#going to eventually make tags and the like

[kngrose]

imagine a situationship with sevika

WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, drinking, bi! reader but wlw, eventual smut, modern au

AN: i have way too many thoughts about this— this will have multiple parts ^^

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t plan for it. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Your relationship had gotten too… comfortable. At first, the changes were subtle; He wasn’t saying anything outlandish, nothing to make you question your relationship.

But there were small instances, ones where he’d forget plans you made, or when he’d linger on his phone a little longer than usual in your company. You told yourself it was nothing; he might just be a little more stressed than usual– maybe there’s something personal he’s going through.

But as time passed, the pattern became clearer. Conversations that used to flow easily were now strained, almost forced, filled with half-hearted responses. He didn't pick up on the little things anymore; your new manicure or your haircut you had gotten to perfectly frame your face, in hopes that he would notice.

He wouldn’t be as passionate anymore, the fire he once held slowly dimming before your eyes. It was disheartening. The spark that once kept your relationship alive is fading, and you're left with a gnawing feeling of emptiness that you can’t quite explain.

And then there was her.

It wasn’t anything too large, the event. Just a kickback amongst some of your shared friends and some extras they’d invited. You’d tagged along with your boyfriend who’d long forgotten about you, chopping it up with a few of the guys on the couch. You felt a sour twinge in your gut as you sat beside him; this is the most enthusiasm he’s shown in weeks.

You’d noticed her in your solitude; shooting you glances across the room. Similar to you, she hadn’t said much of anything, just idly man-spread on the neighboring couch, red cup held loosely in her hand. You’ve never seen her before… you wonder whose friend she is.

You can't help but return the glances– look at her. Her broad shoulders, her thighs, her hands decorated with rings. The piercings that decorate her face. Those eyes, assessing you as she circles the rim of her cup with an index finger, a little smirk forming on her dark lips.

How could you help it– when she’s just radiating with unspoken confidence? It’s captivating, drawing you in like a deer in headlights. There’s a sharpness in her eyes that unsettles you, and yet, something about it excites you. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever seen.

You realized later that she was just waiting. Waiting for your boyfriend to excuse himself so she could move in. It’ll make you wonder later, how much of this she premeditated. It doesn’t take her long to approach you when he leaves, sliding into the spot next to you curtly, smirking as she meets your eyes. She’s beautiful up close.

She’s looking at you with that calculating gaze, making it clear she’s intrigued. She scans your face up and down, “Like your hair… suits you.”

Her voice was deep, commanding, like she had the power to bend the world to her will. You feel your cheeks warm under her gaze, touching your hair softly. “Thank you.” You manage to retort, embarrassingly glancing away. When you shot your eyes back to hers your breath got caught in your chest, her gaze is unwavering. A chuckle rumbles from her throat, “You’re cute.”

But it's not just the look—it’s the way she speaks to you. It’s amazing how easily she manages to fluster you, it’s effortless. Sevika, you learn that her name is, charms you with her dry humor and college stories, entertaining you the entirety of the night.

She tells you about all of the petty fights she’s been in, and all of her run ins with the police. Some of which are so descriptive you have to wonder if she’s being generous with the details. All the while she’s charming you up, placing a hand on your knee, then to your thigh, drawing small circles. You take note of the way she seems to fixate on your hair, constantly moving it from your face or twisting the strands between her fingers.

The flirtation feels different—darker. Her voice rumbles with a kind of quiet power, and when her hand brushes against yours, it lingers just a little too long. You want to pull away, but instead, you stay. The tension builds, and despite your better judgment, a part of you is drawn to it. To her.

You wish you could go back in time and slap yourself. You knew better than to get yourself alone with this girl, this freakishly charismatic, freakishly, randomly attractive girl. But you let her lead you away to a secluded hallway of the house, her excuse being the music was too loud.

And she continued conversing with you, leaning against the wall and swallowing down the rest of the cup. She huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, “You a nanny or somethin’?” You shot her a confused look in response. She looked down, nodding her head towards the red cup in your hand. “You’re babysitting.” 

“Oh, this…” You mutter, swirling the drink around plainly. “Not much of a drinker.” You notice the roll of her eyes as she pushes herself off the wall and your breath hitches as she closes in on you. She pulls the cup from your hand, raising a large hand to your chin to tilt your head back. You barely manage to sputter, “What are you doing–!” before she orders you to, “Open,” nudging your chin softly.

You lock eyes with her for the umpteenth time, her eyes filled with something different this time around. You hesitantly part your lips, allowing her to pour the rest of the content into your mouth. There’s a soft groan leaving her mouth as she watches some of it spill from the corner of your lips down your chin.

The way her eyes lingered on your lips made your heart race. You were suddenly aware of how close you were, how her scent filled your senses, how her gaze felt like a slow burn.

You don’t say anything, but you can feel the heat between you both, the pull that’s been growing stronger with each passing second. Before you know it, she’s kissing you—rough and urgent, her hands gripping your hips with a hunger that matches the storm brewing inside you. Her kiss is overwhelming, like a fire that consumes you whole. You melt into it, into her, not thinking about the consequences, not thinking about him.

The moment ends just as quickly as it began, but the aftershocks are impossible to ignore. You stand there, breathless, disoriented, and yet, there’s a part of you that doesn’t regret it. It feels raw, real, and alive in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

You pull away from Sevika, your chest tight with confusion and shame. But Sevika just watches you, unfazed. There’s no sympathy in her gaze, in fact, all you could register was a sly smirk on her lips. Sevika moves to stand close to you, her presence overwhelming, wrapping a hand around your throat, "What's holding you back?" she mumbles against your lips.

And in that moment, you realize that nothing is holding you back. You’ve already made your choice without even knowing it.

There’s no turning back now.  

please let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx

taglist: @opropheticsoul

[bunnys-kisses]

(ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡ mad(ly in love) max｡ ⊹˚.⋆

partially inspired by this by @angldelight before it got away from me! <3

max knew you looked better in blue than red. and if you did look good in red, it was the red of the his team rather than the garish red of ferrari. he believed the statement that everyone is a ferrari fan even if they don't know it, because if they saw a photo of you, they'd have brand loyalty to the stallion for the rest of their days.

there was a reason why your face and name were everywhere in your home country. you were a pride and joy to the nation you called home. but, max was more than happy to stake a claim on you.

max liked you because you challenged him. far too many women would bend over backwards for the three time champion, but you simply glared him down with your hands on your hips. you stood toe to toe with him even if there was a height difference. but you kept your gaze steady on him.

"don't fuck me over again." you said, "or you'll regret it."

"i would never do it on purpose, princess. maybe you should watch where you are going from now on." he bite back in response. he noticed a twitch in your hand, like you wanted to grab him by the front of his driver's suit and pull him close. either for a punch or a kiss.

it would eventually lead in kisses. max liked when you were mad because then that meant he could flip the script and get ferrari's little princess on her knees with a mouthful of verstappen cock. it was honestly cute, while he wanted to dive into your sweet cunt and make your insides sticky with his cum. he'd have to make you acquainted with his size.

max verstappen was fuckin' crazy though, being involved with him was like being a deer and getting your leg caught in a trap. the type of obsession that clamped around you, dug its teeth into your fragile skin. you were so cute though, something some delicate and soft. formula one was for the toughest, the mental and physical strain of it all (that could be why he was so... off). and while max believed in you, he worried.

where you were going, who you were with. you hadn't only been in monaco for a few years and while you had the likes of charles to help you around. when he heard about men you had met, max felt something curl inside of him.

it started inauspicious. he slipped an air tag into the back pocket of your jeans while you were in your driver's room getting ready for dinner with some guy that max couldn't even remember the name of. he was all smiles as he wished you a great time.

too bad there was an issue with your car. how could you have a flat tire already, you just got the car? and when you asked your date to come pick you up, he totally ghosted you. little did you know that while you were struggling with you car, max went to meet your date and give him a few firm words. that was when the real mad max came out.

"listen mate. you're never going to give her what she needs. hell, not even what she wants. there are plenty of fish in the sea." he got a little closer to the other man, "but you can't have her."

"why?" your date swallowed.

max nodded and flashed that winning smile, "because she's mine. and i know she may have talked so nice to you. she's like that. charming. but sadly she's taken. so i think it's in everyone's best interest that you delete her number and go back to finding your perfect match." he patted the man on the shoulder like they were buddies.

"and if i don't."

max's smile only grew, "i don't like people fucking what's mine. she's taken, mate. move on." he couldn't verbalize exactly how he'd rough up the other man. he didn't want to make headlines. but there was something in his gaze that made your date high tail it out of there. your number blocked and deleted.

max then used the air tag to find you at a bar close to your flat where you were drinking away your sorrows. but, don't worry about that! max was now here to make sure that you had the best night ever. while that meant ending up drunk and curled up in his bed, but he didn't mind. he was even a gentleman and created a barrier of pillows between the two of you. no funny business. even if he wanted to. when he eventually fucked you, he wanted you conscious.

that air tag would come in handy, turns out that you wore the same pair of black levi's jeans. max was wondering if he had to get more air tags to place along other items. but, he lucked out with that one. you thought it was a strange coincidence that he seemed to be where you were.

and he'd laugh and tell you, "small city, right?"

it took months of hard work but, eventually he got to sink his pretty cock into your prettier hole. the happiest day of his life. he had invited you on his boat for the afternoon, and while he didn't expect much. he wasn't expecting your pretty tits on such display. a pretty red checkered print bikini and sandals as you stayed close to max.

and then alone, out in the waters. you ended up straddling max's waist while he sat on one of the seats up on the deck. it was couch-like and allowed you two some room as you rubbed your sweet pussy up against the front of his shorts. his hands dug into the plushness of your ass as he moved against you. you were painfully pretty, and it drove max insane. you'd try to run him off the track, but he'd always get an apology by having your pretty tits in his face and your pussy around his cock.

"you feel so good." he said, "you're so soft."

you whimpered, "i'm not that soft. you keep feeding me all this good food since i came to visit! my team is going to be pissed." you squirmed a little.

he kissed at your breasts in front of your face and laughed, "well, then. i guess i'll have to keep feeding you better food." his teeth then nipped your left breast and it made you whine. his hands continued to grope you ass and you squirmed a little more.

you didn't realize that you're movements only made him harder and he had to force himself to let go of you to take his cock out of his shorts. this was a dream come true, after months of being your little shadow.

"you know how to do this?" he asked.

you held onto his shoulders and chuckled, "yes, i've had sex before." which made something cold run through max's body, but it was quickly heated up once more when you sank down on him.

other men might had had you, but he was going to make sure you were his forever. no need to get stuffed with another man's cock, when you have max who, as he might add, can get into you quite easily. it was like you were made for him as you started to ride him. he pulled you into a kiss with one hand while he groped your behind with the other. he felt your core shiver around him as you continued to move up and down on his cock.

this only lit his need for you more. if you were so good on top, how good were you on the bottom, or at your side, or stuffed full of fingers and toys as max pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you. he wanted you, he was mad for you. while he'd sometimes pull dirty tricks on the track, he had a whole other set of skills for you. because he could never hurt you on the track, too much of a risk for your safety. but he'd bruise your little pussy and cover your pretty soft breasts in large bites. he'd hope that cameras would get a good look at the pretty marks.

a lot easier to scare off men than to see a woman decorated with hickies. if he had it his way, you'd be wearing a little chain with his initials on it. or better yet, chubby little verstappen baby at your hip. the thought made something hot run through him. oh, that unlocked something in his brain as he was balls deep inside of you. he continued to leave a mess of bites on your chest as you continued to rut against him. your back arched a little when he bit one of your nipples.

"i need you to burn that bikini when we get to shore." he said between heavy pants as he grabbed your ass roughly and pushed himself up as much as he could go. his voice was a little strained from the intensity of it all.

"why?" you asked as you looked down at you.

"because, someone might get the wrong idea. and i don't want you getting hurt." he replied. it showed off far too much, too much of what belonged to him.

he rubbed up against you further. his cock poking some of your deepest parts, he wondered if he was the biggest you ever had. or if there was some other guy in another part of the world who took you apart better than him. unlikely. the way he watched you wiped drool from the corner of your mouth as you rode him made him excited.

during his time racing alongside you, he had seen you at euphoric highs of victory and deep anger when losing. but, this was a whole other look, you were far from focused. only really thinking about the cock, his cock, stuffing you full. guess there was no need to get you into his clothes and keep an air tag in your bad anymore, not when you had such a sweet look across your face.

he ran his blunt nails down the side of your thighs and felt you clench harder around his cock. which made sparks appear in the back of max's mind.

"pretty thing." he said. there was a softness to you that he wanted to sink his teeth into. especially the slight chub at your hips, next time he wanted to bite down on the skin and leave pretty bruises across it. you were just so beautiful. he thought formula one was for ugly men because they wore a helmet all the time, not pretty women who made max go insane.

you whined a little bit and started to feel yourself really get hot all over. his cock fit in you perfectly. while lust clouded your head, you honestly did think about throwing out the bikini you were wearing on board the boat. he kissed at your pulse point and you moaned, your pussy fluttered around him.

"i need that bikini gone before we get back to shore." he said.

"why, what will i wear?" you asked a little shy. you couldn't get back onto land with nothing on!

he grabbed at your ass once more and pushed you down on his cock, then held you for a moment. his lips were squared with yours as he said, "i got some extra clothes in the bedroom below deck." he knew that it was either red bull or verstappen merchandise. something that he had a lot of and could get wet.

while it wouldn't show off your pretty figure. the idea of you getting a bit chilled while heading 'home' and having your nipples poke through a shirt with his logo on it made him hotter. maybe he'll turn the ac up in the car on the drive home.

"i don't want anyone to see the bikini ever again. i'll buy you something nicer." he said as he thrusted up into you, "i don't want hungry eyes on you and neither do you. you're not a piece of meat." even though max wished to devour you, you were not meat. he'd say you were more like fruit. something refreshing and bright. something to crave on a warm day like today.

"i should have something in my bag." you said as you continued to ride him.

he held your soft hips and looked up at you, "no, no." he said then licked his top lip, "wear my clothes, they'll be more comfortable." and it'll hide your figure better.

you were the first to climax, and he managed to get you across the seat of the couch and fuck you from behind doggy style. perfect angle to make sure every last drop. you clawed at the faux leather and arched your back, your sweet noises against the sounds of the sea. your pussy clenched around him as he bullied the tip up against your cervix.

it was important for the two to get acquainted.

he finally finished inside of you and let out a sweet groan. he clenched onto your hips tightly and watched you go fully limp against the couch as you tried to catch your breath. he pulled out and gooey cum dripped out of your poor pussy. ah, it's okay. he simply pushed it all back inside of you.

with the amount he finished inside of you, you were at least 3% dutch now!

when max was finished with you, he knew that he was going to keep the little princess of ferrari. maybe eventually you'll wear the red bull logo across your pretty tits when you entered the paddock. or maybe better yet, the verstappen last name. but for now he'd simply have to stake his claim by shoving all his cum into your sweet cunt. after all it was a safer place to keep it compared to his own fist.

-

even with the start of the new season. his fixation of your cunt didn't end. so what you're on a different team, that didn't mean he couldn't easily go to the ferrari area and just get you to himself. when you win the first race of the season and sing along to your national anthem, max smiles in second. not because he is happy that you are winning.

but because he knew that his cum was dampening the front of your sweet cotton panties. you may have the trophy over your head, but he knew after this, he'd get another chance to sink another load in you. <3

a/n: is this anything? does anyone want more of this????

[gffa]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Do you take rec requests? If so, can I ask for your recs for Obi Wan centric fics where Obi Wan is just absolutely adored by everyone around him? Like people love him, think he's great, beautiful, talented, etc. you could also include fics where Anakin isn't one of his adoring fans but he comes around eventually. If you've ever read the Shoulder The Sky series by @kcrabb88 ? Where Anakin is kind of weird about Obi Wan in the beginning but he'd die for him at the end? Yeah like that.

Preferably no Obitine please, and also no order 66, if you would. They can be fix its or maybe they just don't get to order 66 in canon. Long and short is fine. I just want to read fic to justify my absolute rabidity over Obi Wan Kenobi.

Yknow if you're going to answer the ask? Might as well include every fic that you know that portrays Obi Wan very well. Whether everyone thinks so or not, I just want an excuse to fangirl over Obi Wan. Whether it's cute adorable initiate obi wan; smart skilled Padawan Kenobi, best master in the galaxy Kenobi, best general in the gar Kenobi, unfuckwithable Kenobi that everyone knows not to piss off, the Jedi's best member, whatever. Just fics of obi wan being great, whether people acknowledge it and love him, or acknowledge it and go still like prey animals when he looks at them

Hi! Oh, this is going to be a bit of a difficult set, mostly because avoiding Order 66 is a tough one, and I'm not sure how you are with various Obi-Wan pairings (which tend to have some good Obi-Wan fic), but I can at least start you out with a few recs sets I've done that have a lot of Obi-Wan fic and hopefully the Order 66 fic will be pretty avoidable.

