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emphistic · 13 hours ago

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𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ♱

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. preacher’s daughter x atheist trope, historical AU - 1930s, conflict of religion, childhood friends to lovers, making out in the back of an empty church, forbidden love, eventual smut [MDNI], fem!Reader, lovesick!Sukuna, outdoor sêx, loss of vírginity, fíngering, overstímulatiön, örgasm denial, degrâdation kink, choking kink

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 15.4k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. hated every second of writing this. but, whatever, another historical au has been written ☑ anywho, here it is, and here you are, angel @antizenin // read on ao3, dividers by @/saradika

“She looked like a religious icon, like somebody you’d sacrifice yourself for.”

You remember the day you met him like yesterday—well, how could you not? He stood out like a sinner in a church full of preachers.

The first time you saw him was at a funeral, but, don’t start feeling bad, the funeral was for some old lady living down the street whom you hardly knew. He sat in the farthest pew to the left in the front corner, and, with his height, you could’ve mistaken him for someone who had already reached puberty, but, nay, he was only a year your senior.

Even with the canorous singing of the choir in the background, and the words of your father droning on in the distance, the only thing you could seemingly focus on was the color pink. His hair, the boy’s hair—it was pink!

You had noticed the boy’s unnatural hair color while you were walking down the aisle for the Eucharist, and you happened to catch notice of him from your peripheral vision. Now, if you were just a little bit less behaved, you would’ve made a dash for it right then and there, and went over to inspect the boy’s hair, but no, your father had taught you better than most children your age, and you waited until the end of Service before you made an attempt at befriending the boy.

Mass had dragged on for what felt like longer than usual, and you hoped, with great enthusiasm, that if you waited outside the doors of the church for the boy to appear, you would only be subjected to waiting for five minutes. But boy, oh boy, were you wrong.

You were the first one to exit the church, and as attendees walked out after you, you had no choice but to stand awkwardly to the side, with your back leaning against the doors, and your hands interlocked behind your back, as you bid them all farewell. It was . . . unpleasant, and rather boring, if you did say so yourself, but it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve spent nearly half an hour doing that afternoon. After all, you were sort of a celebrity in the small town of Bromwell.

Your mother was a well-known, and viable midwife, while, on the other hand, your father—he was. . . Your father was the preacher of the only church in Bromwell. The town was small in size, but not in population, no. Most of the populace consisted of devout Christians, but the religion had begun to lose followers when there weren’t any places of worship for a myriad of leagues. Your father took it upon himself to establish a church, and from then until now—well, you get the picture.

Of present time—in the year 1933 anno Domini, and of the small town you know as Bromwell, there wasn’t much diversity between your neighbors. Bromwell was bland, boring; everyone’s the same, everything’s the same. As a matter of fact, since birth, everyone, including you, was taught the one true principle; “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” It was short, it was concise, and you knew, or, well, you believed it to be the truth of the world.

If Bromwell was bigger, and as populated as a city, there would, perhaps, be a billboard near the sheriff’s building, with the motto of the town written on it in a big, bold font.

Anyway, by now, you must certainly get the picture, right?

Bromwell, Alabama. Far from any life other than the ones living in it. Dusty roads, humid summers, and dry winters. Not a pleasant place to live in, especially in times such as the Dust Bowl. It made waiting outside of the church a great pain. For seemingly four hours you stood outside—so many people exited in the duration, that, you even got to see your father as he left, but when he invited you to come on home with him, you coughed up some lame excuse, and he, after tipping his hat, walked off with your mother by his side.

Sighing, and clearly exhausted from standing around for so long, you were just about to call after your father, and take him up on his invitation, when, as if by the mercy of God, you heard a voice behind you, and the sound of doors slamming shut right afterwards.

“What the hell is a girl like you still doing here? Service ended a while ago, or, do people here just not know how to tell the time?”

Okay, that . . . that is not how you expected the pink-haired boy to sound. As you turned around to meet his eyes, your heart dropped to your feet. What the?—He was even taller in person! But, fortunately, his hair was the same as when you first saw him. Pink and rosy and uncombed. His eyes were unnatural, too, a mix, or some other sort, of a reddish brown color.

He walked outside alone, no guardian or parent in sight, no older sibling or relative. He was dressed rather nicely—not like a wealthy gentleman, but, rather, like he was living well-off—but, either way, it was nothing like the usual apparel of most residents here in Bromwell. You concluded that he was, without a doubt, not from here (which would also explain why this was your first meeting with him, you noted).

“Why would you say that?” you whisper-shouted, after looking around your surroundings in case anyone heard.

“Say what?”

“The H word. We’re right outside of a church, dummy; aren’t you afraid of God smiting you where you stand?”

“We’re outside, not inside; God won’t persecute me.”

You rolled your eyes. “God won’t persecute you, but I sure will. My papa built this church for all of Bromwell, y’know.”

“You call this a church? Looks like a shack to me.”

“Hey! There’s not much to work with here in the country. He worked hard to gather supplies and planks and all of that.”

“Pfft—Yeah, right. All of that junk, you mean.”

“What—What the hell is your problem, you . . . you jerk?”

“I thought you said not to say that word, squirt.”

You bit your tongue. “Why don’t you just shut up.”

“‘m not the type to take orders from little girls like you,” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest, “but okay.”

“. . .”

“Say something, dimwit,” you began, caving in. “You’re boring me.”

“I didn’t know I was your personal jester.”

You stuttered for words.

Questioning whether that was your first time hearing sarcasm, the boy laughed at your hesitance. It was almost sinister-sounding. “You’re kinda funny for a squirt, you know; I like that, you’re not like all the other wimps I’ve met so far. Hey, how about you be an upstanding citizen of Bromwell for once and ask me for my name or something? Do country folk not have manners?”

Still stuttering, you gave him your name, and offered a hand to shake, but it was declined.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m not touching that hand,” was the boy’s curt reply, after he introduced himself as Sukuna. “Not ever.”

“Why not?”

“Do I have to explain everything to you?” he scoffed, leaning down to your level, and getting all up in your face. “Your grimy little hand will give me cooties.”

The eight-year-old-you had never heard that word one day of your life, and a confused expression soon made its way onto your face.

Sukuna audibly facepalmed, and groaned into his hand. “C’mon, don’t tell me I have to explain what cooties are, too.”

That was it.

That was how you befriended Sukuna, though, he only accepted begrudgingly. It was more like an agreed companionship than friendship, honestly. Sukuna taught you more than any other mediocre teacher could have, and was, at least in the beginning, like the brother you had never had.

Sukuna was from the city, and, with his highly contrasting experiences and different walk of life, he had seen more and heard more than you (A/N: no offense to my country folk readers lmao). Sukuna explained slang—that was a big part of what he did as a sort of “mentor” to you. He also talked about the different types of weather he got, the views he saw from various points, the feeling of man-made pools and entertainment from television.

“TVs are for the rich,” Sukuna explained one time; “but my grandfather used to work under this nice man who occasionally let me sit in his living room and watch basically whatever I wanted, while he and my grandfather talked or something.”

“What did you watch?” you asked.

“. . .None of your business,” he said, blushing, “nothing that you should be watching, anyway.”

“‘Kuna, I don’t know if schooling is much different in the city than in the country, but we’re only a year apart.”

“A year is a big difference in knowledge.”

Sukuna wasn’t a particularly nice boy to you, but he was the closest you ever got to having a real friend, so you learned to take his jokes and banter with a grain of salt.

At school, you were a pretty sociable person, but your friends . . . well, weren’t really friends. They liked sitting with you during Service because it ensured them the best spots in the best pews, but that was it. They never ate lunch with you, never played with you during recess, and talked to you as if you were a mere stranger to them. They didn’t even think of you as a friend, honestly.

But Sukuna . . . Sukuna did.

While he may never have played silly games with you at lunch-recess, because he explained he was “too old to act like a silly, little child,” he still sat down on the innumerable blades of grass or dusty patches of dirt with you, and just . . . talked. You two talked a whole lot.

Sometimes, Sukuna would lie on his back, with shade from the tree above your figures granting him freedom, and he would toss an apple to and fro. The first time he did it, you were beyond confused, and brushed it off as “city-people behavior.” But, when he gave the apple to you after recess ended, and said, “Tossing it back and forth makes it taste sweeter,” that’s when you realized he was probably going to be your best friend for life.

Most people preferred to steer clear from you; they deemed you a goody two-shoes because of your father’s occupation as a preacher of faith, and didn’t bother listening to words that you actually said, but, rather, judged you merely on what was proclaimed by your father on Sundays. It was a common idea among your peers that you were some prim and proper “teacher’s pet,” or, well, in your case: “preacher’s pet.”

“What makes them think that?” asked Sukuna, one afternoon.

The two of you were outside at recess, squatting near a small pond; Sukuna was teaching you how to catch frogs—a hobby he had picked up the last summer he spent in the city, and also a hobby he hoped he could turn into a tradition with you.

“I . . . don’t know. I’ve spent almost half of my life with them as my classmates and neighbors, and I still don’t know,” you frowned, struggling to get a hold on a particularly slippery frog. “Do you . . . think I did something wrong?”

Sukuna chose not to respond, his eyebrows knitting together, creating an unreadable, conflicted expression on his face, as his grip around the neck of an innocent frog tightened to an extreme extent.

The silence dragged on for several minutes, only the croaking sounds of the frogs interrupting the calm, and your occasional grumbles of frustration at failure to capture said frogs.

Finally, shaking his head, as if escaping a trance, Sukuna didn’t say anything more as he finally released his unforgiving grip on the frog in his grasp, and threw it into your hands, to which you caught the amphibian with an elated squeal.

This marked the day everything changed.

During school, out on the playground, while walking on the dusty roads, even during Service—Sukuna had silently sworn to God that if anything or anyone were to hurt you ever again, he would be there.

He didn’t like to say it, and you knew that, but you had gradually learned over time that Sukuna wasn’t used to people being there for him, but maybe, just maybe, thought Sukuna, if he were there for you, you wouldn’t end up going down the same path as him.

And when Sukuna had his mind on something, he wouldn’t yield for anyone. But, worry not, Sukuna couldn’t care less about the black eyes he got from beating up kids who talked down on you. He knew you would never let him do it if he told you his plans beforehand, and he wasn’t exactly keen on having you see him do that, either, so he never got into too much trouble when you were by.

Sukuna saw his reflection in your eyes that day you told him the other kids didn’t like you much, and he had never wanted anything more than to get rid of the Fifth Commandment.

There were, however, other alternatives to violence (A/N: shocking, right?), and Sukuna took up the habit of hanging out with you more often. Well, actually, “habit” doesn’t quite cut it; at first, it was like a hobby—a sort of pastime to get his mind off of homicidal activities, then it was like something built into his everyday schedule, and then . . . and then it was life.

Throughout his nine years of living, Sukuna had never enjoyed many sports, movies, or books, but everything seemed to change when you came into the picture. You—a rowdy, willful, and unexpectedly and unintentionally funny little girl, whose father was the town of Bromwell’s preacher. You wanted to be his friend? You wanted to sit next to him during school? No; no, that couldn’t be, thought Sukuna, every time he laid awake at night.

But, with beginning friendships, always comes the “getting to know each other” stage, and that was perhaps the most enjoyable two weeks Sukuna had ever spent with someone other than just himself or with his grandfather.

“Do you have a favorite color?” you asked, one day.

The two of you were walking home from school together (another tradition you two created), and Sukuna would’ve answered, had you not cut him off immediately before he had any opportunity to.

“Wait, no, let me guess.” You paused your walking, put a hand on your hip, and rubbed your chin in thought. “Hmm, I would guess pink, but it’s literally the color you see every time you look in the mirror, and, if I were you, I would grow sick and tired of it.”

Sukuna shook his head in laughter, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You read into things too much.”

“Psychological tactic to get me farther from the right answer? Yeah, I think so.”

“Proved my point exactly, squirt.” Sukuna looked at you with a gaze neither you nor even Sukuna could comprehend as eight and nine year olds. There was a weird beating in his chest when he realized you were already looking at him, and he laughed again to mask his fragility.

You disregarded his words, and continued on. “Red? No. . . Blue—actually, purple? Wait, is it. . . Green! Yes, it has to be. It’s green, isn’t it?”

With all the hope you had in your body, you had greatly hoped that you were correct, but by the time you had guessed the color purple, Sukuna had already forgotten what his favorite color was, and what he said next was not his proudest moment now that he looked back at it as a man.

“Do you . . . like green?” he asked, redirecting the question to you. His eyes darted from corner to corner, avoiding eye contact as he tried to give off a nonchalant demeanor.

“Why wouldn’t I? I like all colors, y’know—maybe it’s just me, but I feel like if I liked one color too much, the others would get sad, and that’s why . . . that’s why. . .” You faltered, before beginning anew. “Anyway, yeah, I like green, but only when pickles aren’t a part of the equation. And, they’re not a part of the equation, . . right? You can promise me that much.”

Oh, but Sukuna could promise you much more. So much more.

“Sure. Yeah, no pickles.”

You looked at Sukuna with a reassured look after his declaration, and then, before you began walking again, you looked at him with a different look. A weird look—as if his presence disturbed you.

“Are you going to answer my question?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I just did.”

“No, silly, the other one. Is it green? Is your favorite color green?”

“I like green, yeah.”

That was how it went with Sukuna. No straight answers. Never, nada.

Even while you two ate lunch together side by side, while you two reenacted and geeked out over your favorite book scenes and movie scenes, while you two played a game of taking turns to crawl into a tire and have the other push them down the dusty, dusty roads—It was a racing game, (only occasionally, actually,) where you two would compete on who would make it to the designated end of the track first. You and Sukuna had neither the time, nor the care, honestly, to make authentic prizes, so the winner usually just had bragging rights for the rest of the day (or until the winner’s streak was broken).

You laugh about it now that you’re older, but you vaguely remember how, one time, you had rolled your ankle while going down a hill in a tire, and Sukuna had looked at you with an expression so full of sympathy and guilt that you actually couldn’t recognize him at first. It was nothing like Sukuna, and he even offered to let you punch him in the face as a strange form of compensation. But you laughed, simply choosing to walk it off.

Of course, like the stubborn mule he was, Sukuna didn’t let it end there, and he wouldn’t stop harassing you and forcing you to punch him until you finally put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eye, saying, with as much humor as an eight year old could muster, “If you are so sorry, you can go and confess the sin you committed today: hurting a girl.”

With this, you hadn’t originally intended for Sukuna to go to Confession; you were merely joking, using sarcasm, as Sukuna had called it before, or so you remembered. But Sukuna, having not realized this, looked at you with great surprise, and almost reeled backwards, tripping over his untied shoelaces.

“You want me to . . . confess?” Although Sukuna tried to appear composed as he repeated your suggestion, you could clearly tell he was either horrified or extremely uneasy. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stared at you as if you were asking him to throw himself off a bridge.

“Well, yeah,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; you wanted to keep the joke going as long as possible, for you thought Sukuna would be somewhat proud of you for finally having tricked him at something, and you couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized he had been bested. “Confess—I want you to confess.”

“Is that . . . absolutely, totally, really necessary?”

You grinned. “It’s absolutely, totally, really necessary for me to find out what ridiculous act of penance my dad will give you.”

When Sukuna realized you were joking the entire time, he audibly let out a breath of relief, and tried to casually laugh it off afterwards in order to cover up his clearly worried expression from before. But, Sukuna didn’t high-five you for succeeding in playing him, he didn’t laugh at your cleverness and how long you lasted character, he didn’t acknowledge anything regarding your prank, for that matter, at all.

Maybe you didn’t notice it at first due to how young you were at that time. But nowadays, you don’t joke about anything like that. Though, you did have many opportunities soon after that incident.

It wasn’t the last time Sukuna behaved strangely under the topic of a church-related subject, and it wasn’t the last time you mentioned a church-related subject either.

Children, the age of eight years, are usually at the stage of receiving their First Communion, or, at least, that was the way it went here in Bromwell. You had received the Eucharist a few weeks before you met Sukuna, so there was no need for you both to converse about it. Sukuna, on the other hand, was a twelvemonth older than you, and was expected to have already received his First Communion before moving to Bromwell.

He said it was the truth, you heard it was the truth, but you had never seen this supposed “truth.”

It wasn’t like you watched and observed your friends as they went up for the body of Christ, and made note of who was sat the whole time, but . . . you and Sukuna weren’t just friends—you two were best friends, and you thought, or, at least, you heard from Sukuna, that it was normal for best friends to be able to notice when their best friends were ill, or feeling down, or acting unlike themselves.

So, was it really strange for you to realize that Sukuna never actually received the body of Christ?

In some instances, he was stuck in the bathroom during the time, sometimes he was tying his shoelaces (but it would be an awfully long time spent tying one’s shoelaces), and sometimes, he was just nowhere to be found—even if you nearly cracked your neck turning around the whole church to find him. It was almost like he was a ghost, who disappeared and vanished.

A malevolent phantom, even.

But, the Eucharist wasn’t the only thing. Sukuna rarely said prayers aloud. He mumbled them, actually, and most of the time, you couldn’t even tell if he was mumbling or not. Sukuna always had his head down, and his eyes casted to the floor during prayer. There were rare occasions, though, where he would be looking up, but that was only if he was standing outside. Never inside, no.

In all honesty, this was quite the strange observation to make. Noticing your friend rarely prays aloud? Realizing his absence when others go to receive the Body and Blood?

At first, you didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, didn’t want to bring it up, even, but . . . at eight years old, you were so new to the world, and the world was so new to you. And, you just couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you on one Wednesday afternoon.

School was out, you and Sukuna were outside and drawing in the dirt with sticks in his front lawn, and the sun was shining on your face, drying and hardening the bits of mud on your cheeks, hands, and elbows. There was a warmness about you, and a radiant gleam in your eyes—it scared the living daylights out of Sukuna, and he rarely held eye contact for longer than needed. The boy had been much more cautious around you lately, and you didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, to further get his attention as you simultaneously poked at him with a nearby stick. “Sukuna.”

He grunted, as if to give a sign that he heard you. (Or, maybe, he just wanted you to stop poking him.)

“Sukuna, I think you’re really weird.”

“. . .”

“Okay,” you paused, raising your hands in defense, “I’m sure that’s not surprising, since, like, everyone thinks you’re weird,” you laughed; “but I just wanted to point it out, because I noticed . . . something.”

“Okay. . ?” Sukuna raised a brow, never once pausing in his artwork—he was drawing a peacock, an animal you had never seen while living in Bromwell, and an animal he had apparently seen on television once, in the city. He briefly mentioned it earlier, and, due to your pestering and questioning regarding the animal, also wanted to show you what it looked like.

You took in a deep breath, and spat out what you supposedly noticed, and needed to say. “You never come up for Communion.”

Sukuna stopped like a deer caught in headlights (a phrase that Sukuna taught you; at school, it was labeled a figurative expression: a simile), and looked—not at you—but at his hands. He looked at his dirty, scarred hands, wiith an emotion on his face that you could not recognize.

“. . .”

You took his silence as a sign to continue, or, well, you interpreted it as one, but it might’ve just been your talkative nature speaking.

“Why is that? Have you not received your First Communion? I won’t tell anyone, swear.” You held out your pinky in the possibility that he would make you solemnly swear. “Won’t even make fun of you.”

But Sukuna didn’t take your pinky, didn’t even glance at it. He only spoke after a long moment’s pause, when he realized there was no escape. “It’s . . . not that. I received it—my First Communion. Got it when I was your age, actually. But, ah, you probably guessed that already.”

“So, why don’t you receive Communion anymore?”

“Geez, squirt, you sure ask a lot.” Sukuna laughed, and scratched the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding a stick.

You grinned, the heaviness in your chest seeming to alleviate. “I can’t help it, I’m a curious person, you know—”

Sukuna cut you off as he moved closer to the spot where you currently sat on the dirt. He began to work, scratching and scraping at a new drawing. Only this time, it wasn’t a male peafowl. Wasn’t even a bird or an animal. It was a woman. Sukuna responded to your still unanswered question by drawing a woman.

Now, you knew Sukuna was an artist, but this was just. . .

“Sukuna, she’s. . . She’s beautiful. But, who is she?” you asked. “Is she someone you know? An old crush from the city?”

Sukuna almost laughed. “That would . . . be incestuous.”

You scrunched your nose, your face wrinkling in the process. “What does that word mean?”

“Just . . . shut up, okay? For a few minutes at least.”

You nodded, with some reluctance.

“My mother—this is my mother,” Sukuna began, when he was done with the drawing. “When I was just around your age, fresh out of the first grade, and living a pretty . . . decent childhood in the city, my mother. . . She was,” he hesitated, “diagnosed with a cancer I don’t even want to waste my breath naming. It doesn’t deserve to be recognized for mortality.” He scoffed, continuing.

“My father was never present in my life, and I had neither a brother nor a sister. My mother worked a total of three jobs to feed us both and take care of my grandfather. Do you know what that’s like? No; no, you don’t. But that’s of no importance, really.

“I don’t know much about my father. My mother never liked speaking about him, and Grandpa only ever mentioned his name if he wanted to berate my mother for choosing such a man. Nevertheless, I still wished he would’ve been there when my mother fell ill. I tried calling him—multiple times, actually, but it only ever went to voicemail, and I never had the courage to speak into the void. I was afraid. Shy. I didn’t think there was anyone who would listen.”

You noticed his sudden pause, the dimness of his eyes, and you wanted to at least lighten the subject. “But, there was someone—who could’ve listened.”

Sukuna finally looked at you. “God? Is that who you’re referring to? You mean to tell me God could’ve listened? You are just,” he sucked in a breath, “so hilarious. God could’ve listened? Well, guess what, kid, he didn’t. Could’ve, but didn’t.

“I prayed three times a day, and more times than I could count on both hands in the evening, in the night, while I laid in bed, while I dreamed up a fantasy where stupid, stupid illnesses didn’t exist. I prayed like a madman. Do you hear that? A madman. Probably made it to God’s list of ‘Most Devout Followers,’ too, with the amount of Amens I muttered each week.

“So many prayers. So many prayers. But did that stop cancer? Did that prevent her passing? Did that aid in her recovery? God—fucking—damnit, do you realize? it didn’t. She’s gone. Six feet under. Flowers bloom from her grave, and yet no one’s there to water them.”

You didn’t have the resolve to point out a nine year old just cursed in front of you. You didn’t notice, anyway. “Sukuna—”

“Are you going to tell me it was God’s will? Are you going to tell me God loves me all the same? Even though He took my mother away? The woman who gave me life? Breath? No. Maybe God loves me, but He doesn’t know how to love me. Doesn’t know how I want to be loved. Loves me in a way I don’t understand. . . God loves me, so I’ve been told; but I want Him to stop.”

Sukuna doesn’t know how much you cried that night.

The both of you parted soon after he told you about his life before Bromwell; the silence became overwhelming, no more drawings were engraved onto the dirt, and the sticks were left scattered on the ground. There, really, was no other choice.

You went home that evening, and asked your father about God. About religion. About death. You wondered why people were left to die, why there was suffering and oppression in the world. Was it truly all in God’s will? If He created everyone in His image, did He create everyone to die, too? Why were we to perish? to finish? to end? You thought He loved you—wanted the best for you.

And, from what you understood, Sukuna thought that, too. Or, well, he used to. Sukuna used to be just like you. Prayed every day and every night, went to Service on Sundays, and came up for Communion like any other devotee. But, that was when he believed, that was when he had faith; that was when he had reason to have faith. That was then, and now is now. Sukuna gave up on his religion, and his religion abandoned him. His move from the city to the country was based on convenience, but what is convenience in a world based on faith? Belief in the invisible?

Your father didn’t have much to say, and to answer you with. He honestly wasn’t expecting to have this conversation with you so soon, and at such a young age. But, what did he have to say, made you even more lost. Just as lost, as someone you believed you knew.

The proclamation of Genesis 3:19: “By the sweat of your face you will eat bread, till you return to the ground, because from it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Death was an interesting topic for you, from that moment until now. Since your birth you had been taught the one true principle: “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” But, after Sukuna opened your eyes a little further, and introduced death in a way you hadn’t acknowledged before, you didn’t know if there was one true principle at all. How were you to live by the words of a god you could neither see nor hear nor feel, and how was that very god going to grant you the will to live, if you were to perish in the end?

You had never once doubted the existence of God. You had been born into your religion, and you didn’t question whether you would have your funeral in a church or not. But . . . as you look at your rosary while you kneel at the side of your bed before you sleep, hanging your head in prayer and whispering words of invocation, you cannot help but remember his face. His face while he talked about his mother. His face while he talked about his father. His face while he talked about his grandfather.

Did you look like that when you spoke to God? Did you carry a burden so heavy, so you could lift it up to your Creator—in the end? The one who would rid you of your sorrows, your griefs, your troubles? But, how was that to be done? When the Creator gave you those in the beginning?

You knew how.

Death.

But, was that really the end?

There was always Heaven, as well. The place where you shall reside once you meet your finish. The place where you shall live with your god, in eternal life. But, could it be, that you would see—see others that had gone and passed, just like you. . ? Would you see his mother? Would you see him? Would you see those eyes? Those eyes that held such emotion one could not possibly comprehend?

Children don’t understand much, Sukuna was right. A year was a large difference in knowledge. But, you could only hope that Sukuna didn’t know how much you cried that night. For him, for his mother, for his grief, for everyone who had lost a life—whether it was theirs and their own, or it was a loved one’s.

You didn’t have a conclusion or a thesis; you didn’t have a hypothesis in the first place. But, from this night on to the next, you soon began to think, that when the stars eventually burned, when the world flipped on its side, when the seas came out dry, maybe then—maybe then you would know, instead of believe, maybe then you would know, that there really was a god out there . . . a god who hated you.

For, you remember his face from that evening like it was yesterday, and you feared you would never forget—more or less, you feared the eventual day that face would soon be your own.

***

You didn’t utter a single question regarding any aspects or traditions or customs of religion for the next decade. You didn’t mention Christmas, didn’t talk about prayer, didn’t bring up the Gospel. And you rarely, if ever, spoke about your father to Sukuna. This was, however, all within your will; you chose to respect Sukuna’s wellbeing, and you decided to remain as neutral as ever when you two were together.

The first time you saw Sukuna, after the week where he confessed his past to you, was awkward. The room you two were in was stuffy, and humid, and you felt as if you couldn’t speak. Words didn’t leave your throat, and Sukuna’s eyes never met yours. He sat as far away from you as possible, and you wondered if he hated you, but then you wondered how that could ever be. You never spoke ill of Sukuna, especially not to his face, and you never did anything he was uncomfortable with or detested.

The only thing Sukuna held against you was your father, a preacher. A preacher of the very religion Sukuna swore he could never take up again.

It wasn’t your fault he converted, so why was he avoiding you? Why was he punishing you?

When you were eight years old, you feared no one but God. And that showed, because, when you stalked up to Sukuna—wearing old, scruffed overalls and muddy boots—you didn’t cower before him, didn’t get on your knees and ask him to be your friend again. Instead, you did what no one else ever did or dreamed of: you slapped him.

“What is your problem?” you asked, watching as Sukuna barely flinched from the assault.

“My problem?” he laughed. “You’re the one who slapped me.”

Honestly, Sukuna would have never spoken to you again after his confession, had you not approached him first. He didn’t know whether you befriended him solely for him, or for any sayings from the Bible. But, it was nice: knowing that you were his friend despite conflict of religion. He had been avoiding you lest you bring up the topic of “Atheism, Sukuna, and God” up to your father. For, well, Sukuna wasn’t exactly keen on that man knowing any of his business, and obtaining the knowledge from his daughter, no less, who asked everything from an innocent heart.

On the other hand, needless to say, you were glad Sukuna wasn’t the least bit affected by the happenings of last week. Maybe he frowned and sighed when speaking about his deceased mother, but that didn’t last, or, well, it didn’t seem like it. Sukuna—the Sukuna you knew—was back. And he was as cunning, witty, and snarky, as ever. Perhaps his confession brought the two of you closer.

Sukuna was never afraid of bringing up anything to you again (not like he ever was, he just didn’t feel the need), and you—the same. But, if there ever was a case, you two had mutually and unanimously created a tradition of engraving your confessions in the dirt: drawing with sticks what you could never even dare to whisper. Your bond was stronger than ever, and, as the years passed by, the two of you soon grew inseparable.

So inseparable, in fact, that . . . by the age of thirteen, you had even developed a little, silly crush on the pink-haired boy. Well, actually, back then, he was a boy, but that was then, and now is now. Sukuna wasn’t a little boy anymore, and you weren’t just a little girl anymore. The two of you were a little grown, a bit older: teenagers—thirteen and fourteen. You didn’t know exactly when it first began, but, when you started laughing at jokes that Sukuna said (even when they weren’t funny) just because he said them, and when you started to toss around all your apples as if it were a reflex, and when you started to become a little less independent, that’s when you knew.

