#everything is worse than it ever has been! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daycourtofficial · 3 days ago

Text

An Autumn Courting

Pairing: Eris x winter court!reader | WC: 12.5k | warnings: sexual tones, mentions of hunting

Summary: coming into his role as High Lord of the Autumn Court, the first thing Eris does is make a proposal of marriage to you, something you’re going to make him work for.

A/N: this has been in my drafts since October 2023, I’m so glad to let this be out in the world. Happy @sjmxreaderweek !! This is way too long but enjoy anyway

Eris Vanserra had three soft spots.

First: his mother - a female who spent her life trying to make his better. The first and perhaps only person to show him pure, unconditional love. Someone who did not balk at the terrible things he had to do and endure to survive. One of his most complicated and long lasting relationships where nothing truly made sense.

Second: Lucien. He had a soft spot for all of his brothers when they were born. Being raised by Beron sucked the life from most of them. He watched as they slowly became apathetic at best, cruel at worst. All except Lucien.

Lucien, his baby brother, who remained a good, loyal male, despite everything Beron tried to do to him. Lucien, who looked at him with wide eyes and a big heart. Lucien - his first contact leading up to his father’s death, the only person he wanted there.

Third: his hounds.

Eris adored his hounds. He spent thousands of hours training them, breeding them, and preparing for the next litter. Their kennels were a refuge for him, a place no one in the family ever ventured out to. Only a handful of servants ever got close and they merely mucked out the stalls and changed feed for the dogs. They were the first things to ever truly be his.

Eris had three soft spots. Now it was four.

Your continued presence, skirting on the outside of his periphery for years meant more to him than you could ever possibly know. The only fae willing to talk back to him but keep a twinkle in their eye.

He spent years trying to figure out why your eyes plagued his dreams, how the wind would blow past carrying your laugh. He could never quite pinpoint an exact reason.

Staying away from you during court events was the best course of action for everyone. He knew if he got too close to you, Beron would notice and insist on exploiting this weakness of Eris’s by either a) trying to arrange a marriage between the two of you, putting you under Beron’s control and driving Eris further under Beron’s thumb, or b) keep you far away from Eris.

He knew which one was worse.

You had known Eris for centuries, a tenuous friendship due to his lack of trust and your uncertainty as to where you stood with him. Something inside of you always felt there was more to him than the mask he wore to the public, but you could never truly be certain if it was just naivety and hopefulness.

Years of seeing each other at inter-court events, culminated in the two of you finding each other, having occasional moments that left you wanting to see more of him. You could never linger together for too long, lest Beron catch on to how his eldest son’s eyes bore into yours for a second longer than appropriate. Every meeting, dance, or word shared between you two always left you flustered, every moment shared was dissected at length afterward.

One night, while under the mountain, Eris took a risk and found you in your chambers. He had to know that you were okay - as okay as one could be in such an environment. He was used to this environment- he knew how to play the game, how to endure the atrocities in front of him. But you didn’t.

Eris had pushed his way into your chambers, quickly shutting the door behind himself. The intrusion had left you so flustered, you ran to him, prepared to chastise him.

Instead he grabbed your shoulders, quickly spinning you before he rested your back against the door, ensuring no one could burst in without his knowledge. He caged you in with his arms on either side of you, his amber eyes roaming your face, inspecting for injuries.

“I don’t have much time. But if this ever ends, it will not be long until I put the pieces into place to better my position.”

You understood the meaning behind his words, ones too worried to utter the real truth out loud.

He was going to kill Beron. Or someone was.

You knew he was concerned about ears in this place, so he didn’t speak freely.

“I cannot promise you much, but if you wait, I will do things properly. But I would not hold it against you if you cannot wait.”

He hung his head, his long, red hair falling into his face before taking a deep breath and slipping out the door before you could say anything.

So, you waited.

You had survived the atrocities that happened under that cauldron-forsaken mountain and helped your brother Kallias rebuild the Winter court.

Then the war with Hybern happened. You continued your work trying to provide security and sanctuary to your citizens, but it was hard and draining.

The years carried on, until one day Kallias was called off quite quickly by mail, leaving you and Vivian quite confused but not for long. News of the death of Beron Vanserra traveled quite quickly through all of Prythian.

Kallias had returned for mere minutes before a letter arrived in front of you, a second one appearing in front of Kallias a moment later.

The envelope was sealed with the Autumn Court insignia, one that you’ve admired for many years now: a fox curling around a fire. It felt homey.

It was the Court’s official crest - and the Vanserra family’s familial crest resembled it. You broke the seal, reading the letter.

Fawn,

It is my hope that this letter finds you in good spirits and good health. I am writing this as a formal declaration of my intentions.

With your agreement, it is my intention to court and wed you, making you the Lady of the Autumn Court. It would be my honor to serve my court as your husband with you at my side.

This decision lies solely with you. I have, however, written a similar letter to your high lord, Kallias, so he will not feel blindsided should you accept.

Take your time over this decision. I will be busy in the coming weeks, adjusting to life as High Lord, however I will make whatever time is necessary for you shall you wish it.

Yours,

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court

You smiled at the title in his signature, sure that this was the first time he got to write it out.

Your eyes glanced up to find Viviane and Kallias’s peaking glances at you as they read the letter Eris had sent them.

“It would appear as though you’ve caught the eye of Prythian’s newest High Lord.”

It was no question that you would attend his coronation. Autumn was a direct border to Winter and Kallias had been waiting decades for Beron to die to potentially work with one of his sons on building better relations. He had always hoped it would be Lucien, the easiest and most diplomatic Vanserra. The two had a working relationship and he would be a lovely neighboring ruler.

During the whole affair, Eris’s eyes hardly strayed from yours. They followed you, not straying to any of the hundreds of fae gathered, not to the other court nobility that had arrived.

Just you.

His eyes had followed you as you lingered after the ceremony, finding Lucien just as the letter had instructed. You kept his gaze as you spoke to the youngest Vanserra, giving him the answer to Eris’s letter. You nodded just enough for the new High Lord to see, and his posture immediately relaxed. You stood taller knowing on a day all about him, he clearly had only been thinking of you.

You had written back to Eris after the coronation quite quickly, much more quickly than a proper lady should, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Excitement coursed through your body, almost impossible to sit still.

Corresponding with Eris was more fun than you had anticipated. It took a few letters, but he began opening up more and more, telling you stories about his day or some memory long forgotten. Most letters include some story about Lucien, but they felt much more relaxed than the version of him you knew at court events. He even stopped signing them with his full name, shortening it to just ‘Eris’ eventually.

You had made the mistake of mentioning to Kallias about Eris’s intentions. Your brother had been upset at first to find out his sister had caught the eye of a Vanserra - he had never trusted the family, always on guard in their presence. But when he heard the words ‘courting’ and ‘traditional’, you swore his eyes danced with amusement as he plotted something.

Official courting was very similar across Prythian, with minor details changed for each court. For members of nobility and highly esteemed families of the Winter Court, it was usual custom for the betrothed pair to visit each other’s villages. Time spent partaking in the customs of each village was essential - life in Winter could often feel very insular. Villages less than a day’s travel from each other could be quite different, even language differences occurring. Holidays across the court looked similar to outsiders, but traditions held a wide range of activities.

Kallias would allow you to do as you wished as long as you weren’t tricked or coerced into anything. However, your brother would make Eris regret his exact words of a ‘traditional courting’.

Eris had agreed to the terms, but sent many letters about his brother in forewarning and to not take him seriously. Having met the youngest Vanserra on several occasions, you were well prepared for what he might do.

An agreement was formed - Eris was to spend two weeks in Winter before you would spend two weeks in Autumn. At that point, you would provide some form of answer. You had some idea of what you would say - you wouldn’t be wasting everyone’s time otherwise. But it would be foolish and rash to wed without spending any time alone with the male.

Eris was set to arrive in a week’s time, coming to your home, coming to Winter. It felt surreal, not quite allowing yourself to believe it until the male was standing before you. A week was nothing for a High Lord - Kallias’s visits to other courts usually required several months of notice. But seven days still felt too long after seeing him at the coronation. You did anything to make yourself busy - planning activities for the two of you, reassuring your brother once again that this was what you wanted, trying to showcase Winter in the best light.

Still, every night when you laid in bed, everytime you closed your eyes, you were brought back to the coronation, how his eyes followed you across the room. A room full of the most powerful and important people in Prythian, and his gaze never left yours.

You hardly slept the night before he was set to arrive, waking with the sun as if it would bring Eris here more quickly. The morning went by at a snail’s pace, the palace unhurried for the day. You had bathed, dried your hair, paced around, tidied your room. You did anything you could think to keep busy, to keep your mind off the clock.

Eventually enough time passed for you to make it to breakfast, sitting across from Kallias and Vivianne’s amused glances. They chatted idly, amused smiles directed at you that you pretended to ignore. You only pushed the food around on your plate, watching the sun through the window, trying to will it to move faster.

“Something wrong?” Kallias’s question made its way through the fog, the only words he had spoken you had been able to make sense of.

“Sure, sure.” You waved him off with your fork, eyes moving to the entryway to the dining room every so often. He laughed, amused at how little you were listening to them, but you had tuned him out once more. Doubt crept in as each second passed, your anxieties certain something would keep the two of you apart. Had he changed his mind? Was it all in the chase for a hunter like him?

As if your doubts had conjured him, he was striding through the entrance hall, his red hair practically melting the walls as he went past. Over the years, you had seen Eris in a variety of wardrobe: deep reds ranging to bright green, a variety of embroidery threads on every piece. He made every color his own, gravitating towards richer, earthier shades. The dark blue jacket that hung from his shoulders made the color seem so new and exotic, despite being a significant portion of your own wardrobe. The depth of color popped beneath his pale skin somehow, unjustly proving there truly was no color he couldn’t make his own.

The piece looked like anything you would find in Winter, but somehow like nothing you had ever seen before.

He had looked so sure of himself at the coronation, steadfast in a way a High Lord needed to be. In the few weeks since, he had somehow grown even more into himself, standing tall and sharp. His hair was much shorter now than it was under the mountain, the weight of that place chopped off with the fiery locks.

Eris stopped before you, smiling as he took you in, a bit of shock mixed in with the delight. Too caught up in your wandering eyes, you completely forget to even pretend to courtesy until it’s too late and you fumble a short bow. His face lit up with amusement, and you hoped he'd ignore it. Your prayers seemed to be answered until he leaned in and asked, “see something you like?”

The question sent chills down your back, your spine straightening. Your mouth became too dry to respond, and even if you could, you couldn’t think of anything to say. This thing with Eris, however mutual it may be, had alway been fleeting - small conversations, loose promises. No matter how your heart pulled to him, you still knew so little about him.

Kallias cleared his throat from behind you, his focus completely on Eris. The males only nodded to each other, not even attempting small talk. Kallias had been on edge ever since the first letter arrived - you heard him pacing at night, sure that the Autumn male was planning something. But those concerns hardly made it to your ears, your brother staying tight lipped about his reservations.

You didn’t think there was any validity to Kallias’s concerns for even a moment, especially not as he stood before you, a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes.

“I didn’t think you would allow this. I expected to be thrown out of Winter.” His voice was soft, the usual sneer or jestful tone gone, leaving room for something more vulnerable.

“Do you take me for a liar, High Lord? Not a good look for a new bride.” The quip sent him slightly off balance, surprise or pleasure at the change in your attitude.

“My apologies.” He bowed low at the waist causing you to go completely still. As High Lord, he didn’t have to bow to anyone. The other High Lords were his equals, but they didn’t deserve this level of respect.

“I’m just kind enough to forgive you, Eris.” He straightened at the sound of his name, the slight smirk enough to let you know how much he enjoyed it.

You spent the afternoon showing him the palace and the grounds, noting the amusement on his face at the ice gardens. You showed him the deep blues of the palace, listening as he compared them to his own home, the Forest House.

“I have arranged for some private dining for us. Kallias wanted some grand banquet in your honor, but I shot that down.”

“Wanted to get me alone?”

“Oh, we won’t be alone.” He waited for you to go on, still keeping stride next to you. “There are eyes everywhere in Winter. Why do you think we don’t have a chaperone?”

Eris turned in a circle, moving around the landscape, searching for anybody. There wasn’t another living thing for miles in the vast wintery expanse.

“Can you keep a secret?” He nodded, leaning his face closer to yours. You did the same, leaning up on your toes to meet him. You lowered your voice, soft as the snow fall. “It’s the animals.”

“The animals?” A mixture of shock and delight came across his face, a hint of disbelief as well. You nodded, not elaborating further. As far as you could tell, the animals in Winter were vastly different from the animals of other courts. They were larger, better at hiding, and were connected to Kallias somehow. You had tried for years to get him to explain it - why arctic foxes lingered at the palace doors, hares burrowed beneath every window. He always stayed tight-lipped about it, but he always knew things he shouldn’t. He was always the first to know your business, even if you never told him.

“I don’t really get it, but they like my brother.”

Eris followed as you led him to the west side of the palace. Light snow fell, crunching beneath your feet as you made your way down the path to the stables. You finally reached the surprise the servants had set up - a massive sleigh fronted by a team of large reindeer, stocked with blankets and food.

“What is this?”

“Our chariot.”

Eris looked over the sled, the reindeer all standing at attention, dark fur accented with lush garlands.

“Couldn’t we just winnow?”

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that?”

He huffed, his breath visible in the air. He followed you into the sleigh, his body pressing close to yours. You let out a low whistle, the reindeer taking off quickly. Eris fell back into the seat, unprepared for the quick takeoff. Your hand covered your mouth, trying to hide the laugh that escaped, but you knew he heard it from the way he looked over at you.

His magic made a warm bubble around the two of you, blocking out the wind as the reindeer picked up a good pace. The sleigh glided across the snow, making fresh tracks as it moved. Eris looked around, trying to find any hint as to where the two of you were heading off to.

“What are we waiting for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

He studied you then, really focusing on you. You did the same, studying how much he contrasted the wintry landscape passing behind. His blue coat helped him blend in somewhat, but he stood out too much from the ice and snow to ever be able to fully hide.

“Have you ever been to Winter?” Your voice was louder, trying to be heard over the wind. You’ve seen him in Winter three or four times, the Vanserras never lingering long, only here to discuss things related to the border. Your father despised having them around, always tense in the days leading up to their arrival. But you wanted to hear it from him, wanted to know what your home was like to an outsider.

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Both.”

He leaned back on the seat, stretching out his long legs in the sleigh, his body still touching yours but not encroaching on your space.

“Officially, a handful of times. Unofficially, a few dozen times. I’ve snooped around the border a time or two.”

“To see the sights? Or do something a bit more?”

He gave a sharp look, some debate happening behind his eyes on how much to tell.

“I’d be lying if I said the land on the border between our courts was anything less than spectacular.”

You had never been so far north as the seasonal courts, but the lands connecting Summer, Winter, and Autumn were quite the sight. A blend of all three courts, a beautiful lake laid in the middle of the tricourt border. The wind blew falling leaves and soft snow across the water, but somehow the air was the perfect temperature to go swimming. It was a beautiful spot, popular with travelers.

“My excursions were less than savory.” His face was grim now, hard set with bad memories. Your breath hitched at how quickly the conversation had turned. It’s not too surprising to know Eris has snuck across the border - you have snuck off into Summer a time or two, emboldened by youth and recklessness.

But a few years ago, someone had done something so heinous the memory still made you gag.

“Have you ever harmed one of Winter’s citizens?” It still wasn’t known who killed those children, their deaths still a heavy tragedy for your court. Their wailing parents could be heard across the court. Your brother had long suspected the High Lord of the Night Court of it, but he had no leads.

“No. Mostly a neutral meeting site for discussions.” He seemed less than forthcoming, not wanting to linger too long, but willing to answer any questions you had. You only had one last question, needing it answered before letting this subject die.

“Did you have any involvement with the children?” You didn’t have to specify, you knew he’d know what you were referring to.

“No. I would never.” Relief washed over you. He seemed open in a way you’ve never seen before. You wanted to see more of it, let him tell you who he is in his own words.

The sled started slowing down at your whistle, halting in the middle of a barren field. The dark sky stretched on for miles, filled with galaxies of stars too numerous to count and too small to quantify. You unfolded the blanket, draping it across both of your laps, before opening the picnic basket. You passed him a small mug, filling it with hot chocolate from an enchanted kettle.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You tried for a more hopeful tone, the lilt in your voice asking to move on from the tragedy. He thought it over seriously for a few moments, watching the steam from his mug dissipate before settling on something.

“I have twelve hounds, all named after ingredients in pumpkin pie or apple varieties.”

“You have hounds?” He nodded, allowing you to continue. “I’ve only seen hounds from afar around here. In Winter, they work either with hunting or guardians. I’ve heard in Day it’s popular to keep them as pets. Are yours more pet or worker?”

“Anyone else, I’d say they’re workers. But in the interest of honesty, they are more pet.”

The mug of hot chocolate in your hands was the only thing keeping you from squealing in delight.

“Do you spoil them?”

“No.” You eyed him skeptically, not accepting his answer. “Okay, fine. I spoil them. But I make them work for it.”

“That’s so sweet. I’m sure they all love you.”

He didn’t respond, but you were sure it was the truth. You couldn’t imagine any being not falling in love with him, especially after spending years with him.

You slowly leaned into him, trying to soak up all his warmth. He turned, his face only inches from yours. His nose was a hair away from bumping into yours. Amber eyes flicked down to your lips and back up, but he stayed where he was.

You pushed back from him, catching the glimpse of color from behind his head, telling him to look up.

The sky above you, previously pitch black, slowly allowed streaks of green and light blue to ribbon across its landscape. The sky was a living painting, bright hues stretching across the blank canvas. The movements seemed random, smooth strokes looking for a place to rest. Every stroke looked intentional, every color carefully picked to complement the ones around it.

The hundreds of times you had seen it before didn’t matter - each time was brand new, never looking the same as the last. Eris was quiet beside you, the silence stretching up to the sky in appreciation of its beauty.

For a long time, neither of you say anything, but Eris’s hand slowly moved closer - first resting next to yours, each finger slowly and gently making contact, until he was holding your hand in his, gazing at this new beauty to bask in.

You smiled to the sky, thankful for whatever reason it was here. It would be the first thing the two of you would share, your shared focus on the same thing. The whole ride home would be devoted to talking about it, sharing feelings and observations, but now the two of you stared, necks craning at something that had stretched across Winter for as long as fae had existed.

On Eris’s second day in Winter, the weather was just right for an activity you were determined to see Eris try before accepting any proposals. You bundled yourself up, donning several layers beneath a coat before you bounced down the hallway. His room was several doors down from yours at Kallias’s input no doubt, but it gave you an extra moment to smooth out any wrinkles in your coat.

Deep blue skies filled the windows you passed, the day outside exceedingly bright. It was springtime in Winter, one of the warmer days that brought fae outdoors in droves, but your intended destination would be quite cold.

Your knock on his door was quick, three taps before his face greeted you.

