#answers from the portal future

[postsfromtheportalfuture]

25thcenturyrpffan asked wallamcranesarchnemesis:

Are you doing yuletide this year or are you too busy? IDK how you feel about historical rpf, but I don't know anyone else who cares at all about like. anyone from the 22nd century, much less all my favorite anti-war activists (Eowyn Riggsby is so underrated!) and I'd love to coordinate nominations if you want

(also, do you have a favorite 22nd century activist?)

wallamcranesarchnemesis:

hi, thanks for the ask!

i've personally never been into rpf, although in past years i've usually participated in the Defenders big bang event

this year i unfortunately won't have any time to participate in any fandom events though. i'm an archaeologist on one of the Earth teams (please don't ask which one) and what with so many of the off-world archaeology teams preparing to go on the Fortuna expedition, things have been understandably very hectic at work. my team leader has had me picking up a lot of extra responsibilities, so i'll likely be very inactive on here for the forseeable future

as for 22nd century activists - sorry, that's not really my area of expertise 😅 i tend to hyperfixate more on the mid twentieth century, with the space race and all that.

in case you hadn't already guessed from my url...the 22nd century is a bit of a sore subject for me.

my inbox is always open for a good infodump though if you wanted to tell me more about your favourites!

[writerfromthestars]

DPXDC PROMPT : ALFRED IS IMMORTAL

Alright. Don't get me wrong, I love au's where John Constantine is like "soul tax evader supreme", but hear me out.

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred Pennyworth. Who just doesn't die. The guy's immortal. The reason for this is that Alfred is awesome, so anytime he dies, whether it be from old age or a bullet or a world-wide catastrophe, he looks Death straight in the eyes and tells them that he will die when the day comes that no one needs him anymore, and not a second before, and then he just kinda pops back to life. Because let's face it, the batfam would fall to pieces without him.

So, Alfred Pennyworth has basically just been cheating death for centuries, by this point.

Needless to say, Death is none too pleased. Finally, Death goes to Phantom, the new king, who is much more reasonable than Pariah Dark was and who agrees to actually help.

Clockwork helps Danny set up a portal and he zaps into existence in the middle of a Wayne movie night. The bats are all prepared to fight this mysterious weirdo, but Danny ignores them and turns to Alfred, who he then begins lecturing about ghostly tax evasion and how defying death isn't a good thing, so he needs to file paperwork through the proper channels to stay as an immortal almost-God.

Alfred is chill, he plays cards with Clockwork once when he dies, so he knew this was coming, but the batfamily thinks that this mysterious entity is going to kill Alfred, so they're all panicking, trying to think of ways to avoid this horrible future. Alfred calmly listens to Danny, then he interjects.

"Sir, are you aware of the fact that there is a revenant on earth? One who is most certainly under threat of more paperwork than I, seeing as he has been using the Lazarus Pits to revive himself for millennia. I, however, have only been alive for a few hundred years, so I should think that he is a bigger priority. "

Danny glances over at Jason, doubtful. "He doesn't look several millennia old, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Certainly not, seeing as Master Jason is not. Besides, his Undeath License was filed. I have a copy of it if you need to see it, your Majesty?" Alfred answers, demure as always.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

Alfred leaves and returns, moments later with a light green glowing piece of paper. he hands it over to Danny, who examines it.

"Seems legitimate. I assume you filed it during one of your many encounters with Death?"

"Indeed. I have it on good authority, however, that the other revenant, a man by the name of Ra's Al Ghul, has not renewed his License in at least the last half millennia, most likely longer."

Danny sighs. "Where can I find him."

"Nanda Parbat. The signature is impossible to miss."

"Alright, Mr. Pennyworth. I will return once he is dealt with, be it by filing his paperwork or returning him to the Infinite Realms."

"Very well. I will be ready." Alfred answers.

Danny opens a portal to the area around Nanda Parbat and then another, which plops him down right in front of the Demon's Head himself, in a strategy meeting with his daughter and several commanders.

They all raise their weapons, but he just basically grabs Ra's by the ear and tugs him through a Lazarus Green portal, lecturing him about tax evasion and paperwork and bureaucracy the whole time. The League is thrown into uproar, and Ra's is set down in a room with all his overdue paperwork from the past few thousand years. He feels a little bit like crying; if he had known immortality meant this much paperwork, he would've just died, honestly.

Meanwhile, in Wayne Manor, everyone is crying, because they think Alfred is going to die, Jason is confused about the whole revenant Undeath Certificate thing, Bruce is trying to make contingency plans, Tim is contacting the Justice League, and Alfred is planning out his defense and going through every ghostly law loophole he can think of because if he leaves these emotionally constipated crime-fighting vigilantes, he knows that the house that Martha so loved will go up in flames within a month.

Eventually, Danny comes to get Alfred for his ghostly court trial/hearing or whatever, and Alfred says goodbye to Bruce and everyone, goes to the Infinite Realms. Clockwork is on his side, and Alfred ends up winning the court case, on the condition that now that the has an Undeath License, he actually renew it every twenty years, like he's supposed to.

A week later, Alfred returns, crashes his own funeral, and explains that no, he will not be dying anytime soon.

Two weeks after Alfred's return, Constantine shows up at the manor basically begging to learn how the hell he managed to avoid death, and not only that, win a damn court case against them.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main short

Look, I don't know if you can tell, but I really like soulmate AUs, okay. Also, writing something exactly 500 words is more annoying than I thought it would be, but was a fun experiment.

Lightly inspired by this post.

Edit: there is a part 2 now!

Danny's parents were never concerned about the words on Danny’s wrist. Given their occupation, they thought Danny would meet someone while studying, or perhaps even lecturing on ghosts, or maybe as part of some other job in the future. Jazz has always been concerned about the words on Danny’s wrist. This is probably the normal reaction, given most people do not surround themselves with the dead. 

Danny himself was concerned about it for a while. But then he died. The amount of death surrounding him at all times, what with his parents’ study of ghosts, practically tripled after that. And suddenly the words ‘Is he dead?’ were a lot less concerning. Because in his life, oftentimes the answer was yes.

Not that he was always around dead bodies or anything. But the company he kept did include a large amount of ghosts and other ectoplasmic beings, that while they were not dead, weren’t technically alive either. 

So, Danny moved on with his life as normal. He knew what his words were, but was never actively listening for them. For a few years there he was barely hanging on to sanity, battling ghosts and trying to graduate high school. 

Eventually, life calmed down. His parents, unfortunately, died in their own lab accident. Danny was in his senior year at the time, and Jazz took a semester off of college to help him graduate and get accepted at university himself. Then they shut the portal down and moved on from Amity Park.

Jazz went back to Yale. Danny, who did not make high enough grades for that, went to Gotham University. It was there that he discovered he actually really liked college. School was a lot easier when he wasn’t fighting for his life all the time, and this time he got to take classes he was actually interested in. 

By the start of his second year, his life was looking up. He was majoring in mechanical engineering, and he loved all his science classes. He had a somewhat decent apartment, and was living without much worries on the money from selling his parents’ house. Gotham is not the best area, but it can be a really cheap place to live. And he didn’t see Sam, Tuck, or Jazz as often as any of them would like, but they were all happy where they were.

Which makes the current moment much more distressing than it would have been in his teenage years. As Danny looks at the now-dead body in front of him, then turns and presses his forehead into the alley wall. He’s seconds away from banging his head against it, but that would only give him a headache and would in no way help the current situation. 

The vigilante standing across the alley, on the other side of the body, did not move for a solid minute upon rounding the corner onto the scene. Then he asks, in a voice distorted by tech, “Is he dead?”.

This is not good.

[clockwayswrites]

5 Times the JL Learned Batman was Married and the 1 Time They Met the Spouse.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. + 1

“What is going on?” Batman asked the group as he swept into the room.

John stayed focused on the circle, not wanting to mess up now. It would be a lot of faff for nothing if he did.

“Constantine believes he has a contact to help us with our current issue,” Superman explained. “He is working on the summoning circle now.”

“Is that safe to do on the Watchtower?” Batman asked, as cautious as ever.

“Yeah, mate,” John answered for himself. “This one is a good one. Haven’t met them myself, but real helpful sort of fellow from everything I’ve heard. Or at least real helpful for the things that they can help with.”

Careful not to smudge any lines, John moved backwards out of the circle and gave it a good look over. The rest of the lot were talking about something, but if Batman hadn’t stopped him yet, John figured he was good and intended to keep working. A little slice to his finger, a few drops of blood, the right words, and it was done.

The white markings of the circle seemed to shudder and warp, like the lines on a desert street. Then they snapped a bright green and the inner lines seemed to fall away into an endless void. The void rippled and suddenly a hand reached out of it. The claws made the worst sound as they gripped into the metal floor.

Another hand joined it.

And then the being pulled themselves out of the summoning circle.

John knew better than to try and comprehend what he was seeing. It was all shadow and green flames and fear anyways.

“Who dares to call upon the Ghost King?” the being asked. The voice echoed through the room, through John’s head, through his soul. It sounded like a thousand screaming voices of the dead speaking all at once.

Toxic green eyes in the black mass swept over the group. It was like they were being seen; their souls, their very beings, every aspect of them flayed open and on display for this other worldly entity. John swallowed reflexively when the eyes paused on him for a moment. He wasn’t scared, but there was still a primal part of his brain that said he should run.

Then the gaze landed on Batman and stayed there. Superman stepped forward, slightly, as if to shield Batman from the being’s view.

The being didn’t seem to care and leaned forward up to the edge of the circle. “B?”

Batman inclined his head slightly, “Phantom.”

“Shit. This Justice League approved, huh? Sorry about the dramatics. Usually I only get summoned by cultists who want Pariah Dark, the old king, to give them power or cleanse the world of life or blah blah blah. Best to show up and put the fear of me into them,” the being said, motioning to themselves and all their horror. The reverb of their voice had settled some, now only like a few voices overlapping.

“Understandable,” Batman agreed, seemingly unaffected by it all.

John could only shrug incredulously at Superman’s questioning gaze. Fuck if he knew. Sure, Bats was unflappable, but everyone knew he avoided the supernatural stuff if he could.

The being pulled the last of itself out of the portal which sealed with a sickening squelch. “You could have just called though. Like, I get summoning is a quick way to travel, but it's a little painful."

“Painful?” Batman asked, turning to stare at John, who swallowed nervously at the cold tone.

“Yeah. This was a pretty clean circle though, props to the maker—”

“Thanks, I think?” John mumbled at he watched the being start to shift. It was like watching a black hole collapse in on itself.

“—so it's not that bad, but still it feels like ripping some duct tape off my skin or something,” the being continued. They were much more human shaped now, though they still smiled with an alarming number of very white teeth.

“We'll keep that in mind in the future. I was unaware of who, exactly, they were summoning.”

The rest of the roiling darkness settled on their shoulders like a half cape— one that seemed to hold the infinity of the night sky inside it. The vortex of flames settled into a crown of fire that floated above a head of stark white hair. They flexed their claws and the limbs settled into normal hands that they tucked into pockets of their three piece black suit with its sharp white accents. Then they stepped over the live of what was supposed to be an unbreakable summoning circle.

Like it was just waking through a door.

Like it was nothing.

John took a reflexive step back. This kind of rule breaking shit was exactly why he liked to avoid the Infinite Realms when he could; they were too chaotic to easily manage.

“All good,” they said with a shrug and a fanged smile. “So, what did you need the Ghost King for?”

-

Bruce watched Phantom scan the meeting room as they entered. Their eyes caught, just for a moment, and a million thoughts ran through Bruce’s head. Did he want to do this? Was it time? He trusted the Justice League. They had issues and conflicts, like any group, but they were heroes through and through.

Revealing this also did not mean revealing either of their civilian identities.

The nod was barely any movement at all, but Bruce knew that Phantom had caught it and understood. After so many years together, they hardly needed words, which Bruce often appreciated. Words had never been easy for Bruce. He worked on it for his family. He had to after…

Bruce forced himself not to think about that. Danny had saved Jason, even if the resulting years without Danny there were some of the hardest for the family. They were together again and better for it. Bruce let out a careful breath and took his normal seat.

“Thank you for your assistance, King Phantom,” Wonder Woman started. Phantom held up a hand.

“I didn’t say I could assist. I’ll listen and help if I can and see fit, but there are a great many things that are not mine to aid in,” Phantom said sternly, though his voice was carefully kind. “My influence is only over those closely tied to death and of the Infinite Realms. The living are outside of my jurisdiction.”

“Of course,” Superman said quickly as he could without rushing the words. “Listening is a great start. If you’ll take a seat.”

Phantom nodded and strode right past the indicated seat. With a casual ease that Bruce had always envied, Phantom sat on the arm of Bruce’s chair.

“Um, King Phantom, your majesty?” Flash started nervously. “Batman doesn’t really like to be touched?”

“Really?” Phantom asked innocently. Bruce couldn’t see it, but knew exactly the smirk Phantom had as he leaned back to lounge against Bruce’s shoulder. (Bruce loved that smile.)

Bruce schooled his expression as he watched Flash and Hal exchange looks and frantic hand signs to each other.

J’onn tilted his head curiously as he took his own seat. Bruce could see J’onn come to an understanding as his eyes flickered down the the black metal brand around Phantom’s ring finger in the shape of a flying bat.

“Ah,” J’onn said softly.

“Ah? Ah what?” Flash asked, his words almost a whine. “What do you know?”

Bruce rested his hand lightly on Phantom’s hip, well aware that the motion was in sight of both Superman and Wonder Woman.

“Ah,” Wonder Woman said with a little smile. “J’onn knows something we all know, though not in this context. It is good to meet you, Phantom.”

“Good to meet you also, Wonder Woman. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Phantom said as she sat down next to them.

“I wish I could say the same,” she said with a teasing smile directed Bruce’s way.

“Hn.”

Phantom just laughed, the sound echoing like a ringing bell. “It’s okay, I know what B is like. Trust me, that you know anything at all is a big deal. He’s just bad at doing things the normal way.”

Bruce held back a sigh and just pinched Phantom’s side again, making the other squeak and backhand Bruce in the chest.

“Holy shit!” Hal jutted a finger at Phantom. “You’re Batman’s husband!”

“Guilty as charged,” Phantom said.

“Wait, no, you’re what?” Flash asked and zipped closer to the table. “Huh. You are so not what I expected. I mean, I guess ghost plus Spooky works but you’re so… lively! Wait— is that like, offensive to call the dead lively?”

Phantom laughed again and shook his head. “No, but not everyone in the realms will take it as a compliment. I don’t mind and besides, I’m only half-dead.”

“Half-dead?” Superman asked with his brow furrowed worriedly.

Phantom just waved the concern away. “It’s complicated. Mostly it just means that I still get to live out my human life as simply a human. Ghosts move slower, having eternity and all, so there’s not too much for me to do as the king other than attend to summons and make slow changes.”

“So,” Hal started, ignoring Bruce’s glare and sliding into a seat finally. “You’re married to Batman in your civilian form as well?”

“Of course, it would be silly otherwise,” Phantom said and then added, “and no, I won’t tell you who B is. That’s for him to choose.”

“Okay, but like, we can talk to you, right?” Flash asked, eager as ever.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? But work first. What do you think I can help you all with?”

Bruce moved his hand to rest on the small of Phantom’s back and watched his husband command the room like the king he was.

--- AN: and here's the last part! The JL finally meet Batman's husband, or at least once side of him!

[cakypa120]

The League was sitting quietly at their meeting, discussing their business. Then Superman noticed that Captain was clutching his side and his face was showing discomfort.

Superman: Captain, are you okay?

Marvel: Yeah, it's just time to breed.

Batman: Time for what?

Marvel doesn't have time to answer. Arms appeared from his left side, followed by his head and the rest of his body. A five-year-old boy, very similar to Captain, falls to the floor. Marvel picks him up.

Boy: Let me go, idiot!

Marvel: Got it. Future tyrant.

An orange portal appears. And Marvel throws the child into it!! Everyone looks at Marvel, who dusted off his hands and looked at them innocently.

Flash: Dude, what the fuck?!

Hal: That's your baby!

Marvel: It's a magical clone, in a way.

Diana: That doesn't change the fact that you just threw it away.

Marvel: Don't worry, he'll find a home. Everyone did, and he will too.

Flash: That wasn't the first?!?!

Marvel: No.

Aquaman: You called him a future tyrant.

Marvel: He'll become a tyrant and be killed in a few years.

Batman: For what purpose do you create them?

Marvel: I don't create them. They appear on their own. I just send them where they'll be useful.

Jonn: And that tyrant will be useful too?

Marvel: Yeah. That kingdom had been without war for a long time and was thriving. It takes a crisis, a really big crisis, for it to flourish even more. He will be that crisis. Can you say I create key figures? Maybe.

Aquaman: You're super weird.

Marvel: I'm super efficient.

[nightingale-prompts]

Batboy admits the Truth

First | Previous | Next

(Remember when this was cute and fun)

It was a tense reunion. Batman sensed it and left Nightwing to handle it.

Nightwing was of course not happy. He was downright pissed actually.

"Danny Nightingale-Grayson! Running away again?! After last time?!" Dick was about to go on a long lecture when Danny interrupted.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry! I was so worried!" Dick scowled as he tried to calm down.

"I know. I was just scared. You deserve an answer. A good one. I've never had to explain all of this so please just listen." Danny hoped that this was a good idea.

Dick huffed but this was the start that he wanted.

"I'm dead. Undead at least." Danny began.

"What do you mean? Like a zombie or…like Jason?" Dick asked.

"I don't really know. Jason is like me but I'm not like him. I'm more dead than him I guess." Danny didn't know how to nail that down, revenants are their own things. Several rungs down from where Danny was.

"And how did that happen?" Dick asked gently.

"It was an accident. I was just cleaning my family's lab. The portal wasn't working and I just wanted to take a look. I thought if it finally worked they would spend more time with us. But it turned on with me in it. I didn't learn until recently that a portal to the other side required a sacrifice and that was me. I made for a perfect sacrifice at that, children make for best ones." Danny tried to make a joke but it fell flat.

Dick saw stunned into silence. All this time…Danny you-" Dick was appalled that the same people who hated him for who he was were the same people whose negligence that caused him to be this way.

"Its fine though. They didn't mean for this to happen and I should have known better then to mess with the portal." Danny said defensively.

Despite everything he still cared about his parents at least a little bit.

"That is not fine Danny. You aren't fine Danny. They made you feel like you were not human." Dick said exasperated.

Danny shook his head his face contorted.

"Dick…I'm not human." He said simply. It was plain as day "I thought you understood that. I haven't been just human in a long time. When I had wings did you believe I was human?"

"That is not what I meant. You know that. I just-"Dick didn't know what he was doing. "I'm sorry. Continue."

"I got to play hero for a while. It was exhausting but I liked it. I defended the town from all sorts of ghosts. Then i learned why they were running from their home. All the while a monster like me appeared and he…" Dark Danny's memories flooded his mind. He wasn't a ghost or a human in Danny's mind. Monster was the only thought that came to him.

Dan had haunted him since. He would always be a version of Danny that's possible even if the Nasty Burger incident doesn't happen. All it takes is for Danny to suffer another loss. It almost happened again when his parents caught him.

"I learned a lot from that experience. More then that I earned a title that made me important to the other ghosts. They are actually really cool. But when I got home my parents told me that their real son was dead and I was just a ghost in his body. They called me a murderous monster and then they…cut me open." Danny took a deep breath. His throat felt tight as he held back tears. "I…ran. I escaped and lived with the ghosts."

Danny still remembered sobbing into Clockwork's arms while covered in blood.

"I saw a potential future where this happens but I had hoped it would not come to pass." He said holding Danny in his arms.

The problem with ghosts is while they can heal quickly they are damaged by mental pain far more. Danny healed slowly from his wounds and the scars remained.

Clockwork had taught Danny shifting to help improve the boy's mental flexibility and get heal in a better head space. He knew he had to ask Nocturne to take Danny's mind and spare him from further pain when he was kidnapped. Perhaps it was foolish but the event was going to happen regardless.

Dick took in this information as best as he could but it still made him irate. Danny had been through so much but he never let that mask slip until now. He still chose Dick to be his guardian even while he battled his fears of abandonment. Even after being betrayed by people he only wanted to love him.

Dick put a hand on Danny's cheek. The teen looked at him with the pain of a child left all alone. Danny, touched starved, leaned into Dick's hand.

"Danny, I'm so sorry they did that to you. You deserve so much better. I don't care what you are, you're my son." Dick said softly.

Danny's face twisted.

Son.

He wasn't fond of that word. Bring someone's son never meant much. No, when he had a sister who filled the role of his caretaker. Danny never needed a mom or dad before so the words felt hollow, like placeholders.

But Danny didn't say anything. He just wanted this internal fight to be over.

"Can we just go home?" Danny sighed.

"Yeah, sure kiddo." Dick reassured, "Do you want to go to Batburger on the way?"

"Yeah, can I get jokerized fries?" Danny immediately perked up at the sound of his favorite fast food.

"I think they don't sell those anymore." Dick tried to sound casual because no one had actually told Danny that the Joker was dead just missing.

Well everyone believed that he was missing. It was best not to tell the public that the one of the Bats actually committed murder. Thankfully no one is going to care if Joker doesn't commit another crime spree and won't ask too many questions. Honestly, Duke and Jason are having a fantastic time.

"Really? Why?" Danny asked tilting his head kind of like a puppy.

"….no idea." He shrugged.

(Now back to the regularly scheduled fluff, i swear.)

[dark-lord-ivy]

I woke up thinking about this and managed to type it out mostly in full for once.

I want an au where MBJ interrupts the demon invasion. MBJ is at the point where he has decided that he WILL be marrying his little freak human.

So, MBJ is just chilling on An Ding. SQH is afk, so MBJ is using the leisure house to get some alone time in a safer spot. Enjoying the usual background cacophony of Get Shit Done Peak when abruptly, ALL of the sects demon alarms start going off at once, and the noise outside turns from normal panic to PAN!C panic.

SQH's leisure house isn't being busted into, and the racket outside is not from the place being intentionally surrounded. So MBJ goes shadow snooping, figures out the jist of the situation; the broken bridges, the impending brawl on Qiong Ding.

MBJ almost decides to just fuck it and go back to bed, since An Ding itself seems fine. But then MBJ starts thinking about this is still going to end up heavily involving SQH, whatever tomfoolery SHL is pulling is definitely going to equal months of work and complaining for SQH. As SQH's future husband, MBJ does kind of have an obligation to help protect his holdings. An Ding is not a solo entity, it is very much a package deal with all of Cang Qiong Mountain. Which kind of means Qiong Ding's structural integrity is also something MBJ should probably keep an eye on.

So MBJ, future king of the Northern Desert, heaves a sigh, and with the air of someone who had to go to the far away grocery store for just one thing- heads over to QD.

I think the funniest time for MBJ to show up would be right as SQQ is getting ready to fight.

He just poofs in, that barrier ain't got shit, probably like, right next to SHL.

No one notices for a hot second because every single demon alarm is already going off, and attention is pretty firmly on the peak lord and the demon squaring off. So MBJ gives the whole crowd a delayed jumpscare, SHL in particular. Then MBJ grabs SHL by the ear and freezes the feet of evey other demon to the ground.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?" shrieks SHL.

'WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?' thinks SQQ coming thiiiiiiiis close to also shrieking.

"I'm stopping this." MBJ tells SHL unhelpfully.

"WHY??" SHL asks on behalf of the crowd.

"My fiance lives here. I will not allow you trouble this place further." MBJ says, clearing nothing up.

And then he portals away, taking SHL with him to a location where they can punch it out without leveling more property relevant to SQH. Leaving the of the clean-up of the trapped and bamboozled demons to the bamboozled cultivators.

SQQ is confused and screaming inside. He 100% thinks that MBJ is a transmigrator and probably assumes that this "finance" is one of the Wives sourced from Cang Qiong.

SQH, starts getting a flood of OOC notifications from the system, and when he finally gets some answers about the situation he only has more reasons to scream inside.

The System(s) are not sure what happened but they are dinging points from both transmigrators.

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 9 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Jinwoo had been mulling over a simple, yet increasingly puzzling question: How does one even contact you?

Despite weeks of fighting together, not once had he taken the initiative to reach out. The strange thing? You two hadn’t even exchanged numbers. You either planned your next raid before parting ways, or—more recently—you would simply show up because of your own schedule, or a butterfly of yours would come to him first.

The answer came to him, in a way that felt both obvious and absurd. Your butterflies.

