smirk, he takes a step forward, so close to you that his body heat warms your skin, his abs and chest just barely brushing against the plush of your breasts as he dips his finger into the dish.

Pulling his arm back, he slyly locks eyes with you, not bothering to take a step back even as you press your spine into the counter. He slips his finger between his lips, sucking the cheese from it with a pop!

Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, caught between him and the hard countertop behind you like a deer in the headlights, frozen. If you move even an inch, he’ll be pressed up against you, and- don’t let your thoughts spiral again.

Sukuna smirks, lidded eyes smug as though he’s got you just where he wants you, amused to pull such a reaction from you. He’s become increasingly aware of the effect he has on you and everything he’s been doing has absolutely been on purpose, even if you don’t know it. He’s making a show out of his muscles, getting close to you, sucking on his finger, all to get a rise out of you.

He’s not sure he understands it himself, but he loves your little reactions. He loves the way your eyes widen, your breath hitches, and your muscles tense as though you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t. He’s sure it all boils down to lust, but he’ll make the most of it while he has you here.

He clicks his tongue after a thoughtful moment. “Not bad. The breadcrumbs are a nice touch.”

“T-Thanks,” you stammer quietly. Sukuna chuckles lowly as he finally gives you space, turning to open the fridge and grab a protein drink. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, bringing a hand up to slow your pounding heart.

“You stickin’ around to study?”

“I- um-” you pause, clearing your throat in an effort to calm your flustered state. “If you have time, that would be great. I mean, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. The brats are quiet while you’re around.” He brings the protein drink up to his lips, downing it in one go and tossing the bottle into a bucket in the corner of the room as though he’s done it a thousand times.

With the boys distracted by the GameCube, Sukuna sits down at the table in the back of his apartment with you and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Scooting his chair closer to you, his eyes scan the page you’re on.

“Is this for History 209?” He asks, briefly flipping to the textbook cover.

You nod.

“Mm.”

Sukuna briefly scans the upcoming pages before diving into explanations of the textbook, from memory. He clearly has a fondness for history that seems to come naturally to him as he explains anything you ask questions on without needing to even glance at the textbook. It’s like second nature to him.

“What years did the cold war take place?” He quizzes without so much as glancing up at you as he flips through the textbook pages without reading at all as though it’s a picture book.

“Uh-” You stare up at the ceiling. “1952 to 89?”

“47 to 89. Tell me about the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Um- Cuba felt like the US was about to invade, so they asked the Soviet Union to install missiles in-”

“Who asked?”

“Cuba?”

Sukuna glances up at you, his expression unimpressed. “No shit. What leader?”

“Oh. Castro.”

Hours pass by and you hardly even notice until your eyes begin to grow heavy and your yawning sets in. Sukuna gradually begins leaning further on his knuckles over the table, launching question after question at you without even a lick of help from the textbook. It would almost be impressive, if you didn’t already know how smart Sukuna is.

“How did the modern revolution affect the environment?”

You chew on your lip, the last bit of energy you were working with fizzling out suddenly as you’re left staring blankly at the table, completely burnt out.

Sukuna’s been only half paying attention for the past few minutes, growing equally as worn out and unable to focus as you are, though he hasn’t noticed just how spent you are given his inattention. It’s not until you don’t respond that his attention snaps to you, staring off into space.

He glances over your features, eyes dropping to your oversized hoodie. His thoughts stray to places they shouldn’t be again, so he wills himself to look back at your eyes, but the way you’re chewing on your lip-

It’s then that he realizes how close you are. Over the course of the past couple of hours, Sukuna has leaned further forward in his chair and you’ve scooted closer in an effort to look at the pages of your textbook while he explains. It’s weird, the way the close proximity seems to draw him in, as though he belongs in your space, but he knows better. He knows you exist in different worlds.

Still, as you space out further, a piece of your hair falls out of place, blocking the blank and tired expression on your face, and Sukuna doesn’t even have a moment to process his actions before he moves. It’s almost delicate, the way he slowly moves the hand he isn’t leaning on to tenderly brush the strand of hair behind your ear.

His action draws your attention, and along with it a steady heat that rises to your cheeks, reaching your ears and down to your neck. Sukuna doesn’t even seem phased by what he’s done, as if it’s completely natural and something the two of you just do. As though he isn’t pushing the balance of your strange friendship, if it could even be called that.

You lick your lip as you will your thoughts to stop bouncing all over the place, trying not to read too much into his actions, but it’s hard not to when his pupils dart down to follow your tongue as it swipes your lower lip. His pupils grow suddenly, and you don’t know how not to read into that, and now your thoughts are spiraling, and you’re wondering if all of Sukuna’s actions today are premeditated or-

As if Sukuna’s only just become aware of what he’s doing, he clears his throat and sits back. His pupils shrink and he crosses his arms over his chest, placing distance between you.

