#This slow burn of slow burns comes to an end

[starmapz]

what you know - ch8: hysteria || 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 (attacks). 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 ; 17.7k (oops).

❦ a/n ; please note the tags have been updated.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter - coming soon

Although not particularly cold throughout the holidays, a frigid air settles over the city shortly after the date turns to the new year. As usual, Gojo held his annual frat party that you’re required to be at by virtue of being his friend, though you end up being one of many single party-goers who dips into a corner as the clock strikes midnight. The idea of a stranger’s lips wandering to yours doesn’t sit well in your stomach and although you asked if he would attend, Sukuna had promised his little brothers a celebration, just the three of them. Not that you would kiss Sukuna anyway, of course-

Yuji had apparently never celebrated the new year, too young to understand previously, though based on the photo in your email inbox, he didn’t get to celebrate this one either. A blurry photo taken from the camera on Sukuna’s laptop, pointed down at Yuji sound asleep in his lap while he and Choso had MarioKart running in the background had been the telltale sign.

You can’t blame him for not having a phone, but sometimes you do wish you could text rather than email. Especially with your friendship seeming to blossom as of late. It took a bit of nurturing to get to this point, but Sukuna seems to recognize his faults and actively tries to work on and better himself. Regardless of his often-irritable demeanor, you appreciate the effort on his part.

Snowflakes settle in your palm as you hold it out in front of you on the walk to the lunch hall. Settling back into the flow of having classes early in the mornings brings with it a dreary haze that hangs over the student body, yourself included. Not a single soul seems to be well-rested, apart from one person.

“Good morning,” Kento greets you with a warm smile, running a hand through his golden locks.

“Morning, Kento,” you greet him in return, your attention trained on the snowflakes melting on the warmth of your skin. “How was it, going back home?”

“It was relaxing,” he replies, a frown pulling at his lips as he takes in your dazed expression. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to join us.”

“That’s alright! I really did appreciate your offer to pay for my tickets, but it didn’t feel right,” you shoot him a smile, though quickly return your attention to your hand.

Auburn irises flicker down to your palm, trying to figure out what’s holding your interest so adamantly. “I understand, although it really wouldn’t have been a big deal.”

“Really, it’s fine, Nanamin. Satoru, Suguru, and Sukuna all had me over and I talked to my parents a bunch,” you assure him, finally dropping your hand and wiping the condensation on the front of your coat.

“Sukuna?” He asks, his brows raising, though it’s more of a rhetorical question as he’s already aware he’ll be doing Sukuna a favor at some point in the new year.

“He’s put in a lot of effort to make up for what happened.” Your tone is somewhat clipped, coming out unintentionally defensive.

Nanami’s gaze flickers to your face, catching the minute knit of your brows and tension in your shoulders. “I should hope so. Either way, I wasn’t making any accusations. Simply an observation.”

You sigh. “I know, sorry. I think I’m just a bit exhausted,” you chuckle, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I can’t believe we’re already back to it. The break felt so short.”

“I agree,” he hums as he opens the door to the lunch hall for you. With a grateful smile, you slip past him and head towards your regular table. Looks like you won’t be the first to arrive this semester. You and Kento are the last to arrive, taking your seats and beginning to pull out your lunches as you get back into the swing of lunches on campus.

Just as you pull out some leftover pasta, Sukuna takes a seat beside you. He looks worse for wear, even more exhausted than you. His sleep schedule is always atrocious, so you can only imagine what it would look like without classes.

“Hey, Kuna!” You grin as you greet him.

In usual Sukuna fashion, he leans over the table on his elbow, resting his chin against his palm. “Princess.” He yawns quietly, his eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“Long day?” You ask, amused but sympathetic.

“Long fuckin’ day,” he agrees, his chest rumbling in faint laughter. “Y’know, you usually don’t look as tired as I-”

“Hey hotshot, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” Gojo blurts out suddenly, interrupting Sukuna.

With a deadpan expression, the tattooed man’s jaw clenches in barely-masked irritation. Of all days, Sukuna could only have hoped Gojo would keep his mouth shut today, unable to deal with his bullshit in this state. “The hell did I do?” He rolls his shoulders, as though prepping for a fight. 

Can’t these two get along just for once?

“You were on my balcony at the end of finals party, and let some couple fuck on my bed!” He points an accusatory finger at Sukuna’s chest, his nose scrunching in disgust at the mere thought.

Slowly, you bring a hand up to cover your mouth in realization. As you glance at Sukuna, you’re surprised to see his expression has relaxed somewhat, a smug smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “What, you think I broke in to let some other couple fuck?” Sukuna sneers, practically reveling in the way Gojo scoffs. “I didn’t do it on purpose, asshole.” He tilts his head towards you, crimson eyes filled with amusement. “Why don’t you tell him?”

You can tell from his tone he’s enjoying this way too much. “Um- well-” you wince as Satoru’s expression falls, dramatic betrayal written across his face in bolded marker. “I may have unlocked your room to get some air and… kinda didn’t lock the door behind me.” You mutter the last portion into your hand, a sheepish shrug the best you can offer him.

“It was you?” He whines, lip curled in utter disbelief.

“And to think he blamed Sukuna this whole time,” Suguru butts in, amused.

“I saw him leave the balcony!” The frat boy counters, turning his attention back to you. “I had to stay on Suguru’s floor while my mattress got cleaned,” he gripes.

“I can’t even imagine my floor was that much cleaner,” Suguru quips teasingly, a mischievous glimmer in his golden eyes.

Satoru jabs him in the side before turning his attention to you. “You owe me. No, you double owe me because I had you over for Christmas dinner too!” He waggles his spoon at you, before dropping it in his soup with all the dramatic flair he can muster.

“I’m so sorry, Satoru! I promise it was an accident.” You offer your best apologetic smile.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, sighing. “It’s fiiiine. Just… buy me drinks next time we go out or something.”

“I’d like to think I should be compensated for dealing with Satoru’s whining,” Suguru chimes in, entertained by the whole ordeal.

Shaking your head at the raven-haired man’s blatant teasing, you giggle quietly, your elbow lightly brushing Sukuna. He’s still leaning over the table, close enough to feel his breath fan your arm with each rise and fall of his chest.

“After consulting my bank account, I can get Suguru one drink, and Satoru two,” you offer.

“Deal!”

“Deal.”

Sukuna shakes his head, shooting a final glance at Satoru that doesn’t hold the amusement he regarded you with before his full attention shifts back to you. “Just gonna throw me under the bus like that, huh?” He gruffs. Beyond the tired glaze that paints his eyes is a mirthful gleam, reserved only for you as he observes the way you sheepishly chuckle.

“My bad,” you scratch at the back of your neck, your cheeks heating up as his arm brushes yours. “I was gonna jump in, I swear!”

“Mhm.” Sukuna lets out a long breath, leaning back comfortably over the table and putting some distance between you. Just as he begins to zone out, lost in thought over the lawsuit, he sits up straight, his attention drawn to Kento. “Did you find a time to meet with- uh- Kento?”

“Oh!” You gently nudge Kento at Sukuna’s reminder. “Can you and your friend meet up on…” you glance back at Sukuna to fill in the blank as his schedule is much more packed than yours usually is.

“Friday. After four.”

Kento spins to face you, his watchful gaze doing a once-over of Sukuna. “I can get back to you on that. It should work for me, but I’ll need to speak with him.”

You grin. “Great! If that works, can we meet at the cafe across from the Science building?”

Kento nods. “I’ll let you know this afternoon. I believe I share a class with him.”

The two men on either side of you exchange another tense glance, letting the uneasy atmosphere dissolve as they mutually redirect their attention elsewhere. Sukuna leans forward on the table, resting his chin on his crossed arms, his eyes watching with mild interest as you take a bite of your leftover pasta.

Just as you’re about to offer him a bite, your lips purse in surprise as two men you don’t recognize take seats in front of Sukuna. It only clicks who they must be when Uraume takes a seat on Sukuna’s opposite side. You shoot them a warm smile as the salmon-haired man’s head lifts.

You can’t tell what’s going through Sukuna’s mind as he grunts out a “what are you doin’ here?”

The man sitting on Gojo’s left, who’s currently receiving a deeply displeased glare from your snowy-haired friend, has black hair that falls straight over his forehead and a scar on his lip. Beside him is a man with spiked brown hair and a toothpick between his teeth. His lips seem to be drawn in a perpetual frown. He speaks up first. “We haven’t seen you since the party.”

The man with the scarred lip smirks. “That, and Uraume was mentionin’ your girl wanted to meet us.”

Sukuna’s lip curls in frustration, a deathly glare burning his friend for calling you his girl. He introduces you, making a point of calling you his friend, before pointing out Toji, with the scar, and Atsuya.

With a grin and deeply warmed cheeks, you point out each of the members of your friend group. Haibara and Shoko are as sweet as ever, while Geto and Nanami are kind. Gojo, on the other hand, seems frustrated with the arrival of the group, in particular Toji, which you suppose makes sense if the man’s got a penchant for being a pain even by Sukuna’s standards from what you’ve heard.

In spite of Toji’s immediate overbearing teasing, he seems nice enough, and with their arrival, Sukuna becomes slightly more talkative. He’s slowly coming out of his shell around you, which you’re grateful for.

“So,” Toji begins, mischief dancing across his emerald irises, “how in the world did ya manage to get through to this asshole?” He questions you, jabbing a thumb towards Sukuna at your side.

You giggle, not missing the way Sukuna’s jaw clenches. “Not easily.”

“I’ll say. I’ve known ‘im since we were kids and I’m still not part of his Christmases,” he scoffs.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a fuckin’ dick, I’d invite you,” Sukuna scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“You could always invite Sukuna, could you not?” Uraume points out to Toji, who scoffs, his expression deadpan.

“Oh yeah, who wants t’ come to the Zenin Family Dinner? Drop on by, we got my fuckass uncle, my asshole grandparents and Naoya. Who wouldn’t wanna join?” He jeers, sarcasm dripping from each and every word.

“Is that the ‘Naoya’ you punched?” You ask, keeping your voice low for only Sukuna to hear as you lean towards him.

“Mhm.”

“‘Sides,” Toji begins, “your dad used to invite me every year, dunno what I did to get uninvited.”

Oh.

Oh.

He doesn’t know.

Sukuna’s leg bounces absentmindedly under the table at the mention of his father, his gaze averting to a nearby wall in an effort to keep his reaction neutral.

“You know, I could host something next year,” you offer in an effort to divert attention away from the topic of Sukuna’s father. To your horror, the table goes silent. The tension coming off of Satoru and Toji in waves is palpable, and you’re beyond grateful for Shoko, Kento, and Uraume, the first three at the table to chime in.

“Sounds like fun.”

“I would join.”

“That sounds lovely.”

You let out a sigh of relief as gradually, the rest of the table begins to agree, even the two men who seem to continually be at odds with one another. You have half a mind to wonder how that even happened given that Satoru’s usually the one to get under others’ skin, not vice versa.

As conversation begins to return, Sukuna quietly mutters a “thanks” in your ear that sends a shiver straight down your spine before burying his face in his arms as you finish your meal. The tension in the air doesn’t fully dissolve but at the very least, Satoru and Toji choose to simply not acknowledge one another.

With a glance at the time on your phone, you begin packing up once you finish your lunch. A couple of others at the table check the time as they take notice of your actions, using the opportunity to pack up as no one wants to be late on the first day of class. With nothing to pack up himself, Sukuna swings his bag over his shoulder and mumbles a “see ya,” heading for the door before you can stop him.

Even with how far your friendship has come, it seems some things never change.

With a sigh, you turn back to the table. “It was nice to meet you, Toji and Atsuya,” you smile politely.

“Likewise,” Atsuya agrees with a tired smile.

“‘Course. Had to meet the woman Sukuna’s been ditchin’ us for.” Toji shoots you a shit-eating grin, something you don’t dare read into as your face warms at the mere thought of being the person Sukuna seems to always choose.

“See you all later,” you call out to the broader table, met with a chorus of goodbyes. “Text me, Sho!”

Hurrying out the door to your next class, you zip up your coat as you make your way through the frozen wasteland that separates you from Literature History. At least the weather had relented somewhat from the beginning of December, offering a more mild bite that didn’t seem to seep into the very fiber of your being.

Still, it’s a hell of a lot colder than it was before the new year.

With a huff as you cross the barrier into the building where your next class is, you let the warmth envelop you, grateful for the shelter from the bitter wind outside. Winter had only really begun to settle over the city in the last month, but you’re ready for spring to arrive. Even if it means more finals.

Sighing at the thought of starting the entire dance over again- class, studying, finals, not to mention your required internship- you push through the door to the lecture hall, briefly pausing at the bottom of the class to search for a familiar face.

And god fucking damn it, the way your eyes light up when you spot Sukuna could practically make him dizzy. He’s careful that his crimson stare doesn’t give away the strange way his chest tightens at the mere sight of your beaming smile, keeping his expression indifferent as his gaze trails your path.

You jog up the stairs until you find a place beside him, grinning as you slide into the seat. “I was gonna ask what your next class was, but you left so fast,” you comment, getting settled as you pull out your laptop.

“Mm,” Sukuna watches your movements, his eyes trailing your manicured nails. Pink. They almost match his hair.

Why is he even thinking about this?

“Didn’t wanna be late,” he excuses his actions, finally meeting your eyes.

Your bottom lip sticks out in an exaggerated pout. “At least walk with me when we have class together.”

He lets out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah, alright, princess,” he teases, unable to help his smirk as he settles back into familiar territory with you and the strange flutter in his chest eases.

The professor walks in, writing her name in large font across the whiteboard at the front of the room as she begins her introduction to the class.

“Y’know,” Sukuna leans closer, his voice lowering so as not to disturb the other students. “Apparently the prof’s a huge conspiracy theorist.”

“Really?” You ask, interest gleaming behind narrowed eyes.

“Mhm. Supposedly she believes Shakespeare never existed.”

“Like, she believes the anti-Stratfordian theory?” You ask, tilting your head. That’s not an unreasonable theory, to believe that many of the plays typically associated with Shakespeare were perhaps written by another famous playwright or author under a pseudonym that happened to match the name of a living man.

“Nah. ‘Parently she believes he never existed,” Sukuna shrugs.

“But- he did. Maybe not the one we know, but there’s proof of his birth and death records. He has a grave,” you point out.

“I know that,” he smirks. “I heard she rambled about that theory and Dickens’ death for an hour last semester.”

You blink twice. “You’re kidding.” Groaning as quietly as you can muster, you drag your hands down your face. “I can’t afford to have another history professor who rambles. And the Dickens theory isn’t even interesting,” you tack on in a grumble.

“You’ll be fine,” Sukuna chuckles, amused at your reaction. “Literature’s your thing, ain’t it?”

“Well… yeah, but you know how I am with names, dates and faces.”

“And you know how to study for that,” he points out, nudging your shoulder. “‘Sides, you’ll have-”

“If something is so interesting that you feel the need to interrupt, Mr. Sukuna,” the professor’s voice booms around the lecture hall as all eyes land on the pair of you. Sukuna keeps his cool, which you’re thankful for as you pale and shrink into your seat. “Then I would suggest you come up here and share with the class.”

He doesn’t bother to reply, simply giving a wave of his hand for her to continue. It’s not exactly the polite response you would have given, but with a final glance between you both, she turns back to the broader class to continue the lecture.

Sukuna eyes you from his peripherals as you slowly relax back into your seat when you’re no longer the center of attention. If you bristled so much from just being called out, he can only imagine the pain you went through when he left you hanging last semester. He frowns to himself at the thought, his attention never fully given to the professor as much as he tries.

His mind wanders between the introduction to Elizabethean and Jacobean literature and the way your nails tap against your keyboard as you type up notes. As the class drags on and his mind drifts further and further from the lecture, he leans back in his seat and roughly drags his hands over his face.

He’s exhausted beyond belief, frustrated with his schedule for this semester, frustrated with Toji for sticking his nose in Sukuna’s business, irritated with himself for not paying attention for something he’s paying a lot of money to attend, and to top it all off, he knows he has a long day ahead of him.

It’s not like it’s a first, most days are long in his world, but today he’s all the more frustrated and it’s wearing him thin.

So caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t even realize the room is shuffling until your laptop shuts beside him, the dull snap bringing him back to reality. As you slip your laptop into a sleeve and delicately place it in your bag, he follows suit, tucking his laptop into his backpack and throwing his coat on.

He even supposes he’ll wait for you this time around, given that he has some time before picking up his brothers for once.

You pause in front of him, zipping your jacket up as you type out a message on your phone. “Looks like Friday works for Kento’s friend.”

Sukuna nods, his brow knit. “I’ll need to bring Cho and Yu. Uraume’s got late classes this semester and our neighbor’s away this week.”

You pause for a moment as you consider what that means. “You’ll need to tell them.” Your tone is somber, your voice quiet. He almost doesn’t hear you over the bustling of students exiting the lecture hall.

He nods slowly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. One might even argue he’s too aware of that fact. You can physically see gears turning in his mind, a question sitting atop his tongue that he doesn’t want to voice.

“What’s wrong, Kuna?” You query gently, tilting your head to look up at him. The tattoo along the length of his jaw stretches along his skin as he grimaces.

“D’you have another class?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t wanna talk about it here.” With a large hand on the small of your back, he directs you out of the hall and back into the cold, his palm lifting from your warmth to run through his tousled locks.

If only he knew the way your stomach flipped from such a simple touch.

Regardless, he probably should have asked if you had any plans for the afternoon, rather than simply dragging you off campus and towards his brothers’ school, but the thought is lost on him. Luckily for him, you might be a little too understanding of the man who unknowingly holds your heart, so you don’t say a word as he silently leads you in a direction that you recognize.

Really, you could have at least gotten your car instead of trudging through the cold.

Before you can protest, Sukuna finally finds the words to voice his thoughts.

“What if I’m lookin’ at this the wrong way?” He gruffs, tense and raw with emotion that isn’t often something you associate with him.

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but you can’t quite tell where his meaning lies. “What way is that?”

“Been thinkin’. I mean, she’s their mother, right? What if they’re better off with her? What if they wanna go with her and I’m puttin’ up a fight they don’t want me to win?”

It hits you like a ton of bricks. The impact nearly pushes the breath from your lungs and causes your stride to falter. If Sukuna notices, he doesn’t slow down and it takes you a moment to catch up, his words still sinking in.

“Wait- What?” You splutter, grappling with the severity of his grievance. He keeps his pace up, not even sparing you a glance. “Sukuna, wait-” You tug on his forearm, tearing his arm from his pocket as he pauses to look at you finally.

Distant. He didn’t hear you.

Blinking twice, you pull him to the edge of the sidewalk to keep his attention on you and away from the noise of the city around you. The lights, the people, the cars, it all seems to encroach on you and muddle your thoughts, you can only imagine the mileage his mind is currently making.

Certain that you have his focus now, you repeat yourself. “What are you talking about? You know they need you.”

He sighs, an air of irritation settling over him as he stares at the brick to your left. “They need a guardian, doesn’t mean they need me. Been thinkin’ maybe they’d want to go with her. With their mother.”

You pause, considering the question for yourself for a moment. You can sympathise with wanting what’s best for them, but it doesn’t sit well with you that he doubts himself so much when you can see what he means to those kids.

“You need to tell them what’s going on anyway, so I think it’s worth asking,” you agree. It’s the right thing to do regardless of the outcome. “But,” you add in a gentler tone, offering a kind smile, “they’ll choose you.”

His eyes snap to you, a tense set to his musculature. “What makes you so sure?” He almost sounds offended.

“They love you, Sukuna.” His brow twitches, his mouth opening to protest, but you continue. “You told me you couldn’t get a hold of their mom when your dad passed, right?”

He nods tensely.

“What kind of mother does that?” You point out. “Imagine how that would make Choso feel.”

You pause, letting the thought sink in. Sukuna doesn’t reply, absently cracking a knuckle.

He’d been so caught up all those years ago in the loss of their father and his own grief that he’d hardly considered that Choso’s grief had likely been twofold. The child had lost his father just like Sukuna, but he’d also had to deal with the loss of his mother. Not only that, but it was more like the active rejection of his mother, because the reality is that Sukuna tried hard to get a hold of her. Looking back, he knows he was in no way ready to parent his brothers and it was rocky at the start. He should never have let Choso sit at his side in tears as he tried every method he could to reach her.

Sukuna had always accepted that Choso got quieter as simply a part of his grief. The little boy had always teetered on the shy side of things, but Sukuna wonders now if there’s more to that. If his silence is a result of sitting alongside his frustrated and grief-stricken older brother as his mother chose not to reply.

When Sukuna’s silence extends, you do your best to guide him from the dark recesses that his mind attempts to take him to. “Would Yuji even remember her?”

Shit. Sukuna’s all Yuji’s ever known. If he doesn’t remember their father, there’s no way in hell he remembers his mother.

Sukuna drags a hand down his face. Coming to terms with the gravity of his own mistakes is one thing, but they don’t even begin to match up to the rejection of their mother.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, taking a step back to pace in front of the wall. Giving him the space and time he needs, you simply watch as he huffs and sighs. Fiddling with your neatly manicured nails, you wait patiently for him to organize his thoughts, only to frown when he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. In one smooth motion, he flips his lighter open and smoke trails like rippling water up into the cold air. He leans against the wall, leaning his head back against the brick as he exhales smoke into the overcast sky.

The nicotine calms his jittery mind enough to allow him the space to function within the claustrophobia of his thoughts. Inhaling deeply, he pushes off the wall and returns to you finally, looking up to exhale smoke away from you.

“Uraume’s right, you know.”

Any other time, Sukuna would have let that slide, knowing it was meant to be a cheeky little quip about his vice.

But today’s a bad fucking day for him.

“So I’ve been told.” There’s enough bite to his words that you’re actually a bit surprised at his choice of tone, but even looking back on that drunk night fumbling through apologies, this is the most stressed you’ve ever seen him. His face is gaunt, pale with dark shadows beneath his eyes, and as you take in his outfit, you realize he’s wearing the hoodie he usually throws on after his showers.

If you were to wager a guess, he’s probably wearing last night’s clothes. He doesn’t attempt to hide the tension that grips his muscles and claws at his brow, either.

It’s clear that the thoughts he’s been sharing with you are ones that have been plaguing him as of late. He’s likely been grappling with the idea of telling his brothers about the lawsuit since you last saw him at Christmas. But that’s the thing about Sukuna, he would never ask for help. It’s a miracle he wanted to talk at all.

You let his snappy tone slide, giving him the benefit of the doubt that it’s not intentional. After all, he did ask you to come out here in the cold with him to talk.

Well, maybe ‘asked’ is the wrong word, but he made it clear he wanted you here to talk.

Still, the tension that hangs between you isn’t the usual alluring tension that draws you to him. It’s not uncomfortable, but you would certainly prefer the usual silence with him. It hangs between you in the delicate balance of Sukuna’s startlingly fragile tenacity, which only serves to sympathize you to him in spite of his loose temper.

Sukuna taps a finger on the edge of his cigarette. The ember tip falls to the ground in a pile of ash, melting a small crater of snow at his feet. Choosing not to acknowledge the rigidity that strains the quiet air, he casts a glance at his watch and nods in the direction of his brothers’ school.

“Don’t wanna be late,” he grunts, smoke escaping from the corners of his lips. With one final inhalation, he tosses the cigarette on the ground and stomps it out, turning on his heel to lead the way to the school.

You chew absently on your lip, trailing slowly after him.

The snow crunches beneath your feet, your mind grasping at the conversations of the people passing you by in an effort to fill the dead air. It’s suffocating being in Sukuna’s presence when he’s made a point of having you near, while simultaneously being bull-headed as he holds you at arms’ length.

“They ask for you a lot.”

You take a couple of long strides to catch up with him, thankful that he breaks the ice. Fiddling with the woven bracelets that are still tied to your wrist, you smile. “That’s really sweet. They’re good kids.”

Sukuna casts you a glance. He can see uncertainty in your eyes. He’s not stupid, he knows it’s his fault. But some stubborn part of him holds something akin to a grudge against you for pointing out something he knows is bad for him.

He’s got bigger problems than his nicotine addiction.

When Sukuna doesn’t reply, you swallow nervously. “You’ve raised them well, Kuna.”

Piercing irises snap towards you, flitting between your eyes. “‘M not so sure about that.”

“Aren’t you proud of them?” You push, tilting your head.

Sukuna’s chest clenches. He averts his gaze, grimacing. “‘Course.”

“Then why wouldn’t you think you raised them well?”

“I’m not what they need,” he replies simply.

Your gaze narrows, lips pursing in confusion. “They need a roof over their heads and food on the table. You’re good to them, Sukuna.”

He sighs heavily. “They need someone more attentive. Someone who can be home and dote over them.”

“Dote?” You parrot, the corner of your lip twitching up. “I’ve seen you dote.”

He scoffs. “As if.”

“What do you call your gifts to them?”

A crease forms between his brows. “That wasn’t doting. It hardly meant anything.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, and I don’t think you do either,” you tease, prodding his shoulder and chancing his patience with you.

He scowls down at you, huffing.

You giggle quietly, your breath visible in the air before you. Quieting down, you nudge him gently. “You know just how much those gifts meant to them. You’re exactly what they need, Sukuna. And I think you’re what they want, too.”

Sukuna falters, catching himself quickly enough to play it off like he tripped. Somehow, that’s the less embarrassing option here, he thinks.

“Maybe.” It comes out weaker than intended, and he’s grateful that the steps up to the front of the school offer an escape from the conversation. He may have started it, but like most other difficult conversations he dragged you into, he usually finds himself reluctant to continue them.

Something about how well you know his brothers, how well you know him, shakes him to his very core and he’s not willing to touch that thought with a ten foot pole.