Jinwoo wasn’t one to wait idly for answers, so he decided to test his theory. Concentrating on the familiar presence of your aura, he extended his hand, replicating that feeling in his mind. Moments later, one of your butterflies—the one that often remained hidden nearby, perhaps acting as your eyes—fluttered into view, landing lightly on his open palm.

Its wings faltered slightly, as if in acknowledgment.

This might actually work.

Closing his eyes, Jinwoo focused on the connection he had felt before, the distinct feeling of the red butterfly communicating with him.

Take me to her.

He didn’t know if it would respond, but soon enough, the butterfly took off, guiding him through the city.

---

He found you in the Hunter’s Market, haggling with a merchant. You were engaged in a rather intense back-and-forth, and judging by the merchant’s begrudging look, you were winning. In your hands, Jinwoo caught sight of what looked like a dormant magic beast egg, likely the reason for the negotiation.

"You're late."

You greeted him without even turning around, continuing to inspect the wares. Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. Not even a flicker of surprise from you. It was becoming clear that not much could catch you off guard.

By now, he was getting used to your way of doing things. "I need to talk to you."

There was an unspoken understanding between you that this wasn’t a conversation for public ears.

As you continued to browse the market, you hummed in acknowledgment. "I need to talk to you about some things too. Let’s continue this conversation in my domain. I’ll be done here in a few."

Jinwoo froze, staring at your back in confusion.

“Domain?"

"Dungeon," you corrected nonchalantly, still focused on the items displayed before you, your words casual as if you were discussing the weather.

Jinwoo’s brain paused for a moment.

"You own a dungeon?"

At that, you paused, a beat of silence passing before you turned toward him with a curious tilt of your head. "Did I never mention it before?"

"..."

"Ah."

For a split second, Jinwoo had the very distinct and rare urge to pinch your cheek. But instead, he just stared, half-amused, half-incredulous. You owned a dungeon, and you were mentioning it in the most off-handed way possible.

Of course, you would be the kind of person to forget to bring up owning something like that.

And just like that, another piece of the puzzle that was you fell into place, though Jinwoo knew he had only barely scratched the surface.

---

Jinwoo couldn't help but feel a rising sense of disbelief as he followed you into the alley. He had barely come to terms with the revelation that you owned a dungeon. Even now, he had to force himself to stop asking questions before they overwhelmed him.

He kept telling himself, Stay calm. Just get to a private place. Ask your questions there.

But, of course, fate had other plans.

As if summoned by his very thoughts, a glowing portal materialized in front of them with a soft hum. Jinwoo froze mid-step, his eyes widening. The gate was far smaller than the typical ones he had encountered, just big enough to fit a full-grown adult comfortably—yet there was no mistaking it for anything but a dungeon gate. The shimmering silver-white wisps that surrounded it were unlike any other, almost blending with rainbow-like accents at the edges. It looked... strange, subdued compared to the usual ethereal blues and reds, but somehow still powerful.

It was just his luck.

Jinwoo had been trying to push the thousand and one questions flooding his mind to the back of his thoughts, but now, they came rushing back in full force. He glanced at you, but you didn’t even seem phased by the sudden appearance of the portal. Instead, you waved him forward, as if portals and dungeons appeared in alleyways every day.

He hesitated for a split second but, deciding it was better to follow your lead than be left behind in confusion, he stepped forward, his senses alert. The instant he crossed the threshold of the gate, everything seemed to shift. The world around him blurred for a second before stabilizing again, and he found himself standing in a vast open temple-like structure.

It was nothing like the harsh, ominous dungeons he’d been to before.

The structure was grand, with high ceilings and pillars that seemed to stretch endlessly upwards. The atmosphere had an air of serenity to it, something so starkly different from what he expected when entering a dungeon. But it didn’t end there. As he followed you forward, stepping through what looked like the entrance of a colossal, ancient temple, Jinwoo’s gaze was drawn outward.

The view beyond the floating temple was breathtaking.

The sight was nothing short of a dreamscape. Lush forests and vast gardens stretched far beyond what the eye could see. Gentle rivers meandered through valleys, their sparkling waters catching the sunlight. Towering, misty mountains loomed in the distance, and there were labyrinthine paths that seemed to lead into hidden areas, mysterious domed structures rising proudly in the distance. The land appeared to have been untouched by time, ancient and majestic in its quiet beauty.

It felt more like a paradise than any dungeon Jinwoo had ever seen.

This is a dungeon?

"I know, right?" you spoke, breaking his thoughts, your voice playful. "Trust me, the first time I got here, I thought I was dead and that this was paradise."

Jinwoo’s eyes flicked to you in surprise.

But you continued walking calmly ahead without a glance back, seeming completely at ease, at home.

This place, this dungeon, was a paradox. It was both beautiful and dangerous, serene and lethal. As you moved forward, he couldn’t help but make comparisons. It reminded him of the butterflies—so ethereal, so delicate, yet with a deadly bite.

Like you, Jinwoo realized.

As if sensing his thoughts, you shot him a brief glance over your shoulder. Your eyes caught his for a moment before you turned back ahead, leading him forward through the landscape. Jinwoo shook his head, his thoughts momentarily swirling. But something made him froze in his steps.

He watched you from behind, the soft fluttering of butterflies surrounding you, some of them trailing closely behind, others flitting about aimlessly.

One butterfly, the familiar red one, fluttered close to you and landed delicately on your finger. You brought it up to your lips and kissed it gently, a soft, quiet action that felt impossibly tender.

Divine.

Jinwoo couldn’t help but wonder again, and for some reason, his pulse quickened. But, before he could dwell too much on his absurd thoughts, he shook his head and hurried to catch up with you.

---

The two of you continued walking until you reached a beautiful outdoor gazebo. The serene atmosphere of the garden, complete with a quiet pond surrounded by vibrant flowers, made it feel just like the rest of this space shouldn’t had been, a paradise. The soft trickle of water from nearby waterfalls added to the peaceful ambiance. On the table in front of the gazebo, there was tea and snacks laid out, ready for the conversation he knew he had to have with you.

Jinwoo sat down across from you, his mind buzzing with questions. He had so many things he wanted to know, and yet, he wasn’t sure where to start.

You, on the other hand, took a sip of your tea, completely at ease, before setting it down. You studied him quietly for a moment, perhaps waiting for him to speak first.

It took a moment, but Jinwoo finally asked, "This place... this dungeon. How did you come to own it?"

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, looking out over the garden for a moment as if gathering your thoughts. "Ah, yes. The story of how I got this place. It’s not simple, but I suppose I owe you an explanation."

You paused, seeming to gather yourself. "The truth is, this dungeon was here long before I ever arrived. In fact, I... was lost here when I was a child."

Jinwoo blinked, surprised. You—lost?

You continued, seemingly unfazed by his reaction. "I was barely a teen when I stumbled into it. The Trial System... it didn’t exactly help me, if you know what I mean. But it gave me a challenge I couldn’t ignore. To leave this place, I had to defeat the dungeon’s guardians."

Guardians? Bosses? Multiple?

You caught his gaze, raising an eyebrow as if to ask if that was a question. Jinwoo didn’t say anything, but his mind whirled. It was clear that this place wasn’t like any other dungeon he’d ever encountered.

"So, how did you own it?" he asked, his voice quieter now, as if trying to make sense of this all.

“The Trial System gave it to me as a... reward, I guess,” you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It’s mine now, in every sense of the word. And because I own it, I can summon it whenever I need to. I can open a portal to it and leave at will." You looked at him, eyes gleaming. "That’s how I was able to summon that gate earlier. It’s a... special gift."

Jinwoo absorbed the information, slowly piecing it together. "So, you can teleport anywhere?”

“Not exactly, I need to have a clear picture of where I want to go." You shrugged nonchalantly.

Jinwoo exhaled sharply, his thoughts swirling. As much as he wanted to ask more—wanted to demand answers—he felt something within him pull him back. This was your secret to reveal, in your own time.

So, instead of questioning you further, he allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation. You seemed to know what he was thinking. With a soft smile, you raised your cup again and said, "I don’t mind sharing more, Jinwoo. But just know, some things are better left unsaid.”

Jinwoo nodded, his gaze lingering on you. He would get the answers he was looking for, one way or another. But for now, he would have to trust you—because there was no other choice.

---

Jinwoo stared at you, completely flabbergasted, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You have to what now?"

You sighed, sinking a bit deeper into the seat of the gazebo, as if this whole conversation were some kind of exhausting memory you'd rather not dig up. "I have to level up my skills manually. Yes. Manually."

You could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to wrap his mind around it. "Wait, so… no shortcuts? No automatic leveling?"

"None." You let out a dramatic groan, leaning back and stretching your arms out. "The system basically made me work my way up through blood, sweat, and endless labor. You’d think the trial version would offer at least some quality-of-life updates, but nope. If I wanted to get better at farming, I had to actually go out and till the fields. If I wanted to improve cooking… yeah, let’s just say that was a nightmare."

Jinwoo blinked, half in shock, half in amusement. "Wait… so, all those skills that the system grants—crafting, mining, cooking—you had to actually do all those things?"

"Yep," you replied, with a roll of your eyes. "No instant boosts for me. While you get to succeed or fail with crafting based on your intelligence stat, I actually had to sit down and grind every skill point myself. And, of course, I started off just as badly as you’d expect.”

He tried to picture it and stifled a laugh. "So you’re telling me… you burned a boiled egg?”

"Listen," you huffed, giving him an exasperated look. "It was the lowest-level cooking skill, okay? Apparently, it was so low that I couldn't even be trusted to make something as simple as a boiled egg. Somehow, it just… burned." You buried your face in your hands, grumbling, "It’s still a mystery to me how boiling water and an egg turned into charcoal. But that was my life. Trial version for the win."

Jinwoo couldn’t hold back his laugh anymore, and the sound of it filled the air, rich and full of genuine amusement. "You? Burning an egg? You?"

"Hey, don’t laugh! It’s not funny," you protested and pouted at him. "Let’s just say I made my fair share of… tragic cooking attempts before my skill level got high enough to handle basic meals without a disaster."

You watched him try to stifle his laughter, but your own lips twitched, betraying a smile as well. "And it wasn’t just cooking," you added. "Farming was another story. I didn’t even know the basics—soil preparation, crop rotation, pest control. Do you have any idea how long it took me to produce anything that wasn't... wilted? Even mining was brutal. There I was, chipping away with an old pickaxe for hours just to get a sliver of ore."

He shook his head, still grinning. "Looks like you went through your own personal training arc as well."

"Of course I do." you agreed with a snort. "If the system hadn’t taken feedback from me eventually, you’d be the one cursing it out every time you tried to do something simple. But yeah, thankfully, the system decided to cut you a break. Guess my suffering counted for something, after all."

You straightened in your seat and took a sip of your tea, a satisfied smirk crossing your face. "But at least, once I got a skill to a decent level, it stayed there. Permanent. I don’t have to touch a frying pan for years, and the skill level’s still as good as ever. And the skills I invested in heavily—those have even broader effects."

Jinwoo’s brow furrowed, curious now. "Broader effects?"

You nodded, glancing up thoughtfully as if reliving memories. "Take my language skill, for example. I leveled it up while studying Monster Tongue, which was excruciating at first. But once I maxed out that skill, learning other languages was a breeze. The system gave me a boost, kind of like an automatic enhancement for anything similar. If I tried learning another language now, it’d be easy compared to when I first started out.”

He gave a low whistle. "So basically, the more you leveled up, the easier it became to learn things related to that skill?"

"Exactly." You placed your cup back on the saucer with a gentle clink. "Though there’s a catch. Back then, whenever the system went through an update, some skills would get expanded. The cap would get set higher, and I’d have to grind all over again to max them out."

You gave him a look of exasperation. "Imagine maxing out a skill only for the system to update and say, 'Hey, you can go up to Level 50 now instead of 30!' That happened so many times, I lost count."

Jinwoo leaned back, his expression growing more serious. "So… what happens now? Are you stuck with your current stats forever?"

You took a slow breath, letting the question sink in before nodding. "That’s exactly it. Since the trial stage ended when you became the player, there haven’t been any more updates. My levels, skills, and stats… they’re frozen as they are. I can’t adjust my stats, I can’t level anything up, that’s why I don’t get EXP anymore. It’s like I’m in a kind of… stasis."

He was silent for a moment, digesting the weight of that statement. It was strange to think that someone with as much knowledge and power as you would be… limited.

"I still have everything I gained during the trial, of course," you continued, your tone turning thoughtful as you gazed out over the garden. "But it’s a strange feeling, knowing that I’ll never improve again. All my stats, skills, and levels are frozen in time. There’s no ‘growth’ anymore—not like what you have."

Jinwoo frowned. "And that doesn’t bother you?"

You shrugged, meeting his eyes again. "It did, at first. But after a while, I came to terms with it. I put in the effort back then, and I reaped the rewards. Sure, I miss the feeling of progress, of leveling up. But the fact that you’re the player now means the system’s finished with me." You managed a smile, though it was a bit bittersweet.

He looked at you, quiet for a moment, perhaps feeling a hint of the sacrifice you'd made just for the sake of his journey.

"So now," you said, breaking the silence with a brighter tone, "I’m basically a living relic of the trial version, here to help you navigate the system’s quirks."

Jinwoo smirked at that. "The legendary burnt-egg chef, my official guide through the system."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "That title better not stick." Then, with a playful nudge of your cup in his direction, you raised an eyebrow. "And hey, if I’m going to help you, maybe you could use a few pointers. Starting with, oh, I don’t know… naming tips? You’re downright horrible at that."

The two of you shared a look, both of you smiling. And despite the strange circumstances, Jinwoo knew he was glad to have you by his side, guiding him, burnt eggs and all.

[Oh, he’ll not let that go, will he?]

“And whose fault do you think that is?”

---

"The meals with healing properties, the intricate mana stones, and how your butterflies can affect my daggers' stats... So that's why..." Jinwoo trailed off, connecting the dots.

You nodded, munching on a biscuit. "Mhm, pretty much. Since I have to actually *learn* the fundamentals of each skill, I can manipulate and craft related items more easily. It makes altering, replicating, or even making things from scratch a lot more natural."

You paused, reflecting for a moment before continuing, "It’s a blessing that the last system update allowed me to max out certain skills to the point where I can do these things in reality without relying solely on the system."

You brushed the crumbs from your fingers and leaned back, satisfied. "Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you. Now, what is it you wanted to say?"

Jinwoo took a deep breath, locking eyes with you. "Join me for a week."

"...Eh?"

Without a word, he held up an item—a key.

<Castle Door Key>.

It was the entry to the Demon Castle, the S-rank dungeon created by the system itself.

"There’s no rule saying I can’t bring someone with me. You don’t gain any more experience, so there’s nothing for me to lose. But you might get materials you won’t find anywhere else, not even in the hunter's market—"

"I refuse."

Jinwoo blinked, surprised. "What?"

You looked away, your mind racing. The offer was tempting—you had several experiments in mind, but there was too much at stake. There were bigger forces at play—the plot, the system's interference, and Jinwoo's crucial development. You couldn’t afford to be too involved in this one. You needed a good excuse, something he would believe.

"Jinwoo," you began, "you’re aware of my powers' limitations, right?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"Listen." Your voice, suddenly sharp, cut through the air, and Jinwoo froze.

For the first time, Jinwoo felt uneasy, confused, like he had said something wrong. He didn’t like the shift in your demeanor, especially when it was directed at him.

"'Demon' Castle," you continued, your tone softer but firm, "just by the name alone, we can assume the majority, if not half, of enemies there will be undead."

"..."

"My powers thrive off life. In an essentially ‘dead’ land, I’ll be at a severe disadvantage—"

"I'll protect you."

"And that’s exactly the problem. I’ll be a deadweight."

"Just focus on supporting me and my shadows."

You stared at him, the determination in his eyes unwavering. He was serious—dead serious.

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache coming on. "You’re really persistent."

"I know," he replied, not once backing down.

You exhaled, resigned. Deep down, you knew that continuing to refuse him would lead to something far more troublesome. There was no winning against Jinwoo when he was this determined. "Alright," you finally said, "I’ll join you. But if things go south, you have to trust me to pull back. Understood?"

As if you could leave him, the nagging thought echoed in your mind.

Jinwoo’s gaze softened slightly, and a small, rare smile crept onto his lips. "Understood."

You only hoped that the system wouldn’t interfere or cause any unexpected complications this time. But one question remained: why was Jinwoo so insistent on bringing you along, despite the risks?

Unbeknownst to you, Jinwoo was asking himself the same thing. But it was something he wasn’t quite ready to admit—not to you, and perhaps not even to himself.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [023/10/2024] -

The middle part of this, the convo between Jinwoo and (Name) feels a bit weird, so I apologize for the OOC-ness. I'll come back to this later.

[ccazimi]

You Are Also Like Me

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt. 3

cw: incest (uncle/niece but there's some faux dadcest idk how to explain... either way it's only between reader and sukuna), age gap, dubcon, freudian elements, reader's daddy issues are explored in depth, reader has family issues, fluff, angst, mutual hurt, dry humping, kissing/making out, unprotected piv sex, creampies, loss of virginity, degradation/namecalling, dirtytalking, humiliation, sadism/masochism, slight blood kink if you squint, pussy eating/ass eating, blowjob, deepthroating, spit play, cumplay, fingering, DDDNE wc: 21k a/n: im sorry the if the formatting is ass, apparently tumblr only allows "1000 blocks in a post" so i had to go through and cut a bunchhhh of paragraph breaks D: it might read better on ao3

“I want you to take my virginity.”

Sukuna’s eyes flit to yours as he takes another bite of his food, not answering right away, just watching you.

Annoying.

You put down your chopsticks and refuse to take another bite until he gives you some response.

Finally, he smirks at you, speaking lazily. “That’s a big step. You sure you’re still not just worked up from the other night or something?”

“That was like four days ago,” you hiss, “So no— it’s obviously not that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs as he chews. “Maybe you got all horny remembering it.”

You lean forward, teeth clenched, scowling at him hard enough to kill. “Can you please just give me a useful answer, for once?”

His eyes flicker down to the chopsticks laying across your plate of food. “Eat. I don’t pay Uraume as much as I do for you to throw a tantrum and waste your food.”

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

“Eat. Now.” Sukuna’s voice drops to a stern command and he stills, watching you expectantly until you finally pick up the chopsticks and shove a bite of food into your mouth, angrily.

“Good girl.” He resumes eating, and you swear he waits a beat longer just to piss you off before finally adding, “I’ll do it whenever you sign up for classes.”

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

You know damn well what you agreed to. Logically, it's the right move—and yet, any mention of it makes your chest tighten with a dull, anxious ache. Makes you want to think about literally anything else.

But Sukuna—in the most ironic way—is actually good at getting you to do things. You know he won’t bend on this, not when it comes to your future.

“You know I’ll have to ask my parents about that, right?” you point out flatly. “Especially if you’re financing it.”

“Already spoke to them,” he says, casually.

“What?! When?”

“None of your concern. But your mom’ll probably call you later today or tomorrow to confirm, so might as well start prepping now.”

You stare at him for a second, then just huff. “Fine. You promise?”

“Of course, princess. You’ll have to show me proof, though.”

Reluctantly, you nod.

Just like he said, the call comes later that evening—your mother’s voice neutral, if a little relieved, as she runs through application deadlines and housing options. She doesn’t say it, but you can hear it in her tone—anything to get you back on track. Back to your degree, to who you used to be.

You tell her you’ll look into it.

And you do, sort of. You open your laptop that night, click through your old student portal and check a few deadlines.

But the tabs sit there open and unanswered. Because you’ve always been like this—avoidant, stubborn when it matters most.

Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe it’s something deeper, some twisted logic that if you never re-enroll, never hit submit, then the end of your six months here won’t come, and that staying will stay possible.

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

But as the days pass, your need for him grows heavier. Hungrier. Harder and harder to ignore. Sukuna promised you ruin and while you waited expectantly for the next three days, on edge and feeling like a fool, he gave you absolutely nothing, leaving you out to dry.

His way of messing with you, probably. Making you really beg for it.

Just like now — dangling himself just out of reach, so you’ll cave and sign up for those damn classes. The day after he told you his condition, he’s definitely started playing with you more — not cruel, but deliberate.

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

In the evening, when you come out of the bathroom with your hair still damp and dressed in pajamas, Sukuna calls to you from the dining table where he’s nursing a glass of whiskey.

You expect a lecture—maybe about forgetting to empty the dishwasher again—but instead, he catches your wrist as you pass. You let him pull you in, straddling his lap, pleasantly surprised.

His fingers skim your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Make sure to dry your hair before bed. Don’t want you catching a cold,” he murmurs.

You snort under your breath, but don’t bother saying anything. In your experience, explaining to anyone your parents’ age that cold wet hair making you sick is nothing more than a myth, is a futile endeavor.

But then his lips are on yours—soft at first, then deeper. All tongue and teeth and the faint bitter taste of whiskey melting into your mouth.

Your hand slides into his hair as you tilt your head back, letting him in, sighing when he nips your lip. Your hips shift instinctively, seeking friction—pressing down against the bulge in his pants in a slow, barely-there grind. His hand slides to your lower back, holding you steady, letting you move just enough to feel it.

Ever since he taught you how to kiss, it’s secretly been one of your favorite things to do with him—making out at odd, quiet moments until you’re breathless and aching without even realizing how far you've gone.

But then he pulls back, leaving you flushed and involuntarily chasing after his mouth.

You blink up at him, frowning, your thighs still tight around him—and the smirk tugging at his lips tells you everything. Abruptly, he pushes you off his lap and stands, tossing back the rest of his drink before looking down at you, smug.

“Well, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

You shoot him the dirtiest look you can manage as he turns away, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

And with that, he’s gone—leaving you alone, warm, aching, and seriously considering banging your head against the wall.

Two more days pass, still no progress.

You want him—crave him in the way your body always does—but your mind keeps recoiling from the one simple task that would make everything easier.

Instead, you take the long way around it.

Late at night, you drift to his room like it’s nothing, one of his shirts hanging off your frame soft and oversized, paired with the smallest pajama shorts you own. You don’t knock, as has become habit lately.

He’s seated in his bed, glasses on, looking at something on his phone, not even bothering to glance up when you speak.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

His eyes stay on the screen, reflecting on his frames. “You’ve got your own room. What’s wrong with it?”

You pout a little, speaking softly, “I just…don’t feel like being alone.”

There’s a pause as he scrolls, and you step a little closer, the air thickening.

“You said you’d do it if I signed up for my classes. I did.”

You didn’t—not yet, at least. But maybe if you keep him distracted, he’ll forget about that part.

Sukuna just cocks a slitted brow. “That’s funny. Don’t remember seeing any proof yet.”

You hesitate, but decide to push on anyway, hoping you can soon make him forget about the proof. So instead of answering you climb onto his lap.

Sukuna stiffens, jaw ticking slightly, but he lets you. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, shaky fingers coming up to unbutton the top of his shirt — in nervousness, frustration, need, you don’t know.

He doesn’t react, just watches you quietly, face impassive before quietly asking, “What are you doing?”

You swallow, trying to sound as confident as you can. “What do you think?”

His hand finally moves, up your back, till the nape of your neck, and you finally think you’ve won. You lean in slightly, but then he tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his narrowed eyes.

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

You gulp, and he smiles — all teeth, no warmth.

“You think this is how it works? You crawl into my lap, bat your lashes, and I forget every condition we laid down?”

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

“It’s not like that,” you protest defensively.

“No? Then what is it like?”

You don’t answer, as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “I know what you want. You’ve made it very clear.”

Then he pulls away, leaving you sitting on his lap flushed and frustrated.

“You don’t get to change the rules just because you’re impatient. Desperate girls don’t make demands.”

“I’m not desperate.”

Your second lie of the night, and both of you know it.

He snickers. “What’s this little show then, hm?”

You bristle, and he leans in, speaking softly, just a little cruel. “Show me proof, princess. Otherwise you’re just pretending you want it.”

You’re not given a chance to retort before he lifts you off his lap, deposits you onto the bed like a doll, and goes back to whatever he was looking at on his phone.

If he was trying to get through to you, it certainly worked.

“I did it.”

As usual, he barely looks at you. “Did what?”

“My application. I signed up for classes. Check your email.”

He’s quiet for a beat—then his phone buzzes, and he opens the attachment. Your name, bold and official. All real.

He exhales, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Tch. Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You said you’d stop dodging me if I did,” you say, voice taut.

Sukuna sets the phone down, gaze cutting toward you like a blade. “And you followed through,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

Then he rises slowly, deliberate, until he’s standing in front of you. His voice drops; quiet, amused almost. 