“You should head home before it’s too dark.”

In the endless sea of your thoughts, all you can do is nod. Snapping yourself back to reality, you begin packing your bag and make your way out to the living room where the two boys are excitedly playing an old copy of the board game Operation after Sukuna had told them no more video games, much to their dismay.

You smile at the sight of poor bundled up little Yuji and his older brother, who clearly cares a great deal for the little salmon-haired boy. The three of them are a sweet little family. Sukuna has a funny way of showing it sometimes but he clearly adores the two boys, or he wouldn’t be doing everything that he is.

At the end of the day, he could have left them to their own devices, thrown them into the fostering system. He could have used legal means to shove them into a relative’s care. He could have done a lot of things, but you can see the way he adores them. The way he loves them so deeply and genuinely that he can’t bear the thought of seeing them thrown to the wolves like that. He’s put a great deal of his life on hold and put his health, both mental and physical, on the line to see the two boys thrive, and it fills your heart with joy.

“You know, I could just leave the GameCu-”

“No.” Sukuna gets to his feet, standing a few feet away.

Yuji and Choso’s heads simultaneously whip around as though they’ve heard the biggest betrayal of their entire lives.

At five and twelve, they very well may have.

“Awwww!”

“Pleaaase, Kuna!”

“No, that’s final.”

You shoot Sukuna an easy smile, giggling to yourself at the sight of his scowl and frustrated huff.

“Don’t get ideas into their heads,” he grumbles at you, brushing past you as you clean up the GameCube and stuff the games into your bag. He grabs some more medication for Yuji, who doesn’t complain as he swallows it with a miserable frown at the bitter taste.

You wait at the door with your bag packed as Sukuna moves around the apartment, putting the medication away before he joins you at the door.

“Thank you so much for your help with studying, Kuna,” you say as you twist the handle and make your way out the door, turning to face him just outside his apartment. He leans on the doorframe, shutting the door slightly behind him and blocking the boys’ vision of you to give you both some privacy. He’s grimacing at the nickname, but he doesn’t complain.

“It’s whatever. Just paying you back for lookin’ after the brats.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile. Of course that’s all it is. “Email me if you need me to look after them while Yuji’s still sick.”

A puff of air escapes Sukuna’s nose in a makeshift laugh. “This your excuse to have more time to study?”

You have to resist the urge  to roll your eyes at the way he so obviously is denying that he’s getting help from you. “Yeah. Yeah, it is,” you agree.

He smirks, nodding. “Tuesday at three.”

“Better be in the afternoon this time,” you tease.

“God forbid I take a night shift,” he scoffs, turning to shut the door. He pauses for a split second, turning back to you. You almost think he’s about to thank you, but either you read the situation wrong or he second-guesses himself because- “You better remember who Allen Dulles is on Tuesday.”

Your face contorts as he references the cold war and chuckles at your expression before closing the door.

Dick.

–

Friday comes sooner than you can possibly imagine as you find yourself spending late nights studying with Sukuna after looking after Yuji and Choso. Yuji returned to school on Thursday and Choso on Monday, so you’d gotten into the habit of picking up Choso from school and going back to watch them play games while you studied or worked on projects.

You couldn’t know whether Sukuna would still need help now that Yuji was feeling better, but that was the least of your concerns, because it’s Friday.

And you’ve been dreading this Friday in particular. Worse still, it felt like the world was against you all day too.

You woke up to the first snow of the season, opting to dress in a cute, white knit sweater that was fairly warm, as well as some beige leggings- not to mention all your winter gear.

And that was only the tip of the iceberg, you had to redo your eyeliner after somehow messing it up not once but twice, and then you managed to step in a puddle of mud and get your usual winter boots completely covered in dirt.

With your clean high heeled boots adorning your feet, you make your way to the school and quickly fall into step with Nanami who shares your first class of the day. He’s bundled up warmly in a long coat, a grey scarf accenting his coat. His sharp eyes turn to you as you join him, softening at the sight of you.

“Good morning,” he greets you, a kind smile pulling at his features.

You return his smile half-heartedly, giving him a brief wave. “Hey, Kento. How’re you feeling about finals?”

He hums thoughtfully. “Prepared,” he decides after a moment. “Though I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too much studying.”

“Yeah… I get that,” you agree, watching the snow condense beneath your feet with each step. Comfortable silence falls over you as the crunching of snow and the sounds of passing students fills the air. The warmth of your breath surrounds you as you mindlessly stare at the sparkling coat of flakes across the ground.

After a few moments, Nanami hums again, interrupting the silence and pulling your attention back to him. His gaze flickers between your face and your hands.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yeah, why?”

Again, his watchful eyes flicker down to your hands. “You’ve been zipping up and unzipping your jacket since we began walking.”

You purse your lips, finally following his gaze down to your jacket which must have been making a grating zipping noise the whole time that you hadn’t even noticed with how caught up in your thoughts you were.