To his relief, the bell rings and a teacher guides a class of young, bright-eyed children out of the school to reunite them each with those meant to pick them up. As Yuji crosses the school’s barrier, she points the two of you out and the little boy goes barreling towards you both.

“Kunaaaaa!” He cries out excitedly, attaching himself like a koala to his older brother’s leg. Sukuna grunts, lifting him into the air as he easily keeps his balance. The little boy giggles, his eyes opening to look at his brother, when he spots you.

Hopping from his brother’s arms with wide, excited eyes, he leaps into your arms as you extend them to him. “You’re here!” He cheers, arms wrapped around your neck in a tight hug.

You giggle, doing your best to hold the boy up as he clings tightly to you. “How was school, Yu?”

“It was great! We’re learning about the oceans and sharks, and-”

As Yuji excitedly tells you about his day, Choso dips through the doorway, his eyes scanning the steps for Sukuna. As he spots both of you, a small smile makes its way to his lips and he jogs over with his hands pulling at the straps of his backpack.

Sukuna ruffles the boy’s hair, who smooths it down in response, a gleam in his eyes as he waves at the sight of you beside his brother. You smile back at him, unable to wave with the youngest Itadori in your arms. Sukuna begins leading the way back towards his apartment, listening to Yuji’s ramblings.

“- did you know that seals eat penguins? I could never eat a penguin, they’re so cute. I think seals should eat something else.”

“You think so?” You giggle at Yuji’s adamant statement.

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding his head. “They should just eat fish and get along with the penguins. Like you and Kuna.”

Your brow raises and you cast a glance at Sukuna, who’s also now staring at the pink-haired boy with mild interest.

“What do you mean ‘like me and Sukuna’, sweetheart?” You ask curiously, your heart doing a flip.

“You’re like a penguin because you’re really cool and nice and Kuna’s like a seal because he’s a meanie but he’s also cool. I think if seals were more like my big brother, they’d get along with penguins. Like you guys.”

Kids are wild.

You laugh as Yuji explains himself, your tone sitting somewhere between genuine chortles and something to fill a silence that might otherwise be awkward. “Tell me more about your brother being like a seal,” you urge, knowing it’ll ruffle Sukuna’s carefully preened feathers.

Yuji stares up at the clouds in thought. Your arms are beginning to tire, but you’ll hold him as long as you can, even if you know you’re holding up the walking pace. “Ummmm… well, some seals have spots and Sukuna has some on his shoulders, but he’s more stripey, like a tiger-”

“They’re not stripes, brat,” Sukuna hisses, but Yuji continues on without a care in the world.

“- and seals eat a lot and so does Kuna-”

“Alright, I’ve heard enough.”

Undeterred, the little boy continues. “- and apparently seals are really good parents, just like Kuna. I know he’s our brother, but he’s the best parent ever.”

It hits Sukuna like a shot through the chest, piercing clean straight through his heart and leaving behind a bloody hole. His jaw is heavy set as he does what he can to mask the way his little brother’s words affected him. The last thing he needs is a worried twelve-year-old and an ‘i told you so’ from you.

Because it’s then that it strikes him that you’re right.

Time and time again, you prove to him just how much he means to his brothers and each and every time he’s left balancing precariously on a cliff as he does what he can to hide the way his feet damn near betray him at the edge. It’s not like he has any reason to be upset with you over this, but to be known is to be seen, and that’s not something Sukuna’s accustomed to.

He has no issue with being the campus’ mysterious and hot ‘bad boy’, as much as the title serves to make him roll his eyes. It’s little more than a generic title given to him for surface-level facts and rumors.

To have you call him out so clearly, to be so utterly correct time after time when it comes to him and his family… He’s not sure how he feels about that. It stirs something deep within and he grits his teeth as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

Sukuna’s brow is deeply furrowed, his steps falling heavily on the snow-clad sidewalk. Ever observant, of course you caught the way his jaw trembled subtly when he heard his brother, but the moment was gone before you had a chance to consider it. Now, he just looks frustrated, even more so than usual.

It seems the new year brought with it the realization of just how close the court date is, and how horribly underprepared he is.

“Is that so?” You question Yuji, although your gaze never leaves Sukuna, brow knit in concern for him.

“Yeah! He’s the coolest!”

“He is, isn’t he?” You reply softly, shooting a look at Sukuna, who scowls at you both with an expression you can’t place.

You have to set Yuji on the ground fairly soon after, and ask Choso how his day was. The walk is spent listening to both brothers chat about their days as Sukuna is otherwise silent. Arriving at Sukuna’s front door, he tells the kids to head inside and wait for him in the lobby, waiting until they’re two doors away to talk to you.

“Will you be alright?” 

Something akin to offense passes over his eyes. It’s clear that no matter what you do, everything is getting under his skin today, so you think it’s best to leave. Besides, this is something he needs to do on his own.

“I’ll be fine,” he grits, continuing to scowl down at you. Even as frustrated as he is, his gaze softens as he stares past you and realizes you’ll need to walk back to your car on campus. “Email me when you get home,” he mutters, turning on his heel and leaving you standing out in the cold without another word.

Before he can shut the door behind him, you hesitantly take a step forward, catching the edge of the door. “Let me know if you want to talk.”

He stares at you for a split-second, contempt burning behind red irises that has you frowning at him, hurt that he’s been so short with you today. As though he realizes the same, the furrow to his brow lessens and he hums, nodding.

If that’s the most you’ll get out of him, so be it.

He turns back towards the lobby, passing through the second set of doors and following the kids as they lead the way up to the apartment. Choso reaches for Sukuna’s keys and unlocks the door, pushing through the barrier into their home. Yuji immediately goes running off to drop his bag in their room.

“Hey! Once you’re done I need you both back on the couch,” he calls after his little brother, his shoulders so tense it physically pains him to roll them back.

He can see Choso’s unease immediately, eyes wide and worried. Fuck.

Choso timidly sets his bag down in front of the couch and takes a seat at the edge of the cushion, fiddling with his fingers, the nails chewed raw. Sukuna had never noticed his brother developed that habit.

Yuji bounds excitedly to the couch, oblivious to the weighty air in the room. Choso bounces slightly as his little brother hops on the couch and plops down.

With a deep breath, Sukuna kneels down to the boys’ level, glancing between them.

“I heard from your mother,” he starts. Excitement overtakes Yuji’s expression, while Choso stiffens, his gaze anywhere but on Sukuna. “She’ll be in town soon.” He’s beating around the bush, he knows that. But how the hell do you tell two children about a lawsuit?

“Can we see her?” Yuji asks in awe.

“Lemme finish, Yu.” Sukuna takes a seat on the coffee table as his knees begin to get sore. The old wood creaks beneath his weight, not intended to support him, but it does nonetheless. “She wants ya both back.”

Sukuna pauses, letting both boys process his words.

Choso’s lips are pursed, his hands fiddling uncertainly in his lap.

“Like, we’ll all go live with her?” Yuji asks, his head tilting curiously.

Sukuna shudders at the question. If only it were so simple. “No. Just you and Choso.”

“She’s not Kuna’s mom,” Choso mutters.

In truth, Sukuna’s done a bad job of explaining their family to Yuji, making the assumption he’s too young to understand. Maybe he’s right, but it seems Choso’s willing to tell him the portions that Sukuna doesn’t want to touch.

“But… Kuna’s our brother too,” Yuji protests, frowning.

Sukuna sighs, a pang in his heart. “Listen,” he starts, running a hand through his hair, “if she takes you, I won’t get to be a part of your life. If that’s what you want-”

“No!” Yuji cries out, interrupting Sukuna’s question. Choso’s fidgeting hasn’t stopped, but he has yet to say a word.

“Gimme a moment, Yu. If that’s what you want, that’s fine. I’ll let her take ya-”

“Kuna? Why do you keep saying ‘take’?” Choso finally finds his voice, eyes teary as though he already understands.

Sukuna’s lips press into a thin line, his leg bouncing as he contemplates his reply. The coffee table creaks relentlessly beneath him.

“Your mother doesn’t think I’m fit to take care of you. She’s-” he cuts himself off, running his tongue over his teeth in his mouth. “She’s tryna take you back, legally.”

“Legally?” Yuji parrots, his lips pursed.

Sukuna averts his gaze, looking for answers anywhere within the apartment, but he’s met only with a dull silence and Choso’s quiet sniffles. It’s clear he understands, and Sukuna wants nothing more than to assure him that he can win the legal battle, but the bitter truth is that Sukuna doesn’t want to lie to them.

And he’s not so confident that he can win.

“Yu, d’you remember when we watched Mrs. Doubtfire?”

Slowly, the little boy nods.

“D’you remember the part where the mom and dad are in a big room with a judge and he takes away the dad’s custody?”

Yuji blanks, nodding, although it’s clear he still doesn't fully understand.

“Well, custody is who gets to take care of kids. Right now that’s me. She wants it to be her, and neither of us get to decide that. It’s up to the judge,” Sukuna explains, trying as best as he can to offer an unbiased explanation.

“Tell her no!” Yuji cries out.

Sukuna bites down on his cheek, his brow furrowed. “I don’t get to, Yu. She’s forcing me to show up in front of the judge.”

Ever so slowly, Choso stands up off the couch, trailing closer and closer to his older brother until he’s leaning into Sukuna’s side, silent tears trailing down his cheeks and soaking into Sukuna’s shirt. Yuji seems to be starting to understand, now standing at the edge of the couch as he adamantly stands his ground as though the lawsuit is a personal attack to him.

“No! No, I don’t wanna go without you!” He proclaims loudly, his eyes beginning to water.

Sukuna can only frown as he watches the boy grapple with something he doesn’t understand.

“I don’t-” sniffle, “- I don’t wanna!” His tears now freely fall as he barrels at full force into Sukuna as well, crying into his side. He pulls both brothers closer, his exhausted gaze set straight ahead. “Please, Kuna, please!”

The apartment is filled with Yuji’s bawls and babbles, while Choso silently clings to him. The coffee table creaks beneath the three of them with every movement, threatening to give out at any moment.

“I won’t,” sniffle, “go, p- please don’t make me go! I don’t want to,” he sobs, “I don’t want to, I don’t want to!”

Denial after denial, it’s all that fills the apartment for longer than Sukuna knows what to do about.

“I don’t-” a sob wracks Yuji’s tiny body, “- even know her. I don’t remember her,” he bawls. Sukuna squeezes him as an acknowledgement, though he’s not sure what comfort he can offer. “Why can’t you come with us?”

Sukuna bites down harder than intended on his lower lip. “Your mother doesn’t like me, Yu.”

“But you-” he gasps for air between sobs, “- you’re the best.”

The taste of iron fills Sukuna’s mouth as he swipes his tongue over his lips. His chest feels as though it could implode as he tugs his two brothers tighter against him. Yuji tightly grips Sukuna’s hoodie, his little hands tugging with the full force of a five-year-old.

“I’m gonna fight for you both, okay?” He assures.

Choso sniffles, pulling back just enough to look up at his brother. “You want us?”

If Yuji saying he was the best parent earlier was a shot through the heart, this took out whatever was left. The question barreled straight through him like a train, leaving nothing behind but pieces for Sukuna to pick up. Each piece serving as a mistake in the way he’d raised the boys.

He knows all too well that this question comes from a place of insecurity, and while Choso’s mother may have laid the seed, Sukuna watered it. 

It was never intentional, he would never want Choso to feel that way, but Sukuna remembers the moment he likely solidified Choso’s insecurities all-too-well.

Three letters. Seven emails. Forty eight calls.

Make it forty nine.

“Fuck!” Sukuna slams his phone down on the table that was once his father’s.

The house that surrounds them feels foreign without his life.

Choso stares at the wood grain of the table, his eyes tracing the way it swirls. He’s long grown numb to Sukuna’s anger, especially over the past couple of weeks. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word.

He sat alongside Sukuna through each call. Through all fifty nine attempts to reach his mother, each one further solidifying Sukuna’s fate.

Sukuna, barely able to be considered an adult, is a guardian. By all accounts, he’s a parent.

Sukuna, who works for a cannabis dispensary. Sukuna, who never wanted a second family to begin with, who never wanted this responsibility, who never even wanted brothers, let alone kids, now bears the burden of fatherhood.

The legs of his chair scrape the wooden floor as he stands abruptly, running a hand over his face as he paces a small distance from the table.

He makes his way to the sink, turning the faucet to cold water and splashing it over his face. With dripping hands, he grips the edge of the counter and leans over the sink and his stomach churns and bile threatens to upend.

It wouldn’t be the first time since his father had passed away that his stomach had decided to empty itself.

With his jaw slightly ajar and his chest heaving, he pushes a wet hand through his hair, pushing himself back to his full height.

He wipes the water from his face on his sleeve, shaking his head in an effort to free his vision from his hair. His father had been so sick that Sukuna hadn’t had the time, nor the money, to bother with a haircut, or even shaving. His stubble, that of a boy barely considered an adult, is still uneven and leaves him looking as disheveled as he feels.

His eyes trail the length of the kitchen, which morphs into the living and dining room area, until they land on Choso.

The healthcare system had taken every last penny his father had left behind, and without the support of Choso and Yuji’s mother, he’s at a loss of where to go from here. Even disregarding money, he had to look up how to change a diaper. How sad is that? Looking up Youtube tutorials on what to do?

It’s not like he hadn’t looked after his brothers before, but his father never left him alone long enough to need to worry about that sort of thing. Now it seemed that changing a diaper was the least of his problems.

He teetered constantly somewhere between pissed off and lost and had no one to fall back on, something that became painfully obvious when he’d contemplated going to the hospital when his chest tightened so much that breathing was a forced effort. In the end, he’d been able to do little more than clutch desperately at his chest as he laid on the floor of the bathroom, the cool tile the only reprieve from his lonely agony.

He could reach out to Toji. Hell, he should. But when his father got sick, Sukuna pushed him away. He pushed everyone away. He thinks he’s more comfortable alone now, even if that leaves him staring at his little brother without a clue of what to do.

Choso hasn’t said a word to him since the whole ordeal occurred. The grief had taken its toll on Sukuna’s body and attitude, but it had completely silenced his brother. Although he still stuck around Sukuna, somehow still wanting to be around the grief and anger-stricken man, he never said a word.

The oldest brother cares. He cares a whole lot about his two siblings. Even if this isn’t what he ever wanted, even if he wasn’t prepared to handle the burden of two young kids. Even if he didn’t want siblings to begin with, Sukuna grew to care.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s filled with contempt towards their mother for shoving the two boys onto him like this.

As he stares at Choso, a stark contrast to himself and their baby brother who both resemble their father, he sees her staring back at him. Choso and Yuji’s mother.

He shouldn’t have done what he did next.

He should have thought about his reactions.

He would change everything about how he acted towards his little brother in a heartbeat if he could.

But Sukuna, mentally, was on another plane as his lip curled in disdain. “Won’t fuckin’ answer,” he mutters, more to himself although he looks straight at his brother. “Some fuckin’ mother you’ve got, kid.”

As if on cue, Yuji begins crying from another room.

“Fuck!” Sukuna cries out again, trudging angrily across the kitchen to the toddler’s room.

Just in time to make sure he doesn’t see Choso’s tears.

Sukuna’s sure that moment replays in the boy’s head constantly. He sees it every once in a while, the seed of doubt that Sukuna watered that day, along with every other day before and following. He would give anything to take back how he acted. But what the hell does one expect from your stereotypical troubled teen who doesn’t know how to cook, hardly cleans, and has no one to talk to?

What the hell was Sukuna meant to do when he’d thrown up the previous night’s dinner and laid on the floor until he woke up in a sickening daze early the next morning to Yuji crying?

He hopes, prays, to whatever god on earth will listen, that he can make up for it. Make up for all the mistakes, all the problems. Make up for the ways he’d failed his brothers.

“I do, Cho,” he answers, the first certain thing he’s managed to say since they’d arrived home. “Promise.”

Choso’s grip tightens as his face collides with Sukuna’s side so hard he thinks the poor kid’s gonna bruise his nose.

“I love you, Kuna.” Choso’s voice is so quiet that Sukuna hardly makes out what he said over his little brother’s sobs.

Yuji parrots the middle brother, though his words come out a choppy mess behind his tears. “I- love-” sniffle, “- y- you, Kunaaa.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he gruffs, grimacing. He stares at the couch, his eyes flickering between the three indentations that have formed over the last three years. The material is significantly more worn on his side of the couch, the least worn in the center where Yuji likes to sit. In the back of his mind, something akin to guilt rears its ugly head and he continues his thought before he says something he regrets.

Or, more specifically, before he doesn’t say something and regrets it.

“Love ya both too.”

–

It takes a long time, but Sukuna manages to quiet both brothers down. As a treat, he buys them chicken from Strip Joint, which they were about as thrilled as two devastated young kids could be.

He’s not sure exactly how soundly they’ll manage to sleep, but he’s thankful when Yuji passes out fairly easily after a long afternoon of relentless tears.

Shutting his door behind him, Sukuna sighs as he’s finally able to catch his breath for what feels like the first time today.

He collapses onto his bed against the headboard, running his hands over his face.

Pulling his hands back, he stares at his palms, warm and wet.

Tears.

Is he so worn thin that he can’t even feel his own tears?

Shit.

He wipes his tears on the sleeve of his poor hoodie, which is covered in Yuji’s tears, snot, and spit, Choso’s tears, and now Sukuna’s too.

He pulls it up over his head, pushing his hair back out of his face. It’s getting long again, but Sukuna doesn’t have the time to deal with it.

He hopes to god that his previous transgressions from all those years ago don’t repeat themselves simply because Sukuna’s at wit’s end.

He scratches uncomfortably at his chest, desperate for a shower, anything to take his mind off of the shitty day he’s had. Undressing, he wraps a towel around his waist and walks down the hall to climb into the shower, splaying his hands on the tiles as hot water runs over his body, cleaning him of the dirt and grime that plagues his body, alongside some of the tension in his muscles.

He blinks his eyes open as water trails down his hair, falling in a steady stream down his chin.

The day feels like a blur.

His chest tightens as his muscles relax, a familiar feeling that he fears will leave him laying on the bathroom floor again.

It hasn’t been that bad in years. He didn’t think it would ever be that bad again.

Pushing himself up, he runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back and wiping water from his eyes as he finishes showering. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he slips back into his room, inhaling sharply as his chest seems to compress against his lungs.

Too tired to bother with the outside world, he slips under the covers without a second thought. He doesn’t bother to check if you made it home safe. He doesn’t bother to set out his clothing for tomorrow. He doesn’t even bother to set an alarm. He simply shuts his eyes and hopes to god that he can get a full night’s rest.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the books for Sukuna.

���

Much to your dismay, you don’t see Sukuna again until Friday, four days later. It took him nearly twenty four hours to get back to your message about being home, or the subsequent one the following day upon realizing he wasn’t at lunch, nor in class.

sukuna.r@gmail.com - Tuesday, 5:29 PM im fine. cho didnt sleep. been a long day

You had grimaced and offered condolences, but at the end of the day, you suppose there isn’t much more you can do when he’s not looking for help.

That doesn’t mean Shoko didn’t have to drag you out to the mall and convince you not to show up at his door regardless. Thankful for her distraction, you indulged in getting yourself a new sweater and celebrated the fact that oh my god, your history prof from last semester was suspended for his (terrible) teaching methods?? If only the school had done that one semester earlier.

Then again, maybe you wouldn’t be nearly as close with Sukuna if that were the case.

Maybe that would have been for the best.

But the tightness in your heart tells you otherwise as you sit alone in your Literature History class.

It’s funny, that without Sukuna’s distraction beside you, you’re somehow finding it harder to focus without him in the chair beside you. Absently typing at your keyboard, you stare at the screen, your eyes trailing the notes you’ve been taking. They mostly make sense, but your brain must be working on autopilot, because you haven’t processed a single word the professor said.

Rubbing the crease between your brows, you do your best to tune in, chewing on your lower lip and narrowing your eyes as if it’ll do you any good.

The door at the front of the class loudly swings open and Sukuna barges in without a word, trudging straight up to your seat with his hoodie up.

“Class started twenty minutes ago, Ryomen.”

From your angle, you see the snarl on his face, you see the way he practically whips towards her with a world of stress in his eyes and the anger to match. But whether he chooses to take the high road, or simply decides it isn’t worth it, he manages only a measly “yeah. Whatever.”

He should consider himself lucky he isn’t sent away for that, but with only a disappointed grimace, the professor chooses to carry on.

“You’re here,” you whisper, as quietly as you can manage so as not to get him in further trouble.

He sighs. “Finally managed to get them to class today.”

“They haven’t been going to school?”

“Couldn’t get ‘em to,” he mutters, keeping his head low behind his laptop screen as he slumps back in his seat.

You glance at him, a sympathetic frown adorning your lips, but you keep quiet to avoid getting called out by the professor again. Sukuna keeps unusually quiet and withdrawn throughout the entirety of class, packing up as quickly as he came.

He’s on his feet and charging down the stairs before you have so much as a moment to with him.

“Ryomen! A word.”

You watch with dismay as Sukuna whips around angrily to the professor, grumbling out a less-than-thrilled “what?” as he reaches the last step near the door. “Make it quick. I got somewhere to be.”

You grit your teeth, watching with horror as the professor’s brow raises in disbelief at Sukuna’s attitude.

“Mr. Sukuna, if you don’t want to be here, you’re more than welcome to drop my class. You’ve made it very clear that this is not your priority, and-”

Sukuna drops his bag to the ground with a thud, as the students who haven’t already slipped out, including yourself, all watch the interaction in trepidation. “Yeah, you could say it’s not,” he growls. “I got other shit going on.”

“I can sympathize with that,” the professor replies. You have to applaud her patience with the man. “However, I have a class to teach. Whether you choose to show up or not is on you, however I’ll ask that you please don’t distract other students by arriving late.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches, visibly biting his tongue to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. “Yeah. Sure,” he dismisses, turning to grab his bag. He slings it over his shoulder and slams the door ajar with his shoulder, barging out without another word.

You traverse down the stairs and chase after him, jogging to catch up to his long strides.

“Sukuna!” You call just before falling into step with him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he hisses, shooting you a glare. He falters when your expression recoils appropriately to his prickly reply. Sighing, he runs a hand down his face. “I’m fine,” he repeats, less edge to his tone this time.

“Oh. Okay. Um, are you still good to meet with Kento and his friend?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, clipped.

“That’s good,” you agree, nodding as you search for common ground, something Sukuna might be a bit more receptive to. “Did you want company while you pick up Choso and Yuji?”

He casts you a glance, his expression unreadable. “Up to you.”

He’s not making this easy.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing how they’re doing.”

He doesn’t even bother with a reply this time, he simply shrugs.

“Okay, um, I’ll come with you then,” you mumble hesitantly, gauging his reaction, but he remains silent, pulling ahead to walk in front of you as he heads for the doors and turns in the direction of his brothers’ school.

The silence no longer carries a familiar warmth, or even the relative discomfort from earlier in the week. It hangs over you like a fog now, uncertainty tucked within its blanket. Sukuna hardly seems to notice you’re there, never turning to acknowledge you nor straying off his path. Each time you contemplate talking, the words die in your throat at the sight of his tense jaw.

At least it’s warmer today than it was on Monday.

Standing at Sukuna’s side as you arrive at the school, you quietly examine his face. His eyes are sunken and heavy and his shoulders hunched as though the weight of his burdens are hardly being held up anymore. His eyes are glazed in a way that tells you his dismissive attitude towards you is because he isn’t all there, not present even within his own body.

Clearly the talk with his brothers has had adverse effects not only on them, but him as well.

Hesitantly, you reach out in hopes to ground him, setting a hand near his wrist, where the tips of your fingers graze his skin as they breach the edge of his sleeve. His eyes sharpen as he stares down at the contact of your hand.

Sukuna is accustomed to the way that your skin always seems to sear him. He’s chalked it up all this time to lust, but as the contact of your skin, so soft and gentle, just barely brushes his, he second-guesses himself for a split-second. As if on auto-pilot, he can only watch as he pulls his hand from his coat pocket, flipping it to brush the tips of his fingers against yours. Offering a comfort he isn’t familiar with, one that keeps him present, he fiddles with your fingers as you simply observe his face.

“Are you okay, Kuna?” You keep your voice low, your tone gentle as you take a step towards him, letting him run his thumb over your knuckles as he pleases.

It takes a moment, but he meets your gaze, really meets your gaze, for the first time today. His eyes fall again to your hand as he avoids your question. “They didn’t take it well.”

You nod slowly. “I didn’t think they would,” you admit with a tight-lipped smile. “The nightmares…?”

“None of us have slept.”

“I…” You grimace. “Can tell.” You gently squeeze the tips of his fingers that continue to fiddle with yours.

His chest rumbles in something akin to a laugh, though it lacks humor. “I figured goin’ back to school would do ‘em good, maybe help with sleeping. Cho wasn’t thrilled.”

“He’ll be alright,” you assure Sukuna, the school bell sounding from behind you. His fingers pause for a moment, before he drops his hand back to his side.

Yuji is one of the first kids out the door. He seems to be managing, although his usual energy is certainly dulled. He runs at full force straight into Sukuna, who picks him up with ease as the child clings to him.

“Missed you, Kuna.”

Sukuna hums, gently nudging the boy with his shoulder. “Look who’s here.”

Yuji lifts his head, flipping it around until his gaze finds you. He calls your name happily, though it’s still dulled from the usual excitement that surrounds him. His arms reach for you and Sukuna plops him down on the snow to let him run straight for you.

“Hey sweetheart,” you greet, kneeling before him to let him hug you. Reeling back, you gently brush his hair from his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” He pouts, shaking his head. His hair falls back over his forehead again, so you brush the stray pink strands from his eyes once more. “I miss my brother.”

“Hey,” you coo softly. “He’s not letting you go, honey. We’re going to meet one of my friends for some advice, okay?”

Yuji’s head tilts. “Huh? Advice for Cho?”