“So that’s all it takes to get you to commit to your future,” he says, brushing your hair back. “One fuck from your uncle?”

You tense, but he just leans in to whisper near your ear, “I bet your parents wouldn’t be so proud of you for going back if they knew the real reason…”

You flinch, heat and humiliation mixing in your chest because of course he has to make this as vulgar as possible.

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

“I did,” he says simply. Then he cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Just remember,” Sukuna adds, gaze dark and steady, “You signed up for this.”

You don’t look away, not even as the air grows heavier, as you feel a certain thrum starting up between your legs.

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

He watches you for a long beat, eyes roaming over your face like he’s searching for hesitation. But you don’t give him any — you want this more than anything.

“Take off your clothes,” he says finally. It’s not a request.

You’ve done this before, you’ve done worse than this before, and somehow you’re still not entirely used to the feeling of undressing in front of someone — certainly not in front of him.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the hem of your shirt, but you do it, breaking the silence with the soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of cotton slipping off skin, revealing the expanse of your skin.

Next your pants, pulling at your ankles before you step out of them. His gaze darkens with every inch of bare skin revealed but he doesn’t move to touch you, not yet.

He watches, waiting, expecting as your hands reach around back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the ground, exposing your tits, your tightening nipples. You stand there, bare under his eyes that roam your curves, heart thudding, trying to ground yourself.

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

“Are you scared?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

You step forward anyway, closing the distance between you, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. “Do it before I change my mind.”

His hand slides into your hair, firm but not cruel, tilting your head back. He looks at you like something he wishes he didn’t crave as badly as he did. Something he wants to leave his fingerprints all over anyways.

“Six months,” he murmurs against your lips. “That’s all we’ve got. Then no more of this.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you—nothing like the last time. There’s no pretense now, no power play. Just heat, and want, and something else buried beneath it all, something like the night he told you he wants to ruin you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bedroom. There’s no hesitation in him, just intent.

You feel it in the way he throws you onto his bed, peels your underwear down your legs, the way he tilts your chin back to bare your throat to him, kissing it like something he owns. Kisses turn into something harsher, sucking, biting, and the rough scrape of teeth that stings enough to make you suck in a sharp breath. You know now there’ll be marks of his claim littering your skin for days after.

But when he pauses—just for a second—eyes meeting yours again, it’s not just control you see there. It’s restraint.

A question, silent but real. You answer it by pulling him down, mouth meeting his again.

And then there’s no more waiting.

There’s a sound that escapes you when his mouth finds your throat again—quiet, startled, and helpless. He drinks it in like it’s what he wanted all along.

Warm palms roam slowly, like he’s mapping out every fragile inch, learning you by feel, by the way you shiver under his touch as his he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck, along your collarbone.

You wonder if this is what sex is supposed to feel like - being worshipped and ruined at the same time. His hands make their way to your tits, tweaking one of your hard nipples between his fingers, before he bends to capture the other one in his mouth.

You whimper a little at the feel of his tongue tracing wet circles over the areola, then sucking hard enough on the bud for it to sting just a bit before he releases the pressure again.

"You really went and did it,” he mutters against your skin. “All that pouting, all that begging... just to get fucked like a slut.”

You swallow, your own trembling hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging at it, craving more of him, the feel of his bare skin against yours. Sukuna takes the hint, pushing off you with a low chuckle, just enough to pull his own shirt over his head. Dark markings crawl from over his shoulders, along his chiseled abs.

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

It occurs to you that you’ll never want a boy after this, not after you’ve been with a real man.

“It’s rude to stare,” he comments, arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside.

“Give me some more to stare at,” you mutter shamelessly.

Eager to see him again, all of him.

Sukuna smirks, an arrogant gleam flickering in his eyes as he steps even closer, his body hovering over yours.

“Mm, you’re getting impatient again. We’ve got all night sweetheart.”

His eyes roam down to the apex of your thighs, where they’re clenching together, trying to relieve some of the ache.

“Spread yourself.”

You take a shuddering breath as you part your legs as wide as you can, heat flowing directly to both your cheeks and your cunt. He lays on the bed, and you leak more arousal in anticipation of his face right in front of your folds.

“I said spread yourself, girl. Do I have to show you how it’s done?”

You frown at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “I d-did, can’t spread my legs any further than this—”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, before taking your hand and using your fingers spread your inner folds open.

“Like this. Hold it.”

The flesh inside is softer, more sensitive, and you cringe when you feel it cool from air brushing against the slick skin.

“Why? It’s not…comfortable…” you mutter nervously.

“It’ll feel better,” he states simply, large hands wrapping around your thighs to pull you in closer while you try to breathe and stay calm.

You trust him and hold yourself open as he leans in, and in a moment you understand what he means now — his tongue hot and insistent against not just your clit, but the surrounding areas of your sensitive inner labia.

You can feel everything, every stroke of his tongue, every small nudge of it against your clit and your sticky flesh. Bolts of pleasure light up your spine, as he works against your dripping cunt, lapping with increasing fervor. You whimper and quiver as he licks inside every crevice of your cunt, sucking on your clit, eating you out greedily.

You pant, feeling hot from your cunt all the way to the backs of your watering eyes as you twitch and tense, feeling yourself come closer and closer.

“Mmh, j-just like that, don’t -ah- fucking stop—” you whine desperately tilting your pelvis into his mouth for more, and soon you’re cumming all over his tongue, his hands keeping your thighs pried apart as they threaten to lock in around his head.

You finish, muscles laxing into a trembling mess and he intentionally gives you one last, harsh lash of his tongue right against your overstimulated clit, making you flinch in pain. He pulls away, inspecting your sopping hole, humming in approval before standing up to slip off his pants.

Down they go, and you can’t help but watch the large bulge in his boxers straining against the fabric, a wet patch already formed. They slip off and you ogle unabashedly at his large, leaking cock, his hard length swaying slightly as he steps forward, crawling onto the bed.

His mouth latches back onto one of your tits, suckling and licking gently as he strokes himself a few times.

“You’re shaking,” Sukuna murmurs, almost amused.

“I’m not scared,” you breathe, though your voice wavers.

He smirks against the slick mess on your breast. “Maybe you should be.”

His hand trails down your waist, rough palm against skin, as he finally rests his cock between your thighs.

Warm, with a dizzying weight. Soft skin against skin.

Just the sensation of his bare cock on your folds feels oddly vulnerable and intimate, enough to make your ears burn hot. Your stomach does a flip when you peer down, finally able to gauge the sheer size of him when his length is laying across your mons like this, his swollen tip reaching all the way till your navel.

Despite it, you could stare at his cock for hours.

And then it occurs to you—

“Wait, do you have a condom? I’m…I’m not on the pill.”

The words come out like a choked gasp, as though something inside you finally gives way. Your mind stutters, the fog of desire lifting just enough for the ugly reality to sink in. The heat that was rushing through your veins turns cold, a creeping dread that coils tight in your chest.

A terrible realization of what you’re actually doing. How real this all is. Because the chance of conception would be horrible enough on its own, but with a family member?

Well, that’s what the natural revulsion to incest was supposed to prevent, right?

Your body’s response is instantaneous—an involuntary shiver that starts deep in your gut, an icy feeling that spreads outward, stiffening your spine. You thought you’d come to terms with this, but perhaps you hadn’t — not all the way, at least.

“I do, but I won’t use them,” he states coolly. “I have more than enough money to afford a plan B pill if needed.”

He’s right, but still…

Sukuna looks up at your face, taking in the hesitation written all over it.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks, voice too smooth, too knowing.

Were you? You don’t know.

Because in spite of the cold, you want this, and maybe the perversion of it all makes you want it more.

“You knew there wouldn’t be any holding back if we did this, didn’t you?” He drags his cock languidly along your glistening folds, the head of it catching on your clit over and over, as he speaks.

Cruelly slow. Like he’s savoring every inch of your hesitation, every stifled breath, every twitch of uncertainty you don’t want him to see.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, the hesitation still curling in your chest, but it’s fading. Slowly, so slowly.

Your body betrays you, the cold tightening in your stomach transforming into something deeper, more urgent with every drag of his swollen head across your clit, pre smearing with your own slick.

Your hands, trembling but eager, make their way to his chest, pressing against his skin. A part of you wants to pull back, to stop this madness—but the other part? It’s begging for more. The thrill, the perversion, it warms you.

You want to feel him completely.

“I did,” you whisper, “So don’t hold back. Even if you think you should.”

“So you’re really gonna let me do this?” he asks, his mouth brushing your collarbone, tone low and mocking. 

He wants you to want him, but he also wants to test how far you’ll go — and that contradiction is Sukuna’s affection.

You should say something. Anything. But all that comes out is a soft gasp when his fingers ghost over your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure it hurts just a little. You’ll remember it.”

You hate how that thrills you. That you want him more for it.

His hand slides beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist. You feel everything in that moment—his breath, his warmth, the coiled tension under his skin as he presses in closer.

“Breathe,” he says, right against your lips. “It’s just me.”

He finally pushes forward to part your lips, slow and deliberate, and you gasp. Building pressure gives way to pain, sharp and acute as you feel your walls stretching to accommodate him.

It burns.

“Uncle,” you gasp, hips reflexively trying to pull away from the intrusion in your virgin cunt.

But he holds you in place, murmuring against your panting lips, “Almost there, sweetheart. It’ll get better after this, I promise.”

You believe him, but your body reacts of its own accord — walls clamping down, trying to push out the invading length.

“It w-won’t fit—“ You start to panic a bit as you feel the burning stretch.

He hisses through his teeth at the tightening of your cunt, fighting the urge to simply slam in all the way as you wince and tremble.

“Fuck, you need to breathe, I’m serious — take deep breaths.”

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

You swallow and nod, forcing a deep inhale all the way into your belly. As soon as you do, he slides in all the way in one final push till he’s bottomed out inside of you.

There’s a moment of stillness, where it all weighs down on you. The feel of him sheathed inside you, the stretch, his breath mingling with yours, the gravity of what you’ve let happen. What you wanted to happen.

He presses a quick, light kiss to your lips. “Good?”

“Uh, y-yes, I think so…” you reply unsurely, trying to get used to the feeling of something inside you. “Feels a little weird…”

“Mm, well we can stay like this till you’re ready for me to move again.” His lips pepper your face in gentle pecks. “I don’t mind having you cockwarm me.”

You stay there for a second, basking in this rare show of affection from him, as twisted as the circumstances might be.

And then, another deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

You pull your face back to glare at him, finding his lips twisted into a smirk. “You fucking sadist, can you just do i— ahh!”

You wince in pain as he abruptly pulls out, till only his tip is left inside and he grins down at you wickedly.

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

Your sentence once again ends in a yelp as he slams back inside of you, hard enough to make your nails dig into his back as you jolt.

He groans obscenely in response at your heat enveloping him again, clenching down on him.

Your face is contorted now as you grit your teeth. “What is your problem?! I swear you’re doing this on purpose—“

“I told you I was going to make it hurt. Or do you not listen to the things you agree to?” he snaps back too quickly. A bit too sharply. 

“I—“ Your face crumples and you swear you see his eyes soften ever so slightly in response, like something akin to pity. Maybe realization that he’s being a bit too mean right now. Especially given what’s actually happening here. You trusted him to take your virginity, after all.

You must look upset—maybe even a little scared—because something in his face shifts. That awful grin fades.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, his hand coming to cradle your cheek, slow, almost gentle. And then, as if to make up for earlier, “You’re doing so good for me, you know that?”

You blink up at him, breathing uneven. You don’t trust the softness, not from him. But you don’t pull away, despite your trembling. His other hand strokes the inside of your thigh—too gently for someone who just made you cry out a moment ago.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, quieter now. “But it’s still gonna hurt.”

You bite your lip, nodding slowly. He watches your expression, like he’s testing how much of your fear you’re willing to swallow for him.

“But it’ll pass. It always does,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You just have to take it. Be good, breathe through it. I’ve got you.”

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

And back in his cock goes. You try to keep your breathing even, but it’s true, he shows restraint and goes slow enough for the pain to begin subsiding.

Sukuna watches you carefully, your lip still held between your teeth in slight discomfort, though your body starts to relax.

The pain might be fading, but you’ve heard it’s supposed to be replaced by pleasure. Except you can’t really feel any — you think his fingers felt better.

You look up at him. “More. Go harder.”

“More?”

You nod.

“Finally ready for me to actually start fucking you now?”

He smirks at the slight pout forming on your lips, soothing the slight sting of his teasing with another kiss to your lips as he begins to thrust faster. You’re not sure when but soon your fingers are digging further into his muscle, anchoring yourself there as he begins fucking you with short, shallow thrusts, and soon your mouth parts around a sound you don’t even recognize.

He groans softly in response, and it’s not mocking now. It’s something raw, something real. “There you are, my pretty girl…”

His praise goes straight to your gut, coiling in with the heat slowly building there, more of your arousal lubing your silken walls making it a bit easier for him to slide in and out.

And then he stops.

You look at him confused, as he pulls away, standing on his knees, cock slipping fully out of your raw hole. It glistens in the dim light, flushed and turgid.

“Just wait,” he says as he grabs a pillow from besides you, and drags it under your legs. “Here, put your butt on this.”

You’ve heard something about pillows making penetrative sex feel better — you figure that’s what this is as you shift downward till your ass is cushioned, pelvis raised slightly higher. He kneels a bit to the side, positioning one of his knees under the crook of your bent one, and grabs your other ankle, lifting your leg straight up.

You just can’t help the snarky words from falling out of your mouth, “Thought we were having sex, not doing yoga.”

He gives you a warning glare, the same disciplinary kind whenever you purposefully annoy him, or try to protest against some mundane chore he’s assigned to you.

And then he’s positioning his cock against your entrance again, the other hand coming to toy with your clit, making you sigh at the sensation.

“You’d better shut that mouth while I’m still trying to play nice, sweetheart.”

You want to say something but you feel the round head of his cock breaching your entrance again, and instinctively you tense up as he pushes inside.

There’s still pain, but it’s tolerable now.

Sukuna starts fucking you again, harder now, and this new angle makes you moan, back arching slightly off the mattress.

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

“What was all that you were saying about yoga, earlier?”

He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, a high-pitched noise coming out of your throat as you savor his fat cock massaging that spot in your swollen walls that makes you feel utterly gone.

“’M s-sorry, I didn’t mean it,” you babble mindlessly, eyelids dropping as he fucks all the attitude right out of you.

His pelvis snaps forward, dark pink hair brushing against your burning skin, as he tightens his grip on your ankle, pulling your leg taut with ease.

“Silly girl,” he chides you, though his lips are pressing kisses along your ankle, down the length of your calf. “You never learn, do you?” he mutters against your skin. “Good thing I’m here to teach you your lesson over and over again…”

“Ha—ah!” you mewl when he abruptly bends your leg a bit, placing his lips to the back of your knee to suck and lick at the delicate, sensitive skin there.

“U-Uncle!” You moan and gasp in ecstasy, shivers running down your spine all the way to where his cock is thrusting into your drooling cunt.

And then you take a look at him, a good look at him, in the faint warm light of the bedside lamp falling over his features.

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

The broad shape of his muscular chest, the veins that run down the forearm gripping your leg, the set to his angular jaw as he fucks you, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

You pull your leg from his grip slightly, moving around a bit in discomfort at staying in this physical position.

“Stop squirming,” he says authoritatively, like he’s talking to some petulant, hyperactive child.

“Mh, w-wait lemme just—” Soon you’re pulling your leg from his grip, planting your foot on the other side of his body as you stand on your hands and feet, arching your back, panting in desperation to feel more of him.

Sukuna lets you change positions, wrapping his arms to support your lower back as you grab his neck with one of your hands, undulating your hips so that his cock hits you in a new place — deeper than before.

“F-Fuck, greedy fucking girl—” he grits out and you can tell he’s losing his restraint now too, slowly focusing more and more on taking his own pleasure from your body rather than just giving. He thrusts into you harshly, kissing your cervix with each squelching movement, watching your tits bouncing on your splayed out torso.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

The musky smell of sex, the salty tang of sweat-slicked bodies now permeates the air as you move sensually, trying to feel him deeper inside you.

“Good girl, keep going baby, just like that,” he rasps, voice rough with arousal as he ruts into you.

The furrow of his brows, the smell of his skin, the warm, steady weight of his hands holding you, supporting you.

Familiar.

“Ah, a-again, say it again, that I’m good—”

He slows down for a millisecond, eyes flicking to yours, at the needy look all over your face as you look up at him with pleading eyes, clouded and hazy with lust.

“Do you deserve that?” he breathes lowly, taking lead and fucking you harder with an intense pace you can’t keep up with. “My dumb, needy little niece. Wonder which side of the family you got all that desperation from, because it certainly isn’t mine—”

The sound of his heavy breathing, the shape of his smirk, slightly lopsided.

“P-Please!” Something claws in you, something desperate and vulnerable to hear it from him, to hear that praise and validation, god, why can’t he just give it to you—

To your dismay he sneers, too far gone in that side of him that needs to degrade you, hurt you, control you.

“Good? You’re bleeding all over my cock like a dumb piece of meat.”

“H-Huh?” You open your eyes, realizing they’re blurry with tears as you look at where you’re connected.

And it’s true, his cock is covered in streaks of red every time it pulls out to slam back into you again. Maybe the sight should’ve alarmed you, or made you feel more cautious or whatever — what it shouldn’t have done was make you moan lewdly, clenching down on his length.

Sukuna notices your reaction, and it only sends him into more of a frenzy, gripping you so tightly he’s practically holding your nearly limp body up like a doll, as he fucks your hole.

“You like that? Sick little slut—” he growls, before leaning in to whisper in your ear, “You think your dad would still call you his daughter if he saw you like this?”

Your watery eyes widen, all the air sucked from your lungs as the words hit like a punch to the gut.

That’s what it is. Who he reminds you of, why he feels so oddly familiar.

Did you forget you were fucking your dad’s brother?

The similarities are undeniable now, a physical reminder of the genes you share.

Something twists in your gut, like a writhing serpent with the realization, yet your cunt leaks more and more, waves of shuddering pleasure only growing in their intensity.

Sukuna grins at your shock, before abruptly dropping you onto the bed, cock slipping out from your abused hole.

“Straighten your legs and turn on your side a bit.”

You obediently do as he tells you, and then he’s straddling your bottom leg, folding the top one and hitching it over his waist. You watch him, spine twisted so your torso lays supine on the mattress.

His other hand grips your ass, before he thrusts himself back into the warm, wet heat of your tight cunt, stretched perfectly in this position so that he hits you even deeper, like he’s in your lungs. He watches the pout on your lips, the crestfallen expression on your tear-stained cheeks as he fucks you so good that he’s forcefully pulling moans from you.

“Still gonna look at me like that? Well cry if you need to — I’ll still be here, fucking you through it.”

And even as he’s fucking you, losing himself in your pussy, Sukuna’s mind is sharp — he knows the reason behind this change in your demeanor. What it is that’s bothering you. It's the same reason you need him, need his validation right now, his words of praise and reassurance.

You don’t care if they’re fake.

“Mm fuck, p-please,” you pant incoherently between moans, crying out when he hits another spot that makes a rush of warm liquid drip out of you, coating his cock. “B-Be good to me—”

Sukuna snickers, reveling in the way you beg. “Why? I’m not your fuckin’ dad, slut.” He slaps one of your tits, making you jolt.

“S’kuna!” you cry his name, slurred with the weight of your tears, at how cruel he's being when you feel most vulnerable.

“I’m not him,” he repeats, hand grabbing your ass, digging his nails in till it hurts. You barely notice that pain amidst everything else right now, with the way he’s fucking you stupid. “But we are blood. That’s why you fit so perfectly around me. Your cunt was made for this, sweetheart.”

He grinds his cock inside you, making you squeal in both pleasure and shame and disgust at his downright disturbing words.

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

Your words are cut off as a large hand wraps around your throat, pressing down onto your esophagus as he picks up the pace even more, heavy balls slapping against your skin.

“Say it and I’ll tell you all the things you wanna hear,” he whispers darkly.

You don’t have much resistance in you, not when he’s ruining you like this, when your cunt is simultaneously aching and sore but screaming in pleasure.

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

“How…fucked up this all is. That we’re related. And that..” you hesitate, and the grip on your throat tightens, making you wheeze a bit, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper from your strained throat. “And that you’ve been like a…father to me.”

“There it is,” he breathes triumphantly, loosening his hold on your neck though his hand still stays collared around it. “My good little girl. Finally being honest for once.”

His thrusts turn sloppy as he leans down to kiss you messily, and murmur against your skin.

“You’re so perfect, you know that? Smart, capable, pretty...”

You moan at his praise, feeling your pussy clench tighter and tighter around his pistoning length. The words go straight to your core, building and building, melting with the pleasure into something that threatens to swallow you whole.

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

You cum instantly, wet noises spilling out at you gush slick and kiss him messily, a thin droplet of drool running down the corner of your mouth. And then with a twitch of his cock and a guttural groan, warmth is spilling inside you, the most heavenly feeling, as he fills you with ropes of his hot seed.

A few euphoric moments of him emptying his balls into you, and then the cum stops flowing and he stills his thrusts. Warm breaths fill the silence, then he’s collapsing on top of you, careful not to put the majority of his weight on top of you. Your damp skin sticks against his, and he grabs your body as he spoons you from behind.

“You feel that?” He rolls his hips, slow and deep, his softening dick squelching inside the mess of fluids he’s plugged you up with. “This is what it means to be mine.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath as he pulls out of you, cock exiting your hole with a wet pop.

And then stillness. Too much of it.

The only sounds are the hum of the lamp and the uneven rhythm of your breathing. Your body curls in on itself instinctively, sheets tangling around your legs. You half expect him to push you away as you press your cheek to his chest, listening to the slow steady thrum.

He doesn’t. And the sound of his heartbeat is the only constant you have in the chaos still blooming inside of you.

Sukuna doesn’t speak. One arm lies draped lazily behind his head, the other wrapped around your waist—possessive, but not tight. His thumb strokes the small of your back, lazy and unthinking, like he’s petting a sleeping animal.

You don’t know what you expected after — a sharp word, a joke, indifference, maybe. But not this. Not him letting you hold onto him like this. Not his lips brushing against your temple like it means something.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally, voice low and almost too soft. “Regret already sinking in?”

You don't answer with words. Just shake your head a little against him, like you're refusing to answer something you can't explain.

Numbness. And the physical need to feel him next to you. That's all you feel.

His hand moves up to your hair, fingers threading through it. “Hn. Didn’t think you’d cling like this.”

“I’m not,” you mumble, even as your fingers curl tighter in the sheet between you.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Liar.”

There’s no malice in it, no mockery. Just a strange, patient warmth that makes your throat ache. And when you finally dare to glance up at him—at the faint cut of his jawline in the soft light, at the familiar cruelty in his eyes dulled by something quieter—it aches deeper.

Not regret. Something else, something softer and more tender that feels like it shouldn't hurt.

And yet it does.

But then something shifts — imperceptible, but there. The slightest stiffening of his body under yours.

“You good?” you murmur, sleep-heavy, cheek still pressed to his chest.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand lingers in your hair, then stills. His breathing changes—not relaxed, not calm; more like he’s suddenly aware of something he hadn’t let himself think about.

The silence between you stretches, no longer warm. You’re already half-asleep when you feel the mattress shift, his voice cutting through the haze a moment later.

“Don’t get comfortable. We need to get you cleaned up, and more importantly you should go pee.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Are you serious? I don’t need to go.”

He tugs the blanket down with one hand, unimpressed. “Yeah, well you’re still sticky, bruised and probably bleeding a little. Get up.”

You scowl. “So romantic.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying not to let you get a damn infection.”

“I’ll survive,” you mumble, rolling over.

And then—before you can react—his arms are around you, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you yelp, squirming in his grasp. “Put me down! I can walk!”

“You had your chance,” he mutters, already heading toward the bathroom. “You made your choice when you started whining like a brat.”

“I am a brat,” you snap, arms crossed, glaring at his jawline. “And you like it.”

“Right,” he replies sarcastically, “Or maybe I just don’t feel like explaining to your parents why their daughter has a goddamn infection.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, but despite your annoyance, you can’t help but relax a little into his chest, finding some strange comfort in the way he holds you. Maybe it’s the fact that you know he’s right—he’s always right about these things, even when it’s irritating.

“Well actually you’d be the one explaining, in that case. Don’t want Mom and Dad to know the kinda things you’ve been up to, huh?”