You were the eldest daughter to the town’s preacher. Your parents weren’t often home, and you learned, in the process, to fend for yourself most of the time. You were cheeky, said jokes that sometimes cut too deep, and were used to doing things yourself. But, when Sukuna came into the story, most things changed. You were both the eldest childs, and you were both the only childs. What’s worse, was how stubborn you both were—Little Miss “I Can Do It Myself” and Mister “Sit Down.”

Sukuna taught you to relax, while also simultaneously kicking things up a notch. Yeah, he was clearly a bad example, but he was also a great best friend. He let you rely on him more than you relied on anyone during the whole span of your life, and you two were often named as partners in crime. Devious, mischievous, and troublesome. You kept Sukuna on his toes, and didn’t leave him up to too much bad, while he, on the other hand, let you experience letting go of expectations and rules.

From the second grade all the way to the ninth, you and Sukuna developed countless inside jokes, party tricks, stories, and so much more.

Sukuna climbed through your window when you weren’t allowed to leave the house, and stayed and talked with you until you were. He looked at you like you hung the moon and stars, he laughed with you like you changed the course of speed and time, and he talked about you to his grandfather like you were the love of his life—and you were! A year was a big difference in knowledge, but, funny enough, neither of you knew how much hanging out with each other would change things.

The fifth grade was when the two of you first held hands.

Sukuna had told you a story about how he supposedly heard a coyote in the middle of the night, and when you called him a chicken for not going outside to check, he forced the both of you to sneak out, late at night, to face the alleged coyotes. You two were both young, and the atmosphere was already eerie enough that, when you heard even the faintest sound of wind snapping and a rocking chair rocking, you subconsciously took Sukuna by the hand and made a dash for it.

(Neither of you speak about that night—and whether that’s out of embarrassment for being scared of a coyote, or embarrassment of holding hands, no one knows.)

The eighth grade was when the two of you had your first date.

And, yes, I know, thirteen year olds are a bit young for that thing, but your and Sukuna’s date wasn’t exactly planned, per se. You were trying to make an excuse in order to get out of watching your mother help one of her patients give birth (which is a very gruesome sight, according to Sukuna), and Sukuna, who was standing beside you whilst you argued with your mother, decided to silently interrupt you and take his leave. But you, perhaps out of spite, grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back in the house, and told your mother that you two were both just leaving, and that watching a birthing process was not part of the schedule.

The two of you awkwardly, and with a significant amount of tension in the air, took each other by the arm and walked to . . . absolutely nowhere. You two walked out of the house sweating, because your mother was watching you like a hawk from the window, and you just followed wherever Sukuna walked, but then, you realized that, Sukuna was just following wherever you were walking. So the two of you walked in circles for approximately half of an hour, before you both decided to take a detour towards a nearby river, and splash around.

(You came home with soaking wet clothes that day, and your mother immediately exclaimed, with the assumption that you and Sukuna were not just swimming, “I knew I should have shown you the horrors of pregnancy,” which left you scarred—for life, possibly, because you never got a chance to explain yourself.)

The eleventh grade was when the two of you kissed for the first time.

The calendar marked the day of Christmas, and the town of Bromwell was as festive as it could get. Your neighbors hung up tinsel and other various drapings on their porches, the smell of gingerbread and candy cane wafted through the air, and the excessive number of candles in the church were all lit up. Service had just ended, and you were walking down the empty streets—everyone and their mother was probably already inside, enjoying the Christmas spirit. But, if you had to be honest, you were beginning to get a bit worried; you hadn’t seen Sukuna all day, and, well, you knew Christmas was always a delicate subject for him, but he usually showed up every once in a while on the sacred holiday.

You remembered the year before this one; you and Sukuna had hung out at your house, while your parents did whatever it was that they did at other friends’ and families’ houses. You insisted, begged, actually, for your parents to let the two of you spend the holiday together. And, as they knew you to be quite the responsible daughter, they complied with your request.

You and Sukuna spent the day decorating gingerbread houses, sipping eggnog, and baking several various treats. Until the evening, where you two spent the rest of your time huddled up together on the sofa, sleepily murmuring stories and giggling to yourselves, before snores began to erupt, and your parents found you and Sukuna cuddled up together in the morning.

All in all, Sukuna didn’t care for the birth of Bromwell’s savior, but he enjoyed the winter season and what it had to bring. Although he never showed up for mass on this day, he still frequented your house, or his own house, where you two spent the evening enveloped in holiday cheer. But, today was different.

Sukuna hadn’t shown up at all: didn’t knock on your window early in the morning to wake you up, didn’t surprise you with baked goods (courtesy of his grandfather’s knack for baking), didn’t even throw snowballs at you when you were most vulnerable (taking out the trash). You felt a sense of loneliness; Bromwell was quiet without him, and, apparently, so was his own house. The Itadori residence was completely empty, save for the Grandfather, so, wherever Sukuna was, it wasn’t anywhere here.

Coming up fruitless after your search, you were about to head home—maybe spend some time with your own family, when, by your surprise, you passed by the church, which was still open, and still lit up. This was . . . a surprise, to say the least; your father usually packed everything up and locked the building when everyone finished heading out, but, maybe, even for just this night, that wasn’t so.

Each step you took upon entering the church echoed. The dimmed candle-lighting, paired with the quiet atmosphere and empty setting, created an eerie feeling, almost opposite of what Christmas embodied. You didn’t like it, hated it, actually; the stillness of the night never failed to give you the heebie-jeebies, and you felt that intensely on this very night.

You shrugged your shoulders, shifted your scarf around your neck, and attempted to tell yourself that your father probably just forgot to turn off the lights, and that you were going to do the honors in his stead before sprinting back home, but you changed your mind as soon as your eyes made their way to the back of the church, and you drank in the appearance of none other than Sukuna himself, as he sat in the very last row of pews.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing here?” You could feel a smile etch onto your face, as you began to make your way through the church, weaving through rows and rows of pews before you found yourself taking a seat right beside Sukuna. His arm wrapped around the back of the bench, and pulled you closer to him.

“Not excited to see me? What, don’t tell me you’ve turned your back on me, as well.” Sukuna appeared composed and cool, but his body radiated warmth, which you dreadfully lacked. “Most of Bromwell’s figured me out already, started whispering my name right next to Satan’s—calling me a son of a bitch, an atheist, a scoundrel. Is the preacher’s lovely little daughter doing that, too?”

“Hey, don’t joke around like that, especially not on Christmas. Where’s your holiday cheer?” You used your thumb to stretch out the corner of Sukuna’s mouth, revealing his canines as you forced him to muster a lame excuse for a smile. “You are such a Scrooge, you know, always wearing this same exact scowl. Your face is just so mad all the time.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, dragging your face closer to his. “You don’t like this face? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Maybe. Why? Gonna do something about that?” Your eyes peered into his, and his into yours; and you swore he could see through your soul right then and there. Maybe he really was Satan, after all, you joked.

Sukuna laughed, before saying, with a mocking tone, “Maybe. But it depends, you might not like what I’ll do.”

“There really isn’t much worse you could do besides meet me in the back of an empty church.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s not like you would know, anyway. You don’t follow any of the Commandments; you don’t know what’s bad or good for me, at all.”

“Are you implying I don’t know what anything means?”

“Mm, yeah.” You leaned closer to Sukuna, your noses nearly touching.

“That’s kind of harsh coming from the preacher’s daughter,” Sukuna joked; “but, hey, I don’t have to be religious to know what this means.”

Sukuna pulled out a mistletoe from God knows where, and dangled it above your head like a child taunting its opponent. Bits of snow dusted off the branches, landing on the tops of your heads, but neither of you cared much, at least not in the moment; the most Sukuna did was push a strand of loose hair out of your face, but he did nothing more except meet your gaze.

Your heart was pounding, but you had had a few cups of apple cider earlier, and your stomach felt warm while the tip of your nose glowed; you felt as if ready to even take on Mount Everest, so, if you haven’t gotten the picture yet: you weren’t nervous for anything. Well, maybe save for the possibility that your father or literally anyone else could walk in on the two of you.

“I . . . change my mind,” you whispered, speaking languidly as you leaned in ever so slightly; “there is worse we could do besides meet in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“And, that is?”

“We could . . .” Your eyes roamed Sukuna’s face as you spoke, and you admired the occasional freckle you discovered in your way. “We could kiss in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“‘Kiss?’” Sukuna repeated, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you. “That’s all you’ve got?”

When you woke up this morning, you didn’t expect to end the Christmas day making out with your childhood best friend, Sukuna, in the back of an empty church, but, fate doesn’t wait for just anyone’s opinions, and you couldn’t help yourself when Sukuna looked at you the way he did. You couldn’t help yourself when you tangled your hands in his hair, and met his lips with yours—the sweet taste of eggnog on your tongue following soon after.

Mistakes weren’t made that night, but you went to your monthly Confession the next morning anyway.

You and Sukuna didn’t start dating until . . . well, actually, you two never actually started dating—in a sense, at least. There was never a candle-lit dinner, where it was just the two of you, speaking in low voices over a furnished table in the dark. There was no question such as Will you be my girlfriend? or, even, Will you be my boyfriend? but, that was okay. It was clear enough how you two felt about each other, and, even if it wasn’t, the amount of kisses Sukuna gave you whether you two were alone or surrounded, and the amount of nights you two spent laying on stacks of hay in his grandfather’s barn, whispering sweet-nothings to each other, ought to have said enough about your relationship.

Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and you were always too embarrassed to bring up the fact your relationship wasn’t official, like, at all. But, most of your neighbors knew that their preacher’s daughter was dating the county’s atheist by the time you got into the twelfth grade, and that there was nothing they could do about that except for subtly look down upon you both, and convince themselves your relationship wasn’t serious enough to make it to marriage.

Your father never spoke ill about Sukuna; and, as far as you knew, he always saw the pink-haired delinquent (an affectionate nickname) as a bright boy: a respectful young man, who looked at his daughter like a goddess incarnate, despite whatever religion he partook in. As for how your mother felt about your boyfriend: she thought that as long as she wasn’t going to have to deliver your baby any time soon, she couldn’t have cared less.

But, it’s not like you actually cared about how anyone felt about Sukuna. What mattered most was how you felt about him—I mean, he was your boyfriend, after all. And, how you felt about Sukuna was . . . beyond definable. He was Sukuna, you were you, and that’s all you knew. Well, that’s all you knew in this moment, as you sat under the light of the moon—cascading through windows of Sukuna’s barn—as the two of you huddled up together, sharing kisses and purposely interrupting each other as you spoke with a volume just above a whisper.

The horses were asleep, (you and Sukuna had gone riding earlier in the day), but you were neither tired nor cold, even in this winter weather. You often found yourself feeling warm, your heart racing in your chest, whenever you were with Sukuna, and the heat which always rose to your cheeks did a good job at showing it.

“You make me hate myself,” Sukuna whispered, leaning his back against the sleeping friesian behind him, while his arm slithered around your waist, subtly pulling you closer to him every once in a while.

You laughed, wondering if he was just sleep-talking at this point. His voice was rough, and cold, but his skin was warm, and he didn’t wait for an answer from you before continuing.

“Do you know how stupid you make me feel? God, it’s like. . . You’re like an angel that has descended upon this wretched earth, and guess what, I’m the fool who’s fallen in love with you. This whole town’s praying for my downfall, you know that, angel?—for Satan to finally drag my ass back down to the depths of Hell, but. . .”

“Would you go?”

“. . .Where?”

“Would you go with him?”

“No.” Sukuna shook his head, laughing like a drunkard. “No, not even God could pull me away from you.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t let Him.”

“How do you know you’ll succeed?”

“Because I don’t believe in anything besides the fact that you are the closest I’ll ever get to Heaven. You are an angel that has been bestowed upon my black heart, you are every dark thought—every demonic idea—that has ever plagued my mind. You may taste like paradise, but even God knows you are a religion for only the lowest lovesick fools to have ever roamed this godforsaken planet.”

You turned around in Sukuna’s hold, looping your arms around his neck, and pulling him closer to you. “Would that make you religious, then? A devout follower?”

“For you? Always.”

That conversation was a fortnight ago. You’ve officially entered your twenties now, and everyone knows a new decade means a new chapter, especially for first-time lovers like you. It doesn’t feel any different, though; you’re older, but nothing’s changed. At least, you didn’t think so. Turning twenty meant you had been dating Sukuna for three years, and, well, in Bromwell, there was only one thing to be expected. Marriage; a topic that’s being brought up more frequently at your dinner table, whether you liked it or not.

You were an adult now. You’ve been an adult, actually, but eighteen and nineteen year olds were never as relevant as twenty year olds.

In full honesty, and full confidence, you didn’t care much for seeing yourself in a white gown and white veil. Being married is a title, it’s an expectation, it’s a milestone. It’s not . . . it’s not kismet. Being married meant you had a ring on your finger. But, when you compared it to simply being boyfriend-girlfriend, you didn’t see much of a difference. Now, you don’t mean to be ‘woke’ or prejudiced, you just didn’t feel much significance in the holy sacrament of matrimony.

Not that you would ever say that aloud, though. . . Especially when you’re eating dinner with your very old fashioned parents who have very old fashioned ideals.

“How is—How is Sukuna, by the way?” began your father, as he cut into a smoked pork shoulder.

“He’s how he’s always been, sir.” You offered a small smile, placing your cutlery back down. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I am simply a curious man,” he laughed. “But, I must say, I feel quite sympathetic towards him.”

“. . .May I remind you that his mother died years ago, father—”

“My child, I am not talking about that.” His tone cut cold, and deep, like an icicle, and you suddenly noticed the strangeness of the air which surrounded the dinner table; this was no simple conversation.

Your eyes wandered your father’s face from across the table for any hint to what on earth he was going on about, but he evaded all eye contact. Your mother, on the other hand, remained silent, excluded from the conversation whether it was by her own will or not; she sat beside your father like a statue—beautiful, but with no exact purpose.

“Pardon?”

Your father cleared his throat. “Sukuna does know what is to come, correct?”

“Father, even I do not know what you are talking about; never mind him.”

“You are my only daughter, you hear? You are my eldest child, my only child. I founded the one, single church of Bromwell, and you take after me. How will this county react when they hear you are to be wed off to an atheist?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You are twenty years old. You are going to be married. Tomorrow, next week, next year. It will happen. My point isn’t that I’m going to rush you, that is hardly my job.”

You blinked. “Then, . . what is your job?”

Your father laughed. “You do not mean you are going to marry Sukuna, are you?”

“How is that relevant?”

“I let you talk with Sukuna, I let you hang around that fellow, I let you eat with that man in my own house. Several times, actually. But, regardless, that was all when you were young. I remember my first relationships, you know; they weren’t as serious as I would’ve liked to hope. But, you do know . . . I am not letting you anywhere near that man if he has a ring in his pocket.”

“Father, blessings from the in-laws before asking a woman’s hand in marriage are hardly relevant nowadays.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“I’m . . . sorry?”

“I always assumed you were in love with him because you were young, and everything was so new to you. But, don’t tell me you intend to stay with him for longer than you need to. Sukuna Ryomen Itadori is . . . an atheist. He’s turned his back on our religion. He’s abandoned our god. His eyes skip over our scripture.”

“. . .Why is that, sir? Why does he keep quiet when others are in prayer? Why does he close his eyes when we, instead, look above to the heavens? Because he has no reason to, don’t you see? Would you consider him a sinner even if he had never, once in his life, ever heard God’s name? You wouldn’t, because you would proclaim the Word of the Lord to him, anyway.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Do I, now?” you asked. “I may believe in what I call my God, and Sukuna may believe in what he knows to be his truth. We all come from different walks of life, father; and you can’t change that. There is nothing wrong with what Sukuna’s chosen for himself, and your fragility and selfishness won’t ever change that. I can marry whomever I please. I can give my hand to anyone who I deem worthy of it. You are my father; you gave me life, but you do not choose my outcomes.”

“I do not choose your outcomes, you say? Well, you make me laugh quite a bit, don’t you, because I already have.”

“. . .You have?”

“That’s what I just said. I’ve chosen your outcome, your future, your fate. He has a name, too, would you like to hear it?”

You stood up from the table so quickly your chair nearly fell over, scraping against the floor with a rather harsh sound. “I am not marrying someone I hardly know.”

“Even if it is God’s will?” your father asked, mocking you. “You are young, you’ll understand sooner or later.”

“Who do you take me for? I am entirely confident when I say I could never love a man I’ve neither seen nor heard.”

“My child, you ought to learn before you speak; joining in matrimony is not always done out of love.”

Your eyes flickered to your mother, who was as still as she was before, and you almost dropped down on your knees to beg forgiveness for any wrong you had ever done towards her. But you didn’t, you didn’t kneel, didn’t fall. Instead, you took a step towards the door.

“You are a child of God. And may I remind you, that no daughter of mine shall marry a nonbeliever. You walk out of that door right now, and you best believe you can call yourself an estranged child.”

When you moved to take another step, you turned around just in time to miss staying in line of aim of the empty beer bottle your father threw. It crashed behind you—shattering, falling to the floor—and left just the tiniest dent on the wall it hit. So tiny, in fact, that you wouldn’t have noticed it had it not been of impact in the very spot your head just was, milliseconds before.

You did not wait another moment to leave that house, and ran out as fast as you could, while your father, enraged, sat and mulled in his anger.

As you crushed leaves and twigs beneath your feet in your distress and hurry, you muttered prayers to God like a madman, wiped your tears with your sleeves every few seconds, and asked for your mother’s forgiveness as if you had just disgraced her lineage. But, you didn’t; instead, you ended a line of sorrow, misery, humiliation; you left because you wanted something anew, you wanted. . . You wanted Sukuna.

You don’t know how long you ran for, or in what direction you ran, even, but your legs ached, and you soon found yourself at a river bank, in the middle of nowhere—you couldn’t spot any houses or signs of life for leagues. The water was muddy, dirty, brown, and you could hardly see your reflection in it; still, you could just barely make out your disheveled state: your messy hair, tear-stained cheeks, trembling lips. You looked like a mess, and you were one. Metaphorically and literally. You looked nothing like a preacher’s daughter, but, it didn’t matter, you weren’t a preacher’s daughter anymore; you weren’t anyone’s daughter, in fact . . . only God’s.

When Sukuna told you about his family, about the death in his family, you questioned God and His ways. But you eventually went back to how you were before—a devout follower. Now that you’re older, you understand the picture more clearly. It’s not God you question and doubt, it’s His people. Men choose gods so that they have someone to blame, to use as reasoning, to make themselves feel less alone in this vast universe. It’s been done for years. Religion is man-made; immortal beings do not bleed; and belief is truly, utterly voluntary. You could believe in God, while hating His people, and the scripture would all be the same.

Nevertheless, you hated it. All of it. Why was your father like this? Why was everyone like this? Why did no one understand? What was so hard to comprehend?

You did not hesitate when you ripped off one of the several necklaces you wore around your neck, dropping it into the river bed, and watching as it traveled elsewhere. Anywhere—but here, you prayed, as you sat down on the dead grass to do nothing but sob.

You were wrong. So wrong. Your father didn’t want anything to do with Sukuna; what’s worse, he took you as the person to date someone for fun. Your father assumed you were mindlessly dating Sukuna. Was that all he thought of you? Did he even consider you his daughter?—His daughter, who he forbade from dating outside of religion?

All your life, you had been nothing but who you were supposed to be. Charitable, smart, generous, charming. Now, you couldn’t even recognize yourself anymore.

Maybe you were hallucinating, too, because hours had passed since you ran out of your house, and now, as you sat on the river bank and stared at your reflection, you could make out another faint reflection besides yours. A figure, walking from a distance. Then, a face. A reflection of a man. A reflection of . . . Sukuna.

He looked like he had been walking all around town for you, and there was sweat on his forehead to show for that. Sukuna called your name as he approached, seemingly unbeknownst of the fact you were practically bawling your eyes out, and began to ask you something stupid, but then he stopped as soon as he was close enough to sit down beside you, switched the subject, and asked, with earnest, “Your necklace. Your necklace, where is it?”

“I’m . . . wearing a necklace right now, Sukuna.” You wiped the remaining tears flowing from your eyes on your sleeves, which blew and billowed in the wind. Thankfully, you were always skilled at masking emotion, and Sukuna didn’t seem to have noticed your weeping prior to his arrival.

Sukuna looked at the pearls you had strung around your neck with not so much as even a full glance. “No, not that one. Where’s your . . . where’s the other one?” Sukuna turned his head in all four directions, and looked as if he were searching for something rather important.

“What other one?”

Sukuna licked his lips, using searching as an excuse for avoiding your eyes. “The . . . cross. Or, if it is called the crucifix instead, I am not sure.”

Your mouth opened, lips parted ever so slightly, but you couldn’t breathe. “. . .No; no, you’re right. It’s a cross. A crucifix has the image of Jesus on it.”

Sukuna looked at you now that your eyes were casted downward, and scanned your face with wonder. You were so angelic even when you were miles from home, shivering in the cold, crying your eyes out (yes, Sukuna could tell you were crying earlier; he was an attentive man, after all). Sukuna never felt confident enough to do half of the things he wanted to do whenever you were looking at him. Your eyes scared him, deeply—reminded him of too many people he would rather leave in the dust.

And, if that wasn’t enough, Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and most definitely did not know how to comfort anyone (especially when he had no context). But, at least, he didn’t care much for any of that “What happened?” bullshit. What happened was your business, not his, but how you felt, on the other hand, . . was a different story.

Anyway, Sukuna didn’t say anything until he was sure you were okay; it was a whisper—of the words: “I love you.”

It was quiet, so subtle; you wondered if Sukuna even meant for you to hear it, but, nevertheless, you met his eyes with glassy ones—red, dimmed, distant—and asked, with the little strength you had left, “Why are you telling me that?”

“Just in case . . . you hadn’t heard those words in a long time.”

Your lips trembled, and you could feel the waterworks beginning again as you moved to sit on Sukuna’s lap, burying your face into his neck as his arms enveloped you at the drop of a hat with warmth, stability, and, you couldn’t quite put your finger on the last one, which was . . . peace. Come to think of it, you had never felt peace in such a long time. But it wasn’t the usual tranquility you felt, it wasn’t any of that, at all. It was just, simply, Sukuna. You were feeling Sukuna.

Which was, actually, quite ironic, if you did say yourself. All these years spent together, Sukuna always called you his angel, his blessing, his God-given miracle. He said you changed him for the better, you turned his life around, showed him a brightness and happiness he had never seen once in his whole life. But, maybe it was really the opposite. Maybe Sukuna was the one who saved you. The only man who could ever truly understand you: Sukuna—your first, and your last love.

“You make me feel so stupid,” you murmured, between sniffles, once you began to run out of tears.

“With my high intellect?” Sukuna joked. “Yeah, don’t worry, lots of people feel the same way.”

You sat upright, giving a playful shove at Sukuna’s chest. “You are such a bastard.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

You laughed, because you struggled to do anything else. “I can’t believe you’ve seen me cry now. This is incredible blackmail,” you grumbled.

“. . .I know.”

“Let’s just . . . forget this ever happened, okay? I’m fine now. I—I’m okay. You’re here, and . . . you’re here.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to say anything else?” you began, mindlessly playing with the fabric of Sukuna’s collar. “You’ve been saying the same thing over and over again like some giant oaf.”

“I know.”

“Hey! You . . . Sukuna!”

Sukuna threw his head back, laughing like a child, and you tackled him to the ground (with little to no malicious intent), which ended up with you straddling his hips.

“I’m . . .” You hesitated, brushing stray hairs out of Sukuna’s eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that—all of that, actually.”

“You’re sorry?”

“. . .”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, and sat upright, pulling you closer to him in the process. “You don’t ever need to tell me why you were crying for me to know you were clearly the victim in whatever the hell ever happens, you know. I’ve . . . been with you long enough to know that. The people of Bromwell suck, and your father’s a piece of shit; the reason you had to wait so long for me the first time we met, was because I was stuck in Confession with him, by the way. Such a nosy little—”

“Okay, okay, that’s . . . I get it.” As much as you appreciated the sentiment, you weren’t one to be ‘fond’ of hearing your father be slandered, or anyone, for that matter. “Thank you, really. I . . . don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re with me right now, angel. What are you gonna do with that? What are you going to do with me?”

You grinned. “I don’t know off the top of my head.”

Sukuna looked at you with longing, his eyes piercing through your soul—watching your every move—as you placed one hand at the side of his neck, and one on his cheek, drawing both of your faces closer and closer, till you couldn’t differentiate where his breath ended and where yours started.

“Any suggestions?” you asked, smiling.

“Many.”

Without missing a beat, Sukuna closed the space between the both of you, placing a soft kiss against your lips and pulling back, as if to test the waters, before knocking the wind out of your throat and smashing his lips back against yours. The two of you moved in sync, your bodies molding against each other as if two pieces of a puzzle, and, at that very moment, you abandoned any sense of control, chastity, and purity. Sukuna overtook all of your senses and virtues; but, honestly, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Sukuna’s hands moved to your hips, kneading the flesh there and keeping a grip so tight you were sure it would end up purple and blue the next morning.

“Does this suggestion suit your royal highness?” Sukuna teased, between kisses.

“Mm, it will do . . . for now, I suppose.”

With Sukuna, you had never gone past kissing. Never ventured, never planned, but . . . you couldn’t say you never thought about making it to third base. And, with the way Sukuna’s hands wandered and subtly slipped just under your skirt, you could guess he thought something relatively similar.

Sukuna’s hands roamed your thighs from beneath your skirt, his fingers lighting a path of electricity, which shocked you in their way; and you found your breath getting caught in your throat. He touched you as if he were a madman, feeling Heaven for the last and first time—like you could disappear at any given moment, and he was savoring every second spent with you.

“You’re . . . impatient, today.”

Sukuna laughed. “Scared? Don’t worry, I always dip my hands in Holy Water before I even think about touching you.”

You placed a kiss on the side of Sukuna’s mouth, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up, you make it sound as if you’re . . . worshipping me or something.”

“I am.”

“You . . . what?”

Sukuna looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, whilst his hands never paused for a second while trailing up your legs, near your core, up your spine, and back down to where they originally started. His touch was soft, gentle, as if cautious of destroying you, erasing any trace of the angel God had given him. His fingers—usually rough, and cold—were instead warm, and lit a fire somewhere inside of you.

From your position above Sukuna, you sucked in a breath. You had to give it to him; for a man so frequently called Satan incarnate, his eyes were so temptingly full of yearning. But his voice was mocking, full of tease and banter, and you could no longer decide if this was truly your reality.

“Your throat is so raw from praying to a God who does not listen.”

“Is this your attempt at seducing me to apostasy?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be the one to hear your prayers, instead. Your wants, your needs, your desires; allow me, my darling angel, to satiate you better than any man or deity can.”

You did not know what had become of you, when you pulled Sukuna by the collar, and met his lips with yours. A wave of bliss overwhelmed you, and your head soon became full of nothing but the name of the man whose tongue explored every interstice and crevice of your mouth, your neck, your clavicle. His hands roamed your skin, his mouth crashed against yours, and your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer than you thought possible.

Your hips rocked forwards and backwards, as the sound of moans and mewls made their way past your lips. You had never entertained the idea of giving yourself to anyone prior to marriage, but maybe—maybe you could make an exception for someone like Sukuna.

There was no banter, no talk, no mumbling or murmuring for any longer. Only frantic, desperate movements as Sukuna clumsily unbuckled his belt, and shoved your panties to the side; for, neither of you could wait a second more. With your mouths still pressed against one another’s, Sukuna’s fingers made their way to the wetness between your legs, and slipped past your entrance, curling and twisting, applying pressure to where you needed him most.

It was so unbearable. And so, utterly, hot. Since when was the evening ever this hot? You two were in the middle of nowhere, outside past ten o’clock; the sky was painted a dark shade of indigo, crickets and birds sounded in their domain, and you and Sukuna? You two were whispering to each other, running your hands over each other’s bodies; you writhed and wriggled as Sukuna’s fingers never paused in their assault, and you couldn’t help the pornographic cries which left your throat.

It was unbearable.

You had never felt pleasure so intense like this. Your head spun, you clawed at Sukuna’s back, your body arched, and you whimpered and moaned like your life depended on it. You could not draw a line between pleasure and pain, and, you wondered . . . was this what sinning felt like? So good, but, at the same time, so bad?

You didn’t come undone on Sukuna’s fingers until what seemed like hours had passed by—hours of him toying with your clit: drawing you to the edge and back over again, never once allowing your release, entering depths deep within with just his fingers alone. It drove you to madness, and when you finally came, you came hard. Heavy breathing, panting, whimpering. You were a mess—an angel caught in the grasps of a devil.

“Regretful?” Sukuna teased, petting your hair as you rested your figure against his shoulder.

Breathless, you replied, saying, “Should I be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Sukuna didn’t let you go until the sun came up. And, even then, he wasn’t truly satisfied; but you were exhausted by then, your legs barely held you up, and you had probably also forgotten your own name, so Sukuna took pity on you. The two of you had gone at it like rabbits; Sukuna showed you what it really meant to be locked out of Heaven for years, and how it felt to experience it for the first time since.