My Star Wars fic recs tag (pretty much anything that mentions Obi-Wan in the subject will treat him well)

Obi-Wan Kenobi epic fic

Post-OBW's first two episodes-centric set

It's hard because some of my favorites:

Reprise by Elfpen (absolutely epic time travel fic that does the really good, hard work of showing us the timeline shifting and why it has to be done in baby steps)

Fire and Ice by Yesac (set in an AU where Order 66 happened, but Anakin won the fight and took both Obi-Wan and Padme hostage, and it's about the incredibly long road to recovery from there, which does have some love = attachment minor, minor notes, but has an Obi-Wan characterization that was fundamental to how I see the character)

Aren't necessarily about Order 66, but it does happen in both those fics, as something that's either being avoided or fixing the aftermath of them, and I'm not sure where you stand on such things, since you don't want Order 66. Same for

The Desert Storm by Blue_Sunshine (time travel AU where Order 66 happened in Ben's timeline, but not in the one the fic is set during)

Knightrise by deviantaccumulation (this one includes Order 66 happening on-screen, but it's an AU where more Jedi survive and they go into hiding together to rebuild)

where it's time travel to fix things, is that still over your line? Is it about the other characters that love Obi-Wan or the narrative of the story that loves Obi-Wan, because that would change a lot of the recs I make! Not that he's unloved in them, but Cataclasm by dendral is one of my favorites, but it has Obi-Wan off on his own a lot of the time, so the narrative loves him, but the people around him aren't in the room with him, etc. I also have a Jedi culture set of recs, which you can scroll through to find Obi-Wan mentioned in the summary, it's probably going to be about how much everyone loves him. But some good places to start for you would be:

ruth baulding's Lineage series and then her Legacy series. The first series is an epic length run of adventures when Obi-Wan was a padawan with Qui-Gon, and then the second series is his time teaching Anakin, with more adventures

Remedial Jedi Theology by MarbleGlove, a fantastic look at Jedi theology, philosophy, and interaction, with Obi-Wan in a prominent role.

Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi stonefreeak, which is crack treated seriously, very Jedi-positive, and while it's an ensemble piece overall, Obi-Wan is very much at the heart of the story and the focus will always come back to him. Just so much fun and very soft on the heart, this is a universe where everything goes right.

Tano and Kenobi by FireflyFish, which is a time travel fic where Ahsoka goes back into the past and becomes Padawan Obi-Wan's Master instead of Qui-Gon. The fic is kind of harsh on Qui-Gon, but if you love the disaster lineage or if you just want more Obi-Wan & Ahsoka, this fic will scratch the itch so good.

Unexpected Awakening (The Rewrite) Rhiw, another time travel fic where Order 66 did happen, but the fic is about Legends!Obi-Wan taking a different path from what happened in the first Jedi Apprentice book, instead of becoming Qui-Gon's Padawan the way he did in canon, he and Bruck go to Bandomeer and then get wrapped up in an epic story about Obi-Wan slowly changing the galaxy's course.

walk by faith/tell no one what you've seen by Killbothtwins, which is time travel with Obi-Wan after the end of the galactic civil war (the one against the Empire) going back to his 12 year old self and diverting the timeline, with a really great voice for Obi-Wan's character in this fic.

The Uses of a Sandwich by Laura Kaye (laurakaye) is a fun young Padawan Obi-Wan fic where he meets Qui-Gon's first apprentice and has a great sense of comedy.

Uncle Ben and Little Luke by phoenixyfriend which is de-aged!Luke and suddenly alive again!Obi-Wan and is just so much fun for a dynamic that doesn't get enough fic. (NEVER ENOUGH.)

Well Met by avocadomoon is one if you don't mind Obi-Wan/Padme fic, where they develop a friendship and later in life just slowly fall into a relationship, where it's about discussions and politics and philosophy and worldbuilding, it's such a subtle dynamic between them in a way that felt so natural to me. I also enjoyed the author's other fic Anamorphosis just as much, too.

[foodtruckery]

I've been having crazy Stancest brain rot thinking about an AU where they don't have the portal incident and instead have crazy marathon hate sex instead (Inspired by some amazing art by @CoreArde on Twitter) and I thought it'd be fun to share that with you.

They start off arguing in the lab and then oops they're fucking on the lab floor, and they really should be thinking this through but nope now they're upstairs fucking on the kitchen table and okay maybe now they'll finally talk about it nah, they're fucking in Ford's bed now.

It starts off as rough hate sex getting out years of frustration, but by the time they make it to the kitchen its become insanely desperate and cloying because they missed each other, and their bodies fit so well together, and GOD how could they have not been doing this all time? They're going at it so long that they basically end up passed out in Ford's bed by the end, and Stan's not going to be sitting down for a while after this. He's probably just happy to be sleeping in a bed, but Ford is trying to figure out how he got so far from the initial plan.

Even better if the two of them have been harboring feelings for years and never acted on it, because they get the one-two punch of all the weight of their time apart and processing the fact that OH GOD I JUST FUCKED MY BROTHER (which of course they both wanted to do but still).

I have no idea what would happen after that, but both of them waking up sore, sweat soaked, sticky with cum (some still inside Stan because of course Ford didn't use a condom this wasn't supposed to happen) after having gone at each other like rabbits in heat despite never having expressed their attraction to each other before is a hilarious and hot idea to me. What do you think?

HI THERE ANON. i am so fucking sorry that i left you waiting for so long about this, but i need you to know it's because i was FUCKING OBSESSED with this. like just absolutely beside myself over it, and i refused to respond until i had a chance to sit down and respond PROPERLY.

cause uh YEAH FRIEND i know the exact fucking piece of art (explicit) you're talking about, because it's INCREDIBLE. and in case you didn't know, the artist is over here too and shares some fucking fantastic writing and headcanons also! (seriously, go check out @/cartoonsinthemorning if you haven't. and cart, i hope you don't mind that anon and i both kinda lost our minds about your art over here! i genuinely have no idea what tag etiquette is on this site and didn't wanna bombard you, but you did this. again.)

i'll be honest, anon, this kinda got away from me (fucking shocker) and i am too tired to do any legit editing of it right now, so please forgive any typos or weirdness! i'll try and clean it up before it eventually goes up on ao3. but thank you for such a LOVELY ask because this was so hot, and so inspiring, and i hope i did a little justice to your idea and cart's gorgeous art!

--- Ford isn't entirely sure how it had started. His memory, his perception of time, his ability to follow a linear order of events -- all if it is less than reliable at the moment, so he can't entirely blame himself for losing track of things here and there. But the jump between trying to wrestle his journal out of Stan's hands to trying to wrestle Stan out of his dingey jeans is a jarring transition to lose in the dull static that's been edging around his awareness for weeks now. 

Not jarring enough to stop him, though. 

He thinks, vaguely, while he's blindly tugging at Stan's denim, that there's a concerningly high likelihood that he's hallucinating. His head is swimming in so much caffeine and adrenaline that he doesn't even feel the rough concrete of the lab floor under his knees -- maybe that isn't where he is? Maybe he'd nodded off without realizing. Maybe he's going to come to with another lapful of polaroids and a new humiliating tattoo. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe -- he can reckon with a probability model later. For the first time in what feels like months, the stability of his perceived reality is not actually at the forefront of Ford's mind.

Pressing in on him harder than the doubt, harder than the disassociation from his physical body, and harder than the threat of the creature lingering in the depths of his subconscious is anger. It feels like a beacon in the muddled, fuzzy mess inside his head, something bright and real and his. It's searing through him, slicing away all the frayed edges of his paranoia and doubt like a hot blade through so much butter. 

Ford clings to the sharp edges of that anger and feels more alert than he has in weeks. 

He can't remember how their bickering had taken this particular turn, but if he's liable to lose his eyes and his life in the next few days, Ford will be fucking damned if he squanders the opportunity. He knows he's made a mess of things, that he's made the sorts of mistakes that can't and frankly shouldn't be forgiven. 

But he also knows with blinding, white hot certainty that he's only here, now, because of Stan's mistakes.

Ford may not deserve absolution, but he does deserves this. 

Laughter cuts through the lab, rough and mocking, and Ford's attention finally falls, properly, on Stan. He has a bruise blooming on his cheek and a snide smirk twisting his lips. He's also on his back, his jeans and a threadbare pair of boxers bunched in Ford's fists and pulled so low he can see the tight curls of his pubic hair and the root of his cock. 

"What's wrong, Poindexter?" Stan asks, mocking, and it's only then that Ford realizes he's paused halfway through stripping his twin's lower half. The bite of the cold concrete under his knees still feels far away, but the rough material in his palms, and the heat of Stan's body so close to him are sharp, clear details. "No hands on experience with a dick that ain't your own? Afraid you might actually be bad at somethin' for once?" 

Ford narrows his eyes, feeling the hot point of anger cutting through him, steadying him, and he jerks Stan's clothes hard enough that he gets the material past his knees in one tug. Stan laughs at him again, but it stutters into a little 'oof!' when Ford flips him onto his stomach. 

He doesn't care that Stan's pants are still caught around his calves and his boots. He doesn't care that Stan hisses something that sounds like pain when he's yanked onto his knees and dragged backwards several inches across the concrete. He doesn't even care that, once upon a time, he'd dreamed of this, of crossing this line with the only person he'd ever really loved in any way that mattered, and it's nothing like the softer, sweeter picture he used to imagine. 

Stan's hips are soft, and the skin gives easily under the iron grip Ford has on them, holding him in place as he grinds against his ass. Even through his slacks, the heat of Stan's body is intense, addictive, and he grinds forward again, harder, watching the friction rub a pink  patch against his skin. 

Stan, shameless and selfish as always, pushes eagerly back against him. Ford has barely done anything beyond rocking the outline of his cock against his hole, but he can hear Stan panting against the ground, can see his hands curling into fists. He remembers how many times Stan had called Carla McCorkle "easy" in high school and thinks, now, that the easy one had been his brother. 

"You gonna keep humpin' me, or are you gonna fuck me?" Stan demands, rocking as firmly back as he can with the bruising grip Ford has on him. 

"What makes you think you deserve that?" Ford bites out. It would serve Stan right, he thinks, if he got himself off exactly like this, no different than grinding against a particularly firm couch pillow. Just a conveniently warm object for Ford to release some tension with. 

Stan looks back over his shoulder and flashes teeth at him. It isn't a smile. "Oh, I get it. Cold feet? Well, we can just chalk it up to one more thing ya promised and then backed out of as soon as you actually had to make a choice. Good to know some things never change, Stanford."

He's being goaded, and Ford knows that. But the anger boils in his chest, and he thinks, why should he care about what Stan does or doesn't deserve from him? This is about what Ford deserves.

And what Ford deserves is to have his dick so far up Stan's ass he'll be able to feel it in the back of his throat. 

"Do you ever shut up?" he snaps while he releases one of Stan's hips to yank his slacks open. The bruise of his fingerprints already forming against Stan's skin thrills him, almost to distraction, if it weren't for Stan laughing again. 

"'Course not," he says, shifting his center of balance to dig into the pocket of his dirty red coat. The little packet he tosses over his shoulder bounces off his own ass to land by Ford's knee, the word LUBE printed in large, bold letters across the front. He should be surprised to see it, and part of him is. The word "easy" comes to mind again. 

Ford rips the packet open with his teeth. 

"F-Fuck!" Stan curses, turning his forehead against the ground when Ford presses his slick cock into him a moment later without warning. 

Ford grabs him roughly by the waist when he twitches forward and yanks Stan back until his ass hits the open fly of his slacks. He makes a choked sound at that and turns his face into the crook of his own arm when Ford pulls back and rocks hard back into him. 

"What's wrong, Stanley?" he parrots. He pistons his hips at a punishing pace, watching his cock pumping in and out of the greedy, grasping ring of Stan's hole. "Nothing to say?" 

Stan makes a noise that's too muffled by the sleeve of his coat to understand, so Ford reaches down to take a fistful of his stupid mullet instead. The hitching gasp that escapes his twin when his head is forcefully jerked up makes him groan. "What was that? Come on, Stanley, use your words." 

"F-Fuck off," Stan says, his voice strained, almost whining. 

"I see you haven't gotten anymore eloquent since you left," Ford scoffs around the breathlessness in his own voice, feeling the anger and pleasure coiling harder in his gut. "What was it you said? Good to know some things never change." 

When he pulls Stan's hair again, just because he can, Stan moans. And when he shifts his hips, driving in just as hard at the new angle, Stan shouts. With his own knees bracketed on either side of his, Ford can feel the way his thighs tremble when he clenches around his cock, and he can feel the sweat beading up under his palm where he's digging darker bruises into Stan's side. 

Ford feels like he's on the edge of delirium again, consumed by every sound Stan makes, every twitch of his hips, every ounce of his heat. He thinks, a bit wildly, that Stan may have been made for this, made to take his cock, for how well he does. 

It isn't until Stan jerks under him, going hot and tight around his cock and making a strangled noise in the back of his throat, that Ford realizes he may have said part of that out loud. That Stan came over it. 

He groans low in his throat and thrusts half a dozen more times into Stan's clenching hole before he comes as well. 

It's quiet for a few minutes other than their ragged panting, but it's Stan who eventually reaches back and swats at Ford's hand until he lets go of his hair. He takes the hint and pulls out, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as his come trickles down Stan's thighs. It strikes him suddenly that he wants to follow the wet trail back up with his tongue. It's enough to make his cock give a feeble, appreciative twitch. 

He isn't sure if he's just terribly distracted or if he loses time again, because when Ford next lifts his head, Stan is on his feet, pants pulled up around his waist but still open, and he has his journal in hand. This might be more jarring than the last transition he'd lost. 

"What are you doing?" he demands, shoving himself back onto his own feet. He doesn't bother to tuck his cock back in, and he spots the moment Stan's eyes flick down. It's brief, but he'd seen it. 

"What does it fucking look like I'm doing? I'm taking your stupid diary and disappearing like you begged me to," Stan says. His voice is still a little raw, and Ford has a moment to realize how much he likes that, before the words catch up. 

He scoffs. "Oh! So now you want to actually help?! Is it always this easy to fuck the sense into you?" 

Stan's expression does a few things Ford doesn't understand before his brows ultimately slam down and he turns his back, storming towards the door with Ford's journal still in hand, and Ford himself hot on his heels. "You're fucking unbelievable, Stanford, you know that?!" 

"Me?! You're the one who came all over my lab floor and then decided he was ready to be reasonable!" 

Stan jams his thumb against the call button for the elevator several times in quick succession, despite the car already being on their floor and the gate sliding open. "Most people would just say thank you when someone agreed to help them out, but not you! What does Stanford Pines have to be grateful for? We're all just fucking lucky to get a task from ya, huh?" 

Ford crowds into the elevator with him before Stan can try to pull the gate or call the doors shut behind him. He punches the button to take them up himself, before making a grab for the journal, snarling when Stan leans back and holds it up above his head. 

"You're the one who threatened to destroy my work twenty minutes ago, Stanley! Why would I trust you with it now? Hell, I can't figure out why I trusted you enough to bring you here in the first place!" 

"Oh really? You can't?" Stan sneers, leaning in close. And when Ford takes a step back, Stan follows, backing him into a corner of the car. "I don't think you fuckin' trusted me to do shit, Stanford. I think you were all outta options cause nobody else could stand to put up with you anymore." 

Stan doesn't so much as hit a nerve as he takes a sledgehammer to it, and as soon as the elevator dings, Ford shoves him as hard as he can out into the study. Stan yelps when he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and it's only knocking into a cluttered desk that keeps him from falling on his ass. 

Ford doesn't give him any time to right himself, storming in after him and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. Stan flinches, like he'ex expecting a punch, but Ford yanks him in and crushes his mouth against his instead. 

There's a dull thump that Ford only realizes was the journal being dropped when he feels both of Stan's hands on his shoulders. They curl briefly, grasping at him, and Ford feels his mouth starting to go soft and slack. But as soon as he presses in, runs his tongue along that loosening seam, he's suddenly being shoved backwards. 

If he weren't so damn confused, Ford would probably appreciate the picture Stan makes, lips slick and pants open, leaning back against one of Ford's desks. 

"What are you doing?!" Stan demands, like he's the one who doesn't know what day it is, and keeps losing track of events. 

"I would think even you could figure that out after what happened downstairs, Stanley."

Stan flushes, visible even in the low light of the study, though Ford isn't sure if it's embarrassment or anger. The scowl on his face doesn't help clear things up, either, though the fact that he isn't actually looking at Ford is...telling.  

"That ain't happening again," Stan states, and there isn't anything convincing about the way he says it at all. But when Ford steps forward, Stan sidesteps him and the desk. He makes a wrong turn in the dark, in a house he isn't familiar with, and flinches when Ford flips on the light in the kitchen he's walked into.

"I don't know how you expect to leave and hide my journal after leaving it in the study," he points out, frowning at the back of Stan's head. 

He isn't surprised when Stan whirls on him. He is, however, stunned still when he realizes Stan's eyes are wet. 

"What the fuck do you want from me, Stanford?!" Stan shouts, his voice cracking over his name, and it makes something feel like it's cracking inside his chest. 

Ford has to wet his lips when he finds them and his throat dry. "...I told you what I wanted," he says.

"Yeah, you did! And when I finally agreed to do it, you threw a fucking fit about it! And now you're pissy because I'm not?! What do you want?" 

The anger sparks sharply inside him again, and Ford grasps at it like a lifeline, willing to bloody his hands for that bite of stability. 

"You tried to burn it! My life's work! And you only decided you would help me after we--"

Stan cuts him off, looking towards the cabinets while he raises his voice and waves his hands. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry about the fucking lighter, all right?!"

Ford frowns. He takes a step forward and, still without looking at him, Stan takes a step back. It's the elevator all over again, but this time Ford is pressing in, backing Stan into the cabinets. He grabs the counter on either side of his hips when he tries to side step him again. 