You mirror him, brow furrowed. “What’s going on with Cho?”

“He doesn’t wanna play anymore,” Yuji pouts, staring down at the snow under his little feet as he rocks side to side. His little cheeks are red, whether from the cold or unshed tears, you aren’t sure.

With a grunt of effort, you pull the little boy into your arms. He clings to you, burying his head into the crook of your neck as you turn to his older brother. “Is Choso okay?” You query, concerned.

“I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

You turn to the door where Choso emerges, his appearance ghostly. His movements are mechanical as he makes his way up to you and Sukuna. He shoots a glance up to you, but doesn’t acknowledge you otherwise, staring blankly off to the side as he waits for Sukuna to lead the way.

“Hey, Choso.”

Silence.

You frown, precariously balancing Yuji in one arm to reach down and gently run a hand over Choso’s hair. He blinks a few times, meeting your gaze. Although the boy traditionally looks tired, his eyes are devoid of warmth. He’s running on empty, completely gassed, and you can understand suddenly why all three of them had no desire to show up to classes.

“You know what I think this day calls for?” You shouldn’t be shocked to find that none of the three brothers reply, but Sukuna at the very least gives you his attention. “How do you three like cinnamon buns?”

“I like them,” Yuji mumbles into your shoulder, gripping your coat.

Well, at least one of them will give you an answer. If that’s the best you can get, you’ll take it.

“Great! You can get whatever treats you’d like, alright?”

Your enthusiasm is met with silence. This is one of those moments where it becomes glaringly obvious who raised the two boys.

Simply to fill the silence, you inquire with Yuji how his day went, plopping him onto the ground when he becomes too heavy to carry. He gingerly reaches for your hand, squeezing it as he talks about his day and a book his class has begun to read.

Yuji begins to drag your hand, falling further and further behind as he grows tired, practically trying to clamber onto your back as you stop to wait for a crosswalk.

Taking notice, Sukuna reaches down to pick up his little brother. “C’mere,” he mumbles as he lifts the child over his head until he’s sitting soundly on the man’s shoulders. You smile softly at the sight. They may not share a mother, but you’d hardly believe it. They’re like twins, only born several years apart.

Yuji idly tugs at Sukuna’s hair as he sits atop the man’s shoulders, a good six feet taller than where he usually stands. His older brother swats at his hands with a grimace, staring ahead as the boy settles and leans his torso on the back of Sukuna’s head.

You keep an eye on Choso, who begins to trail behind the closer you get to the cafe. You’re a good thirty minutes early, but you don’t think it’s a particularly good idea to have the kids listening into the legal discussion either way, so this will give you a chance to grab a table just for them.

Sukuna ducks as he walks into the cafe, ensuring he doesn’t smack his brother’s head on the doorframe, while you trail behind to wait for Choso. When his eyes meet your feet in front of him, they slowly trail up until he finds your gaze. It twists your heart, to see how blankly he stares at you.

“Hey honey. If you don’t want to talk, that’s totally fine, but I just want you to know I’m here.”

His eyes flicker between yours.

Kneeling down to his height, you smile softly. “Do you remember when you found that paperwork and I told you that your brother would talk to me if he needed help?”

Choso blinks a couple of times, and for a moment, you think that’s the most you’ll get from him, but he finds it in himself to nod.

“Well, he did come to me for help. We’re gonna meet my friends at the cafe in a bit and they’re gonna help your brother. He’s fighting for you. We’ll figure things out, okay?”

He nods again, taking a meager step forward before finding his way into your arms. You hug him back tightly and rub his back.

“Thank you.” It’s quiet and hoarse, you can tell he hasn’t spoken in a while. But it’s a step forward, and you’ll take it.

A knock on the glass grabs your attention and you pull back a bit to look up at the cafe window above you. The picture of stoicism, Sukuna stares down at you from within, pointing behind him with his thumb.

‘Got us a table,’ he mouths through the glass, before turning back towards the interior. You don’t catch a word he says, narrowing your eyes as you try to make out what he’s trying to tell you.

“He got a table.” Choso mumbles, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face as you turn back to him.

“Is he, like- really bad at that?” You ask, smirking as you point a thumb in the direction where Sukuna was moments ago.

Choso nods, his smile turning up sliiiiightly more.

“And here I thought it was just me,” you grin, standing back up and leading the way to the back of the cafe where Sukuna’s got two tables reserved, one with four seats, and a smaller one with two. He must be on the same wavelength as you, having deliberately chosen a table with enough distance to keep the conversation private, while still having the kids nearby.

He pulls a stack of very ripped and wrinkled papers from his bag, setting them face down on the table as Choso crawls into a tall chair beside his brother. With an arched brow, you set your hand on the paperwork as you take a seat beside him, asking a silent question.

“You can read ‘em if you want.”

Flipping them, your eyes first skim the tape that holds each page together, then the contents themselves.

“What happened to them?”

“I was pissed.”

Clearly. But you keep that thought to yourself. You skim the contents of the legal documents, nails tapping against the faux wood grain table rhythmically.

Case No. 2493

Social File No. 34785-98

Next Court Date: March 23rd.

In The Matter of Choso Itadori and Yuji Itadori.

Turns out, it only takes four sentences before you’re frowning at the page, the legal jargon a little bit beyond you. Of course, it’s not entirely illegible and you’re thankful you’re an English literature major, but the jurisdiction codes and notes are a bit beyond any English diploma.

“This is… a lot.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Sukuna mumbles, glancing at his watch. “We got some time, you want anything?”

“I’m okay, thanks Kuna.” Keeping your head buried in the paperwork as you try to dissect an ounce of what the documents say, you chew on your lip as Sukuna drags his brothers to the counter before stepping off to the side to await his order.

With your head down and brow furrowed in documents, you don’t notice Kento standing opposite you with a decently sized box from your parents.

“Good afternoon,” Kento greets you, punctuating the sentence with your name. Your head whips up with a smile as you greet the two men. Standing beside Kento is another tall man with tousled short brown hair, sunken eyes, and a prominent nose. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, with a blazer over top, which is about what you would imagine a law student wears. “This is Higuruma,” he introduces the man.

“Hiromi is fine,” he chuckles, surprisingly informal for someone leaning in to extend his hand to you.

Shaking his hand, you flash him a grin. “Nice to meet you,” you greet him, imparting your name. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“It’s not a problem,” Hiromi chuckles kindly, taking a seat kitty cornered from you while Kento sits across from you. Hiromi has an air of tiredness about him that’s not entirely dissimilar to that of Sukuna.

Sukuna returns just in time, a tray of cups held high above the ground to prevent a certain young boy from dangling off his arm and spilling them.

That same young boy happens to be dangling off his other arm, though it hardly seems to weigh the man down as he easily holds both the boy and the bag of treats up. He mumbles something to Choso as he sets the tray down, making a motion for the boy to look in his backpack.

Kento and Hiromi watch in barely-masked shock as Sukuna gently directs the kids to a smaller table in the corner, handing them the bag of sweets and a cup of hot chocolate each. Choso tucks a couple of coloring books and markers beneath his elbow as well as they leisurely make their way to the little table in the corner.

With a heavy, tired, sigh, Sukuna takes a seat beside you, pulling the last two cups out and setting one in front of himself and one in front of you.

“Oh, I don’t-”

Ignoring you outright, Sukuna speaks up. “Woulda gotten you both somethin’ but I don’t know your orders,” he gruffs to the two men opposite him, his jaw tightening at the painfully obvious shock and hint of guilt that gleams in Kento’s eyes.

“That’s… Quite alright,” Kento clears his throat, introducing Hiromi and Sukuna to one another before passing you the box of belongings your parents had sent with him. Hiromi extends his hand again, though Sukuna’s not so eager to take it. It’s all a bit formal for him.

“So, I assume this has to do with legal questions,” Hiromi chuckles wryly as you take a sip of your drink.

Your exact order.

Sukuna remembered.

Sukuna hums, sliding the papers across the table without a word. Hiromi coughs once at the sight of the ripped papers, stifling a laugh at the unsightly state of them. It fades almost immediately as his eyes trace the Times New Roman that litters the page.

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair, leaning over the table.

“Right. Before we start, I need to make something clear. What I’m doing right now is illegal as a student, so you can’t breathe a word that I was here,” he states firmly, hollowed eyes flickering between the both of you.

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” Sukuna mumbles, amusement pricking the edge of his tone.

Hiromi glances back at the kids, catching his meaning. “They’re yours, then? Legally, I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Hiromi sighs again, nodding. “I see. Give me a moment to read these.”

“In the meantime, can I get you both something to drink?” You ask politely.

“Coffee, black, please,” Hiromi replies, leaning over the table on his elbow as he tilts the first page read over a rip, casting the glare on the tape elsewhere.

“That will be fine for myself as well, thank you,” Kento smiles kindly. He waits until you’re out of earshot to speak to Sukuna while Hiromi reads. “She cares about you a great deal, you know.”

A muscle in Sukuna’s jaw ticks. He had a feeling this was coming, though he’d hoped you simply wouldn’t leave his side. He can only avoid his mistakes so long, it seems.

“She’s a good friend.”

Kento’s reaction gives nothing away, his observant expression looking for a break in Sukuna’s aloof features, any sign that he’s the shallow asshole Kento had taken him for. When he doesn’t find it, he nods slowly.

“She is. She deserves that same treatment back.”

Sukuna’s lip twitches, bordering on a snarl that he only holds back out of courtesy of the blonde doing him a favor. “I’m aware.”

Kento sighs, his posture relaxing in his seat as Sukuna bites his tongue, matching Kento’s sigh with a striking glare. “Listen, I believe that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and given how close she is to both of us, I’d prefer to be on friendly terms.”

“Mm.”

Gathering that Sukuna isn’t one for words, Kento continues. “I see now that there are…” he pauses, his eyes sliding to the right where the two kids are quietly coloring. “Extenuating circumstances behind what happened and I may have misdirected my anger. So, I apologize.”

Sukuna quietly observes Kento’s surprisingly sincere apology, nodding slowly. “I appreciate you lookin’ out for her.”

Sukuna doesn’t exactly verbally accept the apology, but that’s not uncharacteristic of him. Besides, he can’t exactly hold a grudge against the man who’s helping him in a legal battle. 

“Of course. Let it be known, however, that if you hurt her again, I will not take it so lightly.” Kento adds grimly.

Sukuna huffs. “‘Course.”

“Great.” Kento extends a hand as an act of good will.

“Can we cut the formalities? They aren’t really my deal.”

Kento cracks a smile, nodding. “Sure, Sukuna.”

The sounds of the cafe make for a relatively comfortable silence in spite of Hiromi’s obvious discomfort of the conversation happening over his head. The sounds of the coffee machines, clinking of glasses, and slamming of fridges help to make the environment a little easier on the three men.

“Alright,” you plop down in your chair once more, “two black coffees.”

Both men thank you as you settle beside Sukuna.

“How are the kids?” You quietly ask, leaning back to glance at them.

Sukuna shrugs. “Coloring Spider-Man probably. They seem fine.”

“Alright,” Hiromi taps the stack of unkempt papers against the table, grabbing a pen from the pocket of his blazer and a stack of sticky notes from his pocket. Somehow that’s just so law student that you find yourself with a lopsided smile as you watch. “I’ll need a bit of extra info, can I ask some questions?”

Sukuna slides back in his chair, grimacing to hide his disdain for needing to share his personal life. “Shoot.”

“Right. So, I’ll need the relationships of everyone involved in their lives. Parents, grandparents, and siblings.” He positions his pen to take notes.

Sukuna, begrudgingly as ever, sighs. “Kaori and Jin Itadori are their parents, Jin passed away three or so years ago,” he begins, his leg tapping beneath the table. You’ve noticed he seems to do that whenever the subject of his father comes up around people he isn’t comfortable with. “I’m their half-brother. Father’s side.”

Hiromi nods, writing away with his pen.

“No family remaining on the father’s side apart from myself. They got an uncle and aunt on the mother’s side, as well as a grandfather, I got no contact or names for any of ‘em.”

Hiromi glances up, his eyes sliding towards you. “And your girlfri-”

“We’re friends. She looks after ‘em sometimes,” Sukuna interrupts, keeping his gaze straight ahead. You’re grateful he does, your cheeks absolutely alight with heat. Pulling your hands politely into your lap, you fiddle with your fingers.

Sensing he may have hit a sore subject, Hiromi scratches the back of his neck. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, returning to his notes. “Right. How’d you end up with custody to begin with?”

“Their mother moved for a job before Yuji turned one. When I reached out when our father passed away, she didn’t respond.” Sukuna keeps his replies short and simple, only divulging what he needs to.

Hiromi pauses for a brief moment to stare at Sukuna, as if in disbelief. Kento’s expression matches, but he quickly clears his throat to keep the conversation going. “And the contact with their uncle and aunt? Grandfather?”

“They ain’t my family. I don’t have contact. Lawyers tried, no answer.” He shrugs.

Hiromi jots down more notes, pointing the back of his pen towards Sukuna. “That’s good for you, by the way.”

Sukuna nods slowly, though he’s unable to let his guard down regardless.

“What methods of contact did you use?”

Hiromi clicks his pen a number of times and Sukuna crosses his arms over his chest. “Email, mail, and phone.”

“Was she in communication before Jin passed?” Hiromi queries, leaning over his notes.

Sukuna pauses, narrowing his eyes in thought. “I think so. I don’t have Jin’s phone anymore.”

Hiromi hums, scratching his jaw as he takes down notes. “I see. Are the kids…” he pauses, swinging the end of his pen in the direction of their table, “aware of this?”

Sukuna visibly tenses. “Yeah.”

Gingerly, you slide your leg closer until it’s sidled next to him. Although he doesn’t react, his bouncing leg slows to a halt, as does the subtle shaking of the table. You smile to yourself that you’re able to bring him the comfort he stubbornly refuses to ask for.

“Did she come to you first before sending these over?” Hiromi asks, making a motion towards the legal documents.

Sukuna shakes his head.

“Right. That should do it for the petitioner’s side,” Hiromi hums, tapping the back of his pen against his notes. “Let’s talk about you and your brothers.”

“My favorite subject,” Sukuna grumbles.

Hiromi offers a sympathetic smile. “I get it, believe me. I’m a pretty private person, too. Now, what’s your major?”

“History.”

Hiromi’s brow raises. He seems somewhat surprised, though he doesn’t voice it. “Got anything lined up for when you graduate?”

“No.”

“I assume you’re working as well.”

Sukuna grits his teeth, fed up with the overly personal questions. “Yeah. I’m a mechanic and I stock shelves.”

Hiromi leans on his arm as he jots that down. “You’re a busy guy,” he mumbles, met with Sukuna’s glare at the unhelpful commentary. Hiromi seems unphased, chuckling. “Sorry, my bad. Do you own or rent?”

“I rent an apartment.”

“Three bedroom?”

“Two.”

“Got it. Alright,” he sighs, running both hands through his hair and leaning back in his chair until it’s precariously balancing on the back two legs. With a thud, the chair slams down onto the floor. “Sounds like a fairly standard case. There’s a number of things here that’ll work in your favor, but-” he pauses, wording his statement carefully. “Trying to win a guardianship case against their biological mother isn’t something I would call easy.”

Sukuna nods.

“Let’s go over the basics. She’s trying to claim them as her right as their mother, but she’s also claiming you’re unfit for guardianship on two counts, lack of funds and irresponsibility. That means you’ll need to prove otherwise on both counts, while also convincing them that the right place for the kids is with you,” Hiromi states, shuffling the opening page aside to briskly scan the second page. “At the end of the day, the judge will choose what’s right for the kids. The mother will have a bit of a leg up on you since she won’t have to fight any claims of ill-doing.”

Sukuna frowns. That doesn’t exactly bode well for him.

“You’ve got some good things going for you, though. You should have a record or be able to pull a record of your contact with her. Having two jobs, although not ideal, has its merits as well. Your brothers are clearly both healthy and I assume you’ve kept them in school as well and you’ve had them for three years now, that’s a strong argument.”

“There’s a ‘but’ somewhere here,” Sukuna frowns.

“There… is,” Hiromi agrees, running another hand through his tousled hair and disheveling it further. He leans forward, picking up the stack of legal papers. “I’m assuming the reason she took a job overseas in the first place is for money. She’s paying for a good lawyer,” he points out, setting the paper back down on the table and sliding towards Sukuna. “They’re expensive for a reason, and they’re not just the best in the city. They have national renown.”

Your heart sinks at the sound of that. “So, pro-bono…?”

“It’s certainly an option,” Hiromi avoids your gaze as he replies, something that doesn’t sit well with you. “Legal clinics and pro-bono are meant more for standard cases-”

“You said this was standard,” Sukuna contains his growl, his voice strained. His leg presses hard against yours, his anger contained with all the strength of a bottle cap.

“It is, on paper. The problem here that I’m concerned about is her choice of lawyers.” He taps his pen on his notes as Sukuna drags his hands over his face in exasperation. “They aren’t… exactly known for losing.”

“Fucking... Just fucking great,” Sukuna gripes, leaning over the table on heavy shoulders. He downs what’s left of his coffee, pressing a thumb into the crease between his brows.

“I would be willing to bet that she purposely chose to spring this on you before the kids are old enough to testify.”

“Choso isn’t old enough…?” You query with a frown.

Hiromi slides the legal papers back towards himself, looking over the listed birth date. “No, he’s one year off, and even if he was, you would still need to convince them he’s mature enough.”

“Fuck,” Sukuna sighs, his chest tight. “So my odds aren’t good then, are they?”

Hiromi watches his words as he scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, they’re not ideal. I’d say two to one, but not impossible. You do have a lot going for you.”

“What do you think he should do?” You ask softly.

Hiromi sighs. “Your best bet will be to really lean in on the fact that you’ve had them for three years because she never replied. Call your cell carrier and get phone logs if they’ve kept them, grab any copies of letters sent, pull up emails, anything you can to prove you reached out.” Hiromi pauses, setting his pen on the table as he takes a sip of coffee. “Pull up every record you have that proves the kids are in good health. Things like vaccination records will go a long way. If you can get your employers to write letters detailing your work ethic, that’s worthwhile too. Anything to prove you’re fit.”

Great. His employers get to know about his brothers. Everyone gets to see into Sukuna’s personal life.

Just fucking great.

Sukuna leans hard against his hand, roughly rubbing his eyes. “Sure,” he huffs, swinging a hand through the air. “Why the fuck would she be doing this in the first place?” He leans back suddenly, whipping his hand through the air in exasperation. “Three years ago it wasn’t her fuckin’ problem, so what changed?”

Hiromi flips to the third page of the documents. “If I were to guess, she wants the government grants for childcare.” His eyes skim the second paragraph on the page, pausing as he thinks over what legal code the paperwork is recalling. “I assume you get that right now with two dependents.”

“Yeah, it pays my fuckin’ rent. She’s got money, though, what the fuck changed?”

Sukuna’s clearly running out of patience, to no fault of Hiromi’s, but he’s completely unphased by him. Whatever type of law he’s going into, he must be accustomed to this kind of behavior.

With a tight-lipped smile, Hiromi shrugs. “All I can do is guess. I don’t know.”

Sukuna rakes a hand through his hair. “So, what the hell do I do about the pro-bono thing?”

“I have some contacts that I can recommend that might give you a break on the cash side, but yeah. I’d recommend against going the free route. I really don’t think you’ll have a foot to stand on if you do that.”

Sukuna stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the tile flooring. It echoes loudly around the little cafe, pulling all attention towards him, but he pays it no mind. His brow twitches, crimson eyes filled with distress. “How expensive are we talkin’?”

Hiromi frowns sympathetically. “Two months’ rent I’d guess, though they may cut you a break but it’ll depend on how long you spend with them.”

Looking between the kids and Sukuna, you can see the questions rising from them as their brother holds the cafe’s attention. In an effort to keep everyone calm, you brush your fingers gently against Sukuna’s wrist, your nails dragging softly over his wrist tattoo. “Take a seat,” you urge him, pointedly tilting your head towards his little brothers, who are both staring at him with wide eyes.

Sukuna inhales sharply, taking his seat again. “Is that the high or low end of your guess?”

“High,” Hiromi tries to assure him.

“Great,” Sukuna growls, his anger directed at no one in particular.

“Is there anything else we should know?” You query quietly in an effort to keep the conversation from Choso and Yuji.

Hiromi taps his fingers on the table in thought. “I get it, Sukuna, I really do, but you need to have the patience of a god in court.” Sukuna’s teeth grit on instinct. “A judge won’t take kindly to a mouthy defense. Only speak when spoken to. Got that?”

Sukuna scoffs with all the dramatism of a man falling apart at the seams. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“Thank you, Hiromi. This is a huge help, really.”

He offers a kind smile. “It’s no problem, really. But remember, you got this info online or something,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ll have Kento send you some of my contacts.”

“Thank you. And no problem, this was nothing more than a helpful websearch,” you giggle, checking on Sukuna in your peripherals. He’s staring at his little brothers, the sound of clinking metal muffled by his pocket as he opens and shuts his lighter.

You give him a nudge, pulling him back to the present, if only for a moment. “Mm. Thanks, Hiromi.”

Hiromi, clearly sympathetic to what Sukuna’s going through, smiles. “Happy to help. Thanks for the coffee.”

You say your goodbyes and gather the kids’ belongings and the box from your parents, offering Sukuna a ride home. It’s chilly and getting dark, and the last thing you need is for a man not in his right mind to try to walk two scared kids home.

Fuck, what a situation he’s in.

He accepts your offer with a nod, letting you lead the way and chat with the kids as he trails behind.

The ride is quiet. Even by Yuji’s standards, it’s painfully quiet. He points out some street art of a monster with a crown that he likes, but it seems to be the most even the five-year-old can manage. Their whole family is emotionally drained.

Even by your standards, you’re running on empty at this point. There’s only so much emotional strain you can handle and between the concern that had distracted you all week and a long day of walking on eggshells around Sukuna, your social battery is running low too. There’s only so much you can handle when the man in your passenger seat has nestled his way into your heart and left an irreparable hole in which only he could fit.

Your heart can only handle so much distant love.

It became increasingly clear over the past week that his absence was making your heart grow fonder. Although you were apart for a while after Christmas, his continual emails sated the part of you that craved him so desperately. Without that, a chasm opened and swallowed you whole, unable to fight it for even a moment.

Still, even in the bone-weary silence of your car, being surrounded by Sukuna and his sweet little family holds a temporary bandage around the pieces of your heart. It’s flimsy at best, fleeting as it begins to unravel with each disheartening snap and gripe that comes from Sukuna, but you can’t blame him when his entire world is caving in around him.

Hell, you can’t even begin to worry about the pain the squeezes your heart when he’s barely holding it together beside you. Usually the face of stoicism, yet his well-put-together seams are cracking, revealing his facade not just to you, but to everyone.

Sukuna’s door swings open the moment you park as he stumbles on his feet as though your vehicle had been claustrophobic. He sets a large palm on the hood of your car to steady himself, dazed.

Pushing down the uneasy feeling building in your chest, you keep calm as you lift Yuji out of the back seat and watch him run over to Choso, getting on the tips of his toes to whisper something into Choso’s ear.

Rounding the car, you try to grab Sukuna’s attention, the look of helplessness on his face catching you off guard as he makes a point of hiding from his brothers. His grip on your car is unyielding, his knuckles white from the effort of holding himself upright.

“Keys?” You whisper quietly. He blinks a couple of times, his chest rising and falling startlingly quickly as he fumbles in his jacket pocket with his spare hand. “I got it.” Gingerly reaching out, you slip your hand into his pocket, careful to pull out only his keys and not his lighter.

Jogging up to Choso, you smile reassuringly. “I just need to talk to your brother. You two go upstairs for me, okay? Lock the door behind you.”

Choso nods, pausing to peek past you at his older brother. There’s a silent question in his eyes that he won’t voice. Whether that’s a trauma response or that he knows you understand, you can’t say for sure.

“He’s okay, don’t worry sweetheart,” you reassure him, ruffling his hair.

He puts his trust in you with a half-hearted attempt at a smile and grabs Yuji’s hand to lead the way into the building.

The sun has mostly set over the horizon at this point, casting dark purple hues over Sukuna’s tattooed cheeks. He hunches over the hood of your car, leaning his body so heavily over the vehicle that it dips under his weight. He exhales shakily, dragging his hands down his face.

In your best effort to comfort him, you gently rub his back. His muscles are taut beneath the down of his winter coat, his back rising and falling just a bit too quickly for your comfort.

“Sukuna?”

He forces himself upright, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Fuck!” He barks, taking a step away from you to pace along the side of your car. His mind is a jumbled mess and he doesn’t know how to make sense of the thoughts that seem to relentlessly batter him, leaving him with a heaving, tight chest, searing anger, and something he can’t put a name to.

Anxiety.

“Sukuna?” You try again as his pacing grows erratic.

“Fuck, I don’t fucking-” he stammers, fists balling at his sides as he struggles not to launch the closest thing to his hand into the wall. Again. He doesn’t need to break his lighter twice in only a couple of months.

You take a step towards him in an attempt to disrupt his pacing course, but he simply turns on his heel in the other direction.

“That fucking-”

“Sukuna!” You jog around to face him, gripping the open front of his black coat and stopping him abruptly.

“What?” He snarls breathlessly, pulling back against your grip.

You don’t relent, keeping him in place although you know he has the strength to tear himself from you if he wanted.

“Can you breathe, Kuna?”

He tugs against you once more, gripping the top of your vehicle. It’s cold on the pads of his fingers, a sharp contrast to the blazing heat his body is overproducing. He doesn’t, can’t, reply to you, but you don’t need him to, the answer is written plain as day for all to see.

He’s panicking.

He’s spiraling downwards harshly and his anxiety is taking along with it the strong front that Sukuna has worked relentlessly to maintain. His own body is forcibly breaking down the walls he built not only to keep himself safe, but also his brothers.