What’s funny, was that you and Sukuna had the same amount of experience, and yet, you felt as if Sukuna touched you like you weren’t even close to being his first. He trailed searing hot kisses down your shoulder blades, groped at your chest and ass with carnal desire, and after easing you with his fingers, fucked you with his cock like he had every intention to get you with child.

Your throat was raw, dry, scratchy, from all the sounds that Sukuna elicited from you. His thrusts were hard, and reached so deep within you, that you could’ve been convinced he was hitting your womb.

With your back flush against his chest, Sukuna wrapped a hand around your throat while you leaned your head back against his shoulder as Sukuna fucked his cock into you. He was merciless; thick and long. And you couldn’t count how many times your eyes rolled back into your head even if you tried. You were overwhelmed by how utterly full you felt, combined with Sukuna’s breath fanning your ear every once in a while, as he leaned down to whisper filthy language in your ear.

It was nothing like you had ever felt before, but it was everything you ever dreamed of. It was dirty—what the two of you were doing. But it felt so, so good.

God may have made you in His image: to look, to sound, to taste like Heaven—so others may be tempted to seek paradise, as well, but as He looks down upon his creation, under the dark sky, hidden beneath the clouds, He knows you are nothing but sin. And, if that wasn’t enough, so did Sukuna.

***

Sukuna was no more afraid of shotguns than he was of God.

You learned that the week you decided to come home after living with Sukuna for some time away from your father. You were moved by the deeply troubling feeling of missing the sound of your mother’s voice, and you had almost even forgotten the feeling of her hands touching your hair. A mother’s love was . . . you couldn’t quite define it, but you knew: to have none, was to be none.

When you knocked on the door of your home, you did not regret, for even a second, the declined opportunity of bringing Sukuna along with you. You told him you would be alright going by yourself, and if you weren’t, how were you to face God on the day of judgement?—You started alone, you could end alone. On the third knock, the birch door opened, and you did not see your mother’s face; in lieu, you saw his face.

He was not happy to see you.

Without a moment’s waste, and with your fist still raised mid-air to give another knock, you were taken by the arm, and into the house.

“Do you not listen?”

“. . .Do you speak of my returning? Father, I am your daughter, and no matter how much you resent me, I will still be made of half your DNA.”

“I believe I made myself crystal clear when I told you no daughter of mine will dally with an atheist.”

“But—”

Your father’s grip tightened around your wrist. “You are twenty years of age. Twenty! And this is what you do?”

“Come again?”

“You think I have no idea what you have been up to? I am your father, young lady. I would be a damn fool if I did not know that my own daughter was living with Sukuna Ryomen. Under his roof, eating his food, sleeping in his bed?”

“I had no choice—”

“No choice? Marrying a much better man is definitely still a choice you can make.”

Your father dragged you to the entrance of your bedroom; his strength outmatched yours, even as you tugged your wrist back, and grounded the balls of your feet to keep from moving.

“Father, what are you—! You’re hurting me . . . stop! Don’t—”

“I expected so much from you, and you have done nothing but disappoint me.” Your father finally let go of your wrist, releasing you once you entered your room with a thud as you hit the floor, after losing balance. “You gave yourself to that devil, and now, not even God can look you in the eye anymore.”

The door was slammed shut, locks you did not remember installing were put into place, and you were alone. Inside your bedroom, with nothing but yourself and your prayers. The window had been boarded up prior to your return, which gave you the impression your father had been waiting and planning in order to lock you up, or, in other words, keep you from sinning any more.

You did not hear from anyone for days, and neither your father nor your mother brought any rations or bits of food. It was so, so cold in there. Barely any light seeped through the wood boards nailed on your window, and you couldn’t even hear the singing of the birds. It was as if . . . everyone had, simply, left you.

You slept most of the time, because you had no source of entertainment. You rested your head against the wall while sitting on the floor, and tried to pray for any change of mind from your father, (because God knows where your mother was during this whole ordeal), but it only made you feel more ashamed of yourself—seeing as you did not have a rosary in your hands, or a crucifix, or a cross. You had thrown yours into the river, remember?

Maybe God frowned upon you for losing your virginity with such haste, and before joining in matrimony, no less, but, surely, you did not deserve this punishment, right? Staying with a man who did not believe in your God . . . didn’t harm anyone. Your father had no right to persecute for something such as this; this should’ve been left up to the will of God for any judgement.

In truth, you did not know how you managed to survive so long in such isolation. You slept, but you did not dream. And you could not eat, for you had no food. No sunlight, no water, no air. You felt as if you were suffocating, as if the walls of your bedroom were closing in on you day by day. But, maybe that was just a trick of your eyes—decievement; produced by having not been outside for so long.

On the third day, you heard it.

The sound of a shotgun. The cries of birds as they scattered through the air. The screams of distressed neighbors and residents of Bromwell as they gathered together.

It was dark outside; you could tell, for no sunlight seeped through cracks of the boards and panels on your window. You were sitting just beneath the sill, and when you heard the crisp, almost deafening, sound of a shotgun being fired, you scrambled from your spot on the ground, and cursed to yourself when you realized you could see nothing outside but darkness.

The gun was fired near the front of your house, and you almost wondered who the shooter was, but when you figured this could soon be your end, you thought nothing could be worse than being locked up in your own bedroom for a false truth.

Was it your father?—Who fired? Or was he who was fired at? you wondered.

You did not wonder for long, however, because only a second later, your door was kicked open, and lo and behold: Sukuna. Holding a shotgun over his shoulder, panting—as if he had just run a lap, or several—and beckoning for you to follow him. He took you by the hand and hurriedly led you out of your bedroom and out of your godforsaken house using the back entrance. You asked a plethora of questions as you went, but Sukuna didn’t answer any of them until you two were crouched behind and under a large tree a few miles away from your house.

Sukuna told you to be quiet, to steady your breathing, and to remain out of sight; but that just freaked you out more.

“Are you going to tell me what on earth is going on here? How did you even know where I was? And what—what is the shotgun for?”

Sukuna let out a dry laugh. “You haven’t changed at all; still ask a shit ton of questions, huh.”

“Explain, or I’ll strangle you.” You repeated yourself.

“The preacher’s daughter is so kinky, who knew?” Sukuna teased. “But, alright, I’ll bite.

“I realized something was the matter when you didn’t return home that night you left. I was hoping you just really missed your mother, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But, now, I kind of regret that.

“Days passed, but I didn’t bother walking up to the door and asking your father where the hell you were, because I knew he would just give me some bullshit to keep me away, so I instead went over to the side of your house, like, you know, how I always do when I sneak in through your window and whatnot?

“When I went to the side of the house, your window was boarded up. And that’s when I knew something was clearly wrong. Obviously couldn’t ask you about it, and also didn’t want to get within three feet of your father, so I took matters into my own hands—”

You cut Sukuna off, asking, “What about the shotgun?”

“I fired it—at the sky. (No one was hurt, if you’re wondering, but I wish someone was.) Anyway: figured it was dark enough for no one to notice me in the act, so I fired it, and then my plan was in action. All your nosy neighbors went to the front of your house to see what was going on, and so did your father. He went outside, too. I took that as an opportunity to run to the back of your house before anyone could spot me, and break in through the backdoor, and then, y’know. We’re here now.”

“You broke into my house to rescue me? Chivalry may not be dead, after all.” You laughed.

Sukuna rolled his eyes; this clearly was not a joking matter. “Your turn. Explain. Why were you locked in your bedroom like Rapunzel or some shit? And why were the windows boarded up?”

You scooted over to sit closer to Sukuna, and sucked in a breath before explaining—explaining everything. Your father and his deranged behavior and actions, your isolation, your lack of food and drink, your loneliness, your longing for your mother and . . . and Sukuna. You whispered that last bit, in hopes that Sukuna wouldn’t hear how ‘pathetic’ you were, but he did, and he didn’t even joke or tease you about it. He . . . missed you, too.

“You know, if there really is a god out there, He’ll have to beg for my forgiveness before I even think of thanking him, but . . . fuck.” Sukuna avoided your eyes. “Do you know how desperate I was?—That I went and prayed to a god I don’t even believe in?”

“What do you mean? Why did you—?”

“I hadn’t seen you in three days. Three days too long. Why would I not worry? Why would I not resolve to begging God?”

“You were worried?” You giggled. “Awh, Sukuna, baby, you’re adorable.” You cupped Sukuna’s face in your hands, and watched as that familiar scowl of his appeared. You missed that grumpy face.

“. . .I don’t know why you missed me those three days, angel. Thought you were smarter than that.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? How could I not—?”

“How could you not? No. How could you? How could you love a man like me? I’m. . .” Sukuna turned away from you, your hands dropped from his face. “I’m nothing like you. You shouldn’t. . . I’m not a good influence on someone as pure-hearted as you. Hell, you make me wonder if the heavens above are really real, or, if Paradise is just . . . just you.”

“Sukuna, what are you going on about? We’ve been together for ages: as classmates, as friends, as a couple, as—as. . .” You paused. “Why are you—?”

“Do you not get it? These hands—these hands that cradle your face and tilt it upwards to lay kisses upon your skin are—”

You forced Sukuna to look at you. “But they cradled me, yes?”

Sukuna did not answer you, instead: he narrowed his eyes. “They are soaked in unfathomable amounts of wrongdoing, push away the Word of your God, and avoid nearing the Body of your savior.”

“But you have not killed, you have not murdered, you have not stolen, you have not. . . I do not see any blood stains visible.”

“You cannot see sin.”

You blinked, furrowing your brows. “The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. Guilt will not purify anyone.”

“. . .Who is it you speak for?” Sukuna asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Who is it I do not?”

Sukuna looked at you with intent, then he looked behind you—at your house, and then met your eyes once more, before tangling his hands in your hair and bringing you to meet him in a kiss full of yearning, longing, and want. You two had not embraced, not even touched in days. It went without saying that your body ached for Sukuna, your heart beat for Sukuna, and your soul rejoiced for Sukuna.

Sukuna was a bastard. A cold-blooded bastard. He was not kind, he was not generous, he was not truthful. He did not care for the Bible, did not read the Gospel, and couldn’t give a shit about the Holy Trinity. But, he loved you. Loved you like a dog who had never known anyone else. Loved you like he would die for you, lay his head at your feet for you, and bend his knees before you. Loved you like he would be a martyr for you. Loved you like you were his beacon of light, his goddess, his . . . Saving Grace.

He did not believe in the Lord, he did not believe in the invisible, but he believed in the way you ripped out his heart, kissed it in his name, and dyed your lips red with his blood. A kiss may be the beginning of cannibalism, but Sukuna knew it was you who was for him since the beginning of Time.

When you two pulled back to catch your breaths, Sukuna held you close to him as he leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and whispered in your ear—his voice languid, and gradual, “I do not believe in any god or any goddess. I do not care for any mythical creature or any other of that sort. The only faith I have is in us. The only force I believe in is you and me. And that’s what all my prayers will ever be about.”

Sukuna was a bastard, but you couldn’t have wanted anyone more.

#feedback is much appreciated<3 #sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #sukuna smut

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warmilikeit · 2 days ago

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Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

DC x Pjo

Part 12

______________________________

Present

"is that a ferry?" I ask, the hippocampus got closer and we saw something that said "Princess Andromeda", and the figurehead is a wooden woman tied to it

Princess Andromeda... Who?

Ah..

The wife of Perseus son of Zeus, she was to be sacrificed to Poseidon but Perseus saved her

How weird of her to have a ship, you personally, certainly won't step foot into the ocean after you were about to be sacrificed to it

A middle aged man scolds his three kids for jumping in the pool and points at a sign, a dog that looks somewhat human that looks like it belongs in the deepest pits of hell is in line for the buffet

You freeze up, is that an empousa?? A monster playing poker with a mortal human?

You look around and see variations of monsters and humans, seemingly happy in the cruise

What is this? Monster human united nations?

Don't get me wrong, you're not racist, it's just that monsters typically eat humans, so it's okay that you find it weird that a snake haired monster with poison blood is gambling with Jeff

(not Medusa, but gorgons)

"Is this a trap? A knockoff Lotus Hotel & Casino?" Percy scoffs

Annabeth holds your hand in a tight grip "Could be... But we don't know what it does, no one eat anything here"

"Lotus Hotel...?" You ask

Percy looks at you "Yeah... It's some magic hotel where time passes really slowly, like so slow, it's different for everyone, I met a guy there from the 70's and when I asked he said he'd only been there for two days, we felt we were only there for a couple of hours but it's actually been five days"

Oh shit.

"is... Is this hotel in Vegas?" You look nervous, Annabeth furrowed her brows "Yes, have you encountered it? It's dangerous and normal people wouldn't know how to get out"

"oh fuck... I may have been, no definitely, I should be older than I am right now, when my family and I were on a mi- vacation, I went inside this hotel, I was only there for like 20 minutes but they claimed I was gone for two years... I- holy shit. I was stuck in a hotel for two years" you exclaim

"how did you not know that was a trap? Have you not read the Odyssey? The lotus island and the lotus eaters?? I thought you were a fan of Greek mythology?" Annabeth asked

You roll your eyes "Well I'm sorry I didn't think a hotel was going to be related to a magical lotus island"

Tyson's face got sad "that scary... How you got out?"

"I don't know... All I remember was a pageant in the hotel, it was an event and- Oh." You stop

______________________________

Past

"Wow... This place is actually kind of nice" you look around the glistening chandeliers and observe the clamoring people

A servant smiles at you, seemingly ignoring your vigilante costume "Would you like a lotus flower? They're complementary"

It won't hurt you to take one right?

So you did.

"hey.. um where's the way out?" You ask

The smile on the servant's face doesn't drop "Miss it's so late out at night, you should return to your room"

"but I don't have a room-" you feel a key card in your pocket, you did have a room

So you go there, you enter the gigantic room, it was like for royalty, the sheets were so silky, the pillows were so soft, you opened the cabinet to find a set of clothes

Your suit is beginning to feel itchy anyways, you take a shower and put on the clothes, you find on the night stand a platinum card

What were you here for again?

You get out of the room, you hear people laughing

"you should go down there young lady! There is a pageant! There is this beautiful maiden, more beautiful compared to the others!" A man says, he was wearing clothing so old fashioned you'd thought he was from the regency era

Well, a pageant sounds fun!

In the hotel ballroom people were staring... Not at the contestants, well, yes the contestants, but one, one special lady

"Good evening LA!" She laughs

How captivating... , you think

She turns and sees you, she stops smiling "(Name)? What? What are you doing here?"

Did she just call you?

Oh gosh she just said your name!

"you're not supposed to be here!" She floats, yup floats and you're shocked, she grabs your hand and she walks you to the entrance of the hotel, the servants who were eager to help everyone was avoiding her gaze and now staying far from you

At the entrance she gestures you get out of the hotel, so you did

A bunch of guys approach you, you don't know who they are

A few minutes pass by

"guys what happened to the mission?" You ask

______________________________

Annabeth: why didn't you know the hotel was magic?

You: idk maybe because in the book it was an island?!

______________________________

@yunloyal @sirenetheblogger @00hellohello00 @spqce-bun @casspen-starlight @eyeless-kun @ghostdoodlen @ratchetprime211 @delias-stuff @sadslasher13 @ellaprime7 @wpdarlingpan @mountvesuvu @chinxinsomnia @nathaly36 @vanessa-boo @bat1212 @ceramic-raven @sweetconnoisseurgardener @dhanyasri @bella-wolf100 @shortnsweetsposts @roseapov @d3sperate-enuf @d3kstar

#dc universe #dcu #percy jackson #warmyanderepjoxdc #percy jackon and the olympians #percy pjo #yandere #yandere batfam #yandere platonic

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breannasfluff · 3 days ago

Text

Ivy points to where her plants are already twining down a hallway. “Follow the vines.”

Danny steps in that direction, dragging Jason with him. The big guy tries to take more of his own weight, shuffling his feet and shooting a glare at Ivy.

“You tell B about this and I’ll fuck you up.”

“Language,” Ivy and Danny both chime in–Danny on instinct from DeeDee.

Jason only groans and rolls his eyes.

“How’d you manage to get captured?” Ivy asks.

It occurs to Danny that these two must know each other in some way. Another point for Red Hood.

“My plan was good, okay?”

Well, considering Jason’s current state, that could be contested. Danny keeps his mouth shut and follows the sloping tunnel to a fork. The plants curve to the right.

Jason continues. “I heard rumors about smuggling and people are going missing in the Alley. I couldn’t track down what exactly was going on. I figured I’d let myself get caught in civvies and then take the operation down. Asshats had no idea who I was.”

Ivy half hums, half snorts.

“What I didn’t count on was them using me for shitty experiments the second they got ahold of me. What’s Joker trying to do with all this, anyway?”

“Eggs,” Danny says. “A lot of strange stuff with eggs. Hey, this may be a weird question, but are you Red Hood?”

“FUCK!”

Danny’s laughter rings through the stone passages, following the plants to freedom.

Read the rest here

#What Binds Us #dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #red hood #jason todd #harley quinn #harleen quinzel #poison ivy #pamela isley #danny fenton #batman #dcu #danny phantom #breannasfluff #my writing

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jezebelblues · 2 days ago

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live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 2

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don't talk about it, it's something we don't do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ unprotected (piv), degradation if u squint, choking, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 8.8k

| okay so here’s pt 2, smuts at the end LMFAO. sorry if u hate ! tumblr (right as i’m about to post) is like sorry too many words 🤪 so i had to SPLIT anyway

masterlist

Outside, rain drizzled. The show ended an hour ago, Harry was busy with greetings and photos. She stood in the doorway of the side exit, the breeze cool and carrying the scent of wet pavement and grass.

A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, stains of her lipstick kissed against the filter. She thought it’d quell her nausea, the pins and needles in her fingertips—but all it did was make her chest feel lighter. Everything else stayed.

She’s heard the song a thousand times, rehearsals the entire summer, soundchecks, shows. But it was different this time. He pulled her to play with him for a reason, their unspoken games—it was a message.

Her breath hitched as she jumped slightly, a gentle hand against her shoulder. It was Harry, a quiet greeting as he settled beside her, along the wall next to the door. His eyes swept over her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes slightly glossed over.

They had just stared at each other for a while, like their eyes held more words than their mouths could. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she let the cigarette drift onto the gravel outside, watching the embers burn out under the rain. “Harry.” She sighed, her eyes soft, a frown on her lips. “This needs to stop.”

He leaned his head against the cement wall, his gaze unwavering. “What does?”

She swallowed hard, shifting to lean into the opposite side of the door frame facing him, the heavy door still propped open. The wind danced in her hair, goosebumps cascading down her bare arms. “Whatever this is. Us. This is just work, Harry, I don’t get it.”

“Just work?”

She paused, averting her eyes from his to glance back outside. There wasn’t much of a view, gravel, smooth pavement, a large chain-link fence that shook and sang in the wind. “I don’t get it. None of my other jobs have been like this. We tour, we play and it’s easy. Hell, half of the people on the Floyd revival were on coke and it was easier than this.”

He studied her for a moment, his breaths heavy although he tried to lighten them. His eyebrows knit together, a glint of light shimmering along the edge of his pupil that painted him a tragic work of art. “Easy.” He managed, his voice ragged, as if it was a struggle to get the words out. “This isn’t a gig, or a studio session—we’re a band. A team. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

She clenched her jaw, snapping her eyes back to his. “Don’t. It’s not about the band, it’s about you. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You get under my skin, Harry! And then you just fucking stay there and pick pick pick until you avoid me again.”

“You do the same!” He was exasperated, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That night in Nashville. It was normal, it was easy.” He echoed the word, mocking. “And you just pushed it away. S’constantly a step fucking toward, two steps back.”

Her belly continued to twist, her frown deepening. “Cause I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“What I want—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair as his voice cracked slightly. “You think I know what I want? This isn’t exactly easy for me either, YN.”

The admission stunned her into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression. “You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.”

The silence between them thickened, pressing down like the weight of the rain-soaked clouds above. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What was there to say?

Harry pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate but tense, his eyes still locked on her. For a moment, it looked like he might step closer, might reach for her, but his hands stayed stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to say the words. “You think I’m trying to mess with you? I’m just—” He stopped, jaw tightening as he looked away, toward the gravel outside. His hand raked through his hair again, his frustration palpable.

She crossed her arms tighter, trying to shield herself from the chill in the air—or maybe from him. “Then what? What are you just, Harry? Because all I see is you dragging me into something I didn’t ask for, and then acting like I’m the one making it difficult.”

His head snapped back toward her, a spark of anger flaring in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this?” He motioned vaguely between them, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “Do you know how easy it’d be for me to just… not? To let this all go?”

“Then why don’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp as she straightened up, uncrossing her arms.

The question hung in the air like a dare, but Harry didn’t take it. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he looked away again. “That’s the thing,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking into her ribs. But she refused to let him see the crack in her armor. She turned her face toward the rain, her jaw clenched, her breaths slow and measured.

“Well, maybe you should figure it out,” she said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, his face unreadable as he started to turn. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, bitter. “Guess I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t look back as he walked down the narrow hallway, out to wherever he was going.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her heart pounding too loud in the quiet. The door swung slightly with the wind, creaking on its hinges as she leaned against the frame.

She bit down hard on her lip, a sharp pang of regret bubbling up inside her, but she shoved it down, stuffing it into the same corner where all the other unspoken things between them lived.

The cigarette embers had long since faded, leaving only the faint smell of ash and rain.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

The bassline thumped steadily, drowning out conversation and vibrating through the floor of the packed venue. Laughter spilled over from corners where small groups huddled close, their faces flushed with warmth and the buzz of alcohol. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling flickered, giving the room an ethereal glow that blurred edges and softened harsh lines. It was October second, a free evening before they had to start gearing up for Toronto, and they had found themselves at this party—an impromptu gathering of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

They had a few days to rest before they geared up for the Toronto show.

YN moved through the throng like a thread of color in an otherwise monotone fabric. Her dress clung to her in all the right places, its silky material catching the light with every movement. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips a striking shade that dared anyone to look away. Heads turned as she passed, her heels clicking faintly against the hardwood floor beneath the relentless pulse of the music.

Across the room, Harry caught the glance of a mutual friend before his gaze settled on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps she was pretending not to. That had been their dynamic since the DC show—stolen glances, sharp words, and an undercurrent of something unresolved that simmered just below the surface. Tonight wasn’t much different. If she felt his eyes on her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she let herself be led toward the bar by a guy whose name she couldn’t quite recall but whose interest in her was overtly clear.

Leo—or maybe it was Geo— was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth voice and easy laugh. He leaned in close, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm as he spoke, and her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t that she found him unappealing—he was attractive enough, charming in a way that was disarming—but she was using him. His attention was a distraction, a convenient shield from the simmering tension she refused to address. She wasn’t about to let Harry consume her thoughts tonight.

“Another drink?” Leo–Geo asked, his voice warm against her ear.

She nodded, watching as he flagged down the bartender and ordered for her. When the drink came, he handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers deliberately. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, tilting her head to laugh at something he said. She wasn’t entirely listening, but it didn’t matter. She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was louder and the lights flashed in dizzying patterns.

His hands found her waist as they swayed together, the rhythm of the music guiding their movements. She felt his breath against her skin as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. It was easy, his touch, his attention. It dulled the edges of her thoughts, made the heat of Harry’s gaze on her back easier to ignore.

For a moment, she let herself get lost in it.

But Harry was watching. He stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The muscles in his jaw worked as he watched her laugh at something the other man said, her hand brushing lightly against the stranger’s chest. His stomach twisted, anger and something else—something sharper, more possessive—flaring within him. He told himself to leave it alone, to let her do what she wanted. But then he saw them moving toward the door, her hand loosely clasped in the other man’s.

Something in him snapped.

He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. She didn’t see him coming, not until his hand closed around her arm in a firm grip.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

She froze, her wide eyes meeting his for the first time all night. Her companion, caught off guard, let go of her hand and stepped back.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows furrowed, her voice laced with irritation.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his grip on her arm tightening slightly.

“Let go of me, Harry,” she snapped, tugging her arm free. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her a step closer, his green eyes boring into hers.

“Do you even know his name?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She didn’t know his name, and they both knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered, his jaw clenched. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Harry what—no!” Her voice was louder now, drawing a few curious glances from the people around them. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

He only ignored her.

“Harry—”

“Go,” Harry said sharply, cutting her off as he turned his attention to the other man. “Now.”

The man hesitated, glancing between them before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, mate. She’s all yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone in a small bubble of tension that felt ready to burst.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger, eyes threatening to gloss over.

“You were about t’leave with a stranger,” he said, his voice still low but tinged with frustration.

“So what if I was? What does it matter to you?”

“It—“ He paused, voice barely above a whisper. His hand finally dropped from her arm, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. “Forget it, YN.”

The music pounded around them, but neither of them moved. The weight of his words hung heavy between them, unspoken things simmering just below the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the crowded room, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

After a while, she found her way back to the bar. YN perched on the edge of a high stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of a freshly poured Midori Sour. She wasn’t sure why she kept ordering them—maybe because they were sweet enough to soften the edges of her mood. Maybe because the tang of melon lingered on her tongue in a way she liked. Or maybe because she knew it annoyed him.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry approaching, his strides long and purposeful, the faint clink of his rings catching her attention before anything else. He stopped beside her, leaning against the bar with an infuriating casualness, his profile sharp under the low-hanging lights.

“Another one of those?” he asked, his voice low but distinctly mocking. He gestured toward her drink with a tilt of his head. “You’ve got the palate of a teenager.”

YN didn’t even glance at him. “And you’ve got the personality of a Jack and Coke. Bitter, basic, and way too predictable.”

The bartender chuckled as he slid Harry’s drink across the counter. Harry’s lips twitched at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to tell her her barb had landed.

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. His voice was softer now, dangerous in the way it dripped with quiet confidence. “At least I’m not clinging to a sugar high like I’m at prom.”

YN finally turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. Those green eyes of his were sharper than the whiskey he was sipping, and the way they pinned her in place made her chest tighten—not that she’d ever admit it.

“At least I’m not controlling your night to avoid saying what I really want to say,” she shot back, her voice steady but low, just for him.

Harry blinked, his brows raising slightly in surprise before he composed himself. He set his glass down on the counter, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And what exactly is it you think I’m hiding?”

The word love slid off his tongue like a taunt, curling around her like smoke. It wasn’t affectionate—it was a challenge, one that dared her to push back. And god, did she want to push back.

YN leaned in too, her face just close enough to his that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heady. “I think you’ve got a lot of things you don’t say out loud,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But don’t worry, Harry. I’m not dying to know.”

The tension between them was suffocating now, thick and electric. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against his glass like he was resisting the urge to reach for her instead. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat daring her to stay in this dangerous little game they’d started.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Harry said finally, his voice like velvet lined with steel. “But you’re wrong, YN. Dead wrong.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and tossing a few bills on the counter. “Why are you here again, Harry?” She muttered, “Your jealousy, which you refuse to admit, is insufferable. You ruined my night and I want to drink.”

Silence.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing this.” Her voice was low, laced in anger as she spun on her heel and headed toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were tucked away.

But of course, he followed.

She could hear him behind her, the weight of his footsteps matching the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ignored him, turning a tight corner.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted, his voice low and gravelly. He was close—too close—and she could feel the heat radiating off him, suffusing her skin like a fever.

“Go away, Harry,” she said through clenched teeth, still nearing the bathroom doors that seemed to get farther and farther away with every step she took.

He stepped in front of her, one large step he made quickly and without effort. “Not until you tell me what your problem is,” he snapped. His hands smacking against the walls abruptly, caging her in. His chest was barely an inch from her back, and she could feel the way his breath hitched, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

YN whirled around, forcing him to step back just enough to meet her glare. “My problem?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “My problem is you. You’ve been a thorn in my side since June, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the looks, the comments, the—”

“The what?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “The fact that I actually give a shit about what you’re doing? The fact that I care if you’re about to make a mistake?”

“A mistake?” she echoed, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you care if I—”

“What was his name, YN?” He spit, an echo from earlier, nostrils flared and jaw tight. He already knew the answer, she didn’t know.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her anger to a low simmer. “Fuck you.”

They didn’t just hold each other’s gaze. They gripped it. Like a rope stretched between them, fraying under the strain. Her scoff sliced the moment clean, and she ducked under his arm, her stride sharp, deliberate, toward the bathroom door.

Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it with the kind of force that spoke louder than words. The door swung open, her heels clicking against the tile, a precise rhythm against the muted bass thumping somewhere beyond the purple-painted walls. She spun, gripping the edge of the door, and shoved it back with all the fury her body could muster. But it didn’t slam. It hit something solid—a thud, then a jolt.

His hand, metal rings against wood.

The door ricocheted toward her before she even registered what had happened. He stepped in, the breadth of him filling the space, his palm swallowing the knob as he pushed it shut behind him. The twist of the lock was a gunshot in the silence, louder than the music bleeding through the cracks.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her voice was a hiss, low and venomous, the kind of sound that cut through everything. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp, the thin sheen of sweat glinting along her collarbone like glass shards catching the light.