"Stanley, look at me," he demands, frowning harder when Stan sets his jaw and stars determinedly at his shoulder. "Stanley--"

"What do you want, Ford? Just...just fucking tell me and I'll leave, all right?" Stan says, his voice tired and soft as he reaches up to rub a hand over his own face.

He wants a lot, honestly. And hasn't that always been the problem? He's always wanted -- to be normal, to be respected, to be the best, to be special. 

To be wanted. 

To be enough.

To fix things. 

"You," he realizes, watching Stan jerk his head up. His lashes are still wet, and Ford can't stop himself from reaching up and pressing his palm to Stan's cheek, skimming his thumb gently under one of his eyes. 

When he leans in to kiss him again, Stan makes a small, wounded little noise under his mouth, but he parts his lips for Ford's tongue this time. Stan's lips are chapped and he tastes vaguely of stale cigarettes, but Ford is still struck by how soft and sweet he is. 

More than anything else that had happened that evening, this is the moment that Ford knows he should suspect most of all. The way Stan relaxes between him and the counter, the almost tentative way he lifts his tongue to meet his, the careful fingertips touching the edge of Ford's coat and brushing against his loose tie. It's tender in a way Ford didn't think either of them were capable of, and it should be setting off warning bells and red flags in every part of his mind. 

It isn't. 

Ford is more certain of  the reality of this single moment, the gentle slip of Stan's lips against his own, than he's been of anything in a long time. 

And then Stan sighs between them and murmurs, warm and hopeful, "Ford," against his lips, and he's done for. 

It doesn't matter that they just fucked, that Ford's come is probably still drying between Stan's thighs -- he can't keep his hands off of him. Ford is suddenly frantic and desperate in a way that he hadn't been downstairs. He needs to relearn the new, wider shape of Stan's shoulders and pecs. He needs to feel out every new scar and take stock of all the old ones he remembers Stan collecting for him as kids. He needs to be surrounded by him again, soaking in the warmth of him. 

Ford doesn't deserve absolution, but he thinks he may be able to find something close to it in the low, shaky way Stan moans his name. 

And there's familiarity in the way Stan grabs at him in turn, tugging at his jacket and tie and surging into another, harder kiss. Ford thinks he may not be the only one looking for expiation. 

Then Stan drops to his knees between him and the cabinet, and Ford stops thinking so much. His cock is still out, and Stan wastes no time in getting his fist around the shaft and his lips around the head. He suckles and swirls his tongue, and Ford shoves the beanie off of his head to get his hands in his hair. 

"Stanley," he gasps, stroking his fingers along his scalp and fisting the strands between them. 

Stan moans around him and shuffles closer, sliding the seal of his lips further down the length of Ford's cock. All he can do is groan and try to keep from rocking his hips as more of him is greeted by the warmth of his mouth and the wickedness of his tongue. 

He keeps waiting for Stan to reach his limit, to back off and give himself room to breathe. He doesn't. He keeps leaning in, keeps taking him, and then Ford feels his cockhead slip into Stan's throat, sees his lashes are wet again, and he has to put one hand on the counter to keep himself steady. "Fuck, Stanley, you're so good at this."

Stan makes a horribly sweet sound around the girth of Ford's cock and reaches up to hold his hips as he swallows, and Ford is suddenly afraid he's going to embarass himself.  His hips twitch despite his best efforts to keep them still, but Stan simply relaxes his jaw and his throat and tugs a little to encourage him to do it again. He does, of course, how could he not? 

Despite the heat clawing its way through him and the pleasure mounting dangerously high, Ford almost feels outside of himself again. The picture Stan makes, with his eyes damp and heavy lidded, his lips wet and stretched around Ford's cock, his hair fisted in Ford's fingers and his own clinging to Ford's hips -- it's lewd, debauched, and so horribly sweet that it makes Ford's chest hurt. 

Stan gasps raggedly when Ford pulls him off. "I was go-gonna...I mean you can--"

Ford kneels down to kiss him, tasting stale cigarettes and himself, cock throbbing over the rough state of Stan's voice. "Not done yet," he manages, before tugging Stan onto his feet. 

They lose clothes and time on the journey upstairs, tripping over the steps and Ford's discarded pants, and stumbling into his wreck of a room. If Stan notices the state of things, he doesn't comment, mouth latched onto Ford's shoulder and hands all over his back and hips. 

The back of Ford's legs hit the bed and he sits hard on the mattress. Stan doesn't hesitate to crawl up into his lap. He'd lost his boots in the kitchen and his jeans and boxers somewhere on the way to the stairs, giving him ample opportunity to rub his bare cock against Ford's. 

Cursing, Ford rolls his hips and only belatedly remembers to reach up and tug the hideous red coat off of Stan's shoulders. 

"Oh, fuck, hold on. I think I have another one," Stan says, panting softly as he digs into the pockets of his coat. Ford takes the opportunity to run his hands across Stan's thighs and ass, squeezing whatever skin he can until Stan makes a triumphant sound and pulls another little packet of lube free. 

Only then does he let Ford toss his jacket aside and tug him further up the bed with him. He doesn't protest when Ford takes the packet from him, lowering his head to work open mouth kisses up Ford's throat instead, and he rolls his hips distractingly while Ford fights to get the damnable thing open. He ignores the snickering against his skin in the process. 

It stops anyway, hitching into something warm and startled when Ford sinks two slick fingers into him. 

"Oh, fuck," Stan breaths, reaching up to grab Ford by the shoulder, holding himself steady. "Y-You know you don't have to do that, right? Pretty loosened up already."

He is, to be fair. His hole is still soft and loose and fucked open. But Ford enjoys petting his fingers against the tender muscle and stroking them inside anyway. He likes watching Stan bite his lip and push himself back onto his hand. When he slides a third in after the first two, Stan's thighs tremble on either side of his own, and he makes a low, throaty sound. 

When Ford curls his fingers just right, Stan yells and grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt, and it makes warm satisfaction curl in his middle. So he does it a few more times, alternating between spreading his fingers and rubbing the tips against Stan's prostate until he's squirming in his lap. 

"I-I'm gonna come if you don't knock that sh-shit off," he gasps, slumping a bit when Ford chuckles and slides his fingers out. 

"I think I'd like that," Ford says, squeezing his slick fingers against Stan's thigh. 

He snorts and straightens back up, finding the discarded lube packet to squirt the remainder onto Ford's cock. "Yeah, I bet you fucking would," Stan agrees, but there's no malice in his voice, just warm amusement. 

His fist is warm and wonderful when it curls around Ford's cock, spreading lube, and then Ford is being held steady, Stan adjusts himself on his scuffed knees, and there's nothing else to do but hold on as Stan lowers himself into his lap. 

It feels as good as it had earlier to be inside of him, and Ford squeezes the thigh under his hand tightly, fighting against the need to buck his hips. Stan is panting softly, his head tilted back and a pretty, pink color is crawling up from under his t-shirt to flood his neck and face. 

Ford groans and leans forward, finding a nipple through his thin shirt to get his teeth and tongue against.

"F-Ford!" Stan gasps, fumbling the hand not clawing at his shoulder up into his hair, and Ford sucks hard on the firm nub,  rubbing spit-soaked cotton against it with his tongue until Stan rocks in his lap. 

Fuck, he likes that, the way his name sounds in Stan's voice, especially warm and rough after fucking his throat earlier. 

He squeezes Stan's thigh and his hip, giving him a little tug, and that's all the encouragement Stan needs before he's bouncing on his cock. Ford has that thought again -- that Stan was meant to be filled by him, that they're a perfectly matched set. But it isn't just feeling good and hot while Stan fucks himself in his lap. It's feeling like he's been missing something and he finally has it, like he's finally complete again. 

He's missed this, Ford realizes. 

Not the fucking his brother part. He'd fantasized about that for years but it still feels like a dream that it's happening, like something that's too good to be true. 

But being able to put his arms around him? To be this close to him again? 

Ford rocks his hips up, hard, and Stan says his name. He wraps his fingers around Stan's cock, and he gasps his name. He bites the same swollen, pink nipple through his shirt, and Stan shouts his name. 

He snaps his hips up to meet him a few more times and rubs the sensitive glans under the head of Stan's cock, and then there are teeth digging into his other shoulder and his fist and stomach are being striped in Stan's come while he shudders and jerks overtop of him. 

Stan goes easily when Ford rolls them over and pins one of his wrists to the bed. And despite the way he squirms and how his spent cock twitches and leaks, blatantly overstimulated, he hooks his ankles behind Ford's back and urges him on. 

"C-C'mon, give it to me. Fuck, just like that, Sixer!" 

The nickname hits him with all the subtlety of a truck and all the heat of a volcanic eruption. 

He doesn't even remember coming so much as he remembers every synapses in his brain trying to fire at once. Coming back down to reality is a little clearer, with his head spinning and pulse racing as he flops onto his back, but it still takes several long minutes before he feels fully cognizant again. 

Something makes the bed shift, and he looks over to see that Stan has rolled onto his stomach. Ford wonders if he looks half as fucked out as Stan does, with bruises blossoming across his body, his shirt rucked halfway up his stomach, and come staining his ass and thighs. Ford realizes Stan still has his socks on, and he can't figure out why that makes something twinge, hot but exhausted and halfhearted, in his gut. 

"Gonna...gonna get up in a minute," Stan says, his voice slurring and his eyes already closed. Ford watches him rub his cheek against one of Ford's pillows, and the soft sound of snoring follows soon after. 

The reality of the situation starts to settle in shortly after that, and Ford stares wide eyed up at the ceiling as if he'll find some sort of answers there. Unsurprisingly, there are no secrets etched overhead for how to reckon with the fact that he had just fucked his brother, twice, while the fate of the world was still very much hanging in the balance between his fraying sanity and Bill's looming threat. 

".....Fuck," Ford murmurs.

When the adrenaline finishes seeping out of his system, Ford expects to crash. The exhaustion certainly climbs back into his bones, but he's surprised to find himself still clear headed. Focused. 

The sound of Stan sleeping soundly beside him is as soothing as it is mocking, but he doesn't want to separate himself from it even though he knows he needs to get up. There's soft, gray light starting to creep in through the windows, and distant birdsong calling for the start of the day. He needs to readjust, to come up with a new plan, find some way to explain to Stan what's going on so they can buy themselves a little more time. 

Against all odds and his better judgment, there's a tiny, optimistic voice in the back of his head reminding him that there's strength in numbers. He isn't surprised that it sounds like Stan.

[planetpedri]

Heart-shaped locket — Pablo Gavi.

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Fem!Reader

Summary: While packing up your dorm to return back to Spain, you find a necklace you’d nearly forgotten about. Nearly.

Word count: 750+

Disclaimer/s: light angst , reader is full is nostalgia! ends in fluff ^_^ Mentions of grief / loss of family member.

A/N: I may! Do part two, comment if you’d like that & if you would want to be tagged in it <3

Your past three years in America had been amazing. Everything about it was perfect and full of everything you’d wanted in Spain. You’d loved and lost, but through it all you experienced the best parts of life. There was always a gaping hole in your heart where the memories of old friends and old lovers, one in specific.

Pablo Gavi had been your whole life when you were a teenager. He was your first love, first everything, in fact. You’d broken his heart the day you told him you were going to Yale.

Now, with the passing of your grandma, who was a staple in your life and raised you when your parents were busy with work, you felt it only right to take a year off to return home.

Reaching for a box that was tucked in the deepest corner of your closet, you feel a tug in your heart. Memories flashed through your mind, memories that made you feel sick and nostalgic for many things.

Opening it delicately, you feel a smile grace your lips as you flip through a black picture book. Your eyes catch a glint in the corner of the box and you set the book aside to reach for the object.

Filling your hands is a heart-shaped locket, inside it, a picture of you, Pablo, and a few other friends - whom you hadn’t heard from in years. Clutching the locket in a tight fist, you close your eyes. You wished so deeply you could go back in time to relive that moment again.

The picture was taken when Pablo had found out he was going to make his debut for Barcelona. He’d pleaded for you and his two other friends to fly to Barcelona so he could tell you big news and the second you arrived at his house, he’d pulled you into a tight hug, planting kisses all around your face and eventually your lips.

You’d laughed, a blush spreading across your cheeks as you tried to ignore the looks of his family and friend’s faces at his sudden display of affection.

“What was that for?” You giggled when he set you back on the ground.

Pablo wrapped his hand in yours and motioned for everyone to gather around. He told them the news, a wide smile on his face all the while, but his gaze directed mostly in your direction.

After celebrating, he forced you and the other two friends onto the patio where there was a beautiful view over Barcelona, to take the picture that you kept inside the locket.

Opening your eyes, you unclasp the lock, letting out an exhale as you re-clasp it around your neck. Letting your hand slide down your neck and holding onto the locket. You should reach out to him before you show up in the country with no warning. His mother would surely see you pulling up to the house only a few doors down.

Setting the box aside, you walk back to your bed, taking your phone off the charger and plopping down on your bed. You find his contact, hovering above the message button.

Taking a deep breath, your fingers rapidly fly over the keyboard.

Hey, long time no talk?

You sounded so, so stupid. Immediately you regretted it, but within a few minutes you see the text bubbled appearing and disappearing, until finally, you get a response.

Yeah. Did you need something? Are you okay? My mom told me about your grandma, i’ve been meaning to send my condolences.

You weren’t sure if you should smile or not, but you do anyways. He was sweet, even when you didn’t deserve it.

Thank you, i’ve been coping. I’m coming back to Spain though, thought I should give you a heads up before you find out through other people.

People being my mom?😂 I’d like to see you, if you wouldn’t mind stopping in Barcelona, that is.

You chuckled. You missed this, you missed him. And to know he even wanted to see you, filled you with warmth. You tighten your grip on the locket before replying;

I’m flying into the airport there, so if you could pick me up.. then yes, i’d love to see you.

And that was that! You finished packing your dorm and gathered your belongings. You leave for the airport tomorrow, and although it took the tragedy of loss to bring the two of you back together, you couldn’t help but be thrilled to see your first love once again.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future gavi posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @ar4ujos @sakashq @hrts4havertz @joaoflms @spidybaby @gadriezmannsgirl @unx100to @jajajhaahaha

[vezpr]

corporal: ch 2 - expectations

SUKUNAxF!READER ☽☾ HEIAN ERA AU ☽☾ ONGOING SERIES ☽☾ AO3

☽☾ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: CH1: PUNISHMENT ▪︎ CH2: EXPECTATIONS

☽☾ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You are such a menace that your father decides to offer your eternal servitude as a gift to the King of Curses.

Sukuna has not accepted such a tribute in years, more often opting to eat the young girls rather than put them to work, which is perfectly acceptable as far as your asshole dad is concerned.

Will the demon make an exception for you?

☽☾ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 18+MINORS DNI, blood and gore, violence, abuse, true form sukuna, eventual smut (still not yet), references to cannibalism, angst, I suck at tags

☽☾ 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sodapop182 ; @moonchhu

☽☾ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: CH: 3.5k TOTAL: 7.7k

If you would like to be added to the taglist, please comment something to that effect. But please put an age in your bio so i don't have to block you. lmk if I'm doing this right, I'm an absolute virgin and open to suggestions. Thanks for reading. 🖤

Tearing through the woods outside of the shrine, you don't think about your sister, this time. You don't think of your father or his men, your mother, nothing. No memories, pleasant or unpleasant, swim up through the ink of night as the trees claw at your clothes and skin. Your mind is eclipsed with a fear as hot and red as the fire in your lungs.

You have not known fear like this for a long time, perhaps ever. All the running that you did from your father and his men was done more out of spite than fear. You had certain expectations of them. You were familiar with their cruelty and the limitations placed on it by society, or by your mother, perhaps. You father was not a kind man, by any means, but his eyes softened somewhat when they looked at her. The only power that you had was that of being able to put them through their paces. Here, you did not even have that. The comfort of expectations does not exist for the monster at your back, no more than the limitations of ordinary men. 

So, you run, spurred by terror long after your rapidly depleting stamina should have forced you to stop. It feels like hours have passed when you finally come to a halt, hands on your knees, panting, muscles burning. Hyperaware of every sound, every sensation, even the trickle of sweat down the line of your back is enough to raise your hackles, but there is nothing but the ragged sound of your own breathing in the stillness.

As you try to slow your respirations, you ask yourself what it is you're so afraid of. Pain? You are overly familiar with pain. Your heart gradually slows as you come to the conclusion that Sukuna can only hurt you or kill you, just like any other man. Pain you can endure. And death? Well, if you are dead, then you won't be bothered, will you? You'll just be dead. What would wound you more is humiliation. Your mouth presses into a grim line as you ponder it.

Did the bastard confiscate your things and let you go, trusting that you would meet your own end in the forest without his help? Not the worst plan, you decide, as it occurs to you, for the first time, that you really have no place to go, no plan beyond running. Beyond escape. You've never had to plan beyond that because you've always been outnumbered, overpowered and dragged back.

Does he think you will return on your own? You scoff into the darkness at the thought. I'd sooner hang myself from one of these trees, you think to yourself as you look up at the branches, silver in the Autumn starlight. Still. Quiet. Unnaturally so, as if the earth itself is holding it's breath. Hiding. 