His body is begging you for the help he’d never ask for, lest he suffer alone.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” you soothe, your voice low and gentle as he leans against your car. “Sit down in the back of my car,” you urge sternly, attempting to tug him towards the back door.

He forcefully pulls back out of your grip. “I’m not my fuckin’ kid brothers, don’t fucking treat me like them,” he hisses, fire swirling beneath the surface of his eyes. It’s a meager attempt to mask his distress.

You frown, unmoving as you contemplate how to help someone who doesn’t want your help. Someone who doesn’t want pity or sympathy, who wants only respect and nothing less.

It doesn’t matter how much respect for him you have when looking back at him he sees only sympathy in your eyes.

“Please, can we talk? It’s cold out here, just sit in the back of my-”

“For fuck’s sake, what the fuck is there to talk about?” He yells, whipping his hand through the air. He reels back, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I can fucking handle things, stop sticking your nose in my damn business,” he hisses in a strained tone, rubbing at his chest in discomfort.

Your eyes trail down to watch the way he clutches at his shirt and pulls the collar from his neck as though it’s choking him, his lips slightly parted as he struggles to breathe. “Sukuna, I know you can handle things. Just listen to me, okay?” His eyes snap to you. “Have you had a panic attack before?”

“I’m not havin’ a fucking panic attack, christ, just- gimme some fuckin’ space,” he backs away from you, walking over to his apartment building’s exterior and rummaging through his jacket pockets in search of cigarettes. He pulls out a small cardboard box, flipping it open with shaky hands and muttering a curse under his breath as he comes up empty. He tosses it at full force into the building, leaning his head against the wall a moment later as his vision grows white at the edges.

“Sukuna,” your tone is firm as you come up behind him. “Please sit.”

By some miracle, he flips until his back can slide down the wall and he’s finally sitting, his gaze fixed nowhere in particular behind you.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you lower yourself down to your knees to sit in front of him. Thank god. Even as the cold snow melts beneath you and seeps into the warmth of your pants, chilling the skin of your knees, you push through. Setting your hands on his forearms, you rub soothing circles into them.

“Here, are your hands cold?” Sliding the tips of your fingers along his arm and raising goosebumps with your touch even through the barrier of his jacket, you gauge the temperature of his hands, nodding to yourself. “They are cold… here-” you lift his hand up to cool the back of his neck, which is overheating even in the below freezing weather. “I think that should feel good.”

It shouldn’t piss him off as much as it does that you’re right. It does help, leaving him completely at your mercy, as Sukuna himself doesn’t understand how to quell this feeling.

“Breathe with me, okay?”

He doesn’t react, but his crimson gaze falls to your chest, studying the rise and fall. You direct him by repeating a gentle “in… and out,” moving your thumb along his arm in time with your own breaths and instructions. He closes his eyes as the pain in his chest eases and he’s able to catch his breath.

Continuing to soothingly run your thumb along his arm, you carefully reach up to brush his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead. He stiffens briefly, but quickly relaxes without bothering to open his eyes.

Your heart twists at the intimacy of the situation, but it’s neither the time nor place to concern yourself with your own emotions.

You can handle the way your own chest tightens as Sukuna’s finger twitches and brushes your wrist, settling against the warmth of your skin.

You don’t dare interrupt the peace, giving him the time he needs to find his grounding. It takes him a few moments, but he moves his hand from the back of his neck, settling it on his knee. His gaze fixes on something in the distance as he takes a long, exhausted breath.

To your surprise, his arm that you’re still rubbing circles into flips and his thumb and fingers wrap around the circumference of your forearm. With a lopsided smile, you squeeze his arm back.

“Talk to me.”

With the sun completely set over the horizon, the only light that illuminates Sukuna’s face is that of the light over his apartment building. It glows faintly, flickering every so often with a golden hue that paints the broken expression on his face in such a way that even in this dire situation, he looks ethereal.

His gaze travels upwards as the light flickers again, the golden hue glimmering against the packed snow beneath your (very cold) knees. “I can’t afford a lawyer,” he mutters shamefully, his brow furrowed.

You contemplate your next words very carefully given Sukuna’s nature. “What can I do?” To help?

“Nothing,” he scoffs, his eyes not leaving the point where his hand connects with your arm. Even with a jacket between you, your presence brings him comfort. “I’ll figure shit out like I always do.”

“You don’t need to do this alone, Kuna.”

The glare he shoots you is sharp. “I can manage.”

“Manage until- until what? You have another panic attack?” Although your tone is still gentle, there’s a prickle to your words.

“I didn’t have a fuckin’-”

“Bullshit!”

Sukuna blinks. He can’t remember if he’s ever heard a curse leave your lips. There’s a fiery determination lit beneath you that he won’t quench with his distilled anger.

“You’re allowed to need help, Sukuna. It doesn’t make you weak.”

His grip on your arm tightens, almost uncomfortably. He doesn’t know how to take your words and his vexation is only growing. “I’ll need to take more shifts,” he mumbles.

“I’m here. If you need someone to watch the kids,” you offer.

His chest rises and falls heavily as he exhales slowly. As if coming to some sort of conclusion, he frowns. “You’re too kind, princess.” His tone is uncharacteristically weak and painfully distant. He squeezes your arm once, before dropping it to pull himself up off the ground. He brushes snow from his pants and coat and picks up the empty cigarette box crumpled on the ground. “I’m gonna head inside.” His gaze turns down to your knees as you follow suit and stand before him. “Go warm up and dry off.”

“Are you sure you don’t need-”

“I’m fine.” He assures you, turning towards the door without so much as a goodbye, but he thinks twice on this and pauses before he can enter his building. He examines your frown as he fights an internal debate. His sharp gaze traces your movements as you swipe your tongue over your lower lip and bite down on it.

He’s caught up on a strange inkling in his mind that doesn’t really make sense to him, but he gives pause to it.

Your lips look like a goddamn invitation. He’s not thinking about your body, or the way your skin sears him when you brush his hand. It’s something entirely else that he wants to act on, and all you’re doing is standing there, the picture of uncertainty as you fiddle with your fingers and chew on your lips.

Your god forsaken lips.

“Sukuna?” You meekly question, tilting your head.

He swears you could have the world if you truly wanted with just a tilt of your head.

It’s a shame Sukuna knows he doesn’t belong in your world. You’re too kind, you always have been. You’re like the syrup they drizzle over cheesecake, or the decorative sprinkles that top that shitty whipped cream that bakeries love to use. The sugar-free kind that doesn’t quite taste right and you’re not sure why they even bother with it, so they add the sweetest sprinkles to compensate.

Once again, Sukuna thinks about how you’re the sun, and he’s nothing more than a distant star sputtering out on the horizon. He doesn’t consider that every star is a sun to someone else.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Was just thinkin’. Thanks for organizing today, gave me a lot to work with.”

And with that, he’s pushing through the door before you can even tell him that he’s welcome.

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❦ a/n ; OOPS ALMOST 18K CHAPTER. honestly it just didn't feel right to end it before the discussion with higuruma and sukuna's reaction to it, so here we are. forgive me for the angst :((( i love these babies sm and it physically hurt to put them through this 😭 the support for this series has been so overwhelmingly lovely and heartwarming, i really can't thank you all enough. seriously, y'all are the sweetest and the comments and asks i've received about this series brighten my day every single time 🫶 anyway, ily all and i'm sorry 😭

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[sapphira-mydnyte]

♥ Shadows of His Heart & Mind ♥ Sebastian is a treasure hunter for knowledge, but his love of battle will see that he not only adds to books already written, but completely overhaul & rewrite what was once thought true & unshakeable. A rogue to the school in every way, he hides his true power of knowing the dark arts & his ability to cast the three Unforgivable Curses with ease from a vast majority of the students & professors. With his beloved sister terminally sick, his instinct to protect & fight for her howls inside of him, causing his magic to have a nasty after effect of both a low-grade fever & a nagging headache if he uses his magic for too long. The dark magic that flows within him is slowly poisoning him as well, giving him a rapid fire round of nightmares of his own sister dying in the bloodiest of ways. Although the proud Scotsman strives to keep his composure, there are times when his pain shows in his eyes & in the way he acts. The most notable is him sneaking out constantly at night from being unable to sleep due to the nightmares. His mind is restless between the dark magic & knowing that his sister is sick. He never asked to be cursed like this, nor for his sister to get hurt, but because he couldn't save her when she got cursed, he blames himself for being too weak to do anything for her then. Everything that needs done school-wise, he does without fail, but his dark eyes have both sadness & hatred within them. Most see the sadness, but a few of his friends, namely Natty, Poppy & even Garreth see the hatred that burns behind the sadness. Ominis, although blind, can feel Sebastian's rage radiating off of him when his sister is ever mentioned. Sebastian may hide his power & knowledge of the dark arts well, but his emotions are another story. None in the school blame him for being sad & upset over what happened to Anne, not a one. He has every right to feel that way & everyone, truthfully, agree with him that she deserves her life back. Ominis has already accepted losing Anne to her sickness, but he's still willing to be by her side until the end. Sebastian refuses to give in though & that passionate fire in him comes from both his parents being professors & his uncle being an auror. With the dual love of learning & fighting instilled in him, his ambition to break every rule to get a cure for his twin found or made is far stronger than anybody else's, no matter what it is. Garreth's love of potions & Imelda's love of Quidditch pale in comparison to Sebastian's ever loving heart for his sister & what she deserves. The only thing Sebastian doesn't know & is truly frightened of? Being alone. That's what scares him the most & it's the thought of his sister dying that he's tormented with every night that leaves him waking in a cold sweat. Every time a bout of pain hits Anne physically, that same pain hits Sebastian mentally & emotionally, causing either his attitude or his actions to change in seconds. He's hooked to his sister, their pain is shared & there's nothing he can do about it except fight for her. In the end... to him... it's not a matter of "if she can be cured" it's a matter of "when she can be cured" & he's out to find it... no matter the cost. The longer Anne remains sick, the more Sebastian's mental stability breaks down & it's a painfully slow one on him. Time itself is stealing his sister's life force away now & death waits for no one, but Sebastian is determined to get his sister back & nobody will stand in his way... even if it means a brutal end.

Study

It has been a while since I drew Sebastian! The manga is progressing rapidly, and I'm looking forward to its completion! I can't wait to draw more and more!

[ribbonskiss]

THE LEANOVER → OP81

Part 2 of 2. Read Part 1 here.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: You come home on uni break to find your brother’s best friend, Oscar, is visiting. You both fall back into old habits, but some things are not the same.

Tags: brother’s best friend, friends to lovers, slow burn, SMUT (18+), masturbation, Jack Doohan is from Melbourne in this one for logistical reasons, not proofread at all hah

A/N: finally!!! The end of The Leanover!!!! Sorry for the extended deadline, this one turned out chunkier than I expected and honestly I don’t know if I’m quite satisfied with it but it is what it is. Anyway, enjoy!

Oscar is a handsome boy. This is a fact you find to be so uncontroversial it may as well be accepted as a universal truth. There has never been a time where girls did not whisper amongst themselves when he would enter a room, where the mothers of his friends would not rave with great emphasis to his about how strong and handsome he’d become, where his presence at a function did not brighten up the place, because not only is he handsome, he is beautiful. Beautiful people are magnetic, you think; their beauty lies in their nature, their fundamental quality of supernatural grace, a gift bestowed by the forces that be towards the lucky few.

You recall his last year of high school. You were sixteen, still growing into your body and learning how to use a felt-tip eyeliner pen. Teenagers are fascistic about social hierarchy; they are greatly cognisant of their standings in the high school pecking order, intensely anal about preserving the rigidity of the structure, and thus you had long accepted your status as the forgotten sibling. Oscar and your brother were athletes, students with clout attached to their names; you were awkward, unaware of your own intensity, intimidating to a fault, but more than happy to lay low. Two individuals of such different standings in the social order should never interact—but for the first (and only) time you were now going to the same house parties and birthday bashes, and here was the greatest display of Oscar’s beauty. You can never forget that image: the figure of him standing on the other side of the room, so broad-shouldered and trim, freckles of sun damage littered over his skin all the way down his neck like constellations, his head turned away from you to reveal his chiselled jaw as he speaks to someone while holding a can of Reschs. And suddenly his eyes would meet yours, catching you in the act, and he’d give you a gentle smile.

You were always so grateful for this. So grateful he would look your way and beam so brightly, a glimpse of his inner calmness, his quiet gentle bliss. You were never under the impression you were the only one to be so blessed by his grace; you were just happy to be around him. Sometimes when he would come over, sprawl himself over your couch or lay on the floor, pissing himself laughing at your brother’s antics into the late hours of the night, you’d ask yourself whether you should feel guilty for being the only witness to this part of his life. This secret of his: that Oscar is so much more beautiful than most people will ever know. Not his fans, not his colleagues, not the majority of the world. This is between you and him.

And now you have him all to yourself. A bit greedy, isn’t it? The past week you’ve spent together has been nothing short of lovely. You find out that he’s strangely disciplined. Oscar’s a dutiful housemate, doing the chores you even forget about without the need to be prompted, unlike most guys his age. He likes to hum to himself when he’s got the vacuum going and he thinks you can’t hear him butcher the tune of “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel. He’s a good cook who prefers careful measurement over eyeballing. He doesn’t read books like you do, but he’s happy to lie on the couch all day and watch a show with you on the telly. And he’s surprisingly touchy—he seems most pleased when you’re both on the couch, your legs crossed and stretched out, resting on top of his, his hand on your foot, thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You don’t speak during these moments. Nothing needs to be said; things just sort themselves out.

At some point in the afternoon you get tired, yawning to yourself, and without even needing to look at you Oscar reaches over, tugs at your arm to tell you wordlessly to turn around. You oblige; your head against his chest, his fingers trail up your forearm to your shoulders and, eventually, the back of your neck, smoothing over the soft, fine hairs that reside there. You’re too tired to mind the goosebumps the feeling of his fingertips on your skin gives you, or the increasing thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat underneath you. You shift in his arms, folding your legs up in a way that makes the hem of your shorts ride up, exposing the curve of your thighs all the way up towards the swell of your—well… It would be so uncouth for him to look there.

It never occurs to either of you that the hardest part of the process is done. The feeling returns: the feeling that arises in you when he looked at you from across the room at those parties all those years ago. The feeling of knowing that person so incredibly well. Of sharing a secret together, and letting that secret grow bigger and bigger until it takes on a life of its own. Of sharing that life together. These things do just sort themselves out, but you would never know until you speak of it.

You are growing increasingly needy. There’s no other way to put it. You’re fucking dying. The heat of the dry, punishing Australian summer is starting to get to you, even with how skimpy your attire has gotten, and having him around twenty-four seven is starting to feel more like divine punishment than intervention. You were wrong all along: Oscar is not an angel, but a demon sent to terrorise you all your life until you give in and the Devil can steal your soul for all of eternity.

He works out every other day. That’s at least three days where he’ll disappear into another room in the afternoon for hours, slips right out just to slip into the bathroom, and then waltz back into the living room as if nothing has happened. But something has happened.

Oscar has a very basic wardrobe at home. He likes his soft, mild colours—dark greys and soft whites, beige tones, navy and olives… It’s very on brand for him, yes. And here he is again, today, emerging from the bathroom, a cloud of steam following him out the door as he runs a hand through his slightly damp hair. He’s wearing a crisp heather grey t-shirt, fresh from the pile of laundry you’d folded yesterday. The sleeves can barely withstand the size of his biceps; he’s just gotten new dumbbells in. And god, the smell of his skin, the musk of him mixed with the soft clean scent of soap still radiating off of him. It’s like crisp hot white bedsheets, fresh out the dryer, already crumpling under the weight of two lovers, bodies sticky from tangling into each other; like soft detergent left out in the garden, where the grass is freshly cut, and the warm sun hits your skin.

This is as close to a primal urge as it will ever get for you. The first few times you could just tell yourself to look away, but now the smell of him is unavoidable, overwhelms your senses, and lights your entire body on fire. You stick your nose into your book the entire time and pray he goes away. Oscar retreats into the kitchen and wonders if your book is really so good that you’d be that engrossed by it. He’ll have to start reading again soon.

“The worst thing a woman can do,” you say, hand in the air with great feeling, “is be cut down in her prime by a man.”

Three beers in and you’re starting up your great tirade already. Oscar watches with an amused smile as he sits on the grass, green Peroni bottle in hand. “I know it sounds so pathetic and untrue, but it is true,” you continue, pacing back and forth with a giggle. “It’s true! I’m so much better off now. No offence, Osc, you’re one of the good ones.”

“I’m very flattered.”

“You should be,” you nod.

He reaches over and grabs a fresh beer from the esky, flicks the cap off with the belt he’s taken off, and hands it to you. You thank him; “just trying to stay in your good graces, missy,” he chuckles.

You sigh, taking a swig of it as you look up to the sky. “Frankly, I’m glad that part of my life is over already,” you say. “I’m not happy to admit it, but for a long time, I had just thought of myself as undesirable. Invisible.”

Oscar furrows his eyebrows with great concern, an ocean tide of emotion threatening to wash over him. “Impossible.”

“Possible,” you nod, with a bitter smile that’s less regretful than accepting of your past. “You know. Surely you remember.”

Of course he does. He remembers every little thing, because they’re not little to him. He remembers it all, how he’d scare off sleazy, drunken boys from approaching you at parties. Even after he graduated, the threat remained: you mess with her, you mess with Oscar Piastri, the F1 big shot. Boys never looked your way because of that; he used to hold you by the end of the party, sitting on the porch of whatever house you’re at, you latching onto him in your drunken half-slumber, both of you silently wallowing in your desires. Drowning, suffocating in each other’s warmth. Then he’d stay over at your house and wait until your brother fell asleep to press his ear against the wall, listening to your muffled sobbing. You were always too eager to suffer alone, to make a martyr of yourself and accept the cards you had been dealt.

But you stand tall now, a soft smile on your face suggesting a great deal of growth. It’s what he’s always found so beautiful in you. Beauty, he thinks, lies in the spirit, an ability to have infinite love and bliss in the face of the frustrations of one’s life. You are a complete soul, whole in ways he may never be, capable of learning to love over and over again and of light-heartedness in the face of turmoil. He knows he cannot truly achieve this because you are his Achilles’ heal. He cannot bear to think of you off on your own without him, doing things with other slimy ratty boys, going places he may never know of. Having a life without him in it. Oscar frowns; had he been too selfish in denying you all your opportunities? You had graduated high school without losing your virginity, without ever being in a relationship, and he wasn’t sure your first kiss would even count as a kiss. He can’t imagine how much that must’ve crushed you—and he was away, far away on his stupid little racing circuits instead of being at home, comforting you, as he should’ve been.

You wave it all off, as if you could hear his thoughts. “Well, I’ve done all of it now anyway, and I’m happy to report that it’s not for me.”

He cocks up an eyebrow. “And what exactly is ‘it,’ Tiny?”

“The hookup thing,” you shrug.

Oscar’s chest feels like it could explode; cold flashes wash all over him. “Oh?”

You playfully shush him. “Don’t tell my family, okay?” you chuckle. “But, yes. I tried it. It was good, until it wasn’t. Very quickly I realised I’m kinda, like, spiritually forty. I need to stretch in the mornings and tuck in by eleven.”

“And kick-ons aren’t until at least one,” he tuts. “You’re always been a sleepy girl.”

“That is true,” you nod, taking another sip of your Peroni. “Anyway, it was worth it, at the very least just to get it all out of my system. I’m very comfortably single now.”

The sky is darker than it should be. The sun has already tucked itself away, and it’s not even evening time yet. “You know, it’s so cliché,” you continue. “That Sally Rooney quote, it’s just like that. I went to uni and got pretty. And all of a sudden men saw me—I mean, I was pretty much invisible before. Before in school, when you and my brother were still around, guys used to do this stupid, horrible thing where they wouldn’t speak to me, they’d just speak to you instead. Even when the topic was about me. Well, no one knows I grew up with Oscar Piastri when I’m at ANU. I’m just me, and I’ve got a nice haircut and a decent rack of tits. And they see me, they see me now and I realise now that they’re all just sort of stupid. I’m very sorry, Oscar, but boys are stupid.”

“No need to apologise,” he snickers softly. It makes you smile a little wider. “But surely they were not all so bad?”

“No, I really don’t know how to pick ‘em. They really were all that bad,” you chuckle, eyes creasing as your cheeks push up in laughter. “Think the best one might’ve been the guy I lost my virginity to.”

Oscar’s eyes widen. He hums, pretends to be normal about it. “Tell me more,” he says.

You nod and oblige. “It was early in the school year. I went on four dates with him,” you start. “He seemed right on paper. Double major, worked for a diplomat, spoke two languages and was well-travelled. Maybe a bit pedestrian in his taste in music and films, but it didn’t bother me so much. We talked okay. He knew what to do, how to be courteous, held doors open and shit—I didn’t know what the whole dating thing was meant to be like, and I was easily impressed. He took me back to his after the fourth date and we listened to his vinyls: corny 70s Greatest Hit compilations and his favourite Kanye albums.”

You take a break, pulling out a thing of lip balm and unscrewing the cap before squeezing it out. “He told me he used to take ballroom lessons for some weird high school thing he did, and he twirled me in his arms, and it made me feel so light and small and girlish that I felt like I was floating.” Your finger spreads the balm over your lips, the feeling cool and tingly on your skin. “He told me I was funny. He kissed me, and his stubble was so sharp and gritty against my skin that it gave me traction acne the day after. He held my hand the whole time. He was an awful kisser. Just kept jamming his tongue in. But it was sweet enough. No one’s first time is good, anyway.”

Oscar tries to swallows down the lump stuck in his throat. His fingers and toes are tingling, chest tight and contracting still. You take another swig. “I’ve had too many of these,” you say.

“You’ve had three, Tiny.”

“That’s more than enough for me,” you shrug, yawning as you set the bottle down on the wooden table outside in your garden. “I think I’d better fuck off to bed now. Sleep tight, Osc.”

He doesn’t sleep in your brother’s bed that night. No, he takes out the spare mattress again and drapes the spare velvet blanket over himself, because he could never forgive himself if he jerked off in his best friend’s bed to the thought of his best friend’s sister. No, there would be no good excuse for that, but tonight is one of those nights where a man simply cannot hold himself back anymore. The alcohol is still burning in his stomach; when Oscar shuts his eyes, all he can see is these elaborate images crafted by his mind’s eye of you, placed in all the scenarios you’d described to him, only replacing that dirty fucker was him, being so gentle and delicate and loving, just how you deserve it. It should have been him there instead to do it all right; it is true that losing one’s virginity is often an awkward affair, his own experience was no less lousy, but if anyone were to have a perfect instance of it it should be you. Oscar can see it all now, how he’d go about it. Holding onto your soft curves as he pushes himself in slowly, the little gasps that would escape your honey-sweet mouth, so warm and wet on his lips. He would die happy, he thinks to himself, as his hand roughly palms his length, hair dampening from sweat in the blistering summer night heat. Cicadas sing outside his window; he heaves wildly, chest rising and falling dramatically as his hand gets slicker with each stroke. He had no idea he could even leak that much.

Thank god you’re sound asleep. He grips tightly onto the soft blanket, balling it in his fist as his eyes shut again tightly, the guttural noise he lets out much louder than he intended. Then Oscar collapses; his limbs go slack, heart beating out of his chest still as he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, hand now sticky with his spent. The mattress is damp with his sweat. If he wasn’t before, he’s royally fucked now.

Your parents called; they’ll be home on Christmas Eve, but only in the afternoon, and they’re picking your brother up as well. Which means the two of you have some shopping to do; the house should be looking festive in time for their arrival. Oscar pushes the shopping cart, following you deep into the maze that is Kmart. He helps you haul the Christmas tree box in and out of his car. And he watches as you pull its branches down, giving it shape before littering it with baubles and tinsel. And when it comes time to finish the tree, you look him with bright eyes. He smiled at you, takes the Angel Gabriel out of your hands and places it on top of the tree carefully. You put on your silly little Santa hats and poorly bake gingerbread men.

You never end up throwing the rager Oscar jokingly suggested, but you do hold a small get-together after running into some old schoolmates at the shops. So it turns out that a few girls you used to do drama class with are in town, and of course anyone Oscar invites is going to show up—he’s Oscar fucking Piastri—so here you are, with a decent turnout of people currently congregated in the back garden and the living room. You’re thankful enough of them showed up on such short notice, with Christmas Eve only a few days away, and you’re thankful everyone seems to have gotten more civil and mature since you’ve left school.

The doorbell rings more than once, and you peel yourself off of the couch to go answer it, Balter tinnie in hand now that you’re all out of Peronis. Your eyes widen once you fling the door open, revealing a familiar face, standing with a smile on his face and a couple guys behind him.

“Surprise,” Jack chuckles.

“Doohan in the flesh,” you quip with a smile. “You cheeky boy. Since when were you in town?”

“Since yesterday,” he shrugs, and the guys behind him file past you into the house at the sight of some of their mates. “Heard you were throwing a thing with Big Shot Oscar. Hope you don’t mind that I’m crashing—I come bearing gifts.”

You shake your head. “Of course not, no, I’m glad to see you,” you say, though you sigh at the sight of the twelve-pack he’s got in his hands. “Mate, Strong Zero? It’s not that kind of party.”

“Some of us can handle our liquor,” Jack laughs, putting the pack in your arms before smoothing his hair back. “Don’t spoil the fun for the rest of us.”

You roll your eyes, turning your back to him as you walk down the hallway back to the kitchen. “Congratulations, by the way,” I say. “I’m glad to see two of our finest graduates succeeding.”

“I can tell. You’re beaming, clearly,” he jokes, following you in. “It was never in doubt for Oscar, anyway, so I think I deserve a bigger congratulations for making it, no?”