You glower at him as he tries not to look too pleased with himself, dropping you clumsily to your feet in the dark bathroom. You suppress a grimace as you feel his cum leaking out of you, sliding down your inner thighs.

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

“There’s nothing!” you snap, slightly embarrassed that the topic of you peeing is still being brought up. “I went….before, okay?”

Sukuna just sighs. “Make sure you do it next time. Don’t wanna deal with a UTI.”

You make a face but he’s already pushing you with a hand on your back to step into the shower. The warm water hits your skin, and you shiver before it starts to soothe. You’re still sulking, arms crossed under the spray as Sukuna steps in behind you like it’s just another chore he has to handle.

“You gonna stand there pouting all night, or do I need to wash that attitude off first?” he drawls, already grabbing the wash towel like you’re completely useless.

You try to snatch it from him. “I can do it myself.”

“I’m sure you can, sweetheart,” he replies condescendingly sweet, though he holds the wash towel up and away. “But I can do it better.”

You glare at him, but he’s already starting to lather your arms, completely unbothered by your glare. “You’re so annoying.”

“No,” he says, deadpan, “You’re annoying. I’m just responsible.”

You let out an exaggerated scoff, but your shoulders relax under his touch. You hate how smug he is when he’s right.

“You know I hate it when you treat me like a kid.”

“You act like one,” he replies, adding more of the fragrant bodywash onto the towel, before forcefully spinning you around to face him. “Especially when you’re tired. Or hungry. Or pretending you’re not clingy.”

You sputter a bit at the sudden spray of water in your face, before finally giving him another cold look.

“Me? Clingy? Are you out of your mind?” you reply, genuinely a little offended for some reason.

He just snorts, clearly unconvinced, and drags the towel down your back with a slow, deliberate hand. “You literally cried the last time I left for more than two days.”

“That was once,” you bite back, jaw tightening. “And I was on my period.”

“You called it a ‘separation-induced emotional collapse,’” he quotes flatly, then dips the towel just beneath the curve of your ass like he’s cleaning you, though you know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.

You swat at his arm, but he grabs your wrist and pins it lazily against your side, still holding the towel in the other hand. The motion isn’t aggressive—just practiced, smooth, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“I’m going to push you and you’re going to fall in the shower and not be able to get back up because of how old you are.”

He huffs out a short laugh through his nose, clearly amused. “Sweetheart,” he says, still calmly lathering your skin, “if anyone’s breaking a hip in here, it’s you. I saw you nearly sprain your knee trying to climb on top of me last night.”

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

You squirm against his grip, which only tightens slightly—enough to keep you still, not enough to hurt. He lathers the soap with the cloth on your chest, then squeezes it till the foam drips lewdly down your breasts. You only notice what’s happening when he smirks, eyes trained on the bubbles traveling the curve of your chest.

You swat half-heartedly at his chest, cheeks burning. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, utterly unrepentant. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“Sometimes I forget how unbearable you are when you get your way."

“And yet, you keep letting me have it.”

His eyes flick down again—languid, slow—watching the water and suds slide down your skin like it’s a show meant for him alone.

You roll your eyes and try to pull away. “Maybe I’m just too tired to argue.”

“Liar,” he murmurs. “You like it when I take care of you like this. Even when you pretend to hate it. Especially then.”

You stare at him like you're about to challenge him, but no words come out.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice low, fingers dragging just slightly along your waist now, “and I will.”

You look at him. He’s still holding the cloth, still waiting—for once, serious.

So you cross your arms to give him another stubborn look. "You forgot to get behind my ears, by the way."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a warning.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, but the way he tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans in tells you he’s taking the bait anyway.

You hold still, stubbornly proud, even when his hands bracket your jaw and tilt your head just so. He uses his thumbs first, rough pads gliding just behind your ears, then switches to knuckles as if he’s mocking the gentleness of the gesture.

“Since when you got so bratty?” he mutters. "This definitely can't be the same girl who showed up on my doorsteps a few months ago."

You glare at him, lips parting for a sharp retort—but he beats you to it, voice dipping just low enough to make your stomach flip.

“She used to be quiet. Timid. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

You scoff dryly. "I’ve always thought you were unbearable. Difference is, now I say it out loud."

He huffs out a laugh, more breath than sound, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And here I was thinking you’d just grown attached.”

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his fingers slide from your neck to your collarbone, slow and measured like he’s mapping you out again.

“Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll start thinking you enjoy mouthing off just to see what I’ll do.”

“Maybe I do.”

There’s a pause. A taut little silence between you—charged, waiting, thick with steam and something heavier than heat.

Then suddenly his grin widens, wicked and boyish all at once.

“Alright then,” he says—and then, without warning, he twists the shower handle.

A blast of cold water smacks your skin like a slap, and you let out a shriek, practically leaping backwards into him.

“Uncle!” you gasp, teeth chattering as you try to scramble out of the spray. “Are you insane?!”

He laughs—really laughs—arms effortlessly catching you as you flail, pressing you against his warm chest like you aren’t soaking and furious.

“You looked like you were overheating,” he says smugly, completely unfazed by your glare. And the ice cold water, for some reason. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re a menace,” you hiss, shivering as you try to reach around him for the handle.

His hand closes around your wrist before you can reach the knob.

“Easy,” he says, voice low but firm. “You’ll throw off your system if you change the temperature too fast too much.”

You blink at him, teeth still chattering, but he doesn’t budge. Just calmly reaches past you and adjusts the water himself—slowly, carefully—until it warms again, just enough to stop your skin from prickling.

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

“You’re lucky I don’t have hypothermia.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You were flushed and bratty and needed cooling off. Don’t make me explain the logic.”

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

“Soft violence,” he replies. “Therapeutic, even.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already guiding you gently under the warm spray, his touch firm and no-nonsense now. Not serious exactly, but steadier.

“Head down."

You sigh, complying, letting the water run through your hair as he works shampoo into your scalp with methodical hands—fingertips massaging a little too well for you to keep up your grudge.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

He finishes rinsing you off in silence, hands steady and impersonal now—guarded, almost, like the line between teasing and responsibility has been redrawn. 

Soon you’re out of the shower, wrapping yourselves in towels, drying your hair. The bathroom is silent as Sukuna brushes his teeth. 

That feeling, in your stomach again. Something bitter and unpleasant. Fear? You’re not sure of what.

“Can I…sleep with you here tonight?” you suddenly ask, voice smaller than you’d like.

Sukuna pauses, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, and there’s something unreadable in them.

Uncertainty, maybe? 

You don’t want to think about it — the thought would only make you spiral. If he regrets this, if he sees you differently now. Maybe he’s even disgusted by you. 

He spits into the sink, rinses, and sets his toothbrush down with a clack. For a second, he doesn’t say anything, and your chest tightens.

“Tch. You’re clingier than I thought,” he finally mutters, avoiding your eyes as he wipes his mouth with a towel.

But it’s not biting , it’s hollow. Deflection.

You flinch slightly. “Sorry. I’ll just—”

“I didn’t say no,” he cuts you off, voice quiet but firm, still not looking at you.

You freeze. “So… I can?”

He finally meets your gaze in the mirror — and for once, there’s no smirk, no mockery in his eyes. Just something tired, maybe even resigned.

“It’s your bed too,” he says after a pause. Then adds, almost too low to catch, “At least for now.”

Your eyes flit over to his toothbrush, and as quickly as you can, you reach for it. But Sukuna’s faster. He grabs it out of your hand, squeezes the toothpaste, and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, brows furrowed.

He doesn’t answer—just shoves the toothbrush gently between your lips and starts brushing your teeth for you, slow and deliberate.

“Are you serious right now?” you try to say around the bristles.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, condescendingly calm. “Since you probably can’t do anything without me, apparently. Mouth open.”

You try to pull back, but his hand is firm against your jaw. “Uncle.”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Open your mouth wider.”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed up, while he carefully brushes in exaggerated little circles, way too pleased with himself.

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

He grins. “Is it? I think it’s adorable. You’re like a spoiled little cat. All hiss, no bite.”

When he finally pulls the toothbrush away, you shove him lightly in the chest, scowling. “I hope you don’t do this with your girlfriends.”

He smirks, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re not my girlfriend, you’re my—”

"Do not," you quickly cut him off, shooting him a venomous glare.

You expect the usual smirk—that smug, needling grin he wears whenever he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a flicker of something else—a beat of silence that lingers just a second too long. Then he looks away, the moment slipping like steam through fingers. “Go put on your pajamas,” he says quietly. “I need to change too.”

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns away. “Because we’re not animals.”

That gets under your skin. Deeper maybe, somewhere more sensitive. “Yeah, except we just fucked like animals, so—”

“It’s not about that,” he cuts in, too quickly, too quietly. “It’s just… better this way.”

You watch him, frustration rising like heat under your skin. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

He pauses, back still turned. “Do what?”

“Draw lines.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to—brittle, breaking around something you didn’t expect to feel. “You promised. Said you'd give me all of you. Until I had to leave.”

He’s quiet. His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds heavier than it should. You’ve hit something, and you both know it.

You press. “What—did you think I wouldn’t actually take it?” you sneer. “And you were the one accusing me of pretending to want it.”

That makes him turn, just slightly. His eyes meet yours, and for a flicker of a second, there's something raw in them. Frustration. Guilt. Or worse—fear.

But he doesn’t argue, just exhales through his nose, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he says. “Get in bed. But don’t complain if you wake up with my elbow in your face.”

You roll your eyes, but move, letting the towel fall from your body. You’re bare, except for your panties—the liner catching the faintest trace of blood and what’s left of him. You don’t look away as you straighten the blanket and peel it back, sliding under the sheet. It’s cool against your skin, kissing your chest where you’re usually too shy to sleep uncovered.

But not tonight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing—unsure, maybe even uncertain where the lines are anymore. You don’t say anything. Just wait, still and quiet, as he kills the light and lies down beside you. The space between you feels fragile, thick with everything neither of you is saying.

At first, neither of you moves.

You lie on your side, facing the wall. He’s behind you. Not touching, not close.

You shift slightly under the covers. “Are you really gonna sleep all the way over there?”

You meant it to sound teasing—but it comes out... needy, almost.

A heartbeat passes and then the bed shifts as his warmth touches your skin, his body fitting behind yours. Not quite touching yet, but it’s much closer than before. Tentatively, you push back, your back brushing his chest, careful not to let your ass brush up against his groin. He doesn’t pull away, just lets out a long breath, like he’s been holding it this whole time.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything,” you whisper.

But you know that’s not the real question. The real question is what this is, now, why he’s gone distant, why the warmth of his body doesn’t quite reach the space where you needed it to.

Guys pull away after sex — you’ve heard that. But he isn’t just some guy, and this wasn’t supposed to be just sex. There’s something more to his silence than that, you’re sure.

Or at least you hope.

That maybe the twisted, complex nature of your relationship would count for something here, where it matters more than ever, perhaps.

He doesn’t reply but soon his arm is slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the expanse of his broad chest, fingers resting right beneath the curve of your breast. They caress the underside so softly it almost tickles.

And then, softly—so quietly you almost don’t catch it—he murmurs against the back of your neck, 

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

You wake up to the smell of grilled fish and miso.

Sukuna’s here this morning. You’d half expected him to fuck off to wherever he goes for work, just to avoid seeing you after last night.

And not necessarily the sex part—but the part after, where you slept tangled together, limbs knotted, his body curled around yours. You swear that at some point during the night, between dreams, you felt one of his large palms gently cupping your breast. Not sexually. More like the way a kid hugs a stuffed toy in their sleep. Something unconscious.

Possessive yet soft.

But now, there’s nothing in his place except rumpled sheets and an empty stretch of mattress. You get dressed in your pants from last night, then pull one of his oversized shirts over your head to cover your chest. You’re not in the mood to cross paths with him in the kitchen half-naked, just to grab clean clothes from your own room. Finally, you make your way to the dining table and slump into a chair.

Sukuna’s standing at the stove, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast like it’s any other morning.

“You need to talk to your counselor today. About the dorms.”

You blink. “What?”

“For school,” he says, like you’ve asked something stupid. “Next semester starts in a few weeks. You still haven’t put in your housing request.”

You frown, slowly sitting up straighter. “Okay, well—good morning to you too.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. “Morning. Now eat.”

You study him carefully. There’s no trace of last night in his expression. No warmth, no softness, just that familiar sharp-edged irritation, like you’ve already done something wrong. “You’re being kind of a dick this morning.”

“I’m being realistic,” he replies flatly. “You want to finish your program, don’t you?”

It’s true—you do want that degree. But something about the way he says it now digs under your skin. “Yeah, but—why are you suddenly on my ass about it? You’re acting like I’ve been slacking or something.”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead sets a bowl of rice in front of you with a little too much force. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you challenge, looking up at him. “Why are you suddenly breathing down my neck about this stuff?”

Sukuna dries his hands with a towel, leans against the counter, and stares at you. His face is unreadable—annoyed, yes, but there’s something else under it. Distant and resigned.

“You said you wanted to go back,” he says simply. “I’m making sure you do.”

“Yeah, but why now?” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “We literally just—” You stop, cheeks burning. “You know.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That doesn’t change anything.”

You push the bowl away. “Right. Of course it doesn’t.”

The silence that follows is thick and bitter. “I’m not hungry,” you mutter, standing up.

“You need to eat.”

“Oh my god, can you stop acting like my dad for five seconds?”

He freezes. The words land in the room like something dropped and shattered. You hadn’t meant to say it but there it is, ugly and raw. He stares at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

You cross your arms, scowling—but your insides are trembling. Embarrassed. And you don’t even know why. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he says, voice going cold. His expression twists, sharp and mean. That look he wears when you push him too far—when he lets something rotting and cruel crawl to the surface just to watch it burn you. “As if your dad’s ever seen you naked. Wrapped around his—”

“Okay, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. Instead, his voice goes low, flat and weaponized. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it when someone tells you what to do. You melt for it. Like a fucking pet. Tail wagging the second someone shows you attention.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between each word. “You want someone to feed you. Dress you. Tell you what’s good for you. Praise you when you behave. Punish you when you don’t. Isn’t that right?”

His smile is wrong. There’s no humor in it. “You don’t want a dad. You want an owner.”

Your stomach drops.

“And you’d rather it be me than anyone else. That’s the sick part, isn’t it?”

You clench your jaw, knuckled white around the chopsticks you grip so hard you’re surprised they don’t snap. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” you hiss, eyes burning.

His voice is equally low, gaze equally cutting. “Then sign up for your goddamn housing and make sure you’re out from under my roof in six months.”

Sukuna had almost forgotten what you were like before all this. Before you let him in.

But over the next few days, he remembers. He remembers how cold you can be. How distant. How easily you can withdraw behind those walls of yours, quiet and unreachable.

Polite, even — that’s the worst part. Not cruel, not defiant. Just... cordial. Impeccably so. With that measured tone and perfectly impassive face, like he’s a stranger you owe civility to and nothing more.

You don’t sleep in his bed anymore. Most nights, you’re behind the door of your own room. You wake up early, make breakfast before he’s even down the hall. You greet him with a sterile “Good morning,” eat when you’re supposed to, excuse yourself without fanfare.

And through it all, not once do you snap at him. Not once do you cry.

It’s this version of you — competent, composed, independent — that reminds him, with aching clarity, that you don’t need him.

You do the things he used to remind you about before he even opens his mouth. You fold your laundry without being asked. Clean your space, your dishes, your bathroom. You eat, on time, like clockwork. When you struggle with a jar, you don’t ask him. You run it under hot water, twist a rubber band around the lid, and open it yourself.

At first, it annoys him. Then, it sinks in.

You’ve always been capable. Always sharp, always resourceful. You could take care of yourself. You did, before him — before he inserted himself into your life. But now he sees the truth, that all those moments when you leaned on him weren’t signs of helplessness. They were choices.

You let yourself rest, let yourself be cared for, for once. Gave up the exhausting self-sufficiency because, for the first time, someone was there — and you wanted that someone to be him.

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

And now you’re showing him that you can go back to holding it all again, alone, if you have to. And that, somehow, is worse than any screaming match, any slammed door. You even inform him one evening yourself — perfectly neutral — that you’ve talked to the counselor. That you’ve applied for housing, and the results should get back in a few weeks.

In many ways, you are certainly much more tolerable than before. And at the same time, in the most ironic twist of fate, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand those guarded, polite smiles you give him. The way you clean your own dishes without being asked. How you only come to him, or speak to him, when it’s necessary. How you seem unfazed by his longer hours, how you barely seem to even care or notice.

Sukuna only realizes then how much you’d opened up to him, how much of you you’d let him see. That the clinginess, the neediness he used to tease you for—those weren’t flaws. They were the soft depths you’d chosen to reveal beneath that armor he now remembers all too well. The quiet trust behind it, the way you’d let him in. And he’d taken your vulnerability and used it against you.

Vulnerability—somehow your greatest strength. Because he doesn’t know how to show it himself. Doesn’t know how to be soft without destroying something in the process.

He knows—as your guardian—that whatever this is between you has to stop. That it’s fundamentally wrong, that you deserve a future untouched by this, by him. That you should go to school, finish your degree, meet someone your age, live clean and normal and free.

But as a man who wants a woman—wants you—he doesn’t want any of that. He wants to keep you close. Keep you his. Make sure no one else ever sees you the way he has, touches you the way he has, ruins you in the way he already has.

And gods, it would almost be easier if you didn’t look at him like that—like he’s worth everything. Like he’s still someone you want, even now. And that’s what makes it dangerous. Which is why he had to draw the line and set the goddamn deadline. Force you to take control of your own life, even if it hurts you. Even if it kills something inside him.

And the worst part is—it’s working, isn’t it? You’re moving on. Maybe not willingly, nor gracefully, but you’re moving on.

And he’s stuck somewhere between what he owes you as your uncle… and what he wants as a man.

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

A freshly folded towel left outside your bathroom door. A full cup of barley tea placed by your laptop while you study. Groceries restocked with your favorite brand of yogurt.

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

You ignore them all. Not because you don’t notice — you do. Every single one. But acknowledging them would mean softening, and softening would mean giving in. And that strange, ugly ache still swells inside your chest every time you see him. So instead you harden.

When he knocks gently at your door one night, a quiet “You eaten yet?” slipping through the wood, you pretend you have your headphones on. He waits a few moments, doesn’t push. Eventually, you hear his footsteps retreat. You stare up at your ceiling and feel the guilt press against your ribs, dull and stubborn. But you don’t open the door. Not yet.

Because some part of you still wants him to feel it. That you were hurt and that you’re not just going to pretend like it didn’t crack something open. And until then, you keep that distance. Even as it eats at you too.

A few days later, Sukuna finds you on the balcony.

You’re small in the dark. Knees pulled to your chest, sleeves tugged down over your hands. It’s cold, but you don’t shiver.

He leans in the doorway for a long moment before stepping out. Doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a quiet flick, exhales a slow curling stream of smoke into the night.

You don’t look at him, but there’s that familiar ache in your chest. A tightness.

“You’re freezing out here,” he says eventually, like it’s casual.

Nothing.

He tries again. “Didn’t touch your dinner.”

Still no response, not even a shrug.

A longer pause this time. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair.

“You remember that stray cat? The one you used to leave food for down the block?” His voice is low, rougher. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”

You don’t respond but your fingers twitch. Sukuna stares at the side of your face. The line of your jaw, clenched tight, the blankness in your expression.

But inside, you’re fracturing. You don’t know what it is — this urge to hurt him, to dig in the knife and twist, even if it hurts you too.  Some side of you that’s simultaneously sadistic and masochistic, that wants to sabotage everything good, that enjoys the mutual pain.

You suppose that like your uncle, you have a cruel streak somewhere within you as well.

It's been a full week now.

Sukuna lingers in the doorway of your room, like he’s debating whether to say something or leave. Hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes low. He doesn’t look like himself, not in the way you’re used to — no sharp smirk, no biting comment ready to tear into you.

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

You don’t look up from your notebook. “Fine.”

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

A pause. You let it stretch out, wanting him to leave. Or maybe, secretly, you want him to stay and try harder.

“I made soup,” he says. “You could’ve just—”

“I didn’t want it.”

He tenses — not a lot, but enough that you notice. It makes you feel that rush of power, laced with bitterness. With hurt. And somehow you can’t stop yourself.

So instead you flip a page, scribble down a word you don’t care about.

He exhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t do it to punish you. I thought... if I didn’t give you a push, you’d never try. You’d stay here. Get stuck. With me.”

Now you glance over your shoulder, barely. “So you thought hurting me was a favor?” Your voice is flat, almost bored. It stings.

He clenches his jaw. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You finally lower the pen, clipping it to the side of the notebook to close it and keep it down. Then, you turn — calm, composed, lips pressed tight.

“No,” you say coolly, “I think you meant every word. That I’m a burden. That I should get out of your hair.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in. “It’s fine. You want me to move on, right?” You smile a bit. “I have a date tonight, by the way. Don’t wait up.”

It lands exactly where you intended it to. Sukuna goes still. A slow, bitter kind of stillness, the kind that simmers behind his eyes. You walk past him without another word.

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

Your date is forgettable.

Some guy from a dating app you downloaded on impulse a few nights ago, during a moment of defiance or loneliness — you can’t tell which. He talks about cryptocurrency the entire time. You nod along, barely listening, more focused on finishing your ramen than the words coming out of his mouth.

When the check comes, he glances at it, then at you. "Want to split?"

You don’t even bother sighing, just slide your card forward and nod.

On the way home, the silence in the train feels more like relief than emptiness. You realize it then — the whole outing was a quiet attempt to prove something. To yourself, or to Sukuna, you’re not sure. All it proves is that he’s still the one you think about, even when you're sitting across from someone else. He would never ask you to split the bill. And for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely, that thought makes your chest ache more than it should.

You unlock the front door quietly, out of habit. The home is dark except for the low flicker of a lamp. You toe off your shoes, slip inside, and pause there for a moment — unsure why.

He’s not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. You glance toward his closed bedroom door

You expected to feel…something. Triumph, maybe. Validation. Or at the very least, distraction. Instead, there’s only that dull, familiar ache settling back in your chest as you wash your face, brush your teeth, change into pajamas..

You should get to bed, sleep it off. Pretend the date meant something, that it helped.

But you don’t.

Instead, like some quiet pull you can’t resist, you drift toward his door, knock once — barely audible — and let yourself in without waiting for an answer.

He’s in bed, half-asleep or pretending to be. The soft glow of the lamp beside him casts shadows over his face. He doesn’t say anything when you approach, just watches you through lidded eyes.

You hesitate at the side of the bed. Then, without a word, you crawl in beside him — careful, uncertain.

His body is warm, solid. You don’t touch him at first. Just lie there, facing away, the space between you sharp with tension. Then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. A hand brushes your back, barely there.

You don't speak; you don't need to. Eventually, your hand finds his, and holds.

Not an apology. Certainly not a resolution. But something.

You wake up before him.

It’s still dark out, just the faintest grey bleeding into the corners of the sky through the window. His room smells like sleep and the faint woody aroma of whatever soap he uses. You’re curled toward him, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting lightly near his chest.

Not touching. Just…close.

For a while you just lie there, heart aching and quiet. You hadn’t meant to come to him last night but now, in this slow, blurry moment, you realize it was the only place you could’ve ended up.

He shifts a little in his sleep and a quiet sound escapes him, the kind that makes your throat tighten for no good reason.

Finally he speaks, voice low and groggy. “...You came home late.”

You don’t answer. Just breathe slowly, carefully.

His arm shifts, hand brushing your back again tentatively.  “Was he any good?”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh. Not amused, just tired. “No,” you whisper. “He was boring as hell.”

A long pause. You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t press. “Good.”

Another beat. You almost laugh again, but it catches somewhere painful in your chest. So instead, you let your eyes fall closed again and say nothing. His fingers linger on your back, warm and uncertain.

Still no resolution. Still no answers. But somehow, the silence between you feels less like distance — and more like a thread slowly weaving itself back together. You fall asleep like that, side by side. 

A couple days pass.

Things don’t go back to normal, not completely, but the ice isn’t as sharp as it was before. You’re both still circling each other, careful, cautious. But the air between you is a little less brittle now.

It’s late morning. You’re in the kitchen, halfheartedly eating some toast, still in your sleep shirt. He walks in, dressed and ready to head out, keys in one hand, phone in the other. He says nothing at first, just grabs a bottle of water and downs half of it.