Even before you hear it, you feel it, looming large and lethal at your back. Larger than Sukuna, even. Much larger. It shifts it's enormous weight, rustling the leaf litter. As you peer over your shoulder, your eyes widen and your heart hammers against your ribs like you never stopped running. A reptilian chittering sound blooms out of the dark: a bony whisper, a rattlesnake kind of warning. The moon outlines it's dark shape in indigo, a moving mountain that tears trees right out of the earth as it moves after you. How you didn't see or hear it before is a mystery. 

Your feet slam against the shuddering ground with the slowness of nightmares as a scream claws it's way out of your throat. You don't make it very far before a root hooks your foot and sends you sprawling. A sickening snap followed by bright sparks of pain shoot up from your wrist as you catch your fall with your hand. When you look down to see splinters of bone jutting out of a ragged wound, a hysterical sob escapes your mouth. You clutch your injured limb against your chest as your heels churn at the dirt, propelling you backwards, too slow as the monster stops short in front of you. 

It is too awful to look at, a twisted amalgamation of drooling faces and colorless eyes shining with idiot hunger as it prepares to stuff you into its many jagged mouths. You dig your chin into your shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut and baring your teeth as you feel it's hot, putrid breath against your skin. Thick, black saliva drips into the dirt between your feet and burns it like acid, white tendrils of smoke rising from the bubbling pool.

The chittering sound rises again, like a demonic chorus of cicadas. Distantly, you realize the effect is created by all of those throats babbling at once. You find yourself too breathless to scream as it's clumsy teeth try to find purchase in the flesh of your calf, only succeeding in lightly scratching and slobbering all over it. Perhaps in frustration, its crying slowly rises in pitch, high and keening.

Then, there is another, quieter sound, that cuts the wailing short. It is soft like a whip cutting through the air before it cracks, like the hiss of lightning parting the sky before the thunder of it crashing back together. Crashing like the quivering weight that descends upon your lower body as the monster inexplicably falls to pieces at your feet. You blink owlishly at the dismantled pile of flesh, hardly daring to believe that it is truly dead, even as its quivering breaths grow still.

Your legs throb under the lifeless weight of it. It is impossible to drag yourself out from under it with your one good arm, so you resort to wiggling on your back in the dirt, removing yourself inch by excruciating inch. You haven't yet had the time, nor the prescence of mind to worry about what lurking horror might have so effortlessly ended the dead thing that pins you to the dirt. That mystery is soon solved for you when a familiar voice comes out of the dark behind you.

"Tch. Pathetic."

You cease your struggles and crane your neck back, pressing the back of your head into the dirt to meet Sukuna's garnet gaze. He leans against a tree, as if he can't be bothered to hold himself up, looking only vaguely interested in the scene before him. 

"Me, pathetic?" You spit, redoubling your efforts to writhe out from under the dead thing. "Was I not easy enough to kill? You had to sic your pet on me?" The thought had only now occurred to you, that Sukuna had unleashed this thing on you, but the notion already has your blood boiling with rage.

Sukuna snorts, "Not mine." His eyes leave you in favor of examining the corpse. "Hm. A grade two, this one," he mutters.

Your eyes follow his and you notice a jagged, black fang, about the length of your outstretched hand, lying in the dirt by your hip.  Glancing back to ensure his eyes are still focused on the monster, you stretch out your good arm and wrap your fingers around it. The edges bite into your fingers, but you clutch it like a lifeline, headless of the pain. 

"Well, do you intend to finish the job, or are you just going to stand there, blabbering nonsense?" You sneer, craning your neck to look up at him. 

His eyes snap back to yours and he smirks, lazily peeling himself away from the tree and stepping towards you. "So eager to die, arent you?"

He lifts the bulk of dead flesh away from you with one hand as he hooks another into the pit of your injured arm and drags you to your feet.

Gritting your teeth, you swing your good arm, arcing your makeshift weapon to catch him in the back, but he snatches your wrist away with yet another arm. Now, you are leaning awkwardly against his chest as he supports most of your weight. You legs are not as useful as you might have hoped. They burn painfully and buckle at the knees as the blood rushes back to your cramping muscles. 

He eyes the monster's tooth in your hand with mild interest. "You want to hurt me with that?" He asks with a mean grin. "Go ahead."

With that he lets go of you and takes a step back.  You cry out in frustration as your traitorous legs buckle underneath you and you land on your knees at his feet. He throws his head back and laughs as you snarl up at him and swing your makeshift weapon at his legs, which dodge your clumsy blows effortlessly. 

"For weeks you lived in peace with me and now all these theatrics, for what reason?" He muses as he steps this way and that to avoid your rageful attacks. It doesn't take long for him to grow bored of this game, and you are taken aback when he sinks to his knees in front of you. Even so, he towers over you so that you have to hyperextend your neck to see his face. His lower set of hands snatch you up around the waist while the upper pain pin your arms to your sides. You grunt at the pain in your broken wrist, but he takes no notice.

"I asked you a question," he snarls, holding you at eye level. 

He huffs when you only writhe in his grip and scream in his face until your throat is raw and you are too breathless to continue.

"Fucking feral little rat," he mutters. "Is it because I touched your leg?" He asks, eyes dragging the length of your body. 

You scoff. Of course it wasn't just that it's...

"Are you throwing a tantrum because I didn't ask permission? Hm? And what was the plan? Where will you go?" He cuts off your thoughts by echoing your own thinking from earlier. It has you subconsciously biting into your cheek hard enough to draw blood. Infuriating.

He smirks. "Just a spoiled little princess playing at running away. Well. Time to grow up, little girl, and realize that you will always belong to a man. Before, you belonged to your bitch of a father, and now, you belong to me."

No longer able to hold in your rage you shreik and slam your head forward in an attempt to split his smirking lips. Of course, he leans away and you only succeed in tossing your hair, drawing another cackle from his mouth. 

"You want to hurt me? Try, brat," he bellows to be heard over your shreiking as he presses his forehead against yours hard enough to bruise. The moment he releases your good arm you sink the oversized canine into his temple and drag it down, flaying his cheek. A second swing and his larger, upper eye is reduced to a wobbling jelly running into the bleeding wound. Slick with gore, the tooth drops from your hand and Sukuna slams you down on your back with enough force to steal the air out of your lungs. 

Then he is folded over you, hand on your jaw tilting your gaze to his wounded face. "Look at me," he instructs and your stomach lurches as the flesh bubbles and warps. Then it is takes its old, unmarred shape, as new and smooth as ever. You stare at it, blinking as if that brief interruption of sight might return it to ruin, as it was seconds ago. As if to dispel your disbelief another of his hands grasp your broken wrist, lifting your hand so that your fingertips brush his new skin. At the same instant, your injured joint transforms the same way his wounds had until it is new and free of pain.

Speechless you stare at your hand on his cheek until you realize that he is no longer holding it there. He leans in until his lips are nearly brushing your ear. "I can touch you however I like, whenever I like," he says, slipping a hand from your waist to trace the angle of your hip bone and the curve of your outer thigh through your ruined kimono. "I can break you and mend you, break you and mend you and never, ever let you die." His hand slips from your jaw to your throat where he squeezes briefly before, suddenly, he hauls himself off of you.

"So, brat," he says, standing over you haloed in the pink light of dawn, "if you are ever so lucky as to have me touch you again, try not to overreact."

All you seem to be able to do is slide your eyes stupidly from your healed wrist to his unblemished face until all the breath decides to leave your lungs at once. The sky, blushing with dawn and tattooed with skeletal branches, fades to black.

...

Emika, grinning, face tilted toward the dappled sunlight, laughter bubbling out of her throat. It is a musical sound until it changes, distorts into a horrible chittering, vacous and reptilian. Her mouth opens, impossibly wide, a poisonous womb that delivers a wailing many-faced blackness that swallows the world. Closer, the newborn horror leans in until all you can see is a single wet, red maw screaming its hunger and eager to feed on you. It is made of hunger and fear. Its tongue lolls out and begins to twist and warp. It pales and changes shape, grows four garnet eyes, a tattooed jaw, a laughing mouth. Sukuna's face leaning close to yours. "Look at me," he says, surrounding you, a universe that leaves you no choice. He is still laughing when he tilts away, falling out of orbit as gravity pulls your back into the dirt. He is replaced by a robin's egg sky seen in patches through the green leaves of spring.

Emika's face glides into view, a smiling autumn moon in the Spring sky.

Her bamboo sword taps your neck.

"Dead," she says.

Dead like the warrior she once daydreamed of being, with a katana on her back and a pretty servant girl at her side.

"Dead." She smiles, haloed in sunlight.

Your eyes blink open. Even as the nightmare fades you realize it holds too many parallels to waking life for comfort. Finding yourself suspended above the ground in an unfamiliar position, your body jerks, your legs inadvertently tightening around Sukuna's waist. He is carrying you like a child on his hip, his lower arm hooked under your backside while his upper one supports your back. Your chin rests over his shoulder, your cheek pressed into his neck. Finding this abhorrent, you squirm weakly.

"I can walk now," you mutter, but you are so tired. Your eyelids, leaden. 

"Walking has caused you enough trouble, wouldn't you say?" He chuckles, a sound that is becoming increasingly annoying. 

In any case, the dead weight of your body against his is enough to refute your claim. 

Your eyes flutter closed, head lolling against his neck. He smells of smoke, blood and earth and he is warm against you. The effect is like a sleeping tincture.

"I want to know," you mutter against his skin as you struggle against your rapidly retreating consciousness. "I want to know what is expected of me."

You are too exhausted to think of your statement as an acquiesence, but that is what it is. Sukuna is taking you back to the shrine and you are accepting it. Perhaps that is why he laughs. Your eyes pop open at the hateful sound and you hope that he does not discern the increasing tempo of your heart with the way that your chest is pressed into him. Wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Expectations," he says. "You can't live without them, hm? How, then, would you rebel?"

You clench your teeth. He is unbearable. You hate him. God, you hate him. But you are just so tired right now.

"I have no expectations of you, rat." He continues after a pause, although he thinks to himself that you are really more of a mouse, at the moment, as you go limp again with sleep.

...

When you wake again, from a long sleep that is blessedly dreamless, there is nothing to greet you but silence and the shrinking light of early evening. You lie for a moment on the futon, staring at the dark grid of ceiling in your chambers.

Under the thinning haze of sleep that still clouds your mind, a flickering flame of rage persists. When you look down at yourself, filthy with mud, blood, and mystery secretions from whatever that thing in the forest was, it grows brighter. Cast off and forgotten like a broken doll. You flex your healed wrist. Why does it make you even angrier?

I have no expectations 

You tear off your kimono and toss it aside, fuming.

Rat.

You tear the linens, ruined by your dirtiness, off of your futon and thrust them away to join your clothing on the floor.

"Maybe I will go around naked, then," you fume, stomping towards the door, but you stop there, losing your nerve. "Bet you wouldn't expect that. Bet you would find that you have some expectations after all."

spoiled little princess

"Maybe I will go around like this is my home and you are an unwanted guest," you hiss into the silence.

time to grow up and realize you will always belong to a man

You retrieve your dirty kimono and shrug into it, gathering the fabric loosely around your chest with one hand while you rip something clean out of the wardrobe with the other. The shoji door slams against the doorframe as you storm out of the room not bothering to close it. 

now you belong to me

Uraume and Baba look up from their work, picking vegetables for dinner in the courtyard as you tear across it without sparing them a glance. You make quite a sight, blood-streaked and furious. 

"He'll be getting his kicks with that one for quite some time, I'll say... yes," Baba croaks as her milky eyes track your movements.

"Baba!" Uraume scolds.

"It's the truth," Baba crows. "It is!"

...

The steaming water of the hot spring soothes the aching muscles of your legs. This makes encroaching on his territory doubly satisfying, even if he, being a morning bather, in your limited experience - doesn't find out. You close your eyes and hold your breath, sinking to the bottom on your knees. Your fingers rake through the matted mess of your hair, breaking loose the dirt and dried blood. You stay under until your lungs burn and then burst to the surface with a sharp inhalation. 

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?"

You startle at the sound of Sukuna's voice booming over the soft gurgling of the water. He is standing at the opposite end of the spring, kimono pooled around his feet, hands frozen at his waist in the middle of loosening his hakama. 

"Whatever I want, since you have no expectations," you retort, having recovered quickly from your surprise.

He snorts. "Alright."

You glare at each other through the rising steam.

You are the first to avert your eyes when Sukuna resumes undressing, unceremoniously dropping his hakama. 

Your back is turned and you make a point of staying submerged to the shoulders as you make your way to the edge of the pool. You movements increase in urgency, heart thumping faster as you hear him splash into the water behind you. Unwilling to let him see your bare skin, you pull your clean kimono into the water and put it on while still submerged. 

When you drag yourself over the lip of the pool in your dripping robes, he is laughing. Your skin erupts in goose flesh that cannot be entirely attributed to your soaked clothes and the chill in the air. Although it pisses you off to no end, you try to at least appear unperturbed. Chin held high, you make it a point not to look at him as you march back toward the shrine, as if he is beneath your notice. You hope he feels it.

"Come here, rat." 

You pause, your back still turned to him.

"I said, come here." He repeats.

Vacillating between the desire to defy him and the desire to seem unafraid, you settle on the latter and make your way back to the water's edge. There is a deliberate slowness in your movements, to show that you are in no hurry to obey him.

Sitting on the lip of the pool, you let your calves dangle over the edge, lazily treading water. 

"What do you want?" you hiss, meeting his crimson gaze.

[heavenlyraindrops]

The Devil Made Me Do It | Arcane | Silco x Reader | Chapter One

also on AO3 and Quotev | visit the first tag to find other chapters | warnings: pre- s1 (for now), profanity, mentions of death and addiction

summary:

In the midst of an unfortunate run-in with the enforcers, you meet the young revolutionary Silco, and by extension, his friends Vander and Felicia. Growing close friends, you get through life in the undercity together, determined to make Zaun a better place. Until tragedy strikes, and betrayal and carelessness stabs hard enough to turn you bitter. Years later as time solidifies the scars, Silco proves to be a thorn in your side. You, in his. Hatred festers. And your world cracks further open.

Chapter One:

The undercity was certainly something.

Especially at night, when shadows extended their smoky tendrils to allow those dabbling in unsavoury business to lurk, gloomy buildings hiding things you’d be safer off not knowing within. People milling about, going about their private, dangerous business.

Water splashed across the street as your foot landed in a puddle, ankle twisting the wrong way as you tore through the filthy streets, enforcers hot on your heels. All this for heckling an officer? You clutched your shawl around you as the wind almost buffered it away.

It was ridiculous.

After bumping into a large man, a mother and her child, and knocking over a crate of sludge-y creatures, shouts trailing after you, you found an alleyway to disappear into. You scrambled up some wooden beams, eventually emerging onto the flat roof of the low, squatting building. You watched the idiotic Pilties run straight ahead, missing your small detour entirely, and scoffed, stepping away from the edge.

You turned, and made your way across the rooftops of Zaun. 

You’d reached an impasse. Well, not really- nothing a simple jump couldn’t fix. You squinted down into the dusty darkness of the narrow alley below your feet. This part of the undercity was silent- but you could hear the lapping water, and knew you were close to the river.

Vaulting over a concrete bar and pushing off with your feet, you landed on the other side of the gap with a thud. The roof shook, and you yelped as a tile slid off the edge, and crashed into the darkness.

Holding your breath, you heard nothing. The water continued to rumble. You turned to leave.

Until- 

“Fuck.”

You froze in horror. 

Creeping back towards the piped edge of the roof, weight on the backs of your feet, you peered into the darkness. The glowing end of a cigarette burned orange. You gulped.

A man emerged, stepping into your view. His brow was furrowed. Your hands were shaking. “I-I’m sorry!” You called out, and he scowled. 

“You nearly hit me!” He almost-yelled back. But taking a look at your face his expression softened. Against better judgement, you slid down the pipe, feet landing on the ground with an oof.

He looked at you, eyebrows raised. Someone in the undercity coming down to personally apologise for something like that instead of laughing in one’s face and running away was rare. He looked at the apologetic look on your face, and watched as you opened your mouth to speak while also stretching out your hand.

“I’m sorry…”

He reached for your hand too, ready to dismissively accept your apology and move on with his night.

“…But can I have a cigarette?”

His expression dropped.

You lazily took the cigarette from his hands and took a long, deep drag, tendrils of smoke curling from your mouth. At his frown, you moved it from your lips to speak.

“What? You don’t have herpes, do you? I’m not going to get it, am I?”

Wordlessly, he shook his head. You studied his face. Strong features, blue-green eyes. He wasn’t half bad looking.

I wouldn’t mind getting an STD from him.

Without a single reaction to your rather graphic thought you took another drag on the cigarette, before handing it back to him. “Thanks. Not everyone here knows that sharing is caring.”

He laughs, guarded, and then stops himself, surprised such a sound even came out at your words. You smiled at him sweetly. “And sorry for almost hitting your head and bashing it in with a tile. Though it wasn’t my fault, was it?”

“I suppose it was an accident,” he said stiffly, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel. “Miss…”

“[name]. Janna, I really needed to calm my nerves.” You stretched, arching your back like a cat, feeling the bones pop and muscles stretch deliciously. The man wet his lips, looking out at the street through the alley.

“And why would that be?” His voice was smooth. You readjusted your shawl. 

“Some enforcers were chasing me. The usual.” You let out a slow sigh, going to leave the alley without as much as a goodbye. He didn’t say anything, just watched you leave.

You planted a foot out into the street.