“You’re quite chipper this morning,” he greeted.

You beamed, excitement for the day coursing through you. “It’s a beautiful day, of course I’m chipper.”

You looked down from his eyes to find his chest bare, no shirt to cover the pale skin littered with freckles. A set of two moles beneath his left clavicle caught your eye, before your gaze stuck on the red hair beneath his navel, leading into his trousers.

“I can meet you for breakfast downstairs if you wish to eat.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, a hint of arrogance lacing his words at having caught your ogling. He spared you from any other jabs at your expense, at least.

“No need, we’ll be getting breakfast out in town.”

A surprised look crossed his face before he quickly changed it for one of intrigue.

“Spare a moment so I can change.”

He came out exactly a moment later, not letting you wait too long. He stepped out in brown trousers, brown riding boots, a loose white shirt, and a beautifully decadent emerald green vest with gold detailing. He looked so autumnal, almost like a crisp apple you were dying to bite into.

Your lips puckered. “You’re going to need more clothes.”

“Oh? You seemed quite happy with the lack of layers I was wearing earlier.”

You scoffed, trying to cover the heat that was spreading up your face. “I am a lady, High Lord. Of course I am happy to see a lack of layers in my attractive guests.”

He laughed through his nose, an almost pleased snort at your unabashed comment.

“Any hints as to the day’s plans?”

“None until you get dressed.” He grumbled something as he turned back, leaving the door open before rifling through his trunks again.

“You do know I can warm myself quite easily with my magic.” He found a larger coat, probably the thickest one he owned, but it looked thin in comparison to the large, feather coats of Winter’s citizens. You followed him, standing in his doorway as he spoke to you.

“That’s cheating, though. Besides, your magic could be a hazard.” He stopped buttoning his jacket, fingers pausing mid movement.

“I thought I wasn’t getting any hints until I was better dressed.”

“You are better dressed.”

“I would never leave with my buttons undone. I’m not an animal.”

You stepped aside, walking down the hallway and away from him. His door shut softly behind him and he quickly caught up to you, matching your stride through the palace. No matter how much he asked, you didn’t let up, leading him out of the palace and onto the cool paths that navigated around the property.

You thought he would give up - it would only be a ten minute walk, after all. But he was unwavering, determined to get the answer from you, so much so he wasn’t paying attention to the upcoming view.

“We’re going ice skating!” You declared proudly, pointing ahead at the frozen lake coming into view. Figures glided across the frozen surface, laughing loud enough to be heard from far away.

“Why are we going ice skating, my ice princess?”

The nickname caught you off guard, the title not sounding as stilted as it usually did. You tried to keep your composure, a difficult task as your tongue suddenly became very thick in your mouth. “It’s tradition.”

“Is it now? Or do you just want to admire me gliding across the ice in those tight uniforms your skaters wear?”

A sigh escaped you, careful not to let him hear your laugh.

“It’s tradition in Winter for betrothed couples to skate together.”

“We’re a betrothed couple now?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You still hadn’t technically given him an answer nor did you plan to until the end of the trip. Everything was going so well, you had to ensure you liked being in his company before agreeing.

“We’re something.”

“I suppose ‘something’ is the most serious relationship I’ve ever been in.”

“Haven’t you been engaged to the Morrigan?”

“I was a child. I had met her all of a handful of times before it ended.”

“So us ice skating is the most serious romantic endeavor you’ve ever been involved with?”

“It would appear so.”

“If I may be so bold, that is quite sad.” A pair of ice skates appeared in your hands, the size determined by some servants who snuck into his chambers last night and measured his shoes. You held them out to him before gesturing for him to sit on a nearby bench to put them on.

“What’s sad is going to be seeing me out on the ice and that will be the end of my most serious romantic endeavor.”

You reached out, gently pinching his cheek between your thumb and forefinger.

“I wouldn’t end things with how pitiful you look on the ice. I find pathetic males endearing on occasion.”

“I will note to never allow you near Lucien again.”

Your own skates appeared in your hand as you sat next to Eris. The two of you laced boots in tandem, listening as a few kids played a game of hockey on one end of the lake.

“You’ll probably be a little wobbly getting out there,” you warned, standing up to help him. You held your hands out, which he gladly took, helping him find his balance on the mat.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, just wait.”

You helped him waddle to the entrance, his body instinctively reaching for the short walls that had been erected around the lake. Eris moved onto the ice, attempting to keep the blades beneath his feet connected to the ice. It was much slippier than he anticipated, his feet moving at an odd angle before he quickly moved back to grip the wall once more. His eyes met yours, your face barely able to contain your grin. Your eyes shone with delight, your tone laced with wicked amusement as you held out your hands.

“Forgive me, High Lord. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a skating prodigy.”

His jaw tightened at the jab, annoyance simmering beneath his skin. Everyone else on the ice made it look easy, skating past the High Lord in pairs. One male even did a jump right in front of him.

If there was one thing that would never change about Eris, it was that he was a sore loser if he wasn’t automatically good at something.

A skater passed by, ice shavings hitting Eris in the chest. It was enough to get him to remove himself from the wall, to move out toward your outstretched hands. He looked like a newborn foal, standing for the first time on fresh legs. You suppressed a giggle, reaching out for him.

He made it halfway between you and the wall when one of the kids from the other side of the lake hit the hockey puck too hard, the black circle skidding fast directly at Eris’s feet. It hit the blade of his left skate, sending him falling forward.

A loud, boisterous laugh fell from your lips. Your head tilted back, the sun nearly blinding you, but you couldn’t contain the joy you felt in this moment.

A beautiful male fell into your arms, looking more like a fresh fawn than the high lord he was.

He clutched at you, his feet giving out beneath him as he tried to find his balance. The blades slashed the ice, cutting and churning up slush until eventually he slowed down, his feet able to stay in place long enough for him to straighten up.

Eris still clung to you, but his face came close to your ear, whispering so only you could hear.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Yes, you do.”

“And you’re enjoying it.”

“Very much so.” A meteor couldn’t wipe the smug look off your face at his struggles. You pried his hands from your shoulders, holding them tight in your hands as you slowly started skating backwards. The shock on his face had you biting back another laugh, but you held him tight, gliding backwards without a concern in the world.

He slowly began figuring out how to move his feet, making short glides. Each sweep of his legs brought more confidence, but his hands still remained tight in yours.

Eris didn’t have many courtly duties to take up his time while in Winter. He had spent most of the last week preparing for this, but he only had to put up with daily updates and light correspondence taking no less than an hour a day.

You took him everywhere you thought of: nearby villages, sightseeing, trying restaurants. He was more receptive to Winter cuisine than you had anticipated, but it shouldn’t be too shocking that there was some overlap between your courtly palettes.

Today the snow came down in massive heaps, a sheet of white covering the windows, making it impossible to see past a few feet.

“Please don’t tell me we’re going out to do something like see how much snow we can catch.”

You smiled, turning from the window to find Eris looking down at you. You stood, practically bouncing the balls of your feet at the plan for today.

“I’d never do that to you and your delicate constitution.” A huff escaped his lips at your taunt, but no retort came back.

“We’re going to bake and assemble a gingerbread house.”

It was too early for yule, the ingredients necessary for the traditional dishes out of season. But you craved to showcase Winter in all its splendor.

“A gingerbread house? To live in?”

“Not for us to live in. For the gingerbread fae to live in.”

He only stared blankly, the concept clearly a new one to the High Lord.

“Do you not celebrate Yule in Autumn?”

“We burn bushes and the like, but we don’t make gingerbread.” He said it with a grimace, like the cookie was offensive.

“Well, you can help me build it and decorate it.”

A few hours later, when the cookies were taken from the oven, the two of you took a break, venturing around the palace grounds, talking about everything and nothing. At some point you were sure the cookies had cooled enough to work with, but there had been a break in the snow and you weren’t quite ready to return yet. Instead you had detoured into the nearby village, taking Eris to get hot chocolate.

“I promise, I’ve tried so much hot chocolate over the years, but this is the best.”

“Very convenient that they live so close by.” You smiled over the mug, taking your first sip, the sweet rich flavor one you couldn’t get enough of.

“I may have persuaded him to move his shop here.”

Eris held his drink, waiting for it to cool more.

“Here I thought I was the scandalous one of us.”

“It all worked out! He met his wife here and they’ve been very happy for a long time. And they have me to thank for it.” Pride was etched into every inch of your smile, to see happy citizens and watch things work out for them was a joy.

“Winter’s own little matchmaker.”

After enough time (and Eris admitting it was the best hot chocolate Prythian had to offer), the two of you had wandered back to the palace, taking your sheets of cookies into the dining room. Servants had already arranged all your decorating needs neatly onto the table: icing, gumdrops, sugar. Anything sweet your heart could desire was on the table.

“The world’s supply of sugar was dropped off in our absence.”

It didn’t take long before he was sucked into the work, determined to make a grand gingerbread house fit for a High Lord. You watched as he carefully iced one of the walls, applying windows and doors to it. His lines were perfect, a steely look of determination on his face.

This was what this trip was about. Seeing Eris for who he was at all times: relaxed, enthralled, annoyed. After a moment of watching him, you turned back to your own house, hoping a distraction would quell the butterflies roaring in your stomach. You picked up one of the tiny ginger males, picking out the perfect red icing to make his hair with.

Before long, Eris’s two weeks in Winter were coming to an end. It felt surreal to watch him winnow away, feeling juvenile over the longing you felt in his absence.

Eris would head to Autumn a day before you, so the two of you hadn’t lingered long on saying goodbye. It had taken longer than expected for him to depart, as if the both of you were unwilling to give the other up for any amount of time. The pull you had felt toward him all these years, the seemingly insurmountable obstacles keeping the two of you apart, and yet a whole day felt impossible.

Life had continued on in your whirlwind romance, but it felt different now. Two weeks away and it felt like being in someone else’s clothes, stepping into someone else’s life.

The silence felt louder, your room colder. The halls you grew up in, the room you’d known your entire life - they felt so empty now, so lifeless without a redhead blazing fires.

The next day Kallias winnowed the two of you to Autumn, somewhere about a mile from the perimeter of the Forest House. He spent the twenty minute walk probing you nonstop about if you were truly happy to do this.

“It would mean living here year round.” His arms spread out, sweeping across the landscape. It was so different from your home in the Winter Court, trees full of leaves that are about to shed, woodland creatures skittering all around, watching the two of you.

The air was always so still in Winter, but here it ebbed and flowed, carrying the scent of bonfires and apples wherever it went.

“I don’t think that would be so bad.” You failed to mention how excited you’d be to live with a certain male, not wanting to endure Kallias’s teasing or gagging noises from him.

Your brother escorted you through the woods, your arm tucked into his as you passed through the wards placed around the Forest House. The large, dark estate was tucked away in the woods, trees as tall as the sky surrounding it. The sun was hitting it just right, letting it shine in all its glory, as if even the weather was happy with the change in Autumn.

A servant had found the two of you - some guard, you assumed from the weapon at his side. He bowed quickly before the two of you, quickly turning on his heel for you to follow. You didn’t have to follow long, Eris already waiting in the front hallway for the two of you.

It was hard to decide what to look at - the male or the gorgeous interior of the home. You were set to be here for two weeks, plenty of time to ogle the decor and architecture, so you opted to keep your eyes on Eris. He looked different in Autumn, more at ease, but also brighter somehow, as if every room and background bent toward him, trying to complement his skin.

He kept his eyes on you the same way, likely figuring out how much you contrasted against the earthly shades of the court. You didn’t care, certain he would spin it in a more favorable light than you would. He eventually took his eyes off of you, turning towards your brother, reaching out a hand. Their hands met, slight steam coming off from their touch before your brother chuckled. It wasn’t until you peeled your eyes from Eris to find one of his brothers, Lucien, standing behind him

“Eris,” Kallias’s voice took on a more stern tone, one that had a groan coming from the back of your throat. Kallias’s blue eyes met yours, a silent conversation taking place while he was still shaking Eris’s hand. After a minute of glaring back and forth, he turned back toward Eris, patting his hand before retracting it.

“Eris.” It said all that Kallias wanted to. The threat hidden in the one word, the tight grip he had on Eris’s hand. Eris only nodded, a tight lipped smile at either Kallias’s rigid position or the tight grip he had on him. Kallias examined him for a moment before letting go, his arm moving to wrap you into a hug.

“Last chance,” he said quietly into your ear. You softly shook your head no as you leaned into his touch, the cool air enveloping you in such a familiar way. He patted your back before letting go.

“I’ll see you in two weeks then.” This time he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, accenting every word in a ‘I’m the High Lord’ way. You chuckled softly as he turned, nodding at both Vanserras before walking out of the house.

The three of you stood in silence for only a moment, no one quite sure how to continue on after Kallias’s departure. Lucien’s eyes gleamed with excitement, a smile full of mischief and trouble sent your way.

“Would you like to walk around the estate?”

It was an interesting sight to behold - two fae, each over several centuries old, strolling about Autumn with a much younger and louder chaperone following behind them.

“I have to say you do seem quite different since the last I saw of you in Autumn, High Lord.”

Lucien’s steps followed the two of you, his whistling an overt measure to ensure you both remembered his presence. When you had asked for traditional courtship, you hadn’t had Lucien in mind.

“Autumn is seeing a great change.”

“You may speak freely, if you wish. I understand double speak is common around here, but I am unfamiliar with it and find it tedious.”

“Autumn is doing quite well now that the blight that was my father has been taken care of.”

Lucien’s whistling stopped, an almost choking noise coming from his mouth. Eris shot a spark from his finger at his brother. Even though he couldn’t see it, he heard Lucien patting the fire out of his breeches and smiled. Your eyes caught Eris’s, unable to stop the enjoyment at seeing him so happy.

“How crass, High Lord. To speak of your departed father in such a way.”

Eris’s eyes nearly bulged from his head, an excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue until he caught a glint of amusement in your eye. He clicked his tongue, looking straight ahead toward the path.

“You sound like Lucien, my least favorite brother.”

A cough came from behind, but Eris didn’t turn to look at his brother before replying. “Chaperones are merely to ensure our innocence and chastity, not to butt into conversation.”

“Yes, we are quite innocent and chaste up here. No deflowering has occurred on your watch,” you added.

“I do love a good deflowering, but watching it happen to my brother is not what I wish to see.”

Steam practically shot out of Eris’s ears at Lucien’s quip, but your giggles broke him from his anger.

“A virgin High Lord. How noble of you, your grace. And you picked me to deflower you? I’m so honored.”

The High Lord of Autumn had half a mind to forego the frivolity of tradition. Two weeks of his brother following him around was sure to end in murder. He knew you were quite a fan of them, some romanticized notion of courting traditions in your mind he couldn’t quite bear to see squashed.

Your first night there had been enough for him to put up with meddling brothers for a lifetime. He had shown you around the Forest House per your request. He listened intently during the tour as you compared the Forest House to the Snowflake Palace, comparing your current home to what was hopefully set to be a future one. You were now comparing balconies, ones you had shown him on his tour, balconies carved in part from ice in the upper levels of the palace.

“I’m sure you could remodel here with your flames a bit.”

A chuckle made you smile, happy to amuse him over such silly imaginings.

“I don’t think they’d be structurally sound to stand on.”

“Hmm, that’s a shame. A flaming throne room would really make the place shine.”

The two of you moved through the house, wandering through centuries of history. Stories flowed from Eris’s mouth - items that were millennium old, passed down through the Vanserra line carefully. Things the high lord has grown so accustomed to seeing every day he had forgotten to enjoy the intricate details of them.

At some point on the tour, Lucien had stepped away, having to attend to some matter on his own.

“I could show you where your chambers would be if you moved here.”

You stopped, grabbing Eris by the elbow to get his attention. You held his arm as you spoke, the fabric of his jacket soft in your hand.

“Eris, if I am to wed, I would rather spend my nights with my husband. It’s no fun sleeping alone.”

He swallowed harshly, needing a moment before he responded. “Noted.”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“Then can you show me your chambers?” Eris swore under his breath, the direct question straining his pants.

“Lucien steps away for an hour and you’re already trying to deflower me.”

“Maybe the chaperone was for me, Eris.”

Eris was still staying in his old chambers, wanting Beron’s old chambers completely renovated before he moved into them. His room was somewhere in the west wing, the windows facing a large field that had massive stables at the end of the horizon. You walked to the window, ignoring inspecting the rest of the furniture in favor of the lush green pasture.

“Horses?”

“Hounds,” he corrected, his voice dripping with pride. It jogged your memory - the brief conversation you had earlier about his pack of hounds.

“Do they sleep in the bed with you?”

The silence stretched on for a moment before he asked, “how important is the answer to that?”

You shrugged your shoulders, squinting your eyes as you looked at the field, trying to make out any dog-like shapes. “I’m often incredibly cold during the night and a warm, furry friend would be nice.”

“It’d be a shame then to not tell you that they all end up here during the night.”

You whipped your head to him, incredulity coating your words. “How many are there?”

“A dozen or so.”

A laugh escaped from you. Eris Vanserra, a male supposedly cut from Beron’s cloth who had half of Prythian annoyed at him and the other infuriated with him, had a pack of hounds to keep him company at night?

“This is delightful.” Only a few hours into the trip and you had already learned so much about Eris.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” You leaned against the wall, turning your body toward him. It didn’t go unnoticed when he stepped slightly closer, following to not let any more distance linger between you two. “The other courts think you’re the Mother’s curse upon faekind. If only they knew you liked snuggling.”

“Even cursed ones have hobbies when they’re not ransacking villages or plaguing the common fae.”

The day was supposed to end with a dinner in your honor, celebrating relations between Winter and Autumn, and a way for you to meet more people in the Forest House. Instead you had asked if you could share dinner in his chambers, citing the travels of the day making you weary.

An excuse Eris saw through, but elected not to say anything. He’d be damned to give up this much alone time with you, certain Lucien would make himself known at any moment.

The two of you ate and drank in Eris’s sitting room, not having ventured into his bedchambers. This trip was about you and he’d follow your lead, no matter how straining it became.

“We’ve been on our own for several hours now. Do you think our chaperone’s gone?”

“With any luck he’s fallen into an uncapped well or perhaps gotten lost at sea.”

“I don’t think we’re that lucky, Eris.”

He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking as he stretched out his long legs.

“It’s night time. He’s likely off writing a letter, waxing poetry about how much he’s missing his mate.”

“You’re not concerned about any interruptions, then?”

“At this point Lucien should be old enough to know better. What he sees is on him.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you glanced down at his trousers, noting the clear outline of his bulge. You looked back up to find his searing gaze on you, amber eyes full of molten want, the air around the two of you hot enough to have sweat prickling at your neck. You patted his shoulder, trying to soothe the rejection before it came.

“Still, he only has the one eye. Wouldn’t want to completely blind him.” You wanted to - your legs practically shook with need. Something held you back from allowing him in fully, to take in every aspect of this potential relationship.