You peel apart the drink packaging, the tins of drink coming loose on the kitchen counter. “Let me get this straight: you want me to be more proud of you for being a worse driver than Oscar?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m just repeating your words, Jack-Jack.”

“Never said I was a worse driver,” he snickers, shaking his head as he folds his arms over his chest. “You snuck that in yourself. But I always knew you were biased, so I won’t take offence to that, Tiny.”

You turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. Dramatically, he throws his hands up in a display of surrender, but your conversation is cut short.

“Well, well, well,” Oscar grins, strolling into the kitchen and approaching Jack with wide arms. “Fancy seeing you here, F1 driver.”

“Fancy seeing you here, F1 driver,” Doohan beams, dapping Oscar up before pulling him into a hug. “How you been, mate, good?”

“Nah, yeah,” Oscar chuckles, glancing back to you with a smile. “It’s been a splendid break for me. You been good? Didn’t realise you were back.”

“Yeah, just landed yesterday,” Jack nods, a hand on the back of his neck. “Heard you two were doing a thing, thought I’d be jet lagged out of my mind but nah. Wouldn’t miss this.”

You notice Jack’s a little taller than Oscar, who’s having to tilt his head up a little. “Appreciate you showing up, mate,” the older one says. “I’m gonna go catch up with some of your mates, but stick around, yeah?”

“Absolutely, man,” the younger one says with a smile. “Good seeing you again.”

Then Oscar leaves, fingers gliding over the skin of your cheek in passing, a gentle action of tenderness, as if to say goodbye wordlessly. Doohan wiggles his eyebrows. “What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?” you exclaim, eyes avoiding his gaze as you snatch a Strong Zero for yourself.

“That,” he presses on, finger extended now to point to where Oscar had put his hand on your cheek. “The little hand-cheek-look thing. The fuck? Do you have something to tell me, pal?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Please mate, just be normal—”

“Don’t gaslight me,” Jack says, as stern as he can be.

“He’s been living in my home!” you gasp. “Of course we’re a little close!”

“Living in your home—”

“Not by choice,” you roll your eyes. “Just—my family’s all out of town right now. He’s kind of all I have at the moment.”

“Agh!” Jack groans, smacking himself on the forehead. “Genius move. Fuck, I should’ve locked you two in a room myself years ago—”

You put the tin back onto the counter and slowly turn to face him. “Excuse me?”

He frowns. “Oh, man,” he pouts. “You don’t mean to tell me you two are still doing the thing?”

“What thing?” you furrow your eyebrows.

“You know, the thing,” he says, eyes innocent and wide as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “The weird game you two play. I thought you guys would have gotten over it already.”

Your breath hitches in your chest, making you stammer and go red in the face as your confusion worsens. Jack notices this. “What, you really don’t know?”

“No, Jack, I do not,” you manage to breathe out. “Please, enlighten me.”

He shakes his head, lets out a strange chuckle as he leans back against the wall, having taken a tinnie off the counter. “This would be funny if it weren’t so tragic,” he starts, grimacing. “Oscar used to push guys on the soccer team around for talking about you. He’d go silent whenever you were around and get clammy in the hands. He got weird whenever he’d even hear your name. And I’m sure I don’t have to list out your incriminating actions.”

Needless to say you’re taken aback by this. Eyes wide and blank, you look at him with shock as your mind oscillates between delight and horror, hand resting on your chest as if your heart needs the help. Jack sighs, and after a moment of tense silence he speaks again. “I take it that’s enough proof for you.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“We thought you knew,” he shrugs. “And it wouldn’t have been my place to meddle, and also, it was kind of amusing to watch.”

You scoff bitterly. “Amusing.”

“Well, not so much now,” Doohan nods.

Silence fills the kitchen again, the chatter outside quiet against the deafening quietness inside. “You do like him, don’t you?” he asks earnestly.

You don’t answer, but all he has to do is look at your solemn face and see the emotions threatening to spill out of you. He comes closer, puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Hey. Just take your time, mate.”

You nod, but you hear Oscar’s distinct timbre in the distance, speaking rapidly to someone. You turn your head and see him standing in the living room near the couch, and then—like magnets—he seems to feel your eyes raking over his figure, and meets your gaze as his head turns a little. Suddenly you’re sixteen again. He’s smiling at you like he used to, so fondly and sweetly, all the way from another room. Everything has changed but this feeling is the same. Oscar nods his head gently, as if to tell you ‘I’m doing okay over here, and I hope you are too,’ and you realise he’s dropped out of his conversation now just to look at you. He has always done this.

The hard part is over, but you didn’t know until it was spoken of.

You sweep the crushed cans off the table and into the garbage bag, back starting to hurt from all the cleanup you’ve had to do. Thank the lord they all left early; you haven’t been able to enjoy yourself fully since that talk with Doohan. Since then his words have just been eating away at you the whole night, but you can speak to Oscar just fine, you think. You’re trying your best, at least.

“Jesus, have the lights always been this bright?” he says, and by the way he’s stumbling onto the couch and slurring his words a little, he’s probably more tipsy than he’d like to admit.

You shake your head, turning around to face him. The cans inside the bag you’re holding clank against one another. “Fun night?”

“Not particularly,” he says, eyes shutting as he throws an arm over his face, lying down flat on the couch. “Just, those fucking Strong Zeroes, man.”

“I told Doohan he shouldn’t have!”

“He really shouldn’t have.” Oscar groans, eyes shutting tighter as he tries to push his face into the couch, and you chuckle before going back to cleaning up, moving towards the pile of cans on the kitchen island.

“Don’t leave,” you hear him say behind you.

You turn around, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What?” you say. “I’m not. I’m just going into the kitch—”

“No,” he whines quietly, muffled by the fabric of the couch. “That’s too far. Stay.”

You stand still, still holding the bag in your hand, visibly confused.

“We should always be in the same room,” he continues. “I don’t want to be away from you.”

You flush at his words. You’re not sure if he quite grasps the implications of what he’s saying, but you chalk it all up to his current state—surely he’s just a clingy drunk. You put the garbage bag down against the wall, approaching the couch as he pulls his legs back to make room for you.

You sit down. “Are you feeling alright, Osc?”

“No,” he replies, too quickly for your liking. Oscar shuffles back onto his back, eyes still shut as his tone is reduced to grumbling. “I had this really awful thought the other day that we’re so far apart. I’m off doing my races and now you’re off at uni doing whatever.”

You cock your head to the side, clearly about to protest, but he starts up again. “I just want to know what you’re doing all the time,” he admits. “And how you’re feeling. I miss you all the time, and I wanna know you’re okay.”

“Oscar,” you frown, putting a hand on his arm tenderly. “If you want to stay in touch more, of course we can—”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t want to stay in touch. I wanna be with you.”

You pull your arm back. He winces, missing your touch. “Tiny, this must sound so crazy.”

“No,” you assure him, though you’re struggling to comprehend his words. “I just don’t know what you me—”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your blood runs cold even as your stomach shatters and explodes into a million butterflies that feel hot like lava inside of your body. “I know it must sound so crazy,” Oscar chuckles bitterly. “I know it must be so crazy…”

“No,” you shake your head. “I don’t think it’s crazy. I just, I wonder how you’ll feel in the morning.”

“It’s not the alcohol.”

He opens his eyes only to look at you, pupils darting around slowly to find you, the only soothing sight when the lights are still killing him. Oscar smiles a little at your familiar face. “I spoke to Doohan,” he explains.

“Ah,” you mumble, flushing. Of course he did.

He pauses a bit, tries to find the courage to speak again. He finds it in how your eyes seem to shine a little brighter where you’re sitting, mesmerised by how beautiful you are tonight. “He’s right, you know. I feel a bit silly, or stupid rather, like I don’t know how to explain myself.”

“Well,” you chuckle timidly, looking down at your hands. “I would have some explaining to do myself, too.”

Oscar smiles to himself. He takes a moment to catch his breath; he didn’t even realise he’d been holding it in this whole time. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that.”

At his words, you look up to meet his eyes again, to see how he’s smiling now, and it makes your chest expand with warmth, heart pumping fast. “I’ll feel the same in the morning,” he says, sitting up clumsily now just to look at your face better. He doesn’t want to look away ever again. “I promise you that. I’ve felt this way since forever—I just didn’t know the word for it yet.”

Your eyes widen just a little more at his words; you don’t recognise the inexplicable feeling that’s captured your body, but you think this is what he means. The thing he didn’t know the word for. But you know the word for it now.

“I think I love you too,” you say.

Oscar lets out a quiet noise of relief. He finds your hand in your lap, takes it in his, and just holds it. You look at each other for a long while, taking in the details of one another’s faces. “You don’t look a day over seven,” you chuckle, and it makes him grin softly.

“That’s alright. Did you feel then how you feel about me now?” he asks.

“I think you sealed the deal when you helped me get up on my feet after falling off the slide,” you quip with a smile, and he squeezes your hand a little approvingly.

“You remember that.”

“The little things aren’t little to me, either,” you say, and his heart soars at your words. Oscar can’t resist it anymore; he tugs on your hand a little and pulls you into his arms, hands latching onto your waist as he holds you tightly. You fall into each other like magnets. It just feels right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but nothing in this world is truly given this way. You had been working for it your entire life, but you’re only knowing this now.

His lips hover over your cheek, and it makes you shiver, but it shouldn’t be like this. “I don’t want our first kiss to be when you’re drunk,” you tell him, pulling away from his flushed face. “It’s… You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. It just has to be right.”

Oscar swallows dryly, but he nods. “You’re right,” he says, with a gentle smile that tells you he’s being sincere. “You’re right. Not like this.”

He pulls you in again, holding you even tighter this time. You feel his heart beating out of his chest against yours, his warm breath against your skin, the warm his arms keep contracting as if he’s afraid to let you go. A warm waft of air filters through the window, left ajar, and swirls around the two of you, bodies now entangled. Neither of you can find a reason to leave, so you don’t. You never end up cleaning the kitchen that night.

The sun’s starting to filter through your blinds now, and you know you have no excuse to stay in bed anymore, but you don’t have the heart to wake him up. Your brother’s bedroom is probably collecting dust already; ever since that night, Oscar’s been sleeping in your bed now, and you both sleep so much better with a cuddle buddy by your side. He likes to be big spoon, but he’s happy to hold you face to face as well, duh! Why would he upset with getting to see your face, eyes shut so peacefully in slumber? He likes to wake up before you because of this, just so he can catch a glimpse of you so soft and pliable in his arms, comfortably happily asleep, but today you’re the one who wakes up first, stirred awake by the birds chirping outside your window.

You try to slip out of his grasp, but he just tightens his arms around you, furrowing his eyebrows in his sleep. You try again and he does it again, this time with a grumbling noise that makes you chuckle.

“Oscar,” you smile, press a gentle kiss onto his forehead. “They come home today.”

“So?” he grumbles back, eyes still shut as he pulls you in, tucking your head under his chin. “What’s it got to do with us?”

“We’ve got to make them brekky, babe,” you chuckle. You press a kiss to his neck now, before deciding you can’t really resist littering them all over his skin. “They’ll be starving by the time they get here.”

Oscar makes a strange, hushed noise. “Well, doing that certainly won’t get me out of bed.”

You’re confused, but then you realise something’s been pressing up against your thigh, worsened by how he keeps pulling you back into his arms. “Oh my god, Osc,” you yelp. “Just from a few kisses?”

“And maybe a very good dream,” he mumbles back. If he were awake, he’d surely be laughing, pleased with himself.

“You dirty, dirty pervert,” you snicker, but you’re tutting at him in a way that sends a tingle down his spine, and your fingers inching down the trail on his stomach is making him shiver. “You’re shameless.”

“Yeah, but something tells me you like it,” he says, but he can barely finish the sentence before you tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, shimmying them down. His length springs free; your eyes beam a little too brightly at the sight of it, making him laugh.

“Someone’s eager.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been dreaming about riding you into the bed for actual years,” you chuckle, long fingers wrapping around him. “You look delicious in the morning, you know that? All sleepy and dishevelled. It’s very sexy, Osc.”

“Ah?” he says, a moan disguised as a word. Your hand starts to move and he can barely hold himself back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your mouth is hovering over his cock now, warm breath making him shiver before your tongue makes contact with his tip, swirling all around the head in a way that makes his eyes roll back. “Holy shit,” you hear him mutter to himself, and you smile as you drag your tongue all over the length of him.

“Babe, I love the teasing,” he breathes out. “But I don’t think I can quite take it this morning.”

You hum to yourself, biting back a cheeky smile as a thought pops up in your head. “You know, you’re right,” you say. “We’re running on a tight schedule. And we could use something that saves time, so… if you’re getting head, you could give it too, no?”

Oscar’s face lights up at your words. “You wanna sit on my face? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I mean, if you’re offering.”

“Fuckin’ hell, any day of the week, missy.”

With that, he puts his hands on your head and pulls you up for a kiss that deepens into a little more. His lips are soft, mouth hot and wet; you feel yourself dampen a little against the cotton of your panties, something he feels too as his hands travel all the way down to your ass, fingers reaching past the fabric of your shorts inside to find the wet patch growing at your cunt. Your fingers hook into the waistband of both layers, tugging them off eagerly as he steadies his hands on your hips again. You turn around, and now Oscar’s got your pussy hovering right over his face. He think he’s salivating at the sight of it. Is that too crude? Jesus christ, it’s just so much fucking better than he could have ever imagined, waking up with you by his side, having the girl of all of his dreams with him now, eating your pussy first thing in the morning.

“You’re not so tiny anymore, hey? You’re a big girl now.”

You flush at his words. “Just get to it, Piastri.”

He needs no further encouragement, hands on your hips pulling you down to his face, tongue flicking a long stripe all the way down your cunt. You cry out at the sudden contact, and you realise very soon that he is very good at what he is doing, soft wet tongue sliding between your folds carefully, lips wrapping gently around your sensitive clit, hands gripping onto the meat of your ass, an action that signifies a clinginess you’d never know from how soft-spoken he is. He eats you out like a hungry man, lapping up the wetness that soaked your panties before eagerly. When you wrap your lips around his cock, taking all of him in until he hits the back of your throat, it makes him groan against your pussy, and it feels so strangely good that you keep throating him just like that every once in a while, just to feel him shift underneath you and thrust into your mouth a little. He wants to be gentle with you so badly, and he is, but he just can’t resist it when you’re doing that.

“Fuck, babe,” Oscar gasps out, pulling away as his fingers continue to rub at your clit. “If you keep doing that thing, I won’t last very long.”

You can tell by his tone he’s slightly embarrassed about taking such little time to get there. “We’ll get there together, I promise,” you say. “Just—ah!—keep using your fingers.”

He smiles, happy to oblige. This time he dips a finger inside you, tongue now swirling around your clit as his finger curls, finding that cushiony spot inside you that makes your back arch a little. There it is. He slips another finger in, tongue flicking fast against you, fingers pumping at a steady pace as you suck his cock sloppily, drool pooling at the base, fingers still wrapped around his length, lazily moving up and down. It’s all too much for the both of you, both moaning and whimpering against one another as your bodies start to get more and more sensitive, responding to each motion with a little more volume. Your back arches, his hips thrust; you know you’re both getting to that climax.

“Babe, fuck—”

“I know,” you gasp, a long mewl drawing out of you as his fingers, soaked in your slick now, keep thrusting in and out of you. “I’m—hah—almost there, too.”

He nods his head eagerly and latches his wet mouth back onto you, eating you out desperately as his hips start to move on their own, filling your mouth and muffling your increasing cries of pleasure as your eyes shut and roll back.

“I can’t take it,” he moans loudly. “Babe, I—oh my god!”

Just as Oscar starts to flood your mouth, you collapse onto him as your orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless, body slack and limp. “Jesus,” you heave out, flipping onto your back off of him, swallowing all of his load down your throat. The sight of it makes him whimper. You take a good look at him; he’s got your slick all over his face, glistening from his lips down to his chin.

“Christ, I made a mess of you,” you chuckle, embarrassed, but he seems proud of himself.

“A souvenir, yeah?” He jokes, and you push his chest, rolling your eyes, but he pulls you into his arms. “God, that was fuckin’ amazing. You’re fuckin’ amazing.”

You pull the duvet back up over the both of you as you lie down once again, resting your head on his chest now as you look up at him with a smile. You wipe at his mouth with your hand. “There.”

“Aw,” he frowns playfully. “I quite liked it.”

“You fuckin’ pervert,” you say, going to push his chest again but he catches your arm with his hand.

“Don’t get feisty,” Oscar chuckles, shaking his head before pecking you on the forehead. “Let’s just lay here for a bit. And you know, I’ve been thinking.”

Your finger traces shapes on the freckled skin of his bare chest. “About what?”

“About you, coming to see me,” he says. “You know… I was thinking, maybe you could schedule your classes with me in my mind? You know, money’s not an issue. Transport, accommodation, passes, I can take care of all of that. I just need to know you can see me. Not for every race, obviously. But some of them. It’d mean so much to me, Tiny.”

You look up at him now, smiling. “Of course I can,” you nod gently. “It’d mean everything to me too, Osc.”

His face blooms into a smile, eyes raking over the details of your face, savouring it as if he hasn’t a million times before. “Then it’s done,” he says, bringing your hand up to kiss it. “You can’t escape me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” you roll your eyes.

Before Oscar can counter with a snarky remark, the door flies open.

“Piastri—seriously? My fucking sister?”

That’s the end! Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Leave em all in my askbox, and again, thank you so much for reading!

[vesearlee]

──── 𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐

Each stroke of his brush painted the ocean with such precision it took your breath away, only the tides had more than one surprise in store for you.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Rafayel x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 2.1k 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── T 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Tooth Rotting Fluff, angst (anxiety attack), little dash of crack, slight reference to Rafayel's lore 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒 ── Can’t Help Falling In Love by Haley Reinheart ── Constellations (Slowed) by Jade LeMac 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── Written because @smutconnoisseur loves to torture me with heavenly prompts.

─── 𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ───

The sound of water falling and splashing against the marble floor of the master bathroom was the only sound heard through the hallway to Rafayel’s silent studio. Amber-toned light bathed the room in the glow of the waning sunshine, and streaks of paint were splattered all over the floor — an unfortunate casualty of collateral damage by the artist who worked tirelessly over the taut canvas in the easel’s clutches.

You closed your eyes and sighed. The image of Rafayel perched on his ladder, hand steadily moving a laden brush back and forth with the grace of a dancer burned into your consciousness. The sight was beautiful, and you struck you silent every time you witnessed it.

The only reason such an ethereal vision had come to an end on this occasion, was the artist’s sense of mischief. While in his creative daze, Rafayel streaked a deep indigo through his hair with little care or notice.

“Raf,” you said hesitantly, loath to disturb his streak of concentration. 

“Mm,” he hummed in reply, not stopping to glance at you. The brush swept once over a streak of navy, then his hand returned to his chin. “Yeah, cutie?”

“You– You’ve got paint in your hair and–” Rafayel’s movement towards you was sudden. “No!” you gasped, startled.

The sound of his laughter would normally make your heart swell, but with the sudden, cool sensation of paint covering your skin and clothes in little droplets took the fondness out of such a noise. You stumbled backwards into your chair. “Rafayel!”

The creak of wood made him freeze, and you both stood entirely still as you took in the sight of your clothes — dishevelled and covered in colours. “Oh, hang on,” you sneered while the corner of your lip turned up in a devilish smirk. “I think you’ve got something on your…” 

As fast as you could manage, you reached towards a shelf that was full of discarded palettes.

SPLAT

“Oof!” Rafayel fell from his stool and landed unsteady on his bare feet, his jaw and neck covered in the remnants of the blue he last used and discarded with a disdained, “it’s not bright enough.”

“You started this,” you called, stepping back with as much grace as you could manage in the cluttered studio. “I only wanted to help, but you–” His sudden lurch towards you made you yelp in shock, and you sidestepped his advance to hide behind a shelf that housed rolls of brushes. “Nope, nope, you won’t catch me!”

“Wanna bet, cutie?” Rafayel teased, a vicious grin turning his normally soft gaze sharp. “Damn it, stand still–”

You bolted out from behind the shelf and towards the floor to ceiling windows, only, you paused for too long. Strong arms enveloped you from behind and you felt the deep chuckle from your captor through your back. “I told you, there’s no runnin’ from me, sweetheart.”

“No–! Aw, don’t–!” The cool sensation of paint spread from your ear to your jaw, painting you a sea of indigos and blues. “Raf, c’mon,” you whined, squirming in his hold. “I was joking.”

“You were jokin’, huh? Got a real prankster on my hands.” The arms around your middle loosened slightly, though you felt no need to pull away. “What d’ya say we clean up, yeah?”

The temptation stirred a heat low in your hips, but then you glanced at the paint strewn all over the studio from your combined antics. “...No.”

“No?” The rush of breath was warm against the shell of your ear, and the mock offense in his tone only made you huff with petulance. 

“No. You go, I’ll get this cleaned up, and then maybe you can make it up to me.” The whine that came from him as you pried his arms away from your middle was almost enough for you to reconsider your answer. “Don’t pout at me, go.”

“So mean,” he hissed, jutting out his bottom lip as he sulked off down the hallway.

“So impossible,” you retorted, shaking your head. 

A long, deep sigh of annoyance was the only reply you received before you heard the cascade of water begin. 

With Rafayel now occupied and out of your hair, you stared around the studio at the mess you both created. Blues and purples were the main choice of ammunition, and as a result, splatters and spills danced in a trail of laughter that you followed, only this time with a cloth in hand. 

You hummed a tune to match with the song coming from the bathroom, when you finally came up to the painting he had been working on before he had taken your kindness for granted. 

The luminescent curves of scales and the shimmer of pearled fins glowed in the faux moonlight. It reminded you of something, though what it could have been reminiscent of made a sharp pain throb in your temples. 

The song Rafayel hummed from the bathroom continued its soft melody, and you valiantly tried to follow the tune to distract yourself, when you took a step forward and heard an almighty clatter. “Whoa– Oh, no!” The easel holding the canvas wobbled slightly — without thinking, you reached out and grabbed the bottom bar of the front panel, and you let out a breath of relief for not having touched the wet paint of the canvas. 

“You okay?” Raf called, his voice was muffled by the sound of water on tiles. “That was loud. D’you need help?”

“No,” you yelled back, and you gently released your iron grip on the now steadied frame of the easel. “It’s okay, I’m just clumsy.”

“Alright,” he replied. “I’ll be out soon.” 

Not a moment later, the song began again. Even though he would not see, you nodded in reply out of habit before you glanced downwards at the floor to see what had made the clattering noise. 

The sight made your heart leap into your throat. 

More smears and shades of indigo were splattered all over the plastic spread beneath the easel. Every single shade that Rafayel spent days, weeks on perfecting lay at your feet, utterly destroyed by the pigmentation of the other. 

“No, nonono.” The plastic crinkled as you fell to your knees, hands uselessly stretching out to the mess of what could be considered a sea of colours — it was devastating, and all of what Rafayel would say rushed to the forefront of your mind, bombarding your fears and dredging the worst of them from the depths of your well buried thoughts. 

It was only then something seemed to snap into place, a panicked clarity that set your heart racing at an uncomfortable rate. 

“I can replace…? Maybe?” You blinked the burn of tears in your eyes away, and you carefully grabbed the wooden palette off of the floor to hold it up to eye level. A few brushes above you held the answer, you were sure, and with the mission in mind, you stood up from the floor with a quiet grunt of discomfort. 

Time blurred as you worked, a fevered haze of panic and desperation fuelled your every move until the palette was covered in all hues of blues and purples. Each stroke of the brush in your hand grew sloppy and sloppier, nowhere near as refined as the artist himself — the pit of your stomach swirled with guilt the harder you worked to replicate what he had mastered.

“Sweetheart? What’re you doin’?”

“Oh!” you gasped, the sound choked and shrill with your shock. “You–” The rustle of plastic sounded as you spun on your heel to face Rafayel, who stood shirtless, a wet towel in one hand and the other propped on his hip. The hammering of your heart only thundered harder in your aching ribs, and you swore if you were to stand there any longer, the whole of your heart would miraculously beat from your chest and fall to the floor at your feet. “You s-scared me!”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a frown. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, it’s not been that long–” He took a few steps forward, the sway of his hips and the loose fitting pants not enough to capture your attention from the building panic in your chest. You backpedalled rapidly out of reach — a well-honed instinct that had saved you numerous times before. “What– I just showered after you covered me in paint. Rude.”

His jokes fell flat, and the lack of laughter made the frown on his lips deepen. 

“I– Uh, um, Raf–” The plastic under your feet shifted again, and the sound drew his attention downwards. You watched with horror swelling in your stomach as his shoulders stiffened. “I’m so, so, sorry– Please, oh my–”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there, cutie,” Rafayel rushed, his cool hands finally breaking the barrier you precariously built, and he grasped your wrists gently. “You’re trembling, what happened? Talk to me.” 

A broken sobbed forced its way through the blockade of fear in your chest, and he pulled you into his chest. The palms of your hands planted firmly against his chest. “Breathe for me—in, out, that’s it, honey, c’mon.”

The silence filled with suppressed sobs carried on for what felt like hours — being held in his arms always had that effect, though this time, you gripped to his body like an anchor against the bobbing waves of panic that ebbed and flowed like the waves outside his window. 

“I’m sorry,” you eventually whispered against his skin, the words sharp against your throat as they manifested. The pain of your mistake made your heart clench with guilt, and the splattered colours at your feet did nothing to ease the agony. “I– I didn’t mean to, I was trying to clean and I just bumped into–”

Rafayel pulled back suddenly, the palms of his hands cupping either side of your face so he could stare into your blurry eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed softly against your cheeks while he collected the stray tears that had escaped without your notice.

“So that was the noise, huh? Just some spilled paint?” he asked softly, furrowing his brows as he glanced downwards quickly, the multitude of colours in his eyes reflecting the sheer volume of the mess. “Is this why you’re so worked up?”