“That’s her!” 

You whipped your head around, watching a gaggle enforcers charging towards you. A scream tore from your lips you rushed back into the alleyway. The man grabbed you as you almost crashed into his chest.

“Fucking run!”

Shimmying up the pipe, you were back on the roof. You didn’t spare a turn to look back as your heavy lunges rattled the roofs, leaping over bars and gaps. You turned and saw an enforcer slip through a gap in the roofs, crashing into the street below. The man from the alley was just at your shoulder. Without a sparing a second you turned and left.

Once you were certain you’d lost the enforcers you stopped, chest heaving, and slumped onto the ground- roof- beneath you. The man stayed standing, eyeing you with an unreadable expression.

“Okay,” you gasped, turning over. “Now I’m actually sorry.” Coughing while trying to catch your breath you extended a hand. “Do you have water or something? I’m sorry.”

He let out a heavy sigh, not knowing how to behave in this situation as he took out a flask, crouching down and holding it out to you as you continuously mumbled apologies. You gulped down the water inside. “It isn’t poisoned, is it?” You sighed, wiping your mouth as you handed it back. He sat down as he took it, joining you on the slanted roof. 

“You only think to ask that after you’ve downed half the thing?” His voice was filled with amusement. You ignored him.

“I’m sorry, mister…”

“Silco.”

You stared at him as he took out another cigarette, patting his pockets for a lighter. Without a word you took one out, flicking it open and pushing down to activate the flame. You held it in front of his face. “I’m sorry, Silco.”

The cigarette lit up. You studied his profile, mainly the line of his sharp nose as he inhaled deeply.

“It’s fine. Why do you keep apologizing?”

“I got you involved in a chase with enforcers after almost dropping a tile on your head and taking your cigarette.”

“You didn’t have to take the cigarette,” he muttered, miffed. You ignored him, the lighter snapping shut. “And my plans for the night have been ruined…”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. He looked at you, chuckling. “I’ll make it up to you somehow, if you want.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Such generosity is rare.”

“Not generosity. Justice.”

He laughed again, at your dramatics this time as he rolled the cigarette in between his long fingers. “Right. Justice.”

“So, one favour.”

“That’s a dangerous offer, [name].” A thought struck him, and he furrowed his brow. “Don’t tell me you’re from topside.”

You stared at him for a minute, then scoffed. “Of course I’m not. What makes you think that?”

“Your naivety.” He blew smoke from his lungs, and you watched as it curled over the rooftops. “It’s not a good idea to go around offering favours to strangers.”

“I’m as much of a trencher as you are, Silco,” you scoffed.

At this, he suddenly grabbed your wrist. You stared at him in shock as his lip curled, expression furious. You blinked, unmoving. 

“Zaunite.”

“Wh-what?”

“Use Zaunite. Not the name they gave us.” His grip on your wrist loosened before falling away completely. You nodded.

“Right.”

It fell silent.

“And I’ll never cash in that favour.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

“Because, it’s a stupid idea. If anything, I’m doing you a favour.” Another drag. You turned over to look at the sky.

“Thanks… I guess?”

He chuckled again, smoke curling from in between his teeth. Your face felt warm. “You’re strange.”

“So I’ve been told. What exactly were the plans for your night that I so rudely ruined?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I hope you weren’t visiting a cathouse.”

He groaned, and you laughed, snatching the cigarette off of him. He didn’t stop you. “Certainly not. Not for the cats, at least.”

“The cats?”

“The women, [name].”

“Well, what else would you go there for?”

“You’d be surprised.”

You frown. “Right… so no prostitutes.”

“Definitely not. It’s an immoral practice.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “A trencher with morals. I see.”

“Zaunite,” he said through gritted teeth.

You shrugged, sucking on the cigarette. “Well, I don’t care. They’re just making a living.”

“And what would you consider immoral?”

You blew out a cloud of smoke, and for a moment you considered saying something that he’d agree with, racking your brains for an appropriate answer. He clearly hated topside…

“What those Pilties are doing. Their prejudice against us,” you said proudly. He gave a small laugh.

“Right. Everyone thinks that. Something unique, please.”

You stayed silent. “Well… I do believe capitalising on addiction is quite immoral.”

“Ironic, considering that cigarette you’re holding.”

“There are extremes.” Your voice was low, and it was clear there was a story behind the subject. He didn’t press you, simply watching you put out the cigarette on the tin roof, your appetite for nicotine crushed.

After a quiet moment you spoke. “My sister was pregnant. Some… drug lord got her hooked onto something.” You rested your head down. “It was dangerous. They don’t make it anymore.” He hummed silently. “I lost both her and the baby. And she was all I had left, so…”

“The father?”

You scoffed, and that told him more than he needed to know.

“That… drug… business owner… whatever he was- he didn’t need money. He was filthy rich,” you spat. “A-“ your eyes slid to Silco- “A Zaunite, hoarding money, sucking life out of his own people, and not sharing a single drop. I hate that bastard.”

“What became of him?”

“Business crushed, killed by enforcers.” Your response was curt.

He hummed. “Well, in that case, I certainly won’t go down that path.”

“…I suppose I won’t work in a brothel either.”

“Or own one,” he added. You laughed.

“Or own one.”

You sighed gently, standing up. “Well, I hope whatever business you missed gets resolved. Goodbye, Silco.” You made to climb down to the street.

“Wait-“

You looked up.

“You said you don’t have anyone. If you’re ever… looking for company, go to the Last Drop. Tell the bartender you’re looking for Silco.”

Your eyes enlarged as you stowed the name in your memory. “The Last Drop,” you repeated, then nodded.

“Goodbye, [name].” 

You smiled again, and dropped down into the crowd.

When you looked back up to the sky, to the roof, he was gone.

-

[eerna]

Been feeling really reassured seeing all of your stuff about Arcane because I've been agreeing with it all season. I've followed you for years because of Arcane and I gotta say the way you don't blindly roll over for the bad characterization and writing like I've seen so many people do is really nice. They had so many interesting aspects to work with and man!! Seeing how they laid things out is pissing me right off!!

Ayyyy I'm glad we match!! Honestly I am so blessed to be able to talk about it here bc otherwise I would feel crazy. Like why is the tag filled with the Vicait cell scene being called a wonderful parallel. Am I going crazy??? Did my copy of the episode feature a totally different version of the episode??? No, you guys are here to validate different interpretations and that's awesome~ My anger comes from the fact that I defended this show for 3 whole years.... I truly believed they would eventually deliver on the revolution and class themes instead of messing them up... Now I look STUPID and that MAKES ME MAD

[piratefalls]

fuck it friday

the ever lovely @station18908 tagged me for fanfic friday but today has major fuck it vibes, so here's a bit of "buck and tommy random facts as a love language after a night at trivia" aka a thing i make absolutely no promises about finishing but will try

--

For months after that night in a dingy bar, they’d texted each other the most obscure facts the internet had to offer. Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, sometimes even when they were in the same room, their phones would go off at random intervals with messages like:

Did you know that giraffes are 30 times more likely than humans to get hit by lightning?

Did you know that a chicken once lived 18 months without a head?

Did you know that the world’s longest single-word palindrome is “saippuakivikauppias”?

Eventually those random bits of information had taken the place of goodbye or be safe, became their new good morning and good night, and what, in recent weeks, had started to feel like a precursor to something bigger.

Did you know that glass sponges can live for 15,000 years?

But that was Before. Before the breakup, before Buck jumped the gun and Tommy got scared and they both ended up with broken hearts. Before the sour notes of I’ll see you around, Buck filled the loft.

He pulled up his old text thread with Tommy and thought, Did you know that I would have happily spent 15,000 years learning every last thing there is to know about you?

It takes Buck three months in the After to delete the standing date from his calendar.

tagging mostly because i think this will interest them but also in case they have words of their own they feel like sharing @onthewaytosomewhere @priincebutt @thinkof-england (aka the chat girls who've read a variation of this already lol) @newyearknwwme @alasse9 and whoever else sees this because all the other people i usually tag are in another fandom lmao. i guess if you're interested in being tagged in possible future updates just let me know?

[vxnuslogy]

— what does it mean to be a star?

pairing: sunday x gn!reader

premise: sunday has stayed with you and the stellaron hunters for a few years. your lives has been filled with many adventures, both good and bad. but like any other story crafted by elio, they must come to an end eventually.

– warnings: slight angst if you squint, implications of committing suicide, not proofread that much.

– author’s note: one final (?) stellaron hunter!sunday fic before he gets released. ive missed writing for this man. art credits to 冒火锅海台 on Weibo for the art. | 1.9k words.

— tags: @ryescapades @mitsvriii @https-sourlimes @dazaisms ; if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know by sending an ask off anon or filling out the forms in my pinned !!!

“what do you think makes a star, a star?”

elio asked you that question decades ago. and only now have you arrived at one final answer. out of curiosity, you asked each hunter the same question over the years that have passed, each of them giving one answer that didn’t quite match the rest.

“to be the top player of course!” silver wolf exclaimed, her tone in a matter of fact manner as she didn’t even look up from her console. you only shook your head in amusement, jotting her answer down in a new journal your boss had given you as a present.

“a star you ask,” kafka tilted her head curiously at you. eyes freed from her usual contacts and makeup followed your movement as you stirred the coffee in your cup. “well, a star for me would be something that captures the attention of others without much effort. stars often piqued your interest, didn’t they?” you only smiled in response and nodded. you made a mental note to write it down later before you went to bed.

firefly took a little longer than the last two to answer. you patiently waited, spooning pieces of cake to your lips as the girl in front of you was deep in thought. “a guide. even in your darkest moment, a star will shine as a guide for you to follow so you don’t stray from your path.” she answered in a whisper. eyes wistful as she played with the dessert on her plate. 

“a star,” blade’s gruff voice cut through the night like a knife. a few bottles of local xianzhou wine separating you two as you sat on the roof overlooking the stars above. you hadn’t expected blade of all people to humor your questions, but here you were, grateful in his presence. “it means to burn. so brightly you are unrecognizable, to others and yourself.”

“you have a sad answer,” you mutter, taking a sip of the wine from the small cup as the man huffs. 

“time takes a heavy toll for both you and i,” the wind sways his hair in a deathly dance. he brings his cup to his lips and drinks in one go. you don’t mention how you can barely finish a cup with how strong the drink was—blade could not feel the pain of it in his throat, and he never will. “you’ve already burned through the remains of your past self. it won’t be long before you look in the mirror and be unable to recognize your reflection.”

you frown at his response. “you’re pessimistic.”

“and you’re hypocritical.”

you have no rebuttal to his accusation, after all, at the very core of your character, the word “hypocrite” hangs like a thorny crown. 

“tell me, starcatcher,” red eyes reflected the conflict you’ve been massing deep within the columns of your bones. they crash onto your being like how the oceans do to the shores—unrelenting and loud. “are you that afraid of losing another that you love them as if tomorrow they’ll die?”

you fled the roof that night. unable to face your hopelessness head on after a fresh wound of death lingers by your heart. another attempt, another reminder of the welling darkness that swells from the tip of your fingers and slowly corrupts your entire body. it drowns you and you can’t help but fear that time is clutching your shoulder, weighing you down to the ocean floor as it laughs at your predicament.

“so it’s decided then.”

but that’s no longer the case. no, not anymore. it's been decades since then, and you’ve changed.

elio sits by his office chair, typewriter moved to the side as he personally penned the final bits of your songbird’s script. you were elio’s editor and proofreader. you don’t exactly remember when it started but when you were still an unwilling understudy—an actor who refused to acknowledge the stage—he would trap you in his office and force you to read over his script to make sure there were no errors.

a small and sad smile tugged at your lips as you read the pages of inked fate. “this is for the best.”

“the best, yes,” elio ceases his writing. compiling the papers into one bulk and staring right at you. “but it's not the ending you wanted.”

you shook your head, “my preferred ending isn’t relevant to how the story ends. it’s not my story to tell.”

“yes, but it's a story you’re meant to read,” there was pity in his eyes. your heart felt too heavy with realization to even feel offended by such a look. “you have the right to feel dissatisfied.”

“thank you, elio, truly,” you only gave destiny’s slave one final smile before standing. you quietly made your way to the door, forcing your steps to sound quiet and lacking sadness. but you can’t do that, you never will. building up walls will only prove to be a waste of effort. not when elio knows every brick by heart.

with a heavy sigh, you linger by the office door before making your way to your workshop. memories from years ago flood your mind as the halls fill your senses. photos from vacation, missions, and simple outings hang by the walls while certain trinkets and relics from bygone travels litter the many desks and drawers. time did take a heavy toll just like blade said. kafka’s skin started to wrinkle a bit, silver wolf started growing taller, firefly grew paler and paler, and blade looked more like death with every breath he took.

time was a painful thing to remember—it’s not infinite. and even if it was, it's never always kind to everyone. and you? you are worse than time and death itself. you were the inevitable–finality. 

“good morning, [name].”

a voice from behind greets you like a new sunrise–a reminder that a new day is here. you couldn’t help the smile that tugged on your lips. seeing sunday in blade’s shirt hang over his body like a blanket, firefly’s hair ties on his wrists and a spare console from silver wolf in one hand brings you so much joy. 

“sunday, good morning!” you sounded breathless. tucking both hands behind your back to hide your shaking as he joined you on your way to the workshop he’s made as his makeshift nest.

sunday smiles—filled with all the hope you’ve craved and lost. it stings your heart like a needle but you don’t show it. you’re first to look away, like all the other times in his presence, unable to face the way his wings flutter and smile twitch in concern.

when you reach the workshop, you flicker the lights on and sunday makes himself at home. sitting by the windowsill as you sat down by your table. scattered fabrics for sunday’s final mission lay in your hands, and you’d be damned if you messed up now. even with a heavy heart, you willed your hands to work, all the while ignoring the concerned stare of the angel sunbathing by the window.

the two of you spend the first few hours of morning in each other’s quiet presence before your tongue itches to ask him a question. “sunday,” you call his name and you curse the flutter in your chest when he immediately looks at you. he noticed his overly quick response and covered half of his face with a fist, pretending to hide a cough instead of his coloring cheeks.

“yes?” he asks, attention solely on you as you pin the needle back on the cushion and smooth out any creases.

“what does it mean to be a star?”

he blinked owlishly at your question. a soft hum escaped his lips as his fingers tapped on the rim of his cup in contemplation. “is there…” he tests the waters—seeing if it's too hot or too cold. “any particular occasion for you to ask me a question?”

you shake your head in amusement when his more formal tone slips out. “no, not at all. just a little tradition is all.”

“well, then,” the words die out on his tongue. every once in a while, sunday would peer at you like a lost child but you’d only nod encouragingly. “a star means to be remembered.” he looked out the window, watching the clouds pass by in a blur. “even if they aren’t always there, you know they exist.”

sometimes you wonder if it's possible for sunday to look at himself through the lens of your eyes. he was beautiful like the praise of idrila, happiness like aha’s laughter, and the curiosity for adventure like akivili. sunday wasn’t just a star, he was the entire universe. and he remained blissfully unaware of it.

“[name], is everything all right?” 

you’re snapped out of your daze when you feel his hand on your cheek. lost in the replays of sunday’s image in your mind, you didn’t notice the stray tears that had betrayed your image of an unbothered editor. 

“please, don’t cry,” he whispers, pressing your foreheads together. his thumb gently wiping away the tears that escaped your eyes. you can’t help but chuckle. sunday truly was like a sponge when it comes to others’ habits.

“what hurts you so?”

“what makes you think i’m hurt?” quite frankly, you were hurt. so incredibly hurt by his eventual departure but your heart knows his stay was only temporary. but that didn’t mean you never hoped. 

hoped. over the course of a few years, sunday had succeeded in the mission the other hunters failed at. he made you hope again.

“kafka is cooking everyone’s breakfast. it’ll surely brighten up your mood.” he states taking your hand in his and tugging you in the direction of the dining room and kitchen. sunday maneuvered through the headquarters with such ease your ribs began to clamp on your heart again.

this was his home, his respite. but only for a short time.

when the two of you enter the room, you notice his frown. the emotions of everyone were palpable—it felt suffocating. your eyes met blade and you just smiled. one deep breath in and you snapped back into your joyous self. bringing temporary light to the room.

even as you ate and chatted, there were undertones of sadness. sunday nudged your side and quietly asked you, “are you quite sure everything is alright? everyone seems sad today.”

you look at them one by one. kafka’s eyes are slowly being accompanied by eye bags and wrinkles, silver wolf is nearing blade’s shoulder, firefly looks paler, and blade’s hand shakes as he holds his chopsticks. you look at sunday’s eyes, and smile. even he was a victim of time with the way his hair grew longer and face filled with more life.

“they’re just worried,” you look away first like always. meeting blade’s gaze halfway and smiling to yourself when you see him huff in denial. “your next mission is here.”

what does it mean to be a star? elio asked you that question a long, long time ago. and you only found the answer in the form of an angel with wings behind his ears and eyes that shined like the sun. the star you’ve grown to love burns brighter than the sun but still requires rest when night falls. 

to be a star means to be remembered, even in the face of departure. you remain bright and unforgotten. left in the care of a conductor and an express you’ve once loved.

to be a star means to face the inevitable that sunday was meant for greater things than being just a fugitive venturing the universe.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[oddp1ant]

Talking here instead of in the tags on this post because. My head is steaming.