“Sorry Kento,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Just a bit nervous.”

His head tilts. “What are you nervous about?”

“I have to make a presentation in Art History at the end of the day. No one else in class is presenting.” With a sheepish smile, you proceed to subconsciously begin playing with your zipper again, too caught up in your thoughts to realize you’re doing it.

“I see. Is that what Sukuna was working on this morning?”

“You have a class with him?”

“Yes. He’s in my Accounting class early on Tuesdays and Fridays,” Nanami explains, subtly watching the way you’re messing with your zipper again, though he keeps his mouth shut.

“Oh. He was working on things this morning?”

“I believe so. It didn’t seem like he was paying attention,” Nanami shrugs. “I assumed he was working on something else.”

You let out a breath. “That’s kind of a relief, honestly.”

Arching a brow, Nanami hums questioningly.

“I still don’t like public speaking,” you quietly mumble, zipping your jacket up fully and burying your face into the fabric as your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Hm. I see,” the blonde hums, having been there during your Prom alongside Haibara. He’s well aware of the fallout that came with being named Prom Queen. “Well, you’ll have Sukuna with you, and I highly doubt anyone would comment with Sukuna at your side.”

“Scary dog privilege,” you agree.

“Sorry?” Kento’s brow furrows in confusion, leaving you giggling.

“Don’t worry about it.”

With a shake of his head, Kento opens the door to your next lecture and puts his focus into his notes as usual. You do your best to follow suit, but if your bouncing leg is any indicator, your focus isn’t long for this world and Nanami knows he’s in for a long study session in the coming week.

–

You did debate just not showing up, but if Sukuna was working on the presentation at an early morning class, you don’t have the heart to not show up at least for him. Still, your nerves are frayed at the seams in downright unease at the thought of being the only group to present your project.

The concept of being one of the only two people at the center of everyone’s attention all for being named the ‘best’ at something brings back too many memories for you to care to admit. Taking a deep breath, you do your best to keep your eyes on the prize: the extra credit.

Sukuna was right when he said you wouldn’t turn down extra credit. You would definitely think about turning it down when it came at the cost of your dignity and sanity, but with Sukuna at your side, you think you just might be alright.

At the end of the day, you know you need to keep your grades up if you want to keep your scholarship, and more importantly your parents happy, so with a deep breath, you focus on the class to the best of your ability, pushing aside your mess of anxiety and worries.

That is, until you glance back at Sukuna’s usual seat, only to find it empty and your heart damn near stops. Your eyes widen and in the least subtle way possible, you whip your head around the class in search of him. He has to be here. He promised to handle all the talking, you aren’t prepared, you… You can’t do this alone. Surely the professor will understand that too, right?

“Before I dismiss you all, I’d like to have a couple of exemplary students come up to present the Meaning in Art project I had you all submit a couple of weeks back.”

Your heart is thundering, your breathing growing shallow as panic sets in.

“These students displayed an impeccable understanding of the art and artists they chose to study, demonstrating this understanding through both their written and visual pieces.”

Your mouth is dry, your throat tight. Where the fuck is he? He wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like this, would he? You didn’t prepare anything, you were relying on him.

“With that being said, I’d like to invite these students up to the front of the class to give a short breakdown of their project.” Your name follows this statement, along with Sukuna’s, and the class goes silent.

Your hands are trembling as you stare in dismay at the desk sitting at the front of the room where Sukuna’s art is sitting, alongside your written thesis. You swallow hard, forcing down your nerves as all eyes fall to you.

On shaky legs, you slowly make your way down to the front of the class, quietly making your way up to the professor. “I- um-” you take a breath in an effort to calm your nerves. “Can we present next week instead? Sukuna- um- isn’t here,” you quietly whisper.

“Finals are in two weeks. This is the last class for this semester.”

Fuck.

“Right. Sorry, yeah. That’s fine,” you whisper, chewing on your lip as you turn to face the class. Dozens of pairs of judgmental eyes stare back at you and if the ground opened up and swallowed you whole, never to be seen again, it would be a better fate than what you were about to do. Alone. 

“Um-” You mumble, clearing your throat as you pick up the printed thesis you wrote together with Sukuna. Surely he would walk through the door in just a few seconds, right? He would show up for you just like you did for him when Yuji was sick, right? This has to be a cruel prank.

“Speak up, please.” Your professor’s voice pulls you from the delusion that Sukuna was ever going to show up. The delusion that Sukuna ever cared.

Fuck, you just admitted to yourself that you like Sukuna.

You just came to terms with the fact that your attraction to him is more than just physical.

You’ve spent weeks defending him, even when he was a dick, but this really takes the cake.

Your chest tightens as you realize just how much he’s let you down. You want to cry, it’s a fight against your own body not to show just how nervous you are.