Words failed to form on your tongue, no matter how hard you tried. A small nod was all you managed, and he clicked his tongue before pulling you into his chest again. Soft lips brushed over your forehead and trialled down towards your temple. 

The sudden movement of Rafayel’s body made you gasp quietly, and you realised he was rocking you side to side, the sway of your bodies matching the now moonlit waves outside. “Y’know, cutie, for someone so smart, you really can be silly.”

You sniffled and pulled back. “What?”

Rafayel smiled cheekily, tilting his head to the side so strands of purple hair fell to the side of his forehead. “You, I’m talkin’ about you.” His hands moved up to your shoulders and gently coaxed you to turn around until you came face to face with the painting he worked on — the deep hues seemed to sparkle under the now dimmed light. “See?”

Long, slender fingers gestured towards the waves in the painting, then towards the scales and fins of the tail in view. “I’ve worked endlessly, tirelessly—to the bone—to make these colours.” 

The sentence was enough for your heart to seize, and he sensed the way your body tensed under his hands. “No, no, listen to me, cutie.” You watched his fore and middle finger brush against the palette you had created in your panic-induced haze. “I worked so hard to get this shade, and here you are, gettin’ it outta nowhere.” 

You blinked as confusion flooded you. “Huh?”

“It’s true,” Rafayel stated simply, and he shifted closer to you so his chest was flush to your back. With a gentle grip, he held the back of your hand and slowly moved it towards the palette where one of the brushes you used in your attempt to replicate all the shades rested innocently. “Pick it up, go on.”

“But I–” you stuttered, still bewildered at his gentle order. “I ruined it?”

A huff of amusement filled your ears. “Ruined it? Oh, sweetheart.” His hand guided your own to the canvas. “You couldn’t ruin anything. Here, I think you should be the one to add the finishing touches.”

The two of you stood in a comfortable silence, the sound of the fibres of the brush the only thing to disturb the soft, even breathing you shared as he held you close, encouraging you to work.

It was only when Rafayel softly gasped and his hands moved to grip your sides that you were pulled from a kind of trance. You looked over your shoulder at him, and found the indigos you painted reflected in his eyes. The smile on his lips was priceless, and you only wished you could capture it forever, just as you captured the beauty of the waves.

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ── Gingerbread Edition Bingo (@fandom-free-bingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ Crafting Together • I4 ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ Deep Breathing • N4 ── MASTERLIST ── Eclipsing Bingo (@eclipsingbingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ "Wanna bet?" • G5 ── MASTERLIST ── Hurt/Comfort Bingo (@sweetspicybingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ thought spiral • N5 ── MASTERLIST ── Under the Sea Bingo (@seasonaldelightsbingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ soft love ── MASTERLIST

[redheadwannabesblog]

Random Hinny reunion thoughts

 I go back and forth between imagining hinny immediately going to each other and it being more slow burn post DH. And I love the fics for each. Found myself thinking about the slow burn scenario. 

They are both traumatized and grieving and aren’t sure where each other stand. I think there’s a build up. Ginny hugging him tightly because she’s so relieved he’s alive but it’s just a hug. 

Harry squeezing her hand at the funeral. 

But neither of them are ready talk. Everything just feels too big to put into words.

Ginny stepping up and doing all the household stuff at the burrow and taking care of everyone else, keeping busy and not letting herself feel it all. 

Her coming home from an errand to find Harry has cleaned up the house, convinced Molly to leave her room for a bit and has dinner waiting for her because he just wants to help her in anyway he can. (Harry is for sure an act of service guy❤️)

Her feeling so supported in that moment she breaks down crying and they finally stay up all night talking. 

But I also love the holding on to each other for dear life reunion. They are passionate people so I see  that but I also just imagine everything is overwhelming. 

As long as they end up together that’s all that matters. 

[infernolust]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻

Ghostface! Sevika x Victim! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika watches you like prey, but it’s not just about the hunt. Her obsession cuts through the boundaries of your everyday life, a shadow that clings to you in every corner, every crevice of your existence. One phone call changes everything—confirming your worst fear: she isn’t just watching. She’s closer than you think.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Ghostface AU, Psychological Horror, Obsession, Stalking, Dark Romance, Sapphic Undertones and Slow-Burn (but Unhinged)

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Hey, everyone! I used to post under the username @dieseldame, but I lost access to that account. I’m restarting here and bringing over all my stories, including this one. Your feedback means everything—let me know what you think!

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟭. 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟮.

The phone rings. Again. It’s not unexpected—not anymore. You’ve come to recognize the pattern. The low trill cuts through the silence like a serrated knife, shredding the fragile calm you’ve tried so desperately to cling to. Your hand hovers above the receiver, a hesitation you can’t afford. You don’t want to answer, but you know it’s worse if you don’t. She’ll call again. And again. And she’ll make sure you regret ignoring her.

When you finally press the phone to your ear, you hear nothing at first. Just breathing—low, steady, and predatory. It’s her.

Sevika.

She never gives you her name, but you know it’s her. The deep rasp in her voice feels like smoke curling against your skin, stinging and suffocating.

— You always leave your curtains open. — she says. Her words roll out slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring every syllable.

Your stomach drops. You glance at the window—a wide, gaping rectangle of vulnerability. The streetlights outside cast long shadows across your apartment floor, but beyond that, it’s all darkness. A void you can’t peer into, though you know she’s out there. Watching.

You clutch the phone tighter, your fingers trembling. — Where are you?

Her laugh is low and throaty, a sound that vibrates through the line and coils around your chest. —Closer than you think, sweetheart.

The term of endearment feels jagged coming from her. Mocking. Dangerous.

— Why are you doing this? — you ask, though your voice betrays you with a quiver. You want to sound strong, defiant, but all she hears is fear.

There’s a pause on the other end, a silence so weighted it feels like she’s in the room with you, breathing down your neck. Then she says, — Because you’re mine.

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You stagger back a step, your free hand fumbling to pull the curtains shut. The fabric is thin and cheap, offering little reassurance against the encroaching night. You feel her eyes on you even now, piercing through walls, stripping you bare.

— You’re insane. — you whisper.

Another laugh, darker this time. — Maybe. But I’m not wrong.

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the receiver in your hand, your own breathing loud in the sudden silence. For a moment, you think about calling the police. But what would you even tell them? That you’ve been getting calls from someone who may or may not be watching you? That the rasp in her voice makes your skin crawl and your pulse race? That she’s made you question the solidity of your locks, your walls, your very reality?

They’d think you were paranoid. Maybe you are.

Sevika wasn’t supposed to be a part of your life. She had existed on the periphery, a shadow in Zaun’s seedy underbelly, a name whispered with equal parts fear and respect. You’d heard stories—about her loyalty, her strength, her ruthlessness. But you’d never imagined she’d notice you. You were nobody. A face in the crowd.

At least, that’s what you’d thought.

Now, her presence looms over every corner of your existence. You see her in the flicker of a cigarette ember across the street. You hear her in the growl of a passing motorcycle. She’s everywhere and nowhere, a phantom haunting your every move. And it’s not just fear that ties your stomach in knots. It’s something darker, something you don’t want to name.

Obsession.

It’s mutual—you know that much. She watches you like prey, but there’s something else in the way she lingers. It’s not just about the hunt. It’s about you. She doesn’t care about anyone else. You’ve seen the headlines, the trail of bodies left in her wake. She’s a storm, relentless and consuming, but somehow you’ve become the eye of it.

The next night, you find yourself staring out the window again. It’s a compulsion, a morbid curiosity you can’t shake. The curtains are drawn this time, but you peek through the gap where the fabric doesn’t quite meet. The street below is quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of a passerby or the distant hum of machinery.

And then you see her.

A figure leans against the lamppost at the corner, half-hidden in shadow. You can’t make out her features, but the shape of her is unmistakable. Broad shoulders, a mechanical arm that gleams faintly under the flickering light. She’s smoking, the red glow of the cigarette tip flaring like a warning.

You pull back, heart hammering against your ribs. She’s not supposed to be real. She’s supposed to be a voice on the phone, a nightmare confined to your imagination. But she’s here. And she’s watching.

The phone rings.

The sound startles you so badly you nearly drop the receiver. When you answer, her voice is calm, almost conversational.

— See something you like? — she asks.

You don’t respond, your throat too tight to form words.

— Come on, — she prods, her tone laced with amusement. — I know you saw me.

— Leave me alone. — you manage to choke out.

— Not a chance. — Her voice hardens, the humor vanishing like a flicked switch. — You don’t get to tell me what to do, sweetheart. Not when you’re the one who keeps inviting me in.

— I didn’t...

— Didn’t you? — She cuts you off, her words sharp as a blade. — You leave your curtains open. You walk the same route home every night. You’re practically begging for me to follow you.

Her words hit too close to home. You have felt her presence for weeks now, a shadow trailing your every step. You’d thought it was paranoia, your own mind playing tricks on you. But now, hearing it from her lips, it feels like validation. And that terrifies you.

— What do you want from me? — you whisper.

A pause. Then, softly: — Everything.

You don’t sleep that night. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, feels like her. You sit curled up on the couch, clutching a kitchen knife you’re not sure you’d even know how to use. The darkness presses in, suffocating, and for the first time in your life, you feel truly hunted.

By the time the sun rises, you’re a mess—eyes bloodshot, nerves frayed. But Sevika doesn’t call again. She doesn’t have to. The damage is already done. You’re hers, whether you want to be or not.

And deep down, in a part of yourself you refuse to acknowledge, you’re not sure you want her to stop.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[woozinhos]

woozi + having sex to one of his songs 🙈 (like Crazy in love)

Fast pace

Notes: you’re gonna want to read this one

You and Jihoon had always had a flirty chemistry, but it wasn't until one night at a party that things took a more intimate turn. You had both been drinking and dancing, and the energy between you was electric.

As the night wore on, Jihoon pulled you aside and led you to a quiet corner of the party. "I can't stop thinking about you," he said, his eyes dark with desire. You could feel your heart racing as he looked at you, his gaze intense and possessive. You had always found Jihoon attractive, but seeing him like this was on a whole new level.

Without warning, he pushed you up against the wall and kissed you deeply. You melted into his touch, your body responding eagerly to his dominance. As the kiss grew more heated, Jihoon pulled away and whispered in your ear, "I want to take you home."

You nodded eagerly, your mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come. The two of you stumbled out of the party and made your way back to Jihoon's apartment, barely able to keep your hands off each other. As soon as you got inside, Jihoon pounced on you, pinning you against the door and kissing you fiercely. His hands roamed over your body, touching and teasing you in all the right places.

Suddenly, he stopped and pulled away, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I have an idea," he said, a smirk on his face. "Follow me."

Jihoon led you to his bedroom and closed the door behind you. He turned on a lamp and gestured for you to sit on the bed. "Wait here," he said, his voice low and commanding. You watched as he walked over to his laptop and began scrolling through his music library. After a moment, he selected a song and hit play. Fast pace filled the room filled the room, a slow, sultry beat that sent shivers down your spine.

Jihoon turned to look at you, a sly smile on his face. "Dance for me," he said, his eyes raking over your body.

You stood up and began to move to the music, swaying your hips and running your hands over your body. Jihoon watched you intently, his gaze dark and hungry. As the song played on, Jihoon slowly undressed himself, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the tension building between you, the air thick with desire.

Finally, the song ended, and Jihoon pounced on you again, pushing you down onto the bed and covering your body with his own. "You're so beautiful," he growled in your ear as he began to kiss your neck. "And all mine." As Jihoon's hands and mouth roamed over your body, you could feel him getting more and more excited. He was completely in his element, finally getting to indulge in his favorite fantasy.

"This is so hot," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I've always wanted to do this."

He kissed and nibbled his way down your body, leaving a trail of marks on your skin. You moaned and writhed beneath him, lost in the pleasure of his touch.

As he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, looking up at you with a wicked grin. "You're all mine to play with," he said, his voice low and possessive. "And I'm going to make you scream my name."

Jihoon continued to whisper in your ear, his words sending shivers down your spine. "I made this beat thinking about you," he said, his breath hot against your skin. "I imagined what it would be like to dance with you, to touch you, to take you apart piece by piece."

He nibbled on your earlobe, his hands roaming over your body as he spoke. "And now that I have you here, I'm not going to waste a single moment."

He pulled back and looked at you, his eyes burning with desire. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice firm and possessive. "And I'm going to show you just how much I want you."

Jihoon positioned himself between your legs, his body hovering over yours. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire, and slowly entered you.

You gasped at the feeling of him filling you up, your body arching up to meet his. He held himself still for a moment, savoring the sensation, before slowly beginning to move. The music continued to play in the background, the slow beat setting the pace as Jihoon moved inside you. His movements were deliberate and powerful, each thrust hitting just the right spot to send waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

He leaned down and captured your lips in a heated kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth as he continued to move against you. Jihoon matched his thrusts to the beat of the music, his hips moving in time with the sultry rhythm. The sensation was overwhelming, and you found yourself completely lost in the pleasure of it all.

He held you close, his body pressed tightly against yours as he moved inside you. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips and pulling you closer with each thrust. The music built to a crescendo, and so did Jihoon's movements. He was relentless, driving into you with a single-minded intensity that left you breathless and gasping for air.

As the song reached its climax, so did you. You came with a cry, your body arching up off the bed as waves of pleasure washed over you. Jihoon followed soon after, his body shuddering as he released inside you. As you both came down from your highs, Jihoon collapsed on top of you, panting heavily. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

"That was...incredible," he whispered, his voice rough with exertion. "You're incredible."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both tried to catch your breath. The music had stopped playing, but the room was still filled with a sense of electric energy.

Jihoon lifted his head and looked at you, a soft smile on his face. "I've never felt anything like that before," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "You're something else, you know that?"

Jihoon chuckled and rolled onto his back, pulling you with him so that you were lying half on top of him. "I think I'm going to have to make a whole album of sensual songs now," he said, running his fingers through your hair. "That was just too good."

You smiled and snuggled closer to him, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you. "I'll be your number one fan," you said, looking up at him. "For all your sensual songs."

Jihoon laughed and kissed the top of your head. "You're already my number one fan," he said, wrapping his arms around you. "But I have a feeling I'm going to need more inspiration for those songs."

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6 | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 4K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: Reader is hit by a truck which is *university*. So, a lot of studying and a lot of frustrations. And the TA is being a pain in the ass, you know how it is. Some science talk, based on the remnants of my knowledge from uni.

author’s note: Guys, you have showered me with love, so I'm showering you with writing.

Cross-posted on AO3 alongside POV3rd Person Version

—

Sue was so fucking right. It had only been one week of freedom, and then the workload came crashing down on you. Suddenly, every class had a welcome test attached to it, and you found yourself buried under a mountain of homework—chemical equations to solve and analyse, essays, books to read, lab practice, and lectures to attend. There wasn’t any snowball effect; it all hit at once, and by the time you and Sue returned on the first Monday of the second week, you were carrying enough work to fill two mules, and it would still have been too heavy even for them.

“Your mum is calling,” Sue’s voice pulled you out of a particularly boring passage about physical chemistry in one of your shared workbooks. You would usually put your phones on the cabinet for study time, but the vibration had startled Sue for the third time in ten minutes, so she decided to address it.

“Ugh, can you put her on speaker? I’ll deal with this quickly, and I don’t want to move,” you rolled your eyes, catching Sue’s judgmental glare. She’s your mum!

“Kochanie, finally! I’ve been trying and trying, how are you doing?” Your mum’s voice filled the room with her familiar heavy accent, though she insisted it was improving. Your dad didn’t speak a word of Polish, so Joanna had to switch to English entirely after you left.

“All good, Mum. Lots and lots and lots of studying,” you said, your voice so unamused you barely lifted your eyes from the book, though your gaze was unseeing. You had been staring at the same equation for about half an hour now.

“Have you been practising your affirmations?” Of course, you hadn’t. Silly idea.

“Yes, every day and every time someone pisses me off. How’s Dad?” You decided to deflect as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

“Dad went to Calais for a retreat, and I’m left alone for the entire week. He’s not allowed a mobile, you see,” Your mum rambled on a little longer, and you let her. You were happy to hear your parents were moving on after losing their only daughter. Even though Joanna insisted she could feel your presence in the house, in the clothes and trinkets you’d left behind, and could sense your moods through an invisible mother-daughter bond you shared. What a load of nonsense.

“Mamusia, I love you, but I have to go. I’m studying with Sue, and we’ve got a test in thirty minutes,” you added a round of loud pecks so she could hear the kisses through the phone speaker. She told you to wear red underwear and get Sue to kick you for good luck.

“Your mum sounds awesome,” Sue laughed under her breath. She tried to study but ended up listening to the entire conversation.

“Eh, she’s something. She’s pretty cool when she’s not suffocating you with love, you know?” You gave Sue a knowing smile, and she understood immediately. “Have you managed to learn anything? My brain is literally fuming.”

Sue groaned as she started packing up her notebooks to head toward the lab class. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think I’ll use my last resort—can I borrow some red knickers?” You snickered as Sue shot you a huge mocking grin.

“No, but I can kick you alright, sweet Sue,” you couldn’t help but laugh. You gathered all the papers scattered around you with both hands and shoved them into your bag. You glanced at yourself in the mirror before leaving your dorm room, and Jesus Christ, your youth had already fled. Dark circles under your eyes, a gaunt face, lips chapped—all of it painfully underlined by an ink stain on your t-shirt. Whatever, there was no time to do anything about it.

It was Viktor’s class again. You had slowly grown to dislike them, ever since he and Jayce began to switch every second day, after Jayce got a new girlfriend—beautiful Mel Medarda, a third-year theatre student whom Hale once called a close second contender to rule the planet one day. Second after you, of course.

All of Viktor’s initial friendly sass had dissolved into the mean kind, which he executed each time Heimerdinger’s students were supposed to already know something they didn’t—including you. Thankfully, most of the time, you knew. The times you didn’t, he relished it and squeezed the situation to the maximum, like a sad lemon.

“Alright, take a test from the tray on the teacher’s desk and take your usual seat. And as usual, you can have a calculator and periodic table on your workbench,” Viktor’s instructions boomed through the lab classroom as one by one, students dragged themselves through the door, each one looking more exhausted than the other. “Looking ravishing today, Y/N,” he sent a smirk your way as you passed by him without sparing him so much as a glance and a quiet ‘hi.’

“Bite me, Viktor,” you barked back at him. What the hell was he thinking?

“Gladly, but maybe after class.” Usually, the smug look on his face would get you to scoff; this time, you granted him a faint eye roll as you dragged your feet toward the workbench you shared with Sue. As Viktor strolled through the room, making sure no one had anything illegal on their tables, he snatched your phone from your desk just as you were putting it into your bag.

“No phones,” he slid it into his lab coat pocket with a wink. You whined, about to say something you’d regret, but were immediately cut off by “I said, after class,” coming from behind you as you watched his back, your eyes burning a hole in it.

You solved the test first; you were so angry. As soon as you put it back in the tray, a realisation washed over you, and what you realised was the mistake you’d made in one of the exercises. You wanted to retrieve it and fix it, but Viktor’s hand shooshed you away.

“Come on, Viktor, it was there for less than a second!”

“You put it away, it’s gone for grading. That’s the rule. Also—it’s a learning curve,” he smiled at you sweetly, and you wanted to choke him out.

“Learning curve of what? That you are being a dick?” The last part was barely a whisper, nevertheless, a whisper that was fuming with rage and could cut through steel.

“Patience. And decision-making, which is a process that you clearly haven’t mastered yet,” he said coldly, not even looking you in the eye. This time, you did scoff, and angry steps carried you back to your seat.

The class settled into a more familiar rhythm after the test, the shuffle of papers and the steady hum of Bunsen burners filling the air. Viktor moved around the room, overseeing his students’ chemistry lab exercises with the same detached air he always wore. You tried to focus, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the test—and Viktor's smug little smile as he watched your frustration unfold.

The task at hand was simple enough: a titration experiment to determine the concentration of an unknown solution. Viktor had given you all the instructions, but as you watched the beaker of sodium hydroxide mix with the diluted acid, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. Something about the instructions didn’t sit right with you.

You glanced over at Sue, who was carefully measuring out the chemicals. You leaned in, whispering so Viktor wouldn’t overhear.

“Sue, I think he messed up the ratios in the instructions. If we follow this, it’s gonna screw everything up. We’ll end up with a totally different result.”

Sue frowned, taking a closer look at the setup. “You sure?”

“I’m certain. The way he wrote it—if we add that much of the sodium hydroxide, the pH is going to overshoot too quickly. It'll neutralise the acid too fast, and we won’t get an accurate reading. If we’re supposed to get a neutralisation point, that change will mess with the whole titration curve.”

Sue was sceptical, but you were adamant. You felt it in your gut. "It’ll be off. Trust me."

Sue nodded reluctantly. "So, what do we do?"

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tapping the edge of the desk as you thought. You pulled up a few formulas on Sue’s phone, glancing back at Viktor to make sure he wasn’t looking in your direction.

“If we use less sodium hydroxide, the neutralisation will occur more slowly, and we’ll get a more accurate pH reading. We’re supposed to use a much more diluted solution.”

Sue nodded, though she looked uneasy. “What the hell, let’s try it.”

You adjusted the solution as you suggested, making the necessary changes to the procedure. You proceeded with the experiment, and despite her hesitation, Sue followed your lead. The two of you worked in tandem, the smooth, natural chemistry of your lab partnership taking over. As you neared the end of the titration, it was clear you had achieved the neutralisation point correctly—without overshooting or leaving any room for error.

Meanwhile, the rest of the class was still fumbling through their measurements, the air thick with the sounds of Viktor’s quiet reprimands. You couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then, noting the small, almost imperceptible frown on his face as he inspected his students’ work.

When the clock pointed to fifteen minutes away from the class ending, Heimerdinger stepped into the lab, his eyes scanning the results with interest. He walked toward your workbench, eyes lighting up as he reviewed your calculations.

“Well, it seems we have at least one pair who didn’t follow the instructions blindly,” Heimerdinger said, his voice rich with approval. “Good work, you two. You’ve done the experiment correctly. Trusting your instincts—making adjustments based on the data rather than simply following authority—is key in science. After all, we’re here to discover, not just to repeat what’s been done.”

You allowed yourself a smile of satisfaction, while Sue breathed a little easier, glancing at you in admiration.

Viktor’s face, however, was unreadable. He stood at the back of the room, arms folded tightly across his chest, watching the interaction with narrowed eyes.

Heimerdinger didn’t seem to mind. “It’s a learning curve for all of us, even your teacher. Mistakes are inevitable. But sometimes when we challenge authority—question the procedures—that’s when we learn and grow. Science is born from curiosity and defiance. Respect is important, of course, but don’t be afraid to challenge when you feel something isn’t right.”

You raised an eyebrow at Viktor, who hadn’t said a word. His lips were pressed into a thin line, but his eyes were hard as steel. He wasn’t pleased by Heimerdinger’s praise of your independent thinking.

“That’s how science is made,” Heimerdinger continued, completely oblivious to the tension between his students and the teacher. “By asking ‘what if?’ and exploring the unknown.”

Viktor finally spoke, his voice cool and controlled. “That’s true,” he said, glancing at you. “But there's a fine line between innovation and recklessness. Don’t mistake one for the other.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tight. “I don’t think we did.”

Viktor’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t respond, turning on his heel and walking toward the front of the room. Sue nudged you gently, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, at least we didn’t screw up,” she whispered.

You smiled back, but your mind was still racing. You had challenged Viktor’s authority—hadn’t followed his instructions—and it had got you praise from the professor. This couldn’t be good. “Sue, I don’t think I’m getting my phone back,” you whined into your friend's shoulder, who giggled uncontrollably.

You waited for your group to disperse into the library or the cantina before the start of the next lecture, making sure Viktor wouldn’t be able to humiliate you in front of anyone. You took a deep breath and knocked weakly on the door of the assistant’s back office.

“Come in,” Viktor’s voice was as flat and unwelcoming as ever. You braced yourself as you turned the doorknob and stepped inside quietly. Viktor was sitting at one of the tiny desks you were cramped at with Jayce and didn’t even look up. You cleared your throat.

“Yes?” This time, he looked up. God, he looked angry. When he finally raised his eyes to meet yours, he only sighed. “I doubt I can do much for you, Y/N. Given that you know everything already.”

“That’s rich coming from a guy who broke into the lab to prove his point once. Yes, Jayce told me,” you smiled at him sweetly, referring to his second-year incident when he and Jayce breached the lab security at night and conducted an experiment they were forbidden to do by Heimerdinger himself. This got them secure spots for PhD and TA positions.

Seeing that there was absolutely nothing coming from his direction but a blank stare, you asked carefully, “Well… why did you fuck up?”

Viktor sighed again, stood up slowly, and walked toward you. “Some theatre girls got us drunk last night—Mel’s friends. And I messed up the notes. Chemistry is not my major, as you know.” A smirk started to paint his face as he observed your reaction to the mention of drinking with some girls.

Viktor decided to push you further, his smirk widening as he leaned against the desk. “It’s hard to focus when you’re surrounded by Mel’s friends, you know. A lot of distractions. I haven't quite shaken last night off me yet,” he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Your heart dropped at his words. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but something inside you shifted—you didn’t want to admit it, but it hurt. Viktor was deliberately drawing attention to some girls, and it stung more than you cared to acknowledge.

You scolded yourself internally. Stop it. Don’t let him get to you. But it was already too late. You could feel a pang of something—jealousy, maybe, or insecurity—but you refused to let it show.

Viktor, sensing your discomfort, didn’t let up. “By the way,” he said, his tone casual, “I took a closer look at your test. You know, given your answers, I understand how you worked out the correct proportions for the exercise. Same mistake you made on the test itself, right?”