This version of Viktor is 1) human and 2) older. In my dream reality, this implies that the de-arcanified version of Viktor we see at the end of ep 9 survives, regains physical form but is forever changed by the arcane = a mage, who eventually travels through time/realities to give Jayce the guidance he needs as a child and in the post-apocalypse wasteland, effectively securing the timeline in which he (and the rest of the world or w/e) survives, making it a closed loop. I like to think Jayce is with him for most of it, both of them figuring out their new magical interdimensional existence together.

Ofc, the take I've been seeing most of so far is that Jayce and Viktor were both destroyed in that final moment. I mean yeah, being at the center of hexcrystal/gem/shard activity like that tends to do that to people, as we've been repeatedly shown, but they were also in the weird metaphysical arcane-space when it happened so I'm honestly not sure the same principles apply. If that is the end for them, I guess mage-Viktor was just a product of some other reality where that was the trajectory for him, who due to his magic was able to see all the infinite Bad timelines and took it upon himself to interfere with this one to prevent them, likely nullifying his own and himself in the process. This is cool too, but makes mage-Viktor feel a bit like a random Deus ex machina since we have very little sense of where he came from or how he became what he is.

I may be delusional, but I feel like there's hope in Jayce's face when he sees mage-Viktor. Seeing him human again, seeing him older (something I am personally in tears over - Viktor getting to grow old ;;;;) seems to give him hope that there's a way back, AND a way forward for them!!! Idk. I'm crazy.

[Screencap credit to @lesbian-sansa]

Edit to add: I guess my mind skipped over the option that mage-Viktor is the post-apocalyptic reality's Viktor, who presumably went full glorious evolution, saw that it sucked, and somehow turned himself back to a human form. I guess that lessens the Deus ex machina issue and is also very cool bc we love a villain who spends a thousand years bored and lonely in the desolate wasteland of their own creation until deciding the only way to fix this involves timefuckery and empowering the heroes to take you down before it can happen. There's something so "go sit in the corner until you've calmed down" about it. Also implies that Viktor had the ability to come back to himself even without Jayce, but not before it's too late. Always preventing each other from stepping off the ledge at the last moment, these guys.

Idk which theory I prefer, I think I'll have thoughts about this show until I die

[sadplaguedoctor]

holding you, holding me

⤷ enji todoroki x fem!reader

summary: No one said being a hero would be easy. Especially not with the title of Number One. Endeavor’s worked to the brink and comes home to his wife, doing what she can to comfort her husband the way he deserves.

tags: crossposted on ao3, fluff, domesticity, enji and rei are divorced and his children no longer live with him, hurt/comfort, nudity, no smut, sharing a shower

ao3 version

The bed creaked in protest under Enji’s weight as he sat on the end with a sigh, knees spread apart allowing himself to rest his forearms against them. His eyes were downcast towards the carpet as he stared at his feet.

Work had practically killed him today. For some reason, every villain within a 30-mile radius seemed to want to wreak havoc all at once. Of course, he knew as a hero, he didn’t get to complain.

He knew what he signed up for the day he decided to follow in his father's footsteps and join this line of work. He knew what he’d go through to bring safety to his country.

But still, he yearned for a break.

Feeling the mattress dip under your husband’s weight, you pushed yourself up to sleepily crawl towards him. This wasn’t a rare occurrence for you, seeing him come home late with shoulders as tense as boulders.

It never got any easier, having to wait here and watch him work himself to death, unable to take away his burdens. Not to mention the change in emotions. Enji was already a stoic and reserved man, but with all these immense stressors baring down on him, he became essentially emotionless.

Your knees pressed against Enji’s lower back, your covered chest following suit so you were able to gently bring your arms over his shoulders and connect near his pectorals.

“Bad day?” You questioned in a quiet voice, not wanting to disturb him with unnecessary volume.

Enji’s shoulders dropped slightly with a deep release of breath, the tension and stress he had been holding onto all day struggling to fade even with your comforting touch. His aching muscles reluctantly stretched when he brought a hand up to carefully hold onto your wrists, keeping your hands near him.

“You have no idea,” he muttered.

“It’s just one thing after another— I’m so damn tired.”

His stress was even evident in his voice, appearing deeper and huskier than usual.

You pressed your lips comfortingly on the back of his neck, resting your head there for a long moment for you both to soak up the physical affection. Your arms gently tightened around his broad shoulders— a consoling attempt at soothing him with reassurance that you were there for him, both physically and emotionally.

On bad days like this where Enji grew frustrated and closed off, it was best to let him decide if and when he wanted to open up. Therefore, you didn’t pry any deeper. That was his decision to make and his alone.

You knew his journey of self betterment wasn’t easy, especially considering all the guilt and pain he holds within himself— you did the best you could from an outside point of view to offer support on his terms.

“M’ sorry,” you murmured against his neck, your lips growing warm from his body heat.

At the press of your lips against his neck, his muscles relaxed and he allowed himself to lean back into you. The way your biceps flexed instinctively over his shoulders assured him that he was safe to melt into you— fully trusting you to hold his weight as you had done many times over. He stayed in this position for a few moments, eventually opening his eyes and leaning forward with a sigh.

“I think I’ll take a shower,” he finally spoke, his voice less strained than before, “care to join me?”

“Mhm.. course,” you hummed as he pulled away— his hand letting go of your wrists, allowing you to drag your hands back over his shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze before removing them altogether. You used Enji’s shoulder to push yourself off the bed and make your way over to your shared wardrobe.

You grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants for your husband to wear after his shower and folded them up, placing them next to him on the bed so he could easily change when he came out.

“Ready?” You asked, bringing him out of his thoughts by placing a hand on his cheek, your thumb gently caressing over his stubble— eyes kind as they stared into his from where you stood between his spread legs.

In your eyes, Enji saw the most love and adoration he had ever seen anyone look at him with. It was a strange sight, accompanied by the unfamiliar tightness in his stomach. It worried him at first.

Love was a foreign feeling for him and he accepted early on in his life that he would most likely never feel it, and just as easily, never receive it. But then you appeared. So suddenly and unexpectedly. You taught him how to feel and that it’s okay to feel in the first place.

Despite everything.

His eyes traveled up your frame as he reached forward, a large calloused hand gently resting on the curve of your hips. His thumb brushed back and forth on your smooth skin, the smooth texture somehow working to bring him back to reality.

“Yeah,” he responded quietly, tilting his head into her hand briefly, relishing in the affection he was starved of for so long. With a final squeeze to your hip, he guided you back so he could stand to his full height and stretch his tired bones.

A smile spread across your face, watching him grunt and groan when his back popped.

“Careful, old man,” you teased him, “we wouldn’t want you breaking anything.”

This earned a well deserved glare from over his shoulder, something you couldn’t help but laugh at. At the beginning of your relationship, you couldn’t imagine joking with him like this. He was still somewhat closed off when you met.

But now, you don’t need to worry about a filter for your words. He loved every bit of you, including the bold way you spoke.

Once you both made it into the master bathroom, you turned your back to Enji and began taking off your jewelry whilst he turned on the water and set the temperature.

The only reason it wasn’t scalding, was because you were here. Not everyone can withstand molten.

“Come here,” you said softly, turning to face him and holding your hand out, palm up. His hand fit into yours like a puzzle piece despite the difference in size. You complimented each other in a way.

Slipping off his wedding band, you set it next to your own on the counter— making sure to place it in the decorative jewelry dish by the sink. You had lost an earring down the drain once before, so now neither of you took any chances.

The next few moments were spent undressing with interrupted glances at each other’s bodies. You both knew that sex was out of the question tonight as he was too exhausted, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t admire the beauty your husband presented.

“Is that new?” You asked, pointing to a never before seen scar right on his elbow— almost completely out of sight.

”Yes. I think it was a month ago from the villain who could manipulate metal,” he explained calmly, knowing you were just worried about him.

He wasn’t used to that either. Even after being together for this long, he wasn’t used to being fussed over. He was raised to take care of himself and that worries like these were pathetic. He silently thanks his children every day for teaching him differently.

You as well. Oh, what would he do without you?

”Well, I’m just glad you’re alright,” you replied with a smile, brushing your hand over the scar. Yes, you worried over him. It was only natural— but he could handle himself, and if there was something seriously wrong, he would tell you.

You trusted him like no other.

During your shower together— you held him in your arms before any washing could partake. The water beat down on his back while the warmth of his body made up for the lack of steaming water on yours.

You washed his hair for him, and helped him scrub his back and his arms while he rinsed out the shampoo from his hair. Then he did the same to you.

If someone had told Enji that he would have a chance to experience this level of domesticity and affection years ago, he would’ve never believed them.

Probably accusing them of being a villain. Poor hypothetical citizen.

Enji dressed himself in the bedroom while you stayed in the bathroom to take care of your hair, running the blow dryer for a limited amount of time so as to not be too loud and disturb the peace.

Once you were finished, you folded your towel and tossed it into the hamper along with yours and Enji’s clothes. You didn’t shy away from being nude around your husband— not having any reason to. You were both adults and have seen the ugliest parts of each other. Why not show off the beautiful?

“Let me help,” Enji’s deep voice finally reached your ears when he watched you approach your lotions sitting on top of your dresser.

“It’s okay, honey. You don’t have to,” you spoke to him reassuringly, really not wanting to make him feel entitled to help you. He was way more stressed than you have ever been, he deserved to rest.

“I want to.”

His assurance was firm— he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“You’ve done so much for me, it is my turn to return the favor.”

That was one of Enji’s flaws. He always felt like he had to pay people back when they offered him help, even if he never asked for it. He didn’t like feeling like he was in debt to people. He wanted to help. His job was to help. Not be helped.

A small smile spread across your lips and you nodded once to him, giving in and accepting his offer.

He ended up on his knee before your spot at the end of the mattress— insisting you settle your foot against his lower thigh so he could rub the lotion into your legs more efficiently.

His hands were strong and heavy upon your skin. His warmth combined with the rare softness the lotion gave him was almost heavenly.

While you were nowhere near as active as he was, you still spent your days on your feet— ending them with your calves sore and thighs slightly burning— and not the good kind of burning.

It was then that you realized the reason Enji had offered to do this in the first place. He knew that. He notices the way you lean against the kitchen counter when you think he isn’t looking. He knew how sore you were because he saw those same mannerisms in himself.

”Oh so you’re sneaky now,” you said in a mockingly accusatory tone, rolling your eyes at the way he glanced up at you— giving you nothing but a sly smile to go off of.

Either way, you were stuck now. The roles have been reversed and there was no fixing it until he decided he was finished.

Admittedly, being under the covers with Enji could sometimes be a pain— considering how warm he was. But it was a cold night tonight. Cold enough to give you a perfect excuse to huddle up in your husband’s strong arms and hide your face against his chest.

It was intimate, in a sense. The lights were off, only having the occasional glare of moonlight through the window— legs and arms tangled with Enji’s low breaths and hushed snores adding ambiance.

The sounds of him did wonders in lulling you to sleep. You even believed the calm atmosphere to affect your dreams.

You haven’t had a nightmare in years.

Thanks to Enji.

ignore if this seems a bit rushed, because it sort of was when i first wrote it. it was a personal comfort thing that i decided to post last minute </3

[qwardivior]

DEMON BUSTERS!! — About Nezuko

Next Part>>

<<Previous Part

And so, the long awaited Nezuko post has arrived!!! Sorry for the long wait everyone, I had to work out some lore stuff and this kept getting delayed, so let’s just get right into it! In case you don’t know or need a refresher, in this modern kny au the Demon Slayer Corps has updated and rebranded into the Demon Busters! People have been dying to demon attacks at alarming rates so to make their jobs easier they’ve been running ad campaigns! However this installment is a little different as this is NOT an ad campaign! To protect Nezuko they did not run an ad campaign on her. Instead, this is known as an ‘about’. Several other characters will be getting an about section but let’s start with our favorite girl Nezuko!

— Lore Dump Incoming!!—

In this au, Nezuko got turned on her birthday. It was supposed to be a fun celebration, she would spend the night at her friends’ house and then go home the next morning to help her family prepare for New Years. Of course when the day actually came, there were complications as Tanjirou would not let her go for whatever reason, stating that he had a “bad feeling” about it. But nothing ever happens in their small town! In fact, the biggest event in a long while was their father’s death a couple months prior. Eventually, after some back and forth they just chalked it up to him being paranoid and she was able to go.

It wasn’t just paranoia. Nobody knew that anything was wrong until the next morning. Tanjirou had gone to pick Nezuko up since nobody had heard anything from her, and was met with a gruesome sight. Just like in canon, Nezuko was the only survivor, but she seemed to be a little off… Firstly, she had tried to attack Tanjirou before quickly coming to her senses after a man called Giyuu Tomioka appeared, stating that he was a “Demon Buster” and she was a “demon” and that he had to slay her. And secondly she no longer had a taste for human food and just slept all the time! Luckily, nobody was slayed, and the siblings were instructed to find a man named Sakonji Urokodaki, Tomioka’s teacher. But they couldn’t just leave! Not after everything. So they came to an agreement: because Nezuko was able to quell her hunger and more or less function like a normal human, the two would go home for now, and then Tomioka would come to pick them up at a later date. As it turned out, in order for Nezuko to get her humanity back, she’d have to become a “Demon Buster”. A perfect way to bring in the new year..

In this au Nezuko keeps her humanity and is more of her own person. This makes it easier for her to get around and get info from other demons easier. She also conquers the sun slightly earlier, but we’ll get to that later. She wasn’t able to really show herself to her family that often until she was able to learn how to disguise herself from none other than Yushiro. Her having a sense of self and a personality separate to Tanjirou also allows for them to go their separate ways a bit more. Of course they stick together but it’s not like Nezuko is bound to the box. They have missions that sometimes requires Tanjirou to go completely solo, thus Nezuko is left to her own devices.

Overall, I really want to explore Nezuko’s character more and there’s so much more to her than what can be explained in a single post. I guess you’ll just have to tag along to find out more huh? This will also allow me to expand more on her relationship in regards to Zenitsu. In canon, it seemed a little one-sided since we weren’t able to get Nezuko’s point of view, but in this au I want to show more mutual interest so it doesn’t come off as weird as it did in canon. This also allows her to make her own friends (read: Muichirou, Senjurou, Genya, and more). Nezuko is a very fun character to explore in this au and I can’t wait to show you guys more!

Also did I mention that a lower moon is seeking to kill her? No? Oh, my bad.

———

Hey! Thanks for sticking around. Sorry this one took a while! After this we will most likely be getting Tamayo and Yushiro!! Inosuke and Kanao will have to wait a little bit longer because I still have to figure out things lore/design wise. As for Hashira, the next one will either be Giyuu or Shinobu! That’s all for now and thanks for all the support on this au!! Feel free to ask me about anything lore-related! I’ll see you in the next one!

[eden-writes-stuff]

Hi! Would you be willing to write some rosekiller angst? Some hurt/comfort goes a long way :-)

tags: angst, torture, death eater rosekiller wordcount: 623

Evan wasn't even crying anymore. His body was almost numb from all the pain he'd been put through over the last hour. His throat was sore from all the screaming. And all that because he hadn't killed a child.

Eventually, they just left him lying on the cold floor, unable to move.

Barty made sure everyone was gone, before he snuck through the black doors, cowering next to Evan.

"Rosie? Baby?" He gently lifted him up into his lap, stroking his hair. The boy looked pale, exhausted. Barty hated them for hurting him. His lovely, brilliant, weird, beautiful Evan. Evan, who knew how to heal, unlike Barty. The bigger problem was, that Barty didn't even know what spell he would use in this situation. It wasn't like there was anything exactly wrong with him. Evan hadn't broken a bone or dislocated a shoulder, he'd just experienced a lot of pain.

He needed to get him help. Regulus would know what to do. He always knew what to do, he was always in control. Barty placed a soft kiss on his boyfriend's forehead, before carrying him through the manor. It was the kind of house that was so dark it seemed to swallow all the light and with it the joy. Just like his old home.

Halfway up the stairs, Evan began shaking in his arms. "It's fine. You'll be fine. We'll get you help", he whispered, holding him closer.

They both shared a room with Regulus, which had made things around here slightly more bearable. "Put him on his bed", the youngest Black instructed as he saw them walking in, placing his book aside and gabbing his wand.

"They took turns on him for an hour. I don't know what to do", Barty explained, voice not as steady as he would have liked. "I know, I heard him...." He swallowed, before sitting next to Evan on the bed. 

For the next 20 minutes, Barty paced through the room, trying to help Regulus as much as he could. Then he waited.

Evan had stopped shaking and wasn't as pale as before, but it took him a while before he woke up again.

"Rosie... Are you okay? How do you feel?", he asked, softly taking his hand. "Feel like shit." His voice was rasp and barely audible, but he was back. Half-open eyes, a weak grasp, but he was back. And he was alive. 

Barty gave him a glass of water, which Evan emptied in one go. With a quiet sigh, Barty lay down next to him, face buried in the crook of his neck.

"I was scared", he admitted after a while. "I thought I would lose you." "I was scared too", Evan whispered. "But I really didn't want to kill this kid. And it's pretty fucked up that they make us." "It is. But it's not worth you being tortured like this." "Yeah... Maybe." Evan sighed, pulling Barty closer to him.

He liked being alive. He liked a lot of things about it. Being with Barty, feeling the sun on his face, good food, all kinds of bugs and spiders, flower fields, his sister, spending time with his friends... But life like this... Spending most of his time in this dark, cold house, going out mostly at night, and when they went out it was to kill people. Time with his friends and with Barty had also become very thin because most of them were always busy and Pandora refused to talk to him.