You keep your eyes on your plate, but then, casually — maybe too casually — you ask,

“You working today?”

His brow lifts, ever so slightly though he doesn't turn to face you right away.

“Mmh,” he hums, wiping his mouth. “I am.”

You nod once, like that was all you wanted to know. But the smallest flicker of something akin to disappointment flashes across your face, and he catches it. He leans against the counter, watching you for a beat too long. “…You gonna miss me or something?”

You roll your eyes without looking up, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins faintly — just a hint of smugness there, but it’s gentler than usual. Almost soft. “Mm. That’s not a no.”

You snort under your breath and finally glance up at him, just for a second. He’s already turning toward the door, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now like maybe your question meant more to him than it should’ve.

And maybe your asking it meant something to you, too.

You don’t say anything else as he leaves. But when the door closes, you sit there with your half-eaten toast and feel the quiet press of his absence in the apartment. And this time, it doesn’t feel like punishment.

It just feels like… missing.

You don’t plan to wait up. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You clean up the kitchen after dinner. Do a face mask, scroll on your phone. You even get in bed at a decent hour, lights off, pretending you're tired enough to sleep. But you don't; instead you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in too many thoughts and too much quiet.

You hear the front door open sometime after three in the morning. The soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off and keys landing in the bowl. 

You could stay in bed. You should. But before you can put thought into it, you're getting up and padding out into the hallway quietly, not sure what you're doing, until you catch sight of him in the living room — jacket off, sleeves rolled up, rubbing his neck like it’s been a long day.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You hover a moment, then casually speak up, your voice quieter than you intend. “Late.”

He glances up, just a little startled. But his gaze softens when he sees you — rumpled from bed, arms loosely crossed like you’re pretending this is some kind of ambush and not the result of waiting for him for over three hours.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you. There's a quiet tension that might’ve been awkward once, but now just feels…careful — like both of you are trying to speak without saying the wrong thing.

Then, after a moment, he gestures with his head toward the couch. “Wanna sit with me for a bit? We can watch TV or something.”

You hesitate but only for a second. “…Yeah,” you murmur. “Alright.”

You curl into the corner of the couch, and he sits down beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulder brushes his when you shift. You just sit there silently, some late night talk show on the screen that neither of you are really watching, the clock ticking on the wall.

Neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing. That this… is better. You missed this.

The room is dim, the air thick with the remnants of the night. You can feel the weight of his presence even without looking at him. It’s strange, how the space between you doesn’t feel empty tonight.

You sit, stiff at first, then relax, just enough for the warmth in the room to seep into you. You can hear him breathing — slow, steady, and soon the quiet becomes comfortable. He’s the first to break it, his hand still lingering in the air, hovering above you, before he drops it to his lap.

“Go to bed if you’re tired.” His voice is low, almost absent, but there’s something in it — a softness you don’t expect from him.

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you just feel the weight of your own exhaustion settle in. The events of the night, the day before, everything else—all of it starts to catch up. You never realized how much you needed this quiet.

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Then just let me.”

Your eyelids flutter, and the weight of sleep tugs at you, slow and irresistible. You try to fight it, but your body betrays you and involuntarily you lean back, just a little, and your head slips sideways.

His presence is warm, familiar, an anchor that you can’t seem to pull away from. Before you realize it, you’re not just leaning against the couch anymore. Your cheek is against his shoulder, your body curling slightly in towards him.

You don’t move. His hand is still resting near you, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin if you shift an inch. You want to move away, to keep that distance, but you’re too tired. Too drained. And, despite everything — despite the fighting and the sharp edges between you — you feel safer here.

You don’t notice when you finally drift off, your breathing evening out in rhythm with his. Sukuna watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the top of your head. He doesn’t move, even as you shift slightly in your sleep, closer to him.

His hand hovers for a beat before he rests it on your head, just a light touch, like he’s afraid of waking you. Or maybe afraid of needing you. He doesn’t let himself think about it too long. He shifts slightly, adjusting his own position to make you more comfortable, but he doesn’t push you away or force you to go back to your room. For the first time in a while, he simply allows himself to be in the moment with you, even if nothing is fixed.

Slowly, your odd relationship begins to rebuild itself. Almost like nothing’s changed. Which feels good, but you know is probably ultimately bad.

There isn’t much left for you to do regarding your college application now other than wait, which works in both your and Sukuna’s favors since he doesn’t have to ask you about it. And for a little while, you can both pretend like it doesn’t exist, like there isn’t a definitive end to all this.

You once again start bugging each other in that way, where it becomes a game to push each other’s buttons. The subtle jabs, the teasing remarks — it feels familiar, like slipping back into an old pair of shoes. Comfortable, easy.

One morning, you deliberately make a mess with the breakfast dishes, leaving them in the sink just to see if he’ll say something. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Spoiled,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the unwashed plates before he grabs his coat to head out for the day. You’re about to say something snarky back, but he catches you off guard when he pauses by the door. “I’m leaving. Don’t forget to eat. Don’t make me come back here to check on you.” His voice is sharp, but there’s something behind it that catches you off guard.

You don’t even reply, just raise an eyebrow as he walks out.

The day stretches on, and as usual, you find yourself stuck between the feeling of wanting to be left alone and the pull of his presence — a silent, strange comfort.

A few days later, you’ve had enough of your own thoughts spinning in circles. You’re lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone when Sukuna walks in, the air shifting the moment he steps through the door.

“Made yourself comfortable?” he remarks dryly, nodding to the mess of books and papers scattered around the coffee table. You shrug, not bothering to answer, but he continues, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’re avoiding me again. Good to know I’m still that important.”

You roll your eyes but a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Oh? And how am I avoiding you?”

“You’re still keeping your distance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you today. Less guarded. Almost vulnerable, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t respond immediately, the tension in the air thick. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then, the game kicks in. You look up from your phone, tilting your head with a feigned innocence. “And what about you? Still not asking about my college stuff? You’d think you’d care by now.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he smirks in that infuriatingly smug way. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to care? But I’m leaving it up to you. All of it.” His voice softens just a bit, and for a second, the tension fades. “Just don’t waste the chance.”

It stings. Not because of the words, but because you know they’re true. And deep down, you’re not sure if you’re ready to make that choice.

Sukuna won’t admit it, but he’s secretly thrilled at the way you’ve started to cling to him again.

It begins with you sometimes crawling into his bed at night, asking if you can sleep with him. He agrees, and soon the asking eventually just turns into you announcing that he’ll be sharing the bed with you.

And then the casual, domestic bickering returns full time to your daily life. One morning you’re sitting at the breakfast table, innocently eating leftovers from last night as he opens the fridge to grab some milk from his coffee.

The carton is suspiciously light, but he tries his luck anyway, unscrewing the lid to pour some into his glass.

A single drop falls out.

He catches you trying not to look at him, clearly hoping to escape the reprimanding that’s about to come your way.

“Seriously? Can you just throw away the damn containers when they’re finished?”

You sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it next time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Okay what do you want me to do? Go back in time and throw the carton away? I just forgot.”

He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’d buy into it a bit more if he didn’t see how well you could really do things, when you weren’t talking to him. Weaponized incompetency - that’s what this is.

If you’re not acting like some poor woman’s kind of shitty boyfriend, you’re acting like a spoiled pet.

You stand in the doorway to his office, arms crossed over your chest. Sukuna is bent over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up at first, but you can feel his awareness of your presence, as always.

“I’m bored,” you announce, breaking the silence.

Sukuna barely glances up. “Do I look like your entertainment?”

“Not really,” you mutter, stepping closer. “But I’m here, so I thought you might want some company.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches until you can’t stand it any longer. You move behind his chair and sit down on his lap without asking. He freezes for a moment, but doesn’t push you off. His hands remain on the paperwork, not acknowledging the shift in your position.

You lean in slightly, eyes flicking to the paper in front of him. “What’s this? Planning to buy something else you don’t need?”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “I’m working.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight a little to grind—barely—against his thigh. “It must be hard to focus when you’re this uptight,” you say, deliberately lazy in your tone.

He glances at you sideways. “I’m not the one climbing into someone’s lap uninvited.”

“Don’t need an invitation. It’s my birthright as your only niece,” you reply with a half-smile.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t bother responding. Pen scratching against the page like he’s willing himself to ignore you.

You want his attention, maybe something more — to get a peek into his head. But you know him; he never gives anything away when asked outright. That’s fine, you’ll go for the side door instead.

After watching him for a moment you lean in a little, voice laced with provocation. “Let me guess—you think this is annoying. That I’m clingy and that you’d rather be alone.”

He pauses just for a second, but you catch it. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Push a bit further.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or maybe you’re just trying not to care too much. Wouldn’t want to make things messy, right?”

That’s when his pen stops moving. His jaw tightens, just enough to make you smirk.

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my head,” he mutters, low and sharp.

There we go.

“Well, maybe you should share then,” you respond casually.

He leans back in his chair slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, and you feel your breathing quicken. Your pulse stutters—God, you’ve missed this. Missed him like this. Sukuna grins slowly, in that way that tells you he’s up to no good as his hand finds its way to the curve of your hip.

“You really wanna know what’s going on in my head?” He shifts beneath you, just enough for you to feel it—hard and rising under your weight.

“Guess I do,” you breathe, feigning calm.

“I’m thinking,” he says lowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “That the shipping clause in the new procurement contract’s gonna screw us if customs get nosy in Kobe again.“

You blink before your face settles into a scowl of irritation. “God you’re fucking insufferable,” you mutter, looking away.

“What, did you want me to say I was thinking about you?”

You give him a dry, biting, pointed look that makes him smirk even wider.

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

“…And how you still haven’t bought the milk you finished without telling me. Or taken out the goddamn trash.”

You turn away, trying not to let the dejection get to you. Sure maybe you’re horny but it was more than that too — you wanted him to want you like that again. To feel that he still desires you in the way you know he shouldn’t.

So you begin to get up with a sigh, when he pushes you back down abruptly before casually adding, “Oh and how I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock right now-” He grabs your hips, grinding your throbbing cunt right onto where his bulge is straining against his pants, “So I can fuck your throat till you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitching a little in surprise. Exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, considering how it makes him smirk.

“Is that the kind of thing you wanted to hear? Huh?” he teases.

Yes, it is, but you’re feeling a bit more bratty after the way he just messed with you.

So you purse your lips, trying once again to climb off him. “Nope. Not anymore at least. I think I’m gonna go take out the trash actually since you were so concerned about that—“

His gaze darkens and before you can even catch the movement he’s gripping your wrist. “Knees. Now.”

You shoot him a glare. “And give me one good reason I should do that after that shit you just pulled?”

Of course the thought of getting to feel his cock in your mouth for the first time is more than arousing, but your penchant for demand avoidance proves to be just as stubborn.

“Because you waltzed in here practically begging for my attention—and now you’ve got it,” he says smoothly, thumb brushing along your lower lip, hand cupping your jaw. “Interrupting me while I’m working…”

His eyes drag over your face. “Might as well make yourself useful. Help me burn off some of this stress...”

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. He watches you, waiting. When you still don’t move, his hand trails lower—fingers wrapping around your throat with deliberate pressure.

“Get on your knees.” His voice drops, grip tightening just slightly. “I won’t ask again.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on his. Then you move. He releases you as you shift, lifting yourself off his lap and lowering to the floor between his legs, gaze never breaking from his. Sukuna’s eyes follow you, widening his thighs a bit more so that you have better access to the bulge now at your face level.

And before he even has to ask, you’re reaching forward, unzipping his fly to expose the swell in his boxers. He exhales softly when you finally pull down the waistband, freeing his erect cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip.

You swallow again, this time louder, the sound exaggerated in the quiet between you. He hears it, clearly, and lets out a low, amused snort.

“Nothing to say now?”

You give him another half-assed scowl, before returning your attention to his dick. His skin is tan against the dark pink of his hair, a contrast that draws your eyes before anything else. And when your hand finally wraps around him, the weight of him is undeniable—solid, warm, real.

His cock is just as imposing as the rest of him. No wonder he acts like that.

“What do you want me to do?” you murmur, giving him an experimental pump of your fist, before bending forward to lick the pearlescent bead of pre gathered at his slit.

A little salty, maybe even sweet, ever so slightly.

Sukuna breathes a bit sharply at the touch, though his voice stays composed, condescending and arrogant as ever. “Suck it? Give me a blowjob? Want me to say it in another languag— ah, fuck,” he hisses when you deliberately stiffen the tip of your tongue, firmly prodding into his slit.

Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to probably feel uncomfortable. You lift away, stroking his length gently with a small satisfied smile.

“Was that good?” you ask innocently, knowing few things annoy him as much as your weaponized incompetency.

“Just open your mouth and let me fuck it since you can’t do it right yourself.”

You place one hand on his thigh, the other bringing his tip back to your lips to give it another kitten lick. “In a moment.”

You tease your tongue around his frenulum, sliding your tongue up and down with soft, almost curious licks. He lets you explore dick as you borderline inspect it, lifting his shaft to peer at the heavy balls sitting below before running your tongue along the seam with almost reverent carefulness. Sukuna’s breath deepens, as you feel his hand coming up to knot in your hair.

“What’s this all about? Never sucked a dick before or something?” he murmurs, though he stays patient, letting you go at your own pace.

“I have. Just not yours,” you mumble, as you bring your lips back up, rubbing it against his sensitive glans just to see what it feels like.

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

You’ve sucked dick before, yes, but never felt the need to get so familiar with another man’s intimate areas, to take your time like you’re trying to permanently imprint the memory of it in your brain. You find yourself wanting to memorize every vein you trace with your tongue, the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him in your mouth.

Perhaps you understand now why he was so adamant on wanting to see every inch of your own pussy. Not to mention no other man’s ever leaked as much precum as he is right now, oozing from his slit as you coat your lips with it in a slick sheen. Sukuna’s muscles are visibly tensed beneath you, you can tell he’s reaching his limit from the steady tightening of the hand gripping your roots. Good.

But you want to push him further, just a bit. So you look up at him as you collect spit in your mouth, before parting your lips to drip it obscenely over his tip. And then, you blow on the wettened skin, ever so gently.

A notch forms between his brows, jaw clenching as it does when he gets irritated. Suddenly your head is yanked back, scalp stinging from the harsh tug.

“Enough,” he growls. “Stick your tongue out like a good slut.”

You do as you’re told, and soon he’s taking his cock and rubbing it against the flat of your tongue as you gaze up at him.

“That’s it.” He slides cock off your tongue, and onto your face, slapping it against your cheek with a wet noise, your saliva sticking to you skin. “Now open up.”

You widen your jaw and take a deep inhale through your nose right before he slides his girth in, inch by inch, feeding it into your throat. Immediately your gag reflex kicks in as he goes deeper than you’d expected, sooner than you’d expected.

Sukuna only snickers meanly when he hears you choke a bit, your throat convulsing around his cock. “Too much?”

You narrow your watering eyes in defiance, inhaling again through your nose before remembering a trick you’d heard somewhere about squeezing one of your thumbs so you don’t gag.

So you ball your left fist around your thumb as hard as you can, and strangely enough, it works. With that you hollow your cheeks and push your head down until your nose reaches the coarse hairs on his pelvis, taking in how tight your throat feels around his cock sheathed fully inside.

He smiles as you still a bit, the grip in your hair loosening so that he can stroke it instead, as he murmurs pleasantly surprised, “Oh, good girl. You learn fast, huh?”

Before he can do it himself, you begin moving your head back before sliding back down again, feeling the velvety skin of his shaft brush along your tongue as you bob your head up and down. Slick, squelching noises fill the study, your throat making wet clicks as it moves around him. You can feel your saliva starting to drool out, dripping down his shaft, some smearing on your lips and chin.

It feels sloppy, even more when you hear him groan in pleasure as he grips your hair again, the noise sending an unbearable warmth down to your core while you try to focus on keeping your teeth out of the way and breathing through your nose.

“Mmh, just like that baby, your throat feels so fucking good,” he rasps.

His praise goes right to your head, feeling much better than it had any right to. It’s enough to make you push away the aching pain flaring in your jaw from holding it open, just to hear more of it, to show him how well you can please him. You unclench the fist you were squeezing to fondle his balls, caressing and massaging them delicately while you work your throat around him, rubbing your tongue along his length and letting more of your spit drip out and onto his cock as you swallow around it.

You know Sukuna. You know beyond a certain point of pleasure, his lust will morph into something worse, something vicious that likes to ruin.

And you know it's what compels him to abruptly grip your hair so tightly it stings, and thrust his hips so hard into your mouth with a guttural noise that you make a muffled squeak of surprise, losing your rhythm and feeling you gag reflex claw up your chest, trying to push him back out of your throat. He grins wickedly, cock only twitching in excitement when he feels you struggling to take him, only encouraging him to go harder, fuck your skull till tears are streaming down your face and spit froths at your lips and dribbles down. Strands of your hair stick to the mess, but he’s too busy bruising the back of your throat to care enough to peel them away.

“Hah, I think this is your birthright as my niece,” he sneers between pants, as you try and regain some semblance of control, fingers trying find some purchase on his thighs to steady you a bit. “Finally putting that fucking mouth of yours to proper use.”

You’d be annoyed normally, but in the hazy mess your mind is in right now, with nothing existing but the wet heat of your throat engulfing his cock, the musky scent of him and the stiff pain in your jaw, you’ve been reduced to a primal need to devote yourself to his pleasure. So you relax, and let him use your throat, gazing up at him through teary eyes, drinking the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, brows pulled together, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

Surrender.

Maybe he can sense the moment you finally do so because then his face is crumpling and you feel his hips stutter as he pulls back so his tip rests heavily on your tongue.

“Oh, fuck-“

Spurts of seed spread across your tongue as he fills your mouth, warm and viscous, as he fills your mouth. He finishes finally, pulling out his wet dick from your mouth with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t swallow; instead you keep his semen in your mouth for a bit, tasting it, feeling it, as he tucks himself back in. The texture is somewhere between saliva and diluted syrup, and under the saline taste there’s a strange sweetness — warm, earthy, almost like the smell of skin after sex. You chase it with your tongue, savoring the taste not because it’s objectively good, but because it’s his.

And then, an idea comes to mind.

Before Sukuna can react, you’re getting to your feet and climbing onto him. You tilt his jaw towards yours, muffling his surprised grunt as you abruptly kiss him, pushing your way through his lips, guiding the slick taste into his mouth with the tip of your tongue

You more than half expect him to push you away, but he catches you off guard when he kisses you back instead, deepening it and groaning softly as sucks the cum off your tongue, some of the white fluid leaking down the corners of your lips. When you no more is left, you pull away, breaking a thin strand of fluid connecting your wet lips.

You sit there for a moment, flustered and out of breath, before wiping your lips and face with your sleeve, scowling when he smirks at you completely unfazed.

“Was that supposed to be revenge? Because it kinda turned me on instead.”

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a fucking freak,” you comment dryly.

“Guess you got it from me.”

You glare at him again, pushing against his chest. “I’ve had enough of you.”

But Sukuna’s hand is trailing up your waist, coaxing you to stay there.

“Aw, and here I was thinking about rewarding you for your good work,” he purrs.

“Rewarding me?” you repeat, suspicious but a bit intrigued.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

Your brow furrows as you peek at the desk behind you, still covered in documents. “What?”

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

Sukuna sighs. “Just do it. And take off your pants.”

And for some reason you comply, getting off him to hastily swipe the papers to the side before shrugging your pants down your legs and sitting on the desk in front of him.

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want you to turn around. I’m gonna eat you out.”

Oh.

You’re certainly not going to fight against that. Sure he’s never eaten you out from the back before and the position makes you a bit nervous, but then you remember you only get him like this for a few more months and soon you’re climbing up all the way onto the desk.

You feel a bit more vulnerable like this with your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your ass presented to where you can’t see him.

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

You hear him moving and a warm palm squeezes one of your cheeks, kneading the pliant flesh before his second hand joins on the other side.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Just don’t try anything …weird.”

He doesn’t respond, but you think you catch a light laugh under his breath. Not a good sign, but you’re too far in now.

And then your panties are being pulled down your ass till right above your knees, and you can already feel how wet you are just in anticipation.

Sukuna doesn’t waste any time, and immediately his tongue is caressing at your damp folds, before slipping in and gliding through them till your clit. You moan softly as he begins lapping at your pussy, tingling heat building between your thighs as he licks you firmly, suckling on your clit in between.

Sukuna’s certainly talented at eating a woman out, you’ll give him that, because not even five minutes later you’re whimpering and shaking as the pressure in your clit builds till you cum on his tongue.

A few breathless moments and then you feel yourself loosening up again, coming down from your high, feeling much better now than a few minutes ago when you were sure he had some devious plans in mind.

“Shit, that was good,” you mumble as his tongue pulls away from your sopping cunt.

The relief you were basking in is ripped away when suddenly you feel him gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart.

Uncomfortable.

“I said no weird stuff—” Your words end in a squeak of surprise when you feel something warm and wet press against the tight rim of your asshole. Heat quickly rises to your face in indignation as you shift, trying to get away from the ironclad grip he has on your ass. “Oh my god, do not do that—”

A sharp slap to your ass shuts you up as you wince in pain instead. “You should really try new things, you know that? It’ll get you a lot farther in life.”

“Uncle!” you cry out in mortification when you feel his tongue back on your hole, prodding at it. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes,” his answer comes between small licks at your hole, making you flinch when he abruptly spits on it. “How else will you take my cock up here if you can’t even take my tongue?”

“What!?” You squirm, twisting your head to try and look at him. “No, no, that is definitely not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Why does it have to!? Is my pussy not good enough for you?” You can barely see him behind you from the way he’s holding your ass firmly in place, but that won’t stop you from trying, even if it makes your neck hurt a lot.

You hear him audibly sigh. “Do you always have to fucking argue with me?”

And then maybe as punishment, or just because he likes to torture you, he presses the tip of his tongue firmly enough against your puckered hole that it actually breaches through. You yelp at the odd, visceral sensation

He pulls it back out just to laugh at you. “If you can go three minutes without moving around or fucking bitching, I’ll let you go. How about that?”

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

Sukuna sighs, but he agrees, setting the time on his phone before putting it back on the desk. “Now shut the fuck up.”

It is still far from comfortable, this strange new sensation, and at first you’re still fighting to try and not squirm, especially when his tongue presses teasingly into your entrance again, before probing a little deeper. You’ve never done this before, not even with your own fingers, really.

His tongue feels delicate and invasive at once- even though he’s barely in deep, it’s somewhere untouched. Yet somewhere along the way you stop tensing and just let him play with your hole, and when his tongue pushes a bit more insistently against the tight ring of muscle, a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

Then his fingers are joining by pushing into your wet pussy, and the feeling of him massaging your walls as his tongue works diligently at your other hole is enough to make you moan and melt into the touch.

You hate it. That’s he always right. That he really, definitely, knows what he’s doing if he’s actually able to make you enjoy this despite the discomfort and your initial reluctance. And fuck, it feels good- dirty and sinful enough to make your arousal drip down his fingers and your hole clench around his tongue. But then the shrill ring of the alarm cuts through, startling you and yanking you before you can fall deeper into the haze. You don’t even realize you’re panting till he pulls away and you turn to look at him, feeling a bit conflicted.

“You can…keep going,” you mumble. “It felt kinda good.”

And to that, Sukuna looks at you with amusement as he licks his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? My dirty little niece actually likes getting her ass eaten,” he coos as you stare at him venomously.

“But,” Sukuna leans back into his chair, grinning lazily. “The timer rang, and I promised I wouldn’t go longer than that remember?”

Irritating, infuriating man.

But you did say that, so this one’s a bit fair, even if you always feel like he’s setting you up on purpose every single time. You don’t say anything, just huff and roll over to pull your panties back up before sitting and getting off his desk, putting your pants back on.

Sukuna stands and stretches with a low grunt. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Then I’ve got work to finish.”

You nod, shifting a little where you sit, and watch as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the quiet room for a moment, then cuts off. When he returns, drying his hands on a towel, his gaze flicks to you—still lingering where he left you.

He drops back into the chair, spreads his thighs, and pats one. “Come here. Sit.”

“Do you always have to talk to me like I’m a dog?” you mutter under your breath, though you quickly move to make yourself comfortable on his lap, resting your head against his chest as he gets back to work like you still can’t taste the faint astringent aftertaste of his cum in your mouth, or the dampness on the gusset of your panties.

Your relationship not only returns to what it used to be, but becomes something even more—evident from the fact that you now regularly sleep with him at night. Hours of tossing and turning trying to fall asleep turn into minutes as soon as you’re next to him. But with him next to you, the restless ache that builds in your body each night has nowhere to go—and you can’t exactly handle it the usual way with him lying inches away.