The room was alive, though barely. A flickering bulb above them glowed warm and harsh, its glass casing distorting the light into fractured halos. Yet, there were blues bleeding from LED's in the corner, washing them in warmth and cobalt—fire and ice.

His gaze dragged down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like she was a work of art, damning and divine all at once. She was something out of a fever dream—wild, furious, her beauty distorted by the tension in the air. “We didn’t get to finish.”

Her laugh came hard and bitter, her nostrils flaring as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Finish what? This?” She threw her hands out, exasperation dripping from every gesture. “This isn’t fucking worth it!”

But he wasn’t looking at her hands. His eyes were on her lips, her eyes, back to her lips—then lower. Her chest, rising and falling. Anger looked good on her, he thought. Anger looked good enough to ruin him. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, quieter this time.

He stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. Compressed. Heavy. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d even moved, the cool tile shocking against the heat rolling off her skin. She pressed her palms flat against it as though the room was tilting, threatening to spill her out into some uncharted void.

He loomed over her—it was foreboding, yet, it made a heat pool between her thighs.

“Get out.” She murmured, but her voice cracked under the weight of her own trembling breath. There was no steel in the words. Only rust.

“Say it like you mean it.” His voice was smoke, burning slow and low, roughened edges catching on her nerves. He was too close now, close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and spearmint, aftershave, and something deeper, earthier. The heat of him radiated against her skin.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, to the thin line of his jaw, then lower—to the silver chain around his neck. The pendant at the center gleamed faintly, catching the light like a drop of molten metal. It glimmered orange, blue—a ripple in the ocean bathed in harvest moon. “Harry—” she started, his name trembling on her lips.

But before she could say more, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, like barbed wire snapping, cutting deep and fast. She gasped against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, twisting it into her fists as if to keep herself upright. His body molded into hers, chest to chest, hip to hip, the press of him heavy and solid and absolutely inescapable.

“I hate you,” she muttered, the words breaking into his mouth, dancing onto his tongue. Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, feverish and clumsy, her frustration bleeding into every movement.

He moaned into her, guttural, reverberating from the bottom of his throat. “I know.” He breathed, his lips brushing along her jaw, down her neck.

Her head tipped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, her hands shoving his shirt open. Her fingers traced his chest, dragging across the heat of his skin. “Fuck—you’re an asshole.” She bit out, her voice shaking with something between anger and desperation.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, amusement tugging at the edges even as his breath hitched. “Keep going,” he urged, his words strained but teasing, his hands finding the curve of her waist. His grip was firm, grounding her as if the tension might otherwise consume them both.

Her mouth crashed against his again, this time harder, rougher. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging like she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for every maddening, chaotic feeling he’d pulled out of her. Every shiver. Every breath. Every ache.

“I hate how much I want this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with something raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah?” He sighed, his lips brushing hers, his voice cracked and ragged. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, his gaze searing. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not stopping. Are you?”

Her only response was another kiss, pulling him closer, harder, until the line between them blurred. Until all the anger, the longing, the fire consuming them burned the world around them into ash.

Her fingers found his belt with a kind of determination that burned. Leather sliding through brass, sharp and deliberate. Her nails scraped his stomach as she pushed the belt free, her movements jerky, impatient. Every tug of her hands felt like a challenge, every drag of her fingers against his skin like she wanted to leave a mark.

"You think this is gonna fix anything?" she spat, her voice low and trembling, caught somewhere between anger and something that tasted sweeter. Bitter edges trying to cut through the heat swelling between them.

"Never said it would," he murmured, his voice rough, a rasp that settled low in her chest. His hands were already under her dress, sliding up the backs of her thighs. His grip was firm, too tight, bruising—like he was trying to make sure she wouldn't slip away.

When he bunched the fabric over her hips, the sound of it pulling free from her skin filled the air between them.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she bit out, her words sharp and breathless, her desire, her anger tearing through her. Her hands shoved his pants down, knuckles brushing against him in a way that made her stomach twist.

His laugh was dark, rasping out like a rough scrape of metal. "Says the one tearing my clothes off."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her even as she glared up at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't." His words dripped with mockery—a blade under silk. His mouth brushed against her neck now, teeth grazing her skin. "Keep saying it, YN. You're real convincing."

Her head tipped back as he bit at her skin, the scrape of his teeth followed by the heat of his tongue. "You're so fucking–“ she started, but her words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, dragging over the thin barrier of lace that still clung to her.

"What was that?" He hummed, his tone laced with dark amusement, his fingers pressing into her just enough to make her hips roll forward, chasing him. "Didn't quite catch it."

"Don't," she managed, though her voice wavered, her breath catching as he moved against her again, more deliberate this time.

"Don't what?" he teased, his lips brushing her ear now, his free hand gripping her thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. His body pressed against hers, the hard line of him undeniable, the heat radiating off him making her skin burn. "Don't stop? Don't touch you?"

Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. "Don't act like you have the upper hand," she shot back, though her voice was shaking, her chest rising and falling against his as though the air between them had thinned.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and rough. "Petal, l've had the upper hand since the second you let me touch you."

"You're delusional," she snarled, but her body betrayed her again, arching into him as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, her cunt slick with arousal. A broken sound escaped her throat, and her nails dragged across his scalp.

"Yeah?" he breathed, his voice darker now, tinged with something ragged, unsteady. His lips caught the corner of her jaw, moving toward her mouth but stopping just short. "Then why are you shaking?"

"God, you're insufferable."

"And you're not going anywhere.” Harry's hands found her waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, his fingers digging in as he spun her around without warning. The breath caught in her throat as her body collided with the edge of the sink counter, her palms bracing against the cool marble.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and feral, locked on her like she was prey.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping the edges of his throat. His hands moved to her hips, holding her still as he pressed himself against her. The solid heat of him burned through the fabric separating them, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sound threatening to escape. "Desperate for it, huh?”

"No.” she quipped, but her voice wasn't as sharp as she wanted it to be. Her reflection gave her away—her lips parted, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling just enough to notice. "You're so goddamn cocky. It's disgusting."

He ignored her, or maybe he loved it—she couldn't tell. His hands left her hips briefly, his fingers moving to his slacks, shoving them all the way down in a rough, impatient motion. The sound of the fabric brushing against his legs filled the space between them, quick and deliberate.

Harry's hand slid up her front, rough but with ease, fingers curling under her chin. His grip was firm, enough to keep her still, his thumb brushing just once over the edge of her jaw before tilting her head up. The mirror stared back at her, unforgiving and vivid, and his chest pressed hard against her back, pinning her in place. "Eyes up," he muttered, low and commanding, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

His fingers flexed under her chin, urging her gaze to meet their reflection. "You're gonna watch, yeah? Gonna see exactly what I do to you."

She didn't answer—couldn't. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body shivered under his touch.

His free hand slid lower, over her stomach, down between her thighs, where his fingers paused, resting just above where she needed him most.

He tutted, staring her reflection down. "Dripping mess already." He smiled, slow and wicked, his lips brushing her ear. "You think that guy could do this to you? Hm? Think he could get you this wet?"

"Shut up," she bit out, though her voice lacked conviction, trembling just like the rest of her. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the cool marble, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Harry's laugh was dark, rich, vibrating against her back. "That's not a no.” He drawled, dragging his fingers down, brushing over her slick folds in a featherlight touch that made her legs shake. "What is it, then? You just don't wanna admit it?"

"Admit what?" she shook, her tone sharp, though her hips betrayed her by rolling forward, chasing his hand.

"That no one else could make y’feel like this." His fingers pressed in harder now, slow and teasing as they circled her clit. His other hand kept her chin steady, forcing her to watch as his fingers moved, dragging against her in slow, maddening circles. "Look at you, YN. Fucking dripping for me. You see that?"

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the way his hand disappeared between her thighs, the glint of wetness coating his fingers as they moved. Her cheeks flushed hot, but she couldn't tear her gaze away, her body betraying her with every soft sound slipping from her lips.

"Harry—“ she gasped, but her voice broke into a moan as he pressed his fingers harder, rolling them against her with deliberate pressure.

"There she is," he smiled, his tone mocking but warm, like he'd been waiting for her to break. "That's it. Don't hold back. I want you t’hear yourself, yeah? Want to know what y’sound like when it's me making you fall apart."

Her hands shook against the counter, nails digging into the marble as his fingers slowed again, agonizingly teasing. Her body jerked, desperate for more, and he smiled, smug and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"H, please–“ she whined, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Please, what?" he tutted, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers dragged down, slipping inside her cunt just enough to make her gasp, then pulling out again. "Use your words, YN. Tell me what y’need."

"I hate you," she muttered, but it sounded hollow, the tremble in her voice giving her away entirely.

"Not what I asked," he growled, and his teeth scraped against the curve of her shoulder, a sharp bite that made her head snap back. His fingers pressed into her again, this time deeper, curling just right, and a loud moan broke free from her chest, her body arching against him.

"Look at that," he whispered, his hand still steady on her chin, holding her in place. "Look at you, petal. Such a pretty little slut for me." His thumb brushed over her clit now, slow but deliberate, and her hips rocked into him, chasing every movement. "You like watching, don't you? Like seeing what I do t’you."

Her only answer was another moan, louder this time, her lips parting as her head fell forward—but his hand caught her, tilting her chin back up. "No," he murmured, soft but firm. "Keep watching."

Her reflection burned into her vision—the way her mouth hung open, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her body pressed tight against his. The sight of his fingers moving, disappearing into her before dragging back out, glistening with her arousal.

"Good girl.” He breathed, his voice rough now, almost reverent. His free hand slid to her hip, holding her steady as he shifted behind her, his body pressing closer. "Now, keep your eyes on me. I'm not done with you yet."

Harry's fingers slid out of her slowly, teasing the slick heat between her thighs, a deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. The pressure was enough to keep her on edge, never enough to tip her over.

Every moan she tried to swallow only fueled him, and he made sure she knew it. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear. "Falling apart on my fingers, and I haven't even fucked you yet.“

"Shut up," she breathed, but the bite in her tone was fading, her resolve crumbling with every slow, maddening drag of his fingers. Her thighs quivered, her knees barely holding her upright, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Thought so," he said, smug and soft, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wicked grin. His thumb circled her clit, slow and firm, drawing a whimper from her lips she couldn't hold back. "No one else knows how to ruin you, do they?"

Her body jerked against him, hips pressing into his hand despite the defiance still burning in her eyes. She wanted to tell him off, to push him away, but her voice broke every time she tried, each sound melting into a moan.

"Thought you were tougher than this," he taunted, his breath hot against her neck, his chest firm against her back. "Guess I was wrong. Just a mess for me, aren't you?"

Her head tipped forward, a choked sound escaping her throat, but his hand was there again, his fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up to meet the mirror. "Uh-uh," he snapped. "Don’t let me see you do that again.”

Her reflection was a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Her lips were parted, swollen and wet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His chest, exposed by the open shirt still hanging from his shoulders, pressed against her back, radiating heat. The sight of his hand moving between her legs, glistening with her arousal, was almost too much to bear.

"Harry—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her fingers gripping the sink harder, her knuckles white against the marble.

"Say my name again," he growled, his tone dark and dangerous, his fingers pressing deeper, drawing a broken moan from her lips. "Go on, petal. Let’s hear it.”

Just as her hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her empty and trembling. She let out a frustrated whimper, her nails biting into the counter's edge, but before she could snap at him, his hand slid to her throat, curling around it in one firm, possessive grip.

"Patience,” he murmured, though his tone dripped with mockery, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled her tighter against him. "Want it so bad? I'll give it to you, but you better fucking take it."

She felt him behind her, his hard cock pressing insistently against her, the rough fabric of his boxers catching on her skin before she shoved them down. The anticipation coiled tight in her stomach, her breath hitching as he pushed them down just enough to free himself.

His free hand guided himself to her, dragging the head of his cock along her slick folds, slow and deliberate, just to make her squirm. He laughed when her hips rolled back against him, desperate for more.

"So fucking needy. Bet you'd beg for it if I made you."

She gasped, her voice shaking as her body pressed into his.

The words caught in her throat, tangled with the moan that escaped when he finally moved, thrusting into her with one hard, unrelenting motion. A cry tore from her lips, loud and unrestrained, her body arching against him as he filled her completely. He groaned low in her ear, his hand on her throat steadying her, his other hand gripping her hip so tightly it felt like he was branding her.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, the sharpness of it stealing the breath from her lungs as he filled her inch by inch. “So fucking tight—y’feel that? How perfect y’are for me?”

Her nails scratched against the smooth marble as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate, pulling sounds from her she couldn't control. Her body arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, her resolve finally shattering. "God, you're so fucking good like this," he rasped, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Taking me so well. Look at yourself, angel. Look how fucking gorgeous y’are right now."

Her eyes fluttered open, catching their reflection again—her body against his, his shirt hanging loose on his frame, his hands commanding her as though she was his entirely. The sight burned into her, sending heat pooling low in her belly, her thighs trembling as he kept pushing her further and further.

And despite everything—her anger, her pride, her sharp tongue—she couldn't hold back the moans spilling from her lips, louder now, desperate and broken, as her body gave in to him completely.

Harry didn't ease up, not for a second. Each thrust was deep, rough, his grip on her hips bruising as he yanked her back into him, forcing her to take every inch. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, mingling with her ragged breaths and broken moans, her body arching under his hands like it was built for this, for him.

"Love this cock, don’t you?" he growled, his voice gravel and heat, his chest pressing harder into her back. "Like how I fucking ruin you?"

"Please," she bit out, her voice sharp, defiant, even as it fell out as a moan. Her fingers clawed at the sink counter, nails scratching the smooth surface as her legs quivered beneath her. But still, she smirked, tilting her head just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. "I’ve been fucked harder.”

Harry's laugh was low, a sound that rolled through her chest. "You're really gonna start with that?" he grunted, his voice a rasp of rough edges and heat. His hand slid up her back, the weight of it pushing her down until her cheek brushed the counter. The angle shifted, sharper now, and when he thrust again, a cry ripped from her lips before she could choke it back.

"And there it is," he moaned, his tone mocking, pleased. "That shut you up quick, didn't it?"

But she didn't give in. She never did. Her smirk twisted into something sharper, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she rolled her hips back against him just to prove she could. "Yeah," she slurred, her voice thick, daring. "What a waste–“ she paused, a moan emitting from the top of her throat. “–of a cock if–“ another pause, “if–if you fuck like this.”

His thrusts faltered, just for a moment—a slip that was more telling than anything he could've said. She'd gotten to him, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was enough to make her smirk widen.

"You just don't know when to shut that mouth, do you?" he snarled, his voice dripping with tension as he stilled entirely, his chest heaving against her back.

"Guess not," she shot back, her tone cutting despite the quiver in her thighs. "Maybe you're not man enough to–“

Before she could finish, his hand left her back, gripping her throat as he yanked her back up toward his chest again. He found her jaw with a force that made her gasp. His grip was firm, commanding, as his fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

"Open," he ordered, his tone low and unrelenting, the kind that left no room for argument. When she hesitated—just for a second—his grip tightened, his gaze locking hers in the mirror. "I said open."

Her lips parted, her glare defiant even as she obeyed.

"See? You do listen," he muttered, his lips curving into a wicked grin. His index and middle finger slid past her lips, pressing down hard on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, a muffled protest bubbling in her throat, but he just smirked. "That's better. Quiet suits you, angel."

Her teeth grazed his knuckles, her tongue squirming under the weight of his fingers, but she couldn't pull away—not while he still held her jaw firmly in place. His hips moved again, hard and unforgiving, each thrust making her body jerk forward against the sink.

He moaned, watching their reflection like it was some kind of twisted masterpiece. "Still trying t’fight me, even now. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

She glared at him in the mirror, her teeth biting down lightly on his fingers just to prove she still could. "Go on," he sighed, his tone amused as his fingers pressed down harder, making her gag slightly. "Bite me. Won't change a damn thing.”

Her body betrayed her-again. Her moans, muffled by his hand, spilled out in broken fragments, her hips pushing back to meet his thrusts even as her mind screamed at her to resist. The tears stinging her eyes weren't from pain, but from the overwhelming heat building low in her belly, threatening to swallow her whole.

He grunted, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers slid from her mouth, wet and slick—a mess of whimpers and moans escaping with it. "That's what you sound like when I've got y’completely undone. Maybe next time, think twice before y’run your mouth."

Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never made it past her lips. Not with the way he pulled her against him, harder, faster, his hand returning to her throat, keeping her flush against his chest.

Her hands left the edge of the sink, trembling as they reached up to find him. She gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin, desperate to feel the solid strength beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every thrust, her movements uncoordinated, but her claws pressed hard enough to leave marks she knew he'd see tomorrow.

Harry didn't flinch. If anything, her desperation only made him smirk. His hand on her throat stayed steady, holding her firm, keeping her close. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength under her palms, and she knew he wouldn't drop her. No matter how rough he got, no matter how far he pushed, he had her.

He growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice as rough as the pace of his hips slamming into her. "You begging for more?"

Her nails dragged down his forearm, leaving a trail of red crescents in their wake. She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, her teeth catching her bottom lip as a moan slipped free before she could stop it. "You'll tire out before I do."

His grip on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it, to keep her grounded against him. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing between her thighs again, circling her clit.

"Feel that?" he muttered, dragging his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, contrasting with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "That's not me getting tired, petal. That's me making sure you'll remember this tomorrow."

Her nails clawed deeper into his forearm, and her hips bucked forward, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation only to slam back into him. Her mind was fogged with heat, her body trembling under the dual assault of his fingers and the relentless thrusts that sent shocks up her spine.

"Fuck, Harry," she whimpered, her voice breaking in a way she hated, in a way he loved.

"That's it," he grunted, almost tenderly, though his actions were anything but. His lips brushed her temple, a cruel contrast to the way he dragged her closer to the edge.

Her grip on his forearm tightened, her nails biting into his skin hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. But he didn't pull back. He wouldn't. His hold stayed firm, steady, a constant against the chaos he was dragging her through.

"You're so fucking close," he growled, his voice dark and ragged, his lips kissing her temple.

Her head fell further into his shoulder, her lips parted in a choked moan. The mirror showed everything—the way her body arched, her dress bunched high around her hips, his hand between her thighs. The sight of his fingers working her, his other hand wrapped firm around her throat, holding her steady as he pounded into her, was too much. It was filthy, mesmerizing. It was them.

"You're beautiful like this," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back. "Fucking perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his forearm, her nails raking over his skin as her body tensed, her thighs quivering against his. A sharp cry tore from her lips, unrestrained, as the tension inside her snapped all at once, her release washing over her in waves.

He slowed his movements just enough to drag it out, his fingers never stopping. His thrusts turned deep, deliberate, milking every last tremor from her body. "Good girl—just like that."

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her body slackening in his arms as her hands slipped from his forearm to brace herself against the sink again. But Harry wasn't done—not yet.

His hand slid from her neck, resting briefly on her back to steady her as he pulled out. His release was a low growl, heavy with restraint, as he bent her forward over the sink again, her cheek pressing against the cool marble.

His hands tugged the bunched fabric of her dress, pushing it higher until it gathered at the small of her back.

She heard the wet sound of his hand stroking himself, the heat of him close enough to feel but just out of reach. He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and raw, his pace quickening as his own release built.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his eyes glued to her reflection. His free hand slid down her back, his touch possessive, reverent.

The first hot spurt of his release hit the small of her back, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finished, his hand working himself through the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, the sight of her still bent over the sink keeping him rooted.

Harry let out a long exhale, his hand sliding up her spine in a firm, grounding touch as he leaned over her, brushing his lips against her shoulder.

The air felt thick now, heavy with the remnants of what just happened. The muffled bass of the music outside thumped distantly, but the bathroom was silent aside from their labored breaths. Neither of them spoke.

Harry stepped back, his hands dragging over her hips as if reluctant to let her go, before he turned his attention to himself. He pulled his slacks back up, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet, followed by the faint clink of his belt as he buckled it.

She stayed bent over the sink for a moment longer, her forehead pressed against the cool surface, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn't dare look up. Not yet.

Harry moved to the paper towel dispenser, yanking a mess of them free without a word. He returned to her, his footsteps deliberate, and she startled slightly at the first cool touch of the towel against her skin. He didn't say anything as he wiped her clean, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now, precise, careful, like he was undoing what had been rough and unforgiving moments ago.

When he finished, he tossed the crumpled towels into the trash. His hands returned to her thighs, sliding the lace of her panties back up, his fingers brushing against her skin as he smoothed them into place. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, his thumbs grazing the red marks he'd left behind on her hips.

Her thighs bore the shape of his hands, faint but unmistakable, and when she finally straightened and caught herself in the mirror, she saw the full extent of it. Her skin was marked—her throat faintly bruised from his grip, hickeys scattered along her neck and collarbone like splashes of color against her flushed skin. The swell of her hips ached where his fingers had dug in, and she knew the prints he'd left would bloom darker by morning.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, suffocating, a tension neither of them knew how to cut. Harry leaned against the wall like it was holding him up, his head tilted back, his shirt hanging open, and his chest still heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The air felt different now—charged and heavy, yet hollow at the same time.

She stared at him for a moment, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed somewhere else. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something quieter, something guarded. He didn’t move to fix his shirt, didn’t even glance at the mirror to see what a wreck he looked like.

She didn’t think before stepping forward, her hands finding the loose edges of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to her, dark and unreadable, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged the fabric into place, smoothing it over his shoulders before starting on the buttons, working her way down.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, still warm from her touch, but she didn’t let herself think about it—couldn’t. The weight of what they’d just done hung between them, heavy and unspoken, something that felt too big, too raw to touch.

He stayed still, watching her, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like touching her again might unravel everything.

She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze focused on her hands as she reached the last button. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric flat, brushing out the wrinkles before finally stepping back.

They didn’t speak.

They wouldn’t speak.

It was something they didn’t do—not about this.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, her pulse still racing from the way he’d made her feel. She smoothed her hands over her dress again, though it was already straight. The mirror behind her caught their reflection—two people standing too close but pretending the distance was enough.

Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. She glanced up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before dropping it again.

His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and when he finally pushed off the wall, his fingers brushing through his hair, he let out a long, shaky exhale.

We don’t talk about it.

The words sunk into the hollow space between them like a quiet truth neither of them would ever admit out loud.

It’s something we don’t do.

Because if they did—if they said it, defined it, made it real—there’d be no going back.

And that terrified her almost as much as the thought of losing this, losing him.

Harry moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, his head tipping forward as though he might say something. But he didn’t.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting in ways she couldn’t untangle.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles angst

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focusonkayjay · 2 days ago

Text

Wildly Wealthy Koreans (2); inspired by Crazy Rich Asians

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: photographer/ filmmaker! jungkook, rich girl/ fashion designer! reader, established relationship, angst, fluff, potential smut

Series summary: When you invite your boyfriend, Jungkook, to accompany you to your brother's wedding in your hometown, Daegu, he’s overjoyed, eager to meet your family and experience a side of your life you’ve never shared with him. However, once he uncovers the truth about who you really are, he’s unable to grasp the full extent of your reality. The situation becomes even more complicated when a certain someone makes him feel profoundly unwelcome, leaving him to question not only your world, but also his place in it.

Disclaimer: This series is heavily inspired by the movie Crazy Rich Asians, with the storyline closely following the original film's plot. However, I wanted to reimagine it as a fanfiction, where Jungkook and OC take center stage as the main protagonists. While I’ve kept the core elements and themes from the movie, I’ve added my own touches here and there, such as altering certain character dynamics and incorporating a few original settings. Some scenes are directly inspired by the movie, and I’ve worked to recreate them in a way that it hopefully resonates with the fans of the movie. Hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 6.6k+

Chapter Warnings: talks about culture, your mom is a meanie

A/N: literally fighting the urge to rewatch crazy rich asians right now omg. anyways, i'm having so much fun writing this because i love explaining every little thing in detail, and this series gives me so many opportunities to do so. let me know your thoughts <3

part 2

“I can’t believe this.” Jungkook breathes out, sinking into the plush comfort of Yoongi’s ridiculously soft mattress. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing as he tries to process everything he had found out during the eventful lunch he just had with Yoongi's family.

It feels like the ground beneath him has shifted. You’re not exactly who he thought you were. Not that he had preconceived notions about your life, but this? This was on an entirely different level. “I wonder why she never told me.” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Yoongi chuckles from across the room as he pulls back the heavy, luxurious curtains, flooding the space with the warm afternoon light. His bedroom is just as opulent as the rest of the mansion... floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek modern furniture, and an aesthetic that screams understated wealth.

“I mean… maybe she didn’t want to show off.” Yoongi suggests casually, as if being from an ultra-rich family is something people hide every day. “Yeah… like you.” Jungkook points out, sitting up and gesturing around the room.

His eyes narrow as they take in every detail. “You never told me you were this...” he pauses, glancing pointedly at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the antique show piece on the side table, and the impossibly soft bedding beneath him “...rich.”

Yoongi smirks as he leans against the window frame, arms crossed. “What can I say? I’m humble like that.”

Jungkook groans, leaning back on the mattress as he throws an arm over his face. “My whole life is a lie. You’re telling me I’ve been surrounded by literal multimillionaires this whole time and I didn’t have a single clue?” His voice is half-frustrated, half-bewildered, and the wide-eyed expression on his face makes Yoongi snort with laughter.

“Come on, you’re being dramatic.” Yoongi teases, his tone light but with a knowing smirk. It’s almost laughable coming from him... the same guy who was practically losing his mind over you back in the dining room. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” he adds casually, as if he hadn’t been the one freaking out just moments ago.

“Not that big of a deal?” Jungkook echoes, sitting up with an incredulous look. “You live in a mansion. You drive a car that costs more than my entire apartment building. And now I find out my girlfriend is a part of one of the most powerful families in the country?” He shakes his head, rubbing his temples. “You’re right. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.”

Yoongi grins, clearly entertained by his friend’s over-the-top reaction. “You’re handling this surprisingly well.” he jokes. Jungkook shoots him a look. “I’m on the verge of an existential crisis, and you’re laughing at me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Yoongi says with a shrug, making Jungkook groan again.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about that damn tea party ceremony thing I have to go to, this evening.” Jungkook sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

His fingers thread through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what to expect after everything I’ve learned today.” He breathes out heavily, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders.

“Don’t stress it.” Yoongi replies, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant as he leans back in his chair. He looks completely at ease, like Jungkook hadn’t just had his world turned upside down in the span of a few minutes.

Jungkook stares at him, exasperated. “How can I not? I don’t know if I’ll even be able to fit in. Everyone there will probably take one look at me and smell the filth on me. They’ll know right away that I’m a completely different breed compared to them.” he huffs, gesturing dramatically to make his point.

Yoongi stifles a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Jungkook counters, his tone sharp. “I’m just some regular guy. I grew up in a tiny apartment with my mom, eating instant ramen and working part-time jobs to get by. These people... your people... live in literal mansions and probably eat gold-flaked caviar for breakfast or something.” he rambles.

Yoongi finally bursts out laughing, the sound making Jungkook scowl even more. “Gold-flaked caviar? That’s a bit too much, even for us.” Yoongi teases, his voice dripping with amusement. “But seriously, You’re overthinking it.”

Jungkook shakes his head, his insecurities bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get it. I’m not like them. I don’t know the rules, or how to act, or what to say or how... how to dress. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” he says, covering his face as the stress surges through his veins.

"Well, since you brought it up... do you have an outfit for the evening?" Yoongi questions. Jungkook shrugs, a bit unsure. “Well, I have this simple suit. It’s... it's this black-”

“No way.” Yoongi interrupts, shaking his head in disbelief. “There’s no way you’re wearing a simple black suit to this thing.”

Jungkook blinks, taken aback. “What’s wrong with a simple black suit?” he asks, genuinely perplexed.

Yoongi clicks his tongue like a disappointed teacher, standing up from his seat. “This won’t do. Follow me.” he says briskly, already turning on his heels. Jungkook barely has time to react before Yoongi is leading him down the hall and into what can only be described as a dream closet.

The room is enormous, with racks of clothing neatly arranged by color and style. Spotlights illuminate the array of designer outfits, from tailored suits to silk shirts and everything in between.

Shelves line the walls, displaying polished leather shoes, neatly folded ties, and an impressive collection of watches. A faint, luxurious scent lingers in the air, and Jungkook can’t help but gape at the sheer extravagance of it all.

“Okay, let’s see.” Yoongi mutters, his sharp eyes scanning the racks like a man on a mission. He pulls out a prussian blue short coat with clean, sharp lines and a tailored fit. The material has a subtle texture that exudes luxury without being flashy. “This is so so sleek and I think this should be perfect for tonight.” he muses.

“Blue?” Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “You think that’s the move?”

Yoongi smirks. “I don't think... I know it is.” He sets the coat aside and grabs a light blue silky dress shirt, its soft sheen adding just the right amount of elegance. “This will add a little softness. Plus, it’s classy as hell.” he explains.