“For our-” You pause, staring down at the page with your name scrawled alongside Sukuna’s and a perfect score circled in red. “For my project,” you begin, taking a deep breath in an effort to push down the swirling anger, disappointment, and anxiety all threatening to suffocate you.

You launch into an explanation on the three pieces you and Sukuna had chosen, summarizing your thesis while fighting the tremble in your voice, putting every last ounce of effort you can into masking how nervous you are and avoiding the stares of your classmates.

Picking up the art Sukuna drew is when the last shreds of your dignity fall apart and tears prick in your eyes. Your voice wavers and you know everyone can tell. You can hear the whispers, the quiet giggles. You don’t know whether it’s directed at you or if they’re even paying attention to you at all, but each and every noise seems to drag you one inch closer to your own personal hell and you shrink into yourself as you attempt to explain Sukuna’s art.

Alone.

You can’t even say for sure if your words made sense towards the end of your presentation, the whole thing a blur behind tear-filled eyes and the ringing of anxiety in your ears. The only thing you do hear is your professor dismissing you. You don’t even grab your bag and you leave your project on the table, you just need out. You need air.

Your feet carry you out the door, your eyes trained on the ground as you do your best not to collide with anyone as you run for the doors. You don’t hear someone call your name in confusion and you don’t see them chase after you. So focused on fresh air, you forget how cold it is as the freezing air shocks your skin and chills your lungs.

Finding a spot beside the door outside, away from prying eyes and out of the way, you wrap your arms around yourself and wipe your tears, taking deep breaths to slow your racing heart.

“There you are. What happened?”

You blink a couple of times, trying to wipe any evidence of your tears as you lock eyes with familiar mahogany ones.

“Ken?” You barely manage to whisper his name, your breath stolen from your lungs by the anxiety rocking your body.

“What happened?” He pushes again, eyes traveling down to your trembling hands. He can’t tell whether that’s from the cold or your nerves, but like the gentleman he is, he pulls his coat off and throws it over your shoulders, zipping it up over your arms in an effort to keep you from freezing.

“He didn’t show up.”

Nanami’s lips press into a thin line, taking in your expression. You’re barely keeping it together, though the freezing air flooding your lungs is keeping your mind distracted.

With a sigh, Kento sets a hand on your shoulder. “Come back inside. Let’s get your coat.”

Slowly coming back down from your panicked state as his hand on your shoulder grounds you, you pause for a moment to take in the blonde in front of you. He’s in just a knit sweater and slacks, visibly shaking from the cold air now that you’re wrapped in his jacket.

“Shit, sorry Kento,” you mumble, letting him guide you back inside and to your lecture hall, where he takes his coat back and grabs your bags for you to avoid any prying eyes. Handing you your coat, followed by the bag he’s packed up for you, he sighs and leads the way to a secluded area of the History and Science building of the college. You don’t say a word as he sits you down on a bench.

“Are you alright?”

You nod.

“Are you lying?”

Your mouth opens to say no, but one glance at his sharp gaze tells you he sees right through you. “Were you outside my class?”

“Mhm. I wanted to make sure things went well.”

“That’s… Really kind, Nanamin. Thank you.”

He hums quietly, leaning back against the wall behind the bench. Someone walks past mumbling something to themself about failing a test, but it’s otherwise silent in the halls.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. People were laughing.” You chew on your lip, rubbing your hands over your face.

“I’m certain they weren’t. Students laugh throughout class constantly, they likely weren’t paying attention,” he points out.

You know he has a point, but it doesn’t make the situation any less frustrating and disappointing.

“I don’t know what hurts more,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to Kento, “that he promised he’d be there with me and wasn’t, or having to relive that stupid moment in high school all over again.”

Your friend grimaces. “Yes, I can imagine that wasn’t pleasant. I’m sorry.” It’s about all he can offer in the moment, but mentally he’s thinking of mentioning what happened to Gojo and Geto and watching the drama that unfolds. The white haired frat boy would relish in the idea of having an actual reason to have beef with Sukuna.

“Why don’t we go grab something to eat?” Nanami suggests in an effort to get your mind off of your horrifying presentation and, more importantly, the man that’s managed to break your heart twice now.

“I’m okay. I think I just want to go home.”

“I would prefer if you weren’t alone,” Nanami protests.

“We just ate, though.”

“We can grab dessert, then. My treat,” he insists.

Silence follows as you look up at Nanami, finding comfort in the concern swirling in those deep mahogany irises. “Fine,” you sigh, relenting finally.

With a sympathetic smile, he gets to his feet and offers you his hand, helping you get to your feet as he leads the way back out into the cold with one goal in mind.

Keep your mind off of Sukuna.