Your stomach twisted, and your chest tightened. “So now you’re just going to relish in my defeat, aren’t you?” you shot back, your voice strained.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got far better things to relish in. Just making observations.”

You exhaled sharply, your anger bubbling over. “You know, because you were being such a dick, the thing I actually knew will probably lower my final grade now. Congratulations.”

Viktor’s smirk never faltered. “I wasn’t being a dick,” he said, voice smooth. “I was merely being a meticulous stiff bastard.” He leaned back, his tone laced with sarcasm. “You were quite vocal about that, if I recall. Something about me being a ‘pedantic pain in the ass’ when you were drunk.”

Your face flushed, your hand tightening into a fist at your side. That comment struck a nerve you hadn’t even realised was there. Your heart pounded. “Are you seriously so petty, Viktor, that you’re going to take revenge for some drunken slur by messing with my grade?” you snapped, your voice rising. You turned to leave, the weight of your frustration heavy on your chest.

But Viktor’s voice stopped you cold. “Wait,” he said, and for a moment, you thought he was going to apologise. Maybe even admit he’d gone too far.

You glanced over your shoulder, ready to hear some kind of redemption. But then Viktor’s tone shifted again. “You didn’t forget something, did you?”

You froze as he pulled your phone from his pocket and held it out to you, a mischievous gleam in his eye. The sight of your phone in his hand made your heart sink. You really are a bastard, you thought.

With strained composure, you took the phone from him. Your fingers brushed his, sending an unexpected jolt through you. Viktor’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, and for the briefest second, you saw something flicker behind his usual cool façade. Something almost… uncertain.

Your stomach fluttered—No. Not now. Don’t let him do this to you.

You forced a tight smile, returning his gaze. “I can play this game too, Viktor,�� you said, your voice low and controlled.

Viktor’s smirk faltered for a brief moment, and he leaned back against the desk, watching you with a hint of something deeper in his expression. His eyes softened, but he quickly masked it with another calculated look.

You turned to leave, your mind racing with frustration and another weird emotion you didn’t have the name for. Just before you reached the door, you felt a shift in the air. Viktor’s teasing had crossed a line, and somehow, the distance between you felt less like a joke and more like something real. Why does this matter so much to me?

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. Viktor hadn’t just teased you. He’d affected you, and you hated that. As you stepped out of the office, you could feel his gaze on your back, following you, studying your body. You scolded yourself internally for looking like a wreck and made your way to join Sue in the library.

Your friend regarded you with concern as you slid into the chair at the table, books already splayed out in front of her. “Did you get your phone back?”

“Yeah, it was a fight to the death,” you mumbled, sighing heavily as you opened a massive tome of genetics for the next lecture.

“And who died?” Sue asked, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Oh, definitely me this time.” You whined and dropped your head face-flat onto the table. “I don’t understand when this happened. Can you direct me to a point in time when Viktor woke up and chose violence?” you chuckled despite yourself.

“Um… I think it was some time after the party where that cute curly-haired guy with a poetic name clung to you the entire evening. Or—” she smirked—“you calling Viktor a meticulous stiff bastard.”

“Ambrose? I completely forgot about him,” you mused for a second. There had been an Ambrose sometime during your first weeks. He was from the theatre department too, full of big words, slightly obsessive, but overall nice. You never gave him your number, though, deciding it wasn’t meant to be.

“So you think Viktor loves me so much, jealousy rotted his guts?” you laughed a little too loudly, drawing a few irritated ‘shh!’ sounds from nearby students.

“Let’s say it’s my instinct,” Sue replied with a mischievous smile. “And remember, Y/N—trusting your instincts is key in science,” she added in a hushed, exaggerated Heimerdinger impression, causing you to suppress your laugh even further.

***

Viktor stretched in his chair. The last paper to check stared him in the eye, glaring at him almost as intensely as you had that morning. He groaned slightly at the pain in his leg as the door creaked open.

“Hi, partner,” Jayce greeted, shooting him a smile that was a mix of guilt and a plea for forgiveness. He’d left Viktor for an entire day to gallivant around campus with Mel. She had apparently needed strong arms to carry boxes of flyers advertising their winter show.

“Don’t ‘hi, partner’ me, Jayce,” Viktor huffed but smiled faintly under his nose. “How was it?”

“She’s really something, Vik. I can tell you over a beer?” Jayce offered, clearly still buzzing from his all-day hangout with his beautiful, smart, interesting, unique, elegant, new girlfriend.

“I think I’m going to call it a night. One last paper to check.” Viktor groaned slightly as he flipped your paper in front of his friend’s face. Jayce snatched it mid-air and studied it carefully for a minute.

“How come? I thought she was the only one to work around your… notes mishap?” Jayce tread carefully, noticing the frown forming on Viktor’s forehead. He knew exactly how Viktor had messed up the notes—sadly, it was partially his fault as well.

Viktor leaned back in his chair, still staring at the paper. “Yes, indeed, she was. She even tried to fix her answer when she put the test into the box,” he muttered quietly under his breath.

Jayce raised an eyebrow. “So why didn’t she?”

Viktor rolled his eyes, the motion quick and dismissive. “Because, Jayce, I don’t make exceptions for students who can't follow the rules.”

“Oh, Viktor,” Jayce sighed, shaking his head. “What did she do to get so deeply under your skin? Seriously, you're not usually like this.” Viktor was only mean and vigilant when he cared—or when he was hurt. That, Jayce knew. He just didn’t know which one it was.

Viktor shrugged nonchalantly, but there was an edge to his voice. “She’s just full of herself. Thinks she can do whatever she wants because she’s got it all figured out.”

Jayce’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. Well, if someone’s getting on your nerves that much, it usually means they’re reflecting something about you that you don’t want to see.”

Viktor stared at him blankly, the words almost not registering. Then, he let out a short, mocking laugh. “When did you start spreading the wisdom of your people around the world, Jayce?”

Jayce leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms casually. “Mel teaches me how to talk to difficult people now. You know, learning to understand them and not just shut them down immediately.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, his tone sceptical. “Am I the difficult one here?”

Jayce’s grin widened. “Clearly. I mean, you’re willing to fuck up Y/N’s final grade over a sentiment. That’s not exactly… rational behaviour, is it?” He leaned into the desk, hoping for a moment of self-reflection from his friend.

Viktor was silent for a moment, then scoffed, trying to brush off the conversation. “It’s not like that. I’m not just doing it to be petty.”

Jayce leaned in slightly. “So, what did you tell Heimerdinger about the mishap?”

Viktor leaned forward as well, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. “I told him the truth—both of us fell asleep in the lab, working on our side project. I had to rush to class that morning. No big deal.”

Jayce nodded, processing this. “I’m sure Heimerdinger won’t bat an eyelid if you step up for Y/N, especially since she did well in class. If anything, she deserves some leniency.”

Viktor paused, looking at his friend thoughtfully. “I guess I could do that. Just… don’t think this is something I do for everyone,” he exhaled, rubbing his temple. “But I’ll talk to Heimerdinger.”

Jayce smirked, leaning back in his chair again. “There you go. Maybe Mel’s influence is working on you after all.”

Viktor shot him a look, clearly not amused. But deep down, he couldn't deny there was something about you that unsettled him—and, for some reason, it had started to bother him more than he cared to admit.

“Just keep your wisdom to yourself,” Viktor muttered. “And get out of my office. I still have work to do.”

Jayce chuckled but stood up, winking. “Hey, it’s my office as well! But yeah, I get the point.” As Jayce exited, Viktor stared at the paper before him, his mind occupied by frustration. A meticulous stiff bastard he was indeed.

[mxabankzz5]

American Dream

paring: wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

summary: Y/n, a high level mutant and vital member of the Avengers is left bewildered when another Wade Wilson, from outside her timeline, pleads for her help in his mission to save his dying world. Even more shocked when the merc reveals their other crucial ally to be a man she thought to have left in her past.

warnings: 16+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her Avenger name is American Dream (Inspired by the comic hero), She/her pronouns, Swearing(lots), Angst, Heavy Violence, Deadpool (he's his own warning), Fluff, Possible Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

Masterlist

Logan is not fucking dead.

Sure his ‘death’ scene in Logan made for a perfect ending to a very very sad story. But that’s not how regenerative healing factors work.

You think I wanna be here in downtown North Dakota digging up the one and only Wolverine? No thank you. But the fate of my entire world is at stake.

He might not be living his best life right now but be sure as hell ain’t-

I gasped and squealed in excitement as my shovel hit something hard.

Dead.

Moving the rumble around I noticed something shiny like metal. Adamantium. It was his goddamn skeleton.

“Yes..yes of course…” I sighed before grabbing my shovel and yelling out in anger. Smashing the wooden makeshift X that marked his grave.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Snapping the shovel in half over my knee.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH! MOTHERFUCKER UGHHH MY WORLD IS FUCKED!”

“Look, I’m not a man in science but you seem really passed away right now…but it’s good to see ya. I’ve gotta be honest, I’ve always wanted to ride with ya Log. Can you imagine the fun, the chaos?” I sighed once more, moving my hand from his metal kneecap to his jaw.

“Gday mate, nothing that’ll bring me back to life faster than a big bag of Marvel cash.” I impersonated, laying the Australian accent on thick.

“Hoo Hoo! Me too Hugh…hah but no no no no. You had be all noble and die forreal. GODAMMIT! I could really use your help right now.” I leaned forward rubbing my head in dismay before hearing the lovely sound of TVA soldiers behind me.

“Wade Wilson. You are under arrest by the Time Variance Authority for-”

“Ugh death by day player..”

“Drop you weapons and come out peacefully!”

“I’m not gonna give you my weapons..but I promise not to use them!” I groaned before repositioning myself to look up.

“There are 206 bones in the human body, 207 if I’m watching Gossip Girl. Ugh let’s go, maximum effort.” I high-fived Logan before grabbing him and leaping out from behind the snowy logs.

“Okay peanut, looks like we’re getting that team up after all.”

After unfortunately having to slaughter the army Paradox obviously sent after me, I decided to start my plan b mission.

Find Y/n Y/L/N. The reason why all of this started in the first place.

You see, Y/n and Logan are special, so special that apparently them dying means my whole timeline has to fucking end.

So Y/n decided that instead of letting a few hundred thousand people perish, she sacrificed her self by riding one of Iron Man’s nukes into space to save New York from some huge alien army trying to take over the word.

I know right? Stupidest fucking thing I ever heard.

Now this obviously took a toll on wolvy here, they were sort of..a thing?

By “thing” I mean married for 12 and a half years but who the hell is counting? It’s not like anyone knew anyway, the X-men and Avengers didn’t exactly get along publicly. Once the “cure” for the mutant gene got released, things got a little political between the two bands of heros.

But I digress! That’s another story for another chapter.

I pulled out the fancy remote I snagged from one of the soldiers and scrolled through.

Earth 10005- current timeline

Earth 58126

Earth 616- select timeline

“This one looks promising.” I clicked the button to select it and a large orange door appeared before me.

I stepped through it into a bar. I didn’t see Y/n anywhere but I did happen to recognize a familiar pair of hair tufts. Perfect!

“Logan! I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

He slowly turned to face me. “Who’s asking?” He slipped off the bar stool to reveal…a midget?

I gasped. “Well who’s this little ankle bitter. Did you stick the landing little guy? Yes you did, comic accurate short king!” I cooed, leaning down to his eye level.

He frowned, looking behind me. Suddenly a hand grabbed my shoulder and turned me around with a shocking about of strength.

There stood Y/n, surprisingly standing eye to eye with me.

“Holy fuck.. you are all legs!”

“Are we gonna have a problem?”

“Oh no ma’am! Wouldn’t dream of it. But we might if you and little Logan here don’t come with me back to my timeline.”

She frowned before crossing her arms over her chest.

“You were just leaving”

“Uh no..I don’t think so because-”

She suddenly sent a powerful jab to my stomach, sending me flying across the bar.

Goddamn that super serum does wonders doesn’t it?

“Que the fucking montage.”

And that’s how Wade got here, on earth 982.

After getting his ass beat by multiple variations of You and Logan he finally decided to enter this timeline.

Walking through the orange door he stepped into what looked like an office room. It was big and sleek but what really caught his eye was the large shield hanging on the wall like a painting.

It looked like Captain America’s shield but a bit smaller. It was in a glass display case which he assumed was bulletproof.

The gold plaque below it spelt out ‘American Dream’

But before Wade could fangirl any longer the cocking of a gun caught his attention and he quickly turned around.

You were standing behind him with a pistol to his head.

“Y/n! Wait.. oh my god are you Capt-“ Wade gawked at your outfit. It was almost Identical to Steve Rodger’s suit. From the star on your chest to the red boots that adorned your feet. Even your helmet was identical, except for an open area in the back to let your long soft curls run down your back.

“No wade, I’m not Captain America”

“Omg you know me?!” Every other Y/n didn’t bother to learn who he was before sending him flying into a wall.

“Yes wade, this is your 5th time trying to audition for the team of course I know you…”

“But wait.. if you’re not Cap then where is he? Is he alive here?? And you’re an Avenger?”

You gave him a confused look.

“What do you mean, of course he’s alive. He just talked to you yesterday he told me he rejected you...what the hell are you doing here wilson?” You reached to pick up the phone on what wade assumed was your desk, possibly calling security.

“Woah Woah calm down! I’m just shocked by the preppy, all-American sweetheart look, in every other timeline you’re always some kind of ‘anti-hero’. Ugh you and Logan really are perfect for each other.”

Wade almost didn’t catch the quick falter in your stance at the mention of the Wolverine but ignored it.

“Anyways sweetpea, I didn’t come here to audition, I came here for you.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement.

“I’m flattered wilson but-“

“No! No! Not like that! My universe is dying, and in order to save it I need to replace at least one of the anchor beings that died in to buy it some time. If I replace both.. I can probably keep my timeline alive for good. Please, you’re the only one that can help!”

“Help how?”

Wade sighed in annoyance, gosh why all the inquiries!

“See this is where it gets a bit flakey- and please just hear me the fuck out before you flip out and punch me! *Deep inhale* You have to come back with me to my timeline, meet up with Paradox and beg him to reconsider, maybe chill out there a little bit while it slows the dying process, and then come with me to replace the other anchor being and permanently save my world.” He spews out quickly before Y/n could interfere.

He was expecting you to instantly lash out, telling him it was insane of him to ask you to abandon your timeline to go live in his with his soon to be new best friend.

But you just stood there, an almost blank look on your face. It honestly scared him, before you finally gave him a confused glare.

“Wait.. so you’re not from this timeline?”

“Uhm no.. but I would really appreciate it if-“

“And you want me to go with you to your timeline to find your other.. anchor being. What the hell is that?”

“Oh! Ugh It’s kinda this thing where if someone really really important dies then your timeline just goes to shit. Ya know I’m pretty sure if I were dead my timeline would probably be gone by now but since they needed me or whatever I decided to stick around for a bit longer.” He flipped his imaginary hair before turning back to Y/n with a hand on his hip.

“So I’m dead in your universe?”

“Bingo! And I really need you to be undead in my universe by… yesterday so chop chop!” He exclaimed, looking down at his imaginary watch before pulling out some kind of remote.

“Wait! Who’s the other anchor being?”

“Ughhhh God, all these damn questions! It’s someone you know, a very very dear friend to us. Jimmy.”

You frowned. “Who?”

“Jimmy? James? The man made of metal? Any of this ringing a bell?”

Y/n stared at him in bewilderment silently.

“Oh for christ sakes James! James Howlett! The Wolverine. Yikes Y/n you need to keep up with the lore, you’ve been around since Wolverine Orgins you should know what’s was going on girl!”

“Logan?!”

“Yes! Now let’s go find that little honey badger before he fucks around and nobly sacrifices himself again in this timeline. You do have one in this world, correct? Cause it would be soo sooo much easier if you could just call him right up for me honeybun.”

“I haven’t talked to Logan in years, I don’t even know where he is, let alone if he has a phone number I can call.”

Wade recoiled at the first sentence.

“You haven’t talked to him in years?! What do you mean, aren’t you guys married?”

Y/n’s eyes almost bulged at the question.

“Married!? Hell no! We barely even dated.”

Wade was shocked and a little dissapointed. “Oh! I just thought since in every other timeline you’re both- well nevermind. No time for stories let’s go!”

“Now hold on Wade, I don’t know if I can just leave my timeline-”

And there it was..gosh you were always so fucking responsible.

“Fine, guess I’ll have to just find Logan myself and go find another you that’ll help me.”

He tapped a button on the weirdly futuristic remote and turned away slowly, about to step through an orange door before you stopped him.

"Wait!"

The merc turned around giddy, hopeful that you would come to your senses and join him.

"What happens when I leave my timeline?

Wouldn't that fuck everything up here too?"

Wade froze, he hadn't really thought about that part. Shit!

"Uhhh well as far as I know, as long as you're not dead your world should be fine. So uhhh you should be good." He said, trying to sound as convincing as he could.

You could sense he was a bit unsure of himself but you also realized how much he needed you help.

"Y'know what, I'm in wilson."

[will80sbyers]

hi!!💖 i am a mileven but im not here to attack. actually i have a question... why does it seem surreal to you that will can’t fall in love with anyone other than mike? i mean, the same could be for el or mike, but why do you think that will in his life can only love him? do you think thats impossible for him meet someone and learn to know them over time and fall in love with them?

well, if byler is endgame i’ll be happy anyway, cause it means that el deserves better and i accept that, but you can’t accept will going on?

i just want to understand :(

Hi, if you're truly curious the point is that it's not about what I want or don't want to accept... The point is that Stranger Things is a TV show

the TV show is being written by writers that have created storylines and put visual hints on the screen for people to interpret, what they have written into the show is in my opinion pointing towards Mike and Will being written as a slow burn love story rather than just an "unrequited love" storyline

The way they have written Will's love for Mike is as true love is written, and you can't dismiss it in a story, especially not in the last season at the last second by giving him a random boyfriend that hasn't had any real care put into their character either because it would be someone that appears for what 5 minutes? If they wanted to give him a boyfriend other than Mike they should have written him in season 4 and slowly built it up from there, but they didn't 🤷

What the people that want Will to have a last minute boyfriend or that want Will to just "get over Mike" are saying is that they are okay with bad writing for Will's storyline (because they simply don't care about Will!)

On the opposite side instead we have El with a character arc where her leaving Mike fits perfectly, so her story (hopefully they don't actually kill her like people are telling me) would be still good even if she wasn't in a relationship with Mike, actually it would be better because she would be a PROTAGONIST woman that doesn't need to end the story by being coupled up! For El, Byler would be equally positive... Instead how they have written Will's love for Mike makes it so that Will "moving on" is just not credible!

If you're interested in reading more about my reasons to ship them (outside of me finding them adorable obviously)

Have a nice day, I hope this was helpful to understand where we're coming from! 🫶

[loolilyumm]

I really like your interpretation of 3! Would be super excited to hear more about your 8 (or any other characters) :D

YAY THANKS FOR THE ASK!!! And I am so sorry about the late reply. I literally forgot I had this drafted 😭 I actually already rambled on about 8 a couple of posts ago - If you scroll down (or look for the agent 8 tag on my acc) you’ll find it! I think so much about her I hope you enjoy…!!!!!!! I’m so happy you like my little guys :))))))

AHEM Since you said..any other characters….I DO HAVE OTHER CHARACTERS!!!!! NOW I AM GOING TO YAP ABOUT MY AGENT 4!!!

THIS IS ELLIS! I actually love drawing him so much. I will admit that I have not thought too much about his backstory BUUTTT he makes up for it in personality!

Ellis was about 16 during splatoon 1, and he moved to the city for college when he was 18. Shortly after, he was recruited to the NSS by Marie. As of splatoon 3, he is 21 years old! He mains the Slosher Deco.

He is a freakishly tall lanky dude. He’s very book smart but acts goofy and stupid and snarky and lacks common sense. He’s a bit of a flirt and Marie acts like she can’t stand him. They tease each other a lot but they genuinely care for each other a LOT! But they’d never admit it!! Ew gross!!

He feels like a bit of a disappointment to his parents because he was supposed to be going to this fancy college in the city, but ended up leaving it and becoming an agent full time. PLUS he can’t tell them that he’s a secret agent saving the world, so they just think he works at a gas station or something 😭

Hero mode was a totally new experience for him. Marie never doubted him though. Now he’s an extremely talented agent. He’s really good at coming up with strategies and is extremely intelligent on the battlefield. He’s just so goofy that everyone forgets he’s actually smart.

In the beginning, he didn’t know who the squid sisters were at ALL because he basically lived under a rock until moving, and he was like, “pff, you can’t be that big of a deal.” LMAO.

He and Marie quickly became best frenemies. They often teased each other and had a lot of good banter and really good chemistry. Ellis developed a little crush on her but never thought it would be reciprocated!

One night, Ellis was injured on a mission. He is very deliberate about his missions, always having a plan - so he rarely gets injured.

When he came back, he saw a side of Marie that he’d never seen before. She was worried for him, helping him with his injury. The two of them realized that this was serious work. Ellis could have died. It also brought Marie to a realization. She really, really cared about agent 4. There was maybe a little crush starting to form…!!!

But the two of them STILL haven’t done anything about it. It’s been 3 YEARS. They are the definition of slow burn. Just because neither of them wants to admit that they like the other.

Near the end of splatoon 2 hero mode, Ellis became an agent full time and dedicated all his time to finding Callie. And they did!!!!! It was super awesome yay!!!!!

Currently, the NSS is bigger than ever before and they even made agent 3 the captain.

Ellis is still a goofball and loves to be silly with Callie and agent 8 (Olive.) Those two are like his sisters. The New agent 3 (Margot) is a little off putting but that doesn’t bother Ellis at all. Every once in a while, he works a salmon run shift with her, and it’s crazy how good she is.

Ellis understands that 3 and 8 went through a lot down in the metro and wants to do anything he can to help them free the sanitized octolings. (This is what led to him working on the memverse with Marina!) Sometimes the agents go down to the empty remains of Kamabo to see if they can find anyone. They are usually unsuccessful but it seems to clear 8’s conscience.

I still don’t really understand side order. Um. I kind of didn’t like how it was all virtual 😭 maybe I will make it a little different just for the sake of story. Idk yet. But yea!

That’s all I have on Ellis, he’s my boy! I think he’s my favorite to draw, and his design has been the only one not to undergo any change.

And that concludes my agent yap sessions! If you guys want to know anything about them (or send them asks or something) my askbox is always open! I love answering questions :) ((even if I am a little slow ahhhh sorry!!))

But yeah!! I’ll make official character sheets and stuff sometime soon :D thanks so much for sticking around if you made it this far!! 🫶🫶

[raineandsky]

This is for the lovely anon who requested the New Better Villain taking on the villain's hero and gettin a lil too violent with it :) hope you enjoy!!

tw: implied violence, blood

The hero, for lack of a better word, looks normal.

The villain isn’t sure what he was expecting. Most people look normal. But all those years under a mask, a charade… it kind of became all that the villain could see him as. The hero. Even now, looking him in the eye as the person he is—really is—it doesn’t seem real.

That and, well— the villain can’t deny that he’s pretty alright to look at. That was certainly an unexpected twist.

The other villain—the bastard he’s cursed to work with, the jackass taking his job, his nemesis, his city—has the hero in a death grip. It feels like it’s all moving in slow motion. The two of them are tousling, kind of, as much as they can tousle with the other villain raining hellfire on a hero that’s well out of his depth.

It’s strange, that the other villain seems to be the outlier here. The hero and the villain have danced around each other for years. It’s been some sort of unspoken rule that they never quite hit hard enough to truly maim. But the hero came here, probably expecting the villain, expecting their usual song and dance, and instead got met with an entirely different tune.

Does the villain want the hero dead? Does he want their game to end? He doesn’t have time to decide.

“[Other Villain],” he snaps, “stop it.”

The other villain leans back, his fist still balled in the hero’s shirt, his other pulled back for yet another strike. “Oh, sorry.” His chest is heaving, as if he’s the one losing here. “You want a go?”

The villain doesn’t know what his answer would be to that. “I think he’s got the idea. Leave off.”

The other villain doesn’t move. The hero wipes idly at the blood painting his mouth.

Like a child asking a genuine question, the other villain simply says, “Why?”

“Because you’re ruining my fun.” True. “You’re taking over on my nemesis.” True. “You’re on my watch.” Half-true, without the supervillain to take charge. “I know this life better than you. Let me do my job and stop butting in.”

“You’ve been fighting [Hero] for years without any progress.” The other villain’s brow knits, genuinely confused. “I’m doing you a favour.”

The villain glances down at the supposed favour he’s getting. Blood splatters the hero’s face, deep crimson painting his clothes. Something of a black eye is already appearing, and the villain hates that noticing that means he also notices that the hero is looking right at him.

He’s not sure why it’s so off-putting. Should he have caused that? Does he want it to have happened at all? His emotions are clashing together in a horrendous cacophony and deciphering any of them is impossible.

“Let go, [Other Villain].”

The slight frown turns into something more hateful. “No.”

“Your violence isn’t welcome in this so-called partnership. Pull it together, or go tell [Supervillain] you ruined his plan.”

“You’re generations out of date, [Villain].” It comes out of the other villain’s mouth as a spit. “Violence is the way forward. I’m helping in ways you’ll clearly never understand.”

The villain isn’t entirely sure why he lurches for the other villain, much like he hasn’t been sure of anything since the hero showed up here and ruined what was already a fairly shitty day.

The other villain has his work cut out for him with an opponent that’s not already half-dead, it seems. The two of them land in a heap on the ground, the other villain’s grappling for his partner’s throat and the villain’s grip tight on the other’s wrists and the air disappears from the villain’s lungs and the world seems so far away and everything is muffled—

The villain gasps his next breath, scrambling away unsteadily. The world slowly comes back into focus, the hum of the city below and his own haggard breathing tuning back in. He swallows nothing, the feeling a sharp burn in his throat, and whips around to look for the other villain.