Before Jungkook can protest, Yoongi moves to another section, pulling out matching prussian blue trousers. “These match the coat...” he softly says, more to himself.

Yoongi then crouches down to the shoe shelf, grabbing a pair of sleek black loafers “And these... for your feet.” He stands back up and makes his way to the display of accessories.

“We’ll keep it simple...” he murmurs, looking around and a few seconds later, he picks out a delicate diamond brooch shaped like a flower. “This is gonna add just the right amount of sophistication without being too much.” he smiles, proud of himself for the fashion choices he's making.

“Try it on.” Yoongi orders, shoving the outfit into Jungkook’s arms.

Jungkook hesitates, still overwhelmed by how much thought Yoongi has put into this. “Isn’t this… a bit too much for a tea... party?”

“Not for this one.” Yoongi says matter-of-factly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Trust me, this is how you blend in while still making a statement.. you're gonna thank me for this.”

A few minutes later, Jungkook emerges from the dressing area, and Yoongi’s face lights up in approval, completely satisfied with his work.

The prussian blue coat fits Jungkook perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders, while the silky light blue shirt adds a sophisticated edge. The trousers and polished loafers complete the look, and the diamond brooch glimmers subtly, tying everything together seamlessly. (jungkook's full outfit if u want to visualize it)

Yoongi whistles low, nodding. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You look insanely good.” he claps. Jungkook glances at himself in the mirror, stunned by the transformation. “I look… fancy.” he mutters, running a hand down the soft fabric of the coat.

Yoongi smirks. “You look expensive. And that’s exactly the point.”

As the clock strikes 5, Jungkook’s phone buzzes with a message from you. It’s the address of the place he’s supposed to go. The pit in his stomach deepens as he reads it... nerves gnawing at him now that the event feels real and imminent.

He stands in Yoongi’s room, fidgeting with the cuffs of the silky dress shirt he's wearing, while Yoongi carefully styles his hair. After a few minutes of fussing, Yoongi steps back, his expression satisfied. “There.... perfect.” he quips with a smirk.

Jungkook sighs, taking in his reflection. He looks different... polished, refined, like someone who owns a portfolio full of stocks and leaves enormous tips at fancy restaurants without a second thought. He tilts his head, still processing the transformation.

“Let’s head out?” Yoongi suggests, and though still hesitant, Jungkook nods, grabbing his phone and wallet before following Yoongi downstairs.

When they step outside, the familiar luxury of Yoongi's estate greets him and he instantly notices that this time, Yoongi has opted for a different car... a sleek, deep-red Ferrari Roma. The polished exterior gleams under the fading daylight, and Jungkook can’t help but gawk. "This car looks like it belongs in a museum." he mutters, still trying to process Yoongi’s absurdly lavish lifestyle.

The same guard from earlier appears, carrying Jungkook’s luggage, which he efficiently loads into the the car's surprisingly spacious trunk. Yoongi slides into the driver’s seat, revving the engine, and the low, throaty hum fills the air.

Jungkook gets into the passenger seat, muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

Yoongi chuckles as he adjusts the rearview mirror. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Thank you, Yoongi, for giving me a taste of luxury.’” he jokes.

The ride to the address you’ve shared isn’t long, but with each passing kilometer, Jungkook grows more apprehensive. The city’s bustling streets fade away, replaced by quieter, tree-lined roads. And as the sun finally sets, the atmosphere feels secluded and serene, the kind of area reserved for only the wealthiest of the wealthy.

By the time they approach the destination, it’s almost completely dark, and the surroundings are cloaked in shadow. Eventually, the headlights illuminate a massive iron gate adorned with intricate designs, the kind that looks custom-made and costs more than an average car.

Tall stone pillars flank the gate, with elegant golden lettering engraved on plaques— 'The Kims' etched prominently.

The GPS pings, signaling they’ve arrived. Before Jungkook can say a word, the gates swing open automatically, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with towering, perfectly trimmed trees. A soft glow from decorative lanterns illuminates the path, casting an ethereal ambiance over the grounds.

“Is this a driveway or a runway?” Jungkook mutters as the car rolls forward. The sheer length of the driveway seems surreal and it takes them almost five minutes to reach the end.

When they finally arrive, Yoongi slams on the brakes, his jaw dropping. “Holy fuck…” he breathes, gripping the steering wheel tightly. His voice is barely above a whisper as he asks, “Are you seeing this?”

Jungkook stares, utterly gobsmacked. Before them stands an enormous mansion, more like a palace than a home. The architecture is a seamless blend of modern elegance and classic grandeur.

A sprawling facade of pristine white marble reflects the soft golden lights strategically placed along the perimeter. Massive glass windows stretch across the mansion, framed by intricate black ironwork.

A fountain stands proudly in the center of the circular driveway, water cascading gracefully in the glow of ambient lights. The front doors are enormous, crafted from dark wood and adorned with golden handles that look like they belong in a royal palace.

Behind the mansion, faint silhouettes of sprawling gardens and additional wings of the estate hint at just how vast this property is. Jungkook feels like he’s stepped into a movie. His voice is barely audible as he murmurs. “This… This is where Y/N lives?”

“Dude...” Yoongi says, still staring at the mansion. “I told you my place would be nothing compared to this.”

As Yoongi is still marveling at the house, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s afraid to blink and miss something, Jungkook’s gaze drifts beyond the car's window.

Near the expansive lawn and the grand entrance of the mansion, groups of people mingle, their laughter and chatter carried on the soft evening breeze. It’s all so overwhelming, but then his eyes land on you, and suddenly, the world seems to still.

You’re standing by the grand double doors, chatting with two women who appear equally elegant. But his focus is entirely on you. You’re dressed in a stunning emerald green gown that hugs your figure just right.

The strapless design accentuates your shoulders and collarbones, and the gown flows down in soft, silky waves, brushing against the floor with every slight movement. A string of delicate pearls adorns your chest, their soft sheen catching the light with each turn of your head.

Your hair is styled in a way that frames your face beautifully, soft tendrils brushing against your cheeks. The golden glow of the mansion’s lights reflects in your eyes, making them look like the night sky dotted with stars.

You smile at something one of the girls says, and that smile... it’s the kind that makes Jungkook’s heart skip a beat, the kind that could light up even the darkest of nights.

As he sits there in Yoongi’s car, rooted to his seat, he can’t help but take in your beauty. The way you carry yourself with such grace and confidence, as though you were born to belong in a setting as grand as this. Jungkook feels his throat tighten. How? How on earth had someone like him... ordinary, flawed, and a complete mess half the time, ever managed to end up with someone like you?

You’re perfect, he thinks, in every sense of the word. From the sparkle in your eyes to the way your laughter carries, soft and melodic, across the air. He feels a pang of disbelief, as though at any moment someone might tap him on the shoulder and tell him it’s all been a dream.

His hand clenches slightly against his knee as he leans back into the seat, still staring at you, unable to look away.

And like magic, your eyes meet his from across the expanse. It’s as though the crowd and the grandeur of the mansion fade into nothing, leaving just the two of you in your own world.

Your expression instantly lights up, a radiant smile spreading across your face. You excuse yourself from the two women without the slightest bit of hesitation, your steps purposeful as you make your way towards the car parked by the grand fountain.

“Oh my god, she’s coming… she’s coming here.” Jungkook mutters under his breath, panic and exhilaration twisting together in his chest. His words snap Yoongi out of his trance, but before Yoongi can even react, Jungkook is already out of the car.

“Baby... you made it.... Hi.” you say, your voice sweet and filled with warmth as you approach him. Without a second thought, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. The faint scent of your perfume envelops him, soft and comforting, and for a moment, he’s too stunned to move.

Just seconds ago, Jungkook’s mind had been a mixture of nerves and doubts, the unfamiliar surroundings and the weight of everything he’d learned earlier still pressing on him. But now, as he feels your arms around him and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest, all of that melts away.

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. In your embrace, the humoungous mansion, the status of those around him, and the intimidating luxury that surrounded him, no longer mattered. None of it.

Right here, right now, he feels safe. He feels like he belongs... not with the wealth, not with the prestige, but with you. It’s in the way your presence calms his racing heart, in the way your touch grounds him. With you, it feels like home.

And in that moment, he knows. No matter how out of place he might feel in this world of opulence, as long as he has you, he’ll always belong.

“Ahem.” Yoongi clears his throat, a playful glint in his eyes as he watches the two of you pull away from the hug. He stands by the side of the car, arms casually crossed, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. His gaze flicks between you and Jungkook, his eyebrows wiggling as if to silently ask... Are you going to introduce me, or what?

Jungkook’s eyes travel to Yoongi, and the subtle shift in his expression tells Yoongi that he’s caught on to the unspoken request. He gives a small, sheepish chuckle, the tension that had lingered before, now dissipating.

“Babe, this is Yoongi.” he says, his voice soft but genuine as he reaches out to encircle your waist again, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of your back. He turns his head to Yoongi with a grin. “And Yoongi… this is Y/n.”

You look at Yoongi, a warm and open smile immediately spreading across your face. You’ve only heard bits and pieces of stories about him from Jungkook, but you already have a good sense of his nature. “Yoongi, hi!” you greet him, your voice bubbling with kindness.

“Thank you so much for bringing him. I'm a little mad at you for stealing him away from me on his very first day here...” you tease, your eyes sparkling as you glance up at Jungkook. “But I still get it. I guess I’ll forgive you... only this time, though.”

Yoongi chuckles, genuinely amused by your playfulness. He raises his arms, giving a mock bow, and offers a teasing apology. “I apologize. But thank you for letting him come meet me. It was really nice catching up after all these years." he sincerely says.

You smile at the sentiment, inching closer to Jungkook as you move past the brief formality. The three of you stand for a moment, the evening breeze and the sound of the water splashing in the fountain, wrapping around you.

The conversation feels comfortable, like a warm, shared space where everyone is still figuring each other out but already enjoying the connections being made.

Then, with a sudden idea that seems to come naturally to you, you look up at Yoongi with a soft but insistent smile. “Why don’t you join us tonight? It’ll be fun.” you suggest, your tone light but sincere.

Yoongi looks like he’s about to refuse, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he opens his mouth to protest. “Oh, my god, no. It’s alright, really-”

You cut him off gently, your voice light with the promise of something easy and enjoyable. “Oh, come on. It’ll be amazing. Besides you're already here and I would feel like a horrible person if I just sent you away without an invitation. Plus, I'm pretty sure you'll find some you know in there.. so please, do come.”

Yoongi hesitates again, the pull of his curiosity and the warmth of your invitation winning him over. But deep down, he knows he’d be stupid to refuse. Why the hell wouldn’t he want to spend his evening at the Kim estate, soaking in the luxury and splendor?

“Well... if you insist…” Yoongi begins, finally giving in with a playful smirk. “I’d be honored to stay.”

Jungkook watches the exchange with a soft grin on his lips, his heart swelling with a quiet affection for you. In moments like these, it’s impossible not to marvel at how effortlessly you make everyone feel at ease.

Your ability to connect with anyone, to put people at ease with your calm demeanor and genuine interest, is one of the things he admires the most about you.

As the three of you enter the mansion, Jungkook’s eyes immediately widen at the sheer gloriousness of the place. The space is expansive, and the walls are adorned with elegant artwork, framed portraits, and intricate carvings that speak of a long history of wealth and taste.

The air smells faintly of fresh flowers and something warm, like vanilla, and the soft lighting gives the house an intimate yet sophisticated feel. He can’t help but be in awe, his footsteps slowing as he takes in the magnificent surroundings. From the grand chandeliers overhead to the tastefully arranged furniture, every corner is meticulously curated.

Suddenly, Yoongi is distracted by a familiar face in the crowd... a friend of his, evidently, who bumps into him as they walk into the entryway. "Yooooo...Yoongi, What are you doing here, dude?" the man beams, instantly dapping him up.

Yoongi’s expression shifts from casual to excited as he greets the man, and soon enough, they’re deep in conversation, his attention completely absorbed by the exchange.

Seizing the moment, you lean over to Jungkook and softly whisper. “Come on, let's leave Yoongi to catch up with his friend." you simply say.

Without giving him an opportunity to agree or protest, you take Jungkook’s hand and lead him up the grand staircase, the polished wooden steps creaking slightly beneath your heels.

The second floor seems even quieter than the first, with only the distant murmur of conversation from the living room and the lawn below. The hallway is empty, the walls lined with family portraits and antique furniture that speaks of both elegance and history.

As you walk down the long corridor, Jungkook follows quietly, his hand wrapped around yours, the warmth of your touch grounding him.

Glancing over your shoulder, you catch his gaze and flash him a playful, flirty smile. Then, with effortless grace, you turn to face him, continuing to walk backwards, your eyes never leaving his, a teasing glint dancing in them.

A comfortable silence settles between you two as your eyes take him in. He looks undeniably charming. The way the outfit fits him, accentuating his sharp features, makes your heart flutter in a way you didn’t expect.

Even though you’ve only been apart for a few hours, you’ve missed him deeply. Unable to find the right words, you let your gaze speak for you, your eyes lingering on him with warmth and admiration, as if memorizing every detail.

“Did I tell you how fucking gorgeous you look tonight?” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the stillness, and you can't help but giggle at the awe in his expression.

His eyes glint with admiration, the kind of look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. He’s not hiding his feelings, and it’s evident from the way he glances at you, his gaze tracing your figure as if trying to etch every detail into his mind.

You feel a spark ignite inside you at his words, but you manage a smile, keeping your composure as you look at him. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” you tease, your steps slowing as he steps closer, releasing your fingers from his hold as he places his hands on your waist, halting you in your tracks.

The corridor feels quieter now, the faint hum of distant chatter fading into the background as his presence fills the space. He pulls you closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I missed you.” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest, his gaze flickering to your lips. And as though it’s second nature, he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft yet passionate kiss.

A smile curls on your lips as you kiss him back, the warmth of the moment sending a flurry of butterflies through you. You can’t understand how he always manages to have this effect on you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

“I missed you too.” you whisper as he pulls away, your eyes catching the faint shimmer of your lip gloss now smudged on his lips.

Despite the intimate moment you’ve just shared, you can’t help but laugh softly. He tilts his head in slight confusion, his brow arching adorably. Without saying a word, you take his hand again, leading him forward down the corridor.

“Come on, I want to show you my room.” you say, your voice light and eager as you guide him further into the corridor.

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise in eagerness as you lead him further down the corridor, past several closed doors. The silence around you both feels almost comforting, as if this is a moment just for the two of you... away from the grandiose of the house and the people downstairs. You’re aware of the weight of the space around you, but in this moment, you’re only aware of him.

“I’ve lived in this house ever since I was a baby...” you continue, your voice quiet but soft, allowing a sense of nostalgia to seep in. “After moving out to New York, the one thing I missed the most was my room.” You look up at him, your smile deepening. “So... I really just... wanted to show it to you.”

Jungkook seems struck by your words, his curiosity piqued, but you don’t elaborate further. You can tell he’s fascinated by the house... he’s seen enough of it already to know it’s not just a regular mansion, but you’re careful not to make him feel overwhelmed.

You don’t want him to think you’re bragging or showing off, not when it comes to your family’s history or the house that’s been passed down for generations. It’s always been a part of you, but you’ve always hated the idea of people seeing you through the lens of privilege.

You’ve never been the type to flaunt it, but the quiet discomfort always lingers. The fear that people will think you’re trying to distance yourself from others or act like you’re somehow above them. It’s why you’ve never told Jungkook much about your background, not in the way some people might expect. You didn’t want him to misunderstand.

As you round a corner and approach your door, Jungkook glances at you, sensing that there’s something more beneath the surface of your words. He opens his mouth to ask, but you cut him off gently with a soft smile, knowing he’ll get to know everything in time.

For now, all that matters is this moment, and as you unlock the door to your room, you can’t help but feel an odd sense of calm. You’ve never shared this part of yourself with anyone before... not like this. But with him, it feels like you’re finally letting him see all of you.

As you switch the lights on, a soft glow fills the room, instantly giving it a warm, inviting ambiance. Jungkook takes a step inside, his gaze sweeping over the delicate details that make up the space. The walls are painted in a blush pink hue, accentuated by crown molding in a creamy white tone.

The furniture matches the aesthetic, with an elegant white queen sized bed and a quilted headboard adorned with tiny, pearl-like studs.

There’s a fluffy cream rug sprawled across the polished wooden floor, and a cozy armchair tucked into the corner beside a tall bookshelf that’s overflowing with colorful novels, fashion magazines and trinkets.

The vanity table by the window catches his attention, its surface sprinkled with makeup items, a small vase of fresh flowers, and neatly arranged bottles of perfume. Above it, a mirror framed with soft golden lights reflects the subtle shimmer of the space.

The walls are brought to life with framed posters of iconic bands and celebrities, each placed thoughtfully, as though telling a story. A string of Polaroid pictures hangs on the wall near the bed, giving the room a personal, nostalgic touch.

He notices little figurines of 'Hello Kitty' on a floating shelf and a small collection of plush toys sitting in a basket near the window seat. The room feels youthful and dreamy, like stepping into a snapshot of your childhood.

Jungkook takes it all in, pausing as his eyes land on the posters and the subtle quirks that reveal glimpses of your younger self. He can’t help but imagine you here as a teenager... probably sprawled out on the bed, reading or listening to music, daydreaming about the future. The thought makes him smile, a warm fondness settling in his chest.

His thoughts are interrupted as you walk over to the vanity and pick up a picture frame, holding it up with a soft smile. “That’s me...” you say, pointing to a baby in the photo. Jungkook steps closer, curious, and his eyes fall on a little version of you, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed. “And that... is Tae.” you continue, pointing to a young toddler that's securely holding you in his tiny arms.

Jungkook chuckles softly, leaning in to get a better look. “You still look the same.” he chuckles, his gaze shifting between the picture and you. "And Taehyung looks like he’s already ready to fight anyone who gets near you." he adds.

You laugh, gently setting the frame back down. You glance at the photo one last time, feeling a small tug of nostalgia before turning to Jungkook, who’s still looking around, clearly charmed by this intimate glimpse into your past.

"Your room is beautiful." he finally says, his voice soft with admiration as his gaze takes in the delicate details surrounding him. He can't believe he's being shown this deeply personal part of your life, and it makes him feel incredibly special.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck with a tender smile. "Thank you, baby. I'm so glad I could show it to you." you say, pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Just as the moment seems perfect, your expression shifts like you've suddenly remembered something crucial. "Oh my god! wait... no way... I totally forgot!!" you exclaim, breaking away from him.

Jungkook is bewildered for what feels like the hundredth time today as you grab his hand and practically drag him out of the room and down the long corridor. He's still trying to process what’s happening when you lead him back downstairs. His eyes dart around, noticing the guests still lost in their conversations, oblivious to the two of you passing by.

"I told my mom I'd introduce you to her the minute you'd arrive but… I totally forgot!" you admit hurriedly, your voice tinged with a mix of excitement and guilt as you weave through the crowd.

The words hit Jungkook like a bolt of lightning, and his eyes widen in panic. Your mom? He was going to meet your mom? Right now? No warning, no preparation? He feels a surge of anxiety bubbling up in his chest.

"Wait... wait!" he halts abruptly, tugging your hand so you’re forced to turn around and look at him in confusion. "Babe, a warning would have been nice. I need to prepare myself for this moment... this is your mom we're talking about." he breathes out, clutching his chest dramatically.

You chuckle, brushing off his concerns with ease. "Oh, come on, Kook. She's just my mom. You'll be fine, I promise." you assure, gently tugging his hand again, urging him to follow you.

Reluctantly, Jungkook lets himself be led through a side door and into what appears to be the kitchen. As soon as he steps inside, he’s overwhelmed by the bustling atmosphere. The space is alive with activity... chefs moving in synchrony, slicing, plating, and perfecting dishes with meticulous attention to the tiniest details.

The scent of freshly baked bread mingles with the aroma of roasted meat and delicate spices, creating a sensory overload.

Jungkook’s gaze darts from one end of the kitchen to the other, trying to absorb everything at once. A massive spread of colorful dishes is being prepared on a long marble countertop, and he doesn’t even know where to focus. For a moment, he forgets his nerves as he marvels at the organized chaos around him.

"Stay with me." you murmur, squeezing his hand reassuringly. But Jungkook can’t help but think about how this might be the most intimidating moment of his life... meeting your mom in the middle of what feels like a five-star culinary operation.

You glance around the bustling kitchen, scanning the scene for your mom. It doesn’t take long before you spot her back as she leans slightly towards one of the chefs, gesturing animatedly while the chef nods thoughtfully, hanging on her every word.

There’s a commanding yet sophisticated presence about her, and the sight makes a smile creep onto your lips. Without hesitation, you tug Jungkook along, your excitement bubbling over. “Mama!!” you call out, your voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen.

At first, she doesn’t respond, too engrossed in giving precise instructions about something to the chef. You don’t mind, though because you know how focused she can get when she’s in her element.

As you approach her, you release Jungkook’s hand, letting him stand beside you as he instinctively straightens his coat, smoothing the fabric nervously.

Now only a few steps away, you finally stop, waiting patiently for her to finish her instructions. Jungkook stands a little stiffly next to you, his hands clasped in front of him as he watches the exchange, silently psyching himself up for what’s coming next.

Once she finishes instructing the chef, she finally turns around, her soft features lighting up with a smile when her eyes land on you. “Y/N.” she says warmly, acknowledging you.

Her appearance is effortlessly chic, exuding an aura of power and sophistication. Dressed in a sleek, wine colored dress paired with a delicate pearl necklace and stud earrings, she looks into your eyes.

Her posture is immaculate, shoulders back, chin high, and she carries herself with an air of unshakable authority. Her eyes... sharp and piercing, hold a fierceness that can make anyone squirm under her gaze.

She’s never been the one to smile easily, and even now, her expression holds a seriousness that makes Jungkook feel like he’s being sized up before he’s even said a word.

But when her eyes shift to Jungkook, her demeanor subtly changes. The faint smile that played on her lips moments ago falters, replaced by a look of mild disapproval.

One of her eyebrows arches as she takes in the man standing beside you, and Jungkook immediately feels the weight of her scrutiny. It’s clear from the way her gaze lingers that she’s not the least bit pleased to meet him.

“Mama, this is Jungkook.” you begin sweetly, your voice light and cheerful, as if trying to bridge the gap of tension. “I told you I was bringing him.” You smile at her, radiating warmth, but it’s met with a polite but distant smile from her, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jungkook isn’t blind to it, he can see the coldness lurking behind her expression.

“Hello.” she finally says, her tone neutral, devoid of warmth. Her words are carefully measured, making Jungkook feel like she’s already testing him.

He feels his heart rate spike, but he doesn’t let it show. With a deep breath, he bows at a perfect right angle, his voice steady as he speaks. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Jeon Jungkook.” He straightens up, his posture confident despite the nervous energy coursing through him.

He meets her fierce gaze head-on, determined to make a good impression, though her icy stare makes him feel like he’s being dissected.

You glance at Jungkook, noticing his effort, and squeeze his hand briefly before stepping closer to your mother, hoping to ease the tension.

She nods curtly as Jungkook introduces himself, her sharp eyes trailing over him from head to toe, as though she’s analyzing every detail.

"So, you're from New York?" she asks suddenly, her voice carrying an edge that makes Jungkook straighten his posture. The question catches him slightly off guard, but he quickly nods in acknowledgment.

"Yes, ma’am." he answers politely, his voice steady.

Your mother narrows her eyes slightly, a calculating look flashing across her face. "I'm sure you've noticed how different things are around here... in Korea." she says, her tone almost conversational, though there's an unmistakable undercurrent of something more. "Very different from your... western culture." she adds, the words laced with what feels like a taunt.

You shift uncomfortably, sensing the rising tension. Jungkook hesitates, unsure of how to respond, and you decide to step in. "Mama, he lived in Korea before he moved to New York..." you explain gently, trying to diffuse the situation. "I'm sure he knows how things are around here."

But your mother doesn't acknowledge your reassurance. Her piercing gaze stays fixed on Jungkook. "Your parents?" she asks next, one eyebrow raised, her expression unyielding.

Jungkook’s throat tightens as he answers, his tone polite but guarded. "My mom... she owns a café in New York." he replies, hoping to keep the answer straightforward.

Your mother’s expression barely changes, but Jungkook notices the faintest flicker of disapproval in her eyes. It’s subtle, but it cuts deep. "Ah... so it's only your mother, then?" she probes further, her voice calm but pointed.

You feel your stomach drop at her words, the implicit judgment in her tone impossible to miss. Your protective instincts kick in immediately, and before she can say anything more, you interject.

"Okay, Mama, that's enough interrogation for now..." you say, your voice cheerful but firm as you grab Jungkook’s hand. "We need to get going. Grandma is going to be here any minute now... and the party is going to start soon." you add.

Jungkook notices the way her eyes flick down to your intertwined hands, and her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She doesn’t say anything, though, merely nodding stiffly as she steps back.

Before the situation can escalate further, you tug Jungkook out of the kitchen and into the hallway. As soon as you’re out of your mother's sight, you stop and turn to him, your expression apologetic.

"I am so so so sorry for that." you say quickly, your eyes scanning his face. You can see how pale he looks, the color drained from his cheeks. The conversation clearly rattled him, and it breaks your heart.

"I don’t know why she was acting like that." you continue, your voice softening as you place a comforting hand on his cheek. "I’m really sorry, baby. That wasn’t fair to you."

Jungkook exhales slowly, feeling the warmth of your palm against his skin. He hates how unsettled he feels, the subtle but unmistakable judgment in your mother’s eyes still gnawing at him.

He’s not naive, he knows exactly what her words and looks implied. But he doesn’t want to burden you with his feelings, so he forces a small smile and shrugs.

"Please... don’t apologize." he says gently, his voice calm but distant. "She’s your mother. I get why she’d question me like that... I’m dating her daughter, after all." he reasons.

His attempt to brush it off doesn’t fool you, but you decide not to push him. Instead, you give his cheek a small caress, hoping to soothe him.

Sensing the heaviness lingering between you, Jungkook shifts the conversation. "Anyways... don’t we have a tea party to get to?" he asks with a soft laugh, trying to lighten the mood despite the war in his mind.

You know he’s deflecting, choosing not to dwell on the interaction with your mother. So you let him, offering him a gentle smile in return. "We do." you reply softly, squeezing his hand. "Come on, let’s go."

As Jungkook trails behind you, the weight in his chest feels almost suffocating, each step amplifying the unease swirling in his mind.

Three weeks... that’s how long he’s going to be here for. The thought echoes in his head, heavier with every repetition.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to endure it, not when your mother’s piercing gaze feels like it sees right through him, layered with unspoken judgments that cut deeper than words ever could.

The very idea looms ahead, an uphill battle he isn’t sure he’s equipped to fight, yet one he knows he cannot avoid.

<- part 1

taglist: @mirinaeii @taetaecatboy (lmk if u want to be added <3)

#jungkook fic #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #bts #bts jungkook #bts fic #enemies to lovers #jungkook fanfiction #crazy rich asians

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sunfairiess · 15 hours ago

Text

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐣𝐣 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tropes: 3rd person narration | soft boy jj | best friends to lovers | comfort | fluff

synopsis: reader’s battling against anxiety and during one of her anxiety attacks, jj’s there to help her.

warnings: heavy depiction of anxiety, anxiety attack.

wc: 2.1k

writing this as someone who suffers from anxiety and deals with it on her own, was really emotional; if you find yourself in this position too, please don’t be afraid to ask for help. mental health matters <3

song rec: breathin - ariana grande ♡

everyone fights their own monsters, some are physically visible, others are perceived. some people have to fight against their families, some against their friends. but one of the biggest and worst challenges, was to fight against your own head.

everyone is tormented by their own monsters. hers is called anxiety, the beast who had ruined her life.

at school, her grades started to drop because she was just so tired all the time she couldn’t even bring herself to open the textbook; half of the foods she used to love were cut out of her daily routine because she would get constant heartburn and stomach problems to the point where she wasn’t able to consume a full meal for days.

when it came to sleeping, she couldn’t fall asleep because her mind was always racing with awful thoughts. what if i don’t wake up tomorrow? do my friends hate me because i didn’t go out with them today? is my heart supposed to beat so fast? my back is hurting, is this a health condition? am i going to be alone forever? usually she would go on for hours, reaching three or four in the morning, until she either cried herself to sleep or she almost passed out because of how tired she was.

going out of the house became hard. she became afraid of taking public transportation because what if someone tried to rob her or kidnap her. she couldn’t take long walks anymore because what if something happens and i’m alone. she even had to stop going to parties because she couldn’t stand big and loud crowds of people anymore.

her mental pain became physical: constantly having back problems, her chest and throat always felt too tight to breathe, her body tingling out of nowhere all the time.

it would’ve been a lie to say all of this didn’t reflected onto her relationship with others; she never told anyone about her own problems, not that they could help anyway. so when she started to hang out less with her friends, she always had to lie. i’m grounded, i can’t go out. sorry, i have too much homework to do. i have the flu, i can’t come. my dad needs my help, i’ll come next time. eventually though, she would run out of excuses, and that’s how she ended up for the first time in a month at the château, surrounded by her best friends.