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[lymericslimerick]

I've been devoting myself to You, Monday to Monday and Friday to Friday | 𝖶𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

"Have you heard? The Duke has been way more vicious lately."

warnings .ᐟ smut(?), grinding, humping, biting, blood, fighting, wrio is described as wolfish a lot, continuation of this fic, vaguely vampiric reader, mild torture, begging to be 'eaten', yandere

2.7k words | she/her pronouns

The smell of blood was thick in the air.

Shouting, cheering, bet wagering filled the air as the inhabitants of the Fortress of Meropide surround the makeshift boxing ring laid in the center of a room hidden by a maze of pipes. The warm lighting of the arena was undercut by the endless sea that shone through the gaps in cold metal, shining onto the opponents in the arena like a frigid spotlight. Criminals, horrible and benign alike surrounded the two stars of the show, hungry eyes glued to the cowering figure of their fellow inmate stuck to the corner of the ring. His shaking form is contrasted by the hulking figure of Their Grace stalking towards him, bringing with him the promise of something sinister.

The inmate was bloodied and beat up, face slowly turning red as blood gushes out of his mouth and nose. His swollen eyes unable to see the panicked looks on the guards, who glance between themselves and whisper, “Isn’t this too much?”. He struggles to sit up on his arms, but cold metal meets his hair and slams him onto the floor. He hears the whirring and hissing of the components holding the Duke’s Cryo energy at bay, cold to the touch. He had only heard this noise once before, reverberating through the walls of the fortress as he ran away from The Duke’s office that fateful night.

He supposes this was a long time coming, he thinks as his head is slammed back onto the floor. The inmate always felt The Duke’s eyes on him, stalking him. He was high priority prey for a rabid wolf intent on protecting what's his.

Another slam to the floor. He thinks his nose is broken. The inmate’s mind wanders back to what got him in this mess in the first place, that figure he saw in The Duke’s office looking down at him. He had been summoned in there by The Duke himself, who told him with an easygoing smile that he “had a job for him.” That job turned out to be disposing of a garbage bag full of things he recognises as Fontainian research tools, all coated in something he hopes isn’t blood. As he lugs it over his shoulder, grumbling about how unfair all of this is, he hears a noise. The inmate looks up and he sees a shadow retreat from its place above the stairs, deep into the office. He gulps. He’s heard stories of the Meropide being haunted by vengeful ghosts eager to take revenge on the upper management whispered by some particularly looney prisoners, but he had paid them no mind. Ghosts? Oceanids were more likely.

Though, he knows ghosts don’t have footsteps and Oceanids don’t even have feet. So, if one plus one was two, this was…

“Hello?” The inmate’s voice reverbs through the walls of the room, echoing. He hears something bristle, like whoever was up there paused what they were doing to listen to him. He takes this as a sign. “Are you a guest of the Duke’s?”

Silence. Not even any rustling.

He doesn’t know why, but he drops the bag on the ground and walks towards the stairs. The inmate feels like he’s being lured, snared like a fish on a hook being reeled to its doom. His footsteps are slow and careful, like he was scared to even move. He approaches the steps and starts climbing up them, heart beating fast with such pressure his ribcage felt like an actual cage. Anticipation grows, his heart beats faster.

The inmate opens his mouth. “Don’t be sca-“

The door opens, and the atmosphere becomes frigid cold instantly. The inmate can feel the temperature drop to freezing as The Duke’s gaze threatens to sear the skin off his neck. A beat. Silence. Maybe he isn’t dead mea-

Whirring, hissing, and a sharp clang of The Duke’s gauntlets clamping onto his bare hands, Cryo storming around his clenched fist with as much intensity as a snowstorm on Dragonspine. He feels his heart drop into his stomach completely as The Duke utters with barely concealed white hot rage, “Start running. Now. I catch you, you’re fucking dead.”

He had never ran harder in his life.

The inmate is brought out of his daydream by the impact of The Duke’s gauntlet-clad right hand slamming onto his stomach. He faintly registers blinding pain coming from the side of his stomach. Hah, he punctured him like a balloon. Behind him, he could hear the very real screams and gasps from the usually performative audience. They were used to being entertained by the fights that happened, watching it like they would court hearings up in the overworld. Safe, but real displays of human drama and savagery.

But this? This was a real bonafide hunt. This was a certain and slow death being played out right in front of them.

He hears the Duke whisper something into his ear, but all he sees is a wolf snapping at him and snarling a promise of death. The Duke’s eyes look terrifying, cold and animalistic as he smiles a toothy grin, fangs shining like steel. He’s eyeing his neck like a hawk, The inmate saying a prayer as he realises.

The Duke opens his mouth and bites.

The screams turn to shrieks, and the guards swarm up behind the Duke pleading and screaming at him to stop. The inmate’s body falls with a thud as he closes his eyes, feeling the blood from the open wound on his neck trickle down his skin like hot lava as he feels himself drift into unconsciousness, the sound of panic increasing in his wake.