Eris had escorted you back to your room, unperturbed by the earlier rejection. He only waited as you stood across from him, not quite ready to open your door and bid him goodnight. The longer you stood here, his body heat practically inviting you closer, the more likely you were to cave into your carnal wants.

His own restraint did little to quell the ache between your legs. In fact, it made it worse. He was being respectful, never pushing or upset at the space you needed.

“I should go to bed.”

A half attempt at moving, to get your brain in gear, to retire for the evening, but as long as his eyes were on you, it was hard to pull away from his orbit.

If Eris had it his way, this whole visit would have been structured so differently. Every meal just the two of you, spending only a few hours apart for some necessary meetings he had.

But you had asked for traditional courting.

So he put up with more chaperoned walks through the garden, meals spent with others, hardly getting a moment alone with you for weeks until you slipped into his sitting room each night, recounting the time spent apart. You saw more of Lucien than you did him, his brother neglecting almost all of his duties in favor of entertaining at all hours of the day.

Eris was on the brink of wringing Lucien’s neck. Watching his eyes pop from his head would amuse him, wondering if the mechanical one would pop out too or if it would stay in its socket forever.

Most of Autumn’s rituals around love and commitment were saved for the day of the wedding or the ceremony itself. Fire night was a big event, but that was six months out and Eris couldn’t wait that long. He had been racking his brain for ages, trying to figure out something to showcase Autumn.

The proposal weighed heavy on your mind over the days you spent with him. While you were having a great time, Kallias never made you feel like you had to marry for political advantage. He actually seemed to prefer you to marry outside of it. Your brother desperately wanted you to marry any of the athletes of Winter, preferably from his favored teams.

You were having a great time being courted - finally being allowed to soak in Eris’s company was a delight. But you couldn’t quite say yes.

Eris had told you it would be an early morning and to dress in layers and to wear pants, but it was all he’d give you. You took his advice, layering well for the Autumn chill, lacing up your boots when a knock came at the door. Eris stood on the other side of the door, a tweed jacket unbuttoned, showing off a matching vest beneath it. Dark pants clung to his thighs, disappearing into the knee high boots hugging his calves. He said nothing, letting his gaze trail up the pants that hugged your thighs, a devilish smirk on his face that almost had you pulling him into your chambers.

“Ready?” He asked, extending an elbow toward you. You accepted it, letting him lead you on whatever adventure he wanted to show you.

“I thought I would show you one of my traditions.” You stayed silent, waiting for him to tell you more, but he didn’t say more, only looking forward as he walked. He guided the two of you through the house, up to some side hallway that led to the pasture behind the house. Barks came from the door at the end, either excitement or aggression you couldn’t say.

“And what is this tradition?”

“Whenever my mother would successfully give birth, I would take my hounds out and catch dinner.” He paused, one of his hands resting on the doorknob before he turned to face you.

“Would this bother you?” He fully faced you, close enough that you could almost touch him. You reached out, your hand brushing his, letting his warmth wake you up. Standing in the hallway with him felt like standing in the sun after a long, cold day, his gaze enough to warm your bones.

You shook your head, hunting for game a familiar one in Winter.

“I’ve never hunted with animals before.” The only movement was an eyebrow before his fingers held your hand. “Kallias is really into trapping.” Furs and meat were the two necessities to make it in Winter, most court citizens avid hunters.

He nodded, surprise evident on his face, but he said nothing. He squeezed your hand gently, looking deep into your eyes, fondness clear in his gaze. He looked on the verge of saying something, but only turned the knob, letting the early morning haze in, not quite clearing the lovesick haze that had settled in your stomach.

All the barking stopped immediately once Eris opened the door, the sound of dozens of paws hitting the ground thunderous in your ears. They quickly mobbed the pair of you, standing politely, tails wagging furiously. Several colors of fur tried to make their way to you, a dozen noses desperately trying to reach you. You giggled, reaching a hand out to pet one of them. You’d get to nuzzle one of their heads before another hound pushed it out of the way, trying to get your affection.

Eris gave a short, high-pitched whistle, sending the party into a frozen state, each one on high alert as they waited for his next order. It was almost terrifying how well they listened to his command, moving in tandem as if from one mind.

They all focused on him, a few with tilted heads. He let out a series of whistles, the meaning lost to you, but they understood. They moved as a group, their movements wispy and light, practically floating on air as they moved through the pasture, keeping a pace you couldn’t even dream of reaching.

“How do we find them?” Eris began trudging off after them, following the line in the morning dew they had made. From the front of the house, when you had arrived only a few days ago, you couldn’t have guessed at this large field hidden among the trees, this quiet sanctuary beyond a house containing Prythian’s greatest secrets.

“We follow as best we can. They’ll let us know when they find something.” A large crossbow was hung across his shoulder, not quite sure how you had missed it beforehand. It covered the muscles of his back, showing off his broad shoulders.

“What sort of expectations are there for the Lady of Autumn?” You had briefly met the previous one on this trip, Eris’s mother graciously inviting you for afternoon tea. You spoke for an hour with her, charmed by her while also being moderately terrified of her.

A woman married to Beron for centuries certainly had some skeletons in her own closet. You hadn’t thought to ask about her duties as Lady of the court, but rather mostly about Eris.

“There are a few, first and foremost being at court events.” Something you had expected - it would be silly to have a title and never be seen by the public. “My mother has her own passions and hobbies that take up her time, I don’t expect anyone,” he sent you a pointed look, “to do exactly as she does. Be present, be someone Autumn recognizes. Represent Autumn and see dignitaries from other courts. Other than that, it’s how much or how little sway she wishes to have.”

“Would I have to wear all green and red?” He laughed, the sound disturbing some roosting birds nearby, their wings taking flight.

“You may wear whatever color you like.”

“How often is Lucien around?”

“Not very. He comes usually for a day at a time, if that. He’s only here so frequently because he jumped at the chance to be a thorn in my side.”

Barks came from up ahead, the whole pack in an uproar, clearly catching the scent of something.

Eris grabbed your hand, the two of you running to catch whatever it was they found. You felt giddy at it all - his hand around yours, running through the trees. You felt so much younger and freer as the wind blew through your hair.

Could this be life with Eris?

The dogs had been unsuccessful. Eris did not want to admit it, but you were certain it had to do with how many questions you asked him, the chatter enough to scare off any nearby game, no matter the lead the dogs had on you.

The two of you spent the entire day outside, trying to find anything worthwhile, only calling it a day as the sun began to set. You had trudged back to the Forest House, unsure what you wanted more: a good meal or a long hot shower. Stepping inside, the house smelled divine - rich, fragrant foods that had your mouth watering.

The cooks must have heard your dilemma and answered for you. The two of you sat and ate, not much to say, too exhausted and gross to have anything of note to vocalize.

The silence gave you plenty of time to think. Eris had shown you a part of himself today, showing one of his favorite pastimes, it was only fair you did the same.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” It was the first thing you had said since coming inside, waiting until Eris was walking you to your chambers to ask it. The question clearly caught him off guard, his head lightly shaking in surprise.

“Of course.”

A rhythmic ceremony of sorts played out as the two of you prepared for bed. Taking turns bathing and changing into bed attire, nestling into bed, it all felt so comfortable and relaxing. The room smelled like him, coated in a smoky scent so thick it nearly made you dizzy.

As you lifted the covers laying next to Eris, two of the hounds jumped onto the bed, curling at his feet. You laughed, patting the bed next to you for one of them to come closer, but it only invited one of the ones on the floor to jump up.

Her brown fur was soft as it landed next to you, your hand petting her automatically. You curled around her body, an almost crescent moon shape to both of you. You felt the bed shift before Eris had done the same to you: contorting his body around yours, pulling your back flush to his chest.

The room smelled of Eris, but it also smelled like his hounds in the best way. The one in your arms, Cinnamon, nestled in for the night, and the contentment at being cocooned between their two bodies quickly lulled you to sleep.

A few hounds had made their way into the bed through the night, rotating as if in shifts to ensure they all got a turn. One or two were posted at each entrance, guarding both the bathroom and the door to his sitting room. One sat beneath a window, stationed there most of the night, her eyes on you whenever you woke up in the night.

Eris woke not long after you did, his arms circling tighter around you as he breathed you in.

“Does she sleep at all?” You asked, breaking the stillness of the morning. Eris only groaned, burying his face into your hair. His fingers dug into your hips, the millimeter of space between the two of you too offensive. He grumbled something incomprehensible into your hair, the words unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“Who?” You nodded toward the dog beneath the window, her gaze already on the two of you. She had a dark auburn coat, her long hair perfect to disappear amongst fallen leaves.

“That’s Lady. Not a cuddler.”

“Not even with you?”

“She cuddles in her own way. Sits near me and I have to stay very still.”

The image was incredibly endearing - the High Lord of Autumn letting his dog come to him in her own way, accommodating her as best he could. It had your heart practically bursting in your chest. You didn’t ask anymore questions, letting the room grow quiet with laziness.

Nobody moved for a long while, even the hounds staying still as they sprawled across the floor. Eventually a stomach growled - yours or Eris’s, you couldn’t tell. One of the hounds, Clove, you think, came over and nudged his back, her long snout attempting to get him out of bed.

It took longer than the dog had wanted, reluctance in every movement from both of you, but eventually the two of you left the warmth of the bed and took a walk in the woods, dozens of paws following you around.

Your remaining days in the court went by in a blur of red hair, warm skin, and explorations of the house and the forest surrounding it. You spent your nights tucked in Eris’s arms, the sweet domesticity of sharing a bed enough for both of you.

Each day brought a new confidence, that this was where you were meant to be, but every day something would hold you back, some new question keeping you from saying yes.

Before long, your shared two weeks in Autumn were up, your last night spent in Eris’s chambers, tangled in his arms and legs. He had held you tight all night, not wanting to let you go even as he slept.

A few hours before you were set to leave, luck had been on your side. One of the servants had let slip that Lucien had set off early that morning, some business in the Night Court requiring his immediate attention.

The sun was rising through the trees, chasing away the darkness of the night, bringing with it new life. The sun, for all its glory, hadn’t warmed up the ground yet, unable to fight the cool morning air yet. The cold in Autumn was different from Winter. It was familiar, a few details exchanged. The cold in Winter was dry and bone deep. The Autumn chill clung to you, stuck like a second skin.

Eris walked beside you, a few of his hounds trotting around the pair of you. The rest of them were out in the woods, chasing each other, investigating every scent trail they could find. The ones left behind were a guard of sort, likely expected to raise an alarm should anything happen.

The air was heavy with humidity and uncertainty, neither of you ready for what the afternoon would bring. Once you left, he’d have a busy day, ironing out the details of all the things he had pushed aside the past few weeks.

You weren’t sure when you would be back, if you would be back. Your mind was telling you stay guarded, to not give in. But you remembered Lady’s bright eyes, how she watched Eris everywhere he went, how he made time out of his day to spend a few moments alone with her, letting her come to him.

But now he walked beside you, silent and sure, unwavering as he walked over roots and bramble, a dog weaving between his long legs on occasion.

You bent over, crouching low to the ground and picking up a fallen stick. The leaves on it were still vibrant, some perfect color between orange and red. You held it up to the light before holding it close to Eris’s head, comparing it to his long, bright locks.

“They’re the same color as your hair.”

He moved one of his hands through the air, vaguely gesturing all around. The movement caught someone’s attention, a ball of red fur sitting in anticipation for the stick to be thrown their way.

“Most of them look like my hair.”

“Well that’s not fun.”

“I’m the High Lord of Autumn. It’s not far-fetched to think my lands resemble me.”

You only hummed, marching onwards, more determined with each step. After a moment of pretending to ignore the dog, you threw the stick off to the left when you figured they would least suspect it. The two of you continued in silence, the crunching of your boots crackling through the woods as four legs darted after the stick.

After a moment, you stepped off the path, looking for what had caught your eye. Quickly plucking the flower from its stalk, you hurry back to the bewildered male you left behind. You presented the flower to him before holding it next to his face, pointed so you could see the flower. The bright orange flower flared to life next to him, the perfect companion to the hundreds of freckles dancing across his cheeks.

The flower practically glowed next to him, its petals slightly bending in his direction. You’re not sure which came first: the magic or the life of the land.

“It matches your eyes.”

“My eyes are not orange.” You pulled the flower back, rolling your eyes as you did so.

“Not the petals, the eye of the flower. The center.” You pointed to make it clearer for him, the deep amber middle a perfect match for his eyes. He watched you carefully before looking down at the flower, the orange reflecting in his eyes.

He smiled, his mouth curved in a gorgeous upward tilt. He looked made of the woods, the forest around him bending to be seen by him or to catch a fraction of his warmth.

The crinkles in the corners of his eyes were enough proof you would go to great lengths to see them more permanently.

“So, to whom do I owe the pleasure of your undivided company all morning? I haven’t seen Lucien running about today.”

Eris only looked ahead, picking up a fallen stick and tossing it as far as he could, two of the hounds circling you chasing off after it.

“It seems he found a new toy to play with.”

“Must be some toy to pull him away from any opportunity to bother you.”

“I’m quite skilled at bargaining when there’s something I desire.”

“It wasn’t just luck that sent Lucien off this morning, was it?”

He merely shrugged, his hands clasped behind his back, the air of nonchalance he was attempting not quite landing right.

“I’m sure my brother’s told you I’m a selfish creature.”

A coy smile made its way across your face.

“Perhaps.”

“He’s not wrong.” The look he gave you felt all consuming. Amber eyes peering through every defense, every blockade of yours. He looked down at you, more resembling his hounds on the hunt for their toys than a male. The look pierced through every defense you had, nearly crumbling at the sight of it.

You had one last meal planned with Eris, one last time to speak over everything. He didn’t ask - staying silent, waiting for you to come to him.

There was one last question you couldn’t bring yourself to ask yet. It was the one thing keeping you from saying yes. Your last inhibition. It could all end depending upon his response.

“Eris, how are you different from your father?” He had only touched on the subject of Beron your first day here. It had been in an unfavorable manner, but you couldn’t tie yourself to someone without knowing the full truth.

“I haven’t burnt anyone alive so far.”

Your fork fell to your plate, so surprised at Eris’s words all of your senses stopped working. You knew Beron was a cruel man, but the extent of the harm he was producing in his court was unknown.

“That’s diabolical.”

Eris put his fork down softly, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“Forgive me, it’s a question I am asked over and over again, even by myself. It’s a bit frustrating.”

His hand reached across the table, holding yours softly. His eyes were molten amber as they looked at you, honesty pouring out of them.

“I fear becoming like my father. I fear it’s inevitable. That is why I wish to keep people around me who will keep me in check. Lucien does a decent job, but he’s an emissary. He’s not always around. My mother wishes to spend her time between Day and Autumn.

“I need a life partner. Someone that will keep me from my worst tendencies. Someone that will keep me from becoming him. Someone that I like spending time with.”

“And I’m all of those things?” Your voice was soft, a murmur amidst the candlelight.

“And more.”

“Well, for the sake of honesty, maybe you should continue on with that list.”

His smile made your heart beat wildly, erratic beats you couldn’t calm no matter how hard you tried. The incandescent glow of the candlelight made him so striking it almost hurt to look at his beauty.

“You have always seen me. And I made a promise to you all those years ago. I know you aren’t seeing anyone else, and I’m a lovestruck fool who can’t help but hope that that is because of me. That you return my feelings toward you.”

You leaned in, desperate to close the space between you.

“And what are your feelings toward me?”

“Ones of yearning and love.”

Your breath caught in your throat, his eyes pleading with you to return his affections.

“Eris Vanserra, the secret romantic.”

“Only for you.”

You reached a hand out, caressing his cheek. You watched him swallow hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with movement. Your gaze kept flickering between his eyes and his lips, debating where to pay attention to.

All along, every decision was yours. You took the lead while he waited, letting you guide whatever this was. He did it with Lady, taking his time, putting her comfort over his wants.

“You were right. I was waiting for you.” You closed the gap between your faces, bringing your lips to his. He tasted sweet and warm, a bit of spice to it. His lips captured yours, melding perfectly to the shape of them. It felt perfect as his hand slid down to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You almost fell out of the chair, breaking the kiss to squeal, but he caught you, pulling you into his lap. His lips reconnected with yours, more fervent this time. He had gotten a taste, and now he was desperate for more. His hands cupped your cheeks, pulling you flush to his body.

It felt right. This was the last thing you needed to say yes.

You pulled back from his lips just enough to speak.

“There’s one last thing I need to know before I can make up my mind.”

“Anything.” Looking into his eyes, you felt the truth to that one word. He would give you anything you wanted, all you had to do was ask.

“I’d never marry someone without spending the night with them.” Your low voice was dripping with innuendo. The smell of his arousal coated the air as you leaned in to kiss him once more. His hands moved down to your ass, gripping you tight against him. Too caught up in the moment, neither of you heard the door open, ana mused Lucien trying to look displeased.

“Well, well, well, High Lord. And you mocked me for needing a chaperone. I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re-“

Eris quickly pushed the door close with his magic, forcing Lucien from the room without leaving your lips.

He held you close to him, savoring the moment. His mouth curled into a smug expression, an arrogant look in his eye before he said, “I’m sure I was worth the wait.”

Banner by @tsunami-of-tears

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-angst @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl @quiet-loser @thegreyjoyed @paankhaleyaaar @acoazlove @theflowerswillbloom @readingintooblivion @adventure-awaits13

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124 @secret-third-thing

Gingerfucker taglist: @bookwormysblog @talesofadragon @saltedcoffeescotch

#acotar fanfiction #acotar writing #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra x y/n #eris vanserra x you #eris x y/n #eris x reader #eris x you #eris fanfic #eris fic

277 notes · View notes

mrsdarkandyandere7 · 3 days ago

Text

Leaving You Not

Pairing: Dark Katsuki Bakugo x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Bakugo has long turned sour and bitter and you’re more than ready to put an end to it. Bakugo heavily disagrees with you .

WARNINGS: Toxic/Unhealthy Relationship; Abuse/Violence.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊 The last Bnha work I have in my drafts, gonna have to work on it, but meanwhile hope you guys enjoy this!

Dating Bakugo had always been a one-way ticket to ruin your mental health. As your relationship comes to an end, you recognize that.

Bakugo loves you, you're quite sure of it.

But his love consists in derogatory comments and mean insults that hit your confidence in the most destructive possible way.

At first, every flaw of Bakugo's was heavily diluted by the red-tinted glasses love had put over your eyes. You blame yourself for that, always so quick to dismiss every flaw of his, instantly brushing them under the rug like they didn't mean anything.

Time - however - forced your eyes wide open and to recognize the awful truth: that Bakugo wasn't a good boyfriend.

Initially, you remember walking into the kitchen - tying the apron around your front, washed hands and ready to help out with cooking - only to be met with a nasty side-eye and a "Don't need your help. You're a shit cook."

You wouldn't take the comment to heart, merely hugging the back of your incredible cook of a boyfriend with a fleeting cheek kiss and the promise to help out with cleaning the table and the dishes.