"Bee?" "Hm?" He sounded like he was half asleep. "If I wanted to leave... would you come with me?" Barty looked up at him, but before he could answer, there was a loud banging at the door.

"Crouch. We need you for a mission. Now."

[hypnoneghoul]

Symbol on the Surface Chapter 13

WC: 1,5k

Relationship: SwissAlps

Tags: Transmasc Swiss, Pregnancy, Mild Dysphoria, Fluff

“Do you know what ‘seahorse dad’ means?”

Notes: Tysm to @jimothybarnes for beta reading :3

Chapter 1 here or on AO3.

Read chapter 13 under the cut or on AO3.

It has always been rare for Swiss to feel dysphoric, and even though he’s been experiencing it more since he started showing, it still doesn’t happen that much.

It’s only sometimes that he’ll catch a glimpse of his reflection somewhere and fall down an ugly spiral that he has to be fished out of by his mate.

By the time Christmas comes around, Swiss is five months pregnant and he is huge.

Being ghouls, they don’t really celebrate Christmas, but everyone loves the atmosphere and the fun of it, so every year they simply…skip the christian parts. Most of the Abbey does; it’s a big thing and the name of the festivities is up to everyone’s personal preference—Christmas, Yule, Winter Solstice, or nothing at all.

One of Swiss and Mountain’s favorite parts about that time are sweaters. They love getting matching Christmas sweaters that half the world’s population would cringe at; they have so many stuffed in the back of their closet—waiting for their time to shine year after year.

Unfortunately, this year they have not accounted for Swiss’ current size. It’s been so busy, neither of them thought about the sweaters until they saw someone else wearing them and remembered about their little custom.

The multi ghoul tries. He looks for the most stretchy sweater there is and gets Mountain’s, instead of his own. They are a little oversized, anyway, it should work.

More or less…

“It’s okay if it doesn’t fit, darling, we don’t have to wear them this year,” Mountain assures him, but he knows Swiss won’t budge—and it’s not only about the damn sweater. It’s about tradition, but also about how his body is changing. He doesn’t particularly like it.

Swiss grunts as he wiggles into the sweater—refusing his mate’s offer of help—and eventually he does get it stretched over his baby bump, but the knitwear is holding on for dear life.

Mountain sighs, looking down at a strangely distorted reindeer. He looks up at the multi ghoul’s face when he hears him sniffle, though, and his heart breaks a little.

“Oh, my darling…” he coos, coming up to Swiss to hug him. “It’s okay, we can find you a different one that doesn’t squeeze you so much. Maybe Aether or Omega have something.”

“It’s not–not about the sweater,” the multi ghoul cries, whining into Mountain’s neck.

“What is it then, my heart?” he asks gently as he rubs Swiss’ back.

“I look like a sack of potatoes! How can you even look at me, I’m all swollen, and then there’s these–these fucking stretchmarks, and–and…” he sobs, but the last part seems to get stuck in his throat.

Mountain wants to know what he’s working with before he addresses every single concern of his mate. He also knows that it’s going to make everything worse if Swiss keeps some part of it in, so he prods gently, “What’s the ‘and’ about?”

The multi ghoul sighs before shoving his face further into the other’s neck to mumble out something incomprehensible.

“My heart, you know I didn’t catch that.” Swiss groans, but moves his face.

“I look like a woman…” he mutters; still quietly, but understandably now.

“My darling,” Mountain starts, pulling back to look into his mate’s eyes when he speaks, “my beloved mate, light of my life, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He waits for Swiss to nod before carrying on, “You’ve grown because you are carrying our children inside you. Our kits, our babies; you’re going to give them life, bring them into this world! I can only imagine how it feels, and I wish I could take all the hardships of it away from you, but it truly is a wonderful thing and I couldn’t be more proud of you. You do not look like a sack of potatoes, or a woman. You look absolutely beautiful, my handsome man, and I know you can see in my eyes that I mean every single word. Can you not?”

“I can…” the multi ghoul replies quietly—as if ashamed that he’s even dared to doubt his mate. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, my heart,” Mountain smiles and brings Swiss close again for a tight—albeit careful—hug. It lasts a good couple minutes before the earth ghoul notices that his mate starts to shift his feet in discomfort; even though he doesn’t say anything. The earth ghoul pulls away. 

“Do you know what ‘seahorse dad’ means?” he asks, suddenly having remembered something that Rain had mentioned to him a couple weeks ago.

“I don’t think so…” Swiss admits.

“When seahorses make babies, it’s the males that carry them,” Mountain explains. “Apparently trans men that get pregnant are called seahorse dads because of that.”

Swiss stares at him with his mouth slightly agape for a moment. It turns into a smile before he bursts into tears again. The hormones have really turned him into a mess.

“That’s so cuteee,” he all but wails, his crying now cuteness-induced, instead of…the other kind of crying. Mountain considers it a win.

“It is,” he chuckles, wiping Swiss’ tears away, “let’s lay down and I’ll show you some pictures, hm?”

“Okay,” he sniffles and follows his mate to the bed. He cringes at the tight sweater he’s still trapped in, though. “Ough, help me out of this damn contraption.”

Mountain laughs, but helps free him, indeed.

“I’ll text the group chat and get you a sweater for this year, my heart,” he promises, and Swiss doesn’t doubt it. He knows that if Mountain didn’t manage to find one to borrow, he’d make one from scratch overnight—just so his mate wouldn’t be upset. That’s how much he loves him.

The earth ghoul lays down first and Swiss joins him right away. He snuggles himself into Mountain’s side, resting his stomach against his mate’s hip and his face in the crook of his neck. Swiss inhales deeply, trilling at that familiar scent he loves so much; the smell of the first days of summer.

As promised, Mountain gets out his phone and sends out the ‘sweater wanted’ text first, then moving onto TikTok to find some seahorse dads for Swiss—both the actual fish and pregnant trans men. The former makes the multi ghoul shed some more cuteness-tears, and the latter succeeds in boosting his confidence and chasing the dysphoria away.

They stay in bed for a little while—as they’ve been doing most of their time for the last couple weeks. Swiss needs all the rest he can get and Mountain doesn’t want to step away from him for even a second. He doesn’t have anything better to do, anyways; all his outside work is paused for the winter after he and the other earth ghouls have secured everything against the cold.

So Swiss and Mountain keep snuggling—the earth ghoul caressing the other’s stomach as he purrs—until a phone buzzes somewhere. It got lost in the sheets, but once it’s recovered, the multi ghoul chirps happily at the message.

It’s from Omega, he sent Mountain a couple photos of the sweaters he has and could not only borrow, but give away. Apparently, every time they were on tour in the winter, Terzo had gotten the older quintessence ghoul a silly Christmas sweater, so he’s got plenty.

“I can go get them right now,” Mountain offers, “got any favorites, darling?”

“Hm…” Swiss stares at the pictures, zooming in and out and thoroughly analyzing every sweater offered. The earth ghoul gives him time and after a moment he makes his decision. “This one!”

Mountain smiles, kisses Swiss on the forehead and jumps out of bed to go grab it. Omega’s only downstairs, so it’s only a moment. The multi ghoul uses that time to go to the bathroom—it’s not a quick business nowadays.

When his mate returns with the sweater, Swiss is ecstatic. He’s buzzing with excitement and if he weren’t pregnant, he’d be jumping up and down. Mountain laughs as he helps him wiggle into the sweater and while it’s clear that it wasn’t made with pregnant people in mind, it fits nearly perfectly.

The earth ghoul could just about cry, seeing his mate so happy over something so…basic and small. He brings him in for a hug.

“Merry Christmas,” Swiss purrs, nuzzling the side of his face against his mate’s.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Mountain whispers before kissing him—deeply, but softly. When they pull away for breath, the earth ghoul winks and gets down on his knees before Swiss.

At first he thinks he’s about to get a naughty early gift, but instead of pulling down his pants, Mountain pulls up the bottom of his—not that long ago Omega’s—sweater. Swiss looks down at him with his brows furrowed in confusion as his mate kisses his bump.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, little ones,” Mountain mumbles and Swiss tears up once again.

Taglist: @arkeusruin @skele-bunny @everybodyshusband @ratsummer @jazz-bazz @mac-and-thefox @karmicbias @wine-irytatus @ghoultrifle (if anyone from here wants to be removed lmk, and also if anyone else wants to be added)

[shewasverynice]

Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen 

⚠️ SPOILER HEAVY ⚠️

Major Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death 

Full tags/warnings on Chapter links post

Major Characters: Original Character, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ieiri Shoko, Yaga Masamichi, Nanami Kento, Haibara Yu, Tsukumo Yuki, Choso

‎‧₊˚✧ Chapter 15 ✧˚₊‧

While Suguru went to relax at home, enjoying the peace of being with just his parents again, and Shoko visited her father, Satoru was busy sighing for what had to be the 100th time in the last hour. The New Year's Eve party at the Gojo estate was always overbearing and irritating in the worst way, spent in an uncomfortable formal kimono and greeting old people who don't give a shit about anything but their status.

He sat in his spot at the long head table, every guest coming to reassert themselves as someone he probably needed when he became the clan head officially. Not that he gave a shit anyway, but in this life he'd determined it would be better to play along rather than rebel and do as he pleased. If he was going to rally everyone together, he needed a good position and good enough standing. Good enough being key, because he certainly had no interest in schmoozing with shitty geriatrics.

Some kind of introduction, a few false compliments, marvel at his eyes, New Year's wishes and rinse and repeat. It was all the same. All they knew how to do. If he asked them to kiss his pale ass they'd probably do it.

He'd heard his Grandfather already asking about daughters and knew that talk was coming too. The attempts to marry into more power and create more heirs for later. A dozen or so pretty but boring women would eventually be lined up for him to ignore as usual. That wasn't going to change this time for sure. No matter what, he would not put anyone else into a position they didn't really want.

Speaking of which... One came to him shortly after he overheard. She was in a lovely purple kimono, the long furisode stitched with cranes and tree branches. She was older than him, but not by much. Bold of her to approach directly. She must have been power hungry. Or money. One of the two.

"Good evening, Gojo," she said with a deep bow and a demure smile.

He resisted the scoff that threatened his throat, and just gave her a polite nod. But unfortunately she didn't take the hint. That or she really was very bold.

"How are you enjoying the party?" She asked, subtly standing up straight to present herself to him.

Tall. Thin. Soft features. Long silky black hair. Very pale. She was, just like the others, a proper Japanese woman raised for this purpose. A willing broodmare if it meant she could live a comfortable life and please her parents. Nothing made him more disgusted than someone who'd submit to someone else's whims.

"Honestly it kinda sucks," he huffed, resting his cheek on his hand. He wished he'd kept his sunglasses on so he could ignore her.

"Oh," she continued, "Yes, I'd imagine you'd prefer to be with your friends."

"Yeah," he said shortly, giving her an "alright that's enough" look.

Still, she persisted.

"Perhaps I could keep you--"

"Perhaps you could find someone else to chat with," Satoru said, plastering on that cocky smile, "Not interested, doll. Thanks." Then he waved at her dismissively, picking up his cup to sip.

She stared at him, painted red lips parted in surprise. He wanted to laugh, but he wasn't feeling like being cruel just yet. Only if she kept it up...

Which she didn't. She bowed and scurried off with her head down.

"Satoru," his mother chided softly, "That wasn't very kind. You should really make an effort to meet with them."

"Nah, I'd rather not Mother," he said, rolling his eyes.

She said nothing more, silenced by him. He sighed, feeling a bit guilty. She was just as much a victim of the marriage contract scheme herself. A perfect little flower plucked by a Gojo and blessed with the six-eyes as her child. She wasn't a weak willed woman, he knew that. He'd seen flashes of who she really could be, but the idea of the "Perfect Japanese Woman" had been ingrained and become her mask.

He got up, picking up his phone from under the table and heading out of the room. A few hours of this bullshit was all he could stand.

Down the hall and into his room, he tore off the kimono as soon as he stepped inside. Throwing on a hoodie and sweatpants, he got comfortable on his futon and flipped open his phone to check his messages. Just a few from Suguru showing photos of his hometown and what he was up to. Shoko had sent exactly one message complaining about soba noodles. Sarah sent him a few stupid jokes, hoping to lighten his mood.

He wished he'd stayed at the school. He still had two more nauseating days of ass kissing while they visited the New Year's shrines and ate all the fancy New Year's food.

He looked at his messages from Sarah and smiled. She was probably watching that "No Laughing Batsu Game" show. He'd never actually had the time to sit down and see it, but she insisted on last year's New Year it was the funniest thing. Apparently Suguru loved it too, so maybe he was watching it this time?

Satoru: What is the name of that show again?

Sarah: Gaki No Tsukai! You gotta turn it on! It's so good! It's a high school theme this year and I almost pissed myself!

(⁠✷⁠‿⁠✷⁠)

Satoru: (⁠☞ﾟ⁠∀ﾟ⁠)⁠☞ I'll check it out

So he rolled over, flipping on the TV to his room. He vaguely recognized the name from his first life. This had become a regular yearly show, but as always he was too busy to sit down and watch it the day of and when he actually did have time it wasn't something he remembered to do.

Clearly he was missing out!

He recognized the main duo of course, Downtown was always the best comedy pair in Japan. Cocorico was really good as well, and Yamazaki of course. The whole idea was amazing! And the set ups! Holy shit! He was laughing so hard his cheeks hurt!

He texted Suguru about it and his eyes widened when Suguru immediately called him.

"You're watching it to?" Suguru said excitedly as soon as he picked up, "Jimmy Onishi trying to count to 100 almost killed me!"

"Holy shit, yes!" Satoru laughed, "This is amazing! Sarah is watching too!"

"That's so awesome!" Suguru said. Satoru could hear him shifting in the background, probably sitting in his room.

Satoru bit his lip. He wasn't sure if this was the right time, but then again would it ever be? He hesitated for a split second before he said, "I wish we were watching it together." His voice had come out softer than he meant and he cringed immediately. Was it too soon? Would Suguru catch on? Did he want him too?

"Yes," Suguru agreed with a sigh, "I wish we could too."

Satoru's heart raced and his word caught. He wasn't sure what to say, so he just settled on, "Yeah."

"Next year we should all get together," Suguru said.

Oh. He meant with everyone. Before he could even stop himself Satoru was already saying, "I meant with just you. Alone."

Suguru didn't answer, but Satoru could hear his breathing still. It felt like an eternity before Suguru simply said, "Oh, I see."

"Too strong," Satoru cringed internally, he was coming on way to strong. Suguru was only fifteen after all and Satoru had only ever heard him talk about women in his last life. Was he even interested in men? Would he try it?

Satoru's face was heating up as the silence dragged on. Did he fuck this up? He was a grown ass man internally and still this made him feel oddly shy and foolish. And a little sick on some level, if he was being honest. The last thing he wanted to do was push Suguru into something he didn't want like some nasty groomer or something. But all of this was so new to him, he wasn't sure what the furthest boundaries should be in the first place!

"I think it would be better with all of us," Suguru said quietly after a moment and Satoru's heart fell.

Shit. It was too fast.

"Ah, yeah... I guess so," he said sheepishly, his hand wringing the futon blanket. He fucked up. He knew he did. "I... I didn't mean anything weird by it--"

"Sorry, Mom is calling me. Talk to you in a bit?" Suguru said, and promptly hung up.

Satoru stared at his phone, his mouth fallen open. "Shit," he mumbled, "Shit shit shit..."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

To say his return to the school was nerve-wracking was an understatement. Satoru hadn't slept well for the last two days of his visit home, constantly worried he'd ruined everything with Suguru forever. He hadn't heard a word from the guy, not even a text or any pictures or anything.

When he reached the top of the steps, he saw Sarah and Shoko waving excitedly to him and he gave them a little half-hearted wave back. Where was Suguru? Surely he wouldn't just... Avoid him right?

"Geto!" Sarah called and Satoru froze. He swallowed thickly, turning to see Suguru about halfway up the stairs.

They locked eyes and it felt like everything slowed down. His expression was unreadable, and Satoru wasn't even sure what he should say. Suguru seemed to be at a loss as well and he stopped in his tracks.

"Hey," Satoru managed, quieter than he intended.

The moment turned violent in the blink of an eye. One moment Suguru was halfway up the stairs, brushing snow off his coat, and the next, he was blindsided by an unrelenting force that drove him hard into the icy ground. The impact echoed, sharp and brutal, as Suguru slid down a few steps before catching himself. 

“What the hell?!” Satoru shouted, eyes wide as he processed what had just happened. 

The blur that hit Suguru materialized into Toji Fushiguro, his presence as sharp and lethal as the blade he wielded. Satoru’s heart sank as he recognized the man who had haunted his nightmares and memories—a predator without cursed energy to track, armed with the inverted spear of heaven. 

Suguru groaned, rolling to his feet, and Satoru felt a surge of panic. “Suguru, get back!” he barked, already moving to intercept the man. 

Toji swung the inverted spear with ruthless precision, forcing Satoru to backpedal. The blade hummed ominously, cutting through the air with a deadly promise. Satoru felt the weight of his past crash down on him; this wasn’t a fight he could afford to lose. 

But then he heard it. 

Sarah’s shriek. 