The villain finds him on the ground, unmoving, the lightest trail of blood trickling from his nose. The hero is sitting next to him with a battered road sign lying at his feet, staring off into nothing.

“Did—” The word hurts. The villain tries to clear his throat and only makes it feel worse. “Did you hit him with a roadwork sign?”

The hero huffs a sort of laugh that melts quickly into a cough. He doesn’t look at the villain when he says, “Think it was about time I hit him back, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t know you had it in you. You’ve never hit me quite that bad.”

The hero actually laughs this time, the sound choked. “You pull what he just did and I’ll consider it.”

The villain hums a sort of laugh as well, settling on the floor opposite, and the two of them fall into silence. They’re both too tired to say much anyway.

This is another strange experience. The hero and the villain usually fight and go their separate ways. This sort of… hanging out is new. Different—and thankfully not the type of different that got them here in the first place.

The hero smiles at him, and even through the bloody face paint and the blooming bruises, the villain hates that he still looks good. Looks normal. Looks like a nice civilian that the villain would end up curiously following for a couple blocks because his half-decent face caught his attention.

The hero is, the villain supposes, a person too. Another civilian that looked at the state of the world and took up a side, just like the villain did.

“Thank you,” the hero says through the daze of annoyance, “for saving me.”

“Eh.” The villain waves a nonchalant hand. “It’s not like you were going to do it.”

That earns another choked laugh. “Ah, you’re funnier than you like to admit, [Villain].”

The villain scoffs in offence and quiet falls over them again. “Thanks as well, I guess, for…” He gestures vaguely at the other villain lying next to them. “Hitting my colleague over the head with a road sign.”

The hero’s smile grows. “You’re welcome.”

The hero reaches for his mask, just as stained red and tattered as its owner. He turns it over in his hands for a moment, slow and thoughtful, before carefully putting it back over his face. “Back to the heroics, then,” he says lightly.

The villain nods, but he’s not really listening. He finds that, now he’s seeing the person he’s familiar with, he preferred the hero without his mask after all.

[sevikas-biceps]

Isha gets no burial.

There's no time.

Isha was dead, that was certain; but Vi isn't. Her sister got knocked off her feet, pulled down with her as the explosion took off. Bleeding and disoriented, but alive. Vi still lingered with her, as she always had; the chip on her shoulder that refused to be reshaped even past the stinging cuts and jagged skin. That's why she leaves her in the cell, that's why she throws away the keys. Beyond the last consideration she might give her, it was also the last petty thing she could do. Some clawing irony, some desperate chuckle.

It's the curse of being the elder sister, she thinks, shepherds of the greatest failures.

Isha doesn't get tended to.

The girl gets left there, imprinted onto dead soil; and Jinx doesn't get the mercy of knowing whether the flesh was disintegrated into dust or merely trampled beneath the uncaring feet of loyal soldiers. If the kid got the kindness of a quick flare of blinding light, burning her dry; or the cruelty of a snapped neck beneath a bigger beast's weight. She couldn't even tell if there was a corpse at all.

Not even the hideout suffices as a shrine. There's a dent in the earth there, a tiny bit where the blade of the fan digs in just right. But it's not enough. It's too fucking small for someone who possessed that big of a heart. Too dark, too damp, and too damn caged-in for the wild little rabbit that the child had been. It's not enough. It's not fucking enough. None of it is. Not even as she torches the bar and all what's left of goodness inside it.

There isn't really anyone to remember the kid. Maybe Vi, maybe Sevika, maybe Ekko, maybe even Caitlyn. A sister, a mother, a lover, and an enemy. Four people in the present for the four people she'd killed that night at the warehouse. Mylo, Claggor, Vander, Powder.

Powder. Heh. Fuckin' Powder.

That's the last laugh she gets; thinking about it while she watches the entire thing burn down into ashes. Into grey fog. Into powder. Back to the start. Back to where everything began. To rain and river water. To dust and fire.

She stares at the bomb.

Listless. Unfeeling.

Tired.

(Bunnies love to bleed in the wild, don't they? There are no happy endings for these kinds of creatures. Dirty, rabid, and uncared-for. That's just the way it is. That's the way it's always been. That's the way it'll be, even long after everything ends.)

Isha gets no burial.

Why should Jinx give herself the kindness of one?

She calls out to the void for one last time. Trying to see if there might yet be anything down there that could still give her a piece of something to live for. A glimpse of a face in the black drop. A giggle from the past. A flash of blue or orange or pink. Nothing. Of course it doesn't come. She knows it, accepted it, made peace with it. But still. Something. Anything. No. Nothing. Just nothing. Only silence. Only her failure. Only the faint whisper of a wind that shouldn’t be there and the heavy coating of dust on the rocks.

The quiet is almost ritualistic, a part of her yet resisting: wondering that perhaps, if she stared into the nothingness hard enough, the nothingness will stare back. She'd done it before. She'd carved demons into the stone. Why should this be any different? It's almost charming, really, how even now she tries to pull at a heart that's already stopped bleeding. She’s a fucking trickster. She can pull off the joke again. Only…well. Only this time, it doesn’t come. Oh, her laughter is there—it spills out, again and again and again. But it lacks that mocking edge to it; the inward sneer of Jinx that so often accompanied each of her own self-insults.

Everything falls flat.

There's nothing anymore. It's just fucking nothing.

Plain, cutting silence.

Her finger traces the pin.

There's no burial. There was no time. Not enough of it. But she'd known it then, though, way before they even hopped down to the slums: the whole thing had been a last rite for her. An ode to the creature that named itself Powder. A slowed ignition with just enough sputters and pauses to make the ending burn brighter. She repeats it to herself: there was no time. Oh, trust, there had been a lot of it. She'd just turned to the other side so as not to face the reality that she’d merely borrowed some and intentionally forgot to pay her dues.

The sickest part of her thinks that maybe the girl understood. It was better like this. It should have been better like this. No body, no memory. No voice, no burden. Merely a quiet thanks.

The crystal warms the steel beneath her skin.

She lets out a breath.

Isha gets no burial.

(Jinx won't even pretend to deserve one.)

[annafayeink]

Canvas of Lies

summary: Cate’s life is a careful balance of paint-splattered sweaters, rejection emails, and dreams too big to fit in her tiny apartment. Lu’s life is all charm, designer sneakers, and family obligations that come with impossible expectations. They’re best friends, polar opposites—and suddenly fake dating to help Lu survive a high-stakes family dinner. What starts as an improvised act becomes a whirlwind of tangled stories, unspoken truths, and moments that blur the line between pretend and reality. In the chaos of lies they craft together, Cate and Lu might just uncover the truths they’ve been avoiding all along.

warnings & tags: best friends to lovers; fake dating; mutual pining; slow burn; emotional hurt/comfort; fluff, angst & humor; eventual romance & smut;

Chapter One

The rejection email sat in my inbox like a tiny grenade, waiting to explode.  

“Thank you for your submission, but we are unable to include your work at this time…” 

I didn’t need to read the rest. They were all the same—polite, distant, and devastating. I hovered the mouse over the delete button, as if making it go away would somehow turn back time. 

I slammed my laptop shut instead. The motion sent a jar of brushes teetering off the edge of my desk. It hit the floor with a sharp clatter, paint-streaked handles rolling and scattering across the floor.

I let out a frustrated breath, eyes flickering towards the half-finished painting on the easel. The colors were bold—too bold. The swirls of blue and gold clashed in a chaotic explosion of pigment that seemed to scream without words. It felt just like my emotions. It felt like me: all over the place and out of control. Somehow too much and not enough at the same time. 

I groaned and crouched to gather them, but my knee bumped against the easel and it was all I could do not to let it go flying to the floor as well. A smear of blue paint ended up on the cuff of my sweater, but I couldn't bring myself to care. It was just another thing in my surroundings to remind me of what a mess I am.

The knock on my apartment door broke the suffocating silence to snap me out of my self-pity spiral.  

“Open up, starving artist. I brought sustenance.”  

I straightened, brushing stray hairs out of my face, and shuffled to the door. I didn't bother checking the peephole — who else would show up unannounced with that much swagger?

His voice was unmistakable: smooth, teasing, and just a little too confident.   

I couldn't help but smile as soon as I opened the door. There he stood, Luigi Mangione, my best friend and occasional pain in the ass. His Adidas jacket was slung over one arm, and his dark hair was artfully disheveled in a way that probably took no effort at all. In his free hand, he held a bag from my favourite bakery.

“You look…” He tilted his head, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “Unhinged. Have you slept?”  

“Hello to you too,” I muttered, stepping aside to let him in.  

With the scent of sugar and butter trailing behind him, he waltzed into my apartment with the kind of casual confidence I'd never quite mastered. As he passed, his hand brushed my shoulder, warm and grounding. Then he placed the bag on my tiny kitchen counter and tossed his jacket over the back of my desk chair carelessly. 

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice tinged with mock concern. His fingers reached out to pick at a paint stain near the elbow of my hoodie. “You look like you’ve been on a three-day bender. Did you finally lose it and paint with wine?”  

“No. Wine is expensive.”  

“Fair point.” He handed me a croissant and perched himself on the arm of my threadbare couch, kicking off his sneakers like it was his second home. 

I took a bite, grateful for the distraction, but his eyes stayed on me, too sharp and perceptive for my comfort.

“What happened this time?” he asked, leaning forward. His tone had softened, but his gaze was steady—like he could see right through me even when I didn't want him to.

I hesitated. Lu was my best friend, but his world was light-years away from mine. It wasn't just the money, or the confidence, or the way he moved through the world like he belonged everywhere. It was the ease with which everything seemed to fall into place for him. Like he'd been handed a map at birth, while I was still wandering in circles, looking for the starting line.

He had more charisma than anyone should be allowed, the right connections, and an aura I couldn't replicate. Meanwhile, I was stuck in this tiny apartment, surrounded by unfinished projects and an inbox full of rejection emails. It felt like trying to explain a snowstorm to someone who lived in a desert. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. Still, I gestured vaguely towards my closed laptop.  

“They rejected me again,” I said, forcing the words out. “Apparently, I’m too ‘experimental’ for the gallery scene. Whatever that means.”  

Lu's brows knit together, an expression so out of character it almost made me laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Your work is incredible.” He held my hand and pulled me towards him, making me plop down heavily on the couch. “Those idiots wouldn’t know talent if it slapped them in the face.”  

I snorted, and a bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Thanks, but I don’t think slapping people is part of the artistic process.”  

“Maybe it should be.” He grinned, but there was a softness in his eyes and a hint of admiration that made my chest ache. He tapped my knee gently in that reassuring manner of his. “You’re going to make it, you know. One of these days, they’re all going to be begging for your work.”

His words landed with more weight than I expected. I felt them sink in, but I didn't know how to respond. The sincerity in his expression caught me off-guard.

His hand rested on my knee, tender, and solid. It made me want to believe him—to think that one day my paintings might be hanging in galleries, admired by the same people who rejected me now.

“I mean it,” he said, quieter. His thumb brushed against the seam of my jeans, an absentminded motion that somehow steadied me. “I'm serious, Catherine. You've got something special, and one of these days it's all going to click for them. You'll show them.”

I turned back to the easel so I could blink away the wetness in my eyes, brought on by the flutter of hope. But when my gaze drifted back to the blue and gold monstrosity laughing at me from its perch, suddenly the lump in my throat grew to the size of a football. How could I show them how good I could be when I didn't even know how to make it right?

I got up, avoiding his gaze, and busied myself collecting the brushes I'd dropped before. “It's just… it doesn't feel enough. I feel like I'm always halfway there, but can never get it right.”

“Maybe it's not about getting it perfect. Maybe it's about… Getting out of your own head and letting go.” I heard Lu getting back up and crossing the room in a few steps. He crouched beside me to take a hold of my chin and make me look at him. “Remember that mural you did in college? The next day you freaked out because you hated it, but it’s still all over social media! People love your work because it's you. That's what they’re going to see eventually, I promise.”

His smile was gentle, without a trace of teasing. I buried my face in his neck and his arms surrounded me.

The pang of envy hit me unexpectedly, sharp and unwelcome. Everything came so easily to Lu, from charming strangers to walking into a room like he owned it. Even now, standing in my cluttered apartment wearing a five-year-old sweater and looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, he came across as someone who could be in a penthouse somewhere, sipping champagne and making business deals with powerful people. Meanwhile, here I was, hoping the stupid croissant wasn’t my last meal before rent came due.

I knew he was being sincere, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't quite understand what it was like to fight for every inch of progress. To be told you weren't enough over and over again until you started to believe it. But I didn't say that. I didn't want to ruin the moment.

“I'm gonna need you to repeat those words every now and then, okay?” I said, breathing deeply to shove my internal pity party away. “You know, to balance out all the rejections…"

When I pulled away from his embrace, he kissed my forehead lightly. “I will, anytime you need to be reminded of it.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I said lightly, forcing a smile. “I’ll be sure to let the art snobs know you’re on my side.”

“Damn right I am,” he said, flashing me another familiar grin. “Somebody has to keep you from becoming a tragic artist cliché.”

I rolled my eyes, but the tension in my chest eased just a little.

Then his phone buzzed, and everything shifted. He glanced at the screen and groaned.  

“Oh, come on, not again…” He answered the call, putting it on speaker.  

“Luigi!” his mother’s crisp, aristocratic voice filled the room. “Have you given any thought to who you’ll bring to the anniversary dinner? It’s next weekend, and you cannot show up alone. You know how that looks.”

Lu rolled his eyes at me. The corners of his mouth were pressed into a thin line when he got up with stiffening shoulders to pace the room. “I was actually planning to—”  

“Honestly, I don’t know why you insist on being so difficult. We’ve been nothing but patient with you, and this is how you repay us? By embarrassing us in front of the entire family and our partners? Do you have any idea what people will say? I mean, for God's sake, Luigi—”

As his mother droned on, Lu ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. The usual easy smile was gone, replaced by a tension that rarely showed on his face.

I raised an eyebrow at him. He usually brushed off family drama with a joke, but this seemed to cut deeper.

He hit the mute button, letting out a long sigh. “See what I have to deal with?” he said to me, exasperated. 

“Getting a date sounds like a you problem,” I smirked. “Good luck with that…”  

My words were casual, trying to lighten the mood, but my gaze lingered on him. The frustration in his eyes wasn't just annoyance—it was heavier, like he was carrying the weight of years of this.

He let out a dry laugh. “Thanks for the support.”

I shrugged. “You could always just tell her to back off, you know.”

He didn't answer, but the flicker of something in his expression—regret? Resignation? — made me feel like maybe I'd crossed a line.

Before I could say more, he unmuted the microphone. “Fine, Mother. I’ll find someone you’ll approve of.”  

“You’d better. And make sure she’s… respectable. Someone worthy of the family name. Honestly, Luigi, do try to act like a Mangione for once. We've given you everything, every advantage, and all we ask is for you to do your part and stop being troublesome.”

The call ended with a sharp click, leaving a silence that felt too loud. 

Lu stared at the phone for a moment before setting it down on the counter with more force than necessary. His fingers drummed against the countertop, his usual ease replaced by a restless energy. 

“Wow,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “That was… intense."

“That's just how she is,” he replied with a shrug, as if It wasn't that big of a deal. He flopped back onto the couch, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. “She wants ‘respectable.’ What does that even mean? Respectable by whose standards? Am I supposed to find someone who quotes Shakespeare while doing charity work in pearls?”  

“Or,” I suggested, nudging his leg with my foot, “you could skip dinner altogether.”  

“Tempting,” he said, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “But no. If I don’t show, she’ll send an army of matchmakers after me. Last time, it was someone who thought a ‘fun date’ was discussing the stock market.”  

I giggled, imagining him squirming through that nightmare. “Lu, you don't have to jump just because she snaps her fingers. You're a grown man.”

He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch. “It's more complicated than that.”

“It is?” I asked before I could stop myself, curiosity piqued.

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

I wanted to push further, ask what he meant by that. But there was something in the sudden darkness of his demeanor that stopped me. There was something he wasn't telling me, but I didn't know how to ask without possibly making things worse.

With a resigned huff, he shifted, laying his head on my lap. It was a familiar gesture, one he'd done countless times before whenever he sought comfort but refused to admit it.

Instinctively, I began to play with his curls, twirling the soft strands around my fingers. The rhythmic motion seemed to soothe him, his eyes fluttering shut as he relaxed.

“You're too good to me, Cate,” he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Someone has to keep you in line,” I teased, gently tugging on a particularly stubborn curl.

He chuckled softly. The weight of his frustration seemed to lift, replaced by the comfortable silence that often settled between us.

After a while, I broke the quiet. “So, about this anniversary dinner… Any ideas on who the lucky ‘respectable’ date might be?”

He let out a humourless laugh. “If I had someone, don't you think I'd have mentioned it by now?”

“Okay, fair.” I paused, a mischievous thought creeping in. “You know, if you're desperate, I could always dust off one of my old dresses and pretend to be your doting girlfriend for the night.”

His eyes snapped open, and he tilted his head to look up at me. “That’s… insane.”  

“It’s genius,” I corrected.  

“It’s insane,” he repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’d really do that?

“Of course,” I said, giving his hair a gentle ruffle. “It sounds fun. Plus, I owe for all the croissants.”

The tension in his shoulders eased visibly. “You, in a fancy dress, pretending to be my girlfriend? Now that's something I'd pay to see.”

“Hey, I clean up nicely,” I shot back, feigning offense.

Lu's eyes softened. “Do you, now?”

Before I could respond, he reached out to cup my face with his hand. His thumb brushed gently against my cheek, moving in a slow arc, tracing a line that left warmth in its wake. 

The sudden unexpected touch sent a shiver down my spine. I froze, not sure what he was up to, until he pulled his hand back with a smug grin. 

“You're wearing your art again,” he said, holding up his thumb to reveal a faint cobalt smear.

I blinked, then let out a nervous laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

His hand dropped back to his chest. His smile came a second too late, gaze lingering on me like he wasn't entirely sure whether to laugh or say something else entirely. But then I saw the familiar playful glint return to his eyes. 

“I guess that means I'll have to keep an eye on you during dinner. Make sure you don't end up wearing the hors d'oeuvres too,” he laughed. 

“Very funny,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“That would really make you look experimental.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Hey, as long as you promise not to spill your hundred dollar wine on my fancy dress...”

“Fine,” he said with a cheeky laugh. “Just don’t fall in love with me. That’s not part of the deal.”

“Pfft. As if.” I swatted at his arm, grateful for the tension finally breaking into our usual banter.

As we laughed, we stayed like that on the couch—close, steady, familiar. Just like always.

[casual-praxis]

Thinkin bout.. Winx Club x Four Swords AU…

Genderbent Colors goin’ to Alfea with Zelda, learnin’ magic based on elemental alignment..

I’ve only thought a little about this since sitting down to rewatch Winx Club with my friends, but man. The FS fixation is still goin’ strong.

The most I’ve come up with is that Zelda and Green meet up first (right outside the school) and immediately click with each other, come to find out they’re roommates along with three others.

Green and Red might be adopted siblings here? They come from different home worlds, but Red’s was borderline destroyed due some plot shenanigans or something, hence the needing to be adopted thing.

Blue, Vio, and Shadow might all come from the same world, but I’m not really decided on that. At the very least, Blue and Shadow do. They’re rivals, especially since Shadow went off to Cloud Tower (witch school) instead of Alfea (fairy school). Though one day they might hold hands.

Another idea I had was that Blue gets her Charmix last, but her Enchantix first out of the bunch.

“Charmix” is basically a bonus form that adds onto a fairy’s base form, and can only be obtained by overcoming a very personal struggle tailored to the individual (it’s also a requirement to have this form to pass the second year at Alfea).

“Enchantix” is the final form a fairy needs to acquire at Alfea, and can only be achieved by rescuing someone from that fairies home world and sacrificing a great deal in the process. Obtaining this form allows one to graduate and go on to become a Guardian Fairy of their home world.

Blue struggles to gain Charmix due to the emotional vulnerability aspect of it, but I imagine she’d get it shortly before the semester ends, probably having to admit that she cares about the others or something. For her Enchantix I like to think she saves Shadow and afterwards struggles with the kinda traumatic experience of nearly dying in the process—but it’s okay, Shadow is there for her since they went through the whole thing together.

Most of my thoughts about Red and Vio have just been various ways to pair them together in the background of various other scenes. They get to dance together during any event that invites the Red Fountain dudes over, completely ignoring all that fanfare in favor of spinning each other around the room. Friends to lovers slow burn.

Also, sporty girl Green.

Just think about it.

[infernolust]

𝗖𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗠𝗲 𝗜𝗳 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗖𝗮𝗻

Ghostface! Sevika x Victim! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,1K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: The chase is on, and Sevika revels in the thrill of hunting you through the darkened streets of Zaun. But the real game begins when she corners you, pinning you in place and blurring the lines between predator and prey. Fear turns to fire as tension crackles between you, leaving you breathless and questioning just how much you want to get away.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Ghostface AU, Slow Burn, Angst with a Dash of Comfort, The Thrill of the Chase, Tension and Desire, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Obsession, Dark Romance and Sexual Tension.

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟭. 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟮.

The sound of your footsteps echoes through the empty streets, your breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The city feels alive tonight—too alive. It hums and thrums around you, its shadows stretching long and ominous under the flicker of distant streetlights.

Behind you, the sound of boots on wet pavement grows louder, closer. She’s toying with you.

You don’t need to turn around to know she’s there. You can feel her—her presence sharp and suffocating, like the blade she keeps hidden in the shadows. The chase is her game, and you’re the prize she’s decided to hunt tonight.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you dart around a corner, slipping into an alley bathed in the faint glow of a neon sign. You press your back against the cold, damp wall, trying to steady your breath, but it’s useless. She’s already here.

A flash of black in your peripheral vision—her Ghostface mask. It’s only there for a second, but it’s enough to send a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

— Running again? — Her voice drips with amusement, distorted and low through the voice modulator. It feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once.

Your hand instinctively reaches for the nearest object—a broken bottle discarded on the ground. It’s a feeble defense against someone like her, but you grip it anyway, your fingers trembling.

— Come on, sweetheart, — she taunts, her voice rough and teasing. — You know you can’t hide from me.

You bolt before she can round the corner, your legs carrying you down another narrow street, past shuttered windows and graffiti-smeared walls. The city blurs around you, every shadow a potential hiding place, every sound amplified tenfold.

You know this game well by now. The chase, the tension, the push and pull of it all—it’s become a twisted rhythm you can’t seem to escape. And maybe you don’t want to.

Your chest burns, your lungs screaming for air, but you can’t stop. Not when you know she’s right behind you. Not when you can hear the steady thud of her boots, deliberate and unrelenting.

The alley ahead is a dead end. You realize it too late, skidding to a halt as the brick wall looms in front of you. You whirl around, the bottle still clutched tightly in your hand, just as she steps into view.

Sevika.

She’s massive, her frame taking up the entirety of the alley’s entrance. The Ghostface mask stares back at you, impassive and eerie under the dim light. Her blade glints in her hand, the sharp edge catching the faintest hint of moonlight.

— Got you. — she says, her voice low and smug.

You square your shoulders, refusing to let her see your fear. — What are you waiting for? — you demand, your voice sharp despite the tremor in it. — Just kill me already.

She tilts her head, the movement slow and deliberate, as if she’s sizing you up. Beneath the mask, you can practically feel her smirk.

— Kill you? — she repeats, her tone mocking. — And end the fun? Where’s the challenge in that?

She moves closer, her steps slow and measured, like a predator stalking its prey. The bottle in your hand feels pathetic now, but you grip it tighter anyway.

— You’re a sadist. — you spit, backing up until your spine hits the cold brick wall.

Her laugh is low and dangerous, reverberating through the narrow alley. — Maybe, — she admits, stopping just inches away from you. — But you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be.

Her gloved hand comes up, pressing against your throat—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you freeze. The leather feels cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her.

— Look at you, — she murmurs, her voice almost soft now. — Defiant, even now. God, I love it when you fight back.

The blade in her other hand grazes your cheek, its edge featherlight but chilling. It’s not a threat; it’s a tease, a lover’s caress disguised as something darker.

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you forget why you were running in the first place. The air between you is charged, crackling with unspoken tension.

— Is this what you want? — you snarl, your voice trembling. — To scare me? To see me break?

She leans in closer, her mask inches from your face. — No, — she breathes, her voice raw and thick with something you can’t name. — I don’t want to break you. I want to watch you burn.

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you find yourself wondering who’s really in control here.

The hand on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make your pulse quicken. Her thumb brushes over your skin, a surprisingly gentle gesture that contrasts with the blade still grazing your cheek.

— You make running look so damn good, babe, — she murmurs, her voice low and husky. — But I think I like you like this even more.

Her mask tilts as if she’s studying you, and you can feel the heat of her gaze beneath it.

— I hate you. — you whisper, though the words lack conviction.

— Liar, — she counters, her tone smug. — You love this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer. The tension is suffocating, the line between fear and desire so blurred it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

She moves closer still, her body pressing against yours, and you can feel the sheer strength of her frame pinning you against the wall. Her breath is warm against your neck, and you swear you can hear her smirk beneath the mask.

— I should kill you. — she says, her voice low and dangerous.

— But you won’t. — you reply, your voice steady now.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The world around you falls away, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange, intoxicating dance.

Finally, she pulls back, her gloved hand sliding from your throat. The blade lingers for a moment longer before she steps away entirely, creating a distance that feels both suffocating and liberating.

— Not yet, — she says, her tone light but laced with promise. — You’re too much fun to let go of just yet.

She turns, her heavy boots echoing as she disappears into the shadows, leaving you alone in the alley with your heart still racing.

And though you tell yourself it’s relief you feel, you know the truth. You’re already looking forward to the next time she decides to chase you.

ㅤㅤㅤ