“girl, we haven’t see you in forever, i almost forgot your face.” kiara joked, nudging her a bit with her elbow.

“i know, i’m so sorry guys. past month has been crazy.” which wasn’t a lie per se, she had spent the last weeks having constant anxiety and panic attacks. in the morning, in the afternoon, at night. and every single time she felt like she was about to die, the impending fear of doom creeping inside her. it really started to become unbearable, to the point where she didn’t even notice how many days would go by.

“well you’re here now, that’s what matters.” pope chimed in, giving her a smile. somehow that made her feel a little bit more lighter, knowing that her friends didn’t actually hated her. anxiety made her overthink every little detail of her life.

even though she tried to appear relaxed the whole night, she still felt like she was being chocked by an imaginary hand, pressing harder every time she breathed. she was grateful that none of her friends noticed the stiffness in her body, it would’ve been to hard to explain everything.

at least she thought no one noticed. jj noticed, he always did. he would observe every little detail about her. and from the moment she stepped into the château he hadn’t been able to keep his gaze off of her, not even for a second. he missed her. he hadn’t seen her in weeks and he had become restless. day and night he would think about her, what she was doing, if she missed him, if she too dreamed about him like he did about her. that’s how it felt being in love with your best friend.

jj knew something was up with her. she was always full of joy and energy, but bow it seemed like she had lost her spark. he knew there was something wrong, especially when he saw her fidgeting with her rings, gazing anxiously around her. he knew something was wrong when she got up, excusing herself from the conversation, and almost running to the bathroom.

following her wasn’t probably too good of an idea, but jj was impulsive, so he did it anyway. amen to that, he would’ve dealt with the consequences later, like his confused friends asking him what the heck was going on.

as he entered the bathroom, she was sat on the toilet. her face so pale you would think she was about to pass out.

he sees her as she stares into the wall, her eyes fixed in front of her, full of fear. he notices as she bring her right hand to her throat, sliding slowly down her chest and pressing hard. he hears her breathing going faster and heavier, like she couldn’t catch a full breath. her hands shaking as she tries to ground herself and not slip into the arms of her anxiety.

jj had no idea of what an anxiety attack looked like, he had been fortunate enough to never had one, but he always thought they had to feel awful for whoever got them. but seeing her, his sweet little sunshine, shaking all over the place and being surrounded by a cloud of darkness around her, made his heart break into a thousand millions pieces. he wanted to help her, but he didn’t know how to do it in the right way. he just wanted to do something, and so he did.

“sunshine, hey. baby, look at me. c’mon lemme see your pretty eyes.” he kneeled in front of her, placing both of his hands on her knees and gently rubbing his thumbs against them.

everything was spinning around her, thoughts racing with all the emotions she bottled up and all the fears she always had. she couldn’t stop them, it felt like she was going to be swallowed up by a black vortex. but then she heard his voice, it was like hearing an angel talking. her gaze slowly shifted from the white wall to his eyes, his gorgeous blue eyes, usually shining like stars when they looked at her, but now they were the depiction of concern. she felt a sharp feeling of guiltiness running through her your veins, because the last thing she wanted was to make him sad.

“that’s it, baby. you are so pretty, my pretty girl.” he gave her a soft smile, slowly moving his hands from her knees to her thighs. he wanted to pull her close and hug her, but one time— and thank god for him and the one time jj actually listened to what he said— pope told him that when people had anxiety or panic attacks, most of the time they didn’t wanted to be touched. so, instead of being the usual impulsive jj he was with everyone, he took baby steps with her, not wanting to scare her or make her even more anxious.

her breath was slowly calming down, but the aching in your chest and the lump in her throat were still there, still feeling like she was going to suffocate any moment now, but jj pulled her out of her thoughts again.

“alright pretty girl, i need you to do something for me, ‘kay? i need you to take deep breaths with me, i know it’s hard but i’m here. you’re safe, i won’t let anything happen to you. breathe with me, baby.” his voice was so sweet and gentle, she actually thought she was going to cry because of how soft he was speaking to her and how he was trying to handle the situation. she nodded slightly, following his example as he took one deep breath and then exhaled. one deep breath and exhaled. inhale and exhale. and they went on, and on, until the tension she felt before started to leave her body, making her shoulders and back relax and her hands stop shaking.

jj didn’t say anything this time, he just looked as she regained consciousness of her surroundings. even though the attack was gone, it usually took hours before she could actually calm down completely. it was hard and she always handled them alone, but this time having him with her felt like a blessing from heaven.

feeling like she had just been pulled out of a dark hole, she launched herself into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck. he let out a sigh as soon as he felt her flesh touch his own, his arms reaching for her hips and his face buried deep into the crook of her neck. they stayed like this for a almost twenty minutes. he only pulled her in tighter, not wanting to let go of her because he knew as long as she was into his arms, she was safe.

30 minutes later they were laying next to each other in the hammock, her head resting on his chest, the sound of his heart beating calming her, like a lullaby. his hands were both placed on her back, rubbing small circles against the thin fabric of her shirt.

jj really didn’t want to break the peacefulness that surrounded them, but he had to ask her why she never told him anything. he felt like he was failing at being her best friend. “why did you never tell me?” his voice was low, sounding almost like a whisper.

“i- i don’t know. i didn’t want to bother anyone, didn’t want to be a burden.” jj stopped moving his hands on her back, instantly lifting his head to look at her.

“okay, know that i’m not mad, but, firstly, i’m not anyone. i’m your best friend, you would never be a burden to me.” his hands moved to her cheeks, lifting her face. “i’ve been through hell and back these past weeks. not seeing you, not talking to you for more than 5 minutes on the phone, not touching you. it nearly killed me, y/n. i was always on the edge of a breakdown, constantly snapping at everyone because i didn’t know how you were doing. were you safe? were you alright? not knowing made me go insane.”

he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. he was pouring his heart out, which he never do, but he just felt like he had to do it now. “and i’m not saying this to make you feel guilty, that’s the last thing i want. i just wish for you to know how much you mean to me. you’re the most important person in my life, you’re my best friend, my ride or die, my partner in crime. you- you’re my first love, and hopefully you’ll be my last one too.”

her eyes went wide at his words, and honestly she thought she heard him wrong. “jj, what- what are you saying?”

“i know the night wasn’t perfect, but please just lemme say this now because i don’t know when i’ll get the same courage again. i love you, y/n. i love everything about you. i love that weird sound you make when you laugh too much, i love how your eyes shine when you’re talking about things you like, i love how after surfing your hair become all curly. hell, i love even the things you do that should piss me off, like when you throw away my joint because i’ve been smoking too much or when you scream at me because i got in a fight with some kooks again. i love you so much it physically hurts.”

her eyes were watery now, tears threatening to coming out in flows. she didn’t know what to say. because seriously, what do you say to someone who sees you as the most incredible human being, when you can’t even love a quarter of yourself?

you say nothing. but you can do something.

that’s why, in the quietness of the night, under the stars and while she was feeling at peace for the first time in weeks, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against it.

she wasn’t magically healed, she still had things to deal with. but now, she wasn’t on her own anymore.

#outer banks #jj obx #obx #obx1 #obx4 #jj maybank #jj outer banks #obx season 4 #jj x y/n #jj maybank obx #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #jj x you #jj x reader

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madameevil · 2 days ago

Text

I'll try to divide this into 2 parts. First part using game codex entries, other DA canon media, etc to refute points or counter points. Second to point out how some of these points are due to personal interpretations differing. So basically... let's use "facts" for most of the first half and "opinions" in the second. No guarantee that'll work out as I type this but that's the goal at least.

"Solas already knows who Rook is. He doesn't need much time to know who Rook is, it's not a problem for him." Ok but he doesn't. He thinks he does. He thinks he has Rook all pinned down. It's why he doesn't expect Rook to escape the Prison of Regret but Rook does. Solas is convinced that all of his manipulation to get Rook to drown in regret is enough to keep them trapped in that prison. In his pride, he doesn't expect Rook to escape. He once again doesn't expect Rook to see through his final betrayal about the veil. He also doesn't expect Rook to have enough cards by the end to stop him (which is conditional based on what you do in the game)

"If Cassandra rebuilds the Seekers, she is able to deal with emerging cults and unrest quite swiftly (according to the endings)." The ending slide literally says "showing no interest in worldly affairs" - Are you thinking of a different ending slide? Or a different quote? I honestly don't remember this being mentioned at all and can't find any reference to it. Cassandra also spent time in the Hunterhorn Mountains north of Orlais, where she worked to rebuild the Seekers. For a time, the new Seekers remained reclusive, showing no interest in worldly affairs and working to a purpose few outside their order could guess.

"Also, Friends of the Red Jenny are implied to operate throughout the entire Thedas and have quite a history (they've been mentioned since DA:O). So, for them not to be mentioned at all during the events makes no sense." They started as an organization based out of Ferelden and expanded to (areas that we know) Kirkwall, Orlais, Starkhaven, Tantervale, and Nevarra. They're not described as a powerful global organization. They're peppered throughout Thedas where they can get a foothold. We don't have proof or any mention of them being a thing in Tevinter or Antiva.

"Venatori should not even be a thing. Venatori rose to power only because of the Corypheus" The Venatori at their core are a cult of Tevinter-Mage Supremacists. That ideology doesn't just vanish or appear suddenly. The ideology is deeply rooted in the Tevinter Imperium. Even Dorian points out that many magisters still privately support the Venatori's ideas. While they won't outright sanction it. The Venatori's power increase may be directly tied to Corypheus but these ideologies have been present in Tevinter for a long ass time.

"So, at best there should be some Venatori cults present - but they won't be having that much power because they no longer have structure, they no longer have their god-magister, and they have nothing to sway magisters on their side - especially if they failed to provide any alternative to Corypheus in 10 years and went back to worshipping the Old Gods. [...] To make them the main problem is lazy writing." I don't think we need to get into a lesson on power vacuums here but let's just use the definition of "when someone in a place of power, has lost control of something and no one has replaced them." With Corypheus gone there is a power vacuum. A cult of fanatics don't just say "oh well, guess we'll go home now." According to Tevinter Nights (which the franchise being a mixed-media franchise has it's own problems), while a lot distanced themselves from the Venatori there were still a good number of loyalists who remained active. This leads to Aelia trying to fill in that role. She does gain a decent amount of support for it. Even when she's "captured" she has enough sway to escape prison and cause problems. Why? Because the Venatori's ideology is appealing to a lot of people in Tevinter even if they don't directly associate with the cult. However, with her "failure" we have another power vacuum present - so why is it "lazy writing" to have the emergence of another powerful mage that speaks like Corypheus and offer power similarly to what he did fill that?

"It makes no sense for the Venatori to be the main bad guys because the entire Tevinter fucking sucks already. It's has a horrible, hedonistic and power-obsessed ruling class where dominating the weak is considered good manners. Dorian should be having his hands full by fighting the entire Senate on such concepts as "slavery is bad" and "we should treat non-mages as people" - because Tevinter abhors change and its power is full of assholes like Aurelian Titus. The Venatori are just one shade of ugly the Tevinter has - and not the most prominent one." The supremacist ideology of the Venatori embody everything you're saying here. The examples you're giving are all part of the supremacist mindset. Hedonistic and power-obsessed ruling class? Yep. "Slavery is bad" and "we should treat non-mages as people" Those two concepts are directly against the supremacists ideology. We also do get some notes from Dorian doing just that Veilguard. The Venatori isn't just one shade of ugly, it's the embodiment of everything wrong in Tevinter. It's the supremacist ideology given form.

"Yes, it makes sense for Varric and Harding to take part in the search for Solas - but I can't believe that Rook at least hadn't been approved by the Inquisitor. and that Rook doesn't have means to contact the Inquisitor for further instructions in case something happens to Varric, or Harding or both of them. This is counter-productive." Varric is the one tasked with forming a small team. It's his responsibility to form that team and onboard people and vet them. With the way it's framed in "The Missing" Varric had full authority to bring on whoever. He didn't need approval. They kept in touch via Charter and sent correspondence to the Inquisitor but there wasn't any need for approval. Varric is the main path and Harding is the back up. That's 2 channels. Until the incident happens to Varric that seems standard. When the incident happens with Varric, then I believe Harding should have introduced Rook and the Inquisitor sooner to keep that practice of a back up channel open. Harding does reach out to Charter pretty early to inform them about what happened to Varric and mention Rook. I would have liked an Inquisitor meeting or letter sooner though.

I think below is where different interpretations come in.

"Solas knows how Leliana and Josephine operate, but that's not going to stop them - and it should not stop them when the fate of the world is at stake." You think they wouldn't let that stop them. I think they're smart enough to not continue to play an active part if any information they get or send off is information Solas is spoon feeding them. If their continued involvement would cause more harm then good then yea, I think they would take a step back. I think they would hand off the reigns to others.

"However, it's going to be insanely ha[r]d to prove the threat to anyone else and then tell them to go find Solas. At the same time, intentionally holding back information about what Solas really is means sending the "someone Solas doesn't know" to their death. They go after Solas, thinking it's just a really strong mage - and they don't know that it's actually an ancient god." Given Varric's line to Neve at the beginning, Varric is upfront with the information: "I also told you he was an ancient elven god." Whether the person believes them is dependent on the person. Rook has been tracking Solas with Varric for a year or so. I think by now they've witnessed enough to believe Varric's information.

"And she is going to stop now, after it's revealed that the threat isn't gone? There is no way she won't be an active participant. Even the fact that Seekers aren't welcome isn't going to stop her." I do actually think that the threat of severe political consequences should a southern religious military group make moves in a northern territory under a different religion would dissuade her. Cassandra isn't stupid. We also see her get less rash in Inquisition. We see her stop and think things through more. So actually, yes I do think that since mobilizing Seekers in Northern territory could at worse be seen as an act of war she would let it stop her. She even says at the end of trespasser "we need to be careful."

"Basically, it meant that the Inquisitor and their allies were going to try harder, learn what they can and find new resources, new information, any leverage possible. This is why the Inquisitor sets their course for Tevinter at the end of Trespasser: they were preparing to cooperate with a controversial state, pulling strings and calling favors, finding people with an ample knowledge of magic and ancient history that could assist them with finding any clues;"

L: "My agents have found nothing with the eluvians he could be anywhere"

C: [Dialogue about whether you disbanded or kept the Inquisition]

L: "We have what we truly need."

C: "We will need to be careful."

L: "Solas knows everything about us. Who we are. How we work. Our strengths and weaknesses"

Inky: "Then we find people he doesn't know." [Dialogue about if you are saving him or stopping him]

I do think this means they were going to find new allies and new people. Tevinter Imperium is a good place to start looking for that. And all this plays out through the comics and Harding and Varric's stories. (which again making the series Mixed-media has it's own complications) They do find new allies through their journey. They do find people who have ample knowledge of magic and ancient history. This idea also continues to play out in Veilguard. We find someone who has connections. We find someone who has ample knowledge of ancient magics and history. We find someone who has ample knowledge of the fade since that's what Solas was directly trying to manipulate.

I do not think it implicitly means what you've interpreted it to. I think that's how you interpreted that and I think that's a valid interpretation of it. Unfortunately that's not where they took it. That's also now how I interpreted it. I think a lot of the fandom interpreted this in different ways and that leads to disappointment if their interpretation wasn't correct. I think that's what's happening to you here. I don't think Bioware not catering to your interpretation means "they don't care." or anything like that. I think it's just that what you predicted or assumed based on the information provided ended up being incorrect. Other people predicted it correctly. If anything this just means that the marketing team could have done better at setting expectations and making sure everyone was on the same page.

oh my god that was a lot to type.

I don't think the game is perfect by any standards (no game is). There are things I wish they could have included or flushed out more, but I don't think any of that was done by Bioware devs "not caring." I think the Bioware team does actually really love their world and lore of Dragon Age. To quote their artbook (which is actually insane to look at):

"Art books like this one are the perfect opportunity to showcase what you don't see in the finished product: the inspiration, the blueprints, the unused drafts. We barked up a lot of wrong trees. We explored some wild directions--some ending in dead ends, others ending in precious treasure. We also created a lot of material that we liked but didn't have the capacity to build (in this game, anyway)."

If Bioware truly didn't love and care for their world and lore, the artbook wouldn't be as beautiful and jam packed as it is. There wouldn't be other medias of the series: books, comics, animations, movies.

But Bioware can't just make whatever they want. Bioware is owned by EA (not just published through them. OWNED by them). Bioware has to pay people to make the games. They need to get the funding and approval from EA to do so. This means that no matter how passionate the team is, there's only so much they can do and EA gets a huge say in what that is. EA who explicitly stated earlier AFTER BG3 released that they don't think single player story based games are worth investing in. WHICH IS INSANE TO ME. EA had them start developing the game one way. EA had them change development midway. EA had them remove all multiplayer pieces. EA cut funding to Bioware forcing them to make cuts in staff.

I guess if we say that a lot of the post is us disagreeing on how things are interpreted and not a misunderstanding of the source material then I can say my main problem with posts like this is that it targets the developers. The developers do seem to really love and care for their world and do want to do more, but they can't do it all. They can't just do everything they want. They have a parent company constantly controlling what they can and can not do. I could agree with a lot more posts if they actually targeted the company causing a lot of the problems, EA - WHO WE ALL ALREADY KNOW IS A SHIT MONEY HUNGRY COMPANY. Instead of the Devs who busted their asses for 10 years wanting to do more and being told to change it or scrap it at every turn.

Bioware writing team has a comfy, sheltered life and it shows

I'm sorry, but how come that the only people Inquisitor sent to look for Solas were Varric and Harding? How come that the only people recruited in 10 years of pursuing Solas were Neve and Rook? Do the writers understand that this is NOT how a serious effort looks like?

What about Leliana? Divine or not, she is still Sister Nightingale with an immense spywork. You'd think she won't mobilize everything she has to track Solas and his followers?

What about Josephine? What, she decided "nah, I'm done" and didn't use any of her diplomatic talents and connections to let the Inquisitor's agents have access, permissions or information they need?

What about Dorian? As a political figure, you'd think he will be the first Minrathous contact for the Inquisitor allies, the one arranging things and providing insights?

What about Cassandra and her Seekers? Isn't she interested in stopping another world-ending threat?

What about Sera and her sabotaging potential? If she organized the group of people for performing vigilante acts, people who are her eyes and ears, how come nobody from her group is helping with the effort?

I get it why Varric takes part in it - he knew Solas, the Inquisitor trusts him and his judgement, but for the game to imply that all the responsibility was lumped on Varric's shoulders is fucking disgraceful. I get it writers, Varric is popular character, and you would use him as bait to your heart's content, but the context you've created implies that Varric might have been the only one to take the threat seriously, while the Inquisitor and the rest were doing God knows what.

Varric should have been handing the Rook information on all the contacts they can recruit, all the useful agents, all the people to work with, not tell them to ask Neve because she might know someone because detective (Neve is a good character, but the fact that people who were supposed to spend 10 years chasing Solas look up to her for finding them contacts is appalling).

"Oh, but all these people were in the previous parts and we don't want to mention previous parts because muh new players" - well, you shot yourselves in the foot. Maybe, just maybe, you should have AT LEAST cared more about the choices made in DAI.

Congrats.

#datv spoilers #dav spoilers #dragon age: the veilguard

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oddwalkerduckarts · 2 days ago

Text

Grassland Romance AU: Winter Winds

Summary: You've been slowly falling in love with Sylus, a strange outsider who joined your tribe some time ago. You haven't been able to pluck up the courage to say anything. However, when you are caught alone in the fiercest blizzard anyone can remember, it might not be up to you anymore.

AO3

CW: AFAB reader, no use of y/n, pet names (sweetie, little huntress), blizzard, hypothermia, hunting, nude spooning, 90% fluff by volume, sexual themes (but no sex), not proofread, melodrama (god so much melodrama).

Word count: 8k

Notes: poor Luke and Kieran have to be dogs in this AU.

“Don’t be stupid,” you scoff, “how can lemmings foretell the weather? Their brains are the size of grass seeds!” The bay mare you’re sitting astride shakes her head, before pawing through the watery, heavy snow on the ground to reach the hidden grasses underneath.

Today, as with most days, you are minding the herds with your friend Cota. The two of you are practically sisters, as her family had raised you after your parents perished when you were a young child.

“I’m not the one who said it!” She protests, leaning back to aim a kick at your foot succeeding at knocking it out of your stirrup. “I’m just telling you what Elder Shikigur said, and he said, ‘There’s too many lemmings moving, there will be a large storm coming.’”

You groan. Blizzards are a continual hazard of grassland winters. Harsh winds are able to scream across the treeless landscape with terrifying fury, tearing through even thick winter deels, and whirling snow into a blinding haze. Preparing for one means rounding up the flocks, reinforcing yurts to hold against wind and snowfall, and digging out of the yurts once the storm is through. They’re critical jobs that need to be done. That is, when the weather actually calls for it.

“It’s practically spring!” You argue, gesturing wildly to the half-melted pasture around the two of you, “It’s so damn warm, that I couldn’t even wear my thickest deel today! I would’ve been covered in sweat!”

Cota shrugs, “I’m just telling you what the elders were gossiping about.”

“Well, regardless of what they say, I’m not taking out my winter deel again until next winter.”

“I bet you would if Sylus asked you to.”

You feel the color rise in your cheeks at the sing-song tease, and the mention of his name.

You aim a return kick at Cota’s leg, but she reins her mare to the side in time to evade you. “I would not! And besides, he’s out with some of the others hunting pheasant, anyway.”

Cota’s smile grows wider, “Oh ho, so you’ve been keeping track of which hunting parties he goes with, huh?”

An irritated groan leaves your throat as your friend laughs. “Aren't you supposed to be heading back about now? I'll tell the elders you've been slacking to sit around and gossip.”

“Aw, don't pout! It's cute, all your pining. You're going to have to do something soon though, otherwise some other girl is going to catch his eye at a festival, and then what will you do?”

“I’m pretty sure you're supposed to be helping with cooking right now, aren't you?”

Cota makes her own irritated groan, “No one likes when I cook anyway!”

“Better that than you sitting here and teasing me.”

She makes a rude gesture at you, and you return it.

"Fine,” she grumbles, “but keep an eye on the weather, okay?”

“Of course, I'll let you know if the lemmings are oracles or not.”

Cota rolls her eyes with a scoff, before reining her horse around and trotting back to the village. It’s good timing, you notice the right side of the herd has started to splinter a bit, and needs to be rounded back in.

As you go about your job, you can’t stop your mind from pondering over your relationship with the strange man.

Sylus had come to the tribe as an outsider a few years ago. Strong and skilled in both riding and archery, he’d been welcomed into the fold immediately, seemingly to his own surprise. His striking appearance had immediately caught many eyes; tall, broad and strong in the chest, with eyes the color of freshly-spilled blood set in a devastatingly handsome face. The one criticism you heard of him was of his curt, reticent nature, that meant he constantly had a severe expression on his face.

Well, almost-constantly.

Within a month after joining the tribe, there had begun to be problems with a particular wolf picking off sheep in the night. It had always seemed to know where to attack, far enough away from any of the herders that it was impossible to reach him in time. It even managed to evade the vigilant Bankhar dogs, who kept constant watch on their flock, and rarely let a wolf’s presence go unpunished. The predator managed to evade everyone. Everyone except Sylus.

It had only taken two nights of Sylus on guard, before he returned in the early morning light, with the giant, tawny corpse of the wolf thrown over one shoulder. He’d managed to kill it, in the dark, with a single arrow to its skull. The entire tribe had celebrated that night; an end to the nights of doubled watches in the dark and lost sheep. Wine and kumis had run freely that night, along with music and dancing in the center of the temporary village.

The wolf’s body had been set aside, to be skinned for the fur and used as linings and blankets to guard against the frigid winter months. Even in death, it still looked fierce, its fur sleek and body corded with lean muscle that reminded you of its killer. You had bent down to examine the bared teeth, sharp and white against the pale flesh of the gums. You reached out to draw your finger over one of the fangs, curious to see if it would be sharp like a knife, or blunt like one of the Bankhar dogs.

“Disturbing the dead?”

The deep voice, close enough to feel against the back of your neck, had you stumbling backwards, and gracelessly falling on your ass. A throaty chuckle came from above your head, and you had looked up to see Sylus, his face smug and scarlet eyes dancing with laughter.

“It doesn’t count if it’s a wolf,” You grumbled, pulling yourself off the ground, “ass.”

His head was cocked to the side as you rose, finger tapping his cheek in mock-thought, “I thought a wolf was supposed to be the father of the first herdsmen? Wouldn’t that make this creature here your cousin?”

“That’s an old story, no one believes that.”

His answering smile was sharp, eyes darkening into a sneer. “Is that so?” He drew closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, and feel the fabric of his deel brushing against yours. The gaze he cast down made you realize what a cornered sheep must feel like in the moments before jaws close around its throat. “I think there’s more of wolves in people than you realize.” His growl was just as deep as the dogs when they scented a threat.

A part of you wanted to shrink down in your boots, make your excuses, and flee. But, a much larger, louder part of you was indignant. How dare this man sneak up on you in the dark, make you fall over in surprise, then have the audacity to growl at you like a beast?

So you had tipped your chin up defiantly, “Better be careful. Apparently even the cleverest wolves get arrows in their heads.”

He had stared at you for a moment. Made a single blink. Then a strange, amused smile curled across his face. “Are you going to be the one to fire it, little huntress?”

“If you don’t back up, maybe I will.”

Sylus chuckled then, backing up a few steps. You released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, body thrumming with… anxiety? Excitement? Both? You couldn’t tell. To distract yourself, you turned your attention back to the kill.

“It’s kind of a shame, really. It’s a pretty creature.”

His head cocked to the side again, though the curiosity in his eyes seemed to be genuine this time. “Feeling bad for the predator?”

“He was just trying to live.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose. “You’re cute.”

“Excuse me?” You look at him, deeply irritated at his patronizing tone.

“Most animals that steal livestock are weak. They’re sick, or injured. Otherwise it just isn’t worth risking the tangle with dogs or people. This one,” he gives the corpse a nudge, “was perfectly healthy. Strong. But instead of using its smarts to take on saiga, or capercaille, it decided to take the easy way out. It never would have stopped, once it knew that it could fool the shepherds.”

You had sighed a little, knowing that in this instance, he was right. “I know. It still seems like a shame. But at least we’ll stop losing so many sheep.”

You had looked up then to find Sylus staring at you with such intensity that you had taken a step backwards. “What?”

He blinked, the intensity dissipating as quickly as a strike of lightning. “Nothing, sweetie.”

“Sweetie?” Your nose wrinkled at the childish nickname.

He gave a small laugh, a mischievous glint coming to his blood red eye, “You feel pity for a predator that would have snapped you up in an instant. It’s very sweet, if maybe a bit naïve.”

“It sounds like something you’d call a toddler.”

“I suppose it does,” the glint was quickly accompanied by an equally mischievous curl to his smirk, “I suppose I’ll have to call you that when you’re acting like a toddler, sweetie.”

“Ugh. Ass.” You’d turned on your heel to return to the fire, trailed by the sound of deep, smug chuckling.

Since then, Sylus always seemed to show up near you, whether you wanted him there or not. And, at least at first, you certainly leaned more towards the former. He had a talent for approaching silently, getting that smugly pleased look from startling you into stumbling or squeaking. He also began to challenge you, goading you into contests or archery, or riding, or throwing knuckle bones. He was nearly impossible to beat, and even on the rare occasions that you won, he had the gall to look completely unbothered by your triumph.

Really, after a few months, you should have hated him.

But in between all of the needling and teasing and challenges, you began to learn more about Sylus. You learned that he enjoyed being out hunting or riding far more than he enjoyed being surrounded by people, even if they were praising him. You learned the long-limbed black stallion he rode when he first encountered your tribe had been declared untamable before Sylus had taken him. When one of the livestock dogs died shortly after having two pups, you even learned that (if he wanted to be) he could be downright gentle. He’d done so well in helping care for the pair, that as they grew, they followed him everywhere and obeyed his every command. All of this new familiarity, so at odds with your first impression of him, had cultivated a quiet companionship between the two of you.

Even more surprising were the moments of softness, startlingly close to affection. When Sylus had sat drinking kumis with you on the new year, and you’d excitedly shared your hopes for what was to come, he listened with a quiet smile. He’d brought you the furs from the wolf he’d killed when you caught a particularly nasty winter cold, and had even insisted you keep it after you recovered. When you met other tribes for trade, he often found you afterwards, giving you some ornament or silk from beyond the grasslands. Despite the fact he’d never admitted to it, you knew that when his two dogs accompanied you out into the grasses to watch the flocks, he’d commanded them to do so.

Maybe most importantly, he’d specifically sought you out to show you a den where wolf cubs were playing in the summer, knowing you’d like to see them tussle.