__

This haunt feels more like an assault on the senses than the Palais Mermonia, what with the merging of the warm, almost old lights of the lamps patterning around the table, and the cold, with the unforgiving cold of light streaming down onto the center of the office like it was waiting to reclaim the office into the abyss of the ocean.

It certainly felt like the ocean wanted to reclaim this place, the dripping of water from the window above a constant rhythm in your ear. It was a cloying presence, much like a low tide trying to consume the beach it rose up upon. Meek, scared it was going to cause the beach to up and leave, but unabashedly desperate to get to her by any means necessary.

You look up at the window in contemplation, that sounds familiar.

A water droplet almost falls on you but you avoid it, turning to look at the papers on the desk. All reports of inmates benign and monstrous alike, but none of the inmate you’re most curious about. You sift through the reports, eyes darting about for a title familiar to anyone and everyone who dares call themself a warrior. A presence that makes itself known wherever and whenever any huge fight happens, eager to throw his hat in the ring at a moments notice.

Childe, Tartaglia. Whatever he calls himself, the 11th harbinger.

The mess he had made in Fontaine, from his brief stint in the Meropide to the fall of his monstrous form at the hands of the great whale (described in The Steambird with great enthusiasm by miss Charlotte), made national news. You, ever eager to find any and all people who had some sort of connection with the primordial, naturally decided to seek him out after getting what you wanted from the Chief Iudex. Maybe taking what you wanted from him would burden your heart less than it would you taking from the draconic man, the storm that followed your leaving weighing heavy on your mind.

Getting to him was easy enough. You just had to make your way to his case files and use them to track where he is now, since the fortress had a mandatory 4 week surveillance on all prisoners in which they had to report their status and current place of residence at the end of every week. Mighty convenient. The only caveat was that you had to get close enough to the top to even begin to see his files for yourself, and well..

The sound of the heavy metal door scraping against the floor making a hideous noise that scrunches your noise in irritation. He’s back.

You prepare yourself for his return from another hunt, positioning yourself on his table like you had just sat down and pushing the case files back into his drawer. Well, not like he wouldn’t let you read them but appearances are everything. His shadow starts huge at the end of the stairs and dims with every step he takes, finally emerging at the top of the stairs with bloodied gauntlets and an even bloodier mouth, red staining his lips down to his roughish jaw. The perfect image of a wolf on the hunt skulking back to its den with signs of victory, eager to display it to the rest of his pack.

In this case, You raise your hands and clap in mock praise. It lands all the same with Wriothesley who practically buckles under the weight of your perceived approval. His mouth pulls into a gleeful, toothy grin and his teeth are bloody too, but you guess he’s grown to want it this way. His gauntlets come off in a hiss, deconstructing and falling at his sides to reveal black bandage wrapped hands and rough fingers shaking in anticipation. He had gotten better at controlling himself over the week, trying to stop himself from acting like an overexcited puppy in your presence, but something must have gotten him really excited today.

You say as much, and his smile turns sweet and almost bashful. He walks towards you, still not saying a word until he stops in front of you with his chest rising and falling with a vigour. He looks down on you with blown out eyes, smile still on his face but shaky and barely contained. You blink at him, “You have anything to say to me?”

Immediately, “I got him.”

You raise an eyebrow as he drops to his knees in front of you, grabbing onto the sides of your thighs like a vice as he nuzzles his head into your thigh. This was an impressive amount of restraint for The Duke. “What do you mean?”

“Him,” He says into you. “The it you’ve had on your mind lately,” He pushes his face harder into your thigh and you feel his teeth talk against your skin. “The thing that’s keeping you away from me.”

You say nothing. What imaginary beast has this man conjured up yet again? He senses your thoughts and looks up at you, looking more pitiful wolf cub than the terrifying Duke of Meropide he was supposed to be. “Him! Th- The man.. That man who you… That pest who..” He was tripping over his words, slurring them together as if the thought of even uttering them terrified him to his core. Like if he spoke it to you, this man would once again claim his place in your head. You take his head in your hands and he keens, cheek nuzzling against them. Your eyes give him an order, and he takes a deep shuddering breath before finally saying. “That inmate who intruded you, Us, a few days back. I handled him, My Love.”

You sigh. This again. Since that poor soul had made the mistake of being curious, Wriothesley had been acting more wolfish than usual. Skulking around the main level of the Fortress, eyes blown in anger as he tried to sniff him out and ordering all high level guards (At least, those who were unfailingly loyal to him) to organise some sort of grand fight with the inmates, with him and the fool who had tried to steal you away at the center of it all.

Of course, you wouldn’t know head nor tail of this plan had he not confessed all of it to you like a prayer after a particularly steamy embrace. You still remember the weight of him on top of you, muscly chest pressing into yours in desperation as he whispered it in your ear. His hands were clamped on your waist, somehow still cold against the warmth of your revitalised skin.

“Darling, Baby, I promise you a hunt like no other.” He whispered as you felt him push against you, his still clothed bottom half rubbing against yours, which was barely clothed. Not quite enough to make you excited but more than enough for him, his hips stuttering in anticipation for something that isn’t going to come anytime soon. “I’ll bring you proof, a sign of my devotion, very soon. You’ll never have to doubt me ever again.”

Your silence must have been enough for him, as he buried his head into your neck and continued warming your bed.

In the now, you remember what to say. “This was the hunt you told me about?” His nod elicits a contemplative hum from you as you make a decision on where to bring this next. His heart was in your hands and you had the choice between crushing it under your grasp or making it beat faster in your palm, both options gladly welcomed by this beast in your lap. You look at him for a split second, taking in his especially tousled hair that took the form of two wolfish ears on his head, and you’re reminded that the version of him you know has turned more beast than man. And what more do beasts need than simple pleasure?

You bring your hand to tousle his hair and pat his head as he eggs you on with a deep groan, hands gripping the sides of your thigh even harder. “Impressive, Wriothesley.” He nods eagerly into your lap, goading you to continue. “The true extent of your strength always amazes me, leaves me positively speechless.” He whines this time, and you feel a familiar rubbing against your leg. You close your eyes to stifle your laughter at how typical he is. “I might even say that you’re the best I’ve ever seen.”

His movements grow more intense as he looks up at you, face flushed red and eyes wild as he desperately stares into your (e/c) eyes. His voice is a whisper, “Am I?”

You smile, and he reaches his own conclusion. His yell isn’t the most elegant, a guttural, feral thing that gives way to his climax at your feet. His hands slide of your waist ever so slightly and come to grip your hips, no doubt pantomiming what would’ve happened had you not been the person you were. His head comes to rest between your two legs which formed a cage around his face, guarding him from a treasure he’s had his eyes on for a while. He keens and you ‘tsk’, shaking your head like he was a misbehaving dog. He should know better by now.

He does, instead asking you, “Why won’t you feast on me?”

You still, and he hurriedly says his next words. He knows he’s gone behind your back, looked behind the curtain, but he can’t help it. He wants to know you, know all of you. How better would he know to rip and tear all that’s in your way if he doesn’t even know what you’re looking for? “I.. I know of your ailment, Love. I want yo- No, I need you, to relieve yourself with me. Please, let me be of service to you, drain me dry.”

You heave a sigh. Oh, this poor little wolf. He doesn’t know the extent of your ailment, the truth of your depraved actions that leave you regretful and secretive. If he knew only divine, no, ancient blood was the only way to soothe the burn in your veins, he’d be as devastated as you. A mere human couldn’t even dream of quelling the ache in your veins, but maybe, just maybe-

Your gaze drifts to the side, eyeing the case files on the wardrobe. It’s like one of them shines in your line of sight, a gleam of letters that finally surprise you.

Ajax. 11th Fatui Harbinger.

Beneath you, Wriothesley whimpers at your silence with a cowered head. You shake your head as if you were in thought and you gently brush your fingers against the skin of his cheek, some blood making way on your skin.

“Oh Wriothesley, you shouldn’t ask that of yourself. That’s a hunt you can’t hope of winning.”

[brodygold]

My New Place

A collab with @rossgold-drone110. Thanks for helping me flesh this idea out bro!

It all started when Matt joined the Golden Army Gym, the newest, flashiest gym in town. It wasn’t just a gym—it was practically a phenomenon. Ads were everywhere, promising not just a better body, but a “better you.” Matt had been hooked immediately, signing up on the first day.

“They’ve got it all,” he raved. “State-of-the-art equipment, personalized training, and this cool uniform thing they do. You’d love it.”

“Uniform?” I asked skeptically.

“They give you this black Fred Perry polo when you sign up. It’s got gold details and looks sick. Everyone wears it while working out. It’s part of the vibe.”

At first, I chalked it up to just another gimmick. But soon after, Matt started changing. His physique transformed almost overnight—his arms thickened, his shoulders broadened, and his chest looked like it had been sculpted out of stone. His personality, though, seemed to shrink. He became quieter, less expressive, and his enthusiasm for anything outside the gym faded.

A week later, Matt convinced me to come check it out. “You’ve gotta see this place,” he said, his voice strangely monotone. “It’ll change your life.”

The gym was a sleek, intimidating space, with polished black floors and golden accents. Everyone there was… perfect. The members moved with a mechanical precision, their black polos gleaming with sweat as they worked out in eerie silence. The sound of clanging weights and treadmills filled the air, but there was no chatter, no camaraderie—just focus.

Matt was waiting near the squat racks, looking even bigger than before. His polo clung to his torso like a second skin, accentuating his bulging biceps and the deep ridges of his abs. His usually messy hair was now slicked back, and there was a strange glossiness to his eyes, like he wasn’t entirely… present.