His head whipped around, his mind snapping to Shoko and Sarah. To his horror, he saw Shoko crumpled on the ground, clutching a nasty gash on her arm as Sarah stood over her, gripping a clump of snow like it could fend off Toji. 

“No.” 

Satoru moved without thinking, the world around him blurring as he appeared at their side. “Are you okay?!” he demanded, kneeling next to Shoko. 

“I’ll live,” Shoko muttered through gritted teeth, already working to heal the deep cut. Her fingers glowed faintly with cursed energy as she knit the wound back together. Despite her pain, her eyes were calm and steady, locking with Satoru’s for a moment. 

Sarah’s face, however, was pale with fear, her hands trembling as she tried to shield Shoko. She looked at Satoru like he was her lifeline, her only hope. “He—he’s gone. I don’t know where he is—” 

Satoru turned his head sharply, scanning the area, his six eyes struggling to detect Toji. Nothing. No cursed energy, no presence—just the ghost of danger lingering in the cold air. 

“Stay close,” he growled, his voice low and serious. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.” 

Sarah nodded, her grip on her improvised snow weapon tightening. 

Suguru was already rushing up the stairs to rejoin them, his face set in a grim determination. Satoru’s relief was brief; he couldn’t let his guard down for a second. 

Toji was faster than he remembered. Much faster. And more unpredictable. 

Satoru’s brain worked overtime, calculating every angle, every possible move Toji could make. He couldn’t feel him, couldn’t predict his movements, but he could anticipate. 

“Stay alert,” he said, his voice sharp and commanding. “He’s playing games. He wants us off balance.” 

Suguru reached them, positioning himself beside Satoru, his cursed spirits swirling protectively around him. His face was hard, but there was an edge of unease in his eyes. “What’s the plan?” he asked, his voice steady despite the tension in his stance. 

“We wait,” Satoru said, scanning the shadows. “Let him make the first move.” 

The air was heavy, every second stretching into an eternity. Snow fell softly around them, the silence broken only by the crunch of their shifting feet. 

And then, like a serpent striking from the dark, Toji reappeared.

Toji moved like a shadow with substance—impossible to pin down, and yet his strikes landed with brutal precision. Satoru and Suguru worked in sync, as they always had, yet Toji stayed one step ahead of them both, weaving through their attacks with a precision that bordered on superhuman. 

Satoru growled under his breath, his fingers glowing faintly with cursed energy as he aimed another blast at Toji. “He’s too damn fast,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his tone. 

Suguru wasn’t faring much better, his cursed spirits snapping at Toji like wild dogs only to be evaded or neutralized in a blink. “We can’t keep this up,” Suguru admitted, his voice tight. 

Toji smirked, his blade flashing in the dim light as he lunged at Satoru, forcing him to backpedal. Satoru gritted his teeth, catching the blow with a barrier of cursed energy that rippled like glass under pressure. He pushed back hard, the force sending Toji skidding across the icy ground. 

“Now!” Satoru shouted. 

Suguru took the cue, lunging forward with a burst of energy. He channeled his cursed spirits into a single strike, aiming to knock Toji clean off his feet and down the stairs. The plan seemed to work—Toji staggered, his balance faltering as he tumbled back. 

“Yes!” Suguru exhaled, relief washing over him. 

But Satoru’s heart dropped. 

“No. No, no, no,” he muttered, his six eyes flaring as he pieced it together. 

Toji’s fall wasn’t a loss—it was a calculated move. Satoru could see it now: the deliberate way Toji had shifted the fight, pulling them further and further from Shoko and Sarah. 

The bastard played us.

Without hesitation, Satoru vanished in a blur of speed, reappearing near the girls. His heart pounded as he scanned for Toji, but the scene was quiet. Too quiet. 

Then it hit him. 

Double bluff.

Satoru spun around just in time to see Toji move like a phantom, closing the distance to Suguru with terrifying speed. The gleam of the inverted spear of heaven flashed in the dim light, and before Satoru could react, Toji struck. 

“Suguru!” 

The blade slashed through Suguru’s chest, the force of the blow sending him reeling. He stumbled, his footing lost, and with a sickening inevitability, he toppled backward, careening down the icy stairs in sickening thuds.

Time slowed. 

Satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up, every muscle screaming to reach Suguru before he hit the bottom. But Toji wasn’t done—he turned on Satoru, readying for another strike. 

“Stay back!” Satoru barked, unleashing a wave of cursed energy to force Toji away. The effort left him exposed for a split second, but it was enough to reach the edge of the stairs where Suguru had fallen. 

Suguru lay crumpled at the base, groaning softly as he tried to push himself up. Blood dripped from his side where the blade had cut deep, staining the pristine snow in a vivid red.

Above him, Toji watched with a cold, calculating gaze, his weapon held loosely at his side. He didn’t pursue, not yet. 

Suguru’s coughing rattled like broken glass, his breaths shallow as blood seeped from the corner of his lips. His dark eyes fluttered open again, his gaze unfocused but stubborn. He started to speak, but Satoru shook his head urging him to stay still.

A scream split through the night air—Sarah’s voice, raw and filled with fury. 

“Stay back!” 

Satoru’s stomach twisted into knots as he whipped his head around, torn between staying with Suguru and rushing to the others. He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. This was the game Toji was playing: forcing him to make a choice. 

Suguru or the girls.

Satoru’s mind raced, weighing options he didn’t want to consider. Shoko was fragile in a fight, and Sarah was technically immortal. She could survive things others couldn’t. She’ll come back, he told himself, his jaw tightening with the bitter thought. But guilt still clawed at his chest as he made his decision. 

With a burst of cursed energy, Satoru darted back up the stairs, his speed a blur against the snow. 

The sight he was greeted with made his blood run cold. 

Toji stood at the top, gripping Sarah by the throat, her small form thrashing and kicking in his iron grip. Her hands clawed at his arm, her nails drawing blood and digging in as hard as she could. She may as well have been scratching at a lion.

“Put her down,” Satoru growled, his voice low and dangerous. 

Toji’s grin widened, his wild eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. “Too late for demands, kid,” he said, his tone mocking. 

Sarah, despite her situation, bared her teeth and reared back, sinking them into Toji’s hand. Toji flinched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, but his grip didn’t loosen. 

“You’ve got fight, I’ll give you that,” he muttered. Then, with cruel precision, his hand tightened around her throat, cutting off her air. Her eyes widened, rolling back as her struggles weakened. 

“Put her down!” Satoru roared, his cursed energy flaring around him like a living storm. 

Toji only chuckled, the sound dark and hollow.

With a sharp movement, Toji slashed at Sarah, his blade cutting deep, before tossing her to the ground like discarded trash. She hit the snow in a bloody heap, her body limp. 

Satoru’s world narrowed to a point, his vision tunneling as rage consumed him. He launched forward, a strike aimed directly at Toji, but the man was ready. Toji parried the attack with the inverted spear of heaven, the blade’s cursed energy nullifying Satoru’s own. 

The two clashed with violent force, Satoru’s blows relentless, fueled by anger and desperation. Toji smirked, darting back into the treeline with an agility that left Satoru no choice but to hold his ground. 

Satoru’s chest heaved as he stood over Sarah’s unmoving form, his fists clenched so tightly they shook. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the treeline, but the sound of Shoko’s voice behind him brought a sliver of relief. 

“Let me through,” she said, her tone sharp despite the tremor in her voice. 

“Not her,” Satoru muttered, his voice tight. “Just... I'll get you to Suguru.”

Shoko's eyes widened, but she understood.

Satoru moved swiftly, his hand firm on Shoko’s arm as they descended the snow-dusted stairs toward Suguru. The air was still tense, every shadow feeling like Toji’s lurking figure. He kept Shoko close, his senses heightened for any sign of an ambush. 

Halfway down, the sickening buzz of fly heads filled the air. Satoru’s jaw tightened. He remembered this move all too well from his past life—Toji’s distraction tactics. 

“Stay close,” he snapped, pulling Shoko against his side. 

Before the fly heads could swarm them, Satoru’s cursed energy flared as he activated his Blue technique. A wave of force exploded outward, sucking in and obliterating the grotesque creatures. Shoko pressed closer to him, shielding her eyes from the chaotic display. 

With the area cleared, Satoru turned his attention to Suguru. He couldn’t waste any time. Wrapping an arm around Shoko’s waist, he used Limitless to lift them both, flying down the stairs with precision and speed. 

Suguru was still on the ground, his breathing labored but steady. Satoru landed beside him, crouching to scoop him up with one arm. He barely paused, launching them all back up toward the relative safety of the landing. 

“Shoko, do your thing!” Satoru barked as soon as they touched down. 

Shoko dropped to her knees beside Suguru, her hands glowing as she began to heal him. But Satoru could see it wasn’t easy. Her face was pale, her breathing heavy as she worked to stabilize Suguru’s wounds. 

“Focus,” he muttered, standing protectively in front of them. His six eyes scanned the treeline, every muscle in his body taut. He could feel Toji out there, moving like a phantom. 

Then he felt it—the inverted spear of heaven. A sharp, cold presence that cut through the air. Without hesitation, Satoru fired a beam of Red in the direction of the cursed weapon. The blast ripped through the trees in a deafening explosion, clearing a wide path of destruction. 

But within that explosion, Toji emerged, unscathed and grinning like a predator. 

“Miss me?” Toji taunted, closing the distance with terrifying speed. 

Satoru barely had time to react as Toji lunged, slamming into him and sending Shoko sprawling to the ground. The inverted spear slashed toward him, and Satoru raised his arms, physically blocking the hit since Limitless wouldn’t work against the cursed tool. Pain shot through him, but he didn’t let it show. 

“Cheap shot,” Satoru growled, spinning to catch Shoko before she hit the ground. 

Toji didn’t let up, his attacks relentless as he aimed for Satoru, Suguru, or Shoko—whoever seemed the most vulnerable in the moment. Satoru was forced to move like a blur, blocking, dodging, and redirecting Toji’s strikes to protect his friends. 

It was starting to unnerve him. Toji wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting to destabilize, to push Satoru into making a mistake. 

“I’m getting real tired of this game, old man,” Satoru snarled, his tone deceptively casual despite the tension in his shoulders. 

Toji only chuckled, his movements as fluid and calculated as ever. “What’s the matter, Gojo? Feeling a little off-balance?” 

Satoru’s grin was sharp, masking the way his mind raced for a solution. He could feel Shoko struggling to keep Suguru alive behind him, and every second Toji stayed on the offensive was another second too long. 

“Off-balance?” Satoru echoed, his voice laced with mockery. “Buddy, I’m always on top.” 

With that, he slammed his hands together, his cursed energy spiking dangerously. If Toji wanted chaos, Satoru would give him chaos.

The air crackled with energy as Satoru blinked to the side, then reappeared behind Toji in a daring feint. With a quick flick of his wrist, he fired off a Red, the cursed energy tearing through the space between them. Toji, ever the strategist, raised the inverted spear, absorbing the brunt of the blast before retaliating with a vicious slash. 

The clash escalated, the ground beneath them cracking and splintering with every step and strike. Satoru’s precision and speed matched Toji’s raw, brutal power, but Toji wasn’t fighting for a clean win—he was fighting to keep Satoru on edge. His movements were calculated, darting toward Suguru and Shoko without warning, forcing Satoru to divide his focus. 

“Really? Using my friends as bait?” Satoru scoffed, his voice sharp with mockery, though his heart hammered in his chest. “Classy move, asshole. Real honorable.” 

Toji grinned, his eyes wild with the thrill of the fight. “Whatever works, kid.” 

Satoru's mind raced. He needed a way to turn the tide without putting his friends at risk. A domain expansion would be a surefire win, but it would trap Shoko and Suguru along with Toji—and Shoko couldn’t stop healing Suguru for even a moment. 

The memories of his first battle with Toji clawed at the edges of his mind. The lack of preparation, the overconfidence, the way Toji had completely blindsided him. This fight felt eerily similar, except now, Satoru had more than just himself to worry about. 

Gritting his teeth, he used Blue again, clearing a swath of the surrounding woods and forcing Toji back into direct combat. He drew the man in, deliberately letting him land a hit with the inverted spear. Pain flared as the weapon sliced through his defense, but Satoru’s counterstrike was swift, his cursed energy slamming into Toji and sending him flying. 

Or so he thought. 

Toji’s smirk was the first sign that something was wrong. Satoru barely had time to process it before Toji let himself be flung backward—straight into Shoko. 

“NO!” Satoru roared, his voice echoing in the icy air. 

The inverted spear drove into Shoko’s back, and she gasped, choking on the impact. Her hands glowed faintly as she immediately tried to heal herself, but her movements were sluggish, her breath shallow. 

Satoru moved to block Toji’s next move, but the man was already ahead of him. With a brutal kick, he sent Suguru’s limp body tumbling down the icy stairs. 

“No, no, no!” Satoru’s heart dropped as he watched Suguru’s form bounce down the steps, blood trailing behind him like a crimson ribbon. 

Fueled by a mix of rage and desperation, Satoru turned back to Toji, his six eyes blazing. “You’re dead.” 

But Toji was already retreating, a satisfied grin plastered across his face. He disappeared into the shadows of the trees, leaving Satoru to pick up the pieces. 

Satoru was at Shoko’s side in an instant, his hands hovering uselessly as she worked to stabilize herself. “Shoko, stay with me. You’re okay, you’re okay.” 

She gave him a weak glare, her voice barely audible. “Focus... on the fight... you idiot.” 

Her words spurred him into action.

Satoru barely spared a glance behind him. He trusted Shoko. She was tough, she was brilliant, and she wasn’t about to let Toji’s cheap shot take her down.

The cold wind cut against his face as he moved, his limitless barrier shimmering faintly as it carved a path through the forest. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, his Six Eyes locking onto Toji’s presence even as the man darted through the trees like a shadow. 

“Oh no, you’re not getting away this time,” Satoru growled, his voice laced with uncharacteristic venom. 

Toji turned to face him, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. Satoru’s jaw tightened. The ground trembled beneath them as Satoru attacked, his cursed energy surging in blinding bursts of power. Toji dodged and countered with precision, his inverted spear striking fast and hard. But this time, Satoru wasn’t holding back. Every blow he landed sent shockwaves through the air, every burst of cursed energy forcing Toji further on the defensive. 

Toji's speed was undeniable, his movements almost impossible to predict. But Satoru wasn’t just fast—he was relentless, and his Six Eyes calculated every shift, every twitch of muscle with pinpoint accuracy. 

Toji swung the spear, aiming for Satoru’s barrier, but the sorcerer dodged effortlessly, flickering out of range before reappearing behind him. A brutal kick to Toji’s back sent him stumbling forward, his footing faltering for the first time. 

“You’re losing your edge, old man,” Satoru taunted, his grin sharp and wild. 

Toji’s smirk flickered for a moment, replaced by a glint of something Satoru rarely saw in his enemies: surprise. Just a flicker, but it was enough. 

“That’s the look,” Satoru said, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s the face I wanted to see.” 

Before Toji could recover, Satoru brought his hands together, his cursed energy swelling around him like a storm. “Let’s see how you handle this up close.” 

The air crackled, a vibrant mix of blue and red energy converging at Satoru's outstretched hand. Toji’s eyes widened slightly as the realization dawned. 

“Hollow Purple."

The explosion of energy was deafening, a blinding burst of violet light that ripped through the forest, obliterating everything in its path. At point-blank range, Toji had no chance to dodge. The wave of destruction tore through him, the sheer force sending his body careening into the trees before slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. 

Satoru landed lightly, his breath visible in the icy air as he surveyed the scene. The trees around them had been stripped bare, the ground scorched and littered with debris. And at the center of it all was Toji, crumpled and motionless. 

In a heartbeat, he was at the bottom of the stairs, kneeling beside Suguru’s broken body. His best friend’s breathing was shallow, his face pale against the blood staining the snow. 

“Come on, Suguru,” Satoru murmured, his hands trembling as he assessed the damage. “You’re not leaving me like this. Not now.” 

Above them, the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a cold, golden glow over the carnage. Satoru’s jaw clenched as he felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him. Toji had outmaneuvered him again.

Satoru’s heart was in his throat as he sprinted back up the stairs. His chest heaved, but it wasn’t from exertion—he couldn’t remember the last time he felt genuine panic like this. The forest around him blurred into streaks of gray and white, but his focus was razor-sharp. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, the sight knocked the breath out of him. 

Shoko was crumpled on the ground, her hair splayed across the blood-streaked snow. Her chest rose and fell faintly, but she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t conscious. 

“Shoko!” His voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he grabbed her shoulders and gently shook her. “Come on, get up! I need you!” 

She didn’t stir. 

“No, no, no, this isn’t happening,” Satoru muttered, panic rising like bile in his throat. He shook her harder, his usual composure shattered. “Shoko, wake up! Suguru needs you! I need you!” 

But there was no response. 

His head whipped around to Suguru, lying so far away. He was so pale, too pale. The blood pooling beneath him was a glaring red. Satoru’s chest tightened. Carefully lifting Shoko, he brought her closer and laid her beside Suguru.

He crawled over to him, pressing trembling hands against the deep gash on Suguru's chest. There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a healer. He couldn’t close wounds like Shoko could. 

“Damn it,” Satoru hissed, his vision blurring. “You’re not allowed to die. You hear me? You’re not allowed.” 

Suguru’s eyes fluttered open briefly, glassy and unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came out. 

“Save your strength, okay?” Satoru’s voice was frantic, the words spilