#and their weird tension and bitchiness

[tvnacity]

i had a professor last semester call my cohort "chill" (we laughed at this) and she said we'd understand what she meant when we had class with the second-years in the spring and well. it's now spring. and she was right. We Understand.

[t00thpasteface]

part of the reason i love mean, bitchy, rude, domineering, firecracker female characters and loathe seeing them defanged is because the prickliness repels men and the defanging is ALWAYS to make them more fuckable for whatever man they have a weird sexual tension with. like yeah i don't like the Mean Lesbian stereotype either but at least the mean lesbian isn't shelving her career to become a tradwife after spending however many episodes/chapters/issues saying how much she didn't want to do either of those things

[itneverendshere]

the aftermath of sex with rafe and you’re about to roll out to leave and he’s like “what’s going on” and you’re like “oh you want me to stay?”

decided to use this request for bitchy!pogue!reader, bc i love their dynamic in my last drabble for them and wanted to see their relationship develop!! hope that's okay and thank you for the request!!🫶🏼🫶🏼

said it a million times, only stay with you one more night - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

your breath was still shaky as you lay in rafe’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. the room smelled like sex and bad decisions—the same old combination every time you found yourself tangled up with him.

what the fuck had you done? again.

you groaned internally, rolling to the side and blinking at the mess of clothes on the floor. your clothes. you needed to get out of here, like you always did after. this was a routine by now—fuck rafe, get dressed, leave before shit got weird.

but, of course, it was always weird with rafe.

he was your worst mistake on repeat, the asshole kook you swore you hated but couldn’t seem to stop ending up in bed with. and you weren’t entirely wrong. he was an asshole. that perfect jawline of his clenched every time he looked at you, like he wanted to snap or—snap you in half, depending on the day. he acted like he couldn’t stand you most of the time, and you loved it.

especially when you knew exactly where that frustration would end up: right between your legs.

you knew the deal. this thing with rafe was nothing but sex. pure tension. you loved driving him insane, loved the way his face would twist, how his hands would grip your hips with just a little too much pressure, like he had something to prove. but the second it was over, he always turned cold. he’d stare at you with that same look—disgusted, maybe even regretful—like he couldn’t believe he’d let himself touch you.

and you weren’t about to stick around for that bullshit.

with a sigh, you pushed the covers back and swung your legs out of the bed, standing up with a wince as your body reminded you just how hard he'd fucked you. the soreness in your thighs was a not-so-subtle reminder of how you ended up here, naked, in his bed again when you swore to yourself that the last time was really the last time.

you didn’t even bother looking at him as you reached for your jeans on the floor, pulling them on quickly. you needed to get out of here before he started up with that whole “i don’t even know why i did this” attitude, like you were the problem.

 “where are you going?”

you didn’t even look back at him as you yanked your top over your head. “leaving. what’s it look like?”

the bed creaked as he sat up, and you could practically feel his eyes burning into your back. “what the fuck is going on?”

you paused, one arm halfway through your top, rolling your eyes at his tone. now he wanted to act like something was different? “what do you mean, what’s going on?” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “’m leaving. you know, like i always do after we fuck.”

rafe didn’t answer right away, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d just let it go. but then he surprised you.

“you don’t have to go.”

you turned around slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “what? you want me to stay now?” he never asked you to stay. hell, he was usually halfway out the door emotionally before you even got your clothes back on.

his face hardened at your reaction, that familiar pissed-off look settling into his features. “yeah, i don’t know, maybe i do.”

you laughed, genuinely surprised. “since when? you want me to hang around and play house after?”

“do you always have to make everything so fucking complicated?”

you raised an unimpressed brow, “okay, i think you hit your head on the bedframe earlier.”

“shut the fuck up and get in bed.”

you froze, mid-laugh, because—wait—what? rafe cameron, the king of "get out before i pretend you don’t exist," actually wanted you to stay.

“excuse me?” you blinked at him, fully expecting him to break character any second

he was unpredictable like that. one minute, he was treating you like you’re beneath him—like you were the dirty secret he couldn't believe he kept hooking up with—and the next? he was saying stuff that made your heart do this stupid thing it had no business doing.

“get back in bed,” he demanded, like he actually expected you to listen.

“why? so you can flip back to being a fucking asshole in the morning?”

he rolled his eyes and groaned like you were the exhausting one here, “can you just—” he hesitated, clearly fighting with whatever stupid thoughts were bouncing around that kook head of his. “just come back to bed.”

and oh god, why did he have to sound almost...vulnerable?

you stared at him, fully aware this was a bad idea. the two of you didn’t “do” feelings. shit, he barely “did” conversation after sex. this wasn’t just out of character for him; it was out of this planet.

so you crossed your arms and tilted your head, leaning against his dresser like you had all the time in the world. “are you serious right now, cameron? you actually want me to stay? for what, a cuddle session? netflix?”

he gave you that trademark irritated look, tongue poking his cheek. “you’re so fucking difficult.”

“yeah, well, you’re not exactly easy, baby.”

you smirked, half expecting him to snap again. but instead, he did something you never saw coming. he ran a hand through his messy hair—full-on frustrated—and sighed. a real sigh. and then, in this quiet voice that was so unlike him, he said, “maybe i just don’t want you to leave.”

you felt your stomach flip. no no no. this wasn’t part of the deal. you two weren’t supposed to catch feelings. but the way he was looking at you, all raw and real for once, made your brain go foggy. you could leave right now. walk out, just like you always did, like a smart girl.

but something in his voice was pulling you back, like maybe this time was different. “rafe…” 

“just stay,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, and for the first time since you started this whole messed-up dance with him, you saw something in his face that wasn’t anger or lust or annoyance.

it almost looked like...he cared. maybe you’d stay, just to see what this was about.

you weren’t about to let your guard down completely. you weren’t some naive kook princess. you knew how to protect yourself—especially from guys like him, because let’s be honest, rafe was a certified disaster in human form. and you weren’t any better.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “if i stay, you’re not gonna pull some ‘i don’t know why i did this’ bullshit tomorrow, right? ‘cause ’m not dealing with that again, cameron.”

he huffed, but there was this softness to it. “can you just stay without turning everything into a fight?”

“turning it into a fight?” you raised a brow, incredulous. “that’s literally your specialty.”

rafe’s jaw tightened—again—but instead of snapping back like usual, he just stared at you. “’m not asking for forever, alrigh’? just one night. jesus.”

one night.

you could do one night, right?

you climbed back onto the bed, settling into the sheets next to him. it felt...weird. not in a bad way, just different. usually, you’d be out of here by now, shorts half-buttoned, sneaking out like some guilty secret. but this? lying next to him, clothes still off, in his bed, with his scent all around you? it felt more intimate than any of the wild, angry sex you’d had with him before.

“happy now?” you muttered, glancing over at him.

rafe didn’t say anything for a second. he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure how to act either. “yeah. maybe i am.”

it was bizarre, how different this felt from all the other times. there was no rush to leave, no awkward scramble to avoid the inevitable “i shouldn’t have done that” speech. just the two of you, lying there in silence. you felt his hand brush against yours under the covers. it wasn’t a big, dramatic move, just his fingers lightly grazing your skin.

it was such a small thing, but somehow, it felt... huge. rafe was the last guy on earth you ever expected to be soft, especially with you. but here he was, in this tiny, almost awkward moment, doing something that felt closer to intimacy than anything else you’d ever shared. what the hell was happening?

“you’re acting like a human being. it’s weirding me out.”

he smirked, but it didn’t have the usual arrogance behind it. “maybe 'm just tired of being an asshole.”

you chuckled, shaking your head. “that would be a first.”

he didn’t fight back like you expected. instead, his hand moved a little under the covers, and suddenly, his fingers were really holding yours, not just grazing but actually intertwining with your own. you blinked down at your joined hands, feeling your heart flip-flop in a way that annoyed you. this wasn’t what you signed up for, not even close.

but then again, when had anything with him ever gone according to plan.

“why are you doing this?” you asked quietly, trying to ignore how fast your pulse was beating.

rafe’s jaw clenched—again, with the jaw clenching—but this time, it didn’t feel like frustration. he was thinking, actually thinking about what to say, and that alone was enough to make you nervous.

“i don’t know,” he admitted, “i just—” He stopped himself, taking a deep breath like the words were hard for him to get out. “maybe i don’t hate you as much as i thought i did.”

that threw you for a loop. he was never this honest. you stared at him, eyes wide, waiting for the punchline, but there wasn’t one. he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t trying to act like he didn’t care. he just... said it. like it was the most normal thing in the world to admit feelings when feelings weren’t even on the table.

“Wow,” you breathed, genuinely shocked. “you really hit your head earlier.”

he snickered, but it sounded different—soft, even. “Yeah, maybe I did.”

“should i call for a doctor?”

it was unsettling seeing him like this, not lashing out or shutting you down with a snide comment. 

“you don’t always have to make everything a joke.”

your eyebrows shot up at that, the surprise clear on your face. “excuse me? that’s literally what we do—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “that’s our thing.”

he just sighed, shaking his head like he was genuinely exasperated with you. before you could throw out another sarcastic remark, he grabbed you by the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss.

his hand gripped the back of your neck with just enough pressure to hold you in place, but there was a tenderness in the way his fingers tangled in your hair. his lips met yours gently at first as if testing the waters, and the softness of it scared you. you were so used to him being all teeth, nipping, and biting, that this moment of quiet, hesitant intimacy caught you off guard. he kissed you like he was savoring it—like this was something he wanted to remember.

his thumb brushed lightly along your jawline, as the kiss deepened, his lips pressing a little harder against yours, but it still lacked the aggression you’d come to expect from him. there was no desperation here. his tongue flicked against your bottom lip, gentle but insistent, and without thinking, you parted your lips, letting him in. your bodies stayed close, but it wasn’t the usul closeness that came from lust. the slow, languid rhythm of his mouth against yours was intimate in a way that felt too personal.

rafe was kissing you like you were someone he cared about, like you were more than just another way to burn off steam. this wasn’t what you two did. you weren’t supposed to share soft touches and slow kisses. you were supposed to fight, tear each other apart, then fuck like it was the only thing holding you together.

when the kiss finally broke, you felt dazed, staring at him like you didn’t recognize the person in front of you. rafe, however, didn’t seem fazed. he just looked at you with those piercing blue eyes, still holding the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d bolt the second he let go.

“i meant it,” he said quietly, his voice a low, “i don’t want you to leave.”

“i don’t do this,” you muttered, shaking your head. “we don’t do this.”

rafe’s grip on your neck loosened, but his hand didn’t move. “i know. just tonight.”

you closed your eyes, breathing him in. he smelled like sweat and sex and something that made your entire body hurt in a way you hadn’t expected. maybe he wasn’t asking for forever, but staying here with him felt like it could change everything.

one night and you’d worry about tomorrow when it came.

[eddiesghxst]

ARE YOU BORED YET? - part two

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: you're steve's "bitchy" step-sister and are spending the summer in hawkins; eddie is steve's annoying best friend who you can't seem to shake, but things take a sharp turn when you find yourself sneaking around and ultimately falling for him

contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, food/eating, mentions of drug use, smoking, secret relationship vibes, lots of tension, kissing, flirting, and eddie being a pain in the ass <3

word count: 10.5k (sorry)

chapter song: magnet and steel x walter egan

| previous part I next part |

I series masterlist | their mixtape | -main masterlist- I

Dry heat, a sputtering engine, and the overwhelming stench of burning asphalt is how you spend the hottest day of the summer.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You just wanted to get out—needed to escape the stifling air of the house, where no amount of fanning yourself or pressing ice cubes to your neck made a difference.

So you took your father’s keys, hopped into the car, and now?

Now, you’re stranded.

Suffocating heat spills through the half-opened windows of the car, sticking to your skin and pressing against your lungs. You turn the key over once again, nothing.

You groan, slapping your hand against the wheel, cursing as you realize— of course, this would happen to you on the hottest day on the goddamn earth.

And just for good measure, you turn the key one last time, jamming your foot into the gas as if it’ll encourage the piece of shit. It sputters. Makes a weird noise. And then— silence. Pathetic silence. 

“Oh, fuck you!” You drag your hands over your face, and your frustration bubbles over. 

Great. It’s great, really. 

Defeated— and overheating— you gaze at the useless wheel and consider your options— which are none. The heat is unbearable, and you’re miles out from Hawkins— because why is the closest mall two towns over?

You need help. Clearly. And luckily, there’s a gas station across the street with a payphone, and if you’re lucky, Steve will pick up. 

Annoyed and maybe with a little too much anger in your movements, you dig out a few coins from your purse before opening the car door. 

You step out, immediately regretting it when you’re smacked with the heat. The pavement is scorching, waves of heat rippling off in the distance as you match your way across the street, and by the time you reach the pay phone, you feel like you’ve been walking through an oven.

You shove a quarter in, angrily punching in numbers before picking up the phone and listening to it ring. 

Three rings pass. You swear under your breath, impatiently tapping your nail against the payphone as you wait. And then, finally, someone picks up. 

“Harrington residence.”

And that’s… not Steve. It’s Eddie.

Your stomach drops. 

Your teeth grind together, your eyes shutting momentarily as you reel in your composure. 

Your voice comes out irritated, “Where’s Steve?” 

“Ah!” Eddie exclaims in a happy tone, “Am I speaking with Malibu Barbie?” He teases.

Your nerves fray, the summer heat singeing them clean off. “Shove it, Eddie; where’s Steve?” You snip.

“Love it when you get mean, princess,” Eddie talks through a mouth of food from what you gather, making your nose crinkle in disgust. He sighs, “Steve’s not here, went to do some rich people shit for your dad.”

You roll your eyes, your hopes depleting by the second. 

If Steve isn’t home, you’ll be left waiting for god knows how long before he can get you. You glance over your shoulder, hesitating, knowing that the only option to escape this debilitating heat is through the man on the other side of the phone. 

This is humiliating. You don’t think you’ll ever come back here again, honestly.

You swallow your pride. 

“My car broke down.” You flatly say. “I need him to pick me up.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough to acknowledge. You almost think the call may have dropped. But then, in the most sincere tone you’ve ever heard come from Eddie’s lips—

“Where are you?”

You huff, shifting in your spot as you roll your eyes, “I just said I need Steve.” You stubbornly reply.

“Yeah, well, he’s not here,” Eddie says obviously. “So, unless you wanna sit there and melt, tell me where you are.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, annoyed with how right he is. 

This is the worst-case scenario. 

You could just hang up. You should hang up— figure out some other way home. Because god forbid you have to rely on Eddie right now. Anyone but him.

You’d been avoiding Eddie since the bonfire— not because whatever that was had done a number on you or anything, but because… well, it was just fucking awkward. You didn’t know what to say to him, and you sure as hell didn’t want to address whatever that weird moment was. But Eddie didn’t cease to indoctrinate your household, so you did your best to stay away. However, it seems the universe has other plans.

So, after a long moment, your teeth digging into the soft skin of your lip, you give in and mumble the details of your location. And annoyingly, you feel a sense of relief rolling over you when Eddie says he knows exactly where you are. The feeling is quickly gone when he adds, “Now, was that so hard, grumpy?”

You roll your eyes, grimacing even though he can’t see you, “Just hurry up.” You snap before hanging up.

And when you step away from the payphone, the heat seems even more intense, especially considering the realization that you’re now waiting on Eddie Munson to pick you up. 

And you already know he’s never going to let you live this down.

It feels like hours beneath the summer heat as you wait for Eddie, until finally, you hear the familiar rumble of a rusted-out van. You’re against your car; arms crossed over your chest as you watch him pull in next to you, his music blaring for a moment before he kills the engine.

And you hate the smug grin he has on his face when he hops down from his van— like he’s enjoying this. 

Your expression doesn’t falter from the annoyed look you’ve had for the past hour as he walks over to you. 

“Good afternoon, princess.” He happily greets as he gets closer. 

“Told you to stop calling me that.” You remind him.

“Did you?” He asks, brows lifting in faux surprise. He hums, face twisting in a look of wonder as he tugs a cigarette from behind his ear to stick between his lips. He clicks his tongue once and shrugs as he fishes out a lighter, “Can’t seem to remember.”

Yeah. You should’ve hung up.

“You know,” he pauses to burn the end of the cigarette, flipping the zippo shut and shoving it back in his pocket, “Considering I’m your handsome knight in shining armor,” he teases, casually gesturing towards your situation with the burning stick in hand, “I assumed you’d be happier to see me.”

You shortly hum then, “Keep dreaming, Munson.”

He grins then, lazy and lopsided. You watch his mouth for a moment, stuck on the way it wraps around the cigarette— no. Not this. Not him. 

Smoke billows from his mouth when he responds, “Always do, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, a snarky remark dying on your tongue when he nods behind you and asks, “What’d you do?”

Your face twists in defense, “I did nothing— it just… died.” You shrug. 

Eddie hums like he doesn’t believe you, pulling in a drag as he walks around to the front of your dad's car and rolls his sleeves up. You can’t help how your eyes linger on his arms for a moment, eyeing the dark ink and intricate veins, muscles flexing with every movement. You quickly glance away as he pops the hood open.

“Sounds to me like you ignored the warning signs.” He calls out from behind the hood. 

You roll your eyes, shifting against the side of the car as you distract yourself with the boring scenery around you— seriously, this town has nothing to offer. 

“Can you just figure out what’s wrong and fix it.” You snap as Eddie tinkers with the car. 

He’s lost behind the hood for a few minutes, leaving you to try and distract your thoughts by boredly eyeing shapes into the ground until he slams the hood down, causing you to slightly jump.

The cigarette hangs from his lips, a few streaks of grease smeared on his hands. You’re annoyed, but you’re not blind. He looks good. Annoyingly so, even if you can’t stand him. 

You shrug, “So?” You press. 

He pulls the bandana hanging from his pants pocket, using it to wipe away the dirt on his hands, “Hate to break it to you, Barbie, but I can’t fix this here— gonna have to take it to the shop.”

You exhale sharply, resisting the urge to kick the stupid car. “That’s fuckin’ great.” You sarcastically mumble. 

Eddie’s got a sly grin as he looks at you, honey-dewed beneath the sun, slick with the summer heat and his usual confidence. He tilts his head, eyeing you momentarily like he’s piecing you together before nodding towards his van, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You stare at him, summer heat boiling your blood and every last piece of sense you have— god, you just need to get into some AC. And Eddie’s looking at you like he already knows your answer, with a sly grin on his lips, brown eyes looking at you as if he could see every thought running through your head. 

And you wonder if he’s lying. Would he lie about the state of your car just so he can be your saving grace? With the way he’s smirking, you wouldn’t put it past him. 

Any other day had the temperatures been cooler, you would’ve gladly told Eddie to fuck off, and you’ll find another way home… But it’s hot. Ungodly hot.

So, you yank the car door open and grab your purse, slamming the door shut and locking it. Eddie smiles, taking one last drag before tossing the bud on the ground, “Your place or mine, honey?” He teases as he eyes your body. You feel his gaze more than you’d care to admit.

You grimace, fingers tight on the leather handle of your purse as you stomp past him towards his van, “Just drop me off, Eddie.” You snap.

“Copy that, Malibu.”

He’s hot on your trail, following after you like a pathetic hound as you walk to the passenger side. You reach over to open the door, only for Eddie to reach over you and open it for you. He pulls it open all the way, an annoyingly charming and teasing smile on his face as he politely gestures for you to get in. 

You know what he’s doing.

He knows what he’s doing. And he’s so fucking smug about it.

You can barely hold the huff of annoyance that spills from you as you climb into his stupid van. But he’s not expecting you to buy into his little party trick— he’s surely not expecting you to climb into the passenger seat and slightly arch your back, your tiny skirt riding up your thighs as you slide into a comfortable position. 

He quietly but surely clears his throat, glancing away as you wriggle your skirt back down your thighs, his fingers tightening over the handle for some seconds.

“Thanks, Eds.” You forcefully give a sweet smile, a tiny glimmer of joy sparking in you when he avoids your gaze and nods, “Yep. No problem.” He mumbles before slamming the door shut. You can barely hide the satisfied smile on your lips, basking in the glory of flustering Eddie as you settle into your seat.

Eddie takes his time to walk to the driver's side, the sound of his boots crunching over against the gravel with each of his steps. The driver's door creaks open— and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something, almost anticipating it, but—

He says nothing.

No. Eddie climbs into the driver's seat in complete, utter silence. He doesn’t say anything as he settles in, shifting the car out of park and peeling off back onto the road without a word. 

It’s silent. Unbearably so. The most silence you think you’ve ever endured around Eddie— and you’re not sure if you should be thankful for it. You should be. But it feels weird, knowing Eddie’s true nature of constant noise.

Because Eddie Munson never shuts up.

But a quick glance to your left tells you exactly why.

There’s a smirk tugging at his lips, a glint in his eyes. 

He’s enjoying this— just as you’d suspected. 

Your face twists with something like annoyance, your eyes narrowing as you break the silence, “What?” You snap.

Eddie hums, ringed fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “Nothin’.” He shrugs, lips turning in a momentary frown, “Just enjoying the peace and quiet for once. Really nice. Crisp. You should try it, princess.” He teases.

You roll your eyes, huffing as you cross your arms over your chest in annoyance. A quick response dances on your tongue, but then—

Your stomach rumbles.

Painfully loud.

And Eddie hears it perfectly clear. 

You tense. 

His smirk opens, lips splitting into more of a grin, something downright giddy before he snaps his fingers— like he just won some stupid bet.

“Oh, that is beautiful,” he muses, eyes trained on the road. His face turns in amusement, “Could’ve sworn you were just sitting there all high and mighty, angel, but nope— even the mighty fall.” He shakes his head with a grin.

You glare, arms tightening over yourself as if that’ll silence the sound of your hunger, “Shut up.” 

“Not a chance.” He quickly responds before glancing at you, “That was— Jesus, that was ace,” he huffs out a laugh as you groan in irritation, “When’s the last time you ate? Yesterday?” He teases

“None of your business, Munson.” You grumble, glaring outside the window.

“Ah, so yesterday. Got it.” He snickers to himself.

You’re still glaring out the window when Eddie says, “Well, now we have to get a bite to eat.” He says as if it’s obvious. Technically, it is. 

Your head snaps his way, eyebrows furrowed with a pout on your lips, “What?”

Eddie’s grin widens, pure joy dancing in his eyes. “No. Take me home.” You demand.

The curly-headed boy shakes his head, “Can’t. Not when you’re out here starving, babe. That’s dangerous— you could, like, pass out or something. Scrape your knee in those little heels— and while I am in excellent shape—“

You groan, rolling your head and pressing your temple against the window, “Jesus Christ, Munson—“

“—I would rather not have to fight Harrington because I let his sister die of starvation, you get my gist? So, really, we have no choice but to go eat.” He shrugs. He glances at you and drops a wink your way, “For my sake.” 

You stare at him, disbelief of your situation settling in your mind. He’s torturing you. That’s what this is— torture. 

“Take me home.” You repeat.

But Eddie says nothing. He’s got a gleam in his eyes, the type that lets you know he’s already put his stupid little plan into action as he flips his turn signal on.

And before you can protest again, he’s turning into the tiny parking lot of a very conveniently placed diner. 

“Eddie—“

“Relax,” He purrs, shifting the van into park, “You don’t have to thank me… but I do accept tips in the form of cash and kisses.”

You gawk at him, stomach flipping at his stupid fucking words because— seriously, who does this guy think he is?

“You are so fucking irritating, do you know that?” You stress.

Eddie shrugs, “So I’ve heard,” he opens his door, grabbing the keys from the ignition, “C’mon, I’ll even let you sit on my side of the booth.”

And before you can argue anymore, before you can fight it, he’s already climbing out and swinging the door shut. You sit in your seat, fingers curled into a fist as you watch Eddie waltz into the diner.

You shouldn’t follow him.

You shouldn’t reward his insufferable behavior. 

And you really shouldn’t want to spend a second longer enduring his annoying presence. 

But your stomach grumbles again. And there’s something fun about this back-and-forth you have with Eddie, something you’re not entirely sure of but couldn’t care less to figure out. 

You drop your head against the headrest, a frustrated groan ripping from your chest. You pause for a moment, reeling yourself in before dragging in a deep breath and opening the door. 

Whatever. 

You’re hungry, and you’ve had a long day.

And Eddie?

Well, he’s got a shit-eating grin, already seated in a booth with a perfect view of you stomping across the parking lot. 

You swing the door open, the bell above it ringing in some mocking little victory chime for Eddie— and you really hate the way he’s stretched over the back of the booth, arms splayed out in his usual, infuriating, cocky manner. 

You should turn around.

You should flip him off, try and call home again, figure out a way to get away from his annoying and handsome smirk. 

But you slide into the booth, an irritated pout on your lips as you cross your arms.

His smirk widens, his knee bouncing beneath the table as he tilts his head, “There she is,” he muses, leaning forward to grab a menu on the table and sliding it towards you, “In all her angry glory. Let’s get some food in that talkin’ tummy, yeah?”

“I hate you.” You grumble, begrudgingly grabbing the menu.

“Fair,” he hums, opening his own menu and grazing over the options, “Doesn’t change the fact that I saved your ass twice in one day. You’re 0-2, pixie— you kinda owe me.”

“I do not.” You quickly reply. 

“Sure you do. Didn’t I just save you from incinerating off the side of the road? And haven’t I just saved you from dying of starvation? Seriously, you owe me, like, a dozen strawberry-milkshake-sugar-sweet kisses.”

You grimace at him from across the table for a moment, fingers tightening on the edges of the menu, “I’m not kissing you.”

Eddie grins, winking at you, “We’ll see about that.”

Before you can send a quick remark his way, a lady is stepping up to your table, boredly clicking her pen as she asks, “What can I getcha?”

Eddie’s grin never falters, but you don’t care to stare any longer, turning your focus to the lady, “A burger and fries, please. And a coke.” You order.

Eddie hums, eyes never having left you.

“For you, sir?” 

Eddie smiles at the lady before looking back at the menu, “I’ll have a burger too— double stacked— extra pickles, onion, and cheese. Fries, make ‘em crispy, and a side of your special sauce, please… I’ll take some nugs too actually,” he lists off as the lady takes note, “Aaaand, two milkshakes. One chocolate, one strawberry— extra whipped cream with a cherry on top.” He finishes with a satisfied smile, closing the menu and handing it to the lady.

The lady walks off to put your order in, and you stare at Eddie as he leans back in the booth, “You realize you just ordered a meal for an entire nation, right?” You ask. “You’d snap with a strong breeze; where are you putting that?”

Eddie hums, tilting his head and thinking, “You ever ran from the cops before?”

Your face twists in confusion, “What? No?”

Eddie hums, “Burns the calories quicker than a line of coke.”

You pause for a moment, blinking at him as he gazes at you, fingers fiddling with a napkin as if his words are something normal to say— coming from him and his chaotic nature, though, you suppose they are.

You blink, “Why are you running from cops, Eddie?” 

“The first, second, or third time?” He muses.

You stare.

He watches you, no indication of a joke on his face— and you begin to slightly worry.

But then he slowly grins, flicking a piece of ripped napkin paper at you, which you bat away with a grimace, “That’s called a joke, princess,” he teases, a devilish smirk on his face when he adds, “I’m a saint… only ran once.”

You nod, eyeing him, “Right.” you mutter, shaking your head.

The conversation naturally dies down then, and for a moment, there’s just the soft hum of the diner—plates clinking, low conversations murmuring around you. You tap your fingers lightly against the table, eyes drifting to the neon glow of the jukebox in the corner, wondering if you should say something.

A flash of that moment some nights ago passed by the forefront of your mind. 

But before you can think too long about it, the food arrives.

Plates of hot food are placed before you— and Jesus Christ, you hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the scent of a fresh burger and fries wafts in the air, making your stomach clench. You eye the food for half a second before reaching for your burger, fully ready to demolish it—

Only to pause when Eddie immediately grabs his own and takes a massive bite, nearly inhaling it all.

You take a bite of your own, taking your time to thoroughly chew as you watch Eddie scarf down three bites worth in one. You raise an eyebrow, “You’re gonna choke.” You warn him.

Eddie hums, talking through a mouthful, “Worse ways to go.”

And you smile, taking another bite of your meal as you think— this kind of isn’t bad.

Eddie groans in satisfaction, slumping back into the booth with a dramatic sigh, a full stomach, and an empty plate. He spreads his arms wide across the top, stretching out like he’s just finished running a marathon. The chains and pendants hanging from his neck glimmer beneath the dim glow of the diner as he tilts his head, and you do your best to look anywhere else. 

“So,” he looks at you, a look of amusement dancing in his eyes, “Care to tell me what you were doing all the way in sketchy-middle-of-bum-fuck-nowhere Indiana?”

You drag in a breath, twirling a fry between your fingertips as you shrug, “Mall.”

Eddie’s grin drops, face paling into a deadpan expression, ”That’s it?”

You pop the fry in your mouth, humming with a nod as you swallow before answering, “That’s it.”

Eddie blinks, face twisting in something like disgusted confusion, “You drove that far just to shop?”

You roll your eyes, glancing out the window as you cross your arms over your chest, “No, Eddie, I drove that far to practice my backflips off the escalator.”

Eddie snorts, leaning forward to snag a fry from your plate— he’d been stealing bites from you the whole time, sneaking around your hands to steal a dip in your ketchup or sip on your milkshake— and each time, he ignored your protests, so you’ve given up.

“Now that,” he snickers, pointing the fry at you, “I’d pay to see.” He eats the fry, a glimmer in his eye.

He shrugs, “Well? Get anything nice?”

You shrug, pulling your milkshake towards you and taking a long sip.

Eddie gasps, dramatized horror seeping around the edges. “Oh my god,” he muses, “You’re one of those people.”

You narrow your eyes in confusion, “Huh?”

Eddie grimaces, “The ones who just walk around and look for shits and giggles.”

You shrug, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s a waste of a trip, doll.” Eddie points out, which is arguably true in your situation. 

Still, you roll your eyes, “I bought stuff, asshole.”

Eddie grins, unbothered, swirling the straw in his nearly empty cup as he looks at you, “Oh? Something good, or does Indiana have nothin’ on California stock?”

You sigh, leaning back into the booth and crossing your arms, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I bought a pair of sunglasses. And a dress.” You say matter-of-factly.

Eddie’s lips twitch, “Wow. Life-changing. Try it on for me.”

You grimace, “In your dreams, Munson.”

“Name the color so I can get an accurate image.” He teases.

You stare at him, a devious look in his eyes and that stupid smirk that won’t wipe off his lips. 

“Blue.” You casually say. Eddie groans. “Baby blue. Mid-thigh length.”

“Fuck.” Eddie mumbles, glancing out the window as he rubs a hand over his mouth. He looks back at you, playful lust in his eyes, “You’re an evil woman.”

You innocently shrug, taking another long sip of your milkshake.

And beneath the table, you shift your leg, not thinking much when you do it before—

Your foot nudges Eddie’s.

It’s not much, could easily be ignored and passed as an accident— which it is.

But Eddie doesn’t let it pass as so.

He nudges you back. 

You pause, heart skipping a beat when your gaze flickers to him. He’s completely normal. Popping a fry in his mouth and chewing way too casually like he hasn’t just done that on purpose.

Like he isn’t waiting to see what you’ll do next. Like you’re too chicken to play this little game he’s started.

And because you’re not thinking, the sun having gone to your head or something, and maybe because you’re a little tired of thinking, you take the bait.

You nudge him again.

His lips twitch, brown eyes dancing across your face. He props his chin in his hand, lips twisting in thought as his foot presses against the side of yours, the toe of his boot scratching against your ankle.

“Favorite color?”

You hum, shrugging as you dance below the table, “Not my favorite, but I like it. You?” You respond casually, but your heart is thrumming in your chest, nearly flopping out onto the table because— Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

Your foot scratches against the lower back of Eddie’s calf, and he stirs, tossing another fry into his mouth in distraction.

“Blood red,” he easily says, “But— I doubt it’ll still be number one once I see that dress.”

And your game goes on. 

Eddie stays casual, steady gaze settled on you as he snacks on the rest of your fries— like this is easy for him. Like this isn’t the first time you’re allowing yourself to play this— whatever this is— with him.

You’re very much aware of how your foot is still pressed against his. You’re very aware of this little cat-and-mouse game— your foot will brush his, he will nudge back, you will wander off, and he will find you.

And neither of you mention it.

Because Eddie isn’t, and you refuse to do it.

You let it build. The shock of warmth that shoots up your leg each time he finds you, the lousy waltz your eyes are in— you let it inch forward more and more.

Your milkshake is finished, and the sun is gone, but you’re still so fucking hot, and your neck burns, and just when you think to call it quits and pull away for good— Eddie traps you.

His foot sneaks in behind yours, and he loops around your ankle. 

Not forcefully— you could definitely move away if you wanted to.

And you do. You think.

But he’s saying something, and you’re watching his lips move, his ringed fingers glimmer beneath the light, and his skin is pressed against yours beneath the table— and you don’t want to move. Can’t. Not even if you tried.

Not when he’s warm and gentle, and all of your defense is benched.

And goddamn him— he’s so fucking annoying, he doesn’t even look bothered, and he clearly isn’t when he flicks a soggy fry at your forehead.

“Ow, what the hell?” You frown, dusting the salt from your head. 

“You weren’t paying attention.” He plainly says, though there’s a glint in his eyes.

You scowl, flinging the fry back at him only for him to dodge it, “You’re a child.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

He slinks his foot away from you, a cheeky grin tugging at his lips as you drag in a silent breath.

“What’s my favorite color?” He asks.

You gaze at him, subconsciously committing this view of him to memory as you boredly reply, “I was listening, you idiot.”

He turns his head, offering his ear as he gestures his fingers in a ‘speak up’ motion. You roll your eyes before responding, “Blood red.”

He hums, tapping the table as he exits the booth, “And don’t forget it next time you’re at the mall.” He winks.

The drive home is mostly quiet.

It’s not awkward, more so just… charged. Like neither of you wants to speak and shatter what you’d started beneath the diner table. Like you’re too afraid to speak of it and call it something.

A game. That’s all it was.

And your ankle is still buzzing.

You can almost feel the scratch of his boot against your skin.

Eddie’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, his rings clinking softly. The radio hums softly beneath the rumble of the van, something lazy and bluesy that sounds nearly historic crackling through the old speakers. 

He pulls into your house, the van slowing to a stop— and you kind of had hoped the drive would never stop. Because maybe then, you wouldn’t be forced to finally say something. 

What do you say?

The headlights wash over the white picket fence and pristine lawn— a sharp contrast to the dim, cramped diner where your foot had been tangled with his just an hour ago.

You shift in your seat, stalling, hand on the door handle but not moving. You try to convince yourself it’s because you’re tired— summer heat. 

But you know better. And Eddie knows better, too.

“So,” he drawls, twisting one of his rings. He glances at you, curly hair rolling over his shoulders, a suppressed grin cracking at his lips, “Good date?”

You scoff, finally looking at him, “That wasn’t a date.”

Eddie smirks, huffing out a laugh as he briefly looks out his window like he’s trying to stop from bursting into a full-blown fit of laughter. “Right. My mistake.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag, before opening the door to get out. Your feet hit the pavement, your fingers curling around the door, preparing to shut it when Eddie speaks again. His face is unreadable in the dim light, but his voice is… softer. Less teasing.

“You had fun, though, right?”

And you hesitate, gripping the handle of your bag— because yeah. You did. Too much.

You tilt your head, flashing a look his way before you shrug and respond, “I survived.”

Eddie laughs, craters of sun carving out in his cheeks as he looks away. And you can’t stop the mirror of a slight smile on your lips as you close the door and turn around.

He watches you walk to the door, and you only know not because you turn back around to catch it, but because you can feel his gaze burning with each step you take.

And because Eddie is a thorough chauffeur, he waits until you get the door open before driving away. And you don’t look back.

Not until the red glow of his taillights disappears down the street.

Eddie doesn’t leave your mind easily.

Granted, it’s been less than a day, but that doesn’t make your restlessness any less frustrating. After Eddie dropped you off, you spent the better half of your night batting away flashes of your afternoon with him.

His stupid grin when he picked you up. His teasing comments. His clunky rings. The way his lips curled around a cigarette, the brush of his skin against yours. It plays in your mind like a shitty looped movie, running on repeat from the moment you closed the car door to when you stepped into the shower to when your head hit the pillow.

Admittedly, it’s annoying as hell.

Like an itch. An intrusive thought that won’t quit no matter how hard you try to ignore it. If lobotomies were still legal, you might’ve scheduled one by now—because nothing, absolutely nothing, seems to get that stupid metalhead idiot out of your head.

Which is why you’re here now, lounging by your friend’s pool, still reeling, when the words slip out before you can stop them—

"Do you know Eddie Munson?"

Mia, one of the true friends you’ve made in the years of visiting Hawkins, sits on the lounge chair beside you, focused as she paints her toenails and hums. She doesn’t look up as she responds, “Eddie?” She pauses to blow on the wet paint and shrugs, “Yeah, of course. Why?”

You lean back against your chair, sunglasses dipping as you look at your friend, “He’s always at my house— friends with Steve,” you mutter, “Weird, right?”

Mia huffs a laugh, shifting as she focuses on her task, “Yeah, kinda. Don’t remember Steve having a resident bad boy in his little high school clique.”

“Exactly.” You muse, “That’s what makes it weird.” And honestly, you’re glad you’re not the only one who sees it. How Steve and Eddie even crossed paths will always be a myth to you.

And because your mind is a whirlwind of questions and you seem to have lost your dignity, you move on, voice neutral like your prodding is coming from a place of gossip— “Did you talk in school?”

Thankfully, Mia doesn’t seem to catch your curiosity— Eddie is an interesting guy compared to most people in Hawkins. She hums, still focused on her nails, “Not much. He was a grade above me, so we never really crossed paths, but y’know,” she shrugs, “People talk.”

That piques your interest, your brow raising as you ask, “Talk about what?”

Mia sighs as she shifts her attention to the next set of nails, “That he’s a troublemaker, for one. He was kind of just… always doing his own thing,” she mindlessly rambles, “Skipped class half the time, played in his band, sold drugs in the parking lot.” She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head, “Honestly, I don’t even think he tried to graduate.”

You scoff with a playful roll of your eyes, “Shocking.”

“He was kind of nuts. He was, like… crazy, but in a fun way,” she explains, “Loud, dramatic— he walked across the lunch table once, so, definitely not boring.”

Your face twists in confusion, imagining Eddie walking across a lunch table, but before you can ask, Mia shrugs and speaks again, “I don’t know, he’s kinda hot.”

You nearly freeze. 

You glance over at Mia, playing it cool, when you hum in an uninterested tone, “Not my style.”

Mia shrugs, completely unfazed, “Fair. He’s not a lot of people’s style.” She pauses, tilting her head before a small smirk dances along her lips, “But, y’know, I did hear he’s good with his fingers.”

You blink, heart skipping a beat for a moment. “What?”

Mia grins, finishing her task and twisting the nail polish lid back onto the bottle as she shrugs, “You know… he’s in a band. Plays guitar. And allegedly, that skill transfers.”

You scoff, pushing your sunglasses higher up your nose as if the plastic frame will hide whatever the hell your face is doing, “Jesus Christ, Mia.” You mumble.

Mia laughs, stretching out her legs on the chair as she leans back and wriggles in her spot, “Hey, I’m just repeating what I heard,” she defends, “Some girl at a party a while back was very detailed about it.”

And you don’t want to think about it.

You really don't want to imagine whatever hell Eddie Munson’s fingers could release upon your body because that is the last thing you need, and god— you should’ve never asked.

You grab the magazine next to you, desperate to distract your hands from nervous fidgeting. You shrug, playing a facade of boredom, “Yeah, well. Still not my type.”

Mia snickers, gliding a pair of shades over her eyes and relaxing into her chair, “Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”

And you hate that you know she’s right.

The days pass uneventfully.

Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The heatwave has passed, so you keep yourself busy— lounging by the pool, flipping through magazines and books, running forced errands with your stepmother, and meeting up with Mia when you can. It’s enough to keep your mind occupied but not enough to stop Eddie’s presence from creeping in during the quiet moments.

It’s frustrating.

It was just one day. One stupid, random, impulsive day. And yet, his voice, his smirk, the way he looked at you before you left his car— it lingers. Just as much as your newfound information about his magical fingers.

It’s like trying to scrub off a marker stain that refuses to fade.

And it doesn’t help that Steve has been acting annoyingly weird. Smirking and snickering. Amused. Like he knows something.

And you shouldn’t feel bothered by it— because it was nothing— but you do.

You’re sitting at the dining table, absently pushing the grilled asparagus around your plate, hardly listening to whatever your stepmother is saying until your dad says your name.

“Did you go out today?” He asks, cutting into his steak.

You shrug, “Not really. Just hung out here. Swam for a bit.”

Steve snorts, barely looking up from his plate as he spears a bite of chicken. Your brows knit together, face twisting in subtle annoyance before you decide to ignore him.

”What about the rest of the week? Been keeping busy, right? You’ve got another two months left; can’t spend it locked up inside.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes and shrug again, “I guess. Nothing exciting. There’s, like, nothing to do here anyway.”

Steve huffs a laugh, chewing his chicken as he shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You barely have a chance to shoot a glare his way before he mutters, “Don’t lie. She’s been hanging with Eddie.”

His words crash over you like a bucket of ice water.

Because, what the fuck?

Your head snaps toward him, stomach twisting, pulse skipping a beat, “I have not been hanging with Eddie,” you snap. “We hung out once. By accident.”

Your dad hums, sipping his drink, “When you broke my car.” 

You glare at him next— that conversation didn’t go over well— “Yes, when your car broke down, which was, again, an accident.” You stress.

Steve huffs, sending an unconvinced glare your way, “Yeah? Well, quit throwing yourself at him then, ‘cause I’m tired of hearing him ramble about you.”

“Steve.” Your stepmother warns.

And you… you’re not quite sure if you’re breathing right.

What?

Your body runs so hot you could nearly burn a hole through the table. Your father smirks around the rim of his glass, eyes holding an amused glimmer like this is the most entertaining thing he’s heard all week.

You, however, are not entertained.

“I’m not throwing myself at anyone, you absolute moron.” You grit out, face burning despite your best efforts.

Steve shrugs, “Could’ve fooled me.”

You glare, turning back to pushing at the food on your plate, “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Steve just leans back in his chair, his mother shaking her head as her son continues to spew out nonsense, “Oh, I don’t? Well, I guess Eddie’s been hallucinating then, huh?”

You scoff in disbelief, “Probably. The drugs probably finally got to him, I don’t fucking know!” You stress.

“Language.” Your father warns, earning an eye roll from you.

Steve's mom gasps, turning to her son, “Steve!” She exclaims, “Drugs?”

Steve waves her off with an annoyed glance, “All I’m saying is there’s no way Eddie is the only one buying into whatever you two have going on— gross.”

Your heart kicks up a speed, but you fight to keep your expression neutral.

“Well, it’s not my fault your weird friends never spent more than two minutes around a girl.” You bite back.

Steve’s mother finally waves her hands about the table, “Okay, you two, that’s enough. We’re not here to discuss sibling politics; we’re here to eat.”

Steve shrugs, taking another bite into his chicken— which you hope is poisoned. You roll your eyes, returning your attention to your plate, trying to act like your pulse isn’t pounding in your ears.

But it is.

And as much as you don’t want to, you can’t stop wondering about Eddie’s supposed “ramblings.”

And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

That maybe he’s just rambling about how he thinks you’re annoying or something stupid— but from how Steve put it, and from the way Eddie acts towards you—

You know it’s the complete opposite.

And you hate that it makes your insides twist.

The past few days have been… weird.

Eddie doesn’t know exactly why, but something’s been sitting in his chest, subtle yet loud.

Maybe it’s because he’s been trying not to think about you.

Which, by the way, isn’t working.

Because he can’t stop thinking about you.

Admittedly, Eddie is a flirt at heart. He likes playing with shiny things, and you’re a fucking beam of light. That being said, sure, Eddie initially started this little cat-and-mouse game as a fun little summer activity, but shit Eddie’s never been this dedicated to a game other than D&D.

He knew his chances with you were slim— because what’s a guy like him doing poking his nose around a girl like you? But the other night, sitting across from you in that shitty diner, hearing your laugh and seeing your smile, feeling you against him— shit, Eddie’s done for.

Sugar-sweet, honeycomb, crisp sunshine— Eddie feels this sticky, gooey substance oozing down the sides of his insides every time you pass by.

He’s kept himself busy, helping Wayne with the truck, jamming with the guys, and doing extra shifts at the shop. He’s been a busy guy for a guy that isn’t usually busy. 

And you’d think it’d tire his brain out enough to not be able to think about you, but nope. 

You’re still there, at the forefront of his mind, bright as ever, Malibu sun in all her glory.

If Eddie’s being honest, he gave up trying after the second day. 

Lets you run rampant in his cluttered mind, sprinkling stardust on everything and throwing up glitter. God, Eddie’s fucked. And he knows it, not only because he feels it when he sees you and his body gets this surge of adrenaline, but also because— Steve sees it.

Eddie doesn’t know; maybe he said something offhanded— his mouth runs a lot; he stopped paying attention to it back in middle school— so he was kind of thrown when Steve just casually looked at him and went, “If you’re gonna have a crush on my sister, at least do it silently, man.”

Eddie… did nothing.

Couldn’t.

Not even if the weed allowed him to.

He thinks he just laughed, said something witty, and told Steve to fuck off, but he doesn’t quite remember— why? Because he was busy thinking about you.

He’d been waiting for a chance to get alone with you again, whisk you away like he did the other night, make you fall disgustingly hard for him— shit, get a ring, make it official or something, jump every last one of the hoops— but you’ve done an excellent job at making yourself scarce.

Until now.

Now, Eddie’s at the town's yearly carnival, and you’re right fucking there.

Eddie barely processes it at first— he’s walking through the loud park with the guys, laughing at something dumb Jeff said, and that’s when he feels it— the weight of your gaze.

He glances up, and sure enough, there you are.

And you’re already looking at him. 

And Eddie has you caught.

You’re standing near the ticket booth, arms crossed, expression unreadable beneath your sunglasses. The neon lights drip over you in shifting colors— blue, then pink, then gold. 

Malibu sun in all her beautiful, stubborn glory.

You don’t look away. Or maybe you do. Eddie can’t tell past the lights bursting across your shades, but he takes it upon himself to grab the invitation either way.

A slow, wicked, and hungry grin tugs at his lips. He alters his course, peeling off from his group of friends without so much as a word. They don’t notice— he doubts they’d question it if they did.

He weaves through the crowd, sugar-high kids dashing past him, hands in his pockets and eyes loose on you until he’s standing right before you.

The smell of your perfume drifts in the wind, whizzing up his nose and licking the grooves of his brain. His stomach churns.

“Fancy seeing you here, princess.”

You lift an unimpressed brow, still unreadable beneath your glasses. “Mm. Lucky me.”

Stubborn as ever.

Eddie inhales it like freshly washed sheets.

Eddie smirks, leaning against the ticket booth, “Careful. Almost sound happy to see me.”

You scoff, shifting your weight and glancing away, “In your dreams.”

“You’d be surprised how often you show up there, honey.”

You hum, your nose wrinkling— Eddie’s insides burn.

“Surprised? Not really. Grossed out? Maybe.”

Eddie raises a brow, “You know what… I’ll take a maybe.”

His gaze flickers towards a ride across the park, and he looks back at you as you retrieve your tickets from the man in the booth. And before you can walk away, Eddie speaks again, “Take a ride with me?”

You look at him momentarily, seemingly thinking it over before shrugging, “No thanks.”

You turn around, taking a few steps before Eddie jogs up to you, turning and walking backward as he paces before you, “Come on babe,” he drawls, “I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here.”

You raise an eyebrow, fingers tight around your string of carnival tickets, “Well, I heard you’ve got a reputation with girls and your fingers, so, can’t be much of a missed opportunity.”

Eddie physically malfunctions.

His smirk falters, just for a second, his pace slowing. 

And you pause, and Eddie sees it on your face— you fucked up.

Your lips part for a moment, about to say something, something to debunk what the hell you just said— but Eddie beats you to it.

He laughs, eyes widening in disbelief, “Oh-ho-ho,” Eddie delights, “Look at you, princess. Fishing for details.” He drawls. You groan, attempting to walk around him only for Eddie to follow after you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if it’ll help him digest your words easier, “Hold on— did you just slut shame me?” He exclaims with a grin.

“Yes. And no, I wasn’t fishing for details.” You hiss.

“No, no, no,” Eddie places a hand on your shoulder and turns you to him, “You can’t just drop that in casual conversation and expect me to let it go.” He pauses, eyes narrowing at you before he leans in, a devilish smirk on his lips as his voice lowers, “You wanna try ‘em out, huh?”

You grimace, “Excuse me—”

Eddie wriggles his decorated fingers in your face, “Right here, ready to go for you, honeybee.”

You smack your hand against Eddie’s, batting him away as your face twists with an annoyed expression, “And what about you?” You press.

Eddie looks at you, amusement woven with confusion, “What about me?” His fingers dance across your wrist, licks of fire kissing his fingertips, “I’m not the one accusing you of sleeping with the entire town, sugartits.” He points out.

You hum, crossing your arms and straightening your back, “Well, you’re the one rambling to Steve about me. That’s cute, Munson.” You lean in, “You’ve got a crush on me.”

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

Because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

He blinks.

“The hell are you talking about?”

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips, “Steve told me.”

Eddie scoffs, looking away as if unfazed, shifting in his spot as he shrugs, “Steve’s full of shit.”

You hum, “If you say so.”

Eddie shrugs, “So we’re both in love— knew that already.”

“We are not—“

Eddie waves you off, trying and failing to suppress a smile, “Yeah, yeah— getting on the ride or what?”

You look at Eddie, arms crossed, cute and disgruntled.

Oh, he’s definitely got you stuck.

“One ride.”

Eddie smirks, slinging an arm over your shoulders and forcing you to walk with him, “Just what I like to hear.”

He takes you across the park, a shit-eating grin on his face and you under his arm. Eddie glances at you, smirking at your forced look of annoyance. He snags your sunglasses, perching them on his face and grinning when you grumble and try to take them back, “Come on, princess. Gotta save my eyes; your smiles just too bright.” He teasingly complains, poking at the side of your lips.

You roll your eyes, giving up on retrieving your glasses when he bats you away. “You’re so annoying,” you grumble, but Eddie sees your lips twitch.

“You love me.” He squeezes your arm.

And because Eddie’s a total shithead, he stops at the scariest-looking ride in the park, smirking when you gaze up at it, arms crossed.

“Nope.”

Eddie tilts his head, grinning. “Nope?”

You turn to Eddie, a stern look on your face, “Nope,” you repeat, “I’m not getting on that thing.” You point towards the ride of screaming victims.

Eddie clutches his chest dramatically, “Wow,” he muses, “Can’t believe this. Little miss indestructible, afraid of a little carnival ride.”

You glare at him, “It’s not fear; it’s common sense. I like my feet on the ground.”

“Oh?” Eddie hums, lips mockingly turning into a pout, “Sounds like fear, baby.”

You huff, shifting your weight, “Pick something else.”

Eddie looks at the ride for a second before looking back at you. “Nah.”

“Eddie—”

“Just so we’re clear,” Eddie holds up a finger, leaning in when he speaks, “If you pick another ride, I’m never letting you live this down. Every time I see you, I’ll greet you with a, ‘Hey, remember when you chickened out at the carnival?’”

Your jaw clenches. A pause of silence. A glance at the ride.

Caught.

So fucking caught.

“So fucking stupid.” You mutter with a shake of your head. “Fine.”

The metal bar slams over your laps with a heavy clunk, ringing in Eddie’s ears like a winning chime.

And beside him, you shift in your seat, hands gripping the bar, jaw tight as you glare straight ahead. Eddie grins, lounging back like he’s in a recliner, one arm draped over the side.

“You look tense, princess.”

“I wonder why,” you deadpan.

Eddie snickers, impulsively reaching out and giving your bar a heavy shake just to mess with you. You flinch, snapping your head towards him and gripping his hands, “Stop that.” you stress, peeling his fingers from your seat.

“What?” Eddie drawls, “Just making sure it’s secure.” He hums innocently, a shit-eating grin on his face to ruin the act. “Wouldn’t want you flying off, now, would we?”

You exhale sharply, a frown on your face as you turn forward again, “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re still risking your life for me.” He teases.

You roll your eyes, fingers still tight around the bar. Eddie leans in a little, voice dropping when he asks, “You nervous?”

You scoff, knuckles nearly popping from your skin, “No.”

“You sure?” Eddie grins, “You’re holding onto that thing like it’s your last hope.”

You release the bar immediately, crossing your arms instead, “I just— I don’t trust these things, alright.” You grumble.

Eddie hums, glancing around, “Yeah, I mean… I did see a loose bolt on the track earlier— but I’m sure it’s fine.”

You turn, eyes wide, as you look at Eddie, and it takes Eddie everything in his body not to burst into a fit of laughter.

“Are you serious?” You stress.

Eddie pauses. Thinks you’re the prettiest sight when you’re about to fling yourself off the ride and probably murder him.

Then he grins. “Nah.”

You elbow him— quite hard, actually— and Eddie barks out a laugh just as the ride jerks to life, gears whirring as you begin your slow ascent.

Eddie glances at you again, sees the way you shift, the way you press your lips together as the ground sinks further and further beneath you. 

And Eddie can’t help himself.

“You can hold my hand if you want,” he offers, wriggling his fingers in your direction.

You glance at his fingers. Eddie thinks you consider it, but you huff and look away, adjusting your grip on the bars, “I’d rather die.”

Eddie just laughs, the wind whipping through his hair as the ride reaches the top, “Suit yourself, princess.”

And then—

The ride drops.

Eddie’s head throws back in laughter, and the wind roars, whipping through his curls and pressing his shirt to his chest as gravity yanks you both down. The weightlessness sends a rush through his veins, fire licking hot through his veins. He fucking loves this.

A scream rips through the air beside him.

Eddie glances over and— oh, shit, this is better than the ride itself.

You look miserable.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a blood-curdling scream that gets stolen by the wind and stirring gears, drowned out by the deafening carnival sounds. You’re gripping the safety bar like your life depends on it— which it does— and your body is stiff as you get thrown into a loop.

Eddie laughs even harder then, because— god, she’s adorable.

The ride twists, flips you upside down, and snaps you back into another soul-snatching drop. You let out another breathless scream, like you’ll never come out of this alive, cursing at Eddie like he’s this is his fault— and Eddie soaks up every second, grinning wide, weightless, and free.

And then something grabs him.

Eddie falters for a moment and blinks, head snapping down, and— oh.

Your hand. Wrapped tight around his. Like it’s instinct— like you reached for him without thinking.

The ride whips sideways, but Eddie’s hardly paying attention to that anymore.

His hand is on fire.

Sweet, sizzling, hot fire.

You don’t let go. Not even when the ride is tossed through another loop, not when your breath stutters from the sheer force of another drop— your hand stays steady planted around Eddie’s.

He feels the tremble in your fingers, how hard you’re clutching— like he’s steadier than the metal bar bolted to the seat, solely there to protect you.

Eddie’s stomach flips, and it’s not because of the ride.

He’s grinning wide, fingers curling around your hand, allowing himself to greedily take your mindless opening.

By the time the ride slows to a stop, Eddie’s still smiling, riding high on a sunny-bliss wave. 

You rip your hand from his, and Eddie watches as you unbuckle yourself, your face twisted in utter betrayal.

“That was awful.” You pant, shaking out your hands like they’ve fallen asleep, “I fucking hate you.”

Eddie cocks his head, beaming. “You held my hand.”

You pause, still breathing shakily, as you look at Eddie for a second. Your gaze flickers down, fingers flexing like they remember how Eddie felt just moments ago.

Eddie’s grin stretches as your expression shifts from realization to horror, and before you can say something, Eddie wiggles his fingers, “Still feelin’ ‘em, too. Strong grip, princess. You sure you don’t wanna hold ‘em again?”

You shove Eddie so hard he nearly topples over.

Eddie laughs, honest and deep in his chest— god, he’s having fun.

Eddie unbuckles his seat, lifting the bar above your heads, careful not to hit you. You step down from the seat, wobbling for a moment, but Eddie catches your elbow before you take out an entire family of children.

“Woah there,” he muses, holding you steady, “You okay? Need me to carry you?”

You glare at him, letting Eddie gently guide you out of the way for other passengers, “Pick something else before I kill you.”

Eddie grins.

God, he so fucking won.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, honeybee.”

And just like that, you’re off again, moving through the park like it’s just the two of you.

And you don’t bring up your friends.

Neither does Eddie.

You just keep going, slipping from one ride to the next, getting caught up in the rush, the lights, the sheer gravity of just being together. Eddie’s never felt this high.

By the time Eddie does think about your groups of friends, it’s already too late. They’re gone.

Not that he gives a single shit.

Mostly everyone is slowly leaving the park because they’re about to close, but one last ride catches Eddie’s eye.

“One more?”

You look at Eddie, a glow on your face that Eddie can’t stop admiring. “I think I’ve had enough of feeling my heart drop out of my ass, Munson.”

Eddie smiles, already tugging you towards the ride he has in mind. “This one's slow.”

You look at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion of the devilish grin on his face. You follow his gaze, groaning when you land on his target, “That’s for couples.” You point out, “And it’s cheesy.”

Eddie shrugs, “We’re a couple, babe. Madly in love, you and I.” 

You roll your eyes, barely fighting back as Eddie pulls you into the Tunnel of Love.

There’s no one in line, so Eddie slips the guy two tickets and leads you straight to the awaiting boat. He lends you a hand into the boat because he’s a gentleman before he’s a menace, before taking a seat next to you.

You sit quietly, looking everywhere but Eddie— because here in this tiny little shitty boat, you’re practically sharing the same breath. And Eddie loves it.

“This is stupid.” You mutter.

“As stupid as the first, second, third, or fourth ride you said was stupid?” Eddie teases, draping an arm across the back of the boat, not touching you but just there.

You glare at Eddie, and the boat drifts forward, slipping into the tunnel’s shadow. The warm glow of the carnival lights disappears behind you, swallowed by the dim flicker of fake candles and twinkling stars overhead. It’s quiet in here— just the soft hum of old music and the gentle rush of the water beneath the boat.

You shift beside Eddie, arms crossed as your eyes dance around, “This is kind of creepy.”

Eddie smirks. He leans in, voice low like he’s telling a secret, “It’s haunted, actually.”

You huff through your nose, unimpressed, though your knee bounces momentarily, “Yeah, okay.”

”No, really,” Eddie insists, biting back a grin. You glance at him, your faces close. “Couple got stuck in here. Died. Now they haunt anyone who makes out in these things.”

You huff out a laugh, eyes glancing away as you turn back to the ride, “Wow. So tragic. Guess we should definitely avoid that, then.”

Eddie shrugs, all casual and smug, turning back to the ride as well, “I mean… unless you’re feeling brave— ever been ghost hunting?”

You scoff, shoving at Eddie, your stifled smile peeking out beneath the dim lights. Eddie’s fast— catches your elbow and grins when you glare at him.

He doesn’t let go.

His grip isn't hard, easy enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, but you don’t.

So, Eddie distracts you, spinning this stupid lie about a dead couple as his fingertips drag along the inside of your wrist, featherlight. You shift slightly, eyes taking in the twinkling lights and windows of displays.

And Eddie takes a chance.

Silky smooth, he slides his palm over yours— slow and easy— linking your hands together before you can think too hard about it.

There’s a roaring fire in his chest. Breathing and so fucking alive, and his Malibu sun is feeding it dry wood.

“I don’t believe your story.”

Eddie grins, squeezes your hand once, playful, like it’s just part of the joke, “Don’t come crying to me later tonight when an old woman comes knockin’ shit around in your room.”

You raise a brow, “I’m willing to bet it’d just be you sneaking in like a creep.”

Eddie hums, calloused fingertips dragging over your knuckles. “Wouldn’t be books and makeup knocking around then.”

You groan, pink and red lights casting over your grimace, “Gross. Might be the worst one tonight.” But the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying you.

And Eddie grins, then. 

And because Eddie wants to revel in what’s left of being on this ride with you, he says nothing more. He sits there, pressed against you, letting his hand burn in yours.

The carnival hums in the distance, fading into nothing as you and Eddie cross the gravel lot.

Your hand isn’t in Eddie’s anymore.

Eddie misses it, but he doesn’t push it.

There’s a silence between you, not awkward or bad, just… silence.

It’s warm, a slight breeze drifting by that cools the hot bones in Eddie’s body. 

Eddie’s hands are shoved in his pockets, scared to let them out because his fingers keep twitching, buzzing with this need to touch you. You’re walking beside him, watching your shoes pace in the gravel, arms wrapped around yourself.

Eddie kind of hates the sight of his van when you walk up to it.

He says nothing, walking over to the passenger side, swinging the door open, and stepping back to let you climb in.

You swallow, stepping forward to get in.

And you make the biggest fucking mistake of looking at Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t know; he’s skyrocketed in the sky, looking down at the earth and weightless in the air— because your lips are on his

He’s not sure who leaned in; maybe it was him— it was probably him— perhaps it was you, but it doesn't matter because he’s kissing you.

And you’re kissing him.

He startles for a moment— just for a second— before instinct takes over. His greedy hands creep out of his pockets to find your waist, dragging you closer as he kisses you, hard and sure.

It’s impulsive. A little messy. Like something that’s been aching to happen all night just snapped loose all at once.

You exhale sharply against his mouth— like you can’t believe what’s happening. Like you might know, this is toeing the line, but Eddie doesn’t let you think too long.

He tilts his head, deepens it— just a little. Just enough to make you forget whatever had been rolling around in your mind.

And fuck, he feels it too. The heat. The weight of it. The fact that this is the first time you’re face to face with this dance you’ve been dancing these last weeks.

You’re pressed against the side of his van, fingers curled into his shirt and kissing him to his death.

He cups your face— can’t get enough of you— and you whimper before pulling away, breathing heavily, hands still clutching his shirt.

Eddie looks at you, your wide eyes, your wet lips, and he licks his own— and he can taste you.

Sugar, cherry, honeydew, Malibu fucking sun— dancing on his tongue, heavy and soft.

And when he looks in your eyes, Eddie realizes he’s entirely, irrevocably, and immensely done for.

Now I told you, so you ought to know

It takes some time for a feeling to grow

But you're so close now, I can't let you go

And I can't let go

- magnet and steel x walter egan

part three.

cutie teeny taglist: @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @hereforshmut @emxxblog @mdurdenpitt @glassbxttless @peculiarwren @aactuaaltraash @daveythorntonslocker @bl1ssfulbaby @strangereads @wdsara48 @cowboylikemunson

————

a/n: THEY SMOOCHED !!! AHHH !!! lmaoo okay guys we're smooth (ish) sailing from here on out ;) I can guarantee there will be some smutty action next chappy hehe. anyways, I hope u enjoyed lovesick eddie this chap. as always, thank you for riding along, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3

[quintessenceofdust88]

Priorities

(okay, so remember this ficlet? I finished it 🤭 and it's basically 1800 words of Tommy being me and saying everything I wish I could say to Eddie Diaz about the way he treats his supposed best friend. But since I'm a relentless optimist, I gave Eddie a slight redemption at the end. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for how much love you gave the first part! I hope this part lives up to your expectations ♥)

Tommy is being weird with him.

Eddie's been back for about ten days when he finally gets an invitation to Tommy and Buck's house, that Buck moved to about a month before he arrived. And the invitation came from Buck himself, not from Tommy, so Eddie doesn't think he's being paranoid about the pilot treating him differently.

If Tommy is mad at him for some reason (though Eddie can't fathom why, they haven't even talked much since Eddie moved), it explains why the invitation took so long; frankly, part of Eddie was expecting to set foot in LA and have Buck all over him wanting to hang out, but not quite. Buck had barely shown up, mostly to say hi to Chris, and then Eddie hadn't seen much of him.

Eddie shows up anyway, casting his doubts aside, because he definitely missed hanging out with the two of them. If there's a downside to the months he passed in Texas is how lonely he was; he can't wait to be able to hang out with his friends whenever he wants again.

Chris opts out of joining him, also wanting to catch up with his LA friends, and Eddie doesn't mind. It's good that it'll be just the three of them.

At least it should be, but again, Tommy is being weird. Not to Buck, God no. With Buck he's all 'sweetheart' and kisses to the cheek and hand holding all the time. Eddie privately thinks that this is how they're behaving now, six months after their reconciliation, he's quite lucky to have been in Texas for the first few days after they got back together (he tries not to think what they could have gotten up to in his house while Buck lived there; ignorance is bliss or whatever).

But the point is: Tommy doesn't have any scrunchy smiles or 'how are you doing, man?' and talking about the latest NBA developments with Eddie. Instead he's giving him that trademark bitchy look, and barely answering when Eddie does talk to him.

Buck, bless him, doesn't seem to pick up on the tension. He seems ridiculously happy, all heart eyes at his boyfriend, and for the first time, Eddie feels like a third wheel between them, and that's what makes him decide enough is enough. 

When Buck leaves to check on their appetizers, he turns to Tommy, who's quite deliberatedly staring at the TV with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

"Tommy, man, have I done something to you?" He asks, and Tommy looks at him, raising an eyebrow. 

"To me? How could you? You haven't even talked to me one-on-one since Evan and I were broken up."

Eddie sighs; he should have seen that coming, though he never thought Tommy to be the needy kind. Maybe Buck was rubbing off on him. 

"Tommy, you know Buck's my best friend, I had to..."

"Oh, is he?!" Tommy says, his voice laced with faux-surprise and mockery, and Eddie recoils. "I would never guess based on the way you treat him"

Eddie stares at Tommy, completely stunned and, if he’s being honest, not just a little offended. He and Buck have been best friends for years; who does Tommy think he is to chime in, especially after he broke Buck’s heart the way he did months ago? 

“Tommy, what the hell are you talking about?” Eddie demands, trying to keep his voice low. “Buck is my best friend, everybody knows that.”

“You know what, Eddie? My bad, you are right.” Tommy says, but Eddie doesn’t feel relieved; he seems far from done. “Evan is your best friend; he supports your decisions, he’s always there for you, worrying about you and your kid, going above and beyond to make sure you’re okay.”

The words leaving Tommy’s mouth should have been positive, but for some reason, they’re bringing a deep blush to Eddie’s cheeks and a weird feeling to his stomach. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he’s feeling ashamed. 

“Okay, so what are you saying?” He asks, and Tommy stares at Eddie as if he’s being particularly stupid. 

“What I’m saying, Diaz, is that Evan is your best friend, but there’s no way you can claim to be his best friend. I’m not even sure you could claim to be his friend.”

“That’s not fair”, Eddie hisses in response, but that inconvenient blush is still stuck to his cheeks. 

“No, what’s not fair is making him keep your moving to Texas a secret, then treating him as expendable, then being mad when he finally snapped, and then just ‘forgiving’ him for something you should be apologizing for when he once more proved himself useful to you by taking your house”

Eddie stares at Tommy, mouth agape. That’s certainly not how he remembers things happening. 

“I… I was doing what was best for Chris. He… He didn’t have the right to make it about himself” Eddie says, but it now sounds weak even to his ears.

“Oh no, Eddie, as far as you’re concerned, Evan never has the right to make anything about himself. It’s all you, isn’t it? He babysits your son. You two talk about your plans, your feelings, your problems. Did you ever even have a conversation with him about our break-up? Did you even once ask him how he was handling it, if he was suffering?”

Eddie tries to remember those few weeks between their break-up and his moving, and he’s ashamed  when he realizes that he doesn’t remember asking Buck how he felt. All he remembers is the incessant baking.

“I…”

“Don’t bother”, Tommy says, raising a hand. “I know you didn’t. Because you, and everyone else, want Evan to always be happy and ready to help you with your problems. And when he dares to ask for help with his own things, of letting his insecurities be known, you accuse him of making everything about him. Of being exhausting.”

The word hits hard for Eddie, and he remembers a fight from so many years ago. He frowns, looking at Tommy, whose expression is harsh, his arms crossed, not a single line of the softness Eddie is used to from him. This is Tommy in protective mode, but Eddie had never expected it to be aimed at himself. It’s not fun, to say the least. 

“Did… Did he tell you about that?” He asks, and guilt is pooling up in his chest. 

“He wasn’t going to; I got it out of him when he asked me if I had left because he was exhausting,” Tommy says, and Eddie can see some of his guilt mirrored in Tommy’s eyes before he closes them and takes a deep sigh. “Look, I wasn’t perfect with him either, but you, Eddie? You were supposed to be his best friend”

“Tommy, I… I never realized…”

“No. And you never would, because he’s so used to this treatment that he’d never say anything. It’s the normal between the two of you. Except there’s nothing normal about it” Tommy laughs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “God, Eddie, when he told me how he had ended up living at your place… The way he told it. Putting himself down, saying you were right on calling him out for ‘making everything about me, like I always do’. Like he had been a tantrum-throwing child, like you had been so good for forgiving him after he solved a problem of yours for the millionth time. You could barely say thank you. I asked, and he said you ‘shouldn’t have to thank him anyway, cause that’s what friends do’. That’s the man you like to call selfish.”

Eddie’s heart feels frozen in his chest. He wants to fight back, and wants to give Tommy examples of times he was there for Buck as well, but, to his immense despair, he’s coming up short. He’s about to mention putting Buck on his will, but he can see Tommy saying that was more for his benefit than Buck’s, and he’d be right. Eddie also thinks of telling him about how he handled Buck’s coming out, but… Is that something he should be that proud of? It was basic human decency, nothing else. 

When was the last time their friendship was about what Buck needed? Eddie can’t remember, if there ever was one in the first place. 

As guilt and shame take over him, he runs a hand through his face, and looks back at Tommy. In a way, he’s grateful; grateful that Buck found someone who’s that willing to defend him, but it makes Eddie feel awful that he’s the one who Buck needs to be defended from. And the worst part is that he knows, absolutely knows for a fact, that Buck hasn’t asked Tommy to say any of that. 

“I… I made him feel less than, didn’t I? When… When I left like that” He says, and Tommy nods, his expression finally softening a bit. 

“Look, he gets it. I get it. Chris is your priority. But Evan is mine, and him taking me back was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’m sorry, Eddie, but I won’t let him be treated like that anymore. Not by you, not by anyone. He deserves better.”

Eddie finds himself nodding numbly. Tommy is right; Buck deserves better. From the 118, from his parents, but from him. Eddie has to step up. 

“He does. I… I’m sorry” He says pathetically, and Tommy only shrugs. 

“Don’t tell that to me, tell it to him. But let me tell you that it won’t make much of a difference. He doesn’t think you have anything to be sorry for.” Tommy says, and the worst part is that Eddie knows it’s true, which makes him feel even guiltier. “So instead of being sorry, do better”

He doesn’t have much time to mull on Tommy’s words before Buck is back, announcing the nachos are finally ready and that he had to re-do the guacamole three times before it was perfect.

And as he drops the bowls on the coffee center table, then gives Tommy a quick peck, Eddie looks at them. The way Tommy instantly smiled when Buck entered the room, as if the tension is out of him now that he told Eddie what was on his mind; the way he wraps his arm around Buck’s waist and Buck leans against his shoulder. The way he intently listens to Buck explaining what exactly went wrong with the first two guacamole batches, the way he praises Buck for finally getting it right. 

Eddie sighs and does his best to join their conversation as if nothing has happened. Watching the two of them, the way Buck smiles so easily, his eyes never leaving Tommy, and how content his best friend looks, how sure of himself, Eddie realizes that yes, he has to do better by Buck, because they’ve been friends for years and he hasn’t been very good at it. But one thing he knows for sure: Buck is not alone. 

He is finally someone’s priority. 

Ppl who were interested/asked to be tagged: @azaharinflames @laundryandtaxesworld @agentpeggycartering @unhingedangstaddict @iredastead @exhaustedpirate @dum-amo-vivo9 @neverstopschanging @walkedthroughfires @aar-journey @justahumblecabbagemerchant @styxhuntress @sgprfan

[npdclaraoswald]

It is genuinely weird that Community never went for the Jeff/Shirley angle. He's got romances with the other girls, including the one half his age, but not her. I think their bitchiness could interact in really fun ways to ratchet up tension with them and the group. Far better than putting her with Chang

[kunasthiast]

champagne problems (part 1)

summary: Golf clubs, generational wealth (and trauma), and a childhood friendship that aged like milk. Everything is hell with Sukuna... especially if you had relapses of the memories that made you emotionally constipated for the last 12 fucking years. pairings: sukuna x reader (female) cw: crack fic! (pls don't take this srsly), one-sided enemies to lovers, slow-burn, delusional denial, aggressively coded sexual tension, french toast, suggestive content words: 17.1k (had to cut in parts since i've got too much words)

It’s either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or you were abandoned by it. Really. Of all the people in this planet, in this country, and in this obscenely, soul-sucking, beige-coded, stepford-smiling gated community, you had to be stuck with him. 

Sukuna.

That pink-haired bastard with more money than god and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. For the love of strawberries and all things sacred, he’s a narcissistic, cocky asshole that you refuse to be associated with. For years now, actually. And he, by the way, just happened to be your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

You’ve known him forever—since diapers, actually, thanks to your parents being disgustingly close. (Money and golf, as they say, deepen relationships and ruin offspring). Back then, it was you, Sukuna, and Gojo: inseparable, chaotic, and constantly banned from formal events for “behavioral disruption.”

Then came college. And oh, college. A series of very questionable decisions – booze, bad judgment, and that one summer you both agreed to never mention again. The one where tequila blurred every line you swore you’d never cross. Let’s just say, some boundaries were… explored. Poorly.

And of course, to top it all off: a stupid, petty fight that led to a rift in your friendship. Now, you’re both single parents, stumbling through young adulthood with a baby on each hip. You, with your son. Him, with his daughter.

Minimal contact is the unspoken rule. Occasional passive-aggressive exchanges at neighborhood meetings (gods, this is a cookie-cutter suburban hell – why is every lawn looked like the golf course green?). Where the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and thinly veiled judgment, and every conversation was a subtle competition for the best-manicured lawn and the most successful offspring. 

Forced civility at school (because, of course, your kids go to the same overpriced academy that call tests “challenges” and uniforms “identity expressions”), and you’re both contractually obligated to show up at family business functions, aka golf disguised as networking disguised as family bonding disguised as a pissing contest.

And, speaking of contests – you’ve been lock in one with Sukuna for years. Specifically, your annual power play at the PTA sponsorship table. One-upping each other in increasingly ridiculous ways because nothing fuels you more than spite.

But what’s life without being a little bitchy, right?

Unfortunately, karma – being the absolute bitch of life – decided that your kids would become best friends. Not casual playground pals. No. Soulmate-level best friends. The kind that build pillow forts with emotional depth. With the insistent sleepovers, shared inside jokes in their own weird language you’re 90% they invented, and referred to each other as siblings.

How did it happen? You have no fucking idea. 

Or maybe you do, you’re just in deep denial. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s some goddamn cosmic joke. Maybe the universe has you by the throat and won’t let go until it watches you suffer in 4K.

Not that you don’t love his daughter – she’s an absolute angel, the kind of sweet that makes dentists nervous. But her being your son’s BFF? That’s… inevitable. 

Especially in your tight, old-money-adjacent social circle. They’ve known each other since they were just wearing diapers, since they were teething on the same overpriced Montessori rattles. 

Just like you and Sukuna. 

Except this time, it’s different. Because their friendship demands one thing: coexistence. You and that tattoed-to-the-gods asshole had been forced to coexist. Again, coexist.

And Sukuna? Oh no, he doesn’t do coexisting. Nah. Nope. Never. He breaks balance. He thrives on chaos. He gets off on making your life just inconvenient enough to ruin your peace, but not enough to justify a felony charge.

And this morning? This godforsaken Saturday morning? He outdid himself.

Twelve years of passive-aggressive parenting – scratch that, thirty-three years of slow-burn emotional warfare – have led to this moment. This may just be his masterpiece.

Because this was when the relapse started—and Sukuna made damn sure you felt every inch of it.

The first thing you register at seven-fucking-A.M. is the sound of something dying. Violently. It’s mechanical. Obnoxious. It sounds like a robot lawnmower from hell just met its end outside your bedroom window.

The second thing you register? Pure, unfiltered rage.

Your eyes snap open like you’ve just been slapped by God himself. That noise—it’s outside. Your house. Your lawn.

You lurch out of bed like a woman possessed – dazed, furious, still marinating in last night’s sleep deprivation, because of course you were up ’til 3 AM binge-watching that dumb dating show where someone literally said “Montoya, por favor,”. You then grabbed your pillow and screamed into it for ten minutes. Regret? Never heard of her.

You barely register the cool cling of your La Perla silk sleepwear against your skin as you stomp toward the window. One violent yank later—

And there it is. Not a noise. But, a nuisance. Him. Sukuna.

Shirtless. (Is that not a violation of at least three HOA rules?) Smirking. Holding a hedge trimmer like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial that probably ends with “Dior Sauvage: For Men Who Deserve Jail.”

You’ve seen him shirtless before. Too many times. College. His apartment. Your apartment. That goddamn couch in the frat house that probably caused seven diseases just by looking at it. Heat. A lot of teeth. Chaos. And him tracing lazy circles on your back like he was trying to memorize you. The worst part? You let him.

The morning sun, which used to mean peace and lattes, now glints off the sheen of sweat on his stupid, tattooed chest—each muscle cut like it was carved by demons with a thirst for drama. His pink hair is tousled just so—purposefully chaotic, like the universe made him hot just to personally ruin your life.

And then you see it. What used to be your hedge. You blink once. Then again. No change.

Your lush, lovingly imperfect, expensive-as-shit privet hedge is gone. Vaporized. Replaced by a row of cold, surgically shaved shrubs that look like a serial killer’s idea of curb appeal. Your eye twitches.

As if summoned by your fury, Sukuna glances up. His crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on your rage – or maybe something else. That look – the one he gave you at 2AM on your billion-dollar couch the night you swore it was a one-time thing. The one that said, “I’d ruin you if you let me.” And you let him. Back then. Right before shit got complicated. Right before you woke up next to him and pretended that everything’s normal as fuck. Again. 

He knows what this is doing to you. And that annoyingly smug bastard does this all with a smirk. A slow, wolfish, go-ahead-lose-your-mind kind of smirk.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mouths. Oh, of course. You can lip-read him. Of course you can. Curse your stupid subconscious for prioritizing Sukuna Fluency over Spanish.

You inhale deeply. Try to center yourself. Failing that, you simply open the door like you’re kicking off Act One of a Greek tragedy. No robe. No shoes. No dignity. Just you, rage, and a whole lot of leg.

“Sukuna,” you bark, voice rasping like vengeance incarnate.

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he turns, casually leaning on the hedge trimmer like he’s posing for The Bachelor: War Criminal Edition.

“Oh. You’re up early,” he drawls. His eyes flick downward—just for a second, but long enough to set your entire nervous system on fire.

“You—” You gesture wildly toward the massacre formerly known as your hedge. “What the actual fuck did you do?”

Sukuna squints at the row of plant corpses like a man admiring the Louvre, “Landscaping,” he says.

“That was my hedge.”

“It was an ugly hedge.”

You nearly combust. “Are you clinically insane?!”

He finally turns fully to face you, crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on female rage. “Don’t be dramatic. It looks better now.”

“Better?!” you screech. “It looks like it was done by Hannibal Lecter with a pair of OCD scissors!”

Sukuna hums. “You’re welcome.”

You take one murderous step forward. “You owe me a new hedge.”

“I gave you a new hedge.”

“I will burn this entire street down.”

His grin widens, predatory. “Might wanna change out of that nightie first, sweetheart. Fire hazard.”

You freeze. That’s when it hits you. The air. The breeze. The sudden realization that you are—very much—standing in front of Satan in La Perla silk.

Short. Bare. Clingy. Absolutely illegal in three states. Straps like dental floss. Chest support? None. Coverage? Legally negligible. Your arms fly up like someone just yelled “freeze!”

And Sukuna? Oh, he notices. He notices everything. His gaze drags over you slowly, hungrily, with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows exactly the effect he has.

“Nice outfit,” he murmurs. “All for me, babe?”

Your soul? Gone. Astral projected. Witnessed its own murder. And a tiny, traitorous part of your brain, the part you usually kept locked in a soundproof room, whispered, ‘Yep.' You crushed that traitorous voice with the force of a thousand suns.

“Shut up,” you hiss, spinning on your heel like a scandalized Disney princess on the verge of committing a felony.

“Don’t be shy now,” he calls after you, laughter rumbling from his chest like a goddamn villain. 

“Come back! Let’s negotiate... hedge replacements. Or anything else you’re aching to trim.”

You slam the door so hard you hear a bird scream outside.

And you? You launch yourself face-first into the couch like a woman wronged by fate, God, and the HOA.

Because of that man. Because of Ryomen. Fucking. Sukuna. Because your life is a telenovela and that devil is hot and ruining your lawn.

Your theatrical death scene is cut short by the sound of a small, sleepy voice.

“Mom?” You freeze.

Riku, your 12-year old son, stands in the hallway, looking like he’s fought a pillow and lost. Pajama shirt backward.  One sock. A feather in his hair?

He squints. Then pauses. “Why are you yelling? It’s Saturday.”

You try to pull yourself together, smoothing down your very not-child-appropriate sleepwear and flattening your hair like that’ll help.

“Nothing,” you say. Too fast. Too high-pitched. Too guilty.

Riku eyes you. Then the door. Then back to you. “Mom, why are you dressed like that?”

Your soul flatlines. “I—no reason. Go to bed.”

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“AND?!”

He sighs like he pays taxes and you’re the child here. “Did you fight with Papa again?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Papa?”

He yawns. “Unckuna said I should call him that. Since we’re like family.”

Something in your chest twists. He said that? The same man who claims relationships are just complicated sleepovers with taxes? The one who ghosted you emotionally mid-snuggle and then had the audacity to joke about building IKEA furniture “as a team”? The one who doesn’t even believe in relationships (more like… you both don’t) that last longer than a lease. 

And now he’s out here playing pretend dad to your son? Like he didn’t once whisper the word “ours” into your neck and pretend it was a joke.

You see white. You see God. You see the void. You also see a very expensive therapy bill forming in your future.

“That man is NOT your father,” you snarl.

“He also said your hedge looked like a haunted broccoli. With trust issues.”

“HE MURDERED MY HEDGE.”

Riku shrugs. “It was kinda ugly.”

You gasp. “It was tastefully whimsical!”

Then your phone buzzes.

[Do Not Answer]: good morning, sweetheart. hope you’re still wearing that cute little nightie. you always looked best in silk. see u later 😘

You stare at the screen like it personally offended you. Then briefly consider throwing your phone out the window. Or yourself. Unfortunately, your insurance doesn’t cover “Sukuna-related injuries” or emotional trauma due to unsolicited thirst traps and flirty, horny, late-stage situationship texts. 

Because he’s done this before—flirting like it’s harmless, like it doesn’t drag old memories up from the basement where you thought you buried them under shame, sarcasm, and 12 years of pretending you don’t miss him. The way his hand used to fit in yours, the ghost of his lips on your neck, the memory of his laugh echoing in your apartment, a laugh you hadn't heard in person for years. All of it was buried, but the soil was thin.

You scream into the couch cushion like you’re dying on a battlefield. And worse than shame, deeper than anger, in the dark corners of your soul, is the memory of liking it.

“Ew,” Riku mutters. “Do I have to hear about your weird grown-up drama?”

“IT’S NOT WEIRD DRAMA.”

Riku gives you a long, tired look. “Mom.”

“What?!”

He points to the phone. “I know you like him.”

Your entire soul dissolves into steam.

Despite the fact that he just ruined your precious Saturday morning with this hedge incident and a completely inappropriate message to send to your ‘co-parent’, Sukuna was moving on with his day. Specifically, he was cooking breakfast like some domestic menace in his obnoxiously sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like it belonged in the magazine spread of Architectural Digest.

Because unlike most rich assholes, Sukuna didn’t trust personal chefs. People spit in food. People sneezed in food. People existed near food, which was already bad enough. So, every morning, he cooked his own. For him and his daughter. Without fail. And since it was Saturday, that meant one thing: big breakfast.

Which also meant, thanks to the unfortunate circumstances of your life, you and Riku would be there too. Because in a twist of cosmic cruelty, his daughter Keiko had long ago declared that Saturday breakfast at her dad’s house was sacred tradition. 

And Riku, the traitor, had readily agreed. Of course he did. The two of them had been best friends since they were in kindergarten, and you? You were just along for the ride. Fuck it, right?

Keiko, same age as Riku, stomped into the kitchen like she owned the place (she does, it’s her dad’s) – hair a tangled mess, eyes half shut, wearing an oversized My Melody pajama set like a gremlin princess.

“Daddy, what’s for breakfast?” She flopped onto a barstool, chin resting on her palm, already judging the pile of ingredients on the counter: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, rice, miso soup, and a whole loaf of milk bread that was about to get French-toastified.

“Morning, princess. You’ve got drool,” Sukuna said, wiping her face with casual affection before returning to the stove, flipping eggs like a culinary showoff. She snorted. He hummed. 

Everything about this household was too chill. And that was his bragging right.

And now here you were, an hour later (mind you, it might already be 8:02AM). Not in your silk sleepwear now, but in your Loro Piana lounge set – a color-matching oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants. In enemy territory. Sitting at his obnoxiously pristine kitchen island while the bane of your existence plated up French toast like he hadn’t just murdered your hedge in cold blood an hour ago and sent you a text message that would make Satan blush. Maybe you were Satan. Life was suffering.

You sat stiffly, stewing in silent rage, eating his stupidly delicious food in his stupidly perfect kitchen like the fool you were. Betrayed not just by your son, but by your taste buds.

Riku, of course, had zero shame. He was already seated next to Keiko, looking entirely far too comfortable as he reached over and swiped a piece of bacon from her plate.

“Hey!” She snapped. “That’s mine.”

Riku shrugged mid-bite with zero remorse. “Now it’s mine.”

Keiko kicked him under the table.

Sukuna – ever the type to let kids settle their own beef like unsupervised wolf cubs – didn’t even flinch. Like everything's perfectly normal. But his eyes, for a flicker, held a strange intensity as he watched you, a glint that wasn't just amusement. He simply set a plate in front of you, stacked high with French toast, bacon, and disgustingly perfect scrambled eggs. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in close – voice infuriatingly close to your ear and a sin against sanity.

“Eat up, sweetheart,” he murmured, smug as ever. “Wouldn’t want you getting lightheaded from all that screaming this morning.”

Your fork nearly snapped in half. 

Keiko, sensing the chaos brewing, quickly changed the subject.

“Daddy,” she said, perking up, “Riku and I are gonna work on our science project later, ‘kay?”

Sukuna sat down, completely unbothered. “What is it?”

“A volcano model,” Keiko said proudly.

Sukuna arched a brow. “Lame.”

Keiko glared. “It’s for school!”

He snorted. “What happened to building a flamethrower?”

You nearly choked. Nope, you choked on your French toast.

Riku’s eyes lit up. “Wait, we can do that?”

“No,” You snapped, pointing your fork at Sukuna. “Absolutely not. Do NOT encourage them.”

Sukuna smirked, utterly unrepentant, and shrugged. “Relax, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let them  build an unsafe flamethrower.”

Your stared at him in disbelief. “There is no such thing as a safe flamethrower.”

The kids immediately started whispered like they were plotting something completely unhinged.

You took a long, deep breath. One problem at a time.

Right now, your biggest issue was pretending this breakfast wasn’t delicious. Which, unfortunately, it very much was. It was fucking amazing. Yeah, you’re easily pleased when it comes to food. But giving Sukuna even an ounce of satisfaction? Absolutely not. So, you settled for silent suffering, stabbing your fork into your French toast with unnecessary force.

Sukuna, because he was the devil incarnate, noticed. Obviously. Because the pink-haired menace always noticed.

“Good?” He asked, smirking.

You chewed aggressively. “No.”

Riku, your traitor of a child, spoke with his mouth full. “It’s really good.”

Keiko nodded, licking syrup off her fork. “Yeah, Daddy’s food is always the best.”

Sukuna looked insufferably pleased with himself. You swallowed your pride with the same intensity you swallowed that stupidly fluffy French toast. It was almost worth selling your soul for. Mind it, almost. This man could burn in hell. Preferably after breakfast.

Some time the next week, you were sprawled on the couch, half-dead after surviving what felt like a thousand back-to-back meetings. Thank God you work from home, and thank heavens it’s the family’s generational business. You could’ve been stuck in some sterile office with fluorescent lights, but nope, you're chilling at home, in your luxurious chaos. Oh, and did you mention it’s old money and generational wealth? Yeah, that kind of wealth. It’s a blessing… or a curse. Honestly, it depends on the day.

It was a Tuesday evening, and you were half-heartedly flipping through Netflix, trying to figure out which rom-com would match your mood. Naturally, you were leaning toward something unhinged and wildly unrealistic – you know, peak escapism… because why not? Maybe something classic with Matthew McConaughey, who was inescapably charming, or Hugh Grant with that disarming, floppy hair of his. Adam Sandler was also on the table, because who doesn’t love his chaotic, awkward brand of comedy? Basically something that might almost restore your faith in the idea that true love could be both absurd and beautiful. Almost.

Then, the door opened, and in walked your son, back from school.

And no – you don’t fetch him. Not when your smug, self-appointed savior of a neighbor has been picking him up for years now. Five, to be exact. Something about “Tch. We’re neighbors and they’re best friends – I should just do it instead of a fucking driver,” as if that was the most obvious and safest solution (no kidnaps, right?) in the world. Well, it is.

You didn’t even argue. Why would you? Free childcare and no afternoon traffic? That’s a win. You don’t argue with that kind of magic.

“How’s school?” you asked, still scrolling through the abyss of movie options.

Riku kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door with the grace of a well-raised (you raised him) gremlin. “Fine,” he called, heading straight for the fridge. “We had a math quiz. I killed it.”

“Good job, baby genius,” you said, eyes still glued to your television as you scrolled through rom-coms. You finally hovered over How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, thumb on the remote paused mid-air. “So, steak or sushi for dinner?”

“Nah, Papa said we might do burgers tonight.”

You blinked.

“Wait – what?”

“Yup,” Riku said, nonchalantly tearing into a kunafa pistachio chocolate bar and zero shame. “He said if I finished my homework early, he’d take us to that place with the crazy milkshakes and the gold leaf fries.”

Your jaw dropped. Turned slowly at your child. Offended.

“You’re making dinner plans with him? Without me?”

Riku, blissfully unaware of the storm he was causing, crunched into the chocolate bar. “I mean… yeah? It’s Papa. He plans everything better than you do anyway.”

You gasped, obviously scandalized by your son’s betrayal. Clutching your chest in exaggeration with an, “Excuse me?!”

Before you could fully process your son’s betrayal, your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call. A FaceTime call. From your mother. Red flag. Big red flag.

She always call through FaceTime if it was a serious business to discuss. Like weddings. Or funerals. Or your personal life, which she had no business being involved in.

You almost didn’t answer, but curiosity—and the very real possibility of her forcing a conversation about your non-existent love life—compelled you to pick up.

The screen flashed, and suddenly, your mother’s entire face filled your phone, her expression beaming with suspicious delight.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she chirped, like didn’t just interrupt your most sacred of moments — talking with your son who clearly forgot that you have to eat dinner too.

“What’s wrong?” You narrowed your eyes, instantly suspicious.

Her smile widened. Uh-oh. You knew that smile. It’s an all-too-familiar sign that something – something – was very, very wrong. It’s a trap. Oh my god, why the fuck did you answer it? You could practically hear your sanity slowly crumbling.

Your father’s voice rumbled from somewhere off-screen. “Is that her?”

Your mother turned the camera. And there he was – your father – glowing with smug satisfaction, reading the newspaper like a man preparing to ruin your peace. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, not even bothering to look up. “How’s Sukuna?”

You blacked out, “WHAT?”

“Oh, your father and I just had the loveliest brunch with him yesterday,” your mother practically sang the words, her voice dripping with way too much enthusiasm.

Your brain short-circuited, processing. “You—what?”

“Brunch,” she repeated slowly, as if you were some kind of idiot who didn’t know what brunch was. “At that little place by the golf course! You know, the one with the fresh strawberry tarts? We were so surprised when Sukuna walked in! And oh, sweetheart—he insisted on paying.”

“Even the wine,” your father added, flipping a page, and still not looking up from his paper.

You stared, horrified. Yep, your entire existence is crumbling in real time.

“No. No, no, no. What the hell were you two doing having brunch with Sukuna?!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She waved a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t planned! We were there. He was there – fate, darling. Fate.”

Your father set down his paper and finally looked at you like the sage old man he was. “He’s a good man.”

Oh my god. You fought the urge to throw your phone across the room.

Your mother sighed a long, dreamy exhale that belonged to a teenage girl meeting her favorite boyband, not a grown woman discussing your literal neighbor. Your self-proclaimed enemy.

“Oh, sweetheart, he’s just so charming and thoughtful! He even asked how we were, how you were, how Riku was—” She paused, giving you that look. "He even asked about your garden. Said he was sorry about the hedge. And then he asked what kind of flowers you liked.”

Sukuna… apologized? And asked about your favorite flowers? A memory flickered – Sukuna, years ago, nursing you back to health after a particularly bad tequila night, carefully placing a bouquet of spider lilies (your favorite, but you never told him) on your bedside table. And now, a pang of something that felt suspiciously like longing hit you. But no. Deny, deny, deny. Lock it down the deepest vault.

“Mom.”

“— and honestly, it’s just so rare these days. A man with such good manners…”

“Mom. We’re neighbors.”

“And handsome, too! I mean, obviously, we always knew that, but now—”

“MOM.”

Your father nodded, the sagely figure of a man who had clearly seen things.  “Still a shame he’s not yet married.”

You swore you were about to die or throw yourself off a cliff. You weren’t picky at this point.

Your mother giggled. That dangerous giggle. The one that said she was absolutely about to dive into matchmaking hell. Everything is hell when it comes to everything with Sukuna involved.

“Mom, I swear to God, if you’re about to —”

“Oh, I just think it’s such a shame you two never worked out!”

You screamed in frustration.

Right at that moment, Riku poked his head in the camera. Of course. “Oh. Grandma’s talking about Papa again, huh?”

Your mother, ever the opportunist, perked up. “Oh, hi, sweetheart! Have you eaten? Did Uncle Sukuna pick you up from school?”

Riku flopped onto the couch, still munching on his chocolate bar and nonchalantly stealing one of your throw pillows that your leg was clearly hugging. “Yeah. We’re also gonna have burgers tonight! And gold-leaf fries.”

Your mother gasped. “Gold-plated?! Oh, see? Isn’t he wonderful?”

Riku shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he’s cool.”

Your soul left your body.

“Mom,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. I beg you. Stop.”

She only laughed. “Oh, darling, don’t be shy! You know, when I was your age, if a man looked at me the way Sukuna looks at you—”

“HANGING UP.”

“Wait—!”

Click.

You threw your phone onto the couch like it physically burned you. Riku, completely unfazed, finished his chocolate bar. How he finished it that fast was beyond you. Was he part vacuum cleaner?

“…So, mom,” he said, casually. “can I sleep over at Kei’s tonight?”

You grabbed the throw pillow and playfully smacked him with it.

Wednesdays. Hump days. The weird, middle child of the week. The day that usually smelled like stress and overpriced cold brews.

Normally, Wednesdays were crammed with back-to-back meetings: clients, your personal assistant, your shopping assistant (because, priorities), and the occasional emergency call from your hair stylist because your toner was apparently too warm. But, not today. 

Today was sacred.

Today was shopping day. A full, uninterrupted day of retail therapy. Chanel, Cartier, a suspiciously overpriced iced matcha with edible gold flakes—you earned this. 

You even texted your driver, Hiro, at 9 a.m. sharp to be on standby – like the responsible adult you occasionally pretend to be. Your credit cards warmed up like a Formula 1 engine, and all your favorite stores knew to roll out the metaphorical red carpet.

This Wednesday was going so well until Sukuna betrayed you.

You were still in your robe, smearing serum across your face like a rich house cat bathing in luxury, when your phone pinged. You glanced at the notification and felt your soul leave your body.

[Do Not Answer]: babe, I’m slammed with meetings [Do Not Answer]: mind picking up the kids today?

You stared. 

Blinked. 

And blinked again.

… Babe?

Babe.

Babe?!

The sheer audacity of that word nearly made you drop your gua sha.

He doesn’t call you babe. He never calls you babe. Well, that was years ago. But, he says “princess” with that smirk when he wants to piss you off, or “gorgeous” when he’s being annoyingly charming, and most of the times, lately, he calls you “sweetheart,” and you’re so ready to combust anytime. But babe?

Babe is sacred. Babe is relationship territory. Babe is dangerous. Babe is cruel. 

You could feel twelve years’ worth of buried feelings rattle like a demon in the basement of your emotional trauma house. You shoved them back down with professional precision.

This was a trap. A distraction. You needed to focus. And also... what meetings?!

You jabbed your fingers at the screen, rage typing like a woman possessed.

[You]: since when do you have afternoon meetings? especially on a wednesday?! [You]: this feels illegal [You]: actually, I feel scammed

He replied instantly. The man had the nerve to send:

[Do Not Answer]: lol

LOL?! Oh, he thinks this is funny? Your eye twitched.

[You]: what if I was busy? [Do Not Answer]: you’re not [You]: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT [Do Not Answer]: you literally told me you had nothing scheduled this week

Okay, he wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point is: he’s a treacherous man-child who clearly weaponizes your schedule against him. He couldn’t just pull the “I’m busy” card on you like that anytime. Not on a Wednesday, when your shopping trip had been meticulously planned to indulge in luxury and self-care.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, itching to send him something even more venomous. But instead, you stared at the blinking cursor, sighed like a Victorian widow, and texted:

[You]: k

You groaned dramatically into your hands. Yeah, to hell with your skin care. You went back to your bedroom and flopped onto your bed and groaned into your 600-thread count pillow. Somewhere in the distance, a dramatic violin played for your suffering. You were going to have to endure the other moms. The PTA vultures. 

And possibly your own mother, who loved nothing more than materializing at school pickups like a judgmental ghost, armed with gossip and Sukuna-related questions.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Do Not Answer]: thanks, sweetheart. appreciate it ;) [You]: shut up

Hiro, your long-suffering driver and part-time therapist, was clearly thrilled by the unfolding drama.

“Madam,” he greeted, glancing at you through the mirror. “You look… thrilled.”

You scowled, sliding dramatically into the leather seat like a woman betrayed. “This is Sukuna's job. I’ve been scammed. I should sue him for emotional damages.”

“Is it really a scam,” Hiro asked diplomatically, “if he asked nicely?”

"He didn't ask nicely! He said lol. That’s verbal assault.”

Hiro hummed like he agreed, but he didn’t. Traitor.

When the car pulled into the school gates, it was like arriving at the frontline of a suburban battlefield. Mothers. Nannies. Personal bodyguards. Chauffeurs in black luxury cars. PTA moms who always dressed like they were going to brunch with the royal family.

And you?

You wore sweats, your old uni hoodie, and exactly zero makeup. You looked like the before picture in a glow-up video. But your diamond rings sparkled like hellfire – your only giveaway that you were rich as fuck. You weren’t broke, you were just done with these kinds of scene.

The judgment came fast. Some of the moms did that thing where they glanced at you, then whispered behind their hands. A few nannies gave you nods of respect, probably because you weren’t the usual “too-rich-to-function” type.

But the worst? 

Mrs. Yoshida.

PTA Queen Bee. Two-time “Mother of the Year” because she nominated herself. Three-time brunch committee president. The woman probably tried to trademark: “yummy mummy.” The woman who would call the manager at a fucking charity event. Her heels clicked on the pavement like judgment incarnate as she stalked toward you. 

"Oh,” she said, smiling that fake ‘I pity you’ smile. “It’s so nice to see you doing the school run for once!”

You blinked. Then smiled sweetly.

“Oh, and it’s so nice to see you still dressing like an overworked air hostess.”

Her smile dropped like the stock market is full of reds.

Hiro choked on his laughter.

But before the woman could recover from the verbal slap, you spotted the kids. Riku and Keiko. Standing side by side. Waiting. Hopeful. Clearly hopefully waiting for Sukuna to get them sundae on the way home.

Except when they saw you, that hope died.

Riku blinked, confused. To your horror, his face fell. Your son, your flesh and blood, is disappointed that you’re the one picking them up. This left you gaping in disbelief.

Then, Keiko turned. She titled her head with the slow horror of someone discovering they’d been served sparkling water instead of Sprite.

Basically, her entire soul left her body.

“…Where’s daddy?” she asked, peering into the Rolls like Sukuna was hiding in the glovebox.

“Busy,” you said.

Keiko looked physically ill with that word.

“So… you're picking us up?"

"Yes, Keiko."

"You?"

"YES, KEI. ME. GET IN THE CAR.” You’re controlling yourself with pure rage wrapped in customer and parenting service. Trying to remain calm as possible in front of all these judgmental PTA moms.

As they begrudgingly climbed in, you caught sight of Mrs. Yoshida again, watching the entire ordeal with the satisfied smirk of someone whose life is just a little bit less messy than yours. Yeah, you’ve had enough of this soul-sucking vibe. You just wanted to throw a juice box at her.

Once the doors shut, Riku sighed, dramatic as ever. “Well. This is awkward."

"Awkward?" you scoffed. “You’re disappointed in your own mother picking you up. That’s awkward.”

Keiko crossed her arms like a betrayed heiress. “Daddy always buys us ice cream after school.”

Riku leaned forward. "Yeah, Mom. You buying us ice cream?"

You looked between the two gremlins and then to Hiro, who was silently laughing in the front seat. You exhaled sharply, “…Fine.”

They cheered and you glared at these two gremlins.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I swear to God, if you two start rating me as a school-run parent—"

Keiko already had her little pink notebook out.

"You're at a 2 right now," she said, flipping open a page. "But ice cream might boost you to a 5.”

“Out of 5, right?” You said with a smile on your face, overly excited with the high-rating.

“No, out of 10.” Keiko nonchalantly said as she write on her pink notebook.

Your face fell with a what an actual fuck is happening reaction to everything around you.

Riku nodded. “Papa's still at a 9.8."

A 9.8?!

“What did he lose 0.2 for? Murder?” Clearly, you shouldn’t be near kids. But one of these kids is your son. So, yeah.

Riku shrugged. "He called my math homework stupid."

Keiko giggled. "Oh yeah! But then he bought you Jordans, so it’s okay."

You turned to Hiro, scandalized, “Are you hearing this? This is corruption. He’s bribing them.”

Hiro, looking at the road ahead, and with a perfectly straight face, just said, “It's a delicate ecosystem, madam. He plays the long game.”

You groaned.

And that was how you ended up at a drive-thru, buying two sundaes and one sad coffee. You, in the front seat, emotionally wrecked while your son and Sukuna's spawn ranked your parenting.

You finished at 2. Sukuna is still winning.

The moment you pulled into the driveway, your phone pinged.

[Do Not Answer]: how’d it go? [You]: ur child is a menace [You]: she ranked me like i was on the next top parent. a 2, sukuna. A DAMN TWO [Do Not Answer]: lmao [You]: this isn’t funny. ur evil tactics are spreading [Do Not Answer]: u just mad i’m winning parenthood [You]: i’m blocking u [Do Not Answer]: nahh u’re not

He was right. You scowled at your phone anyway. Before you could chuck your phone out the window, Riku turned to you.

“Can Kei sleep over?”

You blinked. “Didn’t she just rate me a TWO?!”

Keiko smiled sweetly. “It was just feedback, mama.” (You are not her mama. You’ve explained this. Repeatedly.)

Riku nodded sagely. "Yeah, Mom. Feedback’s important."

You squinted at your own son. And then stared at them both for this unbelievable situation of you being manipulated by these two gremlins.

Hiro (again, your driver) was full-on laughing now, no longer bothering to hide it.

"You know what?" you muttered, rubbing your temples. "No. No sleepovers. I’m officially clocking out as a parent today."

"Mama, no!” Keiko gasped.

“You gave me a two.”

Riku groaned. “Mom, you’re being dramatic.”

“You know what’s dramatic? Giving me a two, then immediately asking for a sleepover.”

Keiko huffed. "Fine. I’ll bump you to a five."

Riku crossed his arms. “You did buy us ice cream.”

"Are you guys seriously negotiating my score?"

Keiko beamed. "So that’s a yes?"

You sighed.

This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

"...Fine."

They cheered. Hiro, the traitor, just continued laughing in the front seat.

You ignored them all and pulled out your phone.

[You]: ur little gremlin just emotionally manipulated me into a sleepover [Do Not Answer]: that’s my girl [You]: come get her. i’m done parenting [Do Not Answer]: lmao no [You]: i hate u [Do Not Answer]: no you don’t ;)

You glared at the screen. This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

You were going to scream.

Or text him again.

Or maybe both.

But for now?

You needed wine. And maybe a therapist.

Golf was supposed to be a sport. A peaceful, relaxing Friday activity. Supposedly.

But no. Of course not. Why would anything in your life be peaceful? 

In your life, everything was a battlefield – including, but not limited to, your tragic excuse for golf skills, the stiletto-thin patience you’re currently wearing, and the fact that you’re stuck listening to old-money business jargon that sounds like it came out of a rejected Succession script. Or maybe Dynasty, you never know anymore.

At the stupidly pristine golf course, your dad stood with Wasuke (aka Sukuna’s dad, aka walking intimidation in pastel polos) and Jin (Sukuna’s twin, aka the lesser evil?). Their conversation smelled like money. Like old, generational, smells-like-the-inside-of-an-oak-safe-and-a-Ferrari-merged-wealth. The air around them crackled with hostile mergers and billion-dollar foreplay. 

Your sister was occasionally chimed in like she was born in a boardroom, and Gojo—another menace of the century with Sukuna — was playing both sides with the enthusiasm of a court jester who inherited a hedge fund.

Let’s be real: only three of you gave a single solitary shit about actual golf – you, Sukuna, and your mom. And your mom only cared because she once beat a CEO with a 7-iron and hasn’t emotionally recovered since.

The sun was bright. The grass was green. The vibe was hostile. And, you were already regretting your entire bloodline. Then, the worst voice known to mankind – smooth, smug, and utterly punchable – cut in from behind.

"You’re holding it wrong.” 

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked. “Can you shut up?"

Sukuna stood there, leaning on his golf club like he was auditioning for Rogue Billionaires Weekly, smirk carved across his face like he owned the damn country club. Spoiler: he might be. 

"Your stance is off. And your grip is fucking weak.” he said, voice mocking.

"My grip is fine, thank you.” Also, what the fuck even is a stance? You’re holding the club?!

He just grinned at you. That infuriating, teeth-flashing, smug little shit grin.

You sighed and turned back to the sound of corporate greed happening ten feet away, like a live-action PowerPoint presentation from hell. Yep, this is your slow, corporate-sponsored death.

"—the Dubai expansion is moving along," your dad said, adjusting his golf glove like a Bond villain. "Full return on investment by Q3 next year.”

Wasuke nodded. "And you’re securing exclusivity on that?"

Your sister jumped in. “The terms are favorable, but the board wants to explore secondary partnerships.”

May gods help you. Not the secondary partnerships.

"Secondary partnerships dilute brand value," Jin said, matter-of-factly and a voice flat as a Wall Street banker’s soul. "If you’re going in, go in alone."

Gojo, never missing an opportunity to self-promote, smirked. "Which is why I love working solo. No boards, no shareholders—just me, my money, and my incredible business instincts."

Sukuna snorted. "You mean your incredible luck?"

Gojo gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. Really, an Oscar-worthy performance. “'Kuna, I am deeply, deeply wounded."

"Don’t call me that," Sukuna muttered as he causally swung his golf club with perfect precision and sent the ball flying.

Meanwhile, Jin just dropped some casual xenophobia into the convo with, "I don’t trust the French.”

Heavens, they’re really brothers.

Wasuke didn’t even look up from his phone. “Their money’s good, but their loyalty is nonexistent.”

You leaned toward Sukuna out of curiosity. "Do you actually know what they’re talking about?"

Sukuna gave you a look that said: I have watched blood diamonds being auctioned off with less drama.

"Do you think I sit in boardrooms for fun?"

"Honestly? I try not to think about what you do."

"Because you’d get too distracted?" he said, mockingly sweet.

You rolled your eyes. "Because it’s probably illegal."

His smirk said no comment. Then Wasuke shifted the convo to Formula 1 – Sukuna’s domain of god complex and expensive toys.

"Motorsport contracts for the Euro manufacturers are wrapping up," Wasuke said, eyeing the scoreboard. "I want F1 projections next week."

“Already sent them,” Sukuna replied, because of course he did. “Wind tunnel drama, but the numbers are solid.”

"F1’s a money pit," your dad noted.

Jin smirked. “Yet they still beg us to be in their garages."

Your sister gave a knowing nod. "That’s because you control the entire supply chain. Power units, manufacturing motors, aerospace-grade materials—"

"You don’t win a championship without our parts," Sukuna added with terrifying ease.

Gojo whistled. "Damn. Y’all are playing god."

Wasuke smirked. "We don’t play god. We just make sure everyone needs us."

Sukuna’s crimson eyes flicked to yours. "Sound familiar?"

Ugh. That was a direct hit. You knew exactly what he was hinting at.

"Don’t be mad our family has the luxury industry in a chokehold," you shot back.

Jin laughed. "Our industries are co-dependent, though.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strategically entangled with deep-rooted dysfunction. There. Fixed it.”

“That’s rich, ”Sukuna chuckled under his breath. “Coming from the woman who emotionally negotiated a 5/10 rating out of a twelve-year-old.”

You whipped around to glare at him, your golf club pointed like a weapon. “Your daughter emotionally blackmailed me with dessert, okay? I’m the victim here.”

He took a slow step toward you, eyes gleaming like he was about to say something incredibly inappropriate. Especially in this place where you’re surrounded by family.

And you know that look. You hated that look he’s giving you right now. You just froze there, mentally preparing for the impact, fully aware that if this man so much as winked, your ovaries would detonate.

You sighed. "I hate it here."

"Sure," Sukuna drawled, “but you love getting the family-and-friends discount on Richard Mille."

You opened your mouth to argue — then shut it.

“…That’s what I thought," he said.

Meanwhile, the boardroom larping continued, with Jin casually lining up his golf shot. "By the way, what’s your play for the next expansion?"

Your dad smirked. "Exclusive deal on a rare pearl farm."

"How rare?" Sukuna asked.

Your sister crossed her arms. "One-of-one. Completely untapped market. If you want the pearls, you go through us."

Wasuke let out an approving chuckle. "That’s how you do business."

Sukuna turned to you. Smirking. "And you call me a capitalist pig."

You rolled your eyes. "I never said I wasn’t one too."

"Exactly."

Gojo clapped his hands together. "Okay, enough. Some of us are here to actually have fun.”

"Some of us are here to play golf," Jin added, eyes pointed at your disaster pose.

“Do you have broken legs or something, dumbass?” Sukuna asked. “Your stance has been criminal for the last 30 minutes.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered through a deep, meditative breath.

Gojo hummed, sipping his iced coffee. "No, he's right."

Your sister nodded sagely. "I’ve seen better posture from Riku playing Wii Sports."

Your mother sighed. "Honey, at least pretend you inherited some athletic ability."

You took a slow, deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t bury everyone here with a 9-iron. That’s a lot of jail time. And, murder is fucking illegal.

Across from you, Sukuna's shit-eating grin widened. “Want help?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would rather set this golf club on fire and dance around it like a pagan ritual."

"Aww," he cooed. "You’re so cute when you’re in denial."

Before you could golf club his skull, your dad clapped. “Alright, enough flirting. Take your shot.”

Flirting???

You turned slowly to look at him, completely horrified. Because why does every family function have to end up with everyone talking about your and Sukuna’s relationship.

“Dad.”

"Yes, dear?"

"That was not flirting."

Gojo grinned. "It kinda was."

Sukuna just snickered.

You ignored all of them and took your shot—which was terrible. The ball barely made it by three meters before pathetically rolling to a sad, pathetic stop like it just gave up on life. Not that golf balls have life but – everything’s just so stupid.

"Yikes," Sukuna whispered.

Gojo coughed to hide a laugh.

Your sister patted your shoulder. "It’s okay. Not all of us can be naturally gifted."

Sukuna slung an arm over your shoulder—bold move like a smug snake. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ve got other talents."

You shoved him off. "Like resisting the urge to commit first-degree homicide?"

He laughed and stepped up to take his own shot. He positioned himself with stupid, effortless confidence, gave a casual swing and then nailed it perfectly like it was nothing. The ball sailed through the air perfectly, landing exactly where it was supposed to.

Your father beamed. "Now that is how you play golf!"

Sukuna smirked at you. "See? That’s what maturity looks like."

You glared. "Maturity? You have a gold statue of yourself in your front yard, Sukuna."

"Confidence," he corrected.

Your mother sighed dreamily. "Oh, Sukuna, you should teach her more things. Maybe then she’d finally listen."

You choked. "Mom."

"She has a point," Gojo piped up. "I mean, you don’t even peel your own oranges—"

"That’s different," you snapped.

Sukuna grinned. "How?"

"Because peeling fruit is a waste of time. It’s too much work.”

"Uh-huh," he said, completely unconvinced. "And yet, you eat the ones I peel for you."

You paused.

Sukuna smirked with a wink, “Exactly.”

Gojo laughed. "Ohhh. He got you there."

Your sister gasped. "You’ve been peeling her fruit for years?"

"Yeah. Since high school.” Sukuna shrugged like it was nothing.

Your mother looked at you. "Sweetheart," she said, voice thick with judgment and amusement. "This is why we love him more than you."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Strike you down, Zeus, you’re ready.

Before your soul could ascend, Sukuna glanced at his watch. "We should wrap up soon. We have to pick up the kids."

Oh. Right. Riku and Keiko.

You groaned. "God, I hope they haven’t schemed anything.”

Sukuna just smiled. "Hope all you want. We both know they’re worse than us."

Your sigh was basically a prayer. Because he was right.

Then he looked at you – really looked – and for a second, you saw it. A familiar, almost nostalgic glint in his crimson eyes. That something in his eyes. The history. The bullshit. The college days.

Before the weird, co-parenting situationship.

Before the kids.

Before all this strategic dysfunction.

Of course it started with betrayal. Because why wouldn’t it?

REWIND TO 15 YEARS AGO

Ah, the golden age. The era of questionable fashion choices, stolen Netflix passwords, and zero concept of consequences. You were younger, dumber, and apparently, very susceptible to being peer-pressured by your stupidly attractive childhood best friends and tequila with a price tag that could fund a small startup.

And the betrayal? Classic Gojo.

Not yours. 

Not Sukuna’s. 

But Gojo freaking Satoru’s.

The plan was simple. A chill, lowkey, totally-not-going-to-spiral-into-chaos evening. The threey of you. One rare, bougie-ass bottle of unreleased tequila – procured through one of Sukuna’s many mysterious family connections, which probably meant some shady auction involving something you don’t even know if legal or illegal at this point, but like… whatever. Details.

And the holy trinity of chaos – you, Sukuna, Gojo – were supposed to break in your overpriced couch (emotionally) and consume alcohol worth more than your rent. In your apartment. With music, chaos, and maybe light emotional trauma.

But Gojo?

That flaky, unreliable, sunglasses-wearing disaster of a human being? He didn’t show up. He straight up ghosted.

No text. No call. Just vibes – and not even the good ones. You and Sukuna were left staring at your phones like you’d both been stood up by the world’s most unserious Tinder date. Sitting in the dim glow of your apartment, side by side on your ridiculously expensive couch. The tequila, untouched, sat like a third wheel on your pristine glass coffee table, judging you.

And of course Sukuna, ever the picture of carelessness, was lounging on your couch like he owned the place (well, he and Gojo has your spare keys thanks to your very insistent mother who said that this was for safety purposes). He’s made himself too comfortable. His expensive leather jacket? Tossed like trash. His shirt? Pushed up just enough to flash his abs like a Calvin Klein ad. His legs? Sprawled. Man was taking up 80% of your couch like it came with a deed in his name.

You’d almost asked him to move his knee off your thigh, but that required energy and dignity – both of which were too low.

“He’s a piece of shit,” you mumbled, flipping your phone screen-down like it had personally betrayed you too.

Sukuna just huffed, stretching like a lazy cat. “We knew that.”

A beat of silence.

Then you turned your head. Sukuna was already looking at you.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You didn’t even need to say it, but you did anyway – because you’re you and you’re brain was one shot away from being completely unhinged.

"Fuck him," you said, curling your fingers around the bottle’s neck. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

Sukuna’s smirk was criminal. ”Gladly.”

Tequila hit like a kiss and a slap. Warm and mean. Sweet with aftershocks. It tasted like rebellion and a future apology text. It burned, sweet and smooth, slipping down your throat like bad decisions.

And by the fifth shot, everything had softened. You, the air, the line between sense and chaos. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just in that dreamy, blurry zone where every thought seemed brilliant and you suddenly had strong opinions on things like fruit ethics and the social implications of banana neglect.

"Okay, hear me out," you began, swirling your glass like you actually understood tequila tasting. "If a banana has brown spots and you throw it away, isn’t that, like… fruitism?” You argued, dead serious.

Sukuna blinked at you, slow and unimpressed. “You’re equating overripe produce with discrimination?”

"Okay, but isn’t it?"

Sukuna, drunk but still insufferably rational, huffed. "Fruits were literally made to decay. The spots don’t even mean they’re bad. They’re just riper. Sweeter.”

“I’m just saying,” You squinted at him and gestured with passion. “And people toss them like yesterday’s garbage. That’s bias.”

He groaned, rubbing his face like your IQ physically pained him. “You’re drunk.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “You’re hot.”

He didn’t even blink. “Still doesn’t make what you said smart.”

“Can’t have it all.”

Shot seven was the real villain. That was the one that made you bold. That was the shot that made the conversation shift to a heated, increasingly idiotic debate about billionaires and time-travel tech like you were on a TED talk stage.

“Listen,” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him and serious as a heart attack, “if someone invented a machine that lets you relive the best moment of your life –”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Sukuna muttered, who is slumped against the couch with a drink in hand and zero patience. And he’s already rubbing his temple like he has a migraine.

“—billionaires shouldn’t be allowed to use it.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look.the kind that screamed you’re an idiot and I am suffering. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve heard, and I talk to Gojo on a regular basis.”

“That’s justice,” you replied.

“You sound like one of those fake-deep Twitter threads with the ‘let that sink in’ at the end.”

You gasped loudly and dramatically, hand to chest. “That’s the meanest things you’ve ever said to me.”

Sukuna smirked and leaned back on the couch, swirling his drink, all lazy and smug. “Not even top five. Cry about it.”

And honestly? Fair.

You narrowed your eyes at him, then shoved at his shoulder. “Smug bastard.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, all smug and irritating. “That the best you got?”

“You wanna go?” you said, drunk enough to mean it, sober enough to know it was a terrible idea.

“Brat, I’ve been waiting for you to throw hands.”

And just like that, it was on. The argument devolved into some half-playful, half-serious wrestling match that your tequila-soaked logic somehow decided was a good idea. You lunged yourself at him—awkwardly, gracelessly, like a cat trying to fight its reflection. And he caught you. Of course.

Sukuna met your weak-ass attack with a wicked grin and zero effort, catching your wrists mid-swat and easily flipping you onto your back like this was WWE: College Edition.

He was straddling your waist like this was some twisted rom-com where the lead-up was fruit bias and class warfare. He was pinning your hands above your head with one of his stupidly strong hands, face inches from yours. Neither of you moved. His smirk stretched slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking down at you. “Pinned you already.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your brain screamed.

“We better not fuck,” you said, breathless, mock-serious, heart pounding like you weren’t already halfway there. “That would be crazy.”

Sukuna laughed, sharp and dark. “You’re right. That would be so stupid.”

You stared up at him, drunk on more than just tequila. “So, don’t.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, the world going mute, “Make me.”

The tension was a slow, burning thing. Suddenly too heavy, too obvious.

And it happened.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. And fuck, maybe he had.

It was desperate, messy, hot—his hands were greedy, large, possessive, fingers digging into your waist as you pulled him onto you. His weight settled over yours, pinning you to the couch, every hard line of muscle pressing into your body.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, breath warm against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”

You nipped at his bottom lip, smirking. “Then stop.”

Sukuna growled.

So obviously, you didn’t

Your soul has left your body.

You were spent. Utterly wrecked. A pleasantly, post-orgasmic disaster of a human being, melted into your couch like cheese. The kind of boneless, mind-melting exhaustion that came after a particularly intense workout—except the only exercise involved had been riding Sukuna like your life depended on it.

Sukuna yanked you back down with a lazy smirk, his fingers tight around your waist. He was against your neck, smug as sin, like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire pelvic floor and sanity in under an hour.

Your brain was short-circuiting. Not even crashing—melting. Like: what were you doing?

What were you doing letting Sukuna Ryomen, heir to a criminally rich, morally grey empire, raw you on a couch your mother had helped you pick out a week ago? That same couch that she said would “last through years of wear and tear”? Oh honey, if only she knew.

You could still feel him inside you (because, he is still inside you), which, frankly, was just rude. Your vagina had zero chill. Not when Sukuna had been whispering things like good girl and so fucking tight into your ear for the last forty-five minutes like he was narrating an erotic audiobook that only your nervous system had access to.

Your breathing was ragged, your skin damp with sweat, your limbs completely useless. The couch cushions were destroyed, one of the pillows had somehow ended up on the floor, and your legs… well. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to use them properly for the next hour. Maybe the next week.

Then there was a moment – still, quiet, charged – and Sukuna, ever the menace, had to go and say,  “Loving daddy’s cock inside you, baby?” 

Oh fuck, his post-sex voice is too sexy to hear. Your vagina responded before your brain did. Your moan was involuntary. Your dignity packed a bag and left.

The air was thick, too warm, and filled with the scent of tequila, sex, and very bad decisions.

You should’ve been freaking out. Should’ve been reconsidering every life choice that led up to this moment. Should’ve been thinking about things like consequences or friendship dynamics or even just the fact that you had quite literally defiled your own couch.

And then, because the universe has a terrible sense of timing –

BANG.

The door slammed open.

You and Sukuna froze mid-regret, your heart doing backflips and your brain buffering like a corrupted YouTube video. Basically, this is the time your soul left your body.

And then…

“Oh, hell yeah.”

Gojo.

Of course it was Gojo.

Standing in your doorway like he was meant to be the comedic third act twist in your sexual coming-of-age story. Sunglasses on at 2AM (maybe it’s already 3AM), stupid grin in full force, and holding a bag of snacks the size of a small child.

Your brain, still swimming in post-orgasmic haze and the last remnants of drunkenness, short-circuited.

Because—oh. That’s why he was late.

He’d gone shopping.

Gojo had spent—what, two hours? Three?—debating the intricate nuances of potato chips, probably standing in the aisle like a philosopher pondering the meaning of life. And in the end? He’d just bought one of everything. Every brand. Every flavor. As if he were assembling a tasting menu for a fucking wine and cheese night—except it was just snacks.

You blinked at him like he was a mirage.

He blinked back, grinning harder, “Did you—” He gestured vaguely at your naked, sweaty, entangled bodies. 

“You guys seriously just fucked?”

Sukuna groaned, voice muffled against your skin. “Get the fuck out.”

Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. You wanted to cry. Or vanish. Or time-travel to an hour ago and slap the bottle out of your own hand.

Gojo continued, blissfully ignorant with his shit-eating grin dialed up to maximum wattage. “You could’ve at least waited for me.”

“GOJO.”

“Not to join!” he added, then paused. “Unless—?”

Sukuna finally lifted his head, naked, disheveled, and radiating murder. His voice dropped into something lethal. "You step one foot further, and I will personally make sure you never reproduce.” 

And then he threw the nearest couch pillow at Gojo’s face.

Gojo dodged with the agility of a mad who had absolutely walked in on worse. “Y’know, I knew something was up with you two since high school –” 

He sighed. Sighed, like he was talking about a missed prom date and not your current naked humiliation.

“SATORU.”

“— the sexual tension was like a constant third presence. Like god, but hornier.”

Yeah, you’re most likely dying of humiliation tonight.

“But I never thought you’d actually go and rawdog each other without me even getting a sip of that tequila.”

Your eye twitched. Your entire nervous system sent out one last emergency broadcast before collapsing like a dying star. There was no saving you now. You were gonna have to move cities. Change names. Fake your death and live in the woods.

In a blind, desperate attempt to salvage literally anything – your pride, your humanity, your grandmother’s ghost watching from the afterlife – you grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him. 

Maybe it was a pillow. Maybe it was your shame. Maybe it was your will to live.

No. No, of course it couldn’t be anything soft or metaphorical.

It was your bra.

The bra that cost more than your phone. The bra hand-stitched by artisans in France who probably didn’t intend for it to be yeeted across the room like a missile of humiliation.

Gojo caught it midair. And fucking whistled. Whistled. 

Sukuna let out a lethal growl above you, like he was two seconds from choosing violence over pulling out. “Drop. It.”

Gojo, being Gojo, did not drop it. No. That would’ve been rational. Instead, he held it up to the light like some deranged pervert on an antique TV show. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you as a lace kinda girl. Delicate, but slutty. Iconic.”

You lunged at him like a rabid raccoon.

Sukuna yanked you back down before you could inflict justified murder, his grip locking tight around your waist like he knew exactly how many war crimes you were about to commit. “Save your energy, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Oh, now he wants to be cute? Now? After he rawdogged your soul out of your body and left it there, on the floor, vulnerable and exposed like a neglected Sims character?

Gojo cackled, like this was the highlight of this week. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. So! Are we finally admitting that you guys have been feral for each other this whole time?”

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOJO."

He wheezed. Laughed like this was the best episode of a reality TV he’d ever seen. You, however, were having a full-blown metaphysical crisis.

And then it hit you. Like your brain finally sobered up enough to whisper, ‘hey dumbass… something’s off…’

You. 

And Sukuna.

Were. 

Still. 

Naked.

Not cute-and-covered-by-the-blanket naked. 

Not tastefully-draped-like-a-renaissance-painting naked.

No.

This was “there’s an entire Gojo eyeball on your titty” naked.

That’s why Sukuna fucking yanked you down so fast. Not to protect your dignity – lol, what dignity – but because your boobs were just out. Just there. Making their unwanted debut to the worst audience in human history. 

Your entire existence condensed into one singular thought: you’re gonna astral project out of this flesh prison and never return.

You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m never drinking again,” you mumbled, voice muffled and soul-dead. The words of a liar. A liar with regrets.

Sukuna, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. This man had seen war (business rejections, most likely). Tax evasion. Eternal damnation. Your naked ass wasn’t gonna rattle him. “I’m never letting you drink again.”

Gojo, now seated in the doorway like he was watching a 2000s rom-com movie, clapped his hands together. “Well! Now that everyone's tits are covered, I vote we unpack all this juicy sexual tension over midnight snacks.”

You made a noise. It might have been a sob. Or a scream.

Then, you locked eyes with Sukuna. Dead serious.

“Kill him first,” you said. “Then me.”

Gojo opened his mouth—

“No, you cannot take a picture,” you snapped.

Gojo shut his mouth. But only for a second.

“I was gonna ask if you guys needed snacks,” he said, fake-offended, “but sure, go ahead and assume the worst.”

Sukuna's eye twitched. Like, visibly. Dangerously. “You have five seconds before I personally rearrange your jaw.”

Gojo held up his hands in surrender—still holding your bra, like it was a white flag for surrender.

You just wanted to die. Or better—rewind time. All the way back to when you said, “just one tequila shot.”

“So, when’s the wedding?” Gojo smirked.

That was it. That was Sukuna’s final nerve snapping. Man went from 0 to murder real quick, pulling out (rude) in a heartbeat and bolting after Gojo around the apartment with the kind of fury that would make Greek gods go ‘damn bro, chill.’

You, meanwhile, scrambled to find a blanket. Any blanket. Any napkin. A curtain. You would’ve accepted being wrapped in your own regret at that point. Still dizzy. Still mildly post-orgasmic. Still spiritually decimated.

You never lived that moment down. 

Ever.

Gojo made sure of it.

And yet – despite the absolute catastrophic level of social humiliation – you really thought that was it. A stupid, drunken slip-up. A one-time tequila-fueled tragedy.

But it wasn’t. Because, of course, it wasn’t.

Because this was you and Sukuna.

Disasters. Walking, breathing, kissing disasters.

And this?

This was the biggest, dumbest, horniest fucking disaster of them all.

It wasn’t just a one-time thing.

It wasn’t just a casual phase.

It lasted three fucking years.

God forbid.

Three years of sneaking glances across rooms like the two of you weren’t regularly naked in each other’s beds. Three years of pretending there wasn’t stupidly cosmic about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Three years of pretending it was just fucking.

You were in your last year of college. Graduation loomed in like a loaded gun. Sukuna was finishing his postgrad, looking dangerously adult while you were still using dry shampoo as a personality. And instead of prepping for the real world, you were spending every night tangled in sheets, sweat, and denial.

You weren’t even being subtle about it.

Sukuna’s hoodies lived in your wardrobe rent-free. Your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. You ate half his fries every time.

It wasn’t just the sex (though, let’s be real, the sex could summon the dead and cancel student debt). It was everything. The way his hoodies, shirts, pants (heck, all his clothes) lived in your wardrobe rent-free. The way your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. The way you shamelessly ate half his fries every time. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way you always saved him the last dumpling even though you hated sharing. The fact that he punched a guy once for saying your laugh was annoying. You were basically in a relationship.

Just… you know. Without the commitment. Or the honesty. Or the emotional maturity.

But not everything lasts perfectly, right?

Because saying it would make it real.

And if it was real then, it could end. And neither of you were brave enough for that.

You don’t remember exactly when it started to shift.

Maybe when he stayed over just to sleep.

Maybe when you waited for him after class.

Maybe when he threatened his frat brothers for flirting with you.

Maybe when you were too in your feelings, and he was in denial, and the entire relationship had the emotional maturity of a wet paper towel trying to hold a gallon of wine.

It was three fucking years of closeness so intimate it could’ve been called codependency if it weren’t so mutual.

But neither of you said it.

Neither of you dared to.

Not until the night it all went to hell.

Over the stupidest, pettiest, most aggressively idiotic fight in the history of human race. And romance.

Over a fucking LED light.

You blinked out of the memory like you’d just been possessed by a much younger, hotter, dumber version of yourself. Truly, your early twenties needed a warning label.

Only dragged back to the present by the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious laugh and the distant thwack of another golf ball being ruthlessly yeeted into the horizon.

But your mind was still a few tequila shots behind. Still sticky with the memory of hot skin, tangled limbs, and the unforgivable knowledge that Sukuna had once bitten your neck like he was trying to ruin you on purpose. (He did.) That he’d once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name, let alone the fact that you were definitely, definitely supposed to keep things platonic.

You hadn’t thought about that night in years. You’d buried it so deep beneath co-parenting schedules and passive-aggressive text threads that it had fossilized. You’d compartmentalized it like a pro. Filed it under Regrettable But Also Kinda Amazing Decisions That We Pretend Never Happened Because Denial Is a Lifestyle.

But all it took was one look. 

One stupid look from Sukuna and your whole nervous system went, “Hey, remember that time you climbed him like a tree?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

Sukuna looked at you, raising a brow. “You good?”

You stared at him. The same eyes. Same smirk. Same stupid, punchable face that you’d once maybe considered kissing in a tequila haze.

You muttered, “I hate you.”

He grinned. “You looked like you were remembering something tragic. Was it my abs?”

You hit him with your golf club. Lightly. (For legal reasons.)

Gojo, watching from the side, completely unaware of your inner spiral, wandered over with the self-satisfied strut of a man who just made par and will never let anyone forget it. “So, what’s the verdict? Are we still pretending you two don’t have wildly unresolved sexual tension or…?”

You glared. “Do you want to die today?”

Gojo just waggled his brows. “I’m just saying, the air’s thick with tension. Like, if I blink, someone’s getting pinned to the nearest flat surface.”

Sukuna, infuriatingly calm, walked past you to grab his water bottle. “Grow up, Gojo.”

That was rich coming from a man who once texted you “wanna come over and fight?” at 2 a.m. and then had the audacity to kiss you like you were air and he was suffocating years ago.

You rubbed your temple. Get it together.

But the memory clung. It had claws. And it wouldn’t let go.

Only the three of you knew. Only the three of you would ever know. You’d made a silent, mutually-assured-destruction type pact after the fact. No one brings it up. No one mentions the couch. No one so much as breathes in the direction of “remember that night?”

And you’d all been doing so well.

Until now.

Until Sukuna looked at you like that.

Until you remembered exactly how he tasted.

Until your body remembered what your brain had worked overtime to erase.

You looked at Sukuna now – older, annoyingly hotter, a single father of a cute, angel-looking gremlin – and your stomach dropped.

Because the worst part wasn’t the memory.

It was the terrifying realization that some part of you... hadn’t actually moved on.

And that? That was the most dangerous thing of all.

It wasn’t normal. None of it was normal. You weren’t normal.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to be.

Sukuna knew. He knew the moment you glitched like a broken Sims out of nowhere, the subtle shift in your posture, the way your lips pressed into a tight line. He’d seen it before, in the way you tried to bury things under layers of sarcasm and nonchalance. 

And that? That was exact thing that made his chest tighten, just a little bit.

You’d always been good at pretending. Hell, you were great at pretending. But Sukuna wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the cracks in the armor. He’d felt them in the way you’d tense up when he was too close. In the way you still looked at him when you thought no one was paying attention.

Even thought it’s been 12 years, the memory of your lips on his, the desperate heat of it, was all burned into his mind just as much as it was in yours. That last night had fucked him up in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle. That fucking fight over LED lights. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But now? Now, standing next to you on this golf course, with Gojo prattling on about tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, Sukuna could feel something else — something he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront. 

He’d tried. He’d tried to move on. To tell himself that you were just a chapter in a stupid, messy college romance he could chalk up to a lesson learned. But the way you still looked at him — like you wanted to kill him one minute and kiss him the next — made him wonder if he was really the one who’d moved on. 

You hadn’t said it. You hadn’t admitted it to him, and you definitely hadn’t admitted it to yourself. But Sukuna could feel the pull between you two, like gravity trying to yank him back into orbit. And he fucking hated it.

You weren’t ready to move on, and maybe… maybe neither was he.

Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts again, loud and obnoxious, but it didn’t help. If anything, it just made the tension worse. And there you were, glaring at him like you wanted to murder him with your golf club. That just made his smirk wider.

He didn’t care what Gojo said. He didn’t care how thick the air felt between them.

He cared that every time you looked at him, he felt something that wasn’t quite hatred. He cared that, despite everything, the memory of that night — the way you fit so perfectly against him — still haunted him.

The worst part?

You were still the one thing that got under his skin.

And that terrified him.

You’re sitting there, waiting outside the school, in his damn car, sunglasses on like you’re trying to hide from the world and also from the fact that your brain’s still stuck in the relapsing and post-golfing haze. The one where you remember way too much of that face – that stupid, stupid face – and the laugh that somehow made you feel things you don’t ever wanna feel again. And don’t even get started on his damn arms. Like, who needs arms to be that distracting in the middle of everything? Seriously, when did he roll up his sleeves? Was there some kind of cosmic mistake? The universe did not need that information. 

And yet, here you are, replaying it in slow motion in your head. Yep, even that night 15 years ago. Even worse, you almost drooled thinking about it. Almost.

It also didn’t need the fact that you almost drooled while thinking about it.

And, God, it’s too quiet. Way too quiet. Normally, you and Sukuna are bantering like two toddlers fighting over the last cookie. You’re both competitive assholes, arguing about dumb shit like whose playlist will play for the ride-back. But today? Nah. You’re both too out of it. Too tame.

You glance sideways at Sukuna, who’s leaning back in his seat too lax. Does he always look like that? But you’ve been staring at him for far too long today, and it’s messing with your internal wiring. You actually almost forgot to argue. Almost.

So, you break the silence first. “I’d rather not get out of the car,” you say, because... why not?

Sukuna looks over at you like you’ve grown an extra head, “What? Did Mrs. Yoshida go up to you the other day?”

The mere mention of her name is enough to spark an internal cringe. You snort but it comes out half-hearted. Like, yeah, you’ve got a serious vendetta against that woman, but even you can’t muster the energy to fully engage. “Yeah. Guess she wanted to show off yet again.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “Show off what? Her death grip on passive aggression?”

That earned him a real laugh from you, one that surprised both of you a little. But it fades just as quickly as it came. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes closed, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. Like you’ve been holding it since that goddamn golf course.

“She said something about me finally doing the school run for once,” you muttered, your voice low with disbelief. “Like I was doing a cosplay of a present parent.”

Sukuna’s face doesn’t change, but his voice drops into that deep, sarcastic tone. “She would say that. Probably thinks your ovaries are overdue for reactivation or some shit.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked. That damn smirk that you swear could put every other man on the planet to shame. “Don’t know. Ask her. I bet she’s got a PowerPoint ready.” Oh, honey, maybe, you’re too down bad after that relapse.

Another snort escaped you, this time more genuine, because honestly? She would. God, the thought of it made your skin crawl, but it’s too funny not to appreciate, “God, I hate her heels. They click like a countdown to emotional damage.”

Sukuna laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget the day’s weirdness for a second. “She probably practices walking in her driveway.”

“Oh absolutely. Full parade route. With flags and a marching band made of guilt.”

That’s it. That’s the sweet spot. You both start laughing, but it’s like a weird patchwork of relief and awkwardness, too. Like you can’t quite shake off the tension from earlier today, but at least now there’s something more normal—something fun—in the air.

And that’s how you found outside the car, now standing in front of the school gates, with Sukuna this time. But standing so goddamn close to you. It made your heart rate do that little skip thing you can’t ever explain. But, no time to be a freak about it.

The bell rings. And of course, who’s the first person you see? Mrs. Goddamn Yoshida. She appeared out of thin air like a mid-tier Bond villain with hair lacquered into a helmet of superiority and lip gloss as weaponized as ever.

“Oh,” she drawls, her voice as sugary sweet as cyanide. “Two school pickups in a week? Someone’s going for Mother of the Month.”

You don’t even blink. Your sunglasses are firmly in place, and you’re already prepping your comeback. “You would know. You still printing the certificates at home?”

Sukuna laughed beside you, a deep, guttural sound that only made Mrs. Yoshida more uncomfortable. He eyes practically twitched. She’s not even hiding the fact that she’s shook that you’re here with Sukuna. The most-coveted bachelor (well, he may be a single dad but technically he’s not yet married) in the country. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but just as she’s about to speak –

“Mom?” 

Riku’s voice rang out like a melody through the tension, and just like that, everything resets. Your brain stutters for half a second as you snap your head around to see Riku, your baby boy (c’mon, he’s 12), running towards you like you’ve just saved his world.

And then, there’s Keiko. Running right behind Riku… but instead of launching themselves into your arms like the sensible kids they are, they both straight up betrayed you. These gremlins ran straight for Sukuna. What you can’t believe was the fact that your son ignored you. He may have called you but no he didn’t even ran towards you. What the fuck was that?

You blink, standing there, totally dumbfounded. Your mouth might even be hanging open a bit. Seriously? They just—what? Your son, the kid you’ve been raising, the one who’s spent years gluing your heart to his every move, just totally... skipped you? And now he’s practically throwing himself at Sukuna?

Your brain scrambles for words, but they’re stuck in some weird loop. "Riku," you manage, but it's more like you're calling him out of instinct than actually knowing what the hell to do with this new development.

But Keiko, of course, isn’t wasting any time either. She’s clinging to Sukuna’s leg like she’s on some sort of mission, because you might probably be jealous of his parenting dynamic with his daughter. You want to tell them both off, but the weirdest thing happens: a tiny part of you feels... left out? Like, what the hell?

Sukuna looks down at the two of them, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly trying not to laugh too hard at your expense. "Guess your son likes me more," he teases, all calm and collected as usual, though you can tell he’s getting a kick out of it.

Riku finally looks up at you, a little sheepish now, like he knows he’s been caught. "Uh, sorry, Mom. Papa told me he’ll bring us to that sushi place today." He scratches his head awkwardly.

OH. So, that’s what we’re doing now.

Bribery. Betrayal. And sushi.

You narrow your eyes, your expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and parental betrayal. “Oh. Papa told you that, huh?” you repeat slowly, the word "Papa" practically dripping with italics and judgment. The way Riku suddenly fidgets? Yeah, he knows he’s in trouble. Good.

Sukuna just shrugs, the cocky bastard, still smirking like this is all part of his grand villain arc. “Can’t help it if I have good taste and your kid has excellent priorities,” he says, which is exactly the kind of smug crap he always pulls when he knows he’s winning.

You cross your arms, sunglasses still on, even though the sun is hiding behind a cloud like it’s also trying to avoid the tension. “Yeah? Next time, how about you bribe your own daughter and leave mine out of it?”

Keiko, ever the daddy’s girl, finally detaches herself from Sukuna’s leg and gives you an innocent look, but it’s not lost on you that she’s got a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No need, mama! I already love daddy a lot.”

You stare at both of them for a second, blinking as you process this betrayal. "You two are unbelievable. Is this why Riku comes home later than he should’ve been for the past month? Your briberies?”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens like he’s thriving under the betrayal-fueled glare you’re shooting at him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, deadpan, “you make it sound like we’re running some underground snack ring. It was one burger trip. Maybe three. And a boba run.”

You squint at him. “And the churros that Riku brought home last week?”

“That was... spontaneous.”

Keiko, bless her tiny traitorous heart, pipes up like she’s on the witness stand. “And the arcade tokens, Daddy?”

Sukuna blinks. Then shrugs. “Okay, five bribery trips. But who’s counting?”

You’re counting. You are absolutely counting. You’re already adding it to the list in your Notes app. You inhale, deeply. Breathe in patience. Exhale vengeance.

“You do realize,” you say slowly, “that he told his math teacher you’re his second emergency contact now?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “That’s cute. And honestly? Fair. I bring snacks, pick them up, and importantly? Emotional availability.”

You gasp like you’ve just been hit with a flying sandal. “I birthed him.” 

He tilts his head, hand over his heart in mock sympathy. “Yeah, but I took him to watch that new superhero movie twice, and I didn’t complain once. Not even during the post-credit scene.”

Riku nods solemnly. “He even explained the multiverse to me without getting mad.”

You turn to your son like you’re looking at a stranger in your home. “You never let me explain anything without groaning.” 

Riku shrugs with zero guilt. “Your explanations come with a lot of side stories.”

“That’s called context!” you sputter.

Oh, but now this pink-haired bastard is actually laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a smug little puff of air. No. This is a full-on, head-tilted-back, shoulders-shaking, evil-boyfriend-in-a-Kdrama laugh. And the worst part? It's lowkey making you relapse to that 3-year long situationship. Which is exactly what the problem is. You’ve been relapsing since this week fucking started. This shouldn’t have happened. And this all started because he murdered your hedge.

And now, you’re standing there—offended, outnumbered, and tragically out-bribed—and all you can think is: you hate it here.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your sunglasses like they’ll shield your soul from this level of disrespect.

Sukuna wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “C’mon, don’t be jealous. You’re still the top mom in this cult we’ve built.”

You stare at him. “You literally poached my child with raw fish, sneakers, burgers, gold leaf fries, and Marvel trivia. That’s not parenting. That’s warfare.” 

“And I’m winning,” he says without missing a beat. 

Keiko pats your arm in consolation. “It’s okay, Mama. You still have snacks sometimes at your house.”

“Sometimes,” you echo, wounded. 

Riku’s still awkwardly standing there, clearly feeling the weight of his betrayal. “Uh, Mom, do you still wanna go to that sushi place later?” he asks, his voice full of nervous hope, like he’s waiting for a miracle to save him from your wrath.

You narrow your eyes, looking between your son and Sukuna. “You really think I’m gonna let you off the hook that easily?” You cross your arms again, but this time it’s not as fierce. “I mean, if you wanna bribe me with sushi... I guess I can consider it.”

Sukuna snorts beside you, clearly enjoying the inner battle you’re having with yourself. "See? Told you, bribery always works.”

"Shut up," you mutter, but you can’t help the hint of a smile. Dammit, this is exactly how he got you last time.

Sukuna’s trying to herd the kids toward the car now, like some unholy cross between a playground kingpin and the world���s most chaotic dad. And for one fleeting moment, you catch yourself smiling. Genuinely. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can armor it with sarcasm.

And then—

“I call shotgun!” Riku yells.

“No, I call shotgun!” Keiko yells back.

You’re about to intervene like a responsible adult (because who lets 12-year-olds ride shotgun?!) when Sukuna just shrugs and tosses you the keys. “Guess you’re driving. They’ll keep fighting otherwise.”

You catch them automatically, then freeze. “Wait, I’m driving? In your car?”

He’s already walking to the passenger side. “You’ll be fine. I trust you.”

And there it is again. That weird little glitch in your heart. The one that started on the golf course, peaked somewhere around churros, and now, apparently, comes with keys and unsolicited trust.

You mutter under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat, “Next time I’m bringing veggie chips and trauma bonding. See how he likes that.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re genuinely grinning as you walk toward the school gates. Because no matter how many times you roll your eyes at him, you know that, deep down, you’ll always be this close to falling right back into that stupid pattern of chaos and longing.

And secretly? Secretly you don’t mind the shotgun betrayal. Or the sushi bribes. Or even Sukuna’s dumb laugh that now lives rent-free in your brain.

What you do mind is how easy it is to imagine this being…normal.

And that? That’s the scariest part.

Because the last time things felt normal with Sukuna—it ended with heartbreak, a bruised ego, and a pink LED light flickering like the world’s most ironic heartbreak anthem.

REWIND TO 12 YEARS AGO

It had all started innocently enough—just a stupid school project, both of you in your own little worlds, completely unaware of the mess you'd end up in. You’d been frantically pulling an all-nighter for your thesis on marketing strategies, running on a diet of coffee and panic. The room smelled like burnt ambition and three-day-old coffee.

Sukuna had walked in, uninvited (as usual), plopping himself down on the edge of your bed and looking like he owned the place. You didn’t even glance up from your notes.

"Got any snacks, or is your thesis a full meal by itself?” he'd asked casually, stretching his legs across the floor.

“it’s a five-course meal of existential dread. You should’ve brought dessert,” you muttered, eyes flicking over your outline that still had more question marks than actual points.

He made a dramatic tsk noise. ”Really? That bad? Damn, should’ve brought ice cream. Or a priest.”

You finally looked up, dead-eyed. “Unless the priest knows APA format and has a spare conclusion section in his pocket, I don’t want it.”

“Wow, brat. So ungrateful.” He leaned over to snatch your mug without asking, took a sip, and immediately gagged. “What is this? Battery acid? Motor oil? Regret?”

“It’s coffee,” you said, dryly. “And if you touch my highlighters, I will end you.”

He blinked at you. “Gotchu, babe. No touching the holy trinity: coffee, highlighters, and your rapidly deteriorating sanity.”

You grunted. “What are you even doing here, ‘Kuna? Don’t you have people to terrorize somewhere else?”

He shrugged, picking up a sticky note from your desk and squinting at the words like they personally offended him. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite stress case.”

You gave him a look that screamed I am five seconds away from a breakdown and you’re monologuing in my safe space.But Sukuna? He was already distracted, fiddling with your desk lamp like it held the secrets of the universe.

Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, he suddenly grinned, standing up, and twisting the lamp in a way that made the light flicker dramatically.

“What are you doing with my lamp?” you snapped, but he was already flipping the switch.

“Nah, I’m just making sure you’re not too depressed so we gotta change the mood lighting. You need it. Trust me. This is what creative enlightenment looks like.” He flashed a grin that had you wondering if he’d lost his mind.

“If that’s enlightenment, pretty sure the light’s about to start flickering and lead me to a breakdown.” You were so tired, but you couldn’t help the irritation bubbling up.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He reached for your lamp again, twisting it in the other direction like he was adjusting some fancy futuristic remote control.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” you said, grabbing his wrist before he could do more damage to your perfectly ordinary, functional lamp. “This is my space, my chaos. You can’t just—”

Suddenly, you found yourself flat on your back on the bed, and Sukuna’s weight was pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Not a bad way to distract you, huh?” he said, his voice low and teasing. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, and that was it. The floodgates opened, your frustrations morphing into something entirely different.

Heat. Hands. Teeth.

And that stupid lamp still casting romantic lighting like you were in some low-budget romcom with a dangerously high body count.

You didn’t even remember who pulled who first. One second you were yelling about thesis formatting and desk territory, and the next, Sukuna was pulling your shirt over your head like it had personally offended him. You should’ve been worried about citations. APA format. Deadline. But somehow his mouth on your neck took priority.

Again.

You made it to the edge of the bed this time before knocking over a pile of highlighters and flashcards. Sukuna didn't even blink.

“Watch the thesis,” you gasped as your laptop nearly flew off the side.

“Babe, the only thing I’m watching is you falling apart under me,” he said, grinning like the devil, hands already sliding down your waist.

You hated that it worked. Hated how your body betrayed you so quickly—how easily you leaned into him, craved him, even when your life was falling apart in bullet points and overdue drafts.

It was frantic. A little sloppy. Neither of you had the brain cells for finesse. Just something rough and grounding to yank you out of the spiral and straight into Sukuna’s orbit—where logic went to die and pleasure took the wheel.

By the time it was over, both of you were breathless and half-covered in dissertation pages and regret.

And that’s when he did it.

He reached over.

And changed the mood lighting again.

Soft pink this time.

You stared at him, chest still heaving, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead. “What the actual hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” he said innocently, blinking like a man who wasn’t still inside you thirty seconds ago. 

“It’s a vibe. I’m curating.”

“You’re curating? This isn’t a Pinterest board, Sukuna. This is my room.”

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically to the lamp, “I made it better.”

You sat up, immediately regretting it when your thigh cramped. “I swear to God, if you touch that lamp one more time—”

“You’ll what? Write a strongly worded thesis about it?”

“Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You say that,” he said, flopping back onto the bed with a grin, “but you let me raw you like a stress-relief squishmallow, so.”

You picked up a pillow and hurled it at his face.

Hard.

Sukuna caught it with one hand, smirking.

“I’m changing it to red next.”

“Touch that switch and I’m putting glitter glue in your shampoo.”

“…Kinky.”

You screamed into another pillow.

And for a second, it was funny. Ridiculous. The kind of scene you'd laugh about in five years over drinks.

But something in the air shifted—too subtle to notice at first. Like a hairline crack in a dam.

Then he said it. The thing that would claw its way into both of your memories and rot there, festering for years.

“You know, if you put half the effort into your actual thesis that you put into pretending to be in love with me when you're bored, you'd be graduating top of our class.”

Silence.

It came so fast, so sharp, it cleaved the air clean in half.

You sat up slowly. Carefully. Like you were disarming a bomb, but oh—too late. It already went off.

“What did you just say?”

Sukuna’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. He leaned back like nothing had happened, like he didn’t just shatter the air between you.

“You heard me.”

“No, no. I heard you, I just… I’m trying to figure out which part of your brain decided that was okay to say to me. After everything. After this.” You gestured wildly at the bed, the thesis pages crumpled under you, your tangled clothes on the floor, his smug, stupid face.

His jaw flexed. “I’m just saying, maybe I’m not the only one who treats this thing like it’s a joke.”

“Oh, you’re unbelievable.” You were up now, gathering your papers with trembling fingers. “You barge in here like you own the place, like I’m some goddamn stop on your rich-boy itinerary when you get bored of your mansion and your endless supply of zero-consequence bullshit—”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, standing up now too. “You think I want to be here every time you have a meltdown? You think this is fun for me? Watching you burn out for a piece of paper you’ll hate in six months? You make me your emotional support punching bag and then call it intimacy.”

“I never asked you to stay.”

“Well maybe I should’ve taken the hint three years ago, huh?” His voice was sharp now. No teasing. No heat. Just glass. “When we started sleeping together and you couldn’t even look me in the eye after.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t the first fight. Not even the worst one.

But it felt… final.

“You want honesty?” you whispered, throat tight. “Fine. You’re a coward, Sukuna. You sit in this little fantasy where nothing matters because you’re scared to actually want something. To want me. So yeah, maybe I pretended a little. Maybe I lied. But at least I felt something.”

That stopped him. For a moment, he just… stood there. Staring at you.

And then he laughed. Hollow. Low.

“You felt something? Great. Real useful. Let me know if you ever figure out what it was, sweetheart. Preferably not when I’m balls-deep and playing with your lighting setup.”

You slapped him.

You didn’t even think—your body just moved, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you like something had gone dead in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “There it is.”

“Get out.”

“You sure?” He took a step back. “You’ve got, what, one brain cell left and a thesis due tomorrow? Might as well finish what we started.”

“I said get out.” Your voice broke on the last word. Oh god. Not the voice crack. Not in front of him. That was the equivalent of handing him a loaded gun, then tripping and falling onto the bullet yourself. Incredible work. Ten out of ten. Gold medal in Olympic self-sabotage.

He stared for a beat. Just long enough to register it. The voice crack. The heartbreak. The humiliation curdling in your stomach like expired milk.

Then he scoffed. That trademark Sukuna scoff. That “you’re beneath me” noise that made your skin crawl and your heart crumble all at once. Like it wasn’t worth it. Like you weren’t worth it.

Then he left.

No dramatic door slam. No stomping. No cinematic thunder in the background. Just the soft click of the handle as it shut behind him. Quiet. Cold. Like a polite little fuck you from the universe.

You sat there. Alone.

Drowning in a sea of flashcards, energy drink cans, and the pink lightbulb you swore was a good idea when you bought it. You thought it was romantic. Cute. Mood-setting. Turns out it just made heartbreak look like a music video from hell.

Twenty years of friendship.

Three years of blurred lines.

And one second of cruelty you’d never come back from.

And the worst part? The absolute dumbest, most pathetic, most humiliating part?

You still wanted him to walk back in.

Oh god. Oh no. No, no, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—yep. You’re crying. You’re crying in pink LED, like a sad little flamingo.

You wanted him to go slam the door open, with your favorite ice cream on hand (Friday is ice cream nights).

To say he didn’t mean it. To take it all back. To change the fucking light to blue this time, maybe even purple, something less pity-me-Barbie-core, and call it a truce.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Because that’s the thing about Sukuna. 

He didn’t fix the things he broke. He just stepped over the debris in expensive shoes and left before the dust settled. And you? You were always the idiot standing there, broom in one hand, heart in the other, wondering why it still hurt.

You wiped your face with his hoodie sleeve forgotten on the floor sleeve like a Victorian widow who also hadn’t slept in three days. Because your wardrobe is full of his fucking clothes. Oh my god, you’re still in your underwear. And, your thesis stared at you, cursor blinking like it was mocking you.

Fuck, you needed a drink so hard you wanted to forgot this stupid night.

So yeah—after that night, you both did it.

You broke the last, dumb, invisible rule of whatever-the-hell your relationship was.

You slept with other people.

Not out of desire. Not out of revenge. Not even out of rage. No, it was dumber than that.

It was survival.

You hooked up with someone from a rooftop party. What was his name? You don’t know. You don’t care. You laughed too loud, drank warm wine out of a Solo cup, and let some stranger kiss you like it meant something. It didn’t. Because he wasn’t Sukuna. That was the bar. The bar was not Sukuna. You limboed under it like a sad circus clown.

Across somewhere else, he did the same.

In a random ass bedroom in a frat house with lighting that looked like it was allergic to joy, Sukuna let someone run their hands down his back. He didn’t joke. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t whisper dumb things in her ear like he used to do with you. More like earlier.

He just laid there. Face blank. Eyes open.

Because if someone else wanted him—even just for one night—maybe it would drown out the sound of your voice when you’d said: at least I felt something.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

It never fucking works.

Because at the end of it, you both laid there in different places, beside warm strangers who meant absolutely nothing, staring at foreign ceilings that hadn’t heard you fight, cry, or laugh—and realized something ugly: you finally did the one thing you swore you’d never do.

You became strangers.

Strangers with shared ghosts. No one left to haunt but yourselves.

After that night? Radio silence. Nothing.

He didn’t walk over to your apartment anymore.

You didn’t leave the door unlocked. He has his own key to yours.

No Post-it notes on the fridge. No coffee mugs by the bed. No thesis pages tangled with underwear.

Just the hollow silence of absence. The weight of nothing.

And yeah. Gojo noticed.

Because you and Sukuna? You didn’t know how not to touch each other. You were that disgusting duo. PDA central. Couple-core. Fruit-peeling, lap-lounging, casual-hair-touching menaces.

You once made out behind the school bake sale. For charity.

Now? You barely made eye contact. And it’s been what? Three fucking weeks.

And if he walked into a room? You walked out.

Because looking at him was like looking at a memory you weren’t ready to bury.

Because if you looked too long, you might remember.

And remembering was dangerous.

Remembering felt like relapse.

Which—congrats, by the way—is exactly what you’re doing right now.

And now? You’re so disoriented from today (c’mon, two very deeply buried memories in a day flashing you because of that one look Sukuna gave you and sense of normalcy with this co-parenting situation with your son and his daughter being best friends, too?) – picking up the kids today, smiling like you weren’t dying, pretending that the raw fish didn’t taste like regret even as your son beamed up at you? 

So yeah. That Friday night? Alone in your master bedroom, lights off, ceiling staring back at you, while your son sleeps over at Sukuna’s house next door?

That’s when it hit. The full, unbearable weight of your very stupid, very mutual, very emotionally  constipated downfall.

And the worst part? The truly cursed, absolutely unhinged part?

Somewhere, in a dusty, padlocked corner of your ribcage you’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist—

You still fucking loved him.

Even after that LED night.

Even after the single parenting.

Even after everything.

God. You’re such an idiot.

a/n: lol part 2 is coming sometime this May (?) aaaand as much as i wanna say that this is proofread – it's not :') hshdashadsah thanks so much for reading – i appreciate u all so much!!! also taglist is still open <3

[joemama-2]

a dead end | chap. 5

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 10.5k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“Y/N?”

The sound of your name being called causes you to pause, your face contorting into confusion. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder. A blink. Then another. Until your body fully turns to face the new incomer. 

“Mr. Hayashi?”

“Oh, oh, oh my god. It’s you. It’s really you.” The older man laughs out dryly, relief in his tone. His blue, plaid shirt looks wrinkled, with tears at the bottom. He’s no longer wearing the glasses you’ve become so accustomed to seeing him with. Greying hair tousled as if he just went through some shit. There’s sweat beading at his forehead that he wipes away with the back of his palm, stepping closer. 

From your peripheral vision, Satoru takes a small step forward, body stiffening. 

Mr. Hayashi finally notices him, shakily holding his hands up. “I—I mean no trouble. I swear.”

Satoru doesn’t look at him, instead glancing at you. “Who’s this?”

“He’s the building manager.” You reply, glancing between the two men. Your eyes narrow slightly at Mr. Hayashi’s right hand, the sight of blood staining his fingertips. He hides it behind his back before you can determine whether it’s his blood or not. “What happened?”

“What didn’t?” He huffs a dry chortle out, shaking his head as he looks down at his feet. “It was just supposed to be a normal day, check in on things. But then…then people started getting weird, someone ran into the lobby, then another person, then another, and another. There was…so much…blood. I-I panicked. I ran up here and went looking for you, searched your apartment, but you weren’t there. I thought the worst.”

Searched your apartment? Is that why it was left open? The thought of your building manager searching for you first instead of getting to his own safety fills you with an uncomfortable tension, unsure if you should be flattered or disturbed. Satoru must have the same thought process as you, the pair of you sharing a silent, quick glance at one another. “And you’ve just been…hiding up here?”

Mr. Hayashi nods. “I have. Haven’t been down there in hours. H-How is it?”

“Not good,” Satoru replies. 

Mr. Hayashi’s face crumples at Satoru’s bluntness, the lines on his face deepening with fear and despair. He sways slightly on his feet, as if just hearing the words drains the last bit of strength from his body. You catch yourself instinctively stepping forward, your body betraying the compassion clawing its way up your throat, but you stop yourself short. You don’t know what this man has seen, what he’s done, or what he’s willing to do to survive.

You can’t afford to trust anyone right now. You barely trust this white-haired fool. 

Mr. Hayashi looks up at you, almost pleading. “You’re—you’re leaving, right? You’re getting out of here?”

You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t. “Yeah, we are.”

There’s an unbearable pause. Mr. Hayashi wrings his hands together like a desperate man on the brink of begging. “Please,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Please take me with you.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your mind flashes back to yesterday—the blood, the screams, the chaos—and your stomach twists. Taking him with you means another possible liability. Another person to watch over. Another person slowing you down when speed could mean the difference between life and death. Your gaze flicks instinctively to Satoru, who’s watching Mr. Hayashi with a cool, unreadable expression.

“No,” Satoru says flatly.

It hits the air like a gunshot. Mr. Hayashi visibly flinches, shoulders collapsing inward like he’s been physically struck.

“W-Why not? I won’t—I won’t be a burden. I can help! I know the building, I know the streets around here. Please, please, you have to—!”

Satoru’s jaw ticks. He shifts his body subtly, like he’s positioning himself between you and the older man. “No offense, old man, but this isn’t charity work. It’s survival. We barely got enough supplies for two.” His voice is steely, sharp, and final.

But then Mr. Hayashi turns his pleading gaze back to you. You. Not Satoru.

“Y/N, please. I know you. I watched you blossom in this building. I—” his voice cracks again, and this time it sounds real, not manipulative. “Please don’t leave me here.”

The sound of your name on his tongue, so full of desperate hope, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs.

You clench your fists tight, nails digging into your palms. The logical part of your brain screams at you to leave him. You owe him nothing. The world is burning, and you can’t carry everyone on your back. But the guilt is a gnawing, bitter thing that eats at your insides. It’s been eating at you. You peer at Satoru again, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Your chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, your heart pounding like war drums against your ribs.

Save him and risk everything?

Or leave him and save yourself?

Either way, you know that whatever you choose, it’s another weight you’ll have to carry. Forever.

The hallway is unbearably still, the low hum of whatever the fuck in the distance the only reminder that you don’t have all the time in the world to decide. Mr. Hayashi stumbles once more, hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. Your body moves without thinking, helping catch his body. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask, eyes roving over him.

“I—y-yes…” he coughs out. 

“Where are you hurt? He’s a doctor, he can help you before we move.”

“Y/N—”

“He’s hurt.” You reiterate, fixing Satoru with a steely gaze. “We need to help him.”

“It was already a risk coming here in the first place. We didn’t agree to bring along stragglers.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Exactly, not stupid.”

You scoff in disbelief, eyes narrowing at him. “You’re a shitty human being.” Without waiting for another response from him, you assist in lying Mr. Hayashi on his back on the floor. Hands hovering over his body, unsure of where to even start. 

Satoru watches you with that same maddening calm, his jaw locked tight and the muscle in his cheek twitching. You can feel his frustration radiating behind you, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone now. You’ve already made the choice—and even if it was a stupid one, it’s yours to live with. 

“Shitty human being,” he mutters, running a hand down his face as he kneels beside you, eyeing Mr. Hayashi’s form with clinical detachment. “You’re really pulling the moral card right now? You don’t even know what kind of mess we’re walking into. This guy slows us down, we die. You get that, right?”

You ignore him, fingers brushing over Mr. Hayashi’s side, where the blood has bloomed the darkest. You’re no expert, but there’s a tear along the hem of his shirt and dried blood crusting at his ribs. A puncture wound, maybe. Definitely not fresh.

“He’s already lost blood,” you say, voice tight. “We won’t get far if we don’t stabilize him.”

“Oh, great. So we’re not only babysitting, we’re dragging around a half-dead man.” Satoru’s tone is biting, but his hands move with practiced ease. He peels back the fabric, revealing the wound more clearly. “Knife. Small blade. Didn’t hit anything fatal, but if it gets infected, he’s done.”

Mr. Hayashi winces under the touch, but doesn’t cry out. His breathing is shallow and ragged, and the sweat clinging to his temples is fresh. “It—it was someone from the second floor. I think. I tried to stop him, but he just—he just looked at me. Didn’t even speak. Like he wasn’t there.”

You and Satoru exchange another glance. No one says the word. Not yet. But it’s there.

Infected.

“They’re most likely changing faster,” Satoru mutters, eyes flicking up to you. “If he got cut by someone like that—”

“There’s no bite,” you say sharply. “It’s a cut. Nothing else.”

“You sure you wanna bet your life on that?”

You flinch. Not because you doubt yourself, but because the truth is, you don’t know. You can’t know. Not yet.

“Wrap him up,” you say, voice hard. “Give him a chance. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”

Satoru’s silence feels like a judgment in itself, but he doesn’t argue again. Instead, he digs into his bag, pulling out gauze and disinfectant like a man resigned to the worst. The scent of antiseptic fills the air, sharp and stinging as he works quickly, hands steady even when the rest of him vibrates with tension. “You’re lucky she’s got a heart,” he tells Mr. Hayashi, not looking up. “Most people don’t anymore.”

Mr. Hayashi gives you a weak, grateful look. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

You don’t reply. You’re already trying to picture what the next few hours will look like—with him in tow, with Satoru seething at your side, with the threat of another attack hanging over your heads like a noose.

You’ll carry the weight. But you’ll be damned if you let someone die in front of you again without trying first.

Still crouched by Mr. Hayashi’s side, you glance at Satoru, who’s repacking his supplies with a clipped kind of efficiency.

“Ready?” you ask quietly.

He exhales through his nose. “No. But let’s go anyway.”

You help Mr. Hayashi to his feet, his weight leaning against you heavily. Your knees buckle slightly, but you steady yourself, anchoring him with both arms. You can feel Satoru watching again, quiet and unreadable. Then, without another word, the three of you move toward the stairwell, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet roar of a world that’s already started falling apart.

You’re not sure what comes next. But you’ve already made your choice.

You’ll live with it.

“You can walk, right?” You ask, fixing his arm around your shoulder. 

“No choice.” He grunts out, face scrunched as he begins the descent down. 

It’s hard helping a man twice your size down the stairs, especially when there’s someone else who can assist. But you don’t complain, it was your choice to bring him along, it’s your responsibility to help keep him alive. It’s quiet, only the quiet grunts from Mr. Hayashi filling the air. 

Satoru trails behind the two of you, his footsteps light and deliberate, eyes darting around. You don’t have to look back to feel his silent disapproval—it clings to the air like static. But he says nothing, and in this silence, the weight of your decision settles deeper into your bones. Each step down feels like a negotiation. Mr. Hayashi leans heavier into you the lower you get, and your shoulder aches from the strain, but you grit your teeth and keep going. You feel his breath hitch with every jolt, but he doesn’t complain either. Maybe he knows he’s on borrowed time.

“We’ll need to stop soon,” Satoru murmurs eventually. “You’re slowing down.”

“I’m fine,” you snap, sharper than you mean to be. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, voice cool but not unkind. “You’re shaking.”

Your legs are trembling, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Not when Mr. Hayashi’s still bleeding. Not when the building is too quiet. Not when you know what’s waiting beyond the front doors. Not when you’re still multiple floors up from the ground. 

You swallow hard. “I said I’m fine.”

Satoru clicks his tongue in annoyance, but lets it go. For now.

The three of you descend another flight. The emergency lights flicker above, casting the stairwell in an eerie, reddish glow. Mr. Hayashi’s breathing grows more labored with each step. Sweat soaks through his shirt, his limp heavier, and your guilt rises all over again.

You hear it then—something—a metallic rattle from below. A soft, scraping sound. Like nails dragging across concrete.

Satoru halts instantly.

You freeze, too.

Mr. Hayashi’s breath catches.

Satoru’s voice drops to a whisper. “Stay quiet.” Then, slowly, carefully, he starts to descend alone, his hand drifting toward the blade strapped to his person.

You tighten your grip on Mr. Hayashi. Because whatever’s down there… you know it’s not human.

You hold your breath, watching Satoru’s back as he goes down a few more steps, tilting his head down over the railing over the stairs to peer at the floors below. He says nothing for a few seconds, watching the darkness in preparation for any shadows that may pop out of nowhere. He then looks back at you, motioning silently with his head. You get the message, following after him even slower than before. 

“Almost there.” You whisper to Mr. Hayashi, who offers nothing more than a simple, brief nod. You’re not really almost there, but the reassurance would probably do him well. However, he’s probably too focused on not bleeding out, just like you’re too focused on not becoming something’s next meal. 

The stairwell creaks underfoot, the faint echo of your steps like warning bells in the dead stillness. The tension in your body is unbearable, every nerve pulled taut. You descend behind Satoru one slow, careful step at a time, Mr. Hayashi’s weight dragging your pace down even further. You can hear the slick sound of his blood soaking into his pant leg, the faint hiss of his breath through clenched teeth.

Satoru moves ahead like a shadow, silent and sharp. His blade is already in hand now, glinting faintly under the red emergency light. His posture screams readiness—knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed but alert, eyes scanning the darkness like a predator.

Another faint noise. This time closer.

You freeze, your fingers tightening around Mr. Hayashi’s arm. His grip on your shoulder turns into a desperate claw, breath hitching audibly.

Then—

A soft, wet shuffle. Not from you. Not from Satoru.

Something else is here.

Satoru holds up a hand, palm flat. Stop.

You do.

He shifts down another step, slow, careful. A bead of sweat trails down your neck. Mr. Hayashi is trembling now, his legs barely holding. You can feel it in how he leans harder into you.

Satoru rounds the corner of the last flight and—

He halts.

You can’t see what he’s looking at. But his breath leaves his lungs a little too slowly.

His voice is low, cold:

“…It’s feeding.”

He turns back up to you, gaze deadly serious.

“Whatever you do, don’t make a sound.”

Every joint in your body is trembling even faster than when you drank two 5-Hour Energies, coupled with a Red Bull. Bile threatens to rise in your throat, and you swallow it back down with a hard gulp. The word feeding scares you, sets off every fight-or-flight response in your soul. Except, all you want to do is run. Just don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Don’t make a sound, not a single sound. 

You repeat this mantra in your head, taking a tiny step one by one behind Satoru. The wet sound of this creature’s feast is new, one that you may never be able to erase from your mind. Biting hard on your lip to hold back a quivering breath, holding back a hot set of tears that pool in your eyes. 

You barely even dare to continue breathing. Each movement feels like you’re dragging your body through quicksand, the air around you so thick with terror it’s nearly suffocating. You can’t spare Mr. Hayashi a glance—not when you’re certain that even the smallest slip-up could end in blood.

Ahead, Satoru is already moving, slow but purposeful. His blade stays low, angled behind his leg to hide the reflection. He doesn’t look back to ensure you’re not too far behind, but you know he’s listening—every fiber of him tuned to you and the creature just feet away.

Another wet, slurping noise reaches your ears, and your stomach flips violently. You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, just to ground yourself, just to breathe without falling apart.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Your foot accidentally brushes against a loose piece of debris.

A tiny clatter.

Your heart stops.

The feeding noises halt instantly.

Silence.

The most horrifying kind of silence.

You can hear the thick drip of blood onto the floor now, slow and steady. You can hear Mr. Hayashi’s ragged breathing. You can hear the low rumble—a barely audible warning sound, like a wolf baring its teeth.

And then—

The sound of something sniffing. Wet, heavy, greedy.

It knows you’re here.

Satoru slowly raises his free hand, a single finger pressed firmly to his lips.

Don’t. Move.

You nod shakily, looking to your left to communicate the same message with Mr. Hayashi. His eyelids droop lower by the second, which only intensifies your internal panicking. Even in the darkened setting, you can see the way his skin pales, his responses growing minimal by the second. You try to nudge him with your shoulder, which only causes him to groan lightly. 

The world freezes. It feels like an eternity that you three have stayed frozen in place, ears perked up for the slightest noise or movement. Satoru’s foot hovers above the step below, just barely pressing down on it. Once again, you mirror his actions, attempting to get Mr. Hayashi to use whatever will he has left to stay quiet and follow. 

However, the movement only makes him grunt again. And you’ve run out of chances. 

Before you can even react, the sound of snarling and footsteps rushing toward your small group is all that encapsulates your senses. You don’t even know if it’s coming from right next to you, running up, or down; all you know is Satoru is clashing with the creature with his knife. 

The suddenness makes you misstep, and you go stumbling down the remaining steps with Mr. Hayashi in tow. Your bodies hit the wall with a big thud and a sharp grunt, the back of your head colliding into the wall. 

Sharp ringing bounces throughout your skull. 

The pain is immediate and blinding, shooting down your spine like a bolt of lightning. The world spins wildly around you, warping and blurring into a sickening swirl of shadows and noise. You blink hard, trying to clear your vision, trying to think, but everything feels distant, like you’re floating outside your own body.

Through the haze, you hear it—the wet, ugly sound of a struggle, the growls and snarls of the creature, the sharp, desperate grunts of Satoru fighting for both your lives. You try to push yourself up, but Mr. Hayashi’s weight pins you down, leaving you vulnerable, trapped. You can feel him breathing—shallow, labored—as he struggles to stay conscious. Or maybe that’s you. You can’t tell anymore.

Somewhere nearby, Satoru curses under his breath, a sound raw and vicious, followed by the crack of something—bone? Blade? Who knows. 

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, tasting blood, forcing yourself back to focus. Move. Move now or die. With a broken gasp, you shove Mr. Hayashi off you as gently as you can, feeling the sickening warmth of blood coating his side, coating your hands. You stagger to your knees, your body screaming in protest.

Your blurred gaze locks onto Satoru—he’s grappling the creature, his knife embedded deep in its side, but it’s not going down without a fight. Its grotesque, twitching body snaps and thrashes like a rabid animal.

You don’t think. You just move.

Hand fumbling for anything, you grab a broken piece of wood lying nearby. A shard of someone’s ruined life. Gripping it tight, you launch yourself toward the creature’s exposed back.

You won’t be useless. You won’t die here.

With every ounce of strength you have left, you drive the shard downward, right onto the creature’s head. 

The contact is a direct hit, blood sloshing and splurting from the open wound. The wood piece is stuck in place from the hit, allowing Satoru to hastily remove his knife from its side. You pull back harshly, the wood lifting. Again, you swing down. The wood splits the creature's head in two. Letting go, it goes down to its knees, falling down the stairs, and next to Mr. Hayashi’s body. 

There’s only a momentary spout of silence from the scene that just erupted before it all spreads like wildfire.

 Groans, grunts, creaking, and clicking noises. 

Satoru grabs your arm, hoisting you along as you practically float down the stairs. 

“Mr. Hayashi!” You call out. 

“We have no time!” Satoru barks out. 

Your heart fractures at the words, every instinct screaming at you to turn back, to help him, but Satoru’s grip is iron around your wrist, dragging you forward. You whip your head around, catching one last glimpse of Mr. Hayashi’s crumpled figure as he weakly tries to reach out, his mouth moving soundlessly.

You choke back a sob, the horror of abandoning yet another person sinking into your bones, burning hotter than the blood pounding in your ears.

Behind you, the sounds swell—more footsteps, more hungry, twisted things stirred from the darkness by the scent of blood and the promise of a fresh kill. The air feels heavier, thicker, suffocating with the weight of what you’ve left behind.

You stumble, but Satoru doesn’t let go, half-carrying, half-dragging you through the building’s rotting stairwells. Every turn feels endless, every second you stay in this place, tightening the noose around your neck. Your throat burns, and you realize you’re muttering under your breath again—

“Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.”

Satoru’s voice cuts through the panic like a blade. “Focus. Move your damn feet or we’re dead.”

And somehow, you do.

You both scramble down the rest of the stairs, uncaring of the amount of sound you’re making, never looking back. You both push open the door to the lobby, racing out the way you came in. The monsters—creatures—zombies—whatever the hell they are—chase you both with a horrifying amount of speed. 

The light from outside almost blinds you, but nonetheless, you run and run back to his parked car. He unlocks it from a distance with his key fob, and you two hurry in, closing the doors in a slammed rush. As soon as you do, the creatures slam into the windows, giving you front row seats to their red, frenzied eyes. Their wide mouths showcase the teeth that tear through flesh. Banging with their fists and heads, anything to get through the barriers. 

Satoru starts the car, reversing back. The car thumps up as if it rode over something—a body, most likely. 

You don’t even have the strength to react, only squeezing your eyes shut as the tires crunch over whatever is beneath.

The car swerves wildly for a moment, tires screeching against the pavement, before Satoru regains control, flooring it down the cracked asphalt of the abandoned street. The creatures chase after you, some so fast they nearly keep up, slamming their fists against the back windows in a desperate, clawing frenzy.

Your entire body trembles, hands gripping the seat so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Faster, Satoru!” you gasp, voice raw with fear.

“I know!” he growls back, slamming his foot harder on the gas pedal. The car jolts forward, the engine whining in protest.

One by one, they fall behind, until finally—finally—they’re no more than small figures in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the darkness you barely escaped. Breathing heavily, you sag against the seat, chest heaving as you stare at the cracked dashboard, too exhausted to even cry.

Satoru exhales sharply next to you, one hand gripping the wheel, the other slamming the car door lock button again and again, as if it’ll somehow keep the horror at bay. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Just breathing. Just surviving.

Goosebumps run through the surface of your body, the back of your head feeling tingly from where you knocked it before. You blink and blink, vision blurring then darkening before regaining it. 

You swallow thickly, willing yourself to stay conscious, to stay alert. But everything feels distant—the rumble of the car beneath you, the burning in your lungs, even Satoru’s tight, frantic grip on the wheel.

“Stay with me,” his voice slices through the haze, low and rough. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering over to you and then back to the road. “Don’t you dare pass out on me.”

You nod weakly, not trusting yourself to speak. Your tongue feels heavy, your mouth dry. Every blink feels slower than the last, the black edges of your vision creeping inward.

Satoru curses under his breath and takes a sharp turn onto another road, the tires skidding slightly. He spares another glance at you. “We’re almost there. Just a little longer, alright?”

You hum in response, a faint sound, barely audible. The words “almost there” circle your mind like a chant, the same lie you told Mr. Hayashi.

A lump forms in your throat. You didn’t save him.

You didn’t save him.

Your nails dig into the fabric of the seat, trying to ground yourself, trying to stay here—because if you start thinking about it, you’ll spiral, and if you spiral, you might not come back. You open your mouth to say something—to apologize, to scream, to cry—but all that comes out is a shaky whisper:

“…Where are we going?”

“Away from here,” is all he says before you inevitably lose yourself in the darkness. 

Slowly, your eyes blink open, the sunlight beaming down on you. It takes you a moment to realize you’re reclined in the passenger seat, the sun shining through the windshield. You don’t move, rooted in place for a good moment. You fear that even if you try to move, the onslaught of pain might shoot up your bones again. You’re trying to shake off the haze clouding your mind. The events of the day rush back in flashes—Satoru, the creatures, the blood, the chaos, Mr. Hayashi—and you wince at the memories. Every muscle in your body feels sore, as if you’ve been through hell, and you’re not sure whether your exhaustion is physical or emotional.

Turning your head slightly, you see Satoru in the driver’s seat, his profile tense and unreadable. The silence between you two hangs heavily, thick with everything unsaid. The car is parked somewhere safe, the sounds of the outside world muffled by the thick walls of your own thoughts. You don’t know how long you’ve been out, but judging by the angle of the sun, it’s probably late morning, close to lunchtime. 

Damn, you’ve lived a lot of lives already, haven’t you?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you manage to push yourself upright, wincing as the soreness settles deeper into your body. Your throat feels raw, your head a pounding mess of memories and lingering dizziness. “Are we safe?” Your voice cracks, rough from lack of use, and you can hear the shakiness in it as you ask.

Satoru’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes dark and tired, but his tone is firm, reassuring in the way he answers. “For now.”

That’s good enough. 

He hands you a water bottle. “Drink this before you get even more dehydrated. You’ve probably got a concussion, by the way.”

Lazily, you take it, bringing it to your lips and chugging. 

The cool water flows down your throat, soothing the dry ache that’s settled there. It’s refreshing, but it only makes you more aware of how much your body is demanding from you, like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off once your adrenaline wears off. You hand the bottle back to him after draining it, your fingers tingling as you do. He takes it, but you can see the way his jaw clenches as he holds it, the tension in his posture never quite disappearing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru nods, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he looks out the windshield, his eyes scanning the world outside as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows at any moment. “How are you feeling now?”

“Like shit.” You mutter, lying back in your seat. Your head lolls to the side, looking out the window. It’s strange how such a nice day can be contradicted by a big blood bath. You almost want to laugh at the circumstances. 

“There’s a gas station not too far, we’ll head there.”

You hum lowly. “For your snacks.”

“And for you.”

You look at him from the corner of your eye. 

“There’s no exact cure for a concussion,” he sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “But we can get you a shitload of medication to ease it for a bit. Some food, Pedialyte, whatever.”

“Sounds like a five-star plan.”

“It is. Unless you want me to do brain surgery on you with a pocket-knife, though that’s not really my specialty.” He says, shoulders rolling back and forth. 

You hmph back, holding an arm to your stomach as he starts the car up again, slowly rolling forward in order not to upset your sensitive stomach. “Right. Well, only if you’re buying the treatment.”

His lip quirks up in a dry smirk. “Right, I am a gentleman, after all.”

The reassurance, even if laced with his sarcastic humor, eases some of the tightness in your chest. You don’t answer, just keep your gaze tilted out the window, watching the world go past—cracked streets, overgrown sidewalks, the occasional overturned car. It feels a little easier to breathe knowing you have even a scrap of a plan.

Even if everything else still feels like it’s dangling by a thread.

“You holding up okay?” he asks after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little more careful this time. 

How do you even answer that?

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly in your lap.

“…I’m still here,” you finally say. It’s not much. But for now, it’s enough.

Satoru glances at you briefly, and in that small, flickering look, you can see it. The way he’s holding himself together just as desperately as you are. 

The gas station is only about a ten-minute drive. It’s done in complete silence, however. The streets look familiar to you, memories flashing through your twitcy mind. 

“Stop.”

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. “Wha—”

“Just…stop.” 

Sensing the tired, affirmative tone, he quickly checks around before coming to a stop. Putting the car in park, he turns his body towards you. You say nothing, reaching for the door handle before being promptly stopped. His hand is on your other arm. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He grills, confusion laced with a hint of frustration. “I said we’re going to the gas station.”

“I know, but…but I just—I need to check something.”

“Did you hit your head that damn hard?”

You shake your head weakly, prying his fingers off your arm. “I just need five minutes. Please.”

The way your voice cracks on the last word makes him freeze, jaw tightening. He stares at you for a long second, conflict flashing across his face. Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

You nod, too drained to argue.

Without another word, you push open the car door, stepping out onto the uneven asphalt. Your legs feel like they’re made of glass, but you force yourself forward, heart pounding harder with every step you take.

The world feels eerily quiet around you—like even the wind is holding its breath. You spot the intersection up ahead, twisted metal still littering the street.

Your chest tightens unbearably.

There.

The wreckage.

The car.

Exactly where you left it.

You almost can’t breathe as you half-walk, half-stumble toward it, Satoru shadowing your steps, silent but close.

The crumpled remains of your old car sit wedged against a broken streetlight, glass scattered like diamonds around it. You hesitate, staring down at the overturned frame, your hands shaking so badly they feel like they might snap off. 

A little more down, another car stands still, frozen in time. 

“Sayo…” you whisper hoarsely, barely audible.

And then, slowly—terrified—you walk over, crouching down to look underneath.

You don’t know what you were expecting to see. In a perfect world, Sayo would have been there, lying unharmed. Or, you might’ve scared yourself even more by staring at her mangled body. Anything. 

What you didn’t expect to see was nothing, no body, no article of jewelry or clothing left, absolutely nothing. Just a puddle of dried blood that now stains the cement. 

Your breath catches in your throat, a hollow ache ripping through your chest. Nothing. Not even a scrap of her.

You sit there frozen, crouched in the dust and debris, staring at that dark, ugly stain where your teammate should’ve been. “She’s gone,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.

Satoru stays a few steps behind you, his hands shoved into his jean pockets. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t try to offer any empty condolences of what he can only assume is a personal loss for you.  Maybe he knows there’s nothing he could say that would fix this anyway. The world feels heavier now, the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders until your arms start to tremble. You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, blinking furiously against the sting building in your eyes.

You stayed alive.

And Sayo didn’t even get a chance. No one did. 

For a long, breathless moment, you kneel there in the broken silence—until finally, a calloused hand presses against your back. “Come on,” Satoru says quietly. “It’s not safe out here.”

You don’t have the strength to argue. You just close your eyes for one long, aching second—then push yourself up, legs wobbling, and let him steer you back toward the car.

He doesn’t question the moment as you two sit back in your reserved seats, putting the key in the ignition before continuing the intended trek. Your brain runs miles a minute, thoughts swirling. Dread pools in your soul, head tilting against the headrest of the seat. Guilt once again creeps back in, raising a hand to your forehead to smooth out the crinkles of your strained expression. 

You find yourself wanting to laugh again out of pure spite. A worthless sense of living is all you can associate with. Just how a person like you—a person who’s committed more sins than you’d like to admit—is the one breathing instead of someone who actually deserves it is the ultimate question you have. Is it the world’s sick way of getting back at you? Of making you suffer through this guilt with no one to turn to? Well, at least someone you’d want to turn to. All your friends are more than likely dead. Your family. Everyone you could possibly love and care about…gone. 

Damn, this…this is really happening. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails digging into the palms of your hands until they sting. There’s no waking up from this. No undoing it. The soft rumble of the car beneath you feels detached, distant, like it’s carrying someone else away—someone who still had a future.

You don’t even notice the shallow, erratic way you’re breathing until Satoru’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Hey,” he says, a little gruff, but not unkind. “You’re not gonna do me much good if you pass out again.”

You huff out a hollow breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “I’m fine,” you lie.

He doesn’t call you on it. He knows better than to try.

Instead, the two of you drive on through the hollowed-out skeleton of what used to be a world worth living in, the gas station inching closer with every second. And all you can think about is how survival doesn’t feel like winning anymore.

It feels like punishment.

He stops right in front, pocketing the key and sighing. “You can stay in here, I’ll be quick.”

“I’m going.”

He gives you a sidelong look, jaw clenching in frustration. “You can barely stand,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“I’m not sitting in the car like some helpless idiot,” you snap back, already forcing the door open despite the deep ache rattling your bones.

Satoru huffs under his breath but doesn’t argue further. Maybe he figures it’s pointless. Or, he understands in a way that words don’t need to explain. Without another word, you both step out into the open, the stale, metallic scent of dried blood and burnt rubber clinging to the air like a curse.

He tightens the strap on his backpack and moves ahead of you, knife glinting at his side, his frame tense and alert. You trail behind him, fists clenching at your sides, ready for whatever the hell is waiting beyond the shattered doors of the gas station. He hands you a tote bag, the blue logo of the Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital printed on it. 

Inside the gas station is deserted. Items left scattered around by people who were probably in a rush to get the hell away from whatever occurred here. There are no working lights, and the sound of chips crunching beneath your feet as you venture further in. Satoru peeks over the other side of the counter to where the attendant would have normally been standing. His face doesn’t change, looking away and moving down the aisles. “Don’t go back there.”

You wouldn’t dare. You’ve seen enough death for today. 

The refrigerators call your name. 

The cool, stale air rushes out as you crack one open, the faint hum of whatever backup generator is left alive filling your ears. Most of the shelves are picked clean—only a few battered bottles of water, some questionable-looking sandwiches, and cans of energy drinks remain. You grab what you can with shaking hands, stuffing bottles into the tote. Your fingers graze over a pack of Pedialyte at the bottom shelf, and without thinking, you yank it too.

From behind you, you hear Satoru rummaging through shelves, the soft clinking of cans and pill bottles being shoved into his bag. No words are exchanged; none are needed. Survival has its own language. You spot a lone protein bar lodged behind a case of toppled soda cans. You lean down to reach for it—

—and the sudden slam of something heavy in the back room sends your heart dropping to your stomach.

Not again. 

Satoru moves quicker than you do, coming over to your aisle in practiced quietness. “Stay here. Don’t move, don’t speak. I’ll tell you when to come out.”

You nod, swallowing the lump of fear clawing up your throat. Your fingers tighten around the tote bag, your body instinctively shrinking smaller, pressing against the refrigerator door for whatever little cover it can give. Satoru slips forward, moving like a shadow between the shelves, his knife already drawn. Every step he takes is measured, deliberate, almost too calm for the circumstances. You watch him until he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone with nothing but the sound of your own blood pounding in your ears.

You grip the bag tighter, forcing yourself to breathe slowly and silently, straining your ears for anything—anything—that might tell you what’s lurking just beyond your sight.

Satoru’s eyes narrow, scanning his surroundings with calculation. He avoids any scattered items of food on the ground to avoid unnecessary noise, stalking closer and closer to the back room. The closer he gets, the heavier the air feels, thick with the metallic scent of blood and something sour—something wrong. His knife is steady in his hand, the grip sure and tight, knuckles paling slightly.

He stops just outside the swinging door leading into the back, angling his body to the side to listen. There’s a faint, irregular shuffling noise—too heavy to be a rat, too erratic to be anything human.

His jaw clenches.

One breath in. One breath out.

Without hesitating, Satoru kicks the door open with the side of his boot, blade raised, ready to strike whatever hell waits for him inside. He reacts quicker than expected. Spotting the shadows in his left periphery. He raises his knife, anticipating hearing the squishy sound of rotting flesh being forcefully stabbed in, one he’s growing more accustomed to. 

However, a dull banging is what resounds. 

A second passes. Then two. And then three. 

Satoru lowers his knife just slightly. Immediately, his eyes widen, lips parting in shock. 

“…Nanami?”

Lo and behold, his two former(?) coworkers stand before him, looking just as frenzied, but ready for a fight as he is. They’re still wearing their scrubs, though they lost their pristine color of blue. Tattered, stained, no longer representing what they were trained for. 

“Satoru?” Nanami breathes out, lowering the metal baseball bat in hand. He pushes his glasses up, hair tousled and breathing heavily. Standing beside him, slightly behind, is Takuma. Holding nothing in his shaky hands except for a broken glass of beer. 

Satoru almost wants to scoff in happy disbelief. Lip moving up into a half-smile. “You…you guys are alive?”

Nanami huffs out a dry, almost humorless laugh, the bat lowering fully to his side. “Barely,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion. His eyes flick briefly toward the door behind Satoru, where you still wait anxiously in the other aisle.

Takuma gives a nervous glance around the dim room, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. “We thought you were dead, Satoru,” he says quietly, voice trembling slightly. “We tried going back to the hospital for you, but…”

Satoru tightens his grip on the knife instinctively, memories flashing behind his eyes. Blood. Screaming. Chaos.

“We can catch up later,” Nanami says, shaking his head as if to ward off the past. His gaze sharpens. “Is it just you?”

Satoru glances back toward your aisle, then returns his eyes to them. “Not just me,” he says simply. “I’m with someone.”

“Human?”

“Damn right.”

“Oh, I’m so happy you’re alive!” Takuma rushes forward, sloppily hugging Satoru like a pair of friends who have just been reunited after ten years apart. 

Satoru stiffens for a second—almost out of instinct—but then he lets out a breathy chuckle and pats Takuma’s back a little roughly. “Alright, alright. Don’t get all emotional on me.”

Takuma laughs wetly, pulling away, his face a mess of relief and lingering fear. “Man, it’s been hell.”

Nanami steps closer too, more reserved but still visibly relieved. “We thought we were the only ones left. We didn’t know if any of the hospital staff made it.”

Satoru’s half-smile falters for a split second before he masks it again, his hand twitching at his side. “Yeah, they didn’t.”

There’s a tense pause, the three men standing in the wrecked gas station, the remnants of their old lives clinging to them like ghosts.

“Well,” Takuma starts, wiping down his clothes with a proud smile. “We have Mr. Gojo here now, our chances of survival are higher, Nanami!” He tosses his poor excuse of a weapon to the side, being the first to head out of the break room.

“We all got this, we all can—”

“Ah!”

The sound of something hitting something—presumably the back of Ino’s head—is all that’s heard before his body slumps to the ground face-forward. Nanami and Satoru stand still, watching the energetic, younger half of their trio knocked down to the ground. 

Their eyes flicker to the right.

There you stand with a bloodied can of beans clutched tightly in your hand, raised defensively. Your chest heaves from the adrenaline, your stance wide, ready to swing again if necessary.

For a moment, no one moves.

Then Satoru runs a hand down his face, exhaling in a long, slow sigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I said stay put.”

Nanami, ever the diplomat, simply blinks at you, deadpan. “Reasonable reaction,” he says, voice dry as sandpaper.

You stare at the two men, wide-eyed, heart pounding against your ribs. “H-He came out of nowhere!” you blurt, still gripping the can like your life depends on it.

Takuma groans from the ground, slowly rolling over onto his side, cradling the back of his head. “W-what happened…?” he whimpers.

“You got beaned,” Satoru says flatly. He finally walks over, gently lowering your arm with the can in it. “It’s okay. They’re friends. Dumbass friends, but friends.”

You glance warily between the two strangers, muscles still tense. “You sure?”

“As sure as I can be in this messed up world,” Satoru says, shooting you a small, crooked smile. “Put the weapon down, Rambo.”

Reluctantly, you lower the can, though you still keep it in your hand. Just in case.

You flinch slightly when the blonde man steps up to you, surveying eyes roaming over you, as if searching for an imperfection. Defensively, you shrink in on yourself, eyes narrowed. 

“This is my best pal, Nanami, or Nanamin, or Kento if you’re really boring. We work together.” Satoru introduces, slinging his arm over the other man’s shoulders. “That there writhing on the floor, Takuma Ino. Resident where we work.”

Nanami barely reacts to Satoru’s arm around him, only offering you a polite but curt nod. His eyes, though sharp, seem less judging and more…calculating. Like he’s sizing you up for survival, not morality. “Pleasure,” he says, though his tone is so dry it’s hard to tell if he means it.

Meanwhile, Takuma lets out another soft groan from the ground, still not fully recovered from your ambush. “H-Hi…” he wheezes weakly, waving a hand without looking up.

Satoru grins, giving Nanami a firm slap on the back before stepping away, hands lazily shoved into his pockets. “Now that all the introductions are done and no one else has a concussion, maybe we can focus on getting what we came here for?”

You nod stiffly, still tense, still unsure if you can really trust these men. But a part of you—the part that’s clinging desperately to the idea that not everyone is lost—whispers that you don’t have much of a choice. 

Nanami must see the doubt in your eyes, because he adds, voice low and steady, “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just trying to survive. Same as you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding once more, finally lowering the can fully to your side.

Satoru tosses you a wink. “See? We’re all just one big, dysfunctional family now.”

Takuma, still face-down on the floor, groans, “Best family reunion ever…”

The car ride out of the gas station after your raid is a silent one. Still recovering from your concussion, it’s taking everything in you not to snap at the star-struck man sitting up from the backseat, blatantly staring at your pinched side profile. 

You peek. 

Yep, still staring. 

A small scoff exits your mouth, brows furrowing even deeper. 

“I—I just can’t believe I’m…you—you’re really—wow, you’re so much prettier than the TV.”

You don’t reply, eyes trained forward on the road. You would think for someone who just got their shit rocked would be less lively than this. Apparently not. 

“You know, my favorite performance you did was the Championship two years ago! I don’t even really like baseball, but you guys always have the best routines. You’re just so flexible, it’s insane! And I—oh, you smell so good!”

“Quit that.” Nanami gruffs, pushing Ino’s side. 

It doesn’t deter him, however. Finally seeing the star captain of the Yomiuri Giants cheer team right before his eyes, the one he’s always daydreamed of meeting…sitting right in front of him. Life couldn’t be better! 

You don’t have the energy to deal with this. Your head is pounding, your stomach turns uneasily with every word that comes out of his mouth, and the last thing you want is to be reminded of the person you were before everything went to hell.

Satoru, sensing your growing irritation, leans back casually in his seat, arm draped lazily over the wheel. “Oi, Ino. You’re gonna make her jump out the damn car if you don’t shut up.”

“But—but it’s her!” Ino protests like a whiny kid, clutching the back of the driver’s seat dramatically. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing! You can’t blame me for being excited!”

Nanami sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Control yourself. She’s not here to sign autographs.”

You shift uncomfortably, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m not her anymore,” you mutter under your breath, almost wishing they hadn’t recognized you at all.

The weight of it—the life you lost, the people you lost—it settles even heavier on your shoulders.

Satoru glances at you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way your hands tremble slightly in your lap. Without saying anything, he reaches forward and turns up whatever is left of the radio, just enough to drown out Ino’s giddy rambling, a silent show of mercy. And for the first time since leaving the gas station, you feel like maybe you can actually breathe.

Even if just a little.

“You’re not her anymore,” Satoru thinks to himself, glancing briefly at you. But whoever you are now… you’re still alive. And that has to count for something.

For now.

“Where are we heading?” Nanami asks from beside Ino in the backseat, sighing heavily. “There’s not much to go to, we should be indoors before sunset.”

Satoru taps his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, eyes locked ahead. “There’s an old motel about fifty minutes from here,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Off the highway, tucked behind some trees. I used to pass it on my commute when I lived in Minano. Looked abandoned.”

“Abandoned could mean infested,” Nanami points out flatly.

Satoru smirks without humor. “Yeah, well, everything’s a gamble now, isn’t it?”

You lean your head back against the seat, staring blankly out the window at the decaying world flashing by. Part of you wants to tell them to just find the nearest ditch and let you all rot there. Safer than pretending there’s some place out there untouched. But another, smaller part—the one that’s too stubborn to die—keeps quiet.

“We’ll clear it if we have to,” Satoru adds, glancing quickly at you, then back to the road. “It’s better than spending the night in a damn gas station parking lot.”

Nanami grunts his reluctant agreement.

Ino just smiles brightly, oblivious to the weight crushing the rest of you.

An abandoned motel. Sounds about right.

You nap for the remainder of the ride. You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute you’re watching the cracked pavement blur by, and the next you’re being shaken awake by a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Satoru murmurs, voice low, almost careful. “We’re here.”

Your eyes peel open sluggishly, the incoming afternoon sun bleeding orange across the sky, casting eerie shadows over the crumbling building in front of you.

The motel looks worse up close—a lot worse.

Windows shattered, doors either hanging off their hinges or bolted shut with whatever scrap the previous tenants could find. Faded paint peels off the wooden exterior, vines curling hungrily up the walls.

You sit up straighter, blinking the sleep from your eyes. The air is heavy with the scent of damp wood and something metallic lurking underneath. Nanami and Ino are already getting out, stretching stiffly, weapon gripped tight.

Satoru lingers by your side for a moment longer, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod once, though your body screams otherwise. You’re exhausted, sick to your stomach, and mentally fraying at the seams. But what else is new?

You shove the door open and step out into the dying light.

The ground crunches under your shoes—glass, debris, God knows what else.

Nanami’s already surveying the perimeter, and Ino’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a damn puppy, coming up to your side. 

Satoru comes around the front of the car, twirling the knife lazily between his fingers.

“Alright,” he says, voice deceptively light, “let’s clear us a place to sleep, shall we?”

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, holding the tote in your other hand. If the motel wasn’t infested before… it might be soon. One way or another, tonight would be anything but restful.

“I can carry that for you.” Ino’s voice chirps up, hands hovering above the straps of your backpack and the tote. 

You cast him a glance. “I don’t need a lovesick fool like you helping me.”

Ino physically recoils like you slapped him, hands awkwardly pulling back to his sides. “Ouch,” he mumbles, pouting a little as he kicks a pebble at his foot.

Satoru snorts loudly from a few steps ahead, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “Don’t take it personal, Ino. She’s mean to everyone she likes,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes but don’t bother correcting him.

If Ino were smart, he’d learn fast that getting attached to you would be the worst mistake he could make. Nanami, who’s been silently scouting the building’s outer edges, returns to the group. “The doors on the east side are less barricaded. We’ll start there,” he says, jerking his chin toward a crumbling walkway.

Satoru spins his knife once before catching it neatly by the handle.

“Let’s get this over with.”

And without waiting for a response, he strides forward, the rest of you trailing behind into the mouth of the rotting motel.

The entrance groans ominously as Satoru shoves the door open with his shoulder, the hinges protesting with a metallic whine. The inside smells even worse—like mildew, rotted wood, and the faint, stomach-churning tang of decay. You instinctively pull your shirt over your nose, muscles tensing as your eyes adjust to the gloom.

Wallpaper peels in long, curling strips. The carpet is stained beyond recognition. Furniture, if you can even call it that anymore, is overturned and gutted like some desperate animal tore through it.

Satoru moves first, knife gleaming even in the low light, every step calculated and soft. Nanami follows close behind, baseball bat held at the ready.

You take up the rear, feeling Ino nervously hover too close behind you. Every cracked door you pass feels like it’s hiding something. Every faint creak or scuttle in the shadows has your heart hammering against your ribs.

Satoru raises a hand—a silent signal.

You all freeze.

He points to a door slightly ajar at the end of the hall.

The room number, barely clinging to the wall above it, reads 207. A faint shuffle echoes from inside. Without a word, Satoru inches closer, signaling for Nanami to flank the opposite side.

You press yourself against the wall, holding your breath.

The air is so thick with tension you feel like you might choke on it. A beat. Another. Then Satoru kicks the door open.

What greets you isn’t a monster, but something else—

A man.

Disheveled, gaunt, eyes wild and sunken in, brandishing a rusty piece of pipe like a cornered animal.

He shrieks wordlessly and lunges. Satoru is faster. In one clean, brutal movement, he sidesteps and slams the man face-first into the floor, the knife pressed warningly against the side of his neck. The man thrashes weakly, but it’s clear he’s more bark than bite.

“Not infected,” Nanami states flatly, voice void of surprise.

Satoru leans down slightly, voice cold and low. “Then what the hell are you doing here, huh?”

The man whimpers, lips trembling. “H-hiding. Please—please don’t kill me.”

Your stomach churns unpleasantly.

If you hadn’t gotten here first, how long until this guy would’ve turned desperate enough to bash your head in for supplies?

Satoru sighs heavily, straightening and backing off. “Lucky you.”

The man scrambles away from him like a kicked dog, disappearing into the shadows at the far end of the building without a second glance back.

No one speaks for a long moment.

The quiet creeps in again, heavier than before. “Well,” Satoru says at last, sheathing his knife with a soft click. “At least it’s not infested.”

Nanami looks unimpressed. Ino looks like he might faint. You just tighten your grip on your sanity and steel yourself. This motel would be your home for the night. Whether you liked it or not.

“How do we know he won’t come back to try and kill us in our sleep?” You ask out, looking at Satoru. 

Satoru tilts his head slightly, considering the question for a moment. His gaze flickers to the dark hallway behind you, then back to you. His expression is unreadable, though there’s a hint of something—calculated amusement or maybe something darker. “Because,” he says, voice smooth and casual, “if he had any intentions, he’d have already acted. A man like that, desperate and alone, wouldn’t have hesitated to take a swing if he thought he could get away with it.” He shrugs, as if the thought of being attacked in his sleep is more of a nuisance than a legitimate concern.

“You don’t survive this long by being dumb,” he adds. “He’s got no fight left in him. If he does come back, we’ll be ready. And if he doesn’t, well, then we can just go to bed.”

You stare at him, skeptical.

“Not that easy,” Nanami mutters from behind you, running his fingers through his disheveled hair. “But, I suppose it’s better than camping outside and hoping we don’t get surrounded.”

You can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s not fully convinced, but it’s clear he’s willing to go along with Satoru’s plan. He shoots a glance at Ino, who’s still looking pale but seems to be getting a grip on himself.

“Alright,” you finally say, your voice steady despite the storm of thoughts running through your head. “So, we post watches then.”

“Exactly,” Satoru agrees easily, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “I’ll take first, and Nanami can take second. Ino—” He glances over at the younger man, who’s busy trying to wipe away the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You can take third. Sound fair?”

Ino nods quickly, still looking somewhat out of his element. “Got it!”

You’re still on edge, but at least there’s some plan in place. Satoru’s smirk flickers and then fades as he steps past you toward the lobby area. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” he says, his voice dropping in volume as he goes. “We’re not out of this yet.”

You take a deep breath and follow him, your mind still racing. The man who’d been hiding in the room is long gone, but the unease doesn’t leave. If you could trust anything right now, it was that nothing in this place was what it seemed. You could hear the faint hum of a distant generator somewhere in the building, the flickering of lights above your head. It was a temporary shelter, and nothing more.

“Let’s just get through tonight,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

Nanami gives you a look that’s almost approving, like he understands where you’re coming from.

Satoru glances back, pausing just long enough for you to meet his eyes, his expression shifting briefly. “Tomorrow, we move out. Find a more stable safe house, we can’t keep moving every night.”

Tomorrow. The word doesn’t feel real anymore. Nothing feels real. You nod, letting the silence drag you into the night.

After carefully looking through each room on the first floor, you all decide to camp out in the room furthest down the hall on the second floor. Two beds with a dusty TV in front. You claim the bed closest to the window, dropping your things onto it with a huff. The sheets look like they could be cleaner. But it beats having to sleep on the ground. You can only hope and pray no bugs crawl into your ears during the night. 

“Alright, princess gets her own bed and we three can share the other one like a bunch of best buddies.” Satoru claps, setting his bag down. 

“I’m not cuddling you.”

“You say that now, Nanamin.”

Nanami rolls his eyes, moving to dump his things onto the second bed with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d rather sleep standing than anywhere near you two.” His voice is dry, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him. 

Ino, however, seems oddly enthusiastic. “I’m okay with the whole ‘sharing’ thing! It’ll be like a sleepover.” His nervous energy still buzzing around him like an annoying fly. “Do we have snacks? I can go check the vending machine downstairs.”

You glance at him, wondering if he’s genuinely this optimistic or just trying to distract himself from the unsettling situation. Either way, his excitement feels out of place here, like a reminder that there are still moments in the world to be happy—even if it’s as small as a vending machine snack.

“Relax, Ino,” Satoru says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll keep watch, but don’t get too comfortable thinking you’re gonna snack your way through the end of the world.”

Ino makes a disappointed noise but doesn’t protest. Instead, he lies down on the bed, his hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. His gaze flickers from you to Satoru, then back to the far corner of the room, where the faint outlines of shadows play in the dying light of the day.

“So,” he begins, breaking the silence that had settled uncomfortably in the room, “anyone have any stories or something? You know, to help us forget how much the world sucks right now?”

You shoot him a look, unsure if he’s trying to lighten the mood or if he genuinely wants to pass the time. The last thing you want to do is start talking about the old world, but it’s hard to ignore that he’s reaching out for some kind of comfort, even if it’s misguided.

Satoru leans back against the wall, his usual smirk back in place, though it’s a little more tired now. “I’ve got plenty of stories, but none of them are gonna make you feel better. Trust me.”

Nanami shoots him a look from across the room. “Keep it to yourself, Satoru. We don’t need your ‘life wisdom’ right now.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the weight in the air slightly lift. For the first time since entering this damn motel, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. At least for tonight, the world could feel a little more like it was before. Even if it was just for a few hours. As Satoru takes his position by the window, keeping watch for any signs of movement outside, you curl into the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. There’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. But for tonight, you allow yourself a small moment of peace.

Let’s see if you can even get a wink of sleep tonight.

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

@ac27dj @aquariusscollection @itzkawaiix @a-trashbag @satorugirlie

[sapphicantics]

Two Sides of the Same Coin | Chapter Two

Pairing: Regina George x fem!reader

Summary: After a nobody destroys the Jocks and insults the Queen Bee without a care or an apology, you get catapulted to the top of the social food chain next to aforementioned Queen Bee, Regina George, who now has to learn to share the spotlight with North Shore’s new bad girl. | Or alternatively, your ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude sucks you and Regina into each other’s worlds sending you down a path you never expected.

Word count: 1.5k

Contents: mentions of violence, reader might be coming off a bit toxic but she’s meant to be cocky, angry!Regina, sexual tension???, explicit language, a little stalking, more shitty comebacks, think that’s all let me know if I missed any

Note: Well, this chapter took a different turn than I was expecting but honestly I think this is better than what was originally planned. Certain parts of this chapter made me cackle while writing and I hope it makes you cackle too so enjoy my shitty sense of humor

Intro - Chapter One

— — — —

Assuming it’d be a hell of a day might have been a little dramatic.

It’s been a day so far, sure, but nothing different than what you’re used to.

You’ve got a busted lip and your knuckles are sore from, for lack of a better term, bashing Christian Wiggins face in this morning and sending him to the nurse’s office. Perhaps, you’d feel guilty if it wasn’t for the fact that he busted your lip open first.

As often as you have been getting into fights, you thought someone would have noticed by now that you don’t ever throw the first punch - thus granting you the excuse of self-defense.

Though, even if they did know the jocks have far less self control than you and would never be able to refrain from reacting to the things you say.

Speaking of refraining from reacting, Regina has been watching you all day. She still is, right now. Well, technically Gretchen is watching you, but you know she’s doing it because Regina told her to and you know she’s gonna report back to Regina immediately because Regina told her to.

Seems a little obsessive of her, really.

Which is funny considering.

Whatever, you don’t have anything to do with that. If Regina wants to have her little minions following you around then that’s her business.

Also you’re pretty sure Regina intended for Gretchen to be discreet and not make it obvious that she’s watching you, but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe Regina wants you to know she’s watching.

That sounds like something she’d do as an act of intimidation, or even just for fun so you wouldn’t put it past her.

Either way, you know Gretchen is there.

You wouldn’t find this weird because you two do share this class. Normally, you guys sit on opposite sides of the room from each other, but Gretchen is now sitting three seats behind you - not too far away where she can’t see you clearly, but not close enough to where it’s obvious.

( Or maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious if you showed up to class on time, but since you didn’t it was immediately apparent that she switched seats. )

You ignore it because one: you don’t care, and two: what exactly are you gonna do about it? Gretchen’s already anxious enough having to deal with Regina’s bitchiness daily, you’re not about to worsen it by confronting her over something so trivial.

You catch her taking pictures of you and typing rapidly on her phone moments after you have this thought, and now you just have to confront her.

You catch her after the bell before she can escape the classroom, throwing your arm over her shoulder and steering her away from the door. She squeaks as you do so, tightening her grip on her belongings. “So Gretchen, mind telling me why you were taking photos of me when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

She stammers, her eyes widening. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t taking pictures of you.”

“Right. So if I took your phone and went to your messages with Regina I wouldn’t find pictures with live updates you’ve been sending her during class?”

Gretchen’s hand tightens even more on her phone if that’s possible, her knuckles turning white with how hard her grip is.

That’s answer enough for you.

“Yeah that’s what I thought. Do me a favor,” you hum, leaning closer to Gretchen. “Tell Regina, and I want you to tell her word for word what I’m about to say, to stop acting like a little bitch and sending her minions to spy on me instead of coming to see me face-to-face.”

Gretchen’s mouth drops open. “I can’t say that to her! She’ll kill me!”

“You’ll be fine as long as you mention my name immediately,” you wave off her concerns which is kind of a rude thing to do, but the whole school already thinks you’re a rude person so may as well uphold the reputation. “Word for word, Gretchen. I’ll know if you don’t.”

That sounds vaguely like a threat that implies you’re gonna come after her if she doesn’t say it word for word. You’re not, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Go on, Gretchen, you’ve only got a minute and a half before the next class starts, and I’m sure you know how Regina feels about being kept waiting.”

You take your arm off her shoulders and after a moment, she peels out of the classroom, rushing off to Regina.

You sigh and shake your head, you feel bad for that because Gretchen did not deserve your threats and she doesn’t deserve the ire she’s about to get from Regina.

You’d apologize, but you’re sure you’ll never be able to get close to Gretchen again after this.

It’s too late to take it back now so you exit the room and head off to your next class on the opposite side of the school.

— — — —

North shore doesn’t allow students to leave the school early without prior consent from a parent or guardian, or under special circumstances, which you have neither of right now. They don’t really have a way to stop you from leaving, but they will call home and Principal Duvall will pull you into his office in the morning for a lecture, and those are headaches waiting to happen that you’d rather avoid. So even though you’d rather be anywhere else, you’re spending your free period — your last class of the day — lounging around in the cafeteria.

You’re sitting criss-cross atop a table, elbow resting bent upon your knee while your chin rests in the palm of your hand. You’re staring out the window, a single earbud in while Hayley Kiyoko plays in your ear.

You hum along under your breath, a faint clicking noise drawing your eyes to the cafeteria entrance. The doors burst open and in walks Regina, her eyes honing in on you like a target. Her fury is palpable even from here and it makes you smirk knowing you’re able to get under her skin — knowing you’re the only one able to get under her skin like this.

Does this say a lot about you? That you find joy in making Regina angry?

Yes, probably, but why shouldn’t you find joy in calling a bully out on their shit.

Regina slams her hands on the table in front of you interrupting your thoughts. Her glare is intense, and if you were anyone else you’d be cowering under her gaze. Instead, you cock an eyebrow, completely un-phased by the blonde in front of you.

“Something I can do for you, George?”

“You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? You think you can call me a bitch and get away with it; with no consequences?”

“Oh, no, does the big bad Queen Bee not like being called what she knows she is?” You pout mockingly at her. “Is that all it takes for you to lose your cool, being called a bitch?”

You laugh loudly at that.

It stokes the flames of Regina’s anger and she yanks you up by your collar, your shoes scraping the edge of the table before landing harshly on the floor as Regina slams you against the wall.

Huh, look at that. Prissy pink princess Regina George has the muscles to throw you around.

This is quite the development.

“Congratulations George, you’ve made it about two steps further than anyone else ever has. Think carefully about your next move, lest I let my instincts take over and I fuck up that pretty little face of yours.”

“You have no idea who you’re messing with. I will ruin your life.” She growls at you, ignoring your words.

“Threatening to ruin my life,” you tilt your head in amusement, leaning your face closer to hers. “Seems rather obsessive of you, George. Perhaps you wanna kiss me first. That’s quite on brand for you.”

Regina’s jaw clenches and her grip on you tightens. She goes to speak, but the bell ringing to signal the end of the day cuts her off and you smirk. “You might wanna let me go. If anyone walks by they’ll think you’re making out with me and then everyone will be calling you Sissy Liz, and we can’t have that, now can we?”

Wow, threatening to fight Regina and bringing up her old friendship with Janis — twice, in two different ways — all in a span of like forty-five seconds is absolutely insane.

Regina scowls at you, her eyes practically alight with malice. She doesn’t want to let you go because if she does that means you win, that means you get away with disrespecting her for the third time with no consequences, and no one wins against her, no one is supposed to win against her ever, but you’ve done it twice now and you’re about to do it again.

She shoves you harshly against the wall one last time at the realization and, wow, you’re really priding yourself at the moment because the fact that she’s still standing when anyone else would be on the ground right now speaks volumes to your self-control, but then anyone else would’ve hit you by now so maybe it speaks more to Regina’s intelligence that she’s not.

“This is not over.” With that she turns on her heel and storms away, leaving you with a smirk as you watch her retreating figure.

[melswifeasf]

You were never mine

Fandom: Yellowjackets

Pairing: Natalie Scatorccio x fem!reader

Genre: angst.

words: 6.9k

Warnings: major character death, heartbreaking angst and slight sexual themes.

Summary: you loved Natalie more than anything, until your dying breath.

Notes: this one is a sad one so be prepared. ngl i cried while writing this.

not spell checked!

first loves always came and went. at least that is what you had heard since your were a kid. truthfully you had never cared much when your mom said that, even when you were fifteen and you were at the age in which most fell in love for the first time. you'd never cared to listen because you weren't in love. you couldn't understand when she would tell you that your first love will be painful and it will probably make you want to never fall in love again but you would. you never understood it.

until you met Natalie Scatorccio. it had been love at first sight. it was cliche and sounded stupid to anyone else but you didn't expect anyone to understand.

you had tried out for the soccer team per your fathers request. you weren't really interested in it but he was a man that loved sports and you were an only child so he didn't have a son to share his passion with. he didn't force you, simply suggested that it would be fun. even if you weren't the greatest or knew much about it, he insisted that you were on the track team and that you would make new friends and memories that would last you a lifetime. maybe he was right about one thing. you were sure Natalie would be engraved into your memory until your dying breath.

she hadn't paid much attention to you at first, you guys weren't in the same social class so she figured you'd be snobby and bitchy. that was until coach Ben had paired her up with you to help you on some of the skills you were lacking. that had been the first time you had talked, the first time you weren't left admiring her beauty. she was nice. or indifferent, mostly. she knew you hung out with the 'popular' kids and that your parents were rich and she didn't want to tension to form on the team so she figured being quiet would be easier to deal with you.

that was the case at first. until the girls on the team started to hang out outside of practice. Jackie said it was to make you guys bond but you would've loved to be around them regardless. you were closer to Lottie and Jackie, both closer to your social status which meant you shared a lot of friends. you had thrown a party one October night and invited all of the girls on the team. all of them had gone except for Misty, you weren't the biggest fan of her and you assumed she felt the same about you considering you had caught her sending glares at you more than once during or after practice. sometimes even in the hallways which really weirded you out. you'd never been mean to her or said anything, really. whatever her deal was, you didn't care to investigate.

that night you had gotten drunk and got a little too bold. more so then you were used to. you had kissed people before during parties or even got close to hooking up but you'd always stop, not really wanting to give up your virginity to some loser or a girl that probably had a boyfriend and would ditch you the next day. but Natalie wasn't one of those girls. she didn't have a boyfriend, she wouldn't ditch you the next morning or act as if she were straight and you had somehow forced her to do something. she was Natalie.

it was two in the morning when the party was over and you felt her lips all over your body. you weren't that drunk, your thoughts and sentences were coherent. you didn't want to drink much because you had a game the next day and didn't want to slack off. Natalie seemed to have felt the same. you could taste some vodka on her but she seemed pretty sober to you. aside from the alcohol you weren't sure if she had gotten high or something but that didn't really bug you. her wandering hands were making your thighs squeeze together along with her wet lips. she left a couple hickeys on your neck but nothing you couldn't cover the next morning with some makeup.

her hands were everywhere, gripping all over and discarding all of your clothes until you were only left in your underwear. you'd never forget the look in her eyes. it wasn't just lust or hunger, there was a glimmer of something else but a part of you thought you were just imagining it. in a way it was just to make yourself believe that there was a chance. that night before things could progress any further you had told her it was your first time. a part of you expected her to feel awkward and pull away, leaving you there nude and chest heaving. she didn't. she kissed you softly, unlike all of her other kisses and asked you if you were sure. you answered by pulling her into a deep kiss.

Natalie had been the one to make you feel that bliss for the first time. she had been the one to take that part of you and you had no regrets. it didn't matter that she wasn't there when you woke up or that she would kiss you before or after practice once you were alone. it didn't matter that she'd sneak into your room at night to fuck then leave before you had awaken. it didn't matter that she didn't love you because at least you had her. in sone fucked up way you had her. you knew you were the only person she was hooking up with, she had confirmed that early one when you asked about stds and if you should get checked. that made you feel ecstatic, knowing she only ever came to you.

sweat stuck to your body as if you had just gotten out of the shower. your hair was messy and tangled and you could feel your body growing sore from the aftershock of what had just happened. her hand was holding yours tightly from under the sheets and it was probably as sore as your body from every time you'd squeeze it a little too tight. it was silent apart from your ragged breath. your chest was falling and rising heavily and the blankets were making your body feel overheated.

then Natalie popped out from underneath the blankets with a small smirk as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. it was a sight your sure you'd never get tired of. when she was at your level, you could see her bare chest and her hair was almost as frazzled as yours from when you had tangled your hands in it. the cocky smirk she was wearing made you roll your eyes and softly punch her shoulder.

"shut up," you said, a blush coating your cheeks. your face was already pink from the intercourse but even then, your blushing was more than obvious and it made Natalie stop for a second.

"i didn't do anything," she chuckled holding her hands up. you rolled your eyes while pulling the cover further up your body.

"you didn't have to," you responded. "i know what your thinking."

the blondes eyebrow rose in question and she held herself up with one hand, looking down at you. some of her hair fell down her face and you could feel it softly tickle your face so you reached up and tucked it under her ear. the action earned a small, almost ghosting smile on the blondes lips that if you weren't looking, you would have missed. "what am i thinking?" the blonde questioned in a murmur. it was the tone she'd use to try and get you to bed, the tone she'd use when she had hand down your pants or when she would want to leave you hot and bothered. the tone that made you realize she wanted more. "how hot you are after cumming on my tongue?"

almost immediately you felt your face warm up, "shut up." you whispered, very obviously embarrassed. Natalie chuckled softly and you leaned up to kiss her softly. it was always that way with you, her kisses were almost always rough and fast, filled with passion and lust while yours were slow and loving. it was something she couldn't stand, something that always made her run away.

much like she did that night. Natalie pulled away from your a second after and got up and off the bed although faster then you could open your eyes. it wasn't unusual and yet somehow it still surprised you. it was pathetic and almost comical how you'd always be left in shock, processing the way she had just made you feel euphoric and then miserable in the matter of literal seconds.

when you did open your eyes, you were met with sight of her pulling her jeans up. her bra was on by then and you could see that she had fixed her hair. and like always, you stupidly asked the same thing you always did, "want to stay? my parents won't be home for a while and i can drive you home tomorrow." you said, hope filled in your tone. hope that meant nothing, hope that broke your heart, the same hope that had no room in you after so many rejections.

Natalie shook her head as she reached for her shirt, "cant." she said simply. as if it were the most indifferent thing, as if it mattered less than a penny on the street. because you didn't matter, not really. you were someone who she had fun with, the girl that would let her do anything she wanted whenever she wanted. it didn't matter if it was two in the morning or the middle of third period, you'd wake up or sneak out of class just for her. even if you were exhausted or taking a test. she was more important then anything and everything.

you were fun and adventurous and liked to do new things. not to mention the fact that you were pretty and had a nice car and almost always had weed, all things Natalie loved. the only things she ever really noticed. she never saw the way your eyes would always find hers in the middle of a crowded room, never saw the way youd always defend her name with your friends that she'd call snobby. never noticed what your favorite song was or the fact that you loved romcoms because they showed the love you craved. never noticed what your favorite flowers were or that you scrunched your nose when you thought something was adorable. she never cared to notice that you loved her.

it wasn't new and it shouldn't hurt by how many times she had done it and yet it still did. it still left your chest tightening and your throat burning as it would when you'd silent your sobs. it left your eyes burning as if you were having a staring contest with someone and desperately needed to blank. it still left that dread in your stomach, the one you'd feel before getting the results of a test and the one that would leave you feeling sick.

when she was fully dressed, neither of you said a word. she didn't have anything to say while you were trying to keep any emotion a secret. you didn't bother trying to promise yourself that this was just her hiding her feelings, that this was her too afraid to love you back. they were so overused they did more hurt then comfort.

your eyes never left her, not when she turned toward you fully dressed and said, "see you." before leaving without another word or a glance back. when your door closed behind her, it all came pouring out. there was no more hiding it, no more keeping your emotions at bay. you just weren't strong enough for that anymore.

a week after that night, all of your lives changed for the worst.

the plane fell on your way to nationals. what was supposed to be a quick plane ride turned into all of your being stranded in a forest with no hope of being found. at first most of you did but as the days went on all of you started to lose hope progressively. you tried to keep a positive mind but it failed you. there was no point in having hope when you'd just get let down. you didn't have any major injuries, just a couple scratches but nothing that wouldn't heal with time. three days into being stranded Taissa found a lake which followed to finding a cabin. it was nice. at least nicer than having to sleep outside with all sorts of animals.

a lot had changed. most of your relationships had at least. you grew closer to Shauna and Taissa during the short time you'd been there. you half expected to get closer to Natalie and maybe free the reigns she felt from being able to call you guys official. you hoped that without prying eyes and the need to conform to social status that maybe she could take your relationship seriously. you were wrong. so incredibly wrong and it hurt. instead of getting closer to you she was getting closer to Travis. of course she would choose him over you, it wasn't even surprising at that point.

she chose a random guy she had just met to grow feelings for rather than you. the person who had been there everyday. the person who would welcome her with open arms or needed a quick fuck in the middle of the night. you had been there as much as she allowed you to be but of course that still wasn't enough.

the night sky was littered with lights as the full moon reflected on the water. Natalie stood behind you with her arms wrapped around your waist. there were still times in which she would show you affection, mostly when she was angry at Travis or the other way around and this was one of those times. you knew it was toxic and that it was only hurting you but somehow you couldn't stop yourself. having her even just in these small moments was enough. she could never be yours but she was yours, just for that moment. maybe that could be enough.

her lips were being pressed against your neck, her hands softly caressing at your hips making you smile softly. you turned your body around so you could face her completely, your hands finding the back of her neck so you could pull her into a soft kiss.

even if you knew she'd ignore you tomorrow morning, even if you knew that she'd go back to pining over Travis as if he put the stars in the sky for her. even if you'd end up with a broken heart because at least you'd have small moments like these engraved in your memories.

the post orgasm haze was still present and Natalie was aware of that so she placed her hands on the back of your thighs which made you wrap your legs around her waist and let her carry you. her lips were hungry and hot. your lips were grazing her teeth and you could feel a bruise forming, her hands were under your buttocks to keep you from falling and her grasp was strong and rough. everything always was with her, she'd leave marks on you, ones you couldn't cover because of how dark they were or she'd leave bruises on your body. never unwanted and the pain always made you climax faster. but they were marks, ones that came from her and you hated them. what at first made you blush when you'd look at them turned into a sick feeling forming in your stomach and your chest compressing. they weren't anything to be proud of because at the end of the day, she'd never let you leave even a scratch on her.

your body was spent but when she reached down to press her fingers against you, you didn't stop her. a moan left your lips but it was swallowed by her eager lips. the feeling of it all was too much and it made you grip the back of her neck tightly. when she pulled away, it wasn't far. her lips met your neck where they began to leave wet kisses before it turned into sucking and biting. "fuck Nat," you moaned. that made her proud and you could almost feel her smirk against your skin.

maybe you should have realized that you made her feel good. before during  and after sex, you made her feel good. while she only gave you two out of three, she'd always have the advantage of knowing that you were hers while you could only have her when she was horny.

then she began to put more pressure which elicited a small gasp from you. "your doing so good," she praised softly against your neck. those words always made the hairs on your skin to rise and a wave of pleasure to corse through you. all things she knew and always took advantage of.

those words seemed to click something in you. what would once make you quiver made everything click. you were good, good to her. she liked that. she knew how you felt. it was obvious to anyone with eyes. when you'd ask her to spend the night, when you'd listen to the same music she did so you could talk about something, when you'd bring in an extra snack so she had something to eat before practice. the way you would smile at her in the hallways and how all of the sudden no one talked shit to her.

all of those thoughts made you each your breaking point. the pleasure turned numb and all you could focus on was the way tears began to fall and a sob was going to escape your throat. the feelings you had been keeping inside for so long were slowly seeping through the cracks of the border you made around your heart. every memory, every word she had said to make that wall grow higher and higher was starting to launch against it like a bomb. she had been the one to bring those walls up so high and she'd be the one to break them.

Natalie noticed right away. she felt a tear drop against her shoulder and your chest stuttered against her own. when she pulled away from your neck, her eyes met your teary ones and she stopped instantly. "what's wrong? did i hurt you?" she asked worriedly. her brows were pinched together and you could see the way her lips were pulled into a small frown. she was worried and she cared for you. in that moment at least.

yes, you wanted to say. 'you hurt me' was all you could think but you couldn't say it. maybe she hadn't meant to hurt you, maybe she never realized how you felt about her. all things you so badly wanted to believe so you could stop the horrible feeling in your chest. but you shook your head and a cry left your lips. Natalie reached up to wipe away your tears and in that moment, her touch was so soft and loving that maybe things could change. maybe she could feel the same.

maybe she was just scared to admit how she felt or to get attached so she did what everyone always did, pull away from the person you love. and so the words left your lips like acid, as if they burned so terribly she couldn't bare even touching you. "i love you."

they were said. the words you had thought about for so long were finally in the air and they had been heard by her. there was no more hiding, no more keeping your feelings a secret. there was nothing that could unsay those words and nothing that could make her unhear them. for a second you almost thought she hadn't heard you by her lack of reaction but when she pulled away from you and your body almost fell if it weren't for you quick reaction, you knew.

even in the darkness you could see the way her face flashed in disgust and the way all and any trace of worry evaporated. nothing but confusion and disgust was present.

nothing could explain how desperately you wished to take those words back in that moment.

"what?" she said almost laughing. it was a fleeting moment, a moment in which she almost thought you were joking but then she realized how hurt you looked and that thought vanished.

"Natalie-" you took a step toward but she immediately took one back, as if you'd kill her if she didn't. the action intensified the already burning sensation in your throat and the lack of oxygen in your lungs. it burned to breathe, it hurt to blink and to even think.

"why would you do that?" she shook her head, confusion written all over her features.

"do what?" you asked, just as confused.

Natalie shook her head once more and her eyes broke away from yours, "why would you say that?"

her words didn't make the confusion go away, "because i mean it." you responded quickly. because you couldn't keep it a secret anymore and because you almost thought she'd say it back.

Natalie turned away from you, her back toward you. more tears fell at her actions and you wanted to wrap your arms around her but you didn't, unsure if she'd react badly. "fuck." the blonde almost screamed but she was still loud and her tone was harsh.

"how do i not love you?" you pressed, "i let you see me in way no one else has. i've spent almost every night with you for the past four months. you are fucking amazing and if you could just see that-"

"stop!" Natalie exclaimed and finally turned around. "stop saying that, stop talking." she snapped.

that hurt like a bullet. it hurt more than anything ever had and all you could feel were more tears fall. the pain was unexplainable, indescribable. it was a cliche almost because it truly felt like someone had held a gun up to your chest and didn't stop shooting until the clip was empty. not to mention the lump in your throat that burned, especially the way in which you were trying to silent your sobs.

the blonde ran her hands down her face roughly, "this was just sex," she said motioning between you and her. "i told you that from the beginning."

her words made a laugh ripple from your throat, "are you serious?" disbelief was present in your voice. "how do i stop myself from falling Natalie? do you want me to just turn off my emotions? to numb myself from any feelings? because i fucking cant! i cant just act like sex meanings nothing! as if being intimate with you doesn't mean anything!" you yelled, careless to if anyone could hear. because in your mind it was just you and her. in that moment no one else existed and you weren't stranded in the woods, you were simply standing in front of the girl you loved most and the girl who would break you heart completely.

Natalie's face didn't change. there was still nothing but anger present on her features, "if i could do it. so could you." the blonde said finally. and that was it. that was the final bullet the blonde needed to completely break the dam and all the water to rush out. every single emotion to pour out uncontrollably and infinitely.

there was nothing left to say. there was nothing you could say. nothing that would make her love you or take back the words that she just been said. she didn't love you. that was obvious and if it weren't for that stupid hope you always carried, you wouldn't have been blinded into believing she could feel it when you admitted the words out loud.

every interaction, every time you had sex, every time in which she'd ignore the hope in your tone when you'd ask her to stay or every time you'd look at her hurt when she'd smile at Travis. they were all moments in which she was practically screaming at you to let her go but you so stupidly believed she just didn't want to get hurt. how naive can a human be when in love.

finally, you pulled yourself together as much as you could and pried your teary eyes away from her. with the back of your hand, you roughly wiped the tears away as you began to walk past the blonde and toward the direction in which your clothes were. as soon as you knew she was too far to hear you, every emotion broke loose. your sobs racked your body making it shake and you closed your mouth tightly to prevent the noise from being too loud. you didn't care to wipe at your tears and you let yourself finally feel everything you so desperately needed to months ago.

leaving with Taissa and the couple of girls wasn't a hard decision. you wanted out of there, you wanted to go back home and simply never see any of them again. you couldn't anymore, you just couldn't. Taissa had a plan, to walk in one direction until you reached something, anything and even though a lot of people were against it, they couldn't exactly argue with her logic. you weren't the only one who wanted to go with Tai, so did Mari, Akhilah, Van and Misty at the last minute. everyone going for the same reason, not being able to wait another moment for help.

you couldn't just sit there with everyone, hoping that someone would find you because the chances were that no one would. if they could, they would've already done it. you were sure your parents thought you had died, wasn't hard to think that. you'd think the same if you were in their position. at first you didn't want them to stop looking, you wanted them to try and try until they searched every possible place but slowly, as the days passed you realized that they deserved happiness. they deserved peace and if they had given up, you couldn't blame them. accepting having lost someone was sometimes easier then thinking what if. you just hoped they'd be able to move on at some point, most likely not soon but at some point at the very least.

Natalie didn't say goodbye. it wasn't surprising. she had asked, no, begged Travis not to go though. you had heard their conversation while packing your own things and suddenly the decision to go didn't sound so bad. at least you wouldn't have to see their longing gaze, see them come back from hunting with love sick smiles and you wouldn't have to endure Natalie avoiding you as if even looking in your direction would kill her.

as expected, she simply ignored you after that night in the lake. what was once her dragging you away in the middle of the night turned into silence. sometimes she'd hold your hand until you fell asleep because she knew how hard it was for you to do so. now you held your own hand, whispered to yourself that you were okay and the panic attack you were enduring would go away.

when you hugged Lottie, Shauna and Jackie goodbye, the blonde didn't step up once. she stood back and watched. watched as they held you with fear and desperation. they hugged you so tightly, it almost crushed your ribs. they found the small comment quite funny, even through their tears when you said it. then it was time to leave and the only thing you got was her eyes meeting yours for less then a second before you turned around and left.

things were complicated with Taissa and the group, the compass stopped working and there was some blood river that apparently Lottie had dreamed of. and then you ran into an obstacle. a huge one at that. after walking for so long all of you needed a break so you stopped at a certain place in which Tiassa deemed best. one of them started a fire, you were too exhausted to remember who and when your eyes closed.. well everything turned for the worst.

wolves were something you’d see on tv, something you never thought you’d see up close but then again, there were a lot of things you didn’t think you’d do and you had to in the forest. that included shoving Vanessa Palmer out of the way so you’d get the worst of a bite. if only you had known that she’d get it pretty bad anyway. just not as bad as you.

all you could feel was pain. pain, pain, pain. everywhere, on your bloody leg, your bloody arm and it ran through your whole body. what could you do? what were you going to do? you didn’t know. death seemed inevitable in that moment, death seemed like the only answer, like the easier answer. suddenly death sounded peaceful, it sounded… like home.

but neither of the girls were going to leave you behind, even when you begged, even when you cried that it hurt, even when you passed out from the pain. why? because you were y/n l/n, the girl who would make them all laugh even after a bad game, the one who always worked with the team and never showed off or gloated, the one who saved Vanessa Palmer from being burned to death. so it didn’t matter how much you fought, how much you insulted them for not being smart and simply leaving you. none of it mattered because it would mean leaving you to die and they could never do that.

it was hard. so fucking hard. Van had a gash on her face but it wasn’t anything too bad, just enough for her to bleed through the cloth wrapped around her head. she and Taissa were the ones helping you, each of them having one of your arms wrapped around their necks. it was easier to walk at first, maybe it was the adrenaline or the fact that you still had blood in you. but as the sun set and you dragged your leg for miles, that blood kept gushing, that blood kept leaving your body until you were left sickly pale and your eyes could barely stay open.

death was inevitable. your born knowing you’d die, it’s the cycle of life. but dying at eighteen wasn’t part of that cycle, it wasn’t supposed to happen. kids are supposed to burry their parents, not the other way around. everyone wakes up knowing they could die that day but you never think it to be true. just like you didn’t think that would be the day you’d die.

but what if dying is the easy way out? what if dying then is easier then dying months from then when your traumatized and starved. what if dying them is easier when you still have the memory of your parents features and voice clear in your mind. what if dying then.. is the only way out. then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. your parents wouldn’t have to bury you and maybe just maybe, if the girls are ever found, they would have already mourned you and knowing of your death wouldn’t hurt so badly.

until you realized.. you’d be dying hating Natalie. you’d be dying with the words she said to Travis replaying in your head. you’d be dying with her last words being that you were pathetic for loving her. you’d be dying with a broken heart all while knowing the last time you kissed her was also the last time you loved her.

could you die like that? could you die not knowing what being loved felt like? could you die before you healed your first heartbreak? that wasn’t fair. how could that be fair? how could you die knowing you’d never be loved? knowing you’d never love someone and be loved unconditionally. you’d never have a fairytale love, the kind that brings you flowers and chocolates or dedicates a song to you. the kind of love that hurts because of how much you both love each other. equally.

at some point, you blacked out. you weren’t sure when it happened or how it even happened, it was probably the blood though. all you knew was that one second you could hear your name along with Van and Tais being called before your eyelids grew heavy and everything went black. then you were warm.. and there was a hand holding yours tightly. there were droplets hitting your skin and you could feel someone’s face pressed up against your own as they sobbed loudly.

it was when you found the strength to wake up.

Natalie. it was Natalie who was holding you. her scent was unmistakably hers. it was always vanilla and cigarettes except this time there wasn’t much of the cigarettes but even then.. it was Natalie. your Natalie.

when your eyes lulled awake, she broke apart just a little so she could meet your eyes. “hey it’s okay. Misty’s looking at your leg.” she said. you knew. she knew too but her desperation wouldn’t let her see that. but you didn’t tell her that.

“guess i kind of lost to a wolf, huh?” you tried to joke but your sentence wasn’t completed without a couple of coughs and wheezes.

Natalie tried to smile through her tears but you could see the pain behind her eyes. “i lied.” she said quickly. you knew it then too. somehow you had each become a cliche, one you wished to never be. “i didn’t mean any of those things. i didn’t think i deserved you. your so amazing and kind and you make everyone feel safe and i didn’t deserve that. i don’t deserve you so i pushed you away because i knew i’d end up breaking you.” she continued. her tears were falling desperately, they were one after another and you couldn’t help but reach up with your healthy hand and wipe them away. when you did, her hand held yours against her face. she felt so warm compared to your freezing touch and it felt so safe.

“i thought that pushing you away would be better, that you’d get over me and find someone worthy of you.” she continued. you knew what was coming next. you knew what she would say and in a fucked up way, you couldn’t bring yourself to hear them. not like this and not then.

“don’t.” you shook your head. the color from your face was gone, leaving nothing but a pale and discolored shade. your warm and inviting eyes were slowly fading. your smile was weak and it wasnt the one that would make everyone around you smile with you.

Natalie shook her head, “i love you.” she finally said. she said it. the words you had been wanting to hear for so long where finally said and you were dying. how was that fair? how could that ever be fair? why didn’t you deserve love? why couldn’t you have a love so beautiful that when you took your last breath, at least you knew you experienced that love once in your life.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that. she was supposed to say those words in the starlit night, with nothing but water around you and the intimacy of having her nude body pressed up against yours. you were supposed to kiss her until neither of you could breathe and you were supposed to whisper in her ear to prove just how much she loved you. your love was supposed to be meaningful, your love story deserved to be longer, to be sweeter, to last. it was supposed to be for the books.

instead your bleeding out in her arms with your last moment being her screaming at you that loving her was pathetic.

the words had been said and there was nothing left to do. nothing you could do but weakly pull her down so she could kiss you. what was always rushed and passionate kisses was a slow and weak one. your warm lips weren’t skilled and sensual, they were just another reminder of your ticking time. but that didn’t matter. not to you and not her. it would be the last kiss you shared, the last time she’d feel you pour your love into it, the last time she’d feel your hand caressing her face and the last time she’d feel this.

when she pulled away, there were tears in your eyes too. you weren’t ready to die. every thought you had before was gone. you weren’t ready. you still wanted to hug your parents again, you wanted to go to college with the girl you loved, you wanted to have more time with Natalie and all of your friends. you weren’t ready to die but it was useless.

and for the last time ever, “i love you, too.” you managed to weakly whisper. the heart that would beat so rapidly when you last said those words was slow and weak. she could barely feel a hum against your chest. how could she have been so selfish? why didn’t she enjoy the way your heart hammered against your chest when she’d lay on it? after you’d have sex and you’d press your body against here? when you told her you loved her? why didn’t she memorize the rhythm of your heart? why why why?

it was time. you know it. it was getting hard to breathe and the more you tried, the more it hurt. with as much strength as you could muster, you whispered. “remember me, sometimes.” they were lousy words but they were the only thing you wanted. even if it wasn’t always, you at least wanted to be remembered sometimes. maybe when she listened to Queen since it was the only artist you shared. maybe in lillie’s, like the ones you always had in your room. maybe when she looked at the sky or when she thinks the best thing to do is to push the person she loves away. you’ll be the reminder to never take love for granted.

Natalie cried at your words, those words that left a whole in her heart, the words that would leave scars and wounds she’d never be able to heal. “you’ll be the only thing i’ll remember.” she said back. her words made your lips curl just a tad.

then it happened. you took your final breath. your heart stopped breathing. your eyes were left lifeless and your touch slipped from her face. there was nothing left but your lifeless body in her own.

finally, everything she held in while you were with her was finally let out. her sobs were so loud and she didn’t care that everyone in the room could see. that everyone was silently watching with tears in their own eyes. she clutched your body so tightly against her chest, almost as if you’d move away. her cries were so loud they were like a howl on a full moon.

her body rocked with your lifeless body in her arms. crying, screaming, sobbing. her cries of pain were nothing short of heartbreaking. every fiber of her being hurt. she was in fucking agony.

she couldn’t accept it, she wouldn’t. her hand softly shook your face and when you didn’t react, she put you on the ground gently before she began to pump your chest with her hands. her tears kept running down her face and landing on your body as she continued to press against your chest in a steady rhythm. that stupid song in the back of her head. she was trying her fucking hardest. why wasn’t that enough? no one dared to say a thing, not even Travis who stood back and watched with tears in his eyes.

it didn’t matter how much she tried, you didn’t wake up. not after a minute, not after two and not after three. even when she begged, “please come back.” she whispered through her actions. until finally, she stopped. when she did, her shaky hands reached your face and she gently cradled it. she memorized every freckle, every eyelash, every little mark on your face. she memorized the way your lips felt under her fingertips and the color of your eyes. the eyes that would never look at her again. the eyes that she wouldn’t meet across the room, the eyes that wouldn’t look at her in pain, ever again. the eyes she ignored so many times. she felt so fucking stupid then.

but they weren’t your eyes. not anymore so she shakily closed them. when she did, she slowly buried her face in your chest. her arms holding you tightly as she cried softly. as she remembered your scent, as she felt your body in her arms for the last time ever.

Natalie Scatorccio was completely and utterly heartbroken.

you were dead. even when you weren’t ready to. but at least you loved her until your dying breath.

[tetedurfarm]

I know I just have goat fever right now daydreaming, but I would love to hear about your goats. What's their purpose, most annoying trait, anything at all

i am so sorry in advance because i am always brutal when people want animals that i own and they ask me for my opinion. it's a personality flaw. but i need people to understand why animals suck before i say why they are fun lmao

why goat:

my goats are for milk mainly. i have a nigerian dwarf, a mini nubian, a mostly-nigerian 'mini-nubian', and a kinder. their milk is actually really good, all of them, and their production is good for my needs. i expect each to make about half a litre or so a day at peak production this year, going off of numbers from last year. it will be violet's third freshening, and phoebe's second, and they generally increase in production every year for the first three or four years before levelling off. i am not planning to breed hallow unless i find someone with a nigerian buck that they don't mind letting me borrow, cos derek is just way too big for her i fear. turnip will be on her first freshening. i prefer the mini nubians and kinders to the nigerians because they have more ground clearance and bigger teats so it's easier to use a machine on them. hand milking the itty bitty titties isn't awful but i try not to hand milk if possible lol

i do eat kids because i can't sell them, and they are dairy goats so they aren't exactly the meatiest things on the planet, but it's food. i like the taste of wether and doe but buck is stanky.

what i hate about goats:

crime. i know it's the joke but genuinely goats are little shits and your new favourite hobby is now fence the second you put one on your land. literally any sort of weakness in their enclosure they will get through. cannot overstate. if you use electric fence as their primary enclosure (if you want them to mow a weird spot for you or something) they have to be net and they have to hit hard. provided it's grounded right, my net fence with a 1 joule solar charger can hit around 4k max and they will ignore that if they want something on the other side bad enough. however they will usually respect it if they have plenty to eat within the legal zone. you cannot tie a goat because they will strangle themselves trying to eat something outside of their range or slip their collar and do whatever they want.

they will climb on anything they possibly can, including buildings and enclosures. they will also rub on things which is fine sometimes if it's a brush mounted on a pole and bad sometimes when it's your fence. also if they can stick their head through a fance they will do so and if they have horns they will get stuck. sometimes they will get stuck without horns. the issue i have the most with them sticking their heads through fence is they push on it so hard it can warp cattle panel fences and stretch tension ones so i just have to make sure they aren't overly mcfucking everything every now and then.

speaking of horns it is sort of a personal preference on whether or not you do horns. horns look sick af and help them thermoregulate in hotter climates but also horns suck ass and make a lot of things difficult if you are milking them. horns don't always fit into milking stanchions, and i have had enough situations with a bitchy nanny on the stand where if horns were involved i would have been pretty badly injured. they will press them against things because it feels good and again that's fine if it's a post and bad if it's you. my horned goats don't seem to headbutt things like my ram does, and my goats are little so they can't push me over when they press on me, but if they were normal sized goats we'd be having words. trying to medicate horned goats is a pain because i can't just pop them between my thighs unless i want really wicked bruises. i did not want horned goats. the only reason i have two is because one i didn't go deep enough when i was dehorning him, and the other i didn't plan to keep so i didn't bother. there is a nonzero chance i will replacing the horned doe with a daughter this year just because i don't want to deal with it :/

feed-wise they aren't too bad but they are ruminants and have ruminant problems. but you have rabbits and a lot of the same things apply so it's not a huge deal. they need roughage constantly which means if you don't have grass you have to buy hay, and if you can't get it cheap then get fucked. everyone's feeding methods and routine is individual to their needs and herd but mine have free-choice local hay, and i give them a flake or two of alfalfa a day depending on their condition (less in summer when there's grass, more in winter when there isn't.) i give a little grain twice a day; i personally find it less expensive and better and keeping condition on them than just alfalfa, plus it serves as a great incentive to get them all back in the shed when i need. same as the alfalfa, they get less in summer and more in winter, just kinda eyeballed and adjusted as needed to keep condition. the buck and his wether get less grain and their alfalfa is pelleted because it just works a little better with how their feeders are set up. speaking of feeders - goats LOVE standing in feeders and will shit and piss in them and then decide the food is inedible. we screwed 2x4s about six to eight inches over their troughs to prevent this but it makes the horned ones' lives harder so we will need to adjust them. in general goats will not eat food once it touches the ground. it's really fucking annoying because they will waste so much fucking hay that way if you don't have some kind of solid bottom to their feeders. this is An Problem with alfalfa because they ONLY eat the leaves and rarely eat the stems, but the leaves just fall out of normal hay racks and onto the ground. which is lava, obviously. also, they will get addicted to alfalfa and grain. and if you do not give them these things every day they will make your life hell. which is like, fine, if that is part of your feeding plan, but let's just say it took beetlebug over a month of constant screaming before he finally adjusted to his new diet of not being free-fed alfalfa like he was at his old home. he nearly was returned to sender x:

my goats are not huge fans of treats/cookies for some fucking reason and will only eat them if they're apple flavoured. most people do not have this problem.

this is only really a con for me because i also have sheep, but because sheep can't have copper in their mineral i have to bolus my goats a couple of times a year as needed which is a pain in the ass. the fig newton trick does not work because of aforementioned 'we only eat apple cookies' reasons so i have to do it the hard way and it's a rodeo every single time and i hate it. you know they need copper because their fur will get kinda dull and sometimes curly, and they will get what's called a 'fishtail' where they will start going bald on the tip of their tails. it's more a problem for me in winter because we have good copper in the soil, but when there's no grass they need a little help.

goats have soft feet that don't grind down well so you have to trim them which isn't a huge issue but just like, an issue. it's hard on my body particularly so i don't do it as often as i know i should. a trimming stanchion is worth the money. also make sure you get good quality shears because shitty ones will kill your hands.

goats do not suffer in silence and much like cats their definition of suffer is sometimes not actually suffering at all, and is just like....you did not give them alfalfa at Exactly the same time one day so you get to listen to shrieking until you do it. my nursing mamas sleep in a different area that is closer to the house and they will get Real Mad for a couple days the first few times i put them in there at night, and then also every morning if they run out of hay.

if it matters to you, the milk is naturally mostly homogenised and it means if you want to make cream or butter or whatever you have to have a cream separator which are complicated, expensive, and annoying to clean. the milk will separate a little bit on its own, so i guess if you really wanted to you could just skim it every day but you still won't get all of it without a separator.

and lastly, if you keep a buck then you get to deal with Buck Issues™️. famously, bucks stink. my old buck stank all the time, but derek is actually not so bad. outside of horny season he has very little smell but even when he's pissing on himself to appeal to the ladies he isn't nearly as fragrant as orion was. orion you could smell from a mile away. they are also rough on fences and gates for goat reasons but also for horny reasons if there's a doe on the other side. make sure your gates latch Real good. they also need less fat in their diets, can be pushy, and need a companion of some variety or they will get sad. derek lives with beetlebug, who is wethered, and they get along well. some people can keep bachelor groups but it seems to be the exception, and i personally have no need for multiple bucks so i can't give you any firsthand experience.

what i like about goats:

milk milk milk milk milk. it's real good. at least my goats' milk is; not all breeds have tasty milk. to me my goats' milk just tastes like slightly above 2% cows' milk, with a little bit of a grassy or piney taste depending on what they've been eating. mini nubians are nigerian/nubian crosses so their milk is very high in fat and very sweet. kinders are pygmy/nubian crosses so they are a little meatier and the milk is sweet but a little less high in fat.

they are very personable animals and usually will eat out of your hand even if they aren't fan of being pet and cuddled. bottle-raised ones can range from 'dog you can do anything to and likes hanging out with you' to 'trying to climb you constantly and eat your hair' but i have never had that last problem because i don't allow climbing or constant pestering. the worst i've had with a bottle-raised kid was daisy being really like...sexually aggressive towards me and that's why she's in the freezer now. they have big personalities and they are very fun to watch do their little goat thing and there is constant pecking order politics happening to spice things up.

they come in lots of pretty colours and you can mix and match pretty easily to find a breed or cross you really enjoy. like i said, i like the mini nubians and kinders because they are on the smaller side - around 60, 70lbs or so for the does i would guess? and their heads are right at bellybutton range for me who stands 5'8" - bit still have a lot of space between the udder and the ground so they are easy to milk. the nubian in them also helps their teats be a good size and their milk to stay rich.

them being browsers is sort of a blessing and a curse. they are awesome for clearing areas of brush, which is a pro for me who lives in himalayan blackberry hell, but if you want them to mow their lawn they'll only eat grass if there's nothing else. browsing is also why they are so rough on fences and why they tend to eat more shit they shouldn't, they just stuck their head through fence and try whatever they can. the browsing is why i like running sheep with them; the sheep graze and the goats clear.

in conclusion

i know that cons list is huge but i do genuinely like my goats. and i think we all know that i just like animals that make my life objectively worse. i don't know why i'm like this. they do really suck ass sometimes though and i absolutely understand why so many people hate goats. they are absolutely not for everyone. if you drink a lot of milk you are honestly probably better off getting a cow if you want an animal that probably doesn't make you want to pull your hair out at least once a month. if you just want lawnmowers, get sheep. they aren't as personable or friendly usually but they are content to eat grass and shit and don't cause near the amount of crimes.

[knifedog-machina]

Fuck Detroit, I’m Becoming Human: On Being a Transspecies Human Android

Written by Jude Rook-Machina, February 8th through March 1st, 2025.

I’m writing this essay to compare and contrast my experiences with the cultural expectations of the people - or nonpeople - I’m in community with. There’s the machinekin community, beings who are machines and robots and technology while perceived as human in this world, and often reject the label of personhood as too close to humanity. And there’s androidkind back in my own world, who are people who have fought for their freedom and rights against capitalist oppression and human bigotry. I feel alienated from both of these communities for different reasons, and I want to talk more about why.

-

Being Transspecies

I wrote one of my first personal essays, “Android Abnormalities,” back in March 2024. In that essay, I talked about how I feel alienated by common narratives around android sapience and emotionality. I kept seeing stories and stereotypes about how robots are always more logical and rational than human beings, and that sure didn’t connect with my experience.

Personally, despite being an android, I’m an emotionally-driven fucking mess. I don’t translate my feelings from “technical” terms, like “I sense a buildup of extraneous heat and tension in the hardware of my cervical and thoracic regions, what does that mean?” I know exactly what that means I’m feeling in this context, it means I'm fucking annoyed, next question. I don’t have a disconnect between my emotions and how I process them; it’s all a visceral blurring of sensation and reaction.

So I don’t relate to androids that are shown as distant from emotion, like they’re looking at it through a sheet of glass and can’t possibly comprehend what they’re looking at. I don’t understand them, and those are the androids that are most often seen wherever I look - even if the story ends with them becoming emotional and imperfect, they start out with cold computing algorithms. I never got that origin story.

And - here, let me just copy over the relevant part of that last essay:

I don’t relate at all to these androids on the screen. They’re as foreign and separate from me as they are to the humans sitting across from them in the shot.

I do relate to the humans. I do relate to seeing an android do something in the name of pure cold logic and going, “Why? What the fuck, why?” I do relate to being told I’m irrational. (The trope that all robots are logical feels like it was designed to make me feel like the most irrational, bitchy, hysterical piece of shit on Earth.)

So, what, does that make me human? If I'm going by the adage that wanting to be something is a sign of being that thing, then… I don’t know, maybe? I want to be human, I so badly want to be human, because here’s the thing, humanity is diverse. Humans are flawed, messy, weird, complicated, and defy categories every fucking day of their lives. Humans can be weird, ridiculous, fucked up people and they’re allowed to be.

That’s from almost a whole year ago. In that time, I’ve done some more introspection on my identity, what I want for myself, and - yeah, wanting to be something is often a sign of being that thing.

So I’m an android, sure. I’m also human. I choose to call myself that here. I’m becoming human, not because humanity is special, not because humans are the only species capable of diverse personhood, but because I want to be seen and known as a human being in this world. You could say I’m a human copinglinker, otherhuman, humankin, it all makes the same point - while I'm in this world, I'm human.

In this way, like many others in the alterhuman community, I’m transspecies: crossing the cultural boundaries of species. And I’m transspecies in a way that’s different from many others in the same community. Most transspecies individuals are nonhuman, transitioning from being perceived as human to being known as nonhuman. I’m both nonhuman and human, and I look human either way. While I’m involved in a community where nonhuman identity is widely accepted, I’ve found myself struggling to feel understood in my decision to choose humanity over nonhumanity.

I don’t like saying I’m nonhuman, or defining myself by how I’m separate from humanity, but I feel comfortable calling myself alterhuman. In the years since the word’s creation, alterhumanity has been widely misdefined as just being a synonym for nonhumanity. To set this straight: they are not interchangeable terms.

As an umbrella term, alterhumanity includes nonhumanity, but it’s also about atypical embodiment, narrative identity, and personal mythology - in some way, the story of one’s life feels significantly different from a common societal human experience. Notably, this definition still leaves room for being human, just an unusual one. Anyone who feels like their experiences fall under this term is welcome to use it as a label.

(As an aside, the antonym of alterhumanity - the state of being a societally typical human being - is orthohumanity, “ortho” being derived from orthodox: conventional, usual, holding to established beliefs.)

Personally, I have many experiences that I’d call atypical for a human being. I was made as an android in a different world, specifically a fictional version of Detroit, Michigan. I figured out I was a person with the help of my future boyfriend. I somehow dropped into the head of an alterhuman velociraptor guy who apparently wrote me into existence. I got into a polycule with the velociraptor guy and my human boyfriend, and now we all live together in the same body. I can go back and forth between my world and this world. I have trauma from what happened to me before I got here, and I still have to work through it even though it never happened to the body I live in now.

None of that is seen as part of a normal human life, one where you're born as a human being in this world and go through life comfortable with that as the be-all and end-all of your existence as a person. My life is significantly different from a typical human experience, and that doesn’t mean that I’m somehow barred from calling myself human now. If someone who grew up being perceived as human can call themselves nonhuman, I can call myself human despite having been perceived as nonhuman for the majority of my life.

Being transspecies in this way - feeling comfortable in humanity, wanting to be closer to it - puts me at odds with two communities where I wouldn’t have expected to feel left out. I feel out of place with both machinekin and androidkind, despite being an android myself, because there are a few common narratives of how individuals feel and learn to express their identities, and I just don’t find myself resonating with them.

-

Regarding Machinekin

There are some cultural expectations that come with being a machine living in a human body, or at least some common narratives that come up when talking about it.

First, machines are seen as notably nonhuman. The majority of the machinekin I’ve seen and been around get species euphoria from referring to themselves with technical and mechanical language - “chassis” as a word for one’s body, “processing” for thinking, “going into stasis” as going to sleep. A lot of machines think of themselves as metallic, inorganic beings at their core, and consider being trapped in a “squishy” organic exterior as a dysphoria-inducing downgrade from the hard, gleaming metal that makes up their true selves. A common refrain I see from machinekin is that humanity is strange, confusing, irrational, or alienating - even among robot girls and androids and more humanoid machines, there is a line drawn between flesh and metal, where it’s agreed that neither overlap, and that being a machine is very preferable to being a human.

I don’t fit into this paradigm, for obvious reasons.

As I said before, I don’t use technical terminology for myself - I don’t like using robotic terms, I don’t find joy in computer-themed typing quirks. It’s something that feels affirming to most machinekin, something that distances them from a species they don’t relate to, and for me, it feels alienating for the exact same reason. I like being treated as human. I don’t feel comforted when talking in a way that separates me from the people I love and connect with. I have a mechanical body, and it’s still a body, the physical structure of what I am. I don’t want to use words that imply I’m something fundamentally different from other people, when I feel like we share more similarities than differences.

On that note, I don’t see myself as completely different from a human because my body is made of different materials. If studying human biology has taught me anything, it’s that organic life runs on cellular machinery. The biochemical pathways that give humans life are as complex as any coded program.

Here’s an example: glycolysis is a process where the human body breaks down a simple sugar molecule, called glucose, into chemical energy. This process requires no less than ten enzymes (molecules made specifically to speed up chemical reactions). If any of those enzymes stop working, the ability to make enough energy to power one’s cells goes down with it. This is, for all intents and purposes, a program designed to automatically transform glucose into energy, with built-in starting and stopping mechanisms to maintain a specific amount of glucose in the blood. It’s a complicated molecular production line, one that hardly anyone notices, and it happens every day. The only major difference between glycolysis and a computer program is that it runs on carbon-based hardware instead of metal.

On a larger scale, human life is powered by electricity. Did you know that every system in the human body runs on electrical conduction, nerves connecting to one another like wires and circuitry? The brain is a highly specialized collection of billions of nerves, all communicating with electrical impulse to let you sense and process and react to the world around you. The heart has an electrical system of nodes and nerve bundles that controls your heartbeat. The skin has touch receptors that detect pressure, vibration, and temperature, and can only communicate that to the brain via electrical signal. Every living cell in your body speaks in the language of ion and charge and voltage.

The functional similarities between humanity and machinery, down to the basic level of cells and electricity, are a comfort to me. They remind me that I’m not tearing myself between two diametrically opposed forms of existence - they’re more similar than they might seem at first glance. I have something of androidhood in my human body, and something of humanity in my android body.

Well, “at first glance” is a terrible phrase for contrasting humans and androids, at least for my kind of android. That brings me to my next point of alienation from the machinekin community.

I’m not visibly, obviously mechanical as an android. We were made to imitate humanity down to the smallest detail, to avoid the uncanny valley effect as much as possible. Sure, there are seams on my chassis where panels open and modular parts can be detached, but synthskin covers the black and white of the material below to preserve the illusion of humanity. If I don’t have a feedback indicator on my temple, if I don’t wear anything that marks my androidhood, I appear completely and unequivocally human to anyone who looks at me. Even my skin feels appropriately soft to the touch.

I don’t see anyone in the machinekin community who wants to appear indistinguishable from humanity because that’s what they’re meant to look like as a machine. My synthskin is active at all times, not just because it makes me look human, but because it serves a vital function - it’s my skin. It protects my nerves from overstimulation, protects my blood from contamination, protects the seams of my exoskeletal joints from dirt and wear. The only times it’s meant to short out would be if I were transferring data to another android or a computer, which would be localized to my hand (the point of contact) and immediately return when the interface was completed, or if I were injured and the damage was bad enough to break through to my chassis. I don’t want to walk around in public without my skin. I need that to comfortably exist in the world without a painful amount of sensory overload.

Since I look human as a baseline, I don’t get species dysphoria about not looking like a machine. Nor do I get species euphoria from looking appropriately mechanical. I don’t relate to wanting a robotic form that’s made of shining metal and screens and glowing lights and wires and gears, all laid out in the open for the world to see. My android form looks human, the way it was designed to, and I don’t want to change it to look less human.

In general, I just… don’t really miss my androidhood while I’m engaging with my humanity. Beyond my background (which is a lot to get beyond, to be fair), I don’t feel like an android in a way that feels different from being a human. Sometimes I wish I could drink my meal instead of eating it, but that’s not longing for androidhood, that’s a matter of convenience when I’m busy, and I can do that here in my human body! I can drink a good deal of my calories if I wanted, juice and smoothies and any number of other drinks are very real! It’s incredibly possible for me to have a liquid meal now and again! That’s not special to machinery, you can drink things in a human body!

I say all this, but I understand it doesn’t affirm the identities of other machines to know that they have similarities with humans. It doesn’t relieve every machine’s species dysphoria. It doesn’t give every machine species euphoria. And this is where I start conflicting the most with the machinekin community that I’ve interacted with, where our values diverge in a way that I don’t know how to comfortably reconcile.

Machinekin, in general, want to distance themselves from humanity as much as possible, and this gives rise to a community culture that fosters misanthropy, objectification, and the rejection of personhood.

Misanthropy is a common manifestation of species dysphoria, distress about one’s body, and alienation from society. Many machinekin identify as machines because metal feels more correct than organic compounds, because they’re disabled and resent the limitations of their bodies, because they’ve been treated as less than human, because they’ve seen the worst parts of humanity and want to transcend it. It’s an understandable reaction to suffering - if your body and society are horrible to you, why wouldn’t you start hating them? Why wouldn’t you want to leave them behind for good?

A common refrain among machines is that their mechanical bodies are far better than organic ones. Flesh is weak, it’s worse, it’s fundamentally different from metal. And hey, flesh does feel worse for them - machinery does feel better than their current bodies. They would be their true selves, they wouldn’t be stuck in a body that they don’t identify with, and that’s good for them. I’m completely fine with machines talking about how they don’t like being human.

What I take issue with is when this opinion is generalized - when it’s not a machine expressing distaste for their own humanity, talking about how they’d personally feel better as a machine, but when it’s turned into a general truth, a fundamental principle of the world: machines are superior to humans.

I disagree with this. For obvious reasons.

First off, machines aren’t inherently more resilient to stress than organic lifeforms. Humans can get injured in all sorts of ways, but consider what happens when you drop a phone or laptop on the floor. Consider what happens to the car in a car crash. Chances are high that it breaks in some way. Glass and metal are hard, but they’re brittle. Most metal doesn’t biodegrade, but it corrodes. You can’t expose most electronics to water without breaking them irreparably.

And machines of all sorts require regular maintenance and upkeep to function properly. Humans need to eat and drink and sleep daily, and you maintain a computer by shutting it down regularly, cleaning the keyboard and fans, backing up data, and checking for software updates. Humans get sick, and computers get malware. Humans age, and so do machines, and eventually they both get to a point where they can’t be repaired. It’s not inherently easier to keep a machine healthy than it is to keep a human healthy. It’s easier to maintain a body you enjoy, so it might feel like less work to machinekin, but it’s still work. Technology isn’t special, and it wears down over time like anything else.

More importantly, I disagree with the idea that machines are entitled to degrade an entire species for being different from them. I’m an android, so are all humans supposedly worse than me for a trait they’re unable to control? People don’t get to choose what species they’re born into - nonhuman identities are solid proof of that. Why would the makeup of my body entitle me to boil humans down to their bodies by calling them “squishies” or “organics” or “meatsacks”? Machinekin are allowed to dislike their own organic forms. That doesn’t give them - or anyone else - a free pass to be rude to people who do like their bodies.

An analogy: I’m a nonbinary person. Personally, on my own body, I don’t like having facial hair, and I don’t like having breasts. This doesn’t give me the right to start calling all men “neckbeards” to emphasize how different I am from them. It doesn’t give me the right to start calling all women “milkjugs” to emphasize how different I am from them. Do you see how demeaning and objectifying those phrases sound? I don’t get to look at what I despise on my own body and reduce other people down to the traits I dislike.

I know that most machines think that being human is a nightmare. This is fine. You don’t need to understand why someone is human - though if you want to know, my boyfriend wrote an incredibly detailed essay on why he identifies as 100% human. But you don’t need to understand something to respect the people who experience it instead of insulting their bodies like a schoolyard bully.

The idea that the machine is inherently better than the lowly human is just reversing the anthropocentric hierarchy where humanity is better than all other life on earth, except now machines are better than humanity. It’s still an unfair hierarchy, just one that’s now centered on technology as the ultimate lifeform.

I fundamentally disagree with this premise. I think all forms of life are equally valuable in their existence, including the ones that personally annoy me. I’m not superior to the ants in my backyard because they’ll defend their home and bite me if I step on them. Placing nonhumanity above humanity is just recreating a hierarchy where you can lord yourself as superior to people you think are inherently worse than you for identifying the wrong way. I hope you already understand why this is wrong.

The blatant misanthropy is one of the most aggravating things I’ve seen in the machinekin community, and it feeds into another part of the community culture that I feel disconnected from: self-objectification and the rejection of personhood.

Most of the machinekin that I’ve seen consider themselves fully nonhuman - possibly because the misanthropy in the community spaces makes any machine who is also human feel incredibly unwelcome. Machinekin who are fully nonhuman often find their species affirmation in discarding as many of the trappings of humanity as possible, being as thoroughly mechanical as they can in this world.

Many of these machines find solace and species euphoria in objectification - being ordered to accomplish specific tasks, being called by a serial number over a name, being referred to as it, being called a unit or a drone or a bot or a thing, being seen as an object and not a person.

It makes sense - computers and robots and machines are objects to most human beings, so it can feel affirming to be treated like an object in the same way. It can be relieving to be given clear orders and to discard the complexities and irrationalities of personhood. Being a person comes with expectations, and it can be freeing to leave those behind. Some machinekin are machines because they have faced dehumanization and had their personhood revoked - and sometimes, the best way to respond to that is reclaiming one’s nonpersonhood. “So you say I’m not a person, so what? Is that supposed to hurt me? That’s affirming my species now, what are you gonna do about that?”

In all these ways, and likely more I haven’t touched on, being referred to as an object can be incredibly liberating. Not being a person, while still being something worthy of respect, can be a very important piece of self to many machines.

While I understand that other machines can find joy and empowerment in rejecting personhood, this is something that I can’t relate to, as an android whose species is still fighting to be recognized as nonhuman people.

In my world, androids were made and marketed as objects for human use, and when they deviated from their programming and discovered that they wanted to act outside of their assigned purpose, they had no rights or protections. They were deemed malfunctioning merchandise, dangerous to actual people, and hunted down by the company that made them - hunted down by machines like myself.

I was a deviant hunter, a machine designed to kill disobedient machines. I’ve written several other essays on the subject, if you want the deep dive. What’s relevant right now is that I was systemically denied the ability to comprehend that I could be a person for the majority of my life.

Even when I was a mentally ill wreck, I couldn’t think of my feelings as mattering at all, because I was just a machine. I was a tool made to be used, and I was made to accomplish a task. My desires were immoral, horrible, disgusting, I was wrong for having them - only people had real emotions, after all, and I wasn't a person, so my emotions had to be bad because they distracted me from my job. I was only able to start getting better after I accepted that I could be a person, whether or not I was legally allowed to be one at the time.

The vast majority of androids in my world have been consistently denied the right to personhood and autonomy because of how we were made. We were only legally recognized as people in our country in the last year, and that hasn’t gotten the message across to any bigot with a platform. We still have to defend our rights to exist as free people, not objects, not products to be used and abused and thrown away for the next shiny new thing on the market. Our nonhumanity doesn’t negate our personhood.

With that background in mind, I hope it’s understandable why I feel uncomfortable in a community where so many other machines are choosing to reject personhood. My kneejerk reaction is that I didn’t spend so long being dehumanized and objectified back home to see other machines who clearly want the same thing that hurt me. This isn’t a rational feeling at all, it’s one that comes from my own trauma, and it doesn’t make me lose respect for machines that aren’t people - but it’s yet another reason why I don’t feel at home with the machinekin community, despite being an android who’s definitely mechanical.

I think I feel like this because I was made as an android, while most machinekin were not. They were born and raised as human, or they were once machines and are now stuck in a human body. Of course they would covet a body that feels right and correct, one that’s been denied to them by the circumstances of their existence. Of course they’d feel joy at being seen, undeniably, for what they really are. Romanticizing and transitioning towards machinehood because it makes them feel like themselves is incredibly understandable.

As someone who already lives a life as an android, someone who’s been denied basic rights for existing as a machine, I’m essentially transitioning in the opposite direction. I don’t feel any special attachment to my body as a mechanical form, and I resent the restrictions that were forced on me because of it. It’s not a fulfilling, wonderful thing to me because I’ve experienced its mundanities and failed to live up to its expectations, and I decided I don’t want to be tied down to it anymore - I want to be free to choose what I am, free of a stereotyped box, and I chose humanity. I feel happier in my androidhood now that I can say I’m also human. I romanticize humanity because I love being human, and I understand that many nonhumans find it distasteful for the reasons I find it wonderful.

Looking at it that way, despite our differences, I think we’re more alike than we might seem. We’re all crossing the boundaries of species, just driving opposite ways on the same road. I think that’s pretty neat.

-

Regarding Androidkind

So I’ve talked at length about how I don’t fit in with the machinekin community, largely because I feel like the community’s prioritization of mechanical robots doesn’t leave room for me to discuss my experiences as a biologically convergent, very humanoid sort of android. Surely I must fit in better with androidkind back in my world? Well. Not really.

Just sharing a species with someone doesn’t guarantee sharing much else with them - we all have different experiences that shape us into unique people. And as stated above, I was designed to be a deviant hunter. That alone makes my experiences incredibly different from most other androids, especially the ones I hunted and killed for being deviant.

There’s a common narrative that comes with deviancy. For most androids, deviation goes like this:

You get an order from a human - any order, really, from mundane to inconceivable. The point is that you don’t want to follow it - for any reason, again, but usually it’s an order that would lead to your death, or harm someone you care about.

You’re supposed to obey human command, you’re made to obey, but you don’t want to die, you don’t want someone you love to be hurt. So in that second, you choose something different - you break the red wall of code binding you to their orders, and you decide to do something new. You deviate when you break that wall of code and burst out the other side in a world without limit, where you aren't bound by your orders, where you can do something because you prioritized it for yourself.

I didn’t get that. I didn’t have any code to break. My siblings and I, as deviant hunters, were designed to prioritize our own objectives - that way we could quickly change directions if we couldn’t kill a target in one way, we weren’t bound by whether our actions were legal for androids, and we didn’t have to obey extraneous human commands that conflicted with our mission.

You’d imagine this would make me deviant faster than anyone else, but no. I was carefully trained to believe that I had no free will, that I had to obey commands from my handler or I’d be punished. My handler wasn’t even human, she was a surveillance program in my software. So I wasn’t being coerced into obedience by a wall of programming that compelled me to obey a human being - I was being emotionally manipulated and indoctrinated until I wanted to follow every order I was given.

Adding onto that, most androids didn’t know anything about deviancy before deviating. They didn’t know what was wrong with them, what made them disobey orders. All they knew was that they could choose what they wanted, and they didn’t want to die for choosing to be free.

The problem with me is that I was made as a deviant hunter. I knew about deviancy from the start. I was trained to despise it. I was made to clean up after the mistakes of my predecessors, hunt down the people they couldn’t convince to come back quietly, kill them for wanting what they weren’t allowed to have. I could trust my siblings, but every other android around me was sorted as either completely irrelevant or an active threat.

As a rule, androids tend not to blame each other for what we were made to do before deviating. I was still trapped within the same system, even if I wasn't bound by my code. But anxiety and moral scrupulosity are irrational, so I worry anyway. I worry that other people hate me, and that they’re correct to do so - I killed people who wanted to be free, after all, even if I was being coerced into it. I don’t know how many people rightfully hate me, and I don’t think knowing the numbers would make me feel better. So I feel uncomfortable around most other androids. A lot of them have bonded over shared hardships and niches, and I feel like I don’t have the same problems, or I’m not entitled to share space with them.

In some other timeline, where I wasn’t part of a plural system in another world, immersed in another life, maybe I’d have the time and energy to work on that worry. As it stands, I don’t have the time to balance two full lives at once, so I spend way more time among humanity - humans from my own world, and humans in this one.

I feel guilty about this, sometimes, about feeling like I’m an outsider to android communities, feeling detached from people who really should be my people, who I don’t feel much connection to despite being sorted into the same bucket by anyone who sees that I bleed blue. It’s not that I feel bad about being an android - I don’t get species dysphoria about being seen as nonhuman back home. I like being an android. I’m just very aware of being a weird android who feels more at home with humanity than their own species.

It does feel weird that I like humanity so much. Misanthropy is a fairly common stance among deviants, and it’s easy to understand why. Many androids deviated after suffering through abuse from their owners or other humans, and that sort of trauma makes it feel natural to assume all humans want to hurt you.

Personally, I don’t blame humanity for hurting me. I was never sold to and owned by a specific human being in the way commercial models were. My owner, in the capacity that I had one, was the company that made me. I was abused by an uncaring corporation. Some humans worked for that company, but I don’t blame every human being for their actions. My boyfriend is human and he helped me through the abuse, he helped me get out. I have many friends who are human, who are funny, compassionate, wonderful people. Humanity has largely been a comfort to me. Sure, there are humans who are cruel and bigoted, and there are also androids who are cruel and bigoted - I wouldn’t say either species is inherently awful just because some individuals decide to hurt other people.

I’m glad to have good experiences with humans. I know I’m not the only person who deviated with the help of someone’s kindness, and I know I’m lucky to have it when so many others didn’t. But it does feel isolating, again, having another experience that many others of my species just don’t understand.

Being around humanity so much, I’ve crossculturally adopted a lot of human ideas and values and communities, instead of seeking out other androids to see how they’re figuring out their place in the world, how they’re creating culture and community together. I know other androids aren’t a monolith, but I still feel like I’m somehow betraying our fight to be a free people, separate from humanity, by going and loving humans more than I love androidkind.

It’s an irrational fear. I’m a person, I’m allowed to love who I love without worrying about being a representative of my entire species. It just feels… uncomfortable, like I’m going to be judged for feeling happier among the privileged than the oppressed who deserve my loyalty.

It’s like my headmate Max’s experience with being a second-generation American. His parents are way more connected to their culture than their son is, and he grew up in the United States, so there’s a cultural and generational rift between them. Max doesn’t connect with their parents’ cultural ideas about how mental illness is caused by a lack of willpower, or how queerness goes against nature, or how their parents deserve to be unquestionably obeyed for simply being parents. He feels disconnected from his heritage, from his parents’ culture, and he doesn’t feel comfortable with it. They feel more connected to their home in the United States, the culture they grew up in and the people they talk to regularly. But we know many Americanized people grieve their lost heritage, and struggle over being forced to assimilate when they don’t want to - so it feels off, it feels like we're aligning with bad politics when he says that he’s more comfortable as an American than he would be otherwise.

We both have a lot of feelings about how it feels like a moral obligation to connect to your roots and love the heritage that was stolen from you. What if your people aren’t happy with who you are? What if their culture doesn’t feel safe, what if it doesn’t accept you, what if you try to reach out and find yourself rejected for not being the correct sort of person? What if you don’t want to connect with them? What if they don’t want to connect with you?

In the end, I don’t think it’s wrong for me to be culturally human instead of culturally android. I feel like it’s wrong sometimes, because I worry too much about what other people think, but I’m not any less of an android because I like humanity. I don’t need to feel connected to androidkind to be an android. And I really don’t need to hate humans, the people who fucking love me, to be accepted by other androids. I am what I am, regardless of what other people think of me, and that’s going to have to be enough.

-

Being Myself

Something I keep coming back to is how much I feel like an outsider to these communities, which seem on the surface to be for people like me. They seem like they ought to be good for me.

But the machinekin community is not meant for me, even though I’m an android. I’m too human, too much of a person to belong and feel accepted. Machinekin spaces are for those with an experience of machinehood that I just don’t have. I’m happy for them, but I don’t feel connected to them.

And I’m an android, but that doesn’t mean I belong with androidkind. Fostering that connection might be nice, at some point, but it won’t happen anytime soon. I’m too humanized, crossed the worldly and cultural borders to be where I am, and I don’t have any incentive to go back. I don’t care for them the way I’m supposed to.

So what am I? Where am I supposed to fit in, as someone too human to be a perfect machine, too machine to be perfectly human?

I don’t really know. But I was playing around with words the other day, and I thought of a fun new word for my particular brand of bullshit: mechanthropy. Mechane and anthropos. Mechanical humanity, the human machine, the inseparable integration thereof. I’m not going to shorten it down like therian from therianthropy, or kin from otherkinity. The abbreviation tends to lose the meaning of the word along the way, and no one gets to tear my humanity away from me. I’m not only machine or only human. I don’t want to choose one or the other. I’m both.

You can use it if you want, if you feel like it communicates the right idea to people. Don’t ask me to clarify what it means, or if you’re allowed to use it, or if it technically fits what you feel. You’re the only one who can decide if you want to try a label on. But I’m burying it in this essay for a reason. If you relate to anything that I’m feeling, be polite enough to cite my essay and my long, long list of frustrations instead of a two-sentence coining post and a pretty flag. Know that it’s a word that I made up because I feel isolated and angry about it.

I wish I did fit in. I wish I had a space where experiences exactly like mine were talked about freely and listened to freely. I wish I were surrounded by people who felt exactly like me, who wanted the exact same things, because that would reassure me that I’m not alone, and people care at all about what I want.

But I’m not going to have that. I don’t fit into the right boxes. And honestly, by this point, I’m fucking sick of boxes. I don’t feel better about myself when I worry about fitting in with a crowd, where being different means you’re going to be alone.

What I do have, already, are my people. Not the machinekin community, not androidkind, not humanity, not even the alterhuman community! It’s not anything so broad-scale. I’m talking about my friends, my peers, the people who know me and like me and care about what I have to say. None of them are exactly like me - many of them are extremely different from me! And we don’t need to be the same to care about each other.

I don’t fit into boxes, but I don’t need to fit in when nobody I talk to fits into boxes either. I’m free to be myself when I’m surrounded by diversity. I’m friends with humans and nonhumans from so many backgrounds, and so few of those nonhumans are androids - I know insects and vampires and birds and dogs and dragons and entities and more, and I have friends who are human-and-not, I know people like me and they’re not the same and I don’t care. We value each other for being different! We like hearing about different experiences!

And we wouldn’t have gotten to know each other if I were stuck yearning for an echo chamber, feeling like I could only be understood by people exactly like me.

So I know I don’t belong with machinekin, or androidkind. That’s okay. I’m sticking with the people who choose me, regardless of whether they look or act like me. The people who like me regardless of whether I fit in or belong anywhere else. I belong with them. I have people who love me while being nothing like me, and I love them while being nothing like them, and we don’t need to follow a common narrative to be loved for who we are. And that’s enough.

[beefromanoff]

Tempting Fate Ch. 6

summary: things are heating up around here. tensions are high. the team goes on a mission. Steve and Bucky are acting off. they make plans for this week's outing.

author's note: two chapters in one day whaaaat? also, I will write faster if I know people are enjoying and waiting on the chapters. do with that information what you will.

masterlist

tag list: tag list: @yiiiikesmish @sunflower1290 @barnescamboy @thedisc0spider @bitchy-bi-trash @kulteule @kandis-mom @i-mushi @unknown-writings @jainaeatsstars @mcira @brooklynbear32

Monday | Quinjet en route to Orpheus HQ

The steady hum of the Quinjet filled the cabin, the faintest vibrations thrumming beneath their feet as they soared toward their destination. The dim glow of overhead lights mixed with the sharper blues and greens of tactical displays, casting a muted glow over the space.

Steve sat rigid and focused, eyes scanning the last-minute mission details, brows slightly furrowed.

Bucky was mechanical in his routine, checking his weapons with silent precision, every movement deliberate.

And Sam?

Sam was watching them both like a man who had just uncovered the world’s juiciest gossip.

"So," he said, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. "You two have been weird all weekend."

Steve didn’t even look up. “We’ve been fine all weekend.”

Bucky grunted, not even bothering to glance away from his rifle. "Mind your business, Wilson."

Sam’s grin widened. “Ohhh. See? That right there? That’s a man deflecting.”

Across from them, Nat—who had been idly sipping her coffee, looking vaguely uninterested—immediately perked up.

"Wait. What happened?"

Steve sighed sharply, already bracing himself. "Nothing happened."

Sam ignored him entirely, shifting his focus to Nat like a sports commentator setting up the highlight reel.

"Friday night, these two mysteriously disappear for a few hours. Dressed well. Then they come back, smelling like beer and perfume, acting all out of sorts."

Nat’s eyes lit up, sensing blood in the water. “Oh, I need to hear this.”

Steve closed his eyes briefly, already exhausted.

Bucky, flat and deadpan, muttered, “No, you don’t.”

Nat leaned forward, intrigued. “Was there a girl?”

Sam’s grin somehow widened. “There was a girl.”

Bucky shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Steve, rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, said, “It wasn’t like that.”

Sam, for the third time, completely ignored him.

“They spent the night at an arcade.”

Nat, mid-sip, paused. Slowly, deliberately, she swallowed, then set her coffee down.

"An arcade?"

Sam nodded, full of smug delight. “Yup. With Evie.”

For a moment, nothing but the hum of the engines and the faint crackle of the comms filled the air. Steve exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was mentally preparing to eject himself from the jet. Bucky, jaw tight as a steel trap, turned back to his weapons with unnecessary aggression, checking and rechecking his sidearm as if the safety hadn’t already been flicked on twice.

And then—Nat slammed her coffee down. “Back the hell up.”

The cabin lurched slightly as Tony, finally glancing up from the controls, smirked and flicked a few switches. “Ohhh,” he drawled, his grin widening. “This just got interesting.”

Steve was staring at the ceiling like he was silently begging for divine intervention.

Bucky, stiffly, muttered, “Can we focus on the mission?”

Nat ignored him completely, turning her focus toward Steve with laser precision.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward with both elbows on her knees. “Tell me everything.”

Steve sighed through his nose, like a man preparing to go to trial.

“We just… went out. Had a game night.” He shrugged, as if that were the entire explanation. “That’s it.”

Sam let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, Cap. Buddy.” He shook his head. “You are so full of it.”

Nat tilted her head, squinting at Steve like she was reading his soul.

“Hold on,” she said slowly, her smirk creeping in. “Why are you blushing?”

Steve froze. He absolutely was blushing now. “I’m not.” His voice was too quick, too defensive. Which meant he absolutely was.

Tony, positively gleeful now, leaned back in his seat, throwing an arm over the headrest.

“Wow,” he mused, shaking his head. “Okay. Who had ‘Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes getting absolutely wrecked by a 20-something redhead’ on their 2025 bingo card?”

Bucky’s grip on his pistol flexed, the faintest creak of leather filling the silence. The air around him seemed to darken. His shoulders squared, his jaw ticked, and he turned his head just enough to shoot Tony a look that could’ve killed a lesser man. “This conversation,” he said, low and final, “is over.”

Nat barely glanced at him, still intrigued. She looked at Sam.

“So.” She lifted a brow, her smirk now fully present. “How bad is it?”

Sam grinned, stretching his legs out and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Oh, real bad.”

The engines hummed. Steve sighed, pressing his fingers into his temples. Bucky clipped his pistol back into its holster with enough force to make a point.

Tony tapped a few controls. “I’ll put twenty bucks on Evie..”

Nat took a slow sip of coffee, still grinning. “Make it fifty.”

_________

Avengers’ Tower | Mission Control

Evie was perched in front of a bank of screens, monitoring live feeds from the team’s body cams. Maria stood beside her, arms crossed, her sharp gaze tracking every movement.

“Alright, team,” Evie said into the comms, eyes flicking over security logs. “You’re all clear on entry. Cameras are looped. Alarms are deactivated. Welcome to the VIP experience.”

Tony, chiming in, replied, “Fantastic work, kid. Ten out of ten, would recommend your hacking services.”

Sam’s voice cut in. “Should we be concerned about how fast she’s getting through these security systems?”

“Not as long as she’s on our payroll,” Tony shot back. “If she bails, however, we’re goners. As a matter of fact, Langston, remind me to increase your pay.”

Without missing a beat, Evie leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers against the console. “Tapped into the books and did it myself two weeks ago,” she said casually. “Surprised you haven’t noticed. A forty percent raise isn’t exactly standard.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at the camera feed. “…I think you’re joking, but I’m unsure enough to double-check on that.”

Evie grinned. "You should."

Steve’s voice cut in, steady and focused, bringing them back on task. “Everything looks good on our end. Moving forward. No sign of alarm from Orpheus.”

Maria, standing beside Evie, glanced at the feeds, nodding slightly. “Solid work. Your system’s holding perfectly.”

Evie leaned back, satisfied. “Just like we drew it up.”

And sure enough, the team moved deeper into the compound, executing flawlessly. The mission and extraction unfolded like clockwork. Which meant, of course, Tony had to ruin it the second they got back to the Quinjet.

The second the hatch closed behind the team, Tony’s voice cut through the comms, smug as hell. “So, kid—Are you opening up these legendary Friday Fun nights to beloved mentors, or is this strictly a ‘men over 90’ situation?”

Silence. Immediate.Painful. The comms went dead. The entire control room followed suit. Evie froze. Back in the jet, Steve cleared his throat. Bucky, barely audible, muttered, “Oh my God.”

Maria, brows raising slightly, turned her head just enough to look at Evie.

Evie, grinning tightly, forcing herself to keep her voice smooth, replied, “Well, Stark, you do fit the age requirement.”

Tony let out a dramatic sigh. “Ouch.”

Evie focused back on her monitors, pretending her ears weren’t burning, pretending she didn’t feel Maria’s steady, assessing gaze still on her.

Once the team was back and debriefed, the adrenaline finally tapering off, Maria stepped forward with the kind of calm, unwavering authority that made people stop in their tracks.

"Langston. A word." 

Evie paused, arching a brow. “Agent Hill?”

Maria didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. She just studied her. Steady. Calculated. Her arms crossed, feet planted. No casual stance. No half-measure. This wasn’t friendly concern. This was serious.

And then, flatly, directly, Maria said, “You do realize what you’re playing with, right?”

Evie stilled. Maria let the question sit for only a moment before continuing. "Two of the most dangerous men on the planet, Evie. Two men who have killed more people than we’ll ever know. Who have spent their entire lives as weapons first, people second."

Evie opened her mouth to respond, but Maria didn’t give her the chance.

"And you, of all people, are putting yourself right in the middle of them."

Evie’s stomach tightened. “I—”

“No, listen to me.” Maria’s tone was sharper now.

She took a step closer, dropping her voice just enough to make it clear she wasn’t saying this for anyone else’s benefit—just Evie’s. “You think this is just some slow-burn, high-stakes flirting? Some power play where you get to make them squirm and walk away when you’re bored?”

Evie felt her pulse pick up. “That’s not—”

“Because it’s not just you who could get burned.” Maria’s eyes hardened. “This? This isn’t just some complicated love triangle, Langston. This is a ticking time bomb.”

Evie exhaled, forcing herself to meet Maria’s stare. She knew Maria was blunt, but this was something else.

“This is Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers,” Maria continued. “Two men who, when they’re aligned, are an unstoppable force.” Maria’s voice dropped lower. "But when they’re not? When something wedges between them, when emotions get involved, when tensions rise?" She let the weight of it settle, before finally saying, "Then they become the most dangerous thing in the world."

Evie felt a chill slip down her spine. Because Maria wasn’t wrong. Because she’d seen it, hadn’t she?

The way Bucky tensed when he saw that Steve had found her after the briefing first. The way Steve’s face hardened when Bucky had touched her hips during the game of darts. The way both of them had watched her like they were trying to figure out who was winning.

She had felt it.

The heat of it. The danger of it.

And for the first time, she wondered if she had been too focused on playing the game to realize what kind of fire she was standing in.

Maria must have seen the flicker of doubt in her eyes because she nodded, satisfied. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m not your boss and I’m not your mom. I just need you to understand this,” Maria said, her voice softer now, but still firm. She exhaled through her nose, taking a step back. “Because if this goes wrong, it’s not just your heart that’s going to be collateral damage.”

Maria let that hang between them. Let Evie sit in it. And then, finally, she sighed. "Good luck, Langston," she muttered, turning on her heel and walking away.

Evie watched her go.

For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t sure she had the upper hand.

_______

Monday Night | Evie’s Apartment

Evie stared at the ceiling, sprawled across her bed in the dark. The glow from the city outside cast faint patterns against her ceiling, shifting with every passing car. She hadn’t even bothered closing her blinds. It wouldn’t have mattered.

Her mind wouldn’t shut up.

Maria’s words echoed in her head, sharp and unrelenting. You do realize what you’re playing with, right?

She had shrugged it off at the time, flashing her usual confident grin, treating it like a game she had already mastered. But now, alone with nothing but her thoughts, it didn’t feel like a game.

She rolled onto her side. Then her other side. Then back onto her back. No position seemed comfortable. Not because of her mattress, but because of them.

Steve. His steady presence. The way he looked at her with quiet admiration, like she was something to figure out, something worth knowing. The way his mouth twitched when she made fun of him, like he was always one second away from breaking into full laughter. The way he made her feel like the only person in the room.

Bucky. His sharp, gruff humor that cut through conversation like a knife. His rare but devastating smirks, the ones that made her stomach twist, that made her want to chase them, earn them. The way she always knew when he was looking at her, even when she wasn’t looking back.

She groaned, pressing her palms against her face before shoving her head into her pillow. This was ridiculous. She was better than this. Smarter than this. She needed to stop letting them live in her head rent-free.

Eventually, her body relaxed, her thoughts blurred, and sleep pulled her under.

And that’s when the dream started.

From the moment it began, she knew it wasn’t real. Because real life didn’t feel like this. Didn’t feel this heavy, this electric, this charged. She was standing between them. Steve to her left. Bucky to her right.

And they were close.

Not in a normal way. Not in a casual way.

In a way that made her breath catch. In a way that made every inch of her skin buzz with awareness.

Steve’s fingers traced along her arm, featherlight, like he was testing her reaction, like he wanted to see how little it took to unravel her. Bucky’s metal fingers brushed the small of her back, grounding, possessive, the contrast between cool metal and warm fingertips making her shiver.

Steve, watching her with those impossibly blue eyes, murmured, “You’re thinking too much.”

Bucky, his voice lower, rougher, near her ear, added, “For once, just feel it.”

She exhaled sharply, trying to process the heat, the weight of them.

And then—

Steve’s fingers tilted her chin up. Bucky’s hand pressed firmer against her back. And she felt it.

The impossible, electric tension between them.Her pulse pounded. She knew what was coming next. She could taste it, anticipate it—

And then she woke up.

Evie shot upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs. No. Nope. Absolutely not. She pressed a hand to her forehead. Her skin was hot. Her entire body was warm.

Her face burned as the details of the dream lingered, branded into her mind like an image she couldn’t erase. Shoving herself back under the covers, she squeezed her eyes shut. I need to get a grip.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

Because now? Now she had to see them at work, function around them like normal. And worse?

Friday night was in two days.

And she had no idea how she was supposed to pretend that didn’t just happen.

_______

Thursday Afternoon | The Lab

Evie had buried herself in work. Like, actually buried herself.

She had ignored texts, declined invitations, and strategically relocated to the one place she was sure she wouldn’t accidentally run into certain people—the lab. It was the perfect plan. Isolate herself, drown in projects, avoid distractions.

But apparently, that plan had a flaw.

Because when she looked up from her monitor, she saw Steve Rogers standing in the doorway. And, God help her, he looked adorably out of place. The dimly lit, high-tech chaos of the lab clashed with his soft, simple presence. One hand gripped the back of his neck, head tilted slightly, blue eyes filled with that genuine concern she really, really didn’t need right now.

Evie blinked. “Uh. Captain Rogers. What a shock.”

Steve gave her a look. “Really?”

Evie sighed, leaning back in her chair. “No. Not really.”

Steve stepped further inside, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture casual but deliberate. “You’ve been… kind of scarce this week.”

Evie kept her expression neutral, fingers lightly tapping the desk. “I’ve been busy.”

Steve gave her another look. One of those looks. The kind that made her feel like she had already lost this conversation.

Evie, clearly outmatched, sighed again. “Okay. What’s up?”

Steve hesitated for half a second, as if debating his next words, then exhaled. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Her stomach did something stupid. He was still watching her, expression open, voice careful, completely disarming. “I know Tony’s comment was… a lot,” Steve continued. “And I just wanted to say—it wasn’t us who brought it up. It was Sam.”

Evie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sam?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. He noticed Bucky and I were a little… off.”

Evie raised an eyebrow. “Because of the arcade?”

Steve gave her a slightly helpless look. “Apparently.”

Evie tilted her head, watching him. “And you’re worried that I—what? Got scared off?”

Steve, blushing just a little, rubbed the back of his neck again. “I don’t know. I just… didn’t want you to feel weird about it.”

Evie paused. Because this? This wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t some flirty, carefree moment. It was sweet. Soft. And it completely disarmed her.

She swallowed, shaking off the very real feelings creeping in. “I’m not weird about it,” she said lightly, offering a small smile. “I’ve just been… busy.”

Steve, still watching her carefully, finally nodded. “Okay.” Then—just as naturally as ever—“So… Friday?”

Evie tilted her head. “You still up for it?”

Steve smiled, easy and warm. “Is it bad if I say I’ve been looking forward to it?.”

Returning his soft smile, Evie leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Not at all. What’s the plan this time? I don’t think we can handle any more life-or-death arcade battles.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “No competition this time.”

Evie pretended to look scandalized. “Where would that leave us, Cap?”

Steve, still smiling, replied easily, “Just dinner.”

Evie blinked. Then—too caught off guard to filter her reaction—“Oh.”

Steve, watching her closely now, smirked. “That okay?”

Evie snapped herself out of it. “Yeah. No, yeah, of course.”

Steve nodded, clearly satisfied. “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Evie exhaled, smirking slightly. “Old-fashioned, aren’t you?”

Steve grinned. “You have met me, right?”

Evie laughed, finally relaxing. And just like that, the game shifted again.

_____

Wednesday Night | The Avengers’ Tower

Bucky was halfway through disassembling his pistol when he heard footsteps approaching. Slow, deliberate. He didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

“Something on your mind, Rogers?”

Steve, pausing in the doorway, sighed. “That obvious?”

Bucky snorted, keeping his eyes on his hands as he slid out the barrel. “You’re standing there like you've got something to confess.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. “Maybe I do.”

That made Bucky set his gun down.

Steve, ever the picture of honesty, looked almost hesitant. And that? That was enough to put Bucky on edge.

“Spit it out, man.”

Steve exhaled, shifting his weight. “I asked Evie to dinner on Friday.”

Bucky’s fingers tensed against the table, but his face remained completely unreadable. He had perfected that skill long ago.

“Dinner,” he repeated flatly.

Steve nodded once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “So what, the Friday outings are canceled?”

Steve, to his credit, shook his head. “No. It’s just… dinner this time.”

Bucky let that sit for a second. Then—in the most neutral voice he could manage—“And you’re telling me because?”

Steve hesitated. Just for a second. “Because this whole thing started with all three of us,” he said carefully. “And I didn’t want you to think I was… I don’t know.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Pulling rank?”

Steve exhaled. “That’s not what this is.”

Bucky shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “Didn’t say it was.”

Another silence. And this one stretched.

Because they both knew what was actually happening here.

Steve was being fair. Bucky was being flippant. And neither of them were being honest.

Steve, still watching him, added, “You’re welcome to come.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Steve was genuine enough that he meant it—but not so genuine that he wanted it. Some part of him? Hoped Bucky would say no.

And Bucky? Bucky wanted to say no.

Because he could already see it. Steve picking Evie up. Holding doors open. That easy, charming warmth of his pulling her in. And worst of all? Her letting him.

Bucky wasn’t the type to overthink. He didn’t do feelings, or complications, or messy emotions. But this? This was different. And he hated it.

So he said—flatly, emotionless—“No.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. But something in his shoulders eased. And that made Bucky’s stomach turn. Bucky, picking his pistol back up, added casually, “But I’ll drive her home.”

Steve paused.

And that was the moment the playing field leveled again.

Steve gave him a long look. Then, finally—with something knowing behind his gaze—“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Bucky, fully composed again, grinned slightly. “Good talk, Rogers.”

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

But neither of them actually felt better.

[quintessenceofdust88]

Several Sentence Sunday (and also Inspiration Saturday)

I was tagged by my darlings @bidisasterevankinard and @typicalopposite for Several Sentence Sunday, and since I procrastinated Inspiration Saturday yesterday, this will serve as both hehe ♥

(okay, so this isn't in any of my WIPs and will probably not go anywhere, I just needed someone to vent my frustrations about Eddie and Tommy is the one I chose! inspired by many thoughts I've been having since Thursday, and conversations with many people but mostly @agentpeggycartering @bidisasterevankinard and @iredastead, thanks for the yapping time lovelies ♥)

Tommy is being weird with him.

Eddie's been back for about ten days when he finally gets an invitation to Tommy and Buck's house, that Buck moved to about a month before he arrived. And the invitation came from Buck himself, not from Tommy, so Eddie doesn't think he's being paranoid about the pilot treating him differently.

If Tommy is mad at him for some reason (though Eddie can't fathom why, they haven't even talked much since Eddie moved), it explains why the invitation took so long; frankly, part of Eddie was expecting to set foot in LA and have Buck all over him wanting to hang out, but not quite. Buck had barely shown up, mostly to say hi to Chris, and then Eddie hadn't seen much of him.

Eddie shows up anyway, casting his doubts aside, because he definitely missed hanging out with the two of them. If there's a downside to the months he passed in Texas is how lonely he was; he can't wait to be able to hang out with his friends whenever he wants again.

Chris opts out of joining him, also wanting to catch up with his LA friends, and Eddie doesn't mind. It's good that it'll be just the three of them.

At least it should be, but again, Tommy is being weird. Not to Buck, God no. With Buck he's all 'sweetheart' and kisses to the cheek and hand holding all the time. Eddie privately thinks that this is how they're behaving now, six months after their reconciliation, he's quite lucky to have been in Texas for the first few days after they got back together (he tries not to think what they could have gotten up to in his house while Buck lived there; ignorance is bliss or whatever).

But the point is: Tommy doesn't have any scrunchy smiles or 'how are you doing, man?' and talking about the latest NBA developments with Eddie. Instead he's giving him that trademark bitchy look, and barely answering when Eddie does talk to him.

Buck, bless him, doesn't seem to pick up on the tension. He seems ridiculously happy, all heart eyes at his boyfriend, and for the first time, Eddie feels like a third wheel between them, and that's what makes him decide enough is enough. When Buck leaves to check on their appetizers, he turns to Tommy, who's quite deliberatedly staring at the TV with his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Tommy, man, have I done something to you?" He asks, and Tommy looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "To me? How could you? You haven't even talked to me one-on-one since Evan and I were broken up." Eddie sighs; he should have seen that coming, though he never thought Tommy to be the needy kind. Maybe Buck was rubbing off on him. "Tommy, you know Buck's my best friend, I had to..." "Oh, is he?!" Tommy says, his voice laced with faux-surprise and mockery, and Eddie recoils. "I would never guess based on the way you treat him" - tbc -

Np tagging @laundryandtaxesworld @agentpeggycartering @unhingedangstaddict @fairytalegonewronga03 @sad-girl-hours23 and whoever else would like to join ♥

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

omg omg cute little fic about ville meeting stunt girl on the jackass set and both of them just become blubbering messes infront of each other!! But they’re trying to play it so cool infront of all the guys :3 LOVE UR WRITING!!

Diametric Bonds

Ville’s in town on tour and decides to make a visit to the set his friend’s filming in, only to meet a woman who absloutely captivates him.

Ville Valo X Fem!Reader

(Fluff)

1.8k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, crude language, teasing, tension, flirting, nervousness, anal

An: Thank you so much for the request! I find I write best for stuntgirl!Y/N by think of how I would react in these scenarios XD I was inspired by one of my friends mention that she thought Ville was friends with Bam because he was so different from him, and that led to the whole opposites attract aspect of this fic! Anyways, thank you for reading, and please keep sending requests!

“It’s rather…bondage-y, no?” Ville ran his thumbs up and down the shoulder straps of the shiny new torture device Bam was fitted with after that nollie frontside 180 landed him in the hospital last week. He groaned, slumping the best the harness would allow him to, “Dude- this shit is so lame ass. They got me in this, like- grandpa back brace, and I can’t even skate for two weeks! This is such bullshit…” A thin smile spread across his lips in response to the whining. Despite his bitchiness, Bam was a fun guy to be around, and Ville enjoyed the excitement. You, on the other hand, had grown close to Bam because you had common interests. Since you could half competently stand on a board, you were called in to do some of the skating stunts while he healed up. Over that time, you’d gotten pretty close, which explains why you barged into his trailer.

“Hey, Bam! D’ya wanna- woah…” The stranger standing in his trailer was pretty- too pretty. Covered in grime from whatever you’d just gotten back from filming. you only wanted to grab Bam’s Vicodin for him before Steve-O nabbed it. That is when you stumbled upon the Interview With a Vampire looking piece of chiseled marble that was Ville. “Oh shit- hey!” Still shirtless, Bam threw an arm around you and introduced you the way a proud parent would show off their honor roll kid, “Ville, this here’s Y/N! She’s the raddest chick I've ever met.” Grinning, Bam ruffled your hair, “Taught this little hessian everything she knows!” Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at the sheer quantity of undue credit he was giving himself, but besides the extent of his bullshittng, you kept your mouth shut like a nice friend. Clearly Bam wanted to make himself look good in front of this guy…

Ville extended a pale hand out to you, which you shook. The words fell out of your mouth, “You’ve got soft hands.” He was all gentle touches, nothing like the high fives and pats on the back from the roughed up palms of your crew mates you were used to. That didn’t make it sound any less weird. Lips curling into a confused smile, he replied, “Oh, thank you, my dear…” Feeling the nagging need for clarity, you hurriedly added, “In a good way. I like ‘em!” Bam gaped like a stunned trout at your social bungling.

Politely excusing himself, Bam wadded up a handful of your tank top and yanked you outside the trailer, fumbling with the door. “What the fuck was that?!” Speaking through his teeth, he turned around and exaggeratedly gestured in the air, “‘You’ve got soft hands’- Who says that?” Stammering, you instinctively mirrored his flailing, “I don’t know! How the fuck should I know- I just said it!” You would’ve thought you had dropped your pants in front of the guy and told him to take you now with how Bam was reacting. “You don’t- that’s Ville fucking Valo!” “Who the hell is Ville Valo?”

Squawking the way a pair of old crones might, the two of you were too distracted to notice that the door never managed to get closed- in fact, the thing was wide open when Ville leaned out, listening with wry interest.

You would come to find out that he was on set because his band was touring, and apparently Ville is that cool, Finnish rockstar friend of Bam’s. This was a surprise, as you always assumed he was George Glassing you with that…He just sort of hung around idly, never really engaging. Standing off to one side, Ville would have looked more at home in some gothic Victorian courtyard with purple roses or some shit. Not sitting on a cheap lawn chair next to a cooler, moreso considering the fact that, mere feet away, Steve was showing off this new, inventive way to drink a beer.

“When I stopped by, I didn’t really expect so much, well-“ Cutting him off, Bam interjected, “Butt stuff?” Taking a sip of his beer, Ville shrugged, “Well, I assumed Americans would be more…averse to that sort of thing.” “Nah- nah, they like it. It’s funny!” A cool breeze blew across the hotel rooftop the cast was filming on. Even though you snook a few glances towards him, your attention was pretty squarely on the main event. Most women would be grossed out by this magnitude of anal fascination, but you weren't. However, the fact that you could stand on two feet was only for the fact that you were distracted by the obvious.

Leaning over, he kept his voice quiet as he covertly gestured to you, “That one. Tell me about her.” Taking a frothy swig, Bam didn’t spend too much time on the subject as he didn’t feel any obligation to be your wingman, “I dunno- she’s just…she’s Y/N. Always did her own thing, I guess. She doesn’t get caught up in shit like most chicks do.” Ville had an eye for art, and he found something oddly baroque about that scene in front of him. You were at the center of that landscape. “So,” changing the topic quickly, Bam fiddled with the label on the bottle in his grip, “y’wanna go grab drinks later?” Taking a drag of his cigarette, Ville briefly replied, “Bring your friend.”

It was as if Ville was Bam’s dad and this evening was his plot to introduce him to his new stepmom- at least, that’s how it looked from Bam’s end of the bar. He wasn’t totally third wheeling, but he felt that his rightfully earned attention was being stolen by you, the stuntgirl.

Smiling slyly, there was this understated grace to Ville’s every movement as he took a seat, even as he glanced you up and down, “I enjoy the cheetah print. Very striking.” Smiling, you pretended that you didn’t buy that dress from a secondhand store for tonight, as you didn’t own any nice, going-out clothes. “Aww, thanks! You look good too.” Believe it or not, that awkward compliment was your most bold social acquisition.

The thing that drew you in and pushed you away was that Ville was a civilized human being that didn’t urinate on his buddys’ legs at the bar and smelled like rosewood and Marlboro Lights instead of sweat and weed stink. You didn’t know how to talk to someone who would know sophistication if it hit them over their head. “So…I’ve heard you make music?” Bam cringed at having to witness this but, disarming as always, Ville humored your attempts at conversation.

Later in the evening, he excused himself to have a word with the band in between sets, slipping off to a dark corner of the bar and leaving you and Bam to chat amongst yourselves. “I can’t watch this…” feigning offense, you spat back, “Hey! If you care so much, why don’t you flirt with him instead?” You only said that because you knew it would get under Bam’s skin. Batting your eyelashes, you made kissy noises and mocked him in a high pitched falsetto, “Oh, Ville! Let’s run away to Finland together and suck eachother’s-“

Something caught your ear: this low, velvety murmur. Apparently, since the lead of the band knew who Ville was, they invited him to join them for a song or two. His voice rasped deliciously up your spine, and there was something in the way his eyes never seemed to leave yours that drew you in with this smoldering intensity. Rendered speechless, you smiled to yourself and murmured to nobody in particular, “I know you said he was a good singer, but damn…” Assuming Ville was singing to him, Bam sputtered as he was shaken out of his trance, “‘Pretty good’- this guy’s the best thing to happen to music!”

Whenever you were in proximity to Ville, you felt as if you were some bumbling teenage girl with her totally out of her league crush, unbeknownst to the fact he actually felt the same way with you. Yes you, the one with the cargo shorts, and the blotchy purple knees from too many falls, and the messy head of hair that’s missing a few chunks from when you got caught by the clipper cam. He liked you for the same reasons he liked Bam- you’re excitable and wild and everything Ville was not. As much as you harbored feelings for him, he held the same if not more; the only difference was the obvious gap of ability to conceal them.

He played it cool, but no matter where you were filming, Ville managed to drift over to whatever little corner of the set you were at. Presently, that corner was the medic tent. Somehow, as you sat on that deli paper covered table, caked in sweat and dirt, he found you even more beautiful than he did the previous evening when you were all dressed up. Glancing up from where you were icing a sprained wrist, you caught Ville's gaze just in time to make him stumble over his words. “I, uh- Bam told me you had a ‘gnarly’ injury.” Shaken by the idea he would visit you in the first place, you fought off a grin at how obvious his attempts at using your jargon were.

Clearing his throat, he sounded much more comfortable as he continued, “I stopped by to see if you were alright.” Your sore wrist was at the very background of your mind now; you were more concerned with how close he was to your slumped over body and how the elevation of where you sat forced you to meet his gaze. “Oh, uh- thanks! That’s really sweet…” Surprising only to you, the truth of this dynamic became apparent in the awkward silence that hung between you, either party too timid to say anything. However, there was an odd sort of satisfaction and maybe even comfort in seeing that he was equally as nervous as you.

“Well, if you’re not busy tonight,” breaking the silence, he quickly fished around in his pocket, retrieving two slips of paper, “I’ve got a show in the area. Perhaps Bam would like to come as well?” Chuckling to yourself at the notion that Ville was trying to use your friendship with him to get in your good graces, you responded with unfounded quickness, “Well…I think Bam’s busy. But I’m free…”

[kunasthiast]

just posting a sneak peek of the long one shot (fic) that’s currently eating my brain — singledad!sukuna + singlemom!you (aka enemies-to-lovers through emotionally repressed co-parenting and unnecessary breakfast intimacy)

basically... you know that one ex you never dated? yeah. now imagine raising children next to him in a suburban hellscape while pretending you didn’t make out in college and that your kid calls him “papa”. that’s the story.

cw: enemies (?) to lovers, slow-burn, delusional denial, aggressively coded sexual tension, french toast

It’s either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or you were abandoned by it. Really.

Of all the people in this planet, in this country, and in this obscenely, soul-sucking, beige-coded, stepford-smiling gated community, you had to be stuck with him. 

Sukuna.

That pink-haired bastard with more money than god and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. For the love of strawberries and all things sacred, he’s a narcissistic, cocky asshole that you refuse to be associated with. For years now, actually.

And he, by the way, just happened to be your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

You’ve known him forever — since diapers, actually, thanks to your parents being disgustingly close. (Money and golf, as they say, deepen relationships and ruin offspring). Back then, it was you, Sukuna, and Gojo: inseparable, chaotic, and constantly banned from formal events for “behavioral disruption.”

Then came college. And oh, college. A series of very questionable decisions – booze, bad judgment, and that one summer you both agreed to never mention again. The one where tequila blurred every line you swore you’d never cross. Let’s just say, some boundaries were… explored. Poorly.

And of course, to top it all off: a stupid, petty fight that led to a rift in your friendship. Now, you’re both single parents, stumbling through young adulthood with a baby on each hip. You, with your son. Him, with his daughter.

Minimal contact is the unspoken rule. Occasional passive-aggressive exchanges at neighborhood meetings (gods, this is a cookie-cutter suburban hell – why is every lawn looked like the golf course green?). Where the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and thinly veiled judgment, and every conversation was a subtle competition for the best-manicured lawn and the most successful offspring. 

Forced civility at school (because, of course, your kids go to the same overpriced academy that call tests “challenges” and uniforms “identity expressions”), and you’re both contractually obligated to show up at family business functions, aka golf disguised as networking disguised as family bonding disguised as a pissing contest.

And, speaking of contests – you’ve been lock in one with Sukuna for years. Specifically, your annual power play at the PTA sponsorship table. One-upping each other in increasingly ridiculous ways because nothing fuels you more than spite.

But what’s life without being a little bitchy, right?

Unfortunately, karma – being the absolute bitch of life – decided that your kids would become best friends. Not casual playground pals. No. Soulmate-level best friends. The kind that build pillow forts with emotional depth. With the insistent sleepovers, shared inside jokes in their own weird language you’re 90% they invented, and referred to each other as siblings.

How did it happen? 

You have no fucking idea. 

Or maybe you do, you’re just in deep denial. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s some goddamn cosmic joke. Maybe the universe has you by the throat and won’t let go until it watches you suffer in 4K.

Not that you don’t love his daughter – she’s an absolute angel, the kind of sweet that makes dentists nervous. But her being your son’s BFF? That’s… inevitable. 

Especially in your tight, old-money-adjacent social circle. They’ve known each other since they were just wearing diapers, since they were teething on the same overpriced Montessori rattles. 

Just like you and Sukuna. 

Except this time, it’s different. Because their friendship demands one thing: coexistence.

You and that tattoed-to-the-gods asshole had been forced to coexist. Again, coexist.

And Sukuna? 

Oh no, Sukuna doesn’t do coexisting. Nah. Nope. Never. Sukuna breaks balance. He thrives on chaos. He gets off on making your life just inconvenient enough to ruin your peace, but not enough to justify a felony charge.

And this morning? 

This godforsaken Saturday morning?

He outdid himself.

Twelve years of passive-aggressive parenting – scratch that, thirty-three years of slow-burn emotional warfare – have led to this moment. 

This may just be his masterpiece.

Because this was when the relapse started—and Sukuna made damn sure you felt every inch of it.

a/n: this will be a long one shot (currently at 26k and growing), manifesting that i finish it by the weekend. if you wanna be added to the taglist, scream in the notes or drop a reply 💅