They’d been adorable, large paws and ears far too big for their fluffy bodies. The two of you had left your horses some yards away and sat down a bit distant from the pups, down wind and silent so as not to give your presence away. For a while you couldn't take your eyes off their energetic forms, tussling in the dust in front of the den, chewing on each others’ ears, yelping and licking when it became too rough. Eventually you'd looked to Sylus to ask him something, but your eyes had fallen on the short, recurve bow at his side.

“You're not going to kill them, are you?” You'd whispered

He raised an eyebrow at you in a wordless question.

You checked quickly to make sure the pups hadn't heard you. Fortunately, they still seemed to be involved in their own games.

“I mean. I know they're wolves. They might eat our flocks when they get older. But, they're just babies.”

He blinked at you, with an odd, expression you couldn't place. He rose soon after, walking silently away from the den. You'd followed him, confused.

“Hey,” you hissed, “What are you doing now?”

“Leaving. One parent or the other would've been back soon to feed them. Then I would've actually had to use this.” He tapped the bow that was now slung over his shoulder.

“Oh.” You murmured, realization dawning, “Is that what you brought it for? If one of the parents came back?”

“I certainly wouldn't have needed it to kill a fragile little pup.” He scoffed. “Besides, there's no use in killing something weak and defenseless. Though it's nice to know just how highly you think of me, sweetie.”

“That's not-” a frustrated noise had escaped you as you struggled for words, “I don't think that of you. It just… others would have done that. To make sure they didn't grow up to prey on our animals.”

He turned to you then, with a gaze that seemed to be searching you, trying to find the truth of something. “And I'm ‘others’ to you?”

“Of course not!”

He arched an eyebrow for the second time that day at the vehemence in your voice.

"You're the strongest warrior we have. And an infuriating opponent. But you're also the person who protects orphaned dogs. And brings me extra furs when I'm sick. And-” you stopped yourself before you could incriminate yourself further, taking a small breath to collect yourself. “You're Sylus. Not… Others.”

There was a small silence between the two of you for a moment, as you walked over the flowing grasses together. The only sound was the occasional waves of wind across the landscape.

It was broken, only slightly, by Sylus repeating those words. “Not others.” He said them quietly, slowly, as though testing out strange words in a new language. When you turned to look at him, you caught a glimpse of a small, soft smile on his face. A look so deeply genuine, and beautifully content, it made your breath catch in your chest.

Things had begun to change after the day with the wolves. You were beginning to come familiar with the slight curve of his smile, his real smile. Instead of your usual irritation, the glint that so often came to his eye when he was planning mischief fanned a wave of warmth in you. You began craving the slight huff of breath he gave when amused with something you’d done. The deep chuckle he sometimes gave when his body drew close to yours made something strange and molten coil in your gut. When he was out hunting saiga, you found yourself unusually sullen and snappish. And when you heard people whooping and clamoring at the return of the hunting parties, you’d be jostling to the front of the small crowd to see him.

You’d started to notice things though, in this time. The gossip among the elders as they cooked about when Sylus would marry, and whose granddaughter would be the lucky catch. The gaggles of women that followed him when he’d practice archery or spectate his races, giggling and blushing. Some of the bolder women would even bring him wine at the fireside and try to curl against him (you wished sometimes that he’d respond with more than amused chuckles at their ridiculousness, though it did produce a gratifying amount of insult in the rejected ladies). Last year at the games, you noticed he’d received pouches from women of every tribe. The smug look he gave you when he’d noticed you glaring at them had been insufferable, and you couldn’t quite force yourself to congratulate him on the numerous offers.

And yet, Sylus remained alone. You didn’t even notice other women entering his yurt (though you’d die before you admitted to watching for such). You didn’t know what you’d do if he did take an interest in someone. The thought of someone else being transfixed by that soft smile in the quiet hours of the night made bile rise in your throat. But there was always the chance that he simply valued his freedom; and being rejected in favor of an ideal you could never match seemed just as nauseating.

You mull over these thoughts as you and your mare round the goats back to the group. Or, at least, attempt to. One of the damn things stubbornly refuses to rejoin the group. You can swear you see defiance in its eyes when it looks at you. Challenging you. Mocking, even. Every time you have it going the right direction, it turns and bolts in a random direction, leaving you and your bay sliding in the slush. You then have to catch back up to it, and start herding it back once more.

You’re an excellent shepherdess, with a keen eye and a skilled hand with a bow. You've rarely lost an animal on your watch, and certainly never on purpose. But at this point, even you are beginning to think that losing one goat would really not be all that bad if it means this one wouldn’t be part of the herd anymore. Besides, a wind is beginning to rise, a cold one that cuts through the previously-warm day like a freshly-sharpened knife. You’re beginning to wonder if maybe the lemmings were smarter than you’d thought.

After one more, particularly long chase, you give in.

“Fine then!” You yell at the animal, which stood watching you with unaffected eyes as it chewed grass, “you want to deal with a blizzard alone? Go ahead! I’ll laugh when you end up as a goat-cicle! Laugh!”

With a huff, you turn your horse about, ready to gallop back to the herd, and start moving them to a more sheltered part of the pasture. The animals, however, have moved further away on their own. You can see the large dark mass of them in the distance, and you feel a slight unease in your gut. You're not sure how much you believe about oracle lemmings, but you know livestock well; They instinctively group up close when bad weather is imminent, and it seems that they are bracing for a storm now.

Even more worrying is the wall of iron-gray clouds you see blowing in. They're advancing rapidly, overtaking the sky at a pace you've rarely seen before. The wind, too, is beginning to blow so furiously it all but screams, whipping any unmelted snow up into the air.

You again feel that unease in your gut. The village is even further than the herd from where you are at the moment. Thanks to the previously warm weather, you're woefully unprepared to weather a blizzard alone. But both your other options are bleak; either try to make it to the village and hope there's not enough falling snow to make you lose your way, or try your luck with the herd and hope their bodies keep you warm enough to make it through. At least if you make it to the village, your survival is guaranteed. The same can't be said of the herd.

You rein your mare toward the direction of the village, just as the first volley of fresh snowflakes batter your face and hands. And despite your own dire situation, you can't help but think of Sylus, out with the other hunters. They may have arrived home already, and even if they haven’t, their chances are good; the men should be able to find protection from the wind and cold in a group. Nevertheless, your gut twists with anxiety. Hunters rarely stay completely together. And even in the few minutes you’ve been galloping towards the village, visibility is worsening. The gusts of wind have turned into blasts, ripping through your deel and chilling you to your bones. The blasts are also heaving the already-fallen snowflakes up to rejoin the fresh ones in the air, and creating moments where the landscape is inscrutable.

Between the moments of furious wind, you can see the outline of the village. Even as your heart pounds with hope at the sight, a needling numbness begins to take hold in your hands, making it difficult to keep hold of the reins. You try to switch hands; tucking one into the overlapping fold of your deel in an effort to keep it warm, before switching to the other. The biting wind, though, is so vicious and unforgiving, that it takes a mere few seconds for whatever warmth one hand has gained to be lost. At the same time, the numbness has taken hold in your feet, making it impossible to distribute your weight properly. The violent shivers as your body tries to warm itself are a further complication.

It only takes one misstep from your mare. One hoof landing on some uneven ground, causing her to stumble. And despite the high-backed saddle, and your best efforts, it’s impossible to keep your seat. You land hard in the snow. It’s soft enough, at least, that you’re pretty sure nothing is broken. Not that it matters much. Lost and alone in the screaming wind, and featureless white storm, you are as good as dead.

It feels like an eternity that you lie there in the snow, body wracked by violent shivers in a last-ditch attempt to survive. Logically you know it can’t have been more than a handful of minutes, since you are still alive and conscious, but time loses its meaning in a situation like this. Everything ceases to exist, save for the horrible wind and the bone-deep, soul-leaching cold. The snow is falling fast, fast enough that it’s already covered you as you try to huddle for a semblance of warmth. You’ve been buried alive, waiting to die as the world around you slowly quiets and darkens.

A morbid part of you wonders if the tribe will find you, once the snow begins to melt. You imagine Cota will insist they stay long enough to find your remains. You hope she doesn’t feel guilty; neither of you could’ve known the storm would come on so fast. Your mind wanders to Sylus, too. Did the hunters make it back home before the storm hit? You pray they did; or at least they were together when the snow began to fall. The thought of Sylus in the same situation as yourself seems impossible. You have to believe it’s impossible. Entertaining any other idea strikes a dread into your heart as cold as your little tomb. You pray instead that he’s made it back, that he is safe, and warm. And, if you’re able to be a little idealistic, perhaps wondering where you are.

Quite suddenly, a sound shatters your quiet morbidity. Stark against the background of shrieking wind, there is a deep bark. Then another, closer. Soon, there is a constant barrage of the noises.

Hope burns bright in your heart. Maybe, just maybe, all is not yet lost.

You try to shift under the snow, trying to claw your way out of your icy grave. But your limbs are trembling so hard, so frequently, that controlling them is near impossible. Worse, your muscles are becoming weak. Soon they’ll be too exhausted to even shiver, much less move the heavy snow that entombs you. Nevertheless, you have to try. You must try. Because if you don’t, your last hope of warmth will move on, and then you will truly be as good as dead.

Your efforts come to a halt when a startlingly loud crunching begins in the snow above and around you. It doesn’t take long before the blanket of snow is lifted from your head, and a warm puff of air greets your face.

You open your eyes. And instead of a blinding white storm, your vision is filled with deep brown eyes set in a furry face as black as night. The same face that Sylus has sent to accompany you on night watches and sunny days alike. You smile at the familiar creature, despite the chattering of your teeth.

“H-hey, boy.” You whisper, your numb hand reaching up to sink into the dog’s deep fur. You can still hear his brother nearby, barking furiously above the wind.

Though Sylus knows them at a glance, you've never been particularly good at telling the two dogs apart by looks. They're both black, with intelligent eyes and powerful frames. In behavior though, they are slightly different. Gerel is louder, and more playful. Khar, though quieter, is definitely the smarter of the two. He's likely the one blocking your body from the worst of the wind, now.

You try to call Gerel over as his brother curls himself around your quivering body, but it’s too hard to draw a deep breath. Instead, you lean against the one lying on you, burying your face and hands against the one reprieve from the cold. You can think of nothing else but how good the slight amount of warmth feels, even as your fingers begin to burn slightly from the frostbite. It is a promising pain, one that feels of returning life rather than looming nothingness. You doubt it will be enough to truly save you, but at least you have some source of comfort now.

Eventually Gerel goes quiet, and you begin to worry he's become lost in the storm as well. You lift your face from Khar's fur, and try again to call his brother, but fail. Khar perks up, though, his massive tail wagging a fan-shaped dent in the snow. Perhaps he can smell his brother on the fierce wind?

A few moments later, you hear it. A deep, commanding voice that cuts through the shrieking wind like a blade, calling your name.

Sylus.

You don’t know why he’s here, or if he’s even real. It may be an illusion conjured by your failing mind and body. It does not matter. Real or not, you must go to him.

You try to draw yourself up, try to call his name, but Khar remains a dead weight on you. You try to shove him, but your muscles are still shaking uncontrollably, making any efforts to dislodge Khar useless.

Please, you think desperately, please, I need to go to him. I need him, I need Sylus.

In the midst of your struggle with the animal laying on you, you very nearly miss the crunching of snow approaching you. Gerel soon appears, fur nearly white with the coating of heavy, wet snow that clings to him. And directly behind him is a sight that would make you weep if you had the breath for it.

It's Sylus. He's battered by the wind and ice as he wades through the fresh snow, only a step behind Gerel. His face bears a sharp, unwavering determination and ferocity that puts even this storm to shame as he wades through the drifts. His eyes, bright scarlet amidst the daunting white, lock onto yours. Only when his master is a single step away from you does Khar finally wiggle himself off of you. The wind immediately rips away all the warmth the dog has lent you. But you feel the loss only for a moment, as in the next breath, Sylus has yanked you bodily out of the snow and crushed you against himself.

“Found you,” his deep voice is quiet, heavy with an emotion you can’t name. And oh, oh, even if this is a dream sent to ease your last moments, you do not care. There is no one you’d rather imagine at your side right now.

He releases you, only slightly, to tug off his own gloves and put them on your trembling hands. The heat that envelopes them makes your skin burn, and a whine that is half-choked by shivers bubble out of your throat.

“Bear with it,” he murmurs, wrapping a thicker, warm deel over your current one, “You won’t be able to beat me at archery if you lose your fingers, little huntress.”

Normally, you would call him an ass, berate him for worrying about losing his archery competitor as he gave you a smug smile for taking his bait. But you can’t. Your mind is foggy, and all you can do is curl into him as he sweeps you up into his arms. You notice briefly that his eyes have narrowed again. He looks… irritated maybe? Angry? You aren’t sure. Before you can think about it for very long, though, you are distracted by a sharp whistle from Sylus, shrill and sharp even over the unending wind. It’s followed by a whinny, as his tall, powerful horse wades through the snow with a determination identical to his master’s.

Sylus walks to meet the horse halfway. He says something, and then suddenly his arm drops out from under your legs. You stumble slightly, knees buckling under your own weight as your boots drop through the knee-high snow. You are strangely surprised when you don't hit the ground, and it takes you a moment to realize that Sylus has a hold on your waist, steadying you.

Oh. He was going to set you down. That's what he had said. Of course.

You look up at him, and find a hard expression on his face. Why does he look angry now? You don’t understand.

His bright eyes bore into your own, cutting through the confusion for a moment. When his voice comes, it is a command, not a request.

“Stay with me.”

You're not sure why he's saying this. It's not like you're going anywhere. All you want right now is to just curl up and sleep, back in his arms, if possible. But you nod anyway.

Sylus swings himself up onto his horse, settling himself behind the canticle. This again confuses you. You're supposed to sit on the seat. Not behind it. But before you can continue puzzling over this, Sylus has bent half-over, wrapped an arm around you once more, and hauled you up against the side of the horse. The pressure of it is uncomfortable, and you try to squirm out of the grasp. Sylus's hold is sure, though, and before you can break it, he's hooked the other arm under your knee, and lifted you up into the seat of the saddle.

You try to brace your legs, to keep your seat as the stallion begins to move beneath you, but your vicious shivers make it difficult to control your limbs, even for an action as instinctive to you as walking. Before you can falter though, Sylus’s arm wraps around you, holding you safe and steady against him.

You do your best to keep your eyes open against the biting wind and freezing snow. But the scant amount of warmth you can feel through the thickness of both your clothes, paired with the movements of the stallion slowed by the snow, is almost hypnotic. And you are tired, oh, so tired.

“You lost this game,” he says, in that damn smug voice that always makes you want to punch his arm.

“Game?”

He gives an affirmative hum. “Hide and seek. I found you, didn't I? That's another victory for me.”

You give a grunt of disgust, still not sure what he's talking about, but irritated by the condescension in his voice all the same.

“Don't be such a sore loser, sweetie.”

You don't know why you're even sitting on the same horse as him.

“A-ass,” you hiss around the waves of shivers. “Sh-should. P-push off.”

The dark chuckle behind you is as alluring as it is infuriating. “I'd love to see you try.”

You do try, for a moment, pushing against his hold. But you are soon frustrated by how clumsy your movements are, and exhausted by the effort. Sylus's tight grip is immovable anyway.

“Seems I'm still on the horse, sweetie.” Comes the singsong mocking from behind you.

You give a grunt in response. You can't be bothered to be angry. All you can feel is the heavy tiredness dulling all your senses.

Sylus says your name, sharply. There's an odd tone to it. You don't care enough to think about why.

You're vaguely aware of being jostled. And then, for a while, you are senseless.

The damn shivering is what wakes you. It's so violent and pervasive that it drives the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping between the waves of trembling to try and regain it. On instinct, you try to curl into yourself, but are unable to. In fact, apart from the tremors, you can’t move your body at all. You seem to be surrounded by some sort of heavy mass, pressing on every inch of you. You struggle, pushing against the weight near your face to get some breathing room. The mass grunts, then moves away for a moment, freeing your head and upper body. You have only a moment of reprieve from the claustrophobia before…

Something warm, wet, and slimy drags across your face.

“Ur-rgh!” You bring a quivering arm up to rub away the slime.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind you, the breath of it close enough to make warmth fan across the back of your skull, “Is that how you thank Khar for helping to save your life, sweetie?”

Your eyes snap open at the familiar voice; although instead of the carmine eyes and seductive smirk you expect, your vision is filled (for the second time today) by pitch-dark fur and smiling brown eyes set in a distinctly canine face. Right as that same face applies another sloppy lick to yours.

“Kh-khar!” You squeak, bringing your now-free arms up to protect your face from the onslaught of affection. “Th-thanks, but s-stop!”

Khar obediently jumps down from where you’re laying, though he gives you a pathetic whine. A further weight is removed from your lower half when Gerel reluctantly hefts himself off of you to join his brother on the floor, giving you a similarly dejected look.

Without Khar laying on you, you can see more of your surroundings. It’s clear that you’re in a yurt, one that is unfamiliar to you. The only light source is the barely-visible fire crackling complacently in the small stove at the center, leaving much of the place in shadow. Is it night, then? Why are you here? And why do your hands and feet feel like they are burning?

You flex your hands between shivers in an attempt to stop the strange, tingling heat. If anything, that seems to make the feeling sharper, more biting in its ferocity. Shifting them out from underneath a heavy woolen blanket and furs to inspect them gives no answers, given the dim light.

“Can you still feel them?” Sylus’s voice, humorless this time, cuts through the slowly-lifting fog of unconsciousness and confusion.

“H-hurts.”

“Good, that means there’s still life in them. Better than losing such pretty fingers to frostbite.” Memories come to you at the word ‘frostbite’. They are hazy, as though recalling a dream several hours after waking; the dogs finding you in the snow, warming you and guiding Sylus to you through the blinding storm, Sylus carrying you in his arms, and keeping you upright in the saddle before you drifted into unconsciousness.

“Syl-” Your words are cut short. In trying to turn to face him, you realize that his powerful arm is curled around your waist.

Your naked waist. And at your back, you do not feel the rough texture of clothes; but instead the heated, sticky kind of softness of skin on bare skin.

Your body stills in shock; suddenly, you are horribly, wonderfully conscious of every inch Sylus has pressed against you: The firmness of his chest, the sharp jut of his hips, the tangle of his legs around and between yours, and (both the most enticing and mortifying of all) the warm, heavy weight of what must be his cock nestled against your ass.

That damned smug chuckle comes again, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice. It took you a while; maybe I should be more worried about your head than your fingers, hm?”

You stutter a few times, as your mind comes to terms with your situation, before blurting in a rush, “Where are my clothes, Sylus!? Where are yours!?”

“Ah, you mean our freezing, sopping wet clothes?” His tone is almost sing-song in its blithe news, and bereft of any shame, “I took the liberty of removing them so that you didn't continue freezing to death.”

Somehow, his complete lack of any embarrassment heightens your own, as though your mind has determined to make up the difference between the pair of you. The heated panic in combination with exhaustion, confusion, and desire collide in a nerve-wracking swirl. You scramble wildly to get up, get away from this source of searing, tumultuous emotions. But the movement of your hands makes them burn as you try to gain purchase In the blankets and furs, and his arm around you is immovable as stone. “You- I- Couldn’t you have just thrown a blanket on me or- or something!? Gods, let go!”

He gives a derisive snort. “You would have just frozen to death under a blanket instead of snow. You didn’t have any heat left to trap, so I lent you some of mine. And no.”

“No what?”

“I just risked my life in a blizzard hunting for you, and I’m not about to let all my effort go to waste when I’ve already caught my prize. So, no, I will not be letting you go.”

“This isn’t- Can’t you just put on some damned pants, at least?”

“Hm, I could… but are you sure you want me to?”

“Sylus!!”

He gives a full laugh at your flustered squeak, “Once I’m sure that you’ve completely warmed up, I will. Until then, I suggest you stay still. Unless you’d like me to warm you up a different way. But I’d suggest waiting until your hands have healed.”

He must be teasing, surely. Delighting in your embarrassment as always. Still, a tiny, idiotically hopeful part of you can’t help but wonder… if you were able to see his face right now, would you see a small glimmer of want for you underneath the inscrutable mask? You dismiss the thought quickly. Even if you were able to see his face, you’d only see that damn self-satisfied smirk that makes your stomach twist.

“The elders are going to be insufferable about this,” You mutter, desperate you lay those thoughts to rest. Well, as best as you can, considering Sylus is curled around you.

“So what? Let them talk.”

“Easy for you to say. They won’t say anything to you; you’re the one half of them are looking to marry their daughters off to.” You’re only aware of the venom in your last few words after they’ve already left your mouth. You pray Sylus doesn’t notice.

But of course he does.

“Jealous, little huntress?” You can hear the smile in his voice

“You’re an ass, do you know that?”

“I’m hurt sweetie. I run out into a storm to find my poor, lost huntress, and in return she calls me an ass.”

He gives a mock-sigh, but something in his words raises a question in your mind. Sylus had been out with the other hunters just before the storm hit. You hadn’t even been sure he would make it back to the village in time, but somehow he managed to find you?

“How did you even know I was out there?”

Sylus pauses for a moment. His voice, once he does speak, is startlingly somber. “Some of the hunting group saw the cloud wall rolling in. We rode back as fast as possible. Even so, if we’d had further to go, the wind would’ve outpaced us. I’ve never seen clouds that heavy and fast, outside of summer storms.”

“I tried to ride back too, when I saw them. But with the cold, I couldn’t feel my hands, and the rough ground…” You trail off, fully prepared to be teased about your riding skills. Instead, you feel an ever-so-slight tightening of his arm around you. You wonder if he’s even aware of his own movement.

Sylus continues, “When we arrived, people came out to greet us and help get everything secured before the worst of the storm. I didn’t see you throwing people out of the way like usual.”

“I do not throw people out of the way,” You mutter.

“If you say so, little huntress.” You can hear the smile in his voice for a moment, though it disappears when he continues, “I found Cota, and asked where you were. When she said you were out shepherding, I knew you wouldn’t make it back before the snow came. So, I took Khar and Gerel, and had them track you.”

“Was anyone else missing?”

“We’ll find out after the storm.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment, as you process his response. He didn’t notice anyone else was gone. He didn’t ask to see if any others were lost. He didn’t bother to try and search for anyone else in the snow.

He noticed you were missing.

He asked where you were.

He went into the storm for you.

“You… Sylus, were you out in that storm, just to find me?”

A small, humorless huff of laughter fans across the back of your skull again. “I wasn’t out there just taking a stroll, sweetie.”

“You could’ve lost Gerel and Khar. And your horse. And your life.”

“Worried about me, hm?”

Of course you were. Sylus is a strong, clever man. Perhaps the greatest warrior and hunter your tribe has known; but even the greatest of mortals are brought to their knees by the forces of nature and the whims of chance. You want to tell him all this, tell him that the thought of him standing alone amidst the howling winds, searching for the path to safety… even just thinking about it makes your chest feel as empty and cold as the storm still raging outside. Your breath catches, and you cannot force the words, glutted with feelings as they are, out of your throat.

So instead you reply, “It’s a big risk to take.”

“Maybe.” His tone is nonchalant, as though he is talking about what he’d brought home from hunting, rather than the act of risking his dearest possessions and life trying to save you in near-hopeless conditions. “But I don’t gamble unless the prize is worth the risk.”

It takes you a moment to digest the words, heart caught in your throat, hardly daring to believe that you’ve understood him correctly. A fragile but brilliant hope lights in your chest. You had been aware of the friendship that had begun to form between you and Sylus, and you had been aware of your desire to be something more to him, to be someone he wanted. But you hadn’t dared to imagine occupying a position of such value to him.

“You think I’m worth all that…?”

You don’t mean to say the words aloud, but the exhaustion loosens your lips just enough for them to spill out. Immediately your stomach lurches at a strange, shifting fear. Perhaps speaking the thought aloud has crossed some sort of line, daring the universe to snuff out your hope just as it had been lit.

A soft, teasing lilt returns to his voice as he speaks, “I believe that’s what I just said, little huntress. Hm, maybe I should be more concerned about your head.” The hand that isn’t curled around your middle gives the top of your head a soft tap, tap, tap.

A small, breathless laugh bubbles up out of your chest, the hope within you flaring bright and making your heart race. You don’t know how he manages to do it; to convey something as heartfelt as ‘you are worth risking my life and all I hold dear’, while simultaneously sounding like it’s the most simple thing in the world. Something that should be obvious even to a small child.

It’s a special talent you’ve noticed in Sylus ever since that day with the wolf pups; he makes you want to throttle him one moment, and in the next breath he’ll speak with such sincere simplicity that it utterly disarms you. He somehow manages to walk that fine line between keeping you on your toes with bantering, and keeping you grounded with his forthrightness. It's addictive. It's comforting. You're not even sure if it's something he tries to do, or if his natural state of being is just something that draws your soul in effortlessly.

You need to face him.

You turn in his grasp to look at him, trying to ignore the burst of prickling heat in your hands. It's worth the pain. Sylus is a striking picture in the low light; all silvery tousled hair, gold skin, and sanguine eyes, graced by a rare look of surprise for just a moment.

And then his face relaxes into a soft look, one you've started to see more and more, but never fails to make your heart race faster than a horse galloping over the grass sea.

“There you are,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. And you simply cannot help it. Frostbite be damned. You might die if you don't kiss him, and you've come close enough to that today already. You have to kiss him.

The press of your lips against his is insistent, but chaste. At least, at first. Sylus takes in a sharp breath, and for a fraction of a second you wonder if you've misread, if you've pushed too far. And then, his mouth becomes soft, and pliant, and something in your chest melts when the arm he has around you slides up your spine to press at the nape of your neck, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. A pleased sigh escapes you, unbidden. Before you are quite aware of your own movements, your hand is at his jaw, cupping his face, trying to pull him closer.

A new flare of pain sears your hand at the pressure, and you reflexively pull away with a hiss.

You open your eyes (when did they close?) to see Sylus, pupils blown wide, looking at you with that same sort of ferocity and determination you saw in him earlier, when your eyes met his in the storm. And for a moment, caught in that unwavering intensity, you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

His eyes remain fixed on your own as he takes your wrist and gently (too gently) moves it away from his face, which has settled back into its usual near-arrogant smirk. Reality crashes in on you then. You are in Sylus's yurt, kissing him, sharing a bed, naked. The realization is followed by a disorienting mix of embarrassment, pride, shame, and excitement. You've just kissed him for the first time, and you know if it weren't for the pain in your hands you would have taken as much as he would give you. Begged for it, maybe. What does he think of you now? How much would he let you take? What would you tell everyone once you left here?

But as usual, when your mind threatens to whirl itself into chaos, Sylus cuts through it.

“I'll have to collect on that part of my prize later, little huntress,” He murmurs, and you wonder if it is merely your imagination, or if he is actually as breathless as you are. His thumb strokes across the soft skin at the underside of your wrist, across the vein where your pulse is thrumming like a caught hare's. “I want to see what those pretty hands can do to me when they're all healed.”

Hearing him say it out loud makes the embarrassment resurface with a vengeance, and the barely-leashed heat in Sylus's gaze makes it unbearable. Breaking the stare, you take your hand back and shuffle under the blankets once more, until the hem falls across your cheek.

Sylus's amused chuckle earns him a glare from you, but your indignation is quickly soothed over as he drags his fingers through your hair, across your scalp, gently untangling the strands. After a few minutes, the gentle scratching opens the door for a wave of exhaustion, heightened by the warm darkness and the muffled howling of the winter winds outside.

You wonder, vaguely, if the touch was meant in apology, or to make you drowsy. You're not sure it matters. Sylus is here, looking at you with that affectionate, soft smile, as your lips begin to flutter.

“Sleep, shevonica,” is the last thing you hear before drifting into unconsciousness. This time, in the safety and warmth of Sylus’s hold.

#Sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #Sylus x you #my fic #lnds sylus #grassland romance au #qin che #sylus fluff #afab reader #sylus romance #love and deepspace

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lizardinkart · 1 day ago

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Happy US Thanksgiving, here’s what I think Parahumans characters would bring to a friendsgiving:

Taylor- She’s a dry stuffing/dressing type person. It’s not bad, but it IS bland.

Lisa- Mashed potatoes that aren’t bad tastewise, but she did have to be talked down from something with oysters in it. Because she’s a psychological terrorist

Brian- This man has experienced true thanksgiving even with all the shit he’s been through. He would cook the whole meal if they let him. His mac n cheese will make you believe in god.

Aisha- She forgot, so Brian also made some slow cooker green beans for her to show up with. (She didn’t forget. She knew Brian would make it anyway because he’s picky)

Rachel- Turkey. It’s really fucking good. No one knows where she got it. No one asks.

Alec- His Canadian ass didn’t bring shit. He complains about not celebrating his thanksgiving. He shoplifts some skittles. Charlie Brown type items

Victoria- Fruit tray she bought on the way over and some box mix cornbread muffins (really good).

Amy- Something with jello, cool whip, and fruit pieces in it. That might actually be ham pieces. Someone take the Cold War era cook book away from her

Sveta- Cupcakes and other dessert items that she has decorated to the nines. They all taste immaculate.