But no matter how much effort you placed into cooking - no matter how many different recipes you tried out, no matter how many times your friends tried your food and praised it, no matter how much and how hard you tried, at the end of the day Bakugo only ever directed those cruel short dismissive words.

"You're a shit cook."

But as you reach closer to celebrating the first anniversary of your relationship, with 7 of those months being living together, the appalling and unpleasant reality of Bakugo's toxic traits got clearer by the day.

Driving with Bakugo was a whole different nightmare - one that always left you in a sour mood, close to a panic attack and a demolished self-esteem everytime you tried driving.

Your boyfriend was good at almost everything, including driving, however his speciality was no doubt the ability to be disrespectful.

The few times you drove him around in your car were tense and explosive, to say the least. Your boyfriend complained about everything - from the size, color and comfort of your small but useful car up until your driving skills.

For Bakugo, you’re too slow, you don’t drive well, your parking technique is pathetic, you drive too close to the lines, … every possible insult is rudely thrown your way until he finally declares what you already knew was in the way. “You’re a shitty driver.”

It crushed your heart and soul to receive such humiliating remarks.

Everything you did had to be criticized by him. Always.

“You’re shitty at choosing house decoration.”

“You’re shitty at doing finances and home budget.”

“You’re shitty when it comes to cleaning duty on the house.”

“Your makeup looks shitty as hell.”

“Your sleeping schedule is all shitty.”

“That’s something a shitty friend would do.”

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Bakugo has always had a brash and crude personality, you were perfectly aware of that when you started dating him.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. And yet it does.

You never expected him to fully turn around his personality for you, but expecting basic decency and respect wasn’t an exaggerated expectation.

It grew worse and worse to the point that you now hate to admit how much it thrills you everytime Bakugo, with a big scowl on his face, announces about some shitty Pro-Hero conference or a quirk-development workshop he'll have to attend in a different city or a different country.

You hate how upset he looks over leaving you for a few days while you're internally leaping of joy, barely able to shut down the excited smile that threatens to come out.

That’s how you realize that love was long out of your relationship’s equation.

And now…

“Huh, the hell you talking about?” Bakugo's crimson eyes glare at you, arms crossed as he remains unfazed by the rehearsed speech you just breathlessly dumped.

“Did you even listen to what I just said?” you question him, exasperation seeping through your best attempt to keep a calm and collected composure. “No, of course you didn’t. You never listen to me anyways.”

“Bullshit.” he says, “I listen to you, but what you just said is total garbage. Doesn´t make fucking sense.”

Your nails dig deeper into your palms, so deep that it’ll leave marks.

“I mean it, Katsuki. This - our relationship - isn’t healthy anymore.” you continue, ignoring his huff. “I just want to be happy. For you to be happy too. And I don’t think right now we can be happy together.”

“We’re fine.” he dismissively declares, pushing his palms against the table to push himself up. “You’re overreacting, like you always do. The only problem here is you watching too many of those shitty movies you like so much, that crap’s filling your head with all that stupid nonsense.”

And just like that he leaves the table, saying something about cooking dinner.

Your body stays glued to the chair, empty gaze and slumped shoulders.

It was supposed to be a serious conversation, your mind screams. And just like always, Katsuki ignored you - and your feelings. He didn’t even get upset, just dismissive.

Your legs carry you to your bedroom before you even realize it, ignoring as the blonde man stares at you from the kitchen.

You hesitate for a moment, hands hovering over the open suitcase, doubt quickly spreading its sticky root in your mind. Should you do this? Is this even right?

Katsuki is your boyfriend. You shouldn’t leave him, should you.

It’s wrong.

Your legs give up, unceremoniously dropping you at the edge of the bed. Allowing your head to fall into your hands, it becomes increasingly hard to breathe.

You should leave - you have to leave - and yet there are emotional strings that attempt to curl around you and keep you.

Guilt. Love. Empathy.

An insidious little voice in the back of your mind points out that you are giving up on him, ditching him for your own sake. Abandoning him. Leaving to fend for himself.

Maybe you really are, but what else can you do?

The next morning both of you behave as if nothing happened, promptly ignoring the dense tension that persists in the air since the previous night.

You behave cordially enough and in return, Bakugo offers you his usual scowl when you hand him a bento box for lunch, muttering something about your deplorable cooking skills - something you turn a blind eye to.

With a bitter cramp to the heart, you realize that he clearly forgot about last night’s argument.

When, at last, Bakugo announces his departure for morning patrol you softly kiss him on the cheek, before watching the blonde man leave the apartment with heavy steps.

That’s when you rush back to the shared bedroom, almost slipping on the wooden floor before dropping on your knees to retrieve the small black trolley hidden underneath the bed.

Pulling it to the bed, you open it, quickly examining the essential items you’ll need for the next few days.

A few clothes, some underwear, a pair of sneakers, hygiene products, your wallet, credit card. It’s not much but it’s the best you can do right now, given your prudent desire to avoid Katsuki.

Maybe once he calms down, you can return to pack the rest of your things. Preferably with the company of a friend - that is if Bakugo won’t have angrily destroyed all of your belongings by then. You’re highly doubtful of the calm stoic act he put up last night, that surely won’t last much.

You zip the trolley, putting it on the floor, ready to take off when a glint of light catches your eye. Peacefully sitting in Bakugo’s nightstand is a framed photo of the two of you, happy and in love, and your lips curl into a soft smile before you know it.

It was taken during the first month of dating. A fair, where he won way too many plushies for you. The memory seems like a lifetime ago, back when he was somehow sweeter and nicer to you.

If you ask him today to take you to a fair he’ll just brush it off and yell that he’s busy doing actual important hero work, unlike you. That’s an angle he’s been pushing lately, fully aware that your job can’t compete against his.

What is the value of insignificant office work when compared to the heroic job of saving lives?

The thought has your nerves flaring up, tension and pressure reigniting. With a last fleeting look to the photo, you leave the room, dragging your trolley behind you.

You’re only halfway through the living room when the front door abruptly opens, leaving you frozen mid-strad.

“Hey, I think I left my phone here, did you-” Bakugo’s voice slowly dies down, leaving empty words floating in the air.

You only watch, helpless as Bakugo’s crimson eyes trail around and discover the small trolley that stands by your side and his confusion starts melting into rage.

Fuck. And that’s how your grandiose plan to avoid a confrontation goes down the drain.

“The hell is that? You going somewhere?” his deep voice booms in the quiet area and it takes everything in your power not to back down a few steps away from him.

“I’m…” you sharply inhale, trying to ignore when Bakugo reaches closer to you. “I’m leaving for a few days. You didn’t listen to me last night… so it’s best if we give it some time. To think.”

His brows furrow as a look of livid rage appears on his face.

“Gimme that shit, you’re not going anywhere.” he declares, lurching towards your luggage but you reflexively push your body to protect it.

“Katsuki, stop!”

A yelp escapes you when his body collides against yours, momentarily causing your balance to be lost but your grip on the suitcase only tightens as the infuriated blonde aims for it.

“Damnit, stop struggling.” he growls, hand squeezing around your own to release it from the trolley while you attempt to push him away using your body as a shield.

You’re uncharacteristically stubborn today, determined to fight back for your freedom, and Bakugo must’ve realized that too as he changes his tactic in lightning speed, his heavy combat boot landing a brute kick to the luggage.

It flies out of your hand, away from you, and there’s barely any time for you to react before Bakugo aggressively shoves you back. Your feet get tangled and you trip, landing on your ass with a pained gasp.

“You can’t do this. You can’t stop me from leaving.” you attempt to bring some sense into the situation until Bakugo reaches over and grabs a handful of your hair, twisting it in his hand. You scream, hand trying to scratch him away but with no avail.

“Katsuki, ple-”

“Shut up, damnit!” he snarls, anger boiling until it falls out and burns you. “The hell you think you’re doing? I’ve told you we’re fine. Then why are you turning this into something it's fucking not?”

“We’re not fine!” you deny, tears kissing your eyes. Bakugo only squints his eyes at you. “Why can’t you understand? Katsuki, just listen to me, please, this is not –”

A violent tug at your hair has you crying out, blazing pain searing through your scalp.

“No, you listen up. And open your stupid ears this time cause I swear to god if I have to repeat this once more, I might fuck up your face…” the dangerous glint of his eyes and the hard tone of his voice is more than enough to prove the realism of the threat.

“You’re not leaving me. Not now. Not ever.”

149 notes · View notes

namelessgakusei · 2 days ago

Text

EXTRA EP. ANDERS

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. No beta we die like Gaku's immune system. Canon divergent. Childhood Abuse.

EP 3.3 And pull the trigger (prev.)

Next EP (TBA)

Synopsis: A man who's just trying to live a good life, ends up getting a visit from a ghost of a rabbit.

He never thought he'll see him again, not after all these years.

Ever since his disappearance, Anders returned on being the punching bag of that family. Well, it's barely one in the first place. It's masquerading as a foster home on the outside, but the inhabitants are far worse abusers than the people he was previously with.

He remembers that boy's arrival, clutching a book of Alice in Wonderland, alongside his own personal belongings, or what little he has. The social worker who brought him smiled as he talked about the boy, and Anders' "parents" were all too eager to accept a new child. His "siblings" wrestled at the background while he peeks from a corner, knowing all too well on what fate befalls his new brother. And with the looks of it, he won't last.

It didn't took long for the family's true colors to show up. The children continued to jeer and destroy his things, and whenever he calls for help from the parents, he gets slapped and violently pushed around. It's a mess. It's a place that no child should be, but what choice do they have?

Anders tried to fight back in the past too, continuously calling for social services for help, pleading his situation, yet not a single one actually listened, brushing off his cries with a scowl, saying that there's more important stuff to do than move him to another family.

That was enough for a child to realize that there won't be any hope for him in this life.

Still, despite it all, he found genuine camaraderie with his new brother. They're both quiet, meek, and kept to themselves, but shared precious moments together. Anders remembers him as a boy who possesses such brilliant mind, able to tinker on things and create something new from scraps, that's how the both of them were able to keep toys even if everything was taken by their other brothers.

Despite the pain in living in such a household, it was a bearable since they had each other.

That's how it should've been. They should be supporting each other. Be there whenever the other is hurting. Protect one another—

—If only he wasn't such a coward.

Whenever their siblings bully the boy, all Anders can do is watch, afraid that once he steps in, he'll also be dragged into it. After years of living with that family, this is the only time where he wasn't being targeted. The fear of being subjected to their violence once again runs cold within his body, making him turn away whenever his brother asks for help.

Of course, he tried making it up to him by tending to his wounds during the late hours of night, apologizing with a trembling voice. The boy only smiled, through bruises and cuts, assuring that he doesn't hold a grudge. It doesn't make him any less guilty with that.

Those days continued for quite some time, spent with each other's presence as they endure their living conditions, knowing that they have no one else to turn to. The boy frequently reads Alice to him, saying that it would be nice if a rabbit hole were to appear that leads to Wonderland, providing an escape for the both of them. It's a fantasy, a delusion, something to grasp on in their hopeless situation.

Neither of them expected for it to come true one night.

It was the usual instance where they fled to the emergency stairs to hide from their family, snuggled together for warmth as the boy reads the storybook out loud. That's when it happened. That purple light appeared.

The air blew violently at the alley, and down at the ground, the air crackled and trembled. Curiosity got the better of the boy, despite Anders' calls for him to get back up the stairs, and approached the source of the light. Purple electricity shot up from the shard-like hole that grew exponentially in size, before a shockwave nearly knocks him out.

When the boy opened his eyes, another realm waits beyond the unstable portal. A rabbit hole for him to fall into, to escape from his reality, and onto Wonderland. He clutches his book on his hands and looks up at Anders who remained on the staircase, silently asking for him to come with.

But Anders is a coward.

So, the boy went, alone, with his storybook in hand. And Anders was left atop that flight of stairs, staring at the alley that had long since went silent. He never saw the boy since.

His life after that is comparable to a living nightmare. The family blamed him for the boy's disappearance, and he received the end of their abuse again after so many months. The young Anders then thought, if this is his punishment for all those times he looked away whenever his brother was mistreated; if so, he'll accept it wholeheartedly, as to atone for not being there for him when it mattered.

No more shall he turn away whenever someone is in need of help. He may be a weak child, but something changed in him that day. He learned how to take hits, pick up cues, meditate fights without him getting physically involved; everything that he should've done for him, Anders did.

That's how he lived up until now. The moment he was able to move out of that place, he lived an active life. He's the neighborhood helper, someone who's happy to even fix someone's rickety faucet for them, someone that people can depend on. Not once did he refuse people in need of assistance, earning him quite the reputation of a respectable man. Well, that's also how he met his wife in the process.

They lived a quiet life, blessed with two daughters to love, and Anders swore to be the best father that he can be, someone that his family will be proud of. He'll never do anything akin to how he was treated as a child, no. He'll provide for them with the best of his abilities, and give them the childhood they deserve, not like what he missed.

Everything was going smoothly for the first time in his life, it's as if his past was merely a dream, something to forget and move on about. He's got a new life now, loved ones to take care of, and a home to go back to. That's why he didn't hesitate to accept a job in the military, as it has a stable income and great benefits for his family; besides, like the recruiter said, he can help serve the country this way.

What he didn't expect are demons in this line of job. Terrorists? Sure. Criminals? Yeah. But actual, supernatural beings? They're— they don't exist— they—

His whole team was wiped out before he knew it. They were sent by the Vice President to go track and capture a White Rabbit, warned that it's dangerous and should be contained immediately, bringing confusion on him upon receiving such orders. Since when are rabbits dangerous?

He expected bad people, like those who tormented him in the past, not the monsters who stood in front of his battered body. Will he die here? Surrounded by his comrades in a dingy building, killed by creatures that were just myths up until now? He can't! He has a home to go back to! He has a family to take care of! He'll crawl out of this half dead if he has to!

The sound of his name stopped his movements, the voice of someone long gone echoed in the room, all from the target he was supposed to apprehend.

The White Rabbit.

In any other circumstances, Anders would've been elated to see what he witnessed, but this isn't anything normal. The brother he once lost now grins manically at him, revealing himself to be the deadly rabbit who infused himself with demon blood, becoming something that is neither human nor monster. But despite it all, Anders can still see the boy he grew up with, beyond the monstrosity that now breathes on this neck.

He was spared. He doesn't know if it's because he's a convenient person or if the boy— the White Rabbit, still has some lingering affection for him. Needless to say, he's still alive for a reason, to act as a double agent for the demons. That he can do, to spy on the government to help his family. No matter what happens, no matter how much he strongly feels against this, Anders can't turn his back on his family. Not again.

That's how he ended up as the newest member of the DARKCOM special ops, God has tested him and was proven worthy, the vice president says. He's sure that the man has a few screw loose, but he isn't going to complain. He'll be an obedient soldier, one that is known to have survived the White Rabbit and lived to fight alongside humanity against him, all for his brother.

Surely this is the right thing, as after a while, his brother explained his motives and goals. The Makaians are living in a dangerous world, and the Earth is the only hope for them should they wish to live. That situation tugs within Anders' heart, as it is the exact scenario that happened between the two of them all those years ago. It's unfair, and he sympathizes with their predicament. His feelings got cemented when he met them in real life, coming face to face with the humanoid demons, who are just like normal people trying to get by.

Anders felt bad.

His tasks were fairly simple, leak information about DARKCOM and make sure to get some kid's amulet in the process. That he can do, he's considered next to harmless after all, with all his jitters and nervousness, no one will suspect him of anything. He can do this, for his family.

For his family, he keeps insisting. For Anders holds onto a foolish hope that once his brother finishes what he wants to do, he'll join his family and then they'll be able to live together happily ever after. He has faith, God has tested him, didn't he? Things will be just fine.

Until it wasn't.

That night, Lieutenant Arkham caught two individuals, one being the boy who owns the amulet he needs and the other being their friend. He watched them writhe in confusion over the potent sleeping gas, agitated about the situation. They're his targets and yet... this doesn't feel right. She claims that the boy is half demon, and therefore had to resort to such precautions. But, no matter how you look at those two, they're kids...!

He knows his mission well and he's not going to jeopardize it by saying something out of the line. All he needs to do is to grab the amulet during the transfer of prisoners and he's good to go. He'll just ask his brother to take care of those two, as since Dante is a demon, surely his brother will take him in alongside his friend.

But then you just had to make him hesitate.

You plead your case, saying that you've been beaten pretty badly, and that it's unfair. You look at him with those eyes that made all those repressed memories of his childhood resurface. This isn't right... It's unfair! You're just kids! You shouldn't be subjected to this cruelty! All they need is the necklace, so why hurt you two?!

There's a device that Lieutenant Arkham has, that controls your restraints.

She's pretty lax by his side as he drives through the highway, oblivious to the storm that's brewing inside Anders' mind. It's okay, this is fine, lower your guard... Then we'll finally accomplish our plan...

The traffic came as expected, with the signal for him to get out of the vehicle being given to avoid getting involved in the chaos that is soon to happen. While the lady was distracted, he grabbed the chance to steal the device, mentally taking note of freeing the both of you later. He can't help it, whenever he looks at the two of you, he thinks of his daughters back home, and that just adds to the chaos inside his mind.

The attack happened as planned, and Anders' rushed to the van that Dr. Fisher was at, studying the amulet. This is his chance, if he does this correctly, no one has to get hurt...! No one should, but...

Why did his brother kill the doctor?

Huh?

His brother— no, the White Rabbit approaches him with a bloody sword, saying something about making "it" believable, before stabbing him on the shoulder. Anders yells in pain, grabbing his arm as he is dragged out of the vehicle, thrown to the rough asphalt as he bleeds out. He doesn't understand... Why do this? All they needed was the amulet... Why kill people?! Why...

He saw you from across the street, hiding with Dante and the informant as more demons appeared. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he does know one thing. You.

You, despite being with a demon all this time, have managed to stay true to yourself. No matter how much you've been through, not once did he see you falter. That's something that he wishes he had... Then perhaps none of this would've happened.

Anders deactivated your restraints, knowing that you'll come rushing to him once you're free due to your briefcase being in his possession. It's presumptuous, it's foolish, he isn't sure if he can trust you nor if you could understand him in his delirium.

But he's entrusting everything to you.

"There are more in the warehouse."

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie @flwerie @deathrye @that-dumb-bitch @sleepykittycx @sidewalkenforcer @devil-might-sob

#devil may cry #devil may cry x reader #dmc #dmc x reader #dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #devil may cry x reader insert #dmc x reader insert #gaku's works!#devil may cry netflix #devil may cry anders #anders #devil may cry netflix anders #dmc netflix #dmc netflix anders #dmc anders

109 notes · View notes

ccazimi · 3 hours ago

Text

Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1 - pt. 2

cw: vampire hunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...???, blood (blood drinking, mild gore), violence/torture (electrocution), sadism, usage of a shock collar, petplay, male masturbation, facial, humiliation/degradation, forced submission, piv sex, very mild anal play (more like teasing), hatefucking, creampie, major character death including murder-suicide, angst wc: 12k a/n: i listened to ma meilleure ennemie while writing the ending and lowkey cried ummm also i didn't edit this i'll clean it up tmr sorry if it's a bit rough

songs i listened to while writing this part

me again - 12 rounds

stitch in time - genitorturers

ma meilleure ennemie - stromae, pomme, arcane

You drift in and out of a restless mockery of sleep the next day, dreams pulling you under in ragged fragments. In some, you’re a child again—perhaps the closest you’ve ever come to feeling human.