After a few nights, Sukuna can’t take it anymore. You crawl into his bed again, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and he lets you in without a word—again. You curl into him like you always do, seeking the warmth and safety he pretends not to offer. And as always, he runs his hand down your back, lets you rest your head against his chest, even pulls the blanket up over your shoulders without complaint. But then it starts- the shifting. The sighing. The squirming.

He can feel every frustrated twitch of your body, every little exhale like your skin is too tight to hold in whatever’s stirring inside. He cracks an eye open, jaw clenched. You’re on your back now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s personally offended you.

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

You glance over, sheepish. “Sorry… I just—can’t sleep.”

“No shit,” he says, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “And you’re making it my problem too.”

You try to apologize, genuinely feeling kind of bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is—“

Sukuna just sighs and then his hands are sliding to your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You don’t say anything. Words are never needed with him — he understands what you need, even before you do. How to offer you some relief. He notices how your breath hitches, thighs shifting as he slips his fingers under your top, skimming along your skin. He notices all the things you try to hide.

“What’re you…” Your voice trails off as his fingers dip lower, beneath the waistband of your pajamas.

“Shut up,” he murmurs gently, hands slipping fully into the waistband of your panties.

Lower and lower, till they brush against your slick folds.

“You really need me to do everything, huh?” he muses, his voice low and lazy. “Can’t even get yourself off like a big girl?”

“Sukuna,” you whisper, flustered now, but your legs shift again—nervous, needy.

“What?” he taunts gently, like he’s scolding a pet. “You want to toss and turn all night like a brat, or do you want to cum so hard you pass out?”

You glare at him, cheeks flushed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smirks, leaning down, mouth brushing just under your jaw as he deliberately dips a finger into the arousal collecting at your entrance, before puling it back out to smear your slick across your folds. “Yeah. And you’re wet for it.”

You let out a breathy sigh, just giving in, relaxing your body into his and letting him take over. One of his fingers slips inside you at first, and he presses it right against the spongey part of your wall. He can feel a throbbing under the sensitive, swollen flesh there, like your heart is literally beating in your cunt.

It makes blood flow to his own cock, but he ignores that for now.

He fingers you under the sheets, your juices spilling and dampening your panties, though you don’t really care. Soft, wet noises are audible from under the blankets, amidst your small whimpers and mewls, grinding into his hand for more.

Finally you cum with a small cry, and when Sukuna pulls his hand back out his fingers are covered in a glistening glaze. And just like he predicted, your body stays lax, satiated, no longer restless and squirming, and he can feel you starting to doze off against him.

But he’s Sukuna, so right before he lets you fall asleep he sticks his cum-coated fingers into your mouth abruptly. You make a muffled noise of surprise, and agitation.

“Clean them,” he says plainly. “You made a mess.”

You’re too drowsy to really fight back anyway so you lazily suck his fingers clean, tongue licking at the crevices in between , the taste of your own arousal coating your tongue before you swallow it down.

And when you decide you’re done, you pull his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, turning your head away in quiet defiance. He snorts under his breath, wiping the damp fingers on your cheek just to get a rise out of you.

You groan, muffled against the pillow. “Can you not?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, unbothered, like you’re the one making a scene.

You try to swat at him half-heartedly, but your arm's too heavy with sleep, and he easily catches your wrist, pinning it lazily to the mattress.

“Such a brat,” he mutters, voice low and warm near your ear.

You don’t bother answering, just sigh, turning your face into his chest instead, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you down. His hand lingers at your back, a quiet weight as you fall asleep and neither of you realize it's the first time you've addressed him by his name of your own accord.

There’s something about growing up with very little family. No buffer—no siblings to confide in, no cousins to rely on, no grandparents to balance things out. Every relationship carries extra weight.

In your case, it’s your parents. In an ideal world, this would’ve drawn you closer. A small, tight-knit family. But in reality, emotional absence from either parent creates a gaping void—whether you name it or not.

For you, it’s a paternal wound. One that only becomes glaringly obvious when Sukuna slips into your life, uninvited, into the role of a pseudo-guardian.

It isn’t some cliché Freudian desire to date your father; it’s something deeper. What draws you to Sukuna isn’t the simple need for a father figure—it’s how he fills a hollow space inside you. And the quiet resentment that he wasn’t there to do it sooner.

But there are downsides to filling a wound. You haven’t forgotten that moment—the horrible, embarrassing moment the morning after he took your virginity. When, raw and vulnerable, you snapped, calling him "your dad."

Neither of you ever brought it up again. And maybe that’s for the best, because the implication was too real. Because while the sense of protection from him draws you in, it also comes with expectations you never asked for. Sometimes, when Sukuna acts like he cares, it feels like a leash—an invisible tether you never wanted, but can’t escape.

You don’t look too closely at it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t dig into why it feels this way, because deep down, you know that if you did, you’d start trying to excuse it. And that feels worse.

So you let it haunt you quietly instead. You let it settle in your bones, a constant undercurrent of discomfort that you’ve learned to live with. And you don’t question it.

Not even when, one evening, in the middle of one of your usual bickering sessions, Sukuna announces—out of nowhere—that he’s taking you on a date. Especially since, according to him, your last one was pathetic.

You’re pretty sure it’s just his way of proving a point, another game to pass the time.

But still.

Your stomach flips. That giddiness bubbles up, childish and bright, almost shameful in its intensity—not because you crave male attention, not just because someone chose you.

But because he did. Because it’s Sukuna, and everything he represents.

The one person who never had to care, who didn’t owe you anything—but still chose you, regardless. And even if his gesture is wrapped in sarcasm and ego, it feels surprisingly pure. Like something tender buried beneath something cruel.

It disarms you.

Especially when he adds, almost carelessly, that you’ll need a new dress, proper heels, maybe even a little makeup.

“If I’m doing this,” he says, “I’m doing it right.”

Of course, you try to laugh off the part about him buying you things. You’ve been trained to never take from others, to never be the one who gets lavished with attention, and you don’t know how to accept it anymore. Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe you’ve never known how to let yourself be spoiled.

Sukuna, however, just gives you that look—a sharp, unamused stare—and tells you to shut up.

So you do. You nod, face flushed, trying to hide the way your chest tightens. Not just from excitement, but from something heavier, something sharper. The ache of being cared for in a way you were never shown how to care for yourself. Something dangerously close to wanting—no, needing—to be wanted in a way you never learned how to ask for.

Sukuna means it when he says if you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.

Which is how you end up at the store that weekend, standing in front of an employee assigning you a changing room. You hold out the dresses draped over your arm—four of them—for her to count.

“Ooh, those are great choices. What’s the occasion?” she asks, smiling.

And then Sukuna appears behind you like some large, intimidating shadow, and you swear you can see her recalibrating behind that smile—trying to figure out if he’s your dad or an older boyfriend. She definitely lands on the worse conclusion when he smirks and rests a hand on your shoulder.

“She has a date tomorrow night,” he says.

You force a small smile, shifting under his touch, laughing nervously. “Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” she replies—now clearly convinced he’s your father. "You can take that big stall at the end,” she adds with a knowing look.

You blink, eyebrows knitting as you glance between Sukuna and the girl. “Oh, he’s not co—”

“Thank you,” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, steering you away before you can finish your sentence.

The second you're out of earshot, you twist out of his grip, shoving the door to the stall open. “There is absolutely no need for you to come in with me. Just stay out here. I’ll show you each one when I try them on.”

Sukuna tilts his chin toward the bench inside the stall. “See that? That’s for uncles supervising their bratty nieces. Tradition.”

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

“Oh my god—shut up.” You glance around, mortified. “Don’t say shit like that. People’ll get the wrong idea.”

“More like the right idea. Hope they all know you suck your uncle’s—”

You slap him before he can finish, cheeks blazing, and yank him inside by the wrist as he laughs.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

The door clicks shut behind you. You hang the dresses up one by one, studiously ignoring him as you grab the first one off the rack. Sukuna sprawls on the bench like he owns the place—and you. Legs wide, arms folded, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You peel off your top, then pause at your waistband. “Can you, like…close your eyes?”

He opens his mouth—no doubt ready to say something disgusting—so you cut him off before he can get the words out.

“Ugh, never mind. Forget it,” you mutter, yanking your pants off anyway.

Now you’re hyper-aware of the mirrors. Of the lighting. Of the man sitting behind you who doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Can you not ogle me like some creep?”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches, then slowly palms himself through his jeans.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?”

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up. You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands. Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him. His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier. He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him. Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic. Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate. And then you see the store sign. Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips. “No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in. A red lace set that’s mostly straps. A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts. Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks. “You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything. Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even. But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you. This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want. Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes. Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by. Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded and polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory. The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller.  The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn't. Instead he sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should. You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look. A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts. You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears. You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on. Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts. Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting. Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him. He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered. You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real. Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs. A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever. That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural. Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him. Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart. You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop. Because in this moment, he makes you forget. Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

[postsfromtheportalfuture]

anonymous Question for wallamcranesarchnemesis: I saw your response to the post by nukeitall about whether there'd be a second exodus and your reply was so great and insightful! I saw you tagged it saying we should wonder about the cultural shift instead. Could you explain what you mean by that or what kind of cultural shift you're expecting? I can see there might be some improvements in some areas of research now that off-worlder's are listening to people from Earth some more, and I'm hoping there will be less cruel jokes and stigma (and a move away from all the awful stuff HE allowed!) but I wondered if there's more to it than that?

wallamcranesarchnemesis:

Okay, this is going to be a bit of an infodump, and I'm sorry if it gets a bit confusing but I'll try my best to explain.

Long story short: Earth's culture is going to shift to align more with Alpha sector's culture.

Short story long:

The older a society tends to be, the longer the "adolescent" stage tends to be. For now, let's put aside Earth - Alpha sector has the oldest society among humans, and in their culture, 25 is the age of full legal majority, as opposed to the age of 18 on Earth. Marriage doesn't usually happen until about 30 in Alpha Sector - this is because the sector as a whole tends to be very wealthy, which means that parents can afford to support their children for a longer period of time, allowing them to focus on their studies and setting up their careers in order to get a proper start in life before having to stand on their own two feet.

On the other end of the spectrum is Epsilon sector, where people tend to get married right out of high school (or sometimes before they even graduate) - this is because their worlds are still in the rapid building phase and aren't very wealthy. Their populations are still very low, and so young people are encouraged to have children very young in order to increase the birth rate and help expand their society.

Now, what does this have to do with the culture on Earth?

It's because Earth culture is extremely different to the rest of humanity.

In the other sectors, children are by and large raised by their parents - socially, it's their parents' jobs to teach them right from wrong, and teach them the social expectations of their planet and sector.

Earth is different because the majority of our population doesn't have our parents around to raise us. We have proparents, but they're only around for 2 hours a week, which means that while they're able to be there for the big things, the ones that we learn the most from actually tend to be the older children in our Homes/Next Steps. The principals of our Homes and Next Steps are too busy to give us individual attention, our teachers are too busy teaching us to teach us about social mores. We are quite literally a society of children raising other children.

And then, we're thrust out into the world at 17 (if we're going by personal birthdays and not Earth's official method of counting age) and we're expected to be fully independent. This is why our culture tends to align more with some of the newer sectors rather than Alpha Sector - because we don't have that extended age of adolescence.

Okay, so what does this have to do with your question?

At the current moment, the majority of adult Earth citizens are those with Immune Syndrome - because the norm-born children of handicapped parents as well as the norm-born siblings of handicapped children whose parents came to Earth with them will almost all move to other sectors once they've grown up. As a result, Earth's culture is currently holding steady, because like I said earlier, most of Earth's population was raised in Homes and Next Steps.

As more and more parents come to Earth with their handicapped children in the future, more and more handicapped kids are going to be raised by parents who will pass on their own morals and values from Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon sectors.

So for the first few decades, Earth culture is going to be fluctuating wildly, and some new social norms are going to be born as the cultures of five different sectors find a way to coexist with each other - it will actually be rather similar to what happens on frontier planets, which have open colonization from all sectors.

Then, as the other immune syndrome compatible planets start opening for colony ten and then open colonization, the parents and handicapped children from other sectors will start slowly being funneled to those planets, and the majority of new people moving to Earth will tend to be parents from Alpha sector.

So as more and more Earth children are raised by Alphan parents, our culture will naturally shift to align more with Alpha sector.

We will start to notice a longer and longer age of adolescence on Earth. It will start first with just the children who are raised by their parents.

But, as more parents come to Earth with their babies, it means there will be less children in Nurseries, Homes, and Next Steps. This means a less overwhelmed system, and more adults to tend to individual children and babies! So eventually, children who are raised as wards of Hospital Earth will also enjoy a longer age of adolescence. The first thing to change will probably be Earth's official method of counting age, and children will have one extra year in Next Step. Then eventually, as more resources are freed up, it might mean that wards of Hospital Earth will continue to have support even after they've started University. It won't be from their Next Steps, but perhaps other social support structures.

All this is going to happen rather quickly in the grand scheme of things, but it'll be more of a slower change on a personal level. It will take place over the course of several decades, and you and I probably won't live to see the end stage, but all in all, it's a good change for the people of Earth, and the future of handicapped babies.

[evilminji]

Oh... oh no it's all coming together ( o.o)

Ya'll remember my Danny haunts Space Games post?

That but MORE SO. Harder. Like... ZONE GAME DEVELOPER PASSION PROJECT harder. Because? Special Interest chemicals go brrrrr~☆

And you KNOW... you absolutely FUCKING KNOW! That Danny was minding his business, going about his life, hyped as FUCK for the new Space Game 5 (a niche game but so what? It has REALISTIC physics! It's set on THE MOON!).

Has NOT stopped rambling on about it.

Been driving everyone insane, because it won't be out for MONTHS.

When~?

Youngblood, probably, goes "So what? That sound BORING. There barely anything to DO in that! Not like one of OUR Super Cool ZONE Video Games™. OURS are way better! And we gave LOADS more options then THAT! Now can we get back to-"

Freeze frame, record scratch.

Wait. WHAT!?

Danny is violently answers out of that eternal child faster then you can say "Dude! Chill!" Got them manic Obsession Eyes. Oops. Youngblood forgot Danny is Space Obsessed. But also PROTECTION Obsessed. Meaning he can't LEAVE where he is protecting.

You know.... FOR SPACE.

He needs a work around to feed his Obsession. Video games do it. Since he can go INTO them, but leave at a moments notice, if trouble happens. It's like being both IN SPACE but also AT HIS POST! Double Obsession Feeding! Happy chemicals! Mmmmm, content ecto-goo~

But now? NOW?! He's learning there is BETTER Space?!

WHERE IS THE BETTER SPACE?! *kicks open the portal*

It? Is a terrifying time for everybody. Thanks A LOT, Youngblood. It takes like... five Amazons and Pandora herself tackling the little menace, to get him still long enough to get a semi-coherent answer out of him. Stop him trying to shake down random ghosts for answers they can't GIVE.

Youngblood is grounded.

DANNY has an Obsession-crash headache, is really embarrassed, but honestly no one blames him. No one acts their best when they're Obsession gets suddenly triggered that hard. It was a poor man offered El Dorado, a scholar all the secrets in the world. He got swept up in it.

That SAID, yes, there IS a video game shop near here. There are, of course, countless such shops. It's the Zone. There are countless EVERYTHING. It's the nature of the Zone. Just don't harrass any of the developers and all will be well, Phantom. They're not afraid to put YOU in time out as well.

Deal! ( /☆.☆)/ *grabby hands*

There? Are so, SO many games. For systems Danny's never even HEARD off. Alien ones, new ones, long dead ones. Zone exclusives. It's less a shop and more a sprawling maze.

His grin is FERAL.

Space. Gaaaaaaames!!!

The more realistic the BETTER. Give him that living vicariously like an Astronaut DREAM. But fantasy maybe! Or in the future! Or deep space! Alien mayhaps! There are a few. The blended Obsessions that are kinda like his. Space and video-games instead of Space and Protection.

And? Oh~

Oh they are so SO realistic.

Impossible to play on any Earth computer, too. Not a single chance. Wouldn't even TRY and run. But! He is a Fenton! And he WILL have his Space Games! If his parents can make a portal in their basement? HE can make a Bank of Ectoplasmic Supercomputers in his spare room! Or Bedroom! Depends on renting prices!

He GUTS every landfill for MILES for usable parts.

"Liberates" parts from Rogues, left and right. Fuck their evil plans! He has computers to build! The Justice League? Baffled. Alarmed. Nooooot his problem!!!

He completes his works and? Oh~ the smile is both terrifying and fangy.

Spaaaaaaaace~☆

He starts College. On line, of course, he refuses to leave Amity. And Online can be done at his pace, at his hours. So? For once? He's actually doing WELL. Even BETTER? It helps him remember to leave them games every once and a while. Eat something. Be human.

But... well... it's like a slow flip of his Obsession starving. Now that he has all the Space he could ever want? He... suddenly finds Amity... peaceful? Which is GOOD! It's... it's GOOD.

.........just not for him.

He can almost physically FEEL him mind unclenching it's death grip on the town. Finger by finger. Hands releasing, letting go, as they... reach for something. As he starts taking NOTE of crime rates in major cities. Alien attacks and Rogues, Heros spread too thin, people getting HURT.

In need of PROTECTION.

He... he doesn't WANT to be that fickle. He LOVES Amity! It's his HOME. He wasn't protecting it just because he craved something to protect! In the end, he drags it out longer then he probably should, argues with himself, ignores the problem. Is STUBBORN.

It's only after Dani starts talking about coming back to Amity to stay with him, do the college thing like he did, that he realizes...

Amity's not his Haunt anymore.

They talk. She's excited to help him find a nice shit hole of a city to protect, but also worried because he looks really gaunt. He may LOVE Space... but...

It's the GHOST in him that loves Space. The Astronaut. The Kid who refused to die, who ate a PORTAL TO THE EVERYTHING and crawled out still exsistant, who told Death not only "not today" but "not EVER"? That kid had something to protect. Was and is and always will BE, protection. Himself, his friends, his family or the town. Doesn't matter WHAT it is.

He refused to go, so he could protect them.

The part that DID, though, was starlight. And yeah, he needs it. Feeds it desperately. But it... doesn't exactly support his human half, you know? Doesn't anchor him. Make him want to eat and sleep, be human and alive, connect with people.

Space makes him ghosty.

Dani ultimately convinces him, after spraying him down with a hose and shoving a cheeseburger down his face, to move to Metropolis with her. They get ALIENS! Have Aliens HEROS! BIG DESTRUCTIVE FIGHTS. With lots and LOTS of people who need help! Plus? Gotham is within a day trip!

And UNLIKE Gotham, the Ecto isn't RANK AF in Metropolis.

Seriously, it smells like a burst sewer pipe over there.

Danny agrees. Can totally afford a modest lil place thanks to some patents. Makes one HELL OF A SCENE moving in. With his giant, ominous, futuristic, weirdly day glow green glowing bank of super computers... in this, "we love our Alien Blorbo" Metropolis.

Cause Green and Glowing sure ain't welcome round these parts! No SIR! Somebody call the COPS!

Danny isn't even half way through, when Superman lightly touchs down, a forced grin plastered to his face. The "please, God, not another Rogue. Not a new one. Please!" all but RADIATING off him.

Hmmmmm....

Danny... kiiiinda forgot not everyone was as "I see fuckin NOTHING, man" as Amity natives. Awkward. Welp! Fenton Oblivious Gene's, ACTIVATE!

"Oh, HIIIIIII~☆ Superman! What brings you round these parts? Gosh, it's an honor! Dani! Come meet SUPERMAN!"

Clark knows what he's doing. Danny knows, Clark knows what he's doing. They are both from the Midwest. They ain't gonna break first! You kidding? Clark still has to ask. Inserts himself by INSISTING on helping. A welcome to Metropolis! Ha ha! (How long we gonna lie for, kid? How long? I can do this all day.)

Clark? Learns that Danny has become ABSURDLY knowledgeable about terraforming, spacecraft, aerospace engineering and anything else related to Space Survival. Thanks to... his "games".

Which Clark is PRETTY sure? Are creatively set up, alien, training programs. Cause both of the Fentons are DEFINITELY at least partially non-human. But, eh. Who is he to judge? The "mad scientist" vibe, though... THAT is his to judge. Which he does.

Routine check ins!

And pasta bakes. Because good lord, Fenton, you are skin and bones! And? If it helps with both Watchtower maintenance AND some killer articles? Because Danny is a fountain of Space related knowledge who loves to share it? That's between Clark and the weird, semi-feral, gremlin he's adopted! (Yes, honey, he KNOWS Danny is a grown man. But I did it with BRUCE-)

@hdgnj @babbling-babull @legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation @the-witchhunter

[axeeglitter]

The Grand Solis Hotel

Julian had always been the loudest of the group, the one who kept everyone’s spirits high with his boundless energy and relentless optimism. The early summer wind was tingling their faces as they were standing in front of the rusted main entrance portal. After a night of drinking and deep talking about their future, Julian and his friends decided to go for a walk in the neighborhood. For Julian, his future was already planned. Golden boy of the high school, a girlfriend captain of the cheerleaders, already recruited in one of the best colleges, and his dad paid for all his expenses. Yes, Julian was promised for a perfect life already planned and paid for. But deep inside, Julian didn’t feel like that. He was sure he was not good enough. Not strong enough in the gym, not fast enough on the field, not smart enough for studies, not beautiful enough for modeling, never enough. In reality, Julian was just like every young adult, too afraid to be his true authentic self. So, he hides behind bad jokes, being loud, a cocky manly self-centered attitude and then if something went wrong, flashing his perfect smile and face to get away from problems. Yes, Julian knew he could have the world in his palm if he wanted to, but he didn’t know if that’s what he really needed to be truly happy.  

The sun casted a warm glow above the hills. Julian and his friends were talking and laughing while walking in the empty streets when they found themselves in front of the imposing rusty portal. “What do you say guys? You feeling adventurous?” said Julian in a cocky tone as he already opened the door and walked in the abandoned garden full of statues, overgrown weeds and a broken fountain that must have known better days. One by one, all his friends followed him and soon were all in front of the closed entrance door of the Grand Solis Hotel. The once-grand establishment had been a jewel of the city in the 80s, a hotspot for luxury and glamour. Decades later, everybody forgot about it and it was left to rote after a weird disappearance in a suite on the last floor. No one saw that climbing actress ever again after that terrible night. And a couple of months later, the hotel was closed definitely. Now, it was nothing but peeling wallpaper, rotting carpets, and echoes of a golden past long gone and forgotten.

As they moved through the darkened hallways, their flashlights cutting through the dust, they marveled at the remnants of a forgotten era, faded signs, chandeliers hanging by a thread, and furniture covered in ghostly white sheets. “This place is sick bro!” exclaimed Julian as him and all his friends were gagged by the beauty of this place. Everything looked so old and dusty and left there to rote abandoned and untouched. No one entered this place in years and everything was in perfect condition, except for the ravage of years that took a lot on them. “Why did they abandon this place?” asked Brad in a clueless tone. “I heard there was this young promising actress in the 80s.I think she was called something like Mary, Morny...” “She was called Lutecia Marty you moron!” cut Jackson “In the 80s, the Grand Solis Hotel was the place to be. Everybody was coming here to be seen. And one night in 1984, this girl, Lutecia, she disappeared in her room. No one never saw her again after this night. No corpse was found, nothing, she just, POOF, vanished” continued Jackson miming an explosion with his hands. “After that, the hotel closed. It was rumored to reopen, but it never did. And no one ever came back in there.” Finished Jackson still looking at the grand staircase leading to the ballroom, not taking a look at his friends. But after a couple of seconds of silence, he finally realized all of them were looking at him gagged. “What?! I love history and Miss Crawly told us this story last year in class!” he answered. “Anyway…” cut Julian laughing a bit with the others after Jackson’s history monologue “What do you guys say about exploring this place a bit? I’ll go on the upper stairs, see if we can drink one last beer on the roof by the rising sun or something. See you in a bit!” finished Julian as he started walking the staircases trying not to destroy anything of value on his way. After a bit of exploration, Julian found himself in front of a big doubled doored entrance with a little sign above it reading “Grand Solis Presidential Suit”. The room was like a preserved time capsule. Deep brown and gold wallpaper, a velvet couch with a dusty glass table in front of it, a minibar with empty glass bottles, and a bulky, wooden-framed television sitting atop a polished cabinet. Even though those were old, Julian could see that those must have been the most expensive things available in the 80s.