“Hey, Matt!” I called out, but he didn’t respond. He finished his set with a robotic precision, then turned toward me with a vacant smile.

“You made it,” he said, his tone flat. “I told you this place is amazing. You should join.”

Something about his demeanor set me on edge. “Matt, are you okay? You’ve been acting… weird.”

“I’ve never been better,” he replied, his vacant smile not fading. “Here, let me show you around.”

As he led me through the gym, I noticed more unsettling details. Everyone was wearing the same tight black polo, their faces blank, their movements unnervingly synchronized. Some of them had black rubber masks covering their faces, smooth and featureless except for small slits at the mouth and nose. The sight sent a chill down my spine.

“What’s with the masks?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“They’re for the advanced members,” Matt said, his tone almost reverent. “When you’ve truly embraced the program, you get one. It’s part of becoming… perfect.”

Matt brought me to the front desk, where a staff member handed me my own black polo. “Put it on,” Matt urged, his eyes glinting with an intensity that made me hesitate. “You’ll feel it right away.”

Against my better judgment, I slipped the polo over my head. The moment it touched my skin, I felt a strange warmth spread through my body. The fabric clung to me like it had been custom-made, and I could feel it tightening slightly, as if it were adjusting to my form.

“You feel that?” Matt asked, his voice suddenly more animated. “That’s the first step. Now hit the weights.”

I was reluctant, but Matt’s insistence and the strange pull of the polo made it hard to resist. I started lifting, and with each rep, I felt stronger. My muscles burned, but it was a good burn, an addictive burn. The polo seemed to be fueling me, pushing me harder and harder. My arms swelled, veins popping to the surface. My chest expanded, and my abs became more defined with every crunch.

At first, I was thrilled. I had never felt so powerful, so alive. But then, my thoughts started to blur. The idea of stopping seemed… wrong. All I wanted was to keep going, to push harder, to be like the others.

I turned to Matt, desperate for help, but he was already gone—mentally, at least. As I watched, two staff members approached him, carrying one of the black rubber masks. Without hesitation, Matt knelt before them. They slid the mask over his face, and he let out a shuddering breath as it sealed tightly. When he stood again, he was unrecognizable. The mask covered every feature, leaving him an anonymous drone. His body moved with even more precision now, his posture impossibly rigid.

“Matt!” I shouted, trying to snap him out of it. But he didn’t even flinch. He turned and walked away, blending into the crowd of other masked drones.

Panic set in. I clawed at the polo, trying to rip it off, but it wouldn’t budge. My body was still growing, my muscles inflating beyond anything I thought possible. The polo grew tighter, almost like it was merging with my skin. My mind was slipping, my thoughts consumed by a singular urge to join.

“Need some help?” a voice cut through the haze.

I turned to see a man standing nearby, his golden soccer jersey gleaming under the gym lights. He was tall, broad, and radiated an almost otherworldly confidence. His smile was easy, but his eyes were sharp.

“Name’s Brody,” he said, extending a hand. “You look like you’re in over your head.”

“I—I can’t stop,” I stammered. “They’ve got Matt. They’re… they’re turning him into one of them.”

Brody nodded, his expression serious. “Yeah, that’s what the black polos do. They take you over, make you mindless. But you don’t have to go down that path.” He reached into a bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a gleaming gold soccer jersey.

“This,” he said, holding it out to me, “is your way out. Forget the drones. Join the real Golden Army. We’re not about mindlessness—we’re about excellence.”

I hesitated, staring at the jersey. The black polo was still pulsing against my skin, trying to keep me under its control. But something about the gold jersey called to me. I grabbed it and tore the polo off, gasping as the hold it had on me broke.

The moment I slipped on the gold jersey, a surge of energy coursed through my body. My muscles exploded with growth, stretching the fabric of the jersey to its limits. My biceps became huge, my shoulders broadened into massive slabs, and my legs thickened with pure power for the soccer field. My mind cleared, replaced with a sharp, confident focus.

I looked at myself in a nearby mirror, barely recognizing the golden-clad, muscular jock staring back at me.

“Welcome to the team,” Brody said, clapping me on the back.

I turned back toward the gym floor, now seeing the drones for what they were: hollow shells of their former selves. Matt was among them, his rubber mask gleaming under the lights.

“What about him?” I asked, my voice deep and commanding now.

“What about him?” Brody asked. “He’s found his place in life, just like you.”

I thought about it more, and realized Brody was right. Why shouldn’t I be at the top? It’s only natural that I’d end up here. I’d been going to the gym for years, hadn’t I? The soccer practice certainly helped too. The more I questioned it, the more things made sense. I was never a nerd! I was a jock through and through with my pal Brody.

As Matt and I walked out of the gym together, I felt a sense of purpose like I’d never known before. I wasn’t just a new man—I was part of something greater, something golden. Matt had his place, and so did I.