Kenzie- Your grandmother’s homemade casserole that you distinctly don’t remember giving her the recipe for

Chris- Chris was banned from contributing meal items to friendsgivings after the “Mystery Meat” incident.

Tristan/Byron- It’s debated whether they should bring one or two dishes. They settle on a half-and-half corn salad, half the way Byron likes it, half the way Tristan likes it. One has considerably more chiles in it than the other.

Ashley- Cranberry sauce out of a can. Straightforward. Iconic. Beloved.

Rain- Rain O’Fire Frazier’s insular cult upbringing raised him to know how to cook for a crowd and leave them desperate for more. He makes 2 sweet potato casseroles, one with marshmallows, one with brown sugar and pecans. Both are gone before you go back for seconds. He makes cream corn so devastating it makes you forget all your parahumanity-related trauma for a bit. You ask him for the recipe. He cannot not tell you. He says you just kinda have to “feel it.” You weep. Some things in this world you can never know.

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g1rlken · 2 days ago

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too sweet 11

Rupert Campbell black x fem!reader, godfather!tony

— part 1 here

summary: Rupert comes forth with a proposal to help the Baddingham family out of bankruptcy

warnings: arranged marriage, mild swearing

word count: 6.4k words

That could not possibly be. Kissing, Rupert. Rupert. Of all people, that man. How could she be so devoid of self awareness like this. Deprive herself of proper principles kissing him back this time. She didn’t even reminisce to the sweetness of the kiss, if one would call it that. Agitated out of her mind she huffed returning back to the paperwork at the end for the bankruptcy which did not seem to have any viable result. Meeting one dead end after another over and over. She had the feeling of being a traitor, kissing the enemy, not being a useful asset to the war at hand and then she realise it wasn’t the 18th hundreds; she had to stop flipping about. Mistakes happen. They happen. Rupert happened.

Following that week she avoided Rupert as if the proximity he was present in was about to go through a disastrous calamity, like a virus, which he was which everyone said. She wasn’t married enough to catch him like that. The prospect in her mind was funny, had she befriended any people in this godforsaken town to joke about she would do so. But as of now she did not have the time nor the correct people. Imagine telling Bas that she’d kissed Rupert. She would much rather self immolate than have that conversation.

The days were so ghastly she was met with such guilt filled anguish about the kiss and the knife of bankruptcy lingering over, loosing solutions and seeing her uncle’s turmoil. It could not get worse than this. Scratching, crossing and throwing papers in her home office upstairs she barely adhered someone at the door, when the bell rang. But it was evening and nobody important visited at the time. At least not for her. Others were probably anyways home to answer the door.

Tony’s face fell when he saw who was at the door and he did not even try to pick it up because there was so much to his displeasure already, “Good evening.” Rupert, dressed in a well pressed suit and flowers in his hand. “Bas is not here.” Tony answered for the man wanting to be done with this interaction with lightening speed. Sending him off right as he came.

“I am not here for him.” Rupert answered, climbing a step on the well marbled entrance stairs to the Baddingham mansion. “May I?” He said, politely allowing himself inside even though Tony felt like being ambushed.

Very uncharacteristic for Rupert to be this way towards their house. Flowers and suits and may-I-small talk. Rupert found his way to tony’s sitting area and he followed behind the man. Both men sat in arm chairs across each other, Tony observed with a distasteful raised brow as Rupert sat on the edge of his seat. Trying to feign respect? Poise? Tony couldn’t figure it out but he was vexed regardless. “So what is it?” Tony inquired letting out a sigh.

“Is Mrs. Baddingham home?” Rupert asked as he kept clutching on to the bouquet of flowers he’d brought for god knows what reason. Nobody had died, Tony thought to himself. Well not yet anyways.

Wanting to get this antics of his over with as soon as possible Tony nodded and called for his wife who was already coming in with a glass of water for supposed guest she’d heard come in when the bell rang. “Rupert!” She exclaimed setting the tray on the coffee table. “Didn’t know you were coming in.”

“I am very fond of the look of surprise.” Rupert amused keeping it light hearted for the conversation upcoming, then he drank half the glass of water she’d brought him. “Sit, please.” He gestured to the arm chair next to Tony.

Just as confused as lord baddingham, keeping her grace and politeness up the lady sat anyways. With her positive smile, “I’m sorry to disappoint but I don’t think Bas is here.” She said assuming the same reason as Tony.

“He is not here for Bas.” Tony answered for Rupert flatly, absolutely underprepared for the curveball that was about to hit him.

“That is right I’m not.” Rupert agreed as he put the flowers forth and then sat back in his seat, clasping his hands together with a deep breath. “It is no secret, you are struggling with certain finances at the moment. Despite of our differences I want you to know I am not here to gloat nor empathise…I have a solution. I just want you to be patient and hear me out once.”

“I have one of the best and most educated people working on it. It isn’t even that big of a problem to begin with” Tony scoffed, it was the biggest problem yet but why would he mention that to Campbell Black? Most definitely here to gloat.

“Are you not nearly bankrupt?” Rupert inquired knowing the answer he just wanted Tony to realise the gravity of his mess.

“Are you not intruding the matter?” Tony snapped back, his patience no longer ran thin it had vanished. The might of this man was unbelievable, he came all the way to his house unannounced to meddle in his business.

“I am not. Like I said I have a solution.” Rupert said with a guarded, bordering polite tone which he never used with Tony as long as he could recall.

Lady Baddingham sought to excuse herself from this conversation since she did not handle business nor finances, “I believe I must excuse you gentlemen to this not being my subject. I could send y/n in, she is working upstairs anyways.”

Before Tony could refuse that, not to disturb y/n, someone who was actually working on the matter instead of this time waste of a man, “No no-“ Rupert said, rather immediate to stop her leave when she didn’t even attempt to stand up. “Don’t send her in.” He emphasised as though wanting her to be the last person for this conversation. “You ought to be here for this, please stay.”

“Oh alright…” she trailed off with an awkward attempt to laugh and make the direly situation lesser.

“I could help you with your situation, waver the tax fine off. It is merely a write off with the minister’s letter and your debt, I could fund that as an investment…if I were to transfer the money directly to my supposed familial-” he paused extremely hesitant to continue but did not let his confidence falter “wife’s account. Wife which I don’t have, but I could.”

Tony let a moment pass, just staring at the man with scrutiny and joined eyebrows as if he were solving some arithmetic in his head. “What?” He spoke finally with a huff, “a wife?” Zero situational awareness as to where Rupert was headed with this.

“If it is an account of your own family, you could easily pay off the debts it wouldn’t even be an additional loan. Even from me.” Rupert shrugged just beating around the bush explaining him the dynamics but not intent.

“Suppose yes.” Tony said turning business with this but he knew there was a score at the end of his deal which would shatter the land beneath his feet, “but you don’t have a wife and due to my deplorable luck l can’t marry you.” Tony scoffed looking away in disregard at his ridiculous offer.

“Ah Lord Baddingham!” Rupert exclaimed laughing as if he actually found that funny, “always so quick with his jokes.” He said pointing it to the man’s lady wife who flashed a small smile at the interaction. “No I don’t mean you…I happen to not have a wife, like I said.” Clearing his throat he shifted in his seat for the third time “and you happen to have someone in your family who could be courted, nudged towards marriage. Your niece-“ he could have paraphrased even more and more but the scrutiny was getting somewhat worse as he realised his point did go across.

The point went across Lord Baddingham like a knife to chest, he contemplated so silently and expressionless the under-reaction was a horror brewing. Even the ever chattery lady wife of his had nothing to say to lighten the tension. “You mean y/n?” Tony asked, as if to confirm.

The calm and guarded voice of his question almost made Rupert wanted to refuse that but he weighed heavy on confidence and answered “Yes.”

Tony nodded, taking in a deep breath bringing his hands together as he stood up slowly “Give me a moment.” He said casually and exited the room with slow strides.

Leaving Lady Monica with him in the wake of the tension of the proposal. “It is rather a generous offer, your kindness and charitable nature baffles me!” She spoke and her usual merry and forever unfazed expression was actually taken aback this time. The gesture and the guts. “As in truly baffles me.” Flabbergasted even.

Rupert just smiled at her words with a nod acknowledging that with modesty but as the time seemed to pass slow on Tony’s absence from the room he couldn’t help but feel anxious. He wasn’t someone who felt anxious often, worrying is for losers. His worry ceased to alarm as he looked up to Tony returning the room with his hunting rifle. “Woah woah now hang on a minute-“

“How dare you!” Lord baddingam enraged pacing across the room as he hastily loaded the rifle in his hands causing his wife to stand from her seat. “You think?! You think I will marry my only niece to someone as vile as you?!” He had added the bullets to the empty load box aiming the edge of it towards Rupert who know stood behind his seat. “I would never disdain the memory of my brother by wedding her to YOU!”

“He was my friend too. My good, honest friend I saw him as a mentor and I too wish to do this for your family on his memory this is beyond our rifts-“Rupert began a hasty explanation. Monica’s hands on Tony’s shoulders were a feeble attempt to hold him back as he fired it in his direction but went to his slant and missed Rupert. “Have you lost your mind?! You could have shot me!” Rupert exclaimed having easily dodged the poor aim he did not believe the man would actually shoot, forced to think against it as he was reloading the rifle again.

“I do intend to shoot you.” Tony parroted aggressively trying to add another bullet into his hunting gun.

“We can have a rational conversation on the subject getting hostile!” Rupert retaliated as Monica got Tony’s gun to lower its shooting end yet not completely out of his grasp.

“On the subject?” He huffed at the underplay of words Rupert used. “Marrying my godchild to a fucking cunt like you would be an atrocity!”

“It would just be one in name, arranged and completely transactional. Had I wanted to swoon her I wouldn’t be having this conversation of asking her hand in marriage with her uncle and aunt.” Rupert tried to explain how he referred to the situation in his point of view.

But it was no use to the offended Lord Baddingham, “You wouldn’t be able to swoon her in your next eight rebirths.” Tony said pointing to him with his gun again which was now taken away finally by Monica, shaking her head.

“Murder is the last thing we need on our plate at this point darling.” She told her husband and set the rifle aside with a heavy sigh.

“Get out.” Tony said approaching Rupert grabbing him by the collar of his blazer, “Get the fuck out of my house-!”

“Alright but you and I both know that even with your debts off, that tax fine is a number nowhere near all of your fortune.” Rupert said treading dangerous waters with practicality and the only language Tony understood, money. “The bank debts, I will transaction them off not as a loan. You wouldn’t have to pay me back. And the letter for tax fine. Think about it you know you need this.” He spoke on the border of his way out before heading out, Tony threw a glass on the wall he was behind, his direction which finally made him leave in a hurry.

There was no possible way Tony would even think of it. Gruffly he scoffed running up the stairs. In a bit y/n herself came downstairs but did not seem to find her uncle anywhere, “Is everything alright? I think I heard gunshots.” She asked her aunt leaning against the kitchen entrance.

“Don’t worry about it, it was nothing.” Monica assured her with a smile as her children settled for dinner. “Come I’ll set your plate.”

“Are you sure it was nothing?” Y/n asked because from the current state of life her uncle was very much in a position to shoot somebody or worse, himself even.

“Yes…” Lady Monica trailed off with a sigh as she ran a motherly hand through her hair, “don’t you worry, alright?” She always had this grounding way about herself who treated y/n the same as her own children.

There was so much left to interpretation but at this point y/n didn’t know what other problem she could tackle so she let it be taking her aunt’s word. Tony came downstairs rushing and dismissed the dinner call, grabbing his coat and running off out. It left the rest of them rather confused but his antics weren’t unseen of.

Tony spent hours with his accountants going through the dynamics of Rupert’s hypothetical plan. Wanting to see if that viper had a double side to this arrangement, that is, if he even thinks about it. The affidavit assurance he spoke of did make it solid. The accountants were very, very positive to go through this deal but he hadn’t told them the anguish of him yet.

He came home and discussed the matter over again with Lady Monica, “the accountants call it a golden deal but, Rupert?! I mean come on-“ he scoffed as he narrated it. “He’d marry her just to spite me. The intent, the motive it all seems so ghastly.”

“If the accounts have reassured you, I suggest you think this over rationally and not emotionally.” Lady Monica advised him from her seat, she loved y/n as much as Tony if not more but the stakes were rather unaffordable this time “Blessings in disguise don’t just come knocking at your door.”

“Rupert is no blessing.” Tony corrected her as his posture stiffened, his money and the post may just be so but himself was nowhere close to it.

“He doesn’t live that far” Lady Monica said with the undertone of considering the proposal, trying to give her husband silver linings.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He asked confused brows raising up at the implication.

“She wouldn’t be that far from us should you consider the prospect.” She explained meekly hoping it would get through without being offended. He did not get so, but he was still dismissal of the silver lining. “She is a smart girl. Why don’t you talk this over with her?”

“And tell her what? I am offered fortune of a dowry for her?” He scoffed shaking his head, he eventually would have to but he did not like that confrontation nor the subject.

“Tell her we are offered a way out, like the accountants said…a golden deal. She would understand.” Lady Monica said lastly as she bid him farewell and good night. He probably didn’t sleep the whole night that night with the information he had to relay on his niece the following morning.

The sunrise had never seemed so very dreadful before as it rose with the household. Tony had to put forth the happenings of yesterday and he hated it already, the sense of upcoming heartache. “You called for me?” Y/n’s knock on his home office door pulled Tony out of his trance as he nodded and gestured her to sit. She followed as she sat on the teal arm chair. “I have to go submit the appealing papers for an extension on the tax notice today did you look at the papers?”

Tony had long forgotten about those papers he had to go through previous night and they just rang a bell as of now. “Oh? Yes, the papers” he spoke paying less mind to it and then with a heavy sigh he sat slant to her on the sofa. “There is something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

The somber yet serious pitch of his tone was new these days, “what is it?” She asked placing her file on the desk to listen to him attentively.

“Rupert, came here last night and he has told us something that might change things.” Tony briefed her in vaguely even though he had thought about it the entire time last night he couldn’t find the right words to relay the information on her now that she was right in front of him.

“Rupert” she repeated trying to undermine the anxious paranoia rising within her. The fright she felt as to what he could have told him, the kiss? He wouldn’t stoop that low would he. It was a mistake. “What did he have to say?” She asked trying her best to maintain a level proper tone and not let the obvious anxiety show.

As he narrated about the proposal the colour on her face drained bit by bit, her uncle explained her only the dynamics of his money oriented offer and only lastly added “…that is, if you are to marry him.”

Y/n just started at him for a moment zoning out in the tense silence and then her shoulders relaxed as she gathered Rupert didn’t tell him about the kiss. “Marry him?” She let out a huff, “How dare he?! Has he gone mental to even think he can come into our house and bait us-“

“No no listen” Tony interrupted her before she was about to mirror the exact reaction he had from when he first found out about it. “I went to the accountants last night and they went through it. The dynamics of it—they said it is a golden deal.”

Oh. The fact that he was taking this in consideration and not ridicule and offence just sinked in. But she could not fathom it, “Are you asking…” the proposition was so ghastly to even say it in a sentence she just tailed off in implication.

“I don’t know if I am.” Tony said honestly because he had the same feelings on saying that out loud. Asking her to marry Rupert Campbell Black? “It’s a bad way out of this, it seems to be our only one.”

“What are you saying-?!” She exclaimed as she stood up from her seat in shock and disgust, “are you serious uncle? Rupert? Rupert?! Of all people? Rupert Campbell Black?” She scoffed speaking out her distress all in one breath “That man?”

“There is no need to panic like this I wouldn’t force you to even breathe in his direction let alone marry him if you don’t want to.” Tony assured her standing up with her and he walked across the space to get her a glass of water. “You have worked on this, you know what’s at stake and what else are our options.”

She took the water he offered her and gulped the full glass all at once to ease the nerves, “I know, I understand I know we don’t have time even, but” she let out a heavy breath even repeating that man’s name again felt like saying a slur. “This is-this is ridiculous!”

“You my darling are the first born of this family.” He told her putting a hand on her shoulder reassuringly “I would never want you to marry someone you don’t want to let alone that swine. You are worth a fortune for me alright? I have never asked anything of you all your life and I’m not even asking for this. I just want you to be open to it”

“But he’s Rupert!” She let out an exasperated sigh and moved away from him, pacing back and forth “If I marry him I’d never be able to show my face anywhere” she said considering that ugly life.

“This pains me more than it does you but he is not, not-reputable” he briefed her trying to provide whatever consolation.

"I don’t mean here" she said with an exasperated sigh running a hand through her hair. "I have friends everywhere but this place, honest, educated people. They would look down upon me if I was Mrs Campbell Black." It was more than a horror to loose even more people she could call her own. The city colleagues, people she trained with, went to university with. Forward minded new deal politics people would discontinue friendship with the conservative MP's wife.

"You will always have us though and you do have friends here, work, Corinium, you do have plenty." Tony explained, what seemed to be a big concern for her wasn't as dreadful for him. After all she had never given him a reason to think she considered countryside to be a small pond.

"It’s nowhere close" she muttered well aware she would not be able to get this point across.Besides she did have lots of other concerns to dwell upon "He is infuriating, a deceit, a hedonist and he is so much older!' She did not intend to let that come out as a whine.

"You do not have to clarify that to me, I have spent more years loathing him than you have seen winters." The godfather in him anguished more than he empathised with her. It was beyond understandable that it was only his disdain which had seeped through her due to all the right reasons which would make this even harder for her.

“My life would be over." Words couldn't put front just how much of dread occupied her heart and mind to even consider this.

"You know this doesn't have to be permanent. At all." He plotted in a low tone providing her actual theory to look forward to "Two years and you can divorce him. Our funds would be steady, the new earnings would be consistent and we can drop him like dead meat."

With a sharp intake of breath she thought his words over, that could be so. Knowing Rupert his own whim wouldn't last that long. "Two years maximum?" She asked for reassurance as she sat back down on the chair.

"Maximum." He confirmed positively mirroring her seating. "Consider him a means to an end. Two years is all I ask from you and then you can always marry a boy of your choice again!" All I ask from you y/n, his words echoes with the same blend of plea and demand of his tone.

She had felt this undertone of owing her godfather woven fragments in the tapestry of her life. He had raised her, like her own, it is only fair she repays it with her life however she can. Most days he felt hyperaware of the debt in her emotions, her unsaid obligation he did not feel like putting out like a house fire but raising more like a forest fire. She had started to feel this weight as she grew more sentient and emotionally mature, the weight grew more and he never bothered to tell her otherwise. A price for a parental figure she felt like paying for, pursuing careers he told her to, leading a life he asked her to. Neither him nor Monica ever made her feel a void in place for a childhood. She could say it was blissful and healthy despite of the tragedy. Tony articulated sense of purpose for her, she abided. Always. Forever bound to gratitude. "Ultimately this is your choice, if you refuse to the marriage we wont have this conversation again. You have my word."

You can always get another degree of your choice! You can always marry a boy of your choice again! Over and over and over twice the time for twice the decisions because she had to live it up for two people. Herself and her godfather. It was barely an illusion of choice, her uncle was not a level heeded man when cornered. If not today, next week when, if not then when the third notice comes in, that is when he would loose his composure and she knew him well enough to see that.

With a day or two to her demise and battling against the circumstance, there wasn’t even any other road to not be taken. The universe had put forth one and only one way out of this and it was an incomprehensible burden to carry. A simple, “Alright then, Rupert it is.” And the wedding bells rang like an alarm in a troubled country. Tony rushed to inform Rupert of it in the very same day not even an hour of time difference since she agreed. To have a second thought himself or offer her more guidance and a space to change her mind which she so desperately wanted to. There was no time, they had more than just wedding to make arrangements for.

Her godfather had asked y/n if she were to join him in informing Rupert of her acceptance but she abruptly refused. Which was understandable, why would she endure the man in optional settings. Tony didn’t force her on attending for now anyways, she was doing a lot in retrospect.

However the exchange left Rupert with an unsure and skeptical attitude to the lady’s willingness when she did not come with her uncle to relay her answer. It felt rather strange and knowing Tony he would most definitely answer for his niece and then force her to the outcome he wanted. So he decided to take matters into his own hands to cross check.

Somewhat late in the night post dinner as the countryside fell quiet to the crickets and nightly mist. Easily making his way through the estates he calculated exact space to her room by standing right below it. Unaware that a heartbroken y/n was lying in bed listening to her vinyls trying to angst out the gradual foreseen depression with music. She missed the pebbles clashing on her balcony door. It was only when their amount grew and the feeble sounds became frequent that she was pulled out of her horror-dreaming trance of envisioning her upcoming life. She pulled the needle off the vinyl and turned away from the record player to inspect over the balcony. Hugging her cardigan closer to herself as she was exposed to the chill November air outside of her room. She lowered her gaze to inspect where the direction of the small stones that lay around her balcony. That is when she saw Rupert halfway through the tree adjoining her balcony. “What are you doing?” She asked as her eyes widened and her face fell at its sight. He was rather swift with his movements and study grip over the old tree and then he jumped off to the side, then the pipe, a bit too much of sturdy gymnastics and she was more freaked out than concerned or amazed. “Have you lost your mind-?!” She was whisper yelling as she looked back to her room to see if someone was there to interrupt this madness.

He managed to climb up to her balcony. Leaning on the railing from the outside as she distance herself, catching a breath creating a winter fog. He smiled through panting out his determination, swaying his leg across the railing as he made his way into her balcony. “I would have come through the main door but you ignored my calling.” He said referring to the small stones laid around them, in the wake of his attempt to catch her attention.

“What is wrong with you!” She exclaimed knowing well enough that there was plenty, “what if you had ended up on the wrong balcony.”

“I did. Your cousins, the children. They directed me here.” He said plainly as if he were to end up at any other room would be a horror for him. Nothing fortified his will more than what his heart desired “I wanted to see you.”

“At this hour?” Making her away inside to her room given it was unbearably cold outside for just one layer which she’d worn. She was in no mood to cater to his stunt but he followed her inside and she did not refuse him anyways.

“You could have come to meet me yourself today, when your uncle did.” He said with a shrug, closing the door behind his hands. Rupert wanted to cross check if she even knew that Tony had visited him today to affect his proposal.

“I didn’t want to then and I don’t want to now.” She spoke with an alerted and agitated look on her face. Alert to look out for any noise outside of her room, concerned footsteps if they heard conversation from her room in the dead of the night.

“Has he even told you?” Rupert said with a scoff, he was more confident over the fact that Tony would have said yes to their marriage for his self serving ways and not even considered her. It couldn’t possibly be that she herself couldn’t be bothered to visit him herself to give her ‘yes.’

“Told me what?” Bemused look on her face, unsure that there was more information for her uncle to withhold from her.

“Unbelievable…” he scoffed putting his hands on his hips as he looked around and then back to her, “just as I thought. He came to visit me today to tell me you accept the marriage proposal.”

“I know that” she answered with a unfazed look on her face, not even of sorrow or remorse. “He told me he was going” hell, even lady monica wanted to go with a proper basket and celebratory essence of it but it was neither celebratory nor familial so she did not attend.

“And you did not deem it necessary to come?” He was surprised to say at least, blissfully unaware to a large extent of her despise towards him he thought it was all to change after the kiss, not spike overnight of course. But aren’t some things sealed with a kiss?

“I do not have to endure you a second longer than actually required, why would I go voluntarily?” She raised obvious brows at her reasoning not taken aback by his assumptions and extractions of her attendance.

“The way you are marrying me voluntarily.” He reminded and also questioned to confirm if it was a voluntary step or not.

“I am trying to save my family’s fortune voluntarily.” Y/n rephrased the proposition, that is what she told herself too. It was his scrutiny towards her for not accepting his proposal herself which threw her off, in her house in her own room was this man making her out to be answerable to him. “What are you even here for? Out!” She said pointing to the balcony door again, her aunt was a light sleeper anyways she wouldn’t risk that.

“I wanted to confirm if you weren’t being forced into anything.” He responded truthfully however it seemed like his integrity held account for something so small in her eyes.

“Well now you have.” Answering his illogical concern she shrugged, she wasn’t being forced but at the same time whose choice would be Rupert. “You can leave.”

“So you will marry me.” He said plainly wanting a real answer where she would not just brush it off. Taking a step closer to her gently taking her hands in his.

If he was being so direct she could not rephrase the situation, arranged setting, business deal, financial consequence, “this is a violation.” She said gesturing to him holding her hand and took it away.

“Violation like when you kissed me.” Rupert said with his usual smug, grin and he could see the buttons being pushed in her head.

“That was a mistake.” An obvious agitation was not the blush he expected. “As is the marriage I’m telling you. I’m miserable as it is you will lose your mind. This truly is a big mistake.”

“A mistake I’m rather fond of.” He dismissed her paranoid concerns and fragile self perception. “We will find our footing.”

“What if I don’t that want with you.” She told him crossing her arms always panning out the worst but she did feel that way, at least show she thought she did.

“Then I will wait.” Ever so confident he could make so much work with her, it was beyond infatuation and also her understanding just how much he was capable of in his want and yearn.

“I won’t change my mind.” She told him firmly and in all truthfulness to put out the flames of affection and domesticity he may expect from her.

“And what of your heart, my love?” He asked further, more straws from him to grasp on and the straw was her heart. How inconveniently determined.

“I am not your love.” She affirmed bringing her brows together as a response to her unaccounted detest to the word.

“My bride.” Rupert added an option to her being his to a certain configuration whichever she found befitting.

“—Not yet.”

“Fiancé then?”

“That generally requires a ring.” She would much rather have a stone drown her down a stream than a stone on her finger which symbolises being his.

“Oh does it?” He asked nonchalantly as if he had something brewing, he certainly did. He reached out for his pocket bringing out a small red box.

“God no” she sighed as she realised what it was without him even opening it. There was a ridicule in the tragedy of this situation.

Getting on his knee, slowly, he opened the box and his eyes never left his bride, “will you-“

“There is no need for this dramatics this is simply a business arrangement and a finance-“

“Do you ever shut up?” He interrupted her still from his place situated on one knee.

“I should just shut up and marry you?” Going in for her turn to not-shut-up she said in between spaces of his sentences which caused him to revert what he was going to add.

“Shut up and marry me” he nodded, despite of his assurances she was so headstrong and stubborn. There was more a logic in a sentence so simple than further explanation.

There was more to the question than just marriage and him. Fragments of obligation, dutiful girl’s perfect life and her godfather’s generosities upon her. But in moments like these, the kiss, him climbing a tree to her balcony in the middle of the knight, the kiss, him wanting to reassure her despite her coldness, the kiss, him down on one for her, the kiss…the damned kiss. Taking the ring out of the box she but it on her finger in a swift motion only so he would stand up.

Rupert wanted that part to be intimate and his, but this is the closest to that he could get with a possibility of having her throw the ring on his grinning face. He didn’t want to take any chances. “Suits you.” He stood up staring at his ring on her finger.

“Farewell then…” she trailed off not wanting to feel the ill fabricated heavy emotions of his close proximity. As he was about to turn to her door out the room she stopped, getting in his track. “Not from there! The balcony” she pointed, her aunt was a light sleeper he ought to go out the way he came.

“How come? I will just use the main door it’s the same distance.” He answered unaware of her concerns of wrongness in his presence at the mansion this late.

“You can’t do that someone will find out you were here!” She exclaimed shaking her head.

“And? Your uncle has already put forth your terms of wanting a separate room, separate bed after marriage it’s not as if we would be having pre marital sex” he huffed at the sanctimonious assumption, jokingly implying she cared for the sort. She was too modern and he was too adulterated for that. However them not doing it had several other reasons, mainly her.

“Even post marital sex with you is far from dreams please don’t get ahead of yourself” she scoffed. He was pompous with the amount he’d bedded and could do so which repelled her even more to share a ‘marriage bed’ with him. He wouldn’t force himself on her so she did not specify that, it was an obvious boundary. It’s just his ballon of pride she wanted to guest perhaps over and over again.

“Afraid you’ll like it? Just like the kiss?” He knew the kiss was a tingling subject for her and he misused it full to his advantage.

“Get out!” Running out of replies she realised she did not owe him any. Feebly shoving him towards the balcony finally made him give in.

“Alright alright” he sighed standing halfway out the balcony door smiling the entire time. Before his exit he placed a gentle peck on the side of her face and made his way out, the same gymnasium of tree lunges and balcony railing. “Good night, my love!”

Already repulsed by his kiss the last words irked her further “not your love!” closing the door and curtains to the balcony on him at once she returned back inside to the disrupted serenity of her room. The music long abandoned she fell on the bed again, rethinking the interaction and overanalysing her thoughts.

Looking down at the ring on her finger, the more she looked the more it seemed to weigh and she had barely slept enough on the fact that she was getting married to Rupert Campbell Black. She couldn’t sleep in his ring.

Removing it from her finger to the bedside table she turned off the lamp to match the dark phase of her life. With a sigh hoping for sleep or morning, whichever outruns her thoughts.

—

Next part is the wedding and you’re all invited ;) please let me know your thoughts in the comments it really motivates me

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