“Damn, this place is stuck in time,” Julian chuckled, running his fingers over the dust-covered nightstand as he explored the room a bit. His eyes landed on an old remote waiting on the dusty coffee table, still there as if waiting for someone to pick it up and start the tv on. “This shit is so old and dated. Did they even have color back there? Funking cringe!” he said as he fell sitting on the couch and snap on the.

Julian grinned, pressing a few buttons not expecting anything to happen. But to his surprise, he heard a faint static noise and then the television screen flickered to life with a burst of static. At first, nothing but snowy white noise filled the screen, the crackling sound oddly loud in the silence. Then, something shifted as Julian saw a weird intricate pattern appearing in a glitched movement on the screen. Something looking like a red Nordic glyph appearing and disappearing from the screen in a glitched way before disappearing for good.

The static morphed, shapes appearing, colors bleeding through. A scene unfolded, warm golden lighting, extravagant décor, and dramatic music swelling as if from another world. A typical 80s telenovela, vibrant and alive, appeared on the screen before him. “Of course, it’s a fucking telenovela, why wouldn’t it be?!” he said laughing with himself. “Fucking cringe! The over acting, the attitude, the costumes, the scenes. Damn I’m sure I would be a better actor without even trying!” he continued as a young women appeared on the screen with a wave of dramatic music starting. “Yea no, I’m out of here!” he said as he jumped back up and started walking in the minibar direction to see if there were still some alcohols in there. But as he turned is back to the television still running in the background, he felt a weird sensation invading his lungs. The air on his forearms raised at attention as he felt like something just had shift in the room. Out of nowhere, the television sound stopped and the static came back stronger then ever, getting louder and louder as for the first time in a long time, Julian was scared. As he turned his head back to the television, he saw the screen glitching in a frozen frame as weird white and black glitching goo poured out of the screen. “The fuck?!” screamed Julian as he started to run out of here, but as he grabbed the handle of the door, he felt something grabbing his ankle and pulling him back in the room. Julian tried to hold on, to open the door, the scream for help, but the pull was way too strong as he felt his fingers getting sweatier and sweatier with every passing seconds. Then, in a last scream, he lost his grip and fell back on the carpeted ground as he was dragged back to the tv. His nails tried to hold on to anything, splinter started to enter his calloused hands but nothing was strong enough to hold him back and stop his abduction. The closer he was getting to the tv, the more the sounds were becoming louder and louder. The colors were getting more vivid, brighter. And as his converse touched the screen, it felt like gravity didn’t exist anymore, the whole room started to spin around him. Julian couldn’t understand where was the roof or the ground. Colors were flashing in front of his eyes and every time he tried to scream, no sounds were able to escape the vortex swallowing him. Then, in a last attempt to get free, Julian threw the torch lamp in the static tentacle that grabbed his ankle, only to scream even more when he realizes his ankle was no more, instead, all he saw were pixels of saturated color glitching away from his disappearing ankle like radio interreferences and climbing higher and higher on his legs “NOOO!! Please let go of me!! PLEASE!!!” He screamed once more as he saw his jeans turning into glitching static swallowed by the vortex, leaving his legs totally naked as the interferences climbed higher above his knees. Julian turned his head back in front of him to scream once more, but he gasped in terror when he saw a new static tentacle throwing itself at his head. Julian lost his vision and soon he stopped screaming as he fainted into darkness.

Darkness. Silence. Weightlessness. For a moment, there was peace and Julian felt like floating in the sky without a single worry in his head.

Then, sensation returned all at once. The cold air against his bare skin, a strange tightness around his limbs, the rough texture of something binding him and pressing against his wrists and ankles. His lungs burned as he sucked in a breath, but it tasted wrong, stale, artificial, tinged with an electric hum that settled deep into his core and made his whole skeleton vibrate in fear and static.

His eyes snapped open, and he realized he wasn’t in the hotel room anymore.

His head turned left and right as he started to scream for help, but his voice came back in his hears echoing into the empty void surrounding him. Julian was bonded, floating in an ocean of darkness glitching in black and white static noise.

Julian tried to move, but his body didn’t respond the way it should. His limbs were held fast, spread out like an eagle, restrained. He struggled, twisting against whatever was keeping him in place, but his body felt sluggish, uncooperative. His muscles flexed as he tried to free himself from this situation but nothing, he tried succeeded in freeing him. “HELP ME! IS THERE SOMEONE IN HERE?! HELP!!” Julian screamed one more time as he felt the atmosphere starting to shift around him, like if someone or something was lurking in the shadow and waiting to jump on him. For the first time in his life, Julian felt powerless and his jockey mask started to crack as his fears of not being strong enough came back to him. He was stuck and at the mercy of the situation, naked in this cold empty void and bonded in place by an invisible force.

Out of nowhere, a burst of distorted applause filled the void, stretching unnaturally long, warping and bending in on itself before fading into a low hiss. The sound came from nowhere, yet it surrounded everything.

Then, a voice cut through the static. Crisp, smooth, detached. A voice made for television, too perfect, too polished, too rehearsed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, tonight, we bring you something truly special. A fresh contender. A bl… blblbl… BLANK slate, ready to be shaped. Some may call it an hoHOhOh…onor. Others, a privilege. But here on Prime Time Rebirth, we simply call it what it is, a new beginning.”

Julian was frozen in fear as he heard this voice coming out of nowhere saying that while glitching like a poorly coded radio frequency. A choked sob broke through the droning static as Julian felt the restraints bonding him reacting to the voice he was hearing.

“Our lucky candidate has already made it tHroUgh the prrrrrrrrre…liminary selection process. Impressive, considering how last participant was 41 seasons ago. But, oooOOoOoOf course, selection is only the beginning. The true test is yet to come.”

“WHAT THE FUCK! I’M NOT PLAYING THIS STUPID GAME! LET ME GO! WHERE AM I?!” screamed Julian in a ragged cry, raw with desperation. “S-SOMEONE! PLEASE! LET ME OUT!”

The voice continued, unaffected by Julian’s begging to be freed.

“As always, transSformatiOn is key. A star isn’t simply bOrn, they are made. And so, our cOntEstant will uNderGo the necessary… addDDdDdjustMents.”

Julian saw the void in front of him glitch and for a moment, he saw something, a place that shouldn’t exist. A stage, barely holding form, its edges dripping into static like melting film. Rows of audience members sat in perfect stillness, their faces hollow, clapping in sync. The host stood before them, but his form flickered, distorted, as though he was both there and not.

“And nOw, let the gAMe begins!! What dooOOoOoo… we have here…? Let’s se, se, se, see, a young man, an athlete I see. OH! The gold, gold golden boy… He hates being the center of attention even though he is everyone’s favorite player… And looks like he has a true self esteem problem but doesn’t show it… Well! What do you say friends? I think the choice is clear, right?...” continued the host waiting for the applause of his shadowy audience before glitching away once again, leaving Julian only with the echoes of the applause resonating around him with the forced laugh of this creepy host.

Julian thrashed, the unseen restraints holding firmly in place. “No, NO! What are you talking about?! Stop this! Please, I don’t…”

The stage appeared again from the darkness, appearing fractured and distorted before merging together into its original form. The audience was moving with broken movements as the host was walking smoothly around the scene, his old and dated microphone in hands.

The static swelled, stretching out into a crescendo of distorted applause. Then, with an abrupt glitch, the stage flared into overexposed colors, sickly yellows, piercing reds, neon blues, all too bright, too saturated. A massive game wheel was now in the center of the stage, towering above Julian. The wheel looked like it had been plucked straight from a garish 80s game show, covered in flashing lights and bold, cartoonish symbols instead of numbers. Each section pulsed and shimmered, shifting between words and icons as if the wheel itself couldn’t decide what it wanted to display.

With a burst of flickering interference, the host glitched out of frame, vanishing in a smear of pixels, only to reappear right next to the wheel in a single, jagged frame skip. His presence snapped into place with a harsh buzz, like an old VHS tape struggling to play.

Julian screamed again, thrashing against the invisible restraints. “NO! STOP IT! LET ME GO! I’M NOT PLAYING THIS…PLEASE!” His voice cracked, but the host gave no indication that he even heard him.

Instead, he placed one hand on the wheel, his too-perfect smile never wavering. “A classssss…ic spin for a classic gaAaAAaaAAame! Oh, it’s been so, so, so, so, so so… sooooooo long, hasn’t it, folks?” He gestured to the audience with a grandiose sweep, and they erupted into thunderous applause, cheering, whistling, clapping in perfect synchronization, their movements too uniform, too mechanical. Their enthusiasm was pure, unfiltered joy.

The host chuckled, his laugh warping into a chorus of overlapping echoes. “Now, now… what fate awaits our dear contestant?” He gripped the wheel and gave it a mighty spin.

The wheel whirred, its segments blurring together in a dizzying cascade of symbols, twisting arrows, theatrical masks, interrogations points, mirrored faces… Julian’s breathing quickened, his heart pounding as he watched the fate-deciding spin.

Click. Click. Click…

The wheel slowed.

One final click.

It landed on a space marked with two bold arrows, one pointing up, the other pointing down. The host turned back to the audience, and the crowd exploded with even greater excitement, their cheers reaching an unnatural, deafening volume.

“Oh-ho! Now this is something special! Ladies and geeeeEeEEeentlemen, we haven’t seen this result in quite some time!” The host’s voice crackled, his excitement amplifying with every word.

Julian struggled, shaking his head wildly. “NO! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? STOP THIS! PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T DO THIS!”

The stage around him flickered and distorted away. The audience pulsed, their forms breaking apart and reforming like a glitching program. The host raised his arms triumphantly, reveling in the moment and everything started to glitch in interferences as the stage, the wheel and everything vanished in black and white pixels. Julian gasped, his body shaking wondering if what he just saw was an invention of his mind or the product of some alcohol poisoning. But in the blink of an eye, the stage reappeared in front of him, this time the wheel was gone, the audience was clapping once again in a synchronized way while he could clearly hear screams of joy and laugh echoing around him even though they shadowy faces were neutrals. Julian suddenly realized the host was no where to be found, but lost in the cacophony of the audience screams, he could clearly hear his charismatic and deep alluring voice, getting closer and closer. And in a jolt, the host glitched back right in front of Julian, for the first time facing him directly in the eye as he opened his mouth once again to talk.

“Let’s the ga, ga, game begin!!” he concluded as he turned back from the audience to face Julian for the first time. It felt like he was looking directly into his soul and Julian felt like all of his deepest secrets were reading and exposed just as much as his exposed naked body. Julian felt a chill run down his spine as he realizes the host had no face, only a shadow figure with a creepy smile and a glowing red rune on top of his forehead, the same exact run as he saw glowing on the screen when he turned it on. Then the host and everything behind him started to disappear in an interference pattern, only the creep smile and the rune remained before disappearing them too, swallowed by the static engulfing his exposed body.

“WAIT, WAIT, NO! NO, PLEASE! DON’T LET ME HERE! HELP ME!!” he screamed once more in a last attempt to get someone’s or one of his friend’s attentions, and Julian was alone.

As he tried once more to wiggle out free from his static bonds, Julian felt a movement starting to happen around him. The bonds around his ankles and wrists spasmed a bit as he felt a pulling sensation in a rotative motion starting to take place. He saw his vision starting to rotate as he felt the blood coming to his head. Soon, Julian’s position was inverted as his head was now hanging down while his feet were above his head and bonded in the air.

Julian dangled in the void. His body hung upside down, his head tilted toward the abyss below, while his legs remained above, stretching upward as if gravity had flipped. He tried to move, to twist, to turn, but unseen forces held him in place, an invisible current pressing against his chest and limbs, keeping him locked in an unnatural position. His arms felt weightless, detached, like they weren’t his own, and yet the pain was real, every nerve alight with agony, like static electricity crackling through his bones.

“PLEASE!” Julian screamed, his voice echoing in the void one more time as he was slowly getting out of breath, the blood starting to get to his head. His body trembled with panic, but he couldn’t move. He could barely even breathe. Every inch of him burned with something unnatural, something wrong.

Then, out of nowhere, Julian started to feel a weird invading sensation starting to appear around his wrists where the static was holding him in place.

A sharp tug shot through his arms. His limbs contorting, stretching in ways they were never meant to. A deep, searing heat spread through his shoulders and hips as they twisted, morphing, rearranging into something they weren’t supposed to be. Julian screamed in pain and terror as he heard his bones snapping out of place and breaking before reforming into stronger ones. Tears poured down from his eyes and ran down his forehead before falling from his head into the void to disappear in the static as he saw in horror and pain that he couldn’t move his shoulders has freely as before. Worst, the restraints around his wrists had moved for the first time and he could see his hands starting to join in a neutral position under his head. As they moved, he felt his shoulders crack one more time as he felt the bones morph one last time into something denser and bigger before growing longer and longer, giving his biceps a disproportionate length. Julian looked down as he felt the sensation starting to invade his hands now. His fingers burned, the bones compressing, reshaping, until his knuckles cracked and popped grotesquely. The sensation was sickening, and when he tried to curl his hands into fists, he realized he couldn’t anymore. His fingers were thicker, shorter. The digits were fusing, reshaping into something rounder, stubbier. His palms stretched wider, the skin roughening, callouses forming along the edges as his thumbs receded, repositioning at an unnatural angle in a symphony of bones fracturing and merging back together. Julian choked back a scream as he realized what was happening, his hands were becoming feet.

“WHAT THE FUCK! NOOOOOO!”

His arms stretched, elongated even more into powerful limbs. The muscle shifting, thickening and swelling under his skin. The tendons tightened, pulling into a structure far too familiar yet entirely wrong, his arms were becoming legs. He could feel the shift of balance, the change in strength, the unnatural sensation of weight pressing down as his body forced him into this upside-down reversal of form. The agony was unbearable, his mind struggling to process the way his nerves rewired themselves, reconnecting joints in a way that should have been impossible. And for a moment, Julian felt like he was four footed. He tried to move his transformed fingers in front of him and his brain couldn’t understand the message as he felt and saw both of his right foots starting to react. He wanted to throw up from the alien sensation but he was too out of breath from the painful changes to even succeed in that.

Julian was still trying to understand what just happened when the sensation started once again, but this time around his ankles. His legs, his true legs, felt as if they were collapsing in on themselves. The bones cracking and snapping out of place before fracturing and merging back into a different form. Julian was screaming in pain as tears kept running down from his eyes only to fall on his newly transformed feet. The muscle mass shrank in his calves, condensing and reshaping into something leaner, something more flexible. His knees bent in the wrong direction and Julian could feel the pressure rising higher and higher before he felt a snap and then no pressure anymore. His knees had broken and reformed into his brand-new elbows. His calves tightened and restructured as his feet splat apart, toes elongating, stretching into something more dexterous. He could feel the air against them, feel the way his skin rippled as the transformation finalized. His whole body was spasming unwillingly from the new rerouting of his nervous system. Julian could feel his toes turned into finger brushing against each other in a new unnatural sensation. He couldn’t even find the words to describe what he was feeling. His feet had become hands.

Julian’s breathing was ragged, his mind a mess of horror and disbelief. His entire body had been flipped, reversed, turned into something unrecognizable. Julian felt tears continuing to run down his cheeks only to meet pearls of sweat on his forehead and sliding through his damp hair hanging in the hair between his new calves. His brain kept on coming back and force between thinking this was a nightmare and then the realization that every time he tried to move his feet, his hands in front of him were now reacting.

A deep shudder ran through his core as an unbearable heat pooled in his lower abdomen. A sharp, pulling sensation spread from his scalp down to his now hanging dick, as if something was being forcefully rerouted. Julian’s stomach twisted as he felt his head starting to burn from a fever he couldn’t control. It felt like his brain was on fire as he felt pearls of sweat starting to agglomerate on his forehead. At first, Julian thought that his head had been hanged above his head for way too long and his brain was not supporting the blood pressure anymore. But then he felt a violent spasm around his neck as his collar bone shattered before reforming into a new bone where his new legs anchored themselves in perfectly. With a new violent crack, Julian screamed as his neck hanged even lower. He tried to move his neck but it felt like he didn’t have any bones anymore in his neck. His head balancing left and right as the sweat kept on falling. A huge tingling sensation then started to invade his scalp as Julian watched in gasp as his hair started to fall from his scalp and disappear in static when they reached his feet. His hairline was receding faster and faster, the strands thickening, curling, and moving, no, not moving, relocating. At the same moment, Julian started to feel an invading sensation at the base of his neck. The more his hair fell, the itchier the sensation became. His hair was drifting upward, dragging warmth and an unbearable, suffocating musk with them. The scent was overpowering, raw and potent, filling his senses with something primal and unfamiliar. His own hair, his old hair, was no longer atop his head. It had become something else entirely, something far worse. Pubes. Julian’s face burned with an unfamiliar sensation, his skin tingling as pressure built in. His cheeks, his nose, his mouth, everything starting to burn from this uncontrollable fever as Julian was still trying to comprehend what was happening to his face. He felt his skull snapping on itself, his nose cracking and snapping in and out of place. Then to his horror, as he tried to scream once more, he tastes a weird salty thig in his mouth as it was getting harder and harder to articulate sentences. The liquid was musky and salty, almost like… “No” gasped Julian as his nose snapped out of place one last time before disappearing into his retracting skull. His hands were now feet, his feet hands. And his head was baked into a musky manly scent. Julian realized that as his body was forced inverted, his face was now in the position of his cock. “NOOOOOOOO” he screamed one more time as his face finished changing into a thick 8 inches soft cock. A pearl of precum rolled down his new sensitive forehead turned cockhead as his head retracted back on itself to disappear behind a thick sleeve of protecting skin. Julian could still taste and smell everything, worst he could see his new feet perfectly as he was forced to hang from his new position. Watching as pearls of precum kept on coming out of his mouth without him being able to stop them. Something his old 4 inches cut cock never did before. Then, he felt a growing sensation at the base of his new neck as 2 giants nuts pushed themselves from his skin to hand low. His new head was resting against them as a pungent musk started to bake his soul into a nightmare.

Julian was stuck there, hanging from his new pelvis and forced to watch his new feet forever as he felt precum dripping down from his ever-opened mouth while he felt his new nuts working hard to always have sperm in them. He couldn’t think properly anymore, his brain, or what was left of it assaulted by the hormones. At the same time, his cock started to spasm too. Julian couldn’t even watch what was happening anymore but as the sensations kept on getting more and more present and alien, he kept on hearing snapping sounds. And soon he felt his cock starting to move into an unnatural way. His pubes started to burn as he felt a new invading burning sensation appear on top of his cock head.  Then out of the blue, he heard something, a voice. Not the host’s one and not his either. With a new snap, he heard it again, this time accompanied with a sensation of pleasure invading his soul. It felt like he was cumming with every sound pronounced by this voice. Julian tried to move but he couldn’t anymore. He was forced to hang down leaking on his feet as the moves kept getting wider and more intricate. And soon, the sensation and the snapping sounds stopped. Once again, he was left totally bonded and restrained without a clue of what just happened to his cock. Julian felt the restraints around his wrists and ankles starting to let go. He tried to move but he realized he couldn’t anymore. He still had the sensations of his inverted body but he couldn’t move anymore. His soul was now bonded to this new way more muscular body. He tried to scream but only succeeded in releasing more precum around his foreskin. Then, a sensation invaded his body once again. This time it started around his new belly button. His skin darkened, the pale tones of his former self replaced with a deep, sun-kissed tan. The transformation surged through him, spreading warmth and an oppressive, earthy and spicy scent across his body. Thick, dark hair sprouted along his arms turned legs, coating his limbs in a layer of coarse, masculine growth. Julian saw his body hair starting to grow and his skin tan and didn’t understand what was happening to him. Worst, as the sensation invaded him, he felt his new prison starting to chub up. He felt his foreskin starting to roll down his face as for the first time, he clearly saw again the void around him. His sightline kept on getting higher and higher until he was rock hard and forced to look up where his cock used to be, but instead he faced something else. There in place of his cock was now a thick muscular neck topped by a manly perfectly sculpted face of a Latino men. His eyes deep brown, his nose wide and manly, his brows thick and perfectly shaped, his mouth thin, his smile was pearly white. On top of this head, a thick forest of dark wavy hair was shining naturally. Above his upper lip, a thick mustache of a dark hair was positioned and a goatee was finishing to sprout around his manly chin. Julian wanted to scream in terror as he realized his cock was now a face. The changes kept on assaulting his body as his armpits prickled with new density, his chest finished to expend and grew broad and sculpted, a fine dusting of dark curls forming over his pecs. The overwhelming heat mixed with an undeniable, musky presence, clinging to him, defining him.

Julian wanted to scream as the changed finalized around his new body but he had no control anymore, he was a passenger now as he felt the treasure trail of hair grow under his new shaft, tingling him just enough to send shivers of pleasure in his new body. And there without him being to control himself, he felt his new body start to spasm harder and harder. He tried to suppress this sensation invading his core but he couldn’t and out of nowhere, he felt like throwing up, except only thick white sperm came out of his mouth to run down his sensitive veiny dick body and dry out in what used to be his hair turned pubes. Julian was still spasming blank when he felt static swallowing his body once again. For a brief moment, he thought he was freed from this nightmare and he’ll be able to find a way to get help from someone. But his release was brief when instead of seeing the warm sunrise light, he felt fabric materialized against his skin, snug and shimmering, clinging in all the wrong ways. A sheer blue sequin shirt draped over his chest, barely concealing the definition beneath. The matching pants, equally tight and revealing, formed around his lower half, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was no underwear. Just a thin layer of material between him and the world. His feet, his new, foreign feet, slipped into polished leather shoes, shining under the invisible light of his prison. The bonds that had held him vanished, yet Julian remained frozen.

His body was no longer his to command. He tried to move once again, to twitch even a finger, no, a toe. But nothing responded. He was locked inside himself, a prisoner in this alien, unfamiliar body. “SILENCE. MOtoR, AC, AC, AC… AcTIoN!”

Julian heard echoing around him as he was trapped in darkness under the newly materialized pants around his cockhead. He recognized that voice, it was … the host!

Julian’s nightmare deepened into something far worse than he had ever imagined. His body moved, but not by his own will. Each motion was exaggerated, unnatural, as if he were a marionette in the hands of some unseen puppeteer. His arms, no, his legs, swung with a confidence that did not belong to him, his feet stomping onto the floor with purpose, each step sending a jarring shockwave through his stolen frame. But everything was wrong. Twisted. Inverted. His hands, now transformed into grotesque, unfamiliar manly and musky feet, twitched feebly, confined in their leather prison of shoes, squeezed uncomfortably into a shape they were never meant to take. They ached, every nerve firing off protests at their cruel new function, forced to support the entire weight of a body that no longer felt like his own. The unnatural sensation sent waves of nausea crashing through him, a torment that only grew worse with every movement.

For Julian, it felt like a perpetual handstand, a sickening reversal of everything he had ever known. His balance teetered on the edge of disaster, as though at any moment, the foreign frame he was trapped in would collapse under the unnatural shift of gravity. He felt his muscles adjust in sickening positions. Julian tried once again to assert back dominance of his body but he couldn’t control anything, forced to hang against his hairy shaft and leaking on what used to be his left biceps as his pubes were baking in manly Latino musk. For him, it was an endless torment, each forced motion pulling him further from his own identity, further from everything that made him who he was. His mind screamed against the horror, but there was no escape, no way to fight back against the sick joke reality had become.