Sometimes, you used to pretend you were one of them. But the hunger always ruined it in the end.

Hunger.

Your oldest companion…your only companion.

It’s the thing that defines you, that sets you apart. The reminder that no matter how well you mimic them, you don’t belong. Not to the world of the living, nor the dead. You exist somewhere in between—drifting, untethered.

But there are two absolutes in your reality, two anchors in the dark.

Hunger.

And Sukuna.

The man who was your enemy before you even knew his name. The man whose purpose was to end you—but instead, became bound to you, inexplicably and irrevocably. The man who, despite everything, has become just as much a part of you as the hunger itself.

Hunger and Sukuna.

The two things you can never escape.

And now, they’ve become one and the same.

You should have run, should have fed elsewhere, done anything.

But instead, you lay tangled in fever-damp sheets that still smell like him, every nerve fraying, every breath dry with wanting.

You wake with a jolt—head heavy, limbs trembling. His blood still burns through your veins like venom, sweet and spoiled.

You're not just hungry—you're sick.

The room is quiet in the evening that has settled like a bruise.

He hasn’t killed you. Maybe he’s waiting—for you to crawl, beg, break.

You move slowly, swallowing your weakness and forcing your steps to be deliberate.

His scent draws you to the living room… and there he is. Sprawled out on the couch like a predator at rest. Shirt open, glass of liquor dangling between his fingers, looking completely at ease.

Like he’s not the reason you’ve been wrecked for the last twenty-four hours.

The wound on his neck is closed now, but the bruising’s deepened—an angry, violent purple. Evidence of your teeth.

Your throat still burns, your stomach’s a churning knot, but it's deeper than hunger.

It’s worse.

You feel like you're rotting without more of him—yet at the same time, your body is rejecting it.

“What the hell did you put in your blood?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, but steady.

Sukuna doesn't blink. Just tilts his glass, gaze lazily dragging down your body—your flushed skin, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“I didn’t take anything,” he says evenly.

You stare at him, trying to read the lie. But there isn’t one, and unfortunately you believe him. You tasted it last night. There was nothing foreign, just him.

How perfect, then. That the blood that’s rivaled yours for generations would be the one that makes you sick.

And the one you crave more than anything else you've ever tasted.

The irony would be almost funny if it didn’t feel like it was killing you.

But then, another thought pierces through the haze.

“…Not even antivenom?”

You fed from him enough that his mind should be bowing to your will. The average man would become obsessed with you from a single bite, and while Sukuna isn't the average man it's odd that there was no reaction at all.

He snorts. “Don’t need it for a sucker as weak as you. Wouldn’t do shit to me anyway.”

You grind your teeth but force yourself to stay neutral, prowling toward him with slow steps.

“I’m hungry.”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, more amused than anything, and lifts his glass for another slow sip.

“That so?”

You swallow your irritation, keeping your voice level.

“Yes.”

Finally, he looks at you fully—his eyes glinting with something sharp, yet cruelly playful.

“And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to do about that?”

Your jaw tightens.

He knows. Of course he does. He always does.

Sees right through you—down to the marrow, to the way your body hums with sickness and longing, wound tight with want.

“I need more.”

You don’t beg, don’t bother to soften it, just lay it bare.

His lips curl.

“Need?”

He leans forward slightly, the lazy shift of weight somehow predatory. “Didn’t take long for you to turn into a little addict, huh?”

Heat flashes under your skin as your fingers twitch.

You hate the way he says it, like this was always going to happen, like it was his plan all along.

“And?” You step closer. “Are you going to give it to me, or just sit there running your mouth?”

His brows rise, mock-surprised. “Oh? You want me to?”

You bite your tongue as hunger claws at you, tight and wild beneath your ribs. Your throat is dry, pulsing, the remnants of his blood still lingering on your tongue—something divine turned rotten by denial.

Sukuna leans back, head tilting as he studies you.

“Tell me, little leech,” he murmurs, voice smooth and dark. “Which ache are you really asking me to fix?”

Your stomach drops, a shiver crawling up your spine, slow as poison.

Because you don’t know. Not really. Lust, desire, hunger—they’ve twisted into something indistinguishable.

It’s all the same in the end. All a craving for him.

But you won’t flinch, won’t give him that.

Instead you sneer at him. “Why don’t you give me what I want and find out?”

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, I already know.” His voice dips, twisting with something cold.

“Bet you couldn’t even sleep, could you? All squirming, all wound up—” He leans in, voice low and cutting, “—fingers weren’t enough, were they?”

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

One moment, he’s lounging there, glass dangling from his fingers like a dare, smirking like he owns you.

The next, you lunge.

Hunger rips through you, primal and brutal as instinct blots out reason. You’re on him in a blink—fangs bared, claws digging for his jaw, desperate to rip it sideways, to expose the throb of his artery.

But Sukuna is faster.

He pivots—just enough to throw you off balance. Then his palm slams squarely into your sternum and he throws you.

Your spine hits the floor with a crack that leaves the walls shuddering, as pain detonates up your back.

You snarl, writhing, legs lashing out to knock him off and he just laughs.

“Poor little thing,” he sneers, voice honey-thick with mockery. “Left to take care of yourself like some neglected pet. And still—”

His knee drives up between your thighs, cruel and deliberate in the way it grinds into that one aching spot. You gasp—body reacting against your will as heat throbs through your core.

“—you came crawling back.”

You twist, head spinning, teeth snapping toward his throat. They clack as they close around nothing when he jerks back just enough to stay out of range.

“Tch.”

His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your mouth open, fingers digging into your cheeks until your breath shudders.

“What now?” he murmurs, low and cruel. “Acting like some wild animal? No pride left?”

You growl, chest heaving.

You despise how your body responds to his weight, how his scent drowns your thoughts, how his pulse sings in your ears like a curse.

You spit his own words back at him, poison-laced. “And you love it.”

His grin splits wider, something dark flickering behind his eye.

“Maybe I do.”

His lips brush your ear—just breath and heat.

“Did you cry for me last night?” he whispers. “Touch yourself to the thought of me?”

One moment of hesitation—just long enough for him to see it.

His grin sharpens, wicked.

“Ohhh… You did, didn’t you?”

Rage detonates.

You snap again, harder, fangs out, strength flaring wild as you thrust your torso upwards.

Impact.

Your back slams into the floor again with a crack loud enough to splinter the wood.

In your stomach, something lurches, your brain pounding with that toxic blood coursing through it.

Still, even in your feverish, sickened state, you can't stop.

You twist like a rabid thing, clawing and bucking, fingers slashing until he catches your arm mid-swing and twists.

The crack of your bone is sharp and awful, pain lancing up your arm like lightning.

You scream—but not from fear.

From fury.

He slams your wrist down, pinning it to the floor. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your air.

“Pathetic,” he breathes.

You manage a snarl through clenched teeth. “Fuck you.”

He laughs. Horribly delighted.

“You can’t even touch me,” he mocks. “What, all that hunger, and this is the best you’ve got?”

You lash out again, thrashing as much as you can with any free part of your body.

His hand tightens on your throat.

His voice drops lower, like he's talking in pity to some fucking stray. “You’re so hungry, aren’t you?”

You snap, flailing around again, this time with mild success when your long nails catch his cheek deep enough to draw blood.

There's just a flicker of satisfaction in you before his laughter deepens.

He licks the blood from his lip, eyes glowing with some kind of thrill. “Good,” he growls. “That’s more like it.”

Suddenly he lets go, and that's when you feel it—the pain in your arm, the bone he cracked—it's knitting itself back together.

You feel the muscle realigning, sinew fusing. The sound is low, wet, wrong, and then it’s done. You don't have to look to know bruises are already fading from other parts of your skin, scrapes sealing themselves over.

His eyes flick to your arm, watching the contorted limb revert back to its original state, and something in his expression changes.

Not surprise or fear. More like...intrigue.

Dark, vicious intrigue

You try to spring up again, feral instinct overriding thought, and that's exactly what he wanted.

He catches you mid-motion, spins you, and slams you down, face-first this time. The breath is knocked clean from your lungs.

Before you can recover, he’s on you again, weight crushing your back, knee digging into your spine. One hand knots in your hair, yanking your head back, the other twists your arm behind you—just shy of breaking it again.

You thrash, scream, curse.

He just chuckles.

“I should break you. You’re too stupid to quit.”

Your vision swims red. Maybe because he's partially right.

His knee presses harder into your back, then something cold brushes your neck.

Metal.

Click.

A collar.

You freeze; not from fear, but recognition.

The pressure on your arm eases slightly, just enough for your fingers to reach your throat as you claw at the cool metal. It won't budge.

Beep.

Your pulse spikes.

Sukuna leans close as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Try to take it off,” he whispers, “and I might just test it on you.”

You go still, but your eyes blaze.

He trails a slow finger along the edge of the collar. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

His hand tightens just enough to make you swallow, to make you feel it.

Something inside you snaps in panic, like a wild animal realizing it's been caged in and exploding. Against your better judgement, you try to go for him again.

Another mistake.

The moment your arm swings up, there's pain.

White-hot, searing, blinding pain.

The collar pulses with raw electric current, slamming through your body. You scream as your muscles seize, legs collapsing till your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Your back arches and every nerve burns.

And through the agony, you hear his laughter.

Finally the waves stop and he crouches beside you, watching the way your body twitches from the aftershocks.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” he purrs.

You shake, but you don’t cry. There's a cloyingly sweet smell, and you realize with disgust it's the smell of your flesh cooking.

Your teeth bare as you glare up at him, every breath a battle though your body is already regenerating.

“Oh?” he taunts. “Still got fight left?”

You snarl, body trembling, fangs glinting.

Click.

The second shock hits harder, the healing process interrupted as your whole body jerks, bones slamming against the floor. Your scream rips free, raw and ragged.

Light blooms behind your eyes, fracturing your vision.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking already?”

He watches your fingers spasm, watches the flicker of humiliation in your eyes.

Then, he caresses your cheek.

“Did you really think you could take from me?” he whispers.

You twitch under his touch—still burning, still raging.

But bound and helpless.

Suddenly, beneath the sharp, acrid sting of singed skin, you smell it. That same scent from last night — alkaline and musky.

Your stomach twists as your gaze drops slowly, unwillingly, and there it is — a bulge, obvious and undeniable.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but revulsion as you shudder.

He’s hard.

Your stomach roils. You want to claw his other eye out, rip his throat open, scream.

God, you hate him.

“You get what I decide to give you." His smirk turns into something heinous. "And tonight? You get nothing."

Then, just to drive it home, he pats your cheek and stands, leaving you there—collared, quivering, burning with humiliation, hunger, hatred.

You wake up seething.

Your body aches, your pride is in shreds, and worst of all, the collar is still there. A cruel weight around your throat, snug against delicate skin, mocking you with its presence.

You fumble with it for a few minute, to absolutely no avail as the lock holds, unmoving. No matter how hard you tug, no matter how raw your skin burns, it doesn’t budge.

Fucking bastard.

The door creaks. Footsteps.

You don’t need to look up; Sukuna’s presence is suffocating.

“Morning, pet.”

Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms.

His voice is too amused, too self-satisfied, and it takes everything in you not to lunge at him on sight.

He crouches, tilting his head as if examining you.

“Oh? No snarling today? No pathetic little threats?” He grins, eyes dancing with delight. “You’re not pouting, are you?”

You whip your head up, glaring daggers.

He laughs. Loud, open, unbothered.

“Ahhh. There it is.” His fingers flick under your chin, forcing your head up higher. “That pissed-off little glare. Always so mad.”

Your lip curls. “I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

Sukuna just clicks his tongue.

“Tch. More empty threats? Haven’t we been through this?”

Click.

Pain explodes through your body.

A sharp current crackles through your nerves, muscles locking, lungs seizing as you choke on a strangled gasp. Your vision whites out for a second, fingers digging into the floor you haven't even realized you've collapsed onto.

“You never learn, do you?”

The moment the current stops, your body collapses, gasping, shaking from the aftershocks. Every nerve is burning, but the rage—the rage is blinding.

“Fuck—you,” you snarl, voice ragged, barely above a growl.

Sukuna’s smirk deepens.

"See?" he breathes, trailing lazy fingers along the collar. "That’s why you need training."

Your body tenses.

“You—”

His hand clamps onto your jaw, cutting you off instantly.

"Shhhh." His grip tightens until your teeth grind together, his mocking amusement never faltering. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Fury churns in your chest, a wild, blistering rage—you lash out, but Sukuna’s already waiting for it. The moment you move, his other hand presses the remote.

Click.

Electricity rips through you once again. Your whole body convulses—a ragged scream ripped from your throat as the pain tears through your nerves.

It lasts longer this time. When it finally stops, you double over, chest heaving, limbs trembling uncontrollably.

You snarl, teeth bared, but your body still shakes from the shocks.

"You want me?" he purrs. "Then earn it."

His fingers toy with the collar again, voice dripping with amusement as you pant, catching your breath, feeling your cells renew.

“You do as I say. You behave. And maybe...maybe I’ll reward you.”

Sukuna pulls back, grinning.

“But if you don’t?” His thumb hovers over the remote.

His eyes are bright, thrilled, drinking in your rage, your helplessness.

“Then we keep doing this.” He chuckles. “Again. And again. And again.”

The next day is humiliating.

The collar is tight, an ever-present reminder against your throat. The remote is always in his grip, always a threat, and Sukuna?

Sukuna is having the time of his life.

“Go on.” He gestures toward the floor with a flick of his fingers, voice mocking. “Crawl.”

Your teeth grind.

You stay frozen, muscles coiled, every nerve in your body screaming at you to refuse. To tear him apart, to fight, to kill him.

His smirk widens.

“Oh?” he purrs. “You think you still have a choice?"

Click.

It lasts just long enough to remind you. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you pant through clenched teeth.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he breathes.

Your breath shudders, hands clenching into fists. Your pride screams at you not to, but the threat lingers, hot and buzzing under your skin.

Slowly, your fingers uncurl and your arms lower as you sink down to your hands and knees.

Sukuna grins, victorious.

“Awww,” he croons, eyes gleaming with delight. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Vitriol burns deep, scalding inside you like a toxin. Your hands shake against the floor, your body tense, humiliated, but you can’t react, not if you want to avoid the next shock.

Sukuna leans back against his chair, watching you like something he managed to capture.

“You know,” he muses, “I think I like you like this.”

Your head snaps up, glaring up at him.

His eye flashes, anticipating your outburst, enough to make you bite your tongue as your body tenses, practically able to feel phantom shocks running through it.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, thrilled. “You almost did it, didn’t you? Almost told me to go fuck myself.”

Your teeth grind harder, muscles locking.

Sukuna snickers. “You’re learning.”

Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black cloth, dangling it from two fingers.

“Put this on.”

You blink. “What—?”

“The blindfold,” he says, voice syrupy and cruel. “Now.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t even speak this time—just taps the remote with one nail, the silent threat making your gut churn.

With shaking hands, you take the cloth and tie it over your eyes.

Darkness swallows everything, amplifying every other sense. The sound of his breath. The hum of the lights. The subtle movement of air as he shifts nearby. The faint smell of his bodywash.

You're blind now. Vulnerable and open.

You flinch as you hear him move—closer, closer, until the heat of him is almost brushing your skin.

“Good girl,” he whispers beside your ear.

A hand slides along your cheek, then down—and then you hear footsteps, the noise of him sitting back on the couch.

Silence stretches.

You sit there, blindfolded, the floor cold beneath your knees, every inch of your skin crawling with unease.

A soft rustle, like he’s shifting.

“I should invite someone over,” he says idly, like he’s thinking aloud. “Let them see how obedient you are. How pretty you look when you’re quiet.”

He laughs softly at the way you stiffen.

“Relax,” he drawls. “Not today. But maybe someday.”

You hear the clink of glass and ice. A drink being poured.

“Spread your knees.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

Click.

A jolt of pain zips across your spine—sharp, fast, enough to make you flinch and gasp.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he murmurs.

You force your muscles to obey, sliding your knees apart against the floor.

There’s a long, deliberate pause.

You hear him take a sip of his drink, the clink of ice again.

“Hands behind your back.”

Another pause, but you obey.

Your breathing is loud now, uneven, as you sit there, nerves wracked in anxious anticipation.

Sukuna hums in approval as you sit, rage rolling off you in waves as you’re forced to kneel before him like some kind of god.

“Good. Just stay like that, alright?” he purrs, followed by the sound of a zipper being undone.

Your eyes widen beneath the mask of black, like they’re straining to see through the fabric.

“What the fuck—” You pause, reluctantly correcting yourself. “What are you doing?”

Another rustling and then the scent of his pre-spend hits your nostrils, stirring something in you, between your thighs.

“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The soft sound of skin being stroked.

You swallow, heart in your throat as you pick up gentle shucking sounds, followed by the sharp hiss of a breath sucked in between teeth.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, a little rougher.

“But pets don’t get to ask questions. They just need to sit there and look pretty.”

You keep silent, unsure how to feel right now.

You’re still entirely clothed — he could’ve made you undress, touch yourself, do anything at all to get off to. And instead he’s jerking off just at the sight of you helpless and compliant.

Bowed in submission.

“Tell me how much you hate me.”

You blink, straining to pick up any deception in his voice. Some kind of trap, surely.

“I don’t know what you mean…” you mutter unsurely.

A throaty breath escapes him as you hear his pace picking up slightly.

“Exactly what I said. I know you’ve got some nasty little things you’re just dying to spit out.”

You hesitate.

“Or—” The sharp click of his nails tapping on the remote.

Your breath stutters.

“I hate you,” you blurt, chest rising and falling too fast. “I hate everything about you.”

He hums, pleased, the slick sound of him pumping his cock becoming louder, more intense. “Keep going.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re cruel. Sadistic. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He says nothing.

You push forward, heart pounding, the smell of his pre cum flooding your keen senses, making you salivate even as you spit the venom you hold for him.

“You enjoy watching people suffer. You enjoy watching me suffer.”

A deep groan cuts through the air—low, filthy, pleased. It makes your stomach twist and your skin burn in humiliation.

You know he’s getting off on this, but you can’t help yourself, not when he’s finally given the chance for you to speak your mind.

Your jaw locks. “Ironic they call me a monster,” you snarl, “when a sick fuck like you gets to walk around free.”

“More,” he rasps. The sound of it is hungry, breathless. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“I wish you were dead,” you whisper, each word trembling with rage. “I wish you’d choke on your own blood, feel every bone in your body snap, scream until your voice gives out.”

His breathing deepens.

“I want to be the one who ends you,” you hiss. “I want to watch you die slow. I want to see the panic crawl across your face when you realize no one’s coming to save you. I want to be the last thing you see before everything goes dark, before you go burn in whatever hell you’re going to.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Filled only with the sound of him jerking his dick, slower right now.

You hear the couch shift as he leans forward, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“There she is,” he purrs. “My little monster.”

You flinch.

His hand slides along your jaw—gentle, almost affectionate.

“You hate me,” he murmurs, “but you’re still here. Still kneeling. Still obeying.”

His fingers trace the edge of your blindfold.

“Tell me why.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, blood roaring in your ears.

He tilts your chin up—his grip firmer now. “Tell me.”

“Because you’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

The word comes out as a growl, and there a second of stroking and low pants before you feel something splatter against your cheek, taking you by surprise.

Warm. Salty. Bitter.

His cum spills all over your face, some catching across your nose and lips, dripping down. It feels like bugs crawling on your skin, and you have to fight the urge to wipe off the virile fluid now painting you.

It smells like his precum, but stronger. Hotter. Alive.

Finally you feel no fresh spurts landing on you as the sound of his movement slows, replaced only by his breathing, heavy and satisfied.

You don’t realize your lips are slightly parted until some of the cum trickling down your face tickles the curve of your upper lip.

“I should really take a picture of you like this. What do you think, leech?”

You bite your cheek, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. “I think there’s something really fucking wrong with you.”

Sukuna snickers—no shame, no guilt, just cruel amusement. You hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of his fly. The sound makes your gut twist with something shameful. Your thighs press together instinctively, helpless against the dull, throbbing ache between your legs.

It’s sick. You feel sick.

He’s doing this on purpose.

You know he is.

“…Can I take this off?” you ask quietly, voice frayed at the edges. The blindfold itches, clings.

You want to be alone, want to fall into your sheets and do something—anything—to bleed the heat out of you.

He lets out a breath, bored now. You hear him lean back, the lazy clink of ice against glass.

“Mm. Sure. Whatever.”

A sip.

You fumble at the knot behind your head, fingers shaky. The fabric peels away with a damp, dragging sound, and the sudden light—however dim—makes you squint. Your eyes take a second to adjust.

And then you see him.

Sitting in that chair like a king—loose shirt, legs sprawled, drink in one hand. Still watching you with that unreadable, heavy-lidded gaze. Nothing about him says danger, and yet every part of you feels wired to flee.

Instead, you sit there, skin prickling, shame still thick on your tongue.

You expect him to say something cruel. Another jab, another reminder of who holds the leash.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze lowers to your mouth.

“You’ve been good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t beg. Didn’t bite.”

His eyes flash with something darker, something considering.

“You want a reward?”

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself, just sets his drink down, rolls up his sleeve and turns his wrist over, exposing the unscarred skin of his other forearm.

The knife appears like magic, you didn’t even see him grab it.

There's a clean slice, and a ribbon of red swells instantly.

He holds it out to you.

You freeze, contemplating, mind reeling.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Sukuna says, voice low but sharp now.

You hate him.

You hate him for knowing exactly what this will do to you. For how fast your fangs descend, for the way your pulse howls at the scent.

But most of all, you hate yourself—because your body’s already moving.

You crawl to him.

Every step feels like it costs something, like pride scraped off your ribs, dignity leaking out your eyes. Your knees burn on the floor as you inch forward, closer and closer to where he sits, arm outstretched like an offering from a throne.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

You pause at his feet, breath shallow. The scent is dizzying—copper and warmth and him. Your fingers tremble as they curl around his wrist, guiding it down. His blood drips slow, thick, a thread of red down his arm. Your mouth opens.

And when your lips finally touch his skin, something breaks.

The taste floods you instantly—hot and heady and so much more than it should be. Not just nourishment. Not just survival. It’s him, and it’s power, and it’s control, and you hate it. You hate that you moan softly, that your tongue presses hungrily into the wound, that your hands slide up his arm like you’re holding onto something holy.

And worst of all, he lets you.

You feel his fingers in your hair, slow and steady, as he watches.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your body shudders at the praise. You want to spit it out. You want to tear your mouth away. But your hunger is deeper than your shame, and right now you're starving.

You drink like he’s the only thing keeping your body from unraveling into ash and dust, knowing full well how ill you'll feel later.

The blood is hot, thicker than it should be, each swallow burning its way down your throat, and your limbs tremble as strength seeps back in—strength that comes from him.

But that’s not what breaks you; it's the sound he makes.

A soft exhale almost a sigh—and his grip in your hair tightens, not to stop you, but to keep you there. Like he’s savoring this just as much, the sight of you on your knees, mouth to his skin.

And something inside you twists.

Not with rage, not with grief, but something worse. Something wet and hungry and needy.

You’re not just feeding anymore.

You’re worshipping. The act changes without you realizing it. It’s not frantic or desperate anymore, the way it was before. The hunger is still there, but it’s become more—soothing, almost tender in its own dark way. Your lips are gentle against his skin, your tongue tracing the wound with a kind of reverence. The movement is soft, almost hypnotic, and it feels like a surrender, a quiet admission that you’ve already given in to him more than you care to acknowledge.

Because you’re already there—somewhere past the threshold of shame, in that liminal space where pain and power collapse into pleasure. Where your body has stopped belonging to your will, and now belongs to.

And finally you pull away, almost against your own will, as the blood continues to course in your veins, heightening every nerve, every sensation. But something about the intensity, the closeness, makes it too much.

The hunger in you, the desperation—it’s suffocating.

You let his wrist go, slowly, and your hands fall to your sides, trembling from the pull of everything you’ve just given away.

Sukuna’s presence hovers over you, almost tangible, his eyes never leaving you. It’s as though he’s waiting for something more—waiting for you to crack open completely. But you can’t. Not like this. Not yet.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you focus on your breath, on the way your body seems to react to the smallest movements. Heat simmers under your skin, traveling elsewhere, somewhere it shouldn't.

Something urgent, that will need to be taken care of soon.

The room feels too small now, stifling, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. His smirk hasn’t faded, but there’s something cold in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before.

“You’re weak,” he says quietly, but the words lack their usual bite... they sound almost measured, as though he’s seeing something new in you.

Or perhaps, you’ve shown him too much.

You don’t answer. You can’t bear to hear him anymore.

It’s not even two more days, yet time passes slower when every second feels like torture.

Every waking minute with that fucking collar around your neck, with him making you do whatever humiliating trick that he fancies at the moment.

There’s something uniquely horrifying about being a supernatural being with healing capabilities, yet the capacity to feel pain like any other living creature.

And there’s something unique about the pain of being electrified.

It isn’t like stabbing or burning, no, it’s an invasive type of pain that hijacks the entire neurological system, fires every pain receptor at once, inside and outside.

Put the two together and you get a body that can never adapt—because each time the nerve damage from the shocks is repaired perfectly.

Calluses, scars, numbness— these are adaptive responses. Things you don’t get.

So every click of that remote, every electrocution feels like the first.

No dulling, no immunity. The pain never gets easier—of having every muscle in your body seize, of feeling like your nerves are on fire, smelling your skin sizzle.

And though your body may reset, your brain doesn’t.

The end result is feeling powerless in a uniquely feral way, because the one thing you can’t regenerate is control.

So you bow your head, do what he wants. Endure the humiliation rituals. The demeaning words. You hate them, but you learn that to ignore them is self-preservation.

But then he pushes too far. Sukuna's always been good at finding what really makes you tick.

“God, you’re so weak it’s pathetic.”

And as usual, you don’t reply, keeping your gaze lowered. But it’s his next words, that spark something bitter in you.

“Probably runs in the blood. Mm, what happened to your parents again?” He scoffs as you stiffen. “Killed off by some amateur fucking hunters. Now that’s humiliating.”

There's a shift in you, but you push it down and just stare blankly, at the floor, the wall—anywhere but him.

Anywhere safe.

And yet it festers—that sound in his voice, that smirk you can feel even without seeing it. It grows like pressure behind your eyeballs, a dizzying sensation in your brain.

Because you’ve taken everything—every insult, every jolt, every order barked with that false, velvet calm.

But this is different. He doesn’t just want you obedient; he wants you small.

And for the first time in days, you feel it—a flicker of something wild, a heat that doesn’t come from the shocks.

At first it’s a twitching in your jaw, but then your fingers curl just slightly as it builds like a pressure throbbing in your skull.

You wish you could control it—keep pushing it down, stay smart, stay quiet—but it’s done. The dam breaks.

There's no warning when you abruptly pounce towards him.

He doesn’t expect it, but instinctively the button on the remote is pressed, and that now familiar pain overtakes your system.

This time however, by some streak of luck, you continue to swipe at him with your flailing limbs, aiming loosely for the remote held midair.

It falls to the ground, and in an instant the shocks stop, your body already putting itself back together.

There’s a single second, one of those few moments where genuine surprise flashes across his face.

A hint of worry even, maybe.

Too late.

Your heel stomps onto it, the material giving way with a brittle crack, and something inside you unhinges with it.

Silence. A flicker of eye contact, and a wicked grin unfurling across your lips.

Then you move, but Sukuna’s already calibrated then, adapted to the new circumstances.

The fight explodes—fast, brutal, feral.

No strategy, no restraint, just raw nerve and muscle and memory. The blur of bodies crashing against walls, teeth flashing, claws slashing. Your claws rake across his side, catching skin along with the cloth and peeling it back with a wet sound that makes your stomach knot, but you don’t stop. He blocks, counters, but you’re not the same thing you were moments ago, not when your blood sings with rage, your limbs moving faster than thought, all sharp instincts and hunger.

He underestimates how long you've been waiting for this, how long you've needed this, how much of your rage you've been collecting.

Your shoulder takes the brunt of a punch that sends you sprawling against the wall. Plaster explodes in a white puff around you, and a rib gives with a sickening crack. Pain lances through your spine like lightning—but you're already up again, fangs bared. Blood clings to your lip, not all yours. Some of it you can taste—copper and heat, familiar now.

Addictive.

No more snarky comments, no more clicks or shocks erupting from the metal around your neck, only the sound of fists hitting flesh, of bone cracking under pressure.

You drive him back, but he’s laughing. He’s grinning—if the borderline maniacal expression on his face can even be called that, something so exhilarated that it makes your own skin buzz, fueling you more.

You feel your body burning, every nerve awake, every injury healing almost as fast as it happens, but not fast enough to avoid pain. No, you feel everything.

But this time, the pain feels almost like catharsis.

You spit blood, swipe your hand across your mouth, and launch again.

You don't know how long you fight, but it must have been long, with the way your strikes start to lose precision. His too. Sloppier now, desperate.

Everything that could’ve been a weapon has been—shattered chairs, broken lamps, jagged pieces of the coffee table now scattered like shrapnel across the floor.

Half the room’s destroyed, maybe more.

Sukuna is a ruin—his body a map of fresh wounds and older ones split open. Bruises bloom along his ribs, one arm hangs slightly looser in its socket, his lip is split, nose flattened, and even the scarred hollow where his eye used to be is bleeding.

You don’t wear your wounds the same way. You heal, yes, but even that comes with a price. Your body screams with fatigue, not just from the blows but from the endless, greedy churn of regeneration.

It’s slower now. Faltering. Some of your skin still glistens with that pale, translucent sheen of half-healed flesh—sticky, pink, leaking the thin serum that comes before blood. Other gashes are raw and red, torn back open mid-repair by the next hit, or the one after.

You're dripping, and trembling, but not from fear.

Every time you think you've hit your limit, your body finds one more burst of energy. And so does he. You’re both running on fumes and fury now, nothing left but nerve and instinct and the memory of pain.

You don’t see it coming.

One second you’re lunging, the next—he catches your momentum, turns it against you. Your back slams into the edge of a wooden table with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through your body, but you barely register it; you're already twisting, half instinct, half calculation—until he’s there again.

His chest crashes into yours, and the next moment, you're pinned. His body drives forward, shoving you hard against the table, the shock collar biting into your throat.

Your breath stutters.

The position feels wrong, and yet, it feels like everything you want, have been wanting—his weight on top of you, something dangerous in his eyes, something hungry.

“Still fighting?” he growls, rolling his hips into yours, slow and heavy, a taunt made of friction. You hate the gasp it forces from your lips.

You bare your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He smirks, all teeth. “Not yet.”

You thrash, but his grip just tightens—like he’s daring you to break.

“You hate this,” he whispers against your ear, his breath electric. “But you’re shaking. Not just from anger, either.”

Your nails carve red into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins wider.

“I should kill you,” you hiss.

“You’ve tried.” His hand drags down neck, till your chest, giving one of your heaving breasts a testing squeeze.

“Fuck—Get off me,” you growl, breathless.

“Make me.” The challenge hangs there, hot and sharp, as he deliberately presses the hardness in his pants against you.

You snarl and buck, fury boiling up—but his voice drops lower, more dangerous.

“Mm, keep fighting. It just gets me harder."

A jolt of white-hot shame and arousal flashes through you. The shock collar burns your throat with every movement, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs, desire flaring despite every instinct telling you to resist.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as he leans in close, split lips ghosting over the corner of yours.

“Makes two of us then, I guess,” he murmurs with a dark laugh.

His lips capture yours in a hard, almost bruising kiss, and you try to resist, but the taste of him is overwhelming, the tip of your tongue automatically darting out to lick the blood seeping from the cut. It's sweeter here.

Your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs wrapping around his waist in spite of yourself, pulling him closer.

And Sukuna relishes it.

Every struggle, every breathless gasp, every moment of broken resistance only makes him more satisfied, more hungry for the fight, for the chaos, for the way you’re teetering on the edge of everything.

“Such a good little pet,” he whispers, his voice low and mocking as he grinds against you one last time.

“Su—kuna, please—” you choke out, unbearable heat burning you all over, more and more slick pooling into your panties as his bulge rubs into you. You hear him exhale when you tightens your legs around his waist further to match his movements with your own undulating hips, grinding your clothed cunt onto his erection.

“Please what?” He breathes, though you can tell he’s barely holding on himself, holding onto every last bit of his self control.

“Please fuck me.”

With those three words his hands are on the waist of your pants, ripping them off, sliding them down along with your panties in a borderline feral urgency. There’s almost a kind of relief when you finally get them off, falling to the ground, feeling your dripping cunt finally freed from the confines of clothing.

His gaze is ravenous—almost mirroring your own hunger—as he pushes you further onto the table, yanking your legs apart to forcefully spread them so he can see the sticky mess between your thighs.

You pant softly as he looks your pussy up and down, eye darkening as it roves over your puffy folds, your leaking hole clenching over nothing, his lip curling into a smirk.

“Aww all this for me?” he coos, before abruptly spanking your swollen clit with one hand. The impact makes you jolt, involuntarily letting out a small whine. “Does my pet need her needy little hole filled?”

You just sob in desperation — that burning, horrible ache only worsening with how close you are. “Y-Yes…”

“Finally honest for once, are we?” he hums, before pushing your legs up all the way to your chest and taking one of your hands to hook it behind your knee. “Here. Keep yourself held open like a good slut. Think you can do that?”

Anger pricks at you again, but you bite your lip and nod quietly, following his instructions to hold both your legs folded into you, exposing your holes to him completely.

Perhaps, if your head wasn’t spinning and so utterly lost in the need right now, you’d have some shame.

You watch with eagerly as he frees his cock, eyes widening and then dropping further in lust at the sight of it.

A trail of dark pink hair leads down to the tattooed base of his girthy length, though what really catches your eye is the glint of metal on the underside of his shaft.

Your mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he drinks in your reaction, smirking at you from over the bridge of his nose as he continues to pump his leaking cock at a relaxed pace. “Drooling just at the sight of my cock like a pathetic mutt, huh?”

Your lip curls back slightly as he provokes you again, clearly intent on not letting you live any of this down. But once again, you resist the urge to say anything back, knowing that if you open your mouth nothing good will come out.

The slightly alkaline smell of his precum hits your nostrils again, flaring up your hunger and the ache in your cunt all at once as you wet your lips, watching him with dark eyes.

Sukuna slaps his hard cock on your cunt once, then twice, humming in satisfaction at the soft gasps leaving your lips with each lewd wet smack.

With all your senses on edge, you become even more aware of the uncomfortable metal still wrapped around your neck.

It annoys you.

“Can you remove this thing?” You shift to show him the collar, slightly out of breath already.

He glances at it, unconcerned as he drags his cock through your slick folds, torturing you with the way his piercing catches on your clit. “Mmm, I don’t know. Seeing it on you turns me on.”

Sukuna flashes you a sleazy grin as the tip of his cock, oozing with pearlescent pre, smacks again on your clit. “So quit complaining…you wouldn’t want me to get that remote again, would you?”

Your mouth goes a bit dry, the threat snapping you back to reality just a bit as you obediently shake your head.

“Please.” You swallow. “I just need you in me, Sukuna…” You hold your legs apart a bit wider as you look up at him with pleading eyes, showing him that you’re willing to behave.

“Hm. Guess all that training did pay off,” he muses, flashing you a wicked grin as you feel something prod against the tight rim of your asshole.

Your jaw clenches as you flinch, trying to shrink away. “Fuck, n-not that hole—”

He leans over you, one hand planted firmly by your head as the other holds the tip of his cock, teasingly pushing a bit into your entrance.

“Oh? But didn’t you know?” he coos, breaching the rim just enough to make you squeak in pain. “Dirty sluts like you take it in the ass.”

Sukuna, who was probably expecting you to put up a fight or something, is evidently amused when all you do is pout in the most miserable, helpless way.

“I’ve beaten you up, cut you, drugged you, poisoned you, electrocuted you, and this is what you’re scared of? Anal?” he snickers.

“I can’t… I’ve never done it before, you’ll tear me apart…”

“Huh.” He grins deviously, rubbing his sticky tip into your rim, smearing it with precum. “I've seen how well you can heal yourself, though...”

Your eyes shoot open as you once again flinch, recoiling from the touch. “Sukuna!”

“Mm, fine,” he sighs, and you breathe out in relief when you feel the pressure lift away as he pulls his cock up to your other hole. “But misbehave and that’s where you’ll be taking it next…”

You frown at his dark promise but it’s soon forgotten when he begins to push into your weeping cunt.

Both of you inhale sharply as he breaches your entrance, pushing into the warmth of your plush walls, inch by inch. Even as aroused and wet as you are, you can still feel the stretch of your cunt around his thickness, a dizzying fullness that leaves you breathless when he finally bottoms out.

You’re given approximately one second to adjust to him inside you.

And then, the last of the restraints are ripped apart.

With a growl, Sukuna’s hips begin thrusting violently, making you squeal at the brutal pace he’s abruptly set, cock hitting you deep inside where you’ve been needing him, craving him.

Pleasure blanks your mind completely, eyes rolling back and pulling the most filthy moans from you as his cock rams against the sensitive wall of your cervix, over and over again, heavy balls slapping against your cunt.

“Oh shit, your cunt was made to be my cocksleeve,” he grunts as he ruts into you like a feral animal. “Good little pet, keep squeezing like that. Show me all that you’re—hah—good for—”

“Sh-Shut up!” you hiss between your own whines and the obscene noises of skin slapping against skin, his cock plowing into you like he’s trying to kill you with it. “I’m going to fucking murder y—”

Smack.

Sukuna slaps you for your insolent words, scoffing when you accidentally moan, and your cunt clamps down on him even harder. “Pathetic thing -fuck- you fucking love when I’m mean to you—”

He grips the back of your knees on top of your own hands in the crooks from where droplets of sweat trickle down, pushing down on your thighs to fold you further till your ankles are practically by your ears and it almost hurts. “—When I hurt you—”

“Y-yes, harder Sukuna!” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks, not even trying to deny his words.

What’s the point? Sukuna knows you better than anyone else on this planet.

“Filthy mutt!” he snarls, leaning down till his hot breath trails across your lips, cock hitting a tender spot in your silken flesh that makes you buck in ecstasy. “I hope that whole wretched bloodline of yours is watching me defile you!”

You bare your fangs, combined hatred, need, and every other twisted emotion culminating into just this, him buried inside you, dragging along your inflamed walls. And then the chain tucked into his shirt escapes. At the end of it, your broken fang, the one he kept, swinging against your face, suddenly feeling less like a taunt and something much more intimate.

You need him carnally.

With him fucking into you, your tits bouncing with each thrust, you lift your head, bared teeth attempting to latch onto his skin.

Sukuna notices what you’re trying to do and his hips halt suddenly, making you freeze mid bite too.

“I-I’m sorry…I can’t help myself…” you whisper.

The most puzzling part is you genuinely feel bad — which makes no sense. He’s hatefucking you, spitting vile words even when he’s balls deep inside you, and what should really seal in his sadistic nature — that damn necklace — it didn’t. Instead, for a split second you got a different glimpse of him, you, the complex nature of your entanglement with each other.

Maybe you mean as much to him as he does to you.

You wait, looking up at his unreadable expression, waiting for him to shatter the delusion, tell you how goddamn pathetic you are.

Sukuna stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark yet intrigued. His hips are still buried inside you, his body taut with tension, but for once, there’s no mocking words, no sneer on his lips. Just silence.

Then, slowly, his grip on your chin tightens—not cruel, just firm enough to make you look at him, to hold you there beneath his gaze.

"Didn’t mean to?" he echoes, cock still buried inside you. His eyes burn into yours, unreadable. "Since when do you apologize for wanting something?"

You shake your head slightly, breathless, your chest rising and falling against his.

"I—" you swallow thickly, ashamed, confused. "I don’t know. I just—"

Your eyes dart to his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin, calling to you like a drug you can’t resist. Your body betrays you, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

For a long moment, he just watches you. Studies you.

Then, to your shock, his lips curve. Not into his usual cruel smirk, but something slower, something almost… amused.

"You’re pathetic," he murmurs, but it lacks the usual venom. Instead, there’s something almost indulgent in his tone, like he’s pleased.

He shifts suddenly, pressing his chest against yours, his voice a low, taunting whisper against your ear.

"You really do need me, don’t you?"

Heat rushes through you, shame and hunger tangling together into something unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head no, but he only chuckles.

"Liar."

Then, to your shock, he tilts his head back, just enough to bare his throat.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers curl into his skin, your entire body aching, trembling with restraint.

"Go on," he murmurs, almost mockingly. "Take what you want."

He’s toying with you, you know that. But for a moment, just a split second, it feels like something else.

Like he’s giving you permission.

Your lips part—your fangs ache—

Then, just before you break, his hand yanks back on your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

His expression is unreadable.

"But if you do," he murmurs, eyes gleaming darkly, "then you admit it. That you belong to me."

You give him a long look, fangs aching, mouth dry, cunt leaking as the pulse under his skin taunts you, the promise of his taste underneath.

You want to believe you don’t belong to anyone. That you existed always as your own.

And still with an exhale you let go of your legs to hold his neck gently as you wrap them around his waist, pulling him deeper to where his cock is still in you.

Your fangs pierce his skin, and the moment his blood touches your tongue, your whole body shudders. It’s too much—rich, intoxicating, him. You whimper before you can stop yourself, burying your face against his neck, drinking deep, desperate.

He gasps ever so slightly, even stiffens a bit, but you swear you can feel his dick twitch in excitement. A low, broken laugh escapes him as his hips begin moving again, working in shorter but harder thrusts. "Fuck—look at you.”

Your hands tremble against his back, nails caressing the surface of his skin, letting out a moan of pleasure, drinking deeper, dizzy with need. And then you feel it, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand clenches at your waist, fingers digging in too hard, as if to ground himself through the sharp bloom of pain.

This isn’t the first time you’ve fed from him.

But perhaps all the fighting, all the blood he’s already lost, even the physical toll of fucking you is finally getting to him.

Still, you sink deeper, trying to ignore it, his blood coursing down your throat, and his body shifts against yours, a ragged thrust that pushes deeper, rougher.

But even as you feed, you notice the tightness in his jaw, his breath quickening, a barely perceptible shudder running through his body. His control is slipping, but his pride won’t let him break.

You can’t ignore it.

So you pause.

You draw back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes flicking over his clenched features, the tension in his body a stark contrast to the hunger thrumming between you.

“You’re in pain,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the accusation is clear.

You wonder how much if for the first time, the cracks in his armor are showing, if ever so slightly.

His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer, something reluctant beneath the bravado.

“Does it make you feel powerful?” he asks, but his voice cracks, betraying the effort it takes to remain in control.

You want to say yes, more than anything, but it would feel like a lie.

So, instead, you tell yourself that this hesitation, this sudden pull back, is simply the guilt of taking advantage of his weakness. This isn't about dominance. There’s nothing satisfying about an unfair fight. Or… well, whatever this twisted dance is.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers slide up the back of your neck, possessive, pulling you back into the crook of his neck.

“Take it,” he murmurs, voice roughened now. “If it means you’re mine, I’ll bleed for you.”

He must be delirious from blood loss. You can feel it—the faint tremor in his hands, the exhaustion creeping into his voice. But what’s your excuse? Why does your chest flutter in response, why does your heart race even as your body aches with hunger?

The sharp edge of his words has dulled, the venom slipping away as the heat between you grows. There's a rawness now, something unfamiliar even to you. Something that makes you want to take from him, just as much as you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there forever.

You hesitate, but only for a breath.

And then, with a flick of your fangs, you’re sinking back in, deeper this time, drinking greedily from the source, tasting his blood like a poison you can’t resist.

His body goes still, and for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. But then his grip tightens, his body jerking against yours, his hips snapping forward in a desperate push.

A muffles sound escapes you as you suck harder, the potent taste of him going straight down to your swollen cunt like an aphrodisiac, your combined juices dripping lewdly from where his cock fucks into you, down the curve of your ass and collecting on the table.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he breathes it out like a curse, but it’s coated with something darker than frustration—something deeper. Something that feels like acceptance. “Just takes it like its yours.”

You suck in a shaky breath as he pinches your hard nipple, sending another jolt through you down to your cunt, lips slick against the wound on his skin.

“It—It is…” you gasp as he keeps moving inside you, each thrust tighter, more deliberate, like he's forcing himself through the ache. Blood drips from his throat, warm on your tongue, and still he keeps his head tilted back like an offering. “It’s always been, hasn’t it?”

Your whole body burns, his blood already beginning to rot inside your veins and you can only cling to him harder, shaking, gasping. Sweat slicked bodies stick to each other as your tongue slithers out as you drink, laving over the swelling skin, and all that exists here and now is him, him inside you, on your tongue, in your nostrils—

He growls softly, almost tender, almost cruel. His fingers tighten in your hair and he yanks your head back, tearing your mouth from his throat.

“Look at you,” he hisses.

You glance up at him, barely. Lips slick with blood, eyes hazy with lust and shame and something unbearably tender underneath. He stares at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice ragged with possession. “No matter how hard you fight it or how much you hate it. You are mine.”

His hips speed up again, sloppily battering against your cunt, your garbled cries swallowed when he crushes his mouth to yours, tongue prying your lips open to taste his own blood on your tongue. It’s brutal, a bloody mess, sticky crimson fluid staining his lips as well, the scent of metal combining with the musk of sex permeating the air.

Him. His.

All his.

With a garbled cry and tears on your cheeks you cum as you tangle tongues, saliva mixing as warm liquid rushes from your hole. His own movements lose their rhythm, becoming erratic before with a final twitch of his dick he cums deep inside your cunt, the sticky white fluid almost as warm as his blood. It floods you till it starts seeping out as you pant into each others’ mouths, he keeps going, making sure to fuck his cum back into your spasming pussy.

Then, silence.

You lie there, tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked bodies cooling against each other, your breath still brushing against his punctured throat. His hand is knotted in your hair like he’s not ready to let go—no words, just the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Neither of you speaks.

The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the feral musk of sex. A healed wound on your ribs still seeps, and his lip is split, but the damage feels irrelevant compared to what’s left unsaid.

But then he untangles himself slowly, deliberately, stepping back. His brows scrunch slightly in pain, his shoulders stiff, his gaze avoiding yours.

You frown, confused. “What—”

“Get dressed,” he says, flatly, his voice an unreadable monotone.

“What?”

He stands, fastening his pants with a lack of care, not sparing you a single glance. “I’m letting you go.”

The words land like a slap.

You sit up, the sudden shock of his statement rattling you, the words caught in your throat. “You said—”

“I changed my mind.” And just like that, he turns back toward you, leans in close. You instinctively recoil, heart thudding as his hand moves toward your throat.

“Relax,” he mutters, his gaze never leaving the exposed skin of your neck. His fingers tilt your chin upward with a quiet precision, the other hand brushing over the metal collar locked around your throat.

Your pulse quickens. “The remote—”

“There’s a trick to it,” he says, his voice almost bored, like he’s speaking to a child. “You just never bothered to learn.”

His thumb presses beneath your jaw with firm pressure—a click, and a small hiss as the lock releases. The collar falls from your neck with a metallic weight, the finality of it making the air feel impossibly thick.

The gesture is disconcertingly tender almost, but a part of you stays still for some reason, still half-naked and leaking, blood drying in flakes around your lips.

“You have until dawn.”

Something twists in your chest. “Why?”

No answer.

You study his back, the rigid line of his spine, the bruises blooming under his skin, the flicker in his jaw. There’s no fear, only confusion—and something too terrifyingly close to hurt.

He doesn’t say it but you can see it now, in the way his hands shake slightly as he buttons his shirt. In the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He wants you gone because killing you would be too easy.

Because this chase is all he has left.

So you dress slowly, defiantly, watching him the whole time, waiting for him to change his mind again.

But he doesn't.

And when you finally reach the door, you pause. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Good,” he says, finally meeting your gaze.

You nod once.

Then you’re gone, into the dark, not looking back.

The forest is damp from earlier rain, the small unpaved road muddy and glistening with small puddles under the dappled moonlight, the sound of an owl hooting somewhere nearby. Blood stains your skin, hair clinging to your damp temples, yet you don’t stop to fix it.

The empty peacefulness of the forest at night feels too big.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that you’re free. That he let you go and that’s all that matters.

But something gnaws at you, a restlessness curling in your stomach like hunger.

You vaguely note you’ll be feeling unwell soon with his blood in you.

You could disappear. Vanish into the cities, into the forests, into the dark corners where even he wouldn’t follow.

But you won’t.

Instead you continue on, the only thought in your mind is a silent promise to take his other eye.

Time passes.

Not in peace—no, never that.

But in violence and whispers and blood-slick headlines and cold case files that gather dust.

You move through the world like smoke—harder, leaner, hungrier. A myth haunting cities that chew people up and forget their names. Everytime, you leave your mark with surgical precision—corpses with their right eyes missing.

Not just a signature, but an invitation. And he answers—sometimes in shadows, sometimes in person.

You’ve fought him more times than you can count.

Each time, it ends the same—broken glass, broken bones, someone limping away before the killing blow can land. Sometimes it's you, sometimes it’s him.

Sometimes the line blurs.

The one constant, however, is that it never feels quite finished.

Once, you kissed him just to buy time to stab him. Another time he held your bleeding body and whispered something you refused to hear.

Neither of you ever stays down.

Among vampires, your name becomes cursed—not because you’re feared but because wherever you go, Ryomen Sukuna follows and no one survives him.

Among hunters, it’s quieter. They understand something the others don’t, that no one chases what he’s claimed.

Still, you chase him and he chases you, like wolves in circles, like hunger gnawing at itself.

Until, one day, the pattern breaks.

The next body you find isn’t a vampire, but a young hunter. Sloppy. Killed quick. And this time, it’s not the right eye that’s gone—it’s the left.

It’s the first time he’s answered with something of his own.

And somehow, that's how you know that it’s time.

You straddle his torso, blade pressing into his cheek, panting. Even his own chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.

Both of you are smeared with grime, sweat, blood—your hair tangled, his disheveled.

It’s the dead of night, but the old train station feels like its own world, frozen in time. This place, like the two of you, feels forgotten by the rest of history.

You’ve been waiting for this day for years.

Sukuna’s face is torn up, more than a few of his ribs are broken, one of his legs is bent at an odd angle.

And yet, as broken as he is, he still watches you with that one remaining eye—unsettlingly lucid, like a window into the abyss of whatever terrible, beautiful thing lives at the core of him.

The eye you promised to take years ago. A promise handed down by blood. By centuries of hate and duty.

Your hand shakes as you raise the crimson-stained blade, your pulse pounding in your throat.

And he smiles. That maddening, blood-slick smile.

“Go on then,” he rasps. “Even score. You’ve always wanted it.”

You stare, intense with something unnamable as the blade hovers, ready to plunge in and leave him in a world of pure darkness.

This moment has been imagined, fantasized over. All the ways you’d carve it out, what you’d do with it. Once you even thought about pickling it.

But life never goes as planned, does it?

Revenge tastes sweet in theory, perhaps. Not in practice. Not now.

His eye, the last one, is fixed on you, unwavering. Like he wants to see everything—all of you—even as you hover at the edge of his death.

And in this moment, you realize you don’t want to destroy it.

Not out of mercy. Not out of weakness.

But because it’s the only part of him, maybe the only thing in the entire world, that ever really saw you.

And it’s hauntingly beautiful.

Feral. Fever-bright crimson, even as he stares down his death. Achingly human in a way neither of you were allowed to be.

“I—” your voice cracks. “I don’t want to. I want you to see me,” you whisper.

He exhales a shaky, rattling laugh, surprised. Then nods.

“Fine,” he says softly. “You’ll be the last thing I ever see.”

This day would have always come. Because however bright they may burn, humans only exist fleetingly. And one way or another, he would die long before you—the only difference would be that it wouldn’t be at your hands.

Something mundane, even. A miscalculated move, the slightest mistake.

You can’t bear to even think about him going out like that.

So it has to be you, and it has to be now. The only ending he deserves.

With trembling hands and stinging eyes you drag the blade down, touching it to his neck. Not deep, just enough for him to feel it.

And then he says your name.

The first time he’s ever said your name.

You pause.

“I’m glad it was you,” he whispers.

Something in you shatters unrepairably. Something that can never be put together no matter how many centuries you live.

Your throat tightens, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, and before you can think twice, you push the blade in. Slow and clean, but still he jerks slightly, though not with the strength he once had.

Blood spurts, spraying across your face before it begins to pour, running down his flesh like rivers of red. It smells as rich and alive as ever.

Instinctively his hands come up—you don’t know whether to stop or hold you. Either way, they falter halfway, dropping back down.

It’s too late now.

You can tell from the way he tries to breathe, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound that might be your name as a gurgle rises in his throat, blood bubbling at his lips.

Sukuna was, perhaps, the strongest man you’ve ever known. But death humbles all things. And in the end, he’s no different—just another body reaching blindly for breath, caught in that last, trembling moment of naked, undeniable fear

The realization that this is it. That you don’t know what comes after this.

What hurts most is that moment—his lungs struggling, clawing for air that isn't there.

Then his gaze snaps to yours.

And in it, a glimpse of the impossible—a life that might’ve been yours together, if the world had given you a different story.

Like he promised, he watches you till the very end. One single bright eye that stays locked on you, even when the light fades out like a dying star. Till it goes dull and glassy, still staring at you till it isn’t.

He goes still.

You try to suck in a shaky breath, one hand coming to cradle the side of his face with a gentleness that life never afforded either of you.

You feel hollow. Like when he died, a part of you went out with him.

Hunger and…

Just hunger.

That’s all the rest of your existence will be now. Wandering, empty, purposeless.

You’re not sure who you are without Sukuna.

And now you know what you have to do, something implicit in your bones that knows, that’s already pulling the blade out of his neck.

You stare at the blade in your hand, wet with his blood. Still warm.

It glints in the dim light like it wants you to follow.

You don’t cry; there’s nothing left for that.

Just silence.

Just the ache of his absence pressing down on your ribs like a weight too heavy to breathe through.

Slowly, you lower yourself beside him, curling into the warmth that’s already leaving his body. Your forehead brushes his jaw, lips pressing against the blood-slick edge of his throat like a kiss goodbye.

“Don’t wait for me,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you mean it. You hope you do.

Then you take the blade and guide it up, not hesitating now. There’s no drama or fanfare, just inevitability.

The metal bites in just beneath your sternum, and it’s almost a relief. The pain blooms sharp, then dull, then distant.

Your body slumps forward into his, cheek resting against his chest as you wonder what will happen next.

And in those final seconds, heart slowing, vision blurring, you swear you hear it—a heartbeat.

Not yours.

His.

Or maybe… just the echo of it. A phantom memory to carry you into the dark.

Days later, only Sukuna’s body is found. Next to him, a mysterious pile of ash.

Together at last.

a/n: something something something abt ending generational cycles idk lol

taglist: @mistalli @latrotoxiins @maomimii @indiewritesxoxo

25 notes · View notes

pinkslipxox · 17 hours ago

Note

Hola mami! Can I request a soft smut with miko fic por favorrrr

hey baby!!! Of course!! Hope you enjoy it 💓

——————————————————————————

She lays you down gently, her gaze hungry yet filled with such care and devotion that makes your breath hitch. Her tattoos hands roam your curves with reverence, the coolness of her rings a delicious contrast on your warm skin. The warmth of Miko’s lips against yours sends a shiver down your spine, and you moan softly as she travels down to your collarbone and the gentle swell of your breasts. Each gentle caress, soft kiss sends a warmth to your core, igniting a profound desire and longing that makes you wish that you revealed your true feelings to this sweet, loving, and incredibly beautiful tattooed woman hovering above you.

Tonight, you took a courageous leap of faith. The fear of rejection—or worse, risking your friendship with Miko—has haunted your thoughts for as long as you can remember. She’s been by your side through thick and thin, just as you have been for her. She’s been your confidante, your protector, your best friend. And now, in this moment of raw intimacy, you feel more closer to her than ever, and deep down, you know that she feels the same way.

“Mi amor…” Miko murmurs softly, her voice husky and tender, slipping into the familiar cadence of Spanglish. Her eyes are a darker shade of blue that seem to hold the entire universe within them. She gazes into yours, searching for permission, for confirmation, for the unspoken words that hang thick in the air.

“I trust you, Vicky,” you reply, voice thick with emotion, “more than anything.”

Miko’s lips curl into a smile that lights up her face like the first light of dawn. Slowly, she leans in again, her lips brushing softly against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss. Her tattooed hands cradle your face, fingers tracing the line of your jaw as she deepens the kiss, her body pressing softly against yours. As her lips move to your neck once more, her breath hot and excited, you realize that this moment—this leap of faith—has changed everything.

For the better. Much better than you imagined.

“Quiero hacerte el amor, Y/N. Quiero ser tuya en todo… now and forever,” Miko whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. Love. Desire.

You feel your heart pounding in your chest, a mix of anticipation and longing. Your fingers find her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her skin through her clothes.

“What are you waiting for?” you tease gently, softly, a playful smile touching your lips. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

“Carajo… eres tan perfecta,” Miko sighs, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “Y tan mía.”

As clothing becomes discarded, the longing, the ache of becoming one with the woman you love becomes more adamant. Your eyes flutter closed as you feel Vicky’s lips plant kisses along your inner thigh, your breath quickening as she gets closer and closer to where you need her the most. She takes her sweet time, savoring your scent, your taste, and you squirm underneath her with anticipation.

“Please… Vicky…” you whimper, and you feel her smirk against your skin. She’s gentle as she cradles your thighs in her hands, her touch firm but enough to keep you in place.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel her tongue make contact with your pussy, warm and teasing, pressing flat on your throbbing clit. Her mouth— and her fingers— work wonders on you, coaxing out moans and gasps that urge her to continue her pleasurable ministrations. You can’t help but grip her hair, drawing her closer, her nose pressing on your pelvic bone, and you toss your head back in ecstasy. You feel everything— the curl of her fingers, each swipe and swirl of her tongue— and it feels so fucking good.

“F-fuck… Vicky… Please…” you can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence. You can’t think straight. It feels as if everything has built up to this moment. All you can think, feel, breathe is Vicky.

“Vicky! I’m gonna…”

A cry escapes your lips as you release, arching your back, gripping the bedsheets as your lover cleans up every last drop of your sweetness. It takes you a moment to come down from your peak, breathless and glistening with sweat, yet you feel so cherished and so loved. Vicky comes back up from your thighs, her satisfied expression saying all the words for her, and she props herself up on her elbow. She brushes a few stands of hair from your forehead, her touch reverent and gentle, and she pulls you close to her body with ease.

“Eso fue increíble, mi amor. Tú eres increíble,” she praises, her warm, husky voice sending a delightful shiver down your spine. She then adds, her voice filled with a deep, abiding affection, “I love you, Y/N. So damn much” and presses a sweet, longing kiss to your lips.

“I love you, too, María Victoria,” you whisper, nuzzling into her neck, basking in the afterglow of your union. With the love of your life, Vicky.

Your Vicky.

#young miko #young miko x y/n #young miko fic #young miko x fem!reader #young miko blurb #young miko imagine #young miko x reader #young miko fanfiction #young miko x you #young miko fluff #young miko smut #young miko fanfic #young miko x female!reader

23 notes · View notes

shippertrashandproud · 2 days ago

Text

Ooooooo prepare for the long post friends

My first * problematic * ship was Thor/Loki or Thorki (not technically related but raised as siblings) because I LOVED the drama of their relationship and let’s be honest, sarcastic asshole/ Golden retriever has always been one of my favorite pair types. I still ship them but not as much since I stopped caring about Marvel ( no I haven’t watched Loki yet)

This eventually graduated to Phineas/Ferb or Phinerb (Step brothers) because I loved how they compliment each other! The quiet mechanical genius and the manic dreamer genius. They’re perfectly suited for eachother and remind me of that Modern Family quote- “the dreamers need the realists to keep them from soaring too close to the sun.

And the realists? Without the dreamers, they might not ever get off the ground”

All of this culminated in my actual first incest ship, and my favorite to boot

✨♥️✨Stancest✨♥️✨

I have never shipped anything harder. Two men who went through all manner of hell in their childhood, forced apart by misunderstanding and hurt. The hell Stan goes through with WHATEVER he was doing in the following decades, prison (in three different countries), chewing his way out of a car trunk, angry mobs, but the SECOND he gets word from Ford, word that he needs help, he drops EVERYTHING and goes to him. We see the photo he kept of the two of them on the visor of his car, so he could gaze up at his brother’s face, smiling and laughing. Meanwhile Ford is having a different kind of hell (not getting into who had it worse). Dealing with a relationship he thought he could trust only to be betrayed, his body controlled without his knowledge or consent, and having to spend countless days awake so he doesn’t loose control again. But when he’s in this spot, half mad with sleep deprivation and at the end of his rope, who does he reach out to? Stan. The only one he trusts after finding out he can’t trust ANYONE. And then the fight over the journal, Ford being ripped away into god-fucking-knows-where and Stan’s reaction to the man who just attacked him and branded his shoulder, is “ I JUST GOT HIM BACK!! I CAN’T LOOSE HIM AGAIN!!” And then 30 years. 30 freaking years Stan stayed in the shack, taught himself quantum mechanics, faked his own death, went through hell and high water to rebuild the portal. Thirty. Years. And after a less than cheerful reunion, countless fights, memory loss, and the literal end of the world, Ford reveals that he has carried a picture of him and Stan with him, in his jacket, next to his heart, the entire time. The years he was in college, the years studying the anomalies in Gravity Falls, through the years with Bill, and through the thirty years on the other side of the portal he carried this one picture. And Ford wants to fulfill the dream they had in that picture. He wants to sail the world with Stan, just Stan. And Stan says yes. I love these two beyond any other ship in my arsenal, not just for the hot old man sex, but for the aching tenderness, the quiet passion, and the unyielding LOVE pouring out of both of them

Okay proshippers! What's the earliest "problematic" ship you remember shipping? Do you still ship it now? Tell us about it!

#stancest #thorki #phinerb

331 notes · View notes

noona-clock · 2 days ago

Text

The Love Playlist - Part 2

Genre: AU, Fluff, Slice of Life

Pairing: Jaebeom x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2 | Words: 2,815

No matter how hard you thought about it, you couldn't think of a legitimate reason why you couldn't (and shouldn't) go back to the cafe for another latte.

You could certainly think of reasons why you should, though.

It was Monday. Mondays were awful in just about every way.

You were tired. You needed a pick-me-up.

Your regular shop was locally-owned. Another latte meant supporting your community!

The cafe was so close to your office that no one would even know you were gone.

Before you could think of a fifth reason, you were already heading toward the elevator. It didn't matter that it was 3pm -- in fact, it was actually the perfect time for a caffeine boost. Monday at 3pm. Can you think of a worse time during the whole week?

Exactly.

You needed a break, and you needed a treat!

Just a few minutes later, you stepped into the familiar cozy comfort and joined the line at the register (it did make you feel better that you weren't the only one indulging yourself this afternoon).

In fact, the person you got behind in line had a pretty magnificent head of dark, wavy hair and enticingly broad shoulders.

...It had been way too long since you'd had a crush on someone.

Someone real, that is.

I mean, not that DefSoul wasn't real. He was real!

Presumably.

You'd just never met him in person.

Wait, hold on, had you just admitted to having a crush on DefSoul?

I guess you shouldn't have been surprised since the two of you had been exchanging emails for a few months now, and everything you'd learned about him had been so fascinating. The banter had been top-tier. And hearing his deep, smooth voice every night? How could you not fall for him?

The only thing missing was being able to ogle his miraculous head of hair and broad shoulders.

If he had them, that is.

But the person standing in front of you did, so he would have to do!

Suddenly, a new song began playing in the cafe, and you immediately recognized it as one of the songs from the playlist DefSoul had created for you.

"Oh, I love this song," you said quietly to yourself, the corners of your lips pulling into a grin.

The beautiful hair in front of you turned to glance over his alluring shoulders and said, "It's a great song."

"Right!" you replied, ignoring the fluttering in your heart and stomach at the sound of his voice.

And also? You could see just a sliver of his face, but it was enough to know this dude was handsome.

He then turned around almost fully to look at you, and his eyes were so piercing that you nearly took a step back.

"This is one of my favorite artists," he said. "But hardly anyone I know has ever heard of them."

"Really?" you asked, brow furrowing and eyes widening in distress. "That's such a shame, they're amazing!"

A smirk tugged at his lips, and he murmured, "You must have good taste in music."

"I like to think so," you chuckled.

The guy opened his mouth to reply to you, but unfortunately, the person in front of him finished ordering and stepped away from the register.

"It's your turn," you said, nodding at the counter.

As much as you wanted to continue admiring the music with this attractive stranger (and, to be honest, continue admiring him), a handful of people had gotten in line behind you, and you wanted nothing less than to delay others from getting their caffeine.

Attractive Stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise before turning back around and stepping up to place his order.

Just a minute or two later, when you finished placing your own order and stepped aside to wait for your drink, Attractive Stranger (who, thankfully, was also still waiting for his), cleared his throat gently before asking, "Do you have a favorite song by them?"

You were just barely able to keep a delighted smile from curving on your lips -- you'd been hoping he would talk to you again.

"Actually, that's the only one of theirs I know," you admitted with a somewhat guilty expression. "That song is on a playlist I've been listening to non-stop for a while, so I just haven't had time to listen to anything else. But if you have any recommendations, I'm all ears!"

And now that you were more face-to-face with him, you realized just how good-looking he was. His face was absolutely as handsome as the back of his head -- though, let's be honest, more than.

That dark hair you'd studied from the back fell in perfect waves just so over his forehead, ever so gently touching his eyelashes. His features were angular but also somehow soft. And your gaze was drawn to a very adorable and charming freckle on his eyelid.

"I recommend songs like it's my job," he replied with a soft chuckle. "I'm happy to. Do you usually come here around this time?"

Typically, a line like that would immediately give you the ick, and you would reply with a polite but stern, "No" before hastily retreating.

But something about the way this guy had asked you -- and something about the way his face and hair and shoulders and aura was so damn attractive to you -- had you responding quite differently than normal.

"Not usually," you admitted with a somewhat guilty chuckle. "I come here every morning before work -- my office is right down the street -- but I hardly ever come here in the afternoon."

"Got it," he replied.

You tried not to tell yourself that you definitely heard disappointment in his voice.

But you absolutely did.

"I can show you some songs now," he continued. "I just... I like to take my time with music recommendations. But it's --"

"Don't you think Tuesday is the worst day of the week?" you interrupted.

His brow furrowed slightly, but you continued before he could express his confusion.

"I mean, Monday always sucks just because it's the first day of the work week, but if you think optimistically, you could take Monday as being a fresh start. Plus, if you had a particularly good weekend, you can still cherish all the fun you had because it's still fresh in your mind. Wednesday is the middle of the week, Thursday is Friday Jr., and Friday is basically the weekend! But Tuesday? What's special about Tuesday? Nothing. So, I think I may have to treat myself to another latte right around this time tomorrow just to get through the rest of the day."

Understanding dawned on his incredibly handsome face, and a smirk tugged at his lips. "I would have to agree," he chuckled.

A barista set down an iced Americano and a latte on the counter, and the two of you reached for your drinks.

He gestured toward the door, ushering you that way and opening it for you when you arrived.

"So... same time tomorrow?" he asked.

"Same time tomorrow," you confirmed with a nod. And then you remembered you didn't actually know his name and hadn't given him yours. So, you held out your hand to him and said, "I'm Y/N, by the way."

He took yours, and you had to pretend like your breath hadn't gotten stuck in your throat as soon as his fingers touched your palm.

"I'm Jaebeom," he told you.

"Nice to meet you," you grinned. Because it certainly had been.

"Likewise."

As you settled down to listen to Soul Tracks later that evening, you found you couldn't stop thinking about Jaebeom. It was the first time you'd ever struck up a conversation with someone while in line for coffee (at least, a conversation past a few inane words about the weather or what have you), and it was certainly the first time you'd ever struck up a conversation with someone so intriguingly good-looking while in line for coffee.

Plus, you'd made plans to meet up again at the cafe tomorrow, something you'd never done with a stranger you'd just met five minutes prior!

Today had been a momentous day for you! How could you not think about it?

And as the show went on, you were unable to stop yourself from feeling guilty. There was actually no reason at all to feel guilty; you didn't even know DefSoul in person -- or even his real name! -- so it wasn't like you could classify him as a friend. Right? And you'd known and spoken with Jaebeom for all of, what, five minutes? It's not like you were going on a date with him. It was a very casual meet-up so he could recommend you some songs. That's it!

...Honestly, there was a lot to process about this whole thing.

First of all, it felt so wrong to even think that DefSoul wasn't your friend. You'd been messaging him for months now, and you couldn't talk to someone that often without developing a friendship. I mean, you'd told him things you'd been too scared to tell anyone! Of course he was your friend!

Second of all, wasn't it a bit odd that your friendship with DefSoul had started because of his music recommendations for you, and now you were possibly starting another friendship with someone who was recommending music for you?

You didn't think it meant anything, obviously. It was just... odd. Nothing more, nothing less.

But even knowing all of that, why should you feel guilty? Having more than one friend is an extremely normal thing, and it seems pretty far-fetched to think that one can only have a singular friend with a specific hobby. In fact, it would be strange if you did have just one friend who liked music. You, yourself, liked music, and isn't the whole concept of friends kind of based on the idea of having common interests? Not always, of course, but most of the time, absolutely!

All of this to say, if DefSoul somehow found out that you had another friend who liked recommending songs to you, he surely wouldn't be hurt by it. He would just think it's normal!

Because it was!

"So, stop feeling guilty about this, Y/N," you muttered to yourself as you turned the volume up on your computer, hoping that louder Soul Tracks music would drown out your annoying thoughts.

In another attempt to stop thinking about this weird guilt, you started thinking about your reply to the very person whose livestream you were listening to. He had sent you a message the other day, so it was now your turn.

But it didn't take long for you to wonder if you should mention your run-in with a potential new friend at the coffee shop.

Was it something you would tell any of your other friends? Yes, of course. Standing behind someone in line and ending up with plans to meet again the next day was a classic meet-cute! If it had happened to any of your friends, you would certainly want to hear about it!

But DefSoul... was just different. And not even different in the fact that you didn't actually know him in real life.

You had some very close friends. Friends you'd known for decades and knew everything about you. Friends you felt comfortable telling any and everything to.

Your friendship with DefSoul somehow surpassed that. It was probably because it was a lot easier to divulge your darkest, deepest thoughts through words on a screen instead of face-to-face, but he was also just the most incredible listener. Even though you couldn't see him as he read your messages, you could just tell. His replies were always so thoughtful that it was plainly obvious he'd not only read your words but paid attention to them.

So, on paper, you should have wanted to tell him about your coffee shop encounter. He would most likely reply with some insightful advice on what to do next!

But each time you started typing out your reply, it just didn't feel right.

Not telling him didn't feel right either, though.

You briefly floated the idea of not replying to him just yet but tossed that in the trash just about as soon as it appeared. That wasn't an option.

In the end, you settled on mentioning the tiniest hint of the situation and moving on.

Happy(?) Monday!!!!

How did the weekend fly by so quickly 😭 Did you get all of your to-do list checked off? It always seems like you do, but you asked me to hold you accountable, so continue to ask I shall!

I will answer your question later in this message, I promise, but before I do, I have a random one for you: what is your favorite and least favorite day of the week? I was talking to a friend at work about this, and now I'm curious what other people think. Does anyone else in the world have a favorite day other than Saturday? These are the thoughts that keep me up at night!

Speaking of friends at work -- I may have made a new one? We just met today, but it seems like we have pretty similar music taste, so things seem promising. (But lowkey, new friends are scary. Right? It's not just me? Maybe it is. Whatever.)

Now onto your question, and my answer might be surprising: I do think I would quit my job if I won the lottery.

I know. you're thinking 'But Y/UN! I thought your lifelong dream was to work in an office!'

And, yes, that is correct. That's all I wanted to do when I was growing up. And to be fair, I really don't mind the work itself.

It's just the time! Why is the workday SO LONG? Why do I have a scant handful of hours at home before I have to go to bed and get up the next morning to do it all over again? And the weekend being just two measly days? Out of SEVEN? It's borderline criminal.

So, the main reason I would quit my job if I won the lottery is so I could get back this thing known as 'Free Time'! I want more hobbies! I want to volunteer! I want to travel and spend more time with friends and not be too exhausted to deep clean my apartment every Sunday! A part-time job at a cafe or a used bookstore wouldn't be half-bad, either, if I really started to get bored.

And now my random question for you is this: if there were 25 hours in a day instead of 24, what would you do with that extra hour? And you can't say sleep. Let's say the extra hour is between 6 and 7 pm -- after average work hours but before your livestream starts. What are you doing?

Me? I'd probably try to fit in one of those hobbies I was just complaining about not being able to have because of lack of time. Maybe I would read more. Or watch more popular TV shows that everyone talks about. Or maybe I would cook more elaborate meals for myself!

Your turn!

Not too long ago, you had inadvertently started a new tradition of asking a random question each time the two of you messaged each other. You'd just mentioned a question that had been posed to you at work one day, and before you knew it, you and DefSoul were exchanging answers and asking new ones. It was now one of your favorite things about talking to him because you got to learn more about him in a fun, somewhat unusual way. He always seemed to have such thoughtful answers, and you really liked that about him.

But that shouldn't have surprised you -- he spent much of his free time creating bespoke playlists for people based on their life situations. That in and of itself was incredibly thoughtful and required more than a modicum of consideration.

Without thinking, you clicked 'Send' -- and then promptly gasped. His livestream was still going on!

So you scrambled to bring up his latest message again, clicked 'Reply,' and typed out I swear I am listening!!! I didn't mean to reply DURING your show, I just had too many thoughts and had to get them all out before they left!! SORRY!!!!!!!!!

Thankfully, DefSoul was playing a song at the moment; if he'd been in the middle of talking or reading someone's letter, you were certain he would've stumbled on his words or worse, called you out on air. He took his show seriously, and there was nothing you wanted less than for him to think you didn't listen and appreciate it.

Not even a minute later, you received a reply:

Stop talking to me and listen to the show.

But then a few seconds after that:

Kidding ;)

#jaebeom #jaebeom fanfic #jaebeom au #jaebeom fluff #got7 #got7 fanfic #got7 au #got7 fluff #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop au #kpop fluff #lim jaebeom #got7 jay b

20 notes · View notes