Then, out of nowhere, Julian tried once again to find power to control his body and he realized that he was starting to gain back control in his right hand. A toe spasming, a finger moving. With some time, he could break free and he would…

“¡Ay, senorita! Looks like you are way too guapa to be alone, ¿verdad?” The deep, confident voice rolled out like a song with a thick Spanish accent. It was playful and filled with a swagger that made Julian’s very being convulse in horror. It felt like something was exploding inside him, unbearable jolts of sensation surging through his trapped consciousness. For Julian it was too much. With every word, it felt like he was having the best orgasm of his life. In the blink of an eye, he lost his will and felt himself leaking abundantly on his hairy calve. Julian couldn’t think anymore, and when he came back to himself, he realized he couldn’t feel his body anymore. He tried to move his hands but couldn’t feel them at all. I was like a connection had been lost. He screamed again mentally one more time, pleading and begging to wake up from this nightmare but instead, all he heard was the host’s voice talking directly to him. “Don’t, don’t, don… don’t worry Julian. You are taken care. No more massssssssks to wear. You can be your true se…lf and what everybody is expecting from yooooouuuuu…uuu!” As the voice died into static noise, Julian couldn’t focus anymore. Every time he heard the words coming out of this Latino lover mouth, it felt so good and he was leaking precum abundantly. “Please, I don’t want to… keep doing … this. So … good” So good? He realized what he just thought and was distressed as he realized he didn’t even try to move anymore. He was just standing there. His sensitive cock head scratching on the hairy thighs with every step and precumming with every word spoken. “Please, I can’t do this anymore. Please Mas…” Julian was cut by a new voice. This time something deep and sensual, something he already heard before. “Cono! You really are horny today, Junior!” as the sentence ended, he felt a feeling of proudness invade his body as he felt seen for the first time ever. But as the calloused hand grabbed him through the pant to adjust him, Julian came back to himself. “What the fuck?!” he suddenly realized that for a brief moment, he forgot everything. His struggles, his life, his friends. Everything. Worst, he didn’t even care. “No, no, no, no, no!!!” he pleaded mentally one more time as more precum leaked from his tip “You don’t understand, if I stay like that longer I will…” Once more, Julian was cut through his train of thoughts as Fernando talked to him directly in thoughts. “Listen Junior, we have one more scene to shoot and then I promise to take care of you all night long!” As he finished this sentence, Julian felt a pressure rising in him and felt ecstatic. Suddenly he couldn’t control himself anymore as he started to spasms as pictures of his new body flashed in his head. Pictures of him naked, his master’s hands gripping him, getting edged for hours, being sucked and plowing holes, any holes. With the pictures implanting in his head, the feelings came back flooding in him and suddenly he realized he didn’t want to fight his master, he was here to serve him, and he was his favorite toy to play with. Julian stopped fighting as a new pearl of precum licked from the tip of the uncut Latino cock, this time, it was a thicker one as it contained Julian’s humanity. It fell down the legs, following the already precum path well traced by Julian’s mental fight and ended on drying on Fernando’s hairy legs, forever assimilated by his new master.

Fernando felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders as he adjusted one last time, feeling his cock finally stopped spasming. He took a breath as he was called back for his scene. “¡Hermanita! ¡Déjame decirte algo! No hay mujer en el mundo que pueda resistir mi encanto, ¿me entiendes?” His voice was cocky, flirtatious, dripping with an exaggerated bravado that made Julian sick. He was performing. Acting. Playing a role in something he didn’t understand but couldn’t escape. The world around him felt alive, vibrant, but utterly fake. Julian, or rather Fernando Junior, stood there asleep in pleasure as he was waiting for Fernando’s manly and oh so smooth hands to finish his day and finally take care of him. Maybe if he was kind enough, he’ll be able to play with a wet toy until he can’t hold anymore.

At the Grand Solis Hotel, Julian’s friends were finally done exploring the place and decided to climb upstairs to join Julian on the roof for one last beer before the start of university. As they reached the last floor, Jackson saw the double doored entrance of the suit and called for Julian, but no one answered. When they were about to leave, he heard a static noise followed by someone talking. Him and the others started to walk only to see an old retro tv turned on and glitching between statics and an old prerecorded telenovela from the 80’s. A handsome young man, dressed in dazzling sequins, his dark curls framing a cocky smirk. He moved with confidence, his chest puffed out, his eyes twinkling with charm as he leaned against the salon’s counter, winking at a passing woman and adjusting his thick cock under his pants. As the men adjusted, Fernando Junior saw a window appear in front of him. He saw a weird looking dusty room. It vaguely remembered him something but he couldn’t truly understand where. Then he saw some men appear in the window too. For a moment Junior felt like it was something important, but just when he was about to remember the face of one of the young men, Fernando grabbed him adjusted himself before putting a hand through his hairy pubes and scratching it then smelling it with a cocky smile. The smell sent pheromones directly into his blood stream and Junior was once again assaulted by the hormones as he chubbed up a bit thinking about the night that was about to happen for him. “¡Hola guapa! ¿Te gustaría venir a divertirte aquí con Fernando Junior?,” Fernando declared, grinning wide as he kept on adjusting his leaking cock through his pants.

Jackson and the others busted in laugh as they took the remote to turn the tv off before walking back to the stairs.

Inside the screen, Julian was no more, only Fernando Junior remained, screamed in anticipation and pleasure. But no sound came out, only beads of precum licking permanently through his tip and soaking into his favorite blue sequin pants. Junior was so lucky to have such a hot master…

As the TV turned off, a new glyph appeared on the back of the tv, just above one of a star, this one looked like a football. Both of them glowed in red as the tv turned back on one last time before shutting off, waiting for his next participant.

______________________________________________________________

Hey guys!

Hope you're having an amazing day! Most of all, I hope you enjoy this brand-new story I brainstormed with @tf-vigilante.

As always, let me know what you think of it, and feel free to send me messages or DMs if you have any ideas. I read everything. If your idea sparks something in me, you might just see it turn into a full story! ;)

Have a great day, and I'll see you all soon!

[reverssentiment]

Any analysis of Deltarune's themes of escapism would be well-served to recognize that the Dark Worlds aren't just fun romps. They're parables of morality and personal growth, loaded with messaging that the kids can take back to their everyday lives. King is an object lesson about taking out your bitterness and loneliness on others. Queen is a perfect practice run for standing up to a controlling mother, and her mansion is full of puzzles to teach Berdly that being smart isn't everything. All salient lessons!

And every Dark World ends in a private "the magic goes away" sequence where the world must be destroyed to return to reality. CH1 mimes Undertale's victory-lap, goodbye-to-the-Underground sequence to set the emotional stakes: the portal fantasy is ending. All these places will disappear. You're leaving Narnia forever. Et cetera. These worlds may have escapist utility – cf. "isn't this world just... better?" – but they're not pure, disconnected fantasies, and treating them as that risks missing significant thematic elements of Deltarune.

The Dark Worlds don't have any morals for Kris – I suspect – because Kris has deliberately obscured the nature of their issues from our eyes. The secret bosses gesture at what we imagine they might need – The air crackles with freedom – but Jevil and Spamton's stories have no definitive answers and, critically, end in tragedy. If you had to pinpoint a moral in them, it would be... what? "Don't reach for more than you're afforded"? "Reality is for other people to define"?

"The desire to be free will destroy you. Instead, you should become a prop – a tool, a shield – for someone else's story"?

...because that's what Kris is right now, aren't they? A prop in the story we're writing for Susie and Noelle and Berdly and all the other kids with brighter futures. A prop in our story, if we try to fix their life – forced by * Our descent into their body to become a better person. Collateral damage in our inspirational moral lesson. Hell, they're even a classic "bad influence" character, despite Susie's clear typecasting in that part – Kris is the one who opens a Fountain, after we're all clearly informed of the consequences of indulging in escapism via Dark Worlds. Kris is dragging Susie down.

[deception-united]

Online Writing Resources

YouTube:

Abbie Emmons: A published author. Her videos have great tips and advice for plot and character development.

Hello Future Me: Mostly worldbuilding tips, but very in-depth, with specific examples.

Ellen Brock: A professional freelance editor who provides help with all aspects of writing—outlining, worldbuilding, character writing, plot development, publishing, and generally answering any questions writers may have.

Terrible Writing Advice: Great writing advice, if you can handle the sarcasm.

Podcasts:

Writing Excuses: Albeit fast-paced, the given writing advice is quite useful. There's multiple seasons addressing topics such as story structure, characters, and genres, amongst many others.

The Creative Penn: This podcast is run by author Joanna Penn, who shares the lessons she learned in her own journey and advice for writing and publishing your novel.

I Should Be Writing: Interviews with various authors, and encouragement for aspiring writers.

Story Grid: Outlining methods, writing tips, editing advice, and analysis of various works.

Blogs:

Creativity Portal: Author interviews, creativity generators, writing prompts and templates, and various other writing resources.

Now Novel: Aside from writing tools, this website has multitudes of posts about characters, dialogue, narration, plotting, editing, and story structure, as well as writer motivation.

Helping Writers Become Authors: Tips on dialogue, characterisation, outlining, plot development, structuring, character arcs, and common writing mistakes to avoid.

Almost an Author: This website is great help for aspiring authors, with advice that ranges from genres to motivation for writers to guidance for making writing a career.

Hope this is helpful! I'd love to hear any other resources you use or are familiar with. Happy writing ❤

Previous | Next

[letoasai]

dp x dc Chronos

An idea that’s probably been touched on before but well.. once more! 

~

It had begun with a meltdown. Being a fifteen year old was tough. High school was the time in your life where you were picking up life skills without even knowing it. Social skills, study habits, responsibilities stacked on responsibilities. It all seemed rather unfair when their brains weren’t done developing yet or… whatever Jazz had been telling him one afternoon. 

The point was, being a teenager wasn’t all making memories and messing around. It was hard. Add on dying to that work load and things got complicated. Add on a ghost portal that allowed ghosts to come and go as they pleased when you were the only one that could safely stop them and things got stressful. 

Parents that were trying to kill you…went without saying. 

Become a king of a realm by fifteen, and see how you handle the sudden workload. Danny had been holding up fine, until he wasn’t. Until a particularly loud boom in his parents lab from whatever their latest torture invention was cause a tremor of fear to shoot up his spine. In an instant, panic was sparked. He wanted to leave, he thought about it often, but how could he just leave Amity Park behind? Would it be better outside of his parents house? Could he live alone?

The fear latched onto his core, and not being able to relax in his own haunt was apparently counterproductive to a healthy, happy halfa. 

Before dying, Danny hadn’t been familiar with panic attacks, now, they weren’t entirely uncommon. One moment he would be overthinking in his bedroom, the next he’d be on his bed or the floor curled up in a ball. Tears flowing and throat clogged, he would sob under the weight of his responsibilities in silence. He doubted his parents would notice, but he hated to worry his sister. Being quiet was a must.

It was one of these episodes that had led to Clockwork appearing in his room, lifting Danny up into his arms like a child without even a weak protest. A post-it was left for Jazz so she wouldn’t worry and the king was returned to the Infinite Realm for a night. 

That was the start of Danny spending time in Clockwork’s citadel any time he was feeling overwhelmed. Being outside of time, he was given the time to relax, sleep, or study. It lessened the burdens of trying to be a normal high school student, hero, and king all at once, or at least gave him a safe place to crash. 

At least once a week, Danny made his way into Clockwork’s lair, long since allowed to enter on a whim unless expressly told otherwise for a day or two. For all Danny was king, he did his best not to interrupt Clockwork’s work and he knew beings from other dimensions popped in from time to time. 

If Clockwork didn’t want him meeting them, he was going to take his opinion to heart and make himself scarce. 

Danny wasn’t sure why he got the privilege to hide behind the ghost of time but he didn’t shun the offer. Any chance to get some sleep was a good one when he had ghosts like Skulker or Johnny waking him up at three in the morning with their bullshit. 

Danny floated over a sofa, backpack forgotten on the floor and books hovering around him. The crown that hovered above his head kept going back and forth between being covered by ice or green flame. It seemed to do what it wanted like a living creature. 

Danny had his own room in the citadel now but he was positive the sofa was put in Clockwork’s viewing room just for him. 

He slept there more often than not. 

“Hey Clockwork.” Danny called. He’d be ignored if Clockwork was deep into peering into the past for future, but would otherwise get an answer. “Can i ask you a question?” 

In the time it took Clockwork to turn to face Danny, his age had altered subtly, five or ten years younger than middle aged. 

Danny had always thought Clockwork had three ages he shifted between. His child form, middle aged adult, and old man. The longer Danny stayed in the citadel though, he learned that wasn’t the case. 

He’d seen Clockwork go from an old man, to a man about twenty. He’d slowly shift younger and younger through his teens until he stopped in his child form. Danny had seen the opposite too. Clockwork as a young preteen growing into an adult in the span of a breath. Dark circles would appear under his eyes and laugh lines etched into his face of a much older man but Danny wouldn’t have called that form elderly. 

It was fascinating. 

“What can i do for you, Majesty?” Clockwork asked, a hint of a smile already curing his lips. He likely already had the conversation they were about to have memorized. 

Danny groaned. “Can’t you just call me Danny? Majesty is so… so…” 

“Accurate?” 

“Bleh…” Danny muttered, slowly floating until he was upside, but his book turned with him so he could continue to look at it. 

Clockwork only laughed at him, that soft noise that said he was amused at Danny’s plight, but Danny was far from offended by it. 

“You’re the master of time, right, but were you the god of time too?” He pointed at his textbook, crown on top of his head doing slow flips. “Chronos?” 

“Ah,” Clockwork chuckled, arms crossing over his chest. His de-aging had abruptly stopped and he instead started growing older again. “Indeed. We are the same.” 

“Really?” Danny perked up and went back to skimming his book while rotating in the air. The edges of his wispy hair were looking like smoke. “So you were an ancient Greek god? That’s cool.” 

“Yes and no.” Clockwork said with a shrug. “Time is a funny thing. I was there, of course but more in the capacity of their stories. I predate the Greeks.” 

“Huh,” Danny hummed, growing quiet again as he read a little more but Clockwork didn’t return to his parade viewing. He instead waited for Danny to continue. “So wait, you were one of the first… titans.” he read. “Cool.” 

“Yes.” Clockwork agreed, “That was a very long time ago now.” 

Danny quirked a brow at a line in the book and glanced back at Clockwork. “‘Destructive and all-devouring’, huh?” 

“I was young.” Clockwork agreed, not bothering to deny it. “We all have that phase.” 

“Uh huh… How did this rule of yours coincide with Pariah Dark?” 

Clockwork grew older still, his beard starting to grow. He also relaxed into a floating/sitting position. “They didn’t really. Much of what you are reading is a mortal human interpretation. If you think stories in your high school become exaggerated, you should hear the true origin stories of the ancients sometime.” 

Danny was snickering. “I’d actually like that but none of them like talking about stuff like that. Did you really eat your kids?”

“Something to that effect. I’m afraid i was not a very good father. I was at a very different place in my life then.” Clockwork said. He didn’t sound particularly proud of it, but he didn’t look broken- hearted either. 

Danny didn’t quite get it. Clockwork had basically been his ghost guardian long before he’d even known that was a thing. He probably would have just assumed Clockwork would make a good dad. Then again, being a ‘present’ dad was probably tough for the god of ‘time’. 

“Hm,” Danny hummed and flipped the page while floating right side up again. He rubbed at his face, the constellation freckles across his cheeks twinkling. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Danny muttered, clearly reading through a paragraph. 

Clockwork’s shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter. It wasn’t usually this easy to coax Danny into doing his homework. 

“You died. Zeus kills you. Did Zeus kill you? Your son?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a moment where Danny’s face warped into something like grief before it disappeared, suspicion forming in it’s place. “Did you know that was gonna happen? Did you let Zeus kill you to maintain a good time line? Did you know you’d just be the ghost master of time?” 

Clockwork just smiled and shrugged. 

“Ancients!” Danny cursed. “Are you serious? You were looking that far ahead already? Even then? That’s insane.” 

“I have not confirmed or denied anything. On the other hand, we all have our talents.” Clockwork mused. “Does this knowledge entertain you?” 

“I mean, it’s cool.” Danny muttered again. Clockwork wasn’t usually so chatty but he was more likely to tell him past things opposed to future things.

He went back to reading and Clockwork went back to his viewing clocks. It was only a few minutes before Danny spoke again. 

“The Elysian Islands. Are those in the Infinity Realm?” Danny asked, “They sound familiar.” 

“Yes.” Clockwork mused. “And before you ask, Zeus didn’t actually have anything to do with them and Pandora would get huffy at the mere mention of it.” 

“Are other gods in the infinite Realm?” 

“Some, but not many of the ones in your book there.” Clockwork said, twirling the staff in his hand. Danny could tell he was doing something along the time stream but Danny had no idea what and he didn’t ask. He was not looking to get sent on another timeline errand. “There are other places where they reside. Some even living. Those in the realm however, are your subjects.” 

“Oh.” Danny muttered, getting the same sour look he got when he was reminded he was king. 

Clockwork lowered his staff, done with his chore. He hovered closer to Danny now, ruffling his hair and dislodging his crown which spun around of its own accord on top of Danny’s head. The sentient accessory very much attached to its new wearer. “If there are any in the Infinite Realm who find you lacking, you need not pay them any mind. Pandora, Fright Knight, or Frostbite would be more than happy to deal with them. You have every right to be here.” 

Danny just grunted. Peer pressure was hard enough at school. It was worse in the Infinite Realm. “I’m not looking for fights.” 

“You do not need to prove yourself. You’ve done that enough. You must merely be you to succeed. You are balance, and balance in life will find you soon enough.” 

“Awe, you haven’t said anything cryptic to me all day. I was starting to get worried.” Danny muttered, a smile tugging. 

“I would never make you go without.” Clockwork said with a fond roll of his eyes. He was so old now that his beard nearly touched the floor. 

“Ancients forbid.” Danny muttered, snagging his book out of the air. “Wait, did you say there were some living? Wait.” His mind whirled to a previous school assignment. “Isn’t Wonder Woman’s dad supposed to be Zeus. Is Wonder Woman your granddaughter?” 

Clockwork just smiled and ruffled his hair again. “Don’t you have homework to finish?” 

“Oh Ancients! She is. Classic deflecting. Holy crap.” 

He let himself drop onto the sofa, over dramatic with his realization. “You have ties to the Justice League!” 

Clockwork did sigh that time. “A charming notion, i suppose.” 

“You’ve as good as admitted it!” Danny grinned, pleased to have learned something new. Had it been anyone else, he might have thought he learned something Clockwork didn’t want him to know. Clockwork knew everything though and only let slip what he wanted to. 

“You are a hero yourself, Danny. No need to be enamored with the League.” Clockwork turned to go back to work, eyes scanning screens before him. 

“Yeah but they’re real heroes.” Danny grumbled, opening his book again. Clockwork’s lack of response meant he wasn’t going to answer that line of thinking. “Fine…” 

The two of them were left in a comfortable silence for a few minutes more until Danny broke it himself. Even though Clockwork knew it was coming, he still jumped when Danny gasped harshly from excitement. 

“Saturn! You’re Saturn! Saturn is like, one of my top three favorite planets!” It was the pure joy on Danny’s face that had Clockwork laughing this time. 

“You would have a top three.” 

“Of course i do!” 

The door had been flung open for him to now talk about space and precisely why he had so many favorite planets specifically. Clockwork let him, happy to let one of his obsessions take its course. Talks about space banished all thoughts of the Justice League and ‘real heroes’. 

Danny knew he’d have to take his history books with a grain of salt. Eaten children or no...Clockwork had always been a good guardian to him. ~~ I might add on to this...  It’s almost like Danny was reading the same wiki page on Chronos that i was... lol 

Part 2  and Part 3 

[piratefern]

Regarding your most recent post, Has Dyo ever been broken or shattered?

OOOOOOOO the answer is a definite yes :3 And its one of the main reasons Hasel leaves

Near around WW1 Hasel started breaking down again because of the vine resurfacing (due to all the bloodshed), making him more absorbed in his head and distant, and in this way he feels he could never be a good enough partner for Dyo

Then due to this distance he ended up in the grey dimension again, his physical form attacked Dyo when he tried to help Hasel and accidentally ended up chipping his mask. This put the nail in the coffin for Hasel, despite not being his fault, and he decided Dyo would be better off without him (instead of tackling his issues head on and learning to be a better partner) so he left, leaving his briefcase as memorabilia. He’d convinced himself it was for the better, now he can focus on finding the cure for the vine and Dyo will be “safe”

Dyo had creeping suspicion that he might up and leave one day as he got more distant, making him anxious up until Hasel’s departure. Of course he didn’t think it would actually happen, but this explains why he didn’t think he’d just walked off for firewood or something, he had a dreaded feeling he’d left, and he did.

This leading to Hasel (up until present day when he’s captured by the facility a century later) to resume his search for a cure. He starts remembering something from a dream in his past, of a far away land he’d visited as a child, where he’d met a masked child of similar age. He brushed this off until it kept coming back, and you know Hasel he’s really irrational so he decided this place must be real (and he was right, somehow!)

So he starts researching about places that sounded similar in odd libraries and archives, eventually finding a place called “Alagadda”. An old explorer who fell into a pocket on earth winded up there. Hasel realised the same must have happened to him in his youth. The explorer ended up documenting the place, finding a way to build a portal between the realms, however he never fully completed this research and it is unknown what happened to him.

Hasel ends up finishing the portal, believing the answer to the cure lies on the other side

He goes through and eventually meets the Black Lord, (not knowing it was Dyo). He can’t quite place why he looks familiar. As time doesn’t work linearly in Alagadda and doesn’t parallel with earth time, he is meeting Dyo before he became Dyo when he was still Anguish/The Black Lord. Anguish believes he is sick and begs the Doctor for a cure, turning out that The Black Lord being under the control of The Hanged King was the “sickness”, sparking the event for Anguish to eventually escape through the portal just after Hasel. Hasel (by some mirical) ends up exactly at the time where he left, as if hed never been gone at all, after which he is immediately found by Facility researchers from S.C.P who had been tracking strange fluctuations in unknown energy (Dyo has been caught at the same time and they end up in the same van, im debating changing how this happens so we’ll see :3)

Dyo on the other hand emerged 2000 years in the past before the portal was ever created, this creates a paradox and as a result he loses his memory, causing him to forge a new identity to cope (of which he eventually believes is completely true)

However, since the portal is built in the future, Dyo eventually starts picking up memories he’d lost, and remembers who he was

Thats the gist of the story :3 some things ive altered slightly from my last explanation and ill probably keep doing this if I find plotholes, this is basically my first ever attempt at a fully fleshed out story so its definitely not going to be perfect 😭 but im glad you guys are liking it so far :3

I might change what the purpose of the vine is, perhaps what the vine actually does is warn Hasel when death is imminent, but he thinks that when someone has the vine they are infected, so he ends up killing them to stop the spread, however they were only ever going to die because he was going to kill them because he thought they were infected. This sorta makes sense since he was guilty that he couldn’t prevent his family from dying, so now he has the means to prevent others from dying. It also clears up why the vine is still around after he learns to accept his family’s deaths and that they weren’t his fault. So he’s convinced that the vine is his punishment and he thinks that it means he needs to find a “cure” for some disease, when really he was the “cure” all along, and was supposed to be helping people and healing people or comforting them if death is imminent, like how he did in his former life. This ties into his healing and death-touch powers and it makes more sense why he has these. He can kill at a touch of his hand, but thats to help people who have no chance at survival reach peace and not to be a midas’ touch sort of situation. He also never hears directly what his daughter wished for, just what his wife told him before she died, so his daughter easily could have wished for him to be alive again so he can help people :( And since the brothers death would have answered this wish, it makes sense why he was brought back in the way he was, being a crow (the omen of death) with healing and death-touch abilities.

so the whole time he was misinterpreting what the vine was, perhaps the manifestation of the vine and his wife wasn’t ever anything to do with the vine at all, he just assumed it was, when the vine manifestation was actually just mad intrusive thoughts due to guilt, this also makes sense why the vine manifestation turned into Dyo after he left him since its directly linked to his guilt and not the vine itself

Some silly side notes are that Dyo’s original body is like SUPER tall and he gets it back when he returns there, also when Dyo and Hasel are apart after WW1 they start taking on traits of the other, Dyo obviously has his poncho making him hooded, but be also gets more grumpy and bitter (not enough to change his whole personality though), Hasel on the other hand stops tiding his feather so they get really unkempt, eventually making his fur resemble Dyo’s hair (at the end of the series they both have it tied back :3). When Hasel winded up in Alagadda as a child he adorned a bird mask, but upon returning he doesn’t have one. We never see what Hasel looks like as a human either, this is because I have an unbridled hatred for when monster characters or characters with masks/full face helmets take them off or transform back into a human, its like its not the same character anymore even though it is, like what was the point of the character being a monster to show character development or learn a lesson if theyre just gonna be human at the end of the story, it annoys me every time LMAO (obviously exceptions being human au’s of characters, i specifically mean like when its part of a narrative in cannon material) Even if I do a post where I make concepts if they were human, Hasel specifically is keeping the Black square (not dyo though since he never was human in the first place :3)

which makes me think, what would a personality swap AU look like for these two? Theres so much to be explored, like Hasel taking up partying and drinking to deal with the death of his family of which he blames himself, and Dyo becoming closed off and reserved because he never made up a past as a coping mechanism, he just has no idea who he is which makes it hard to form any sort of romantic bond, like would any of you like a full concept of that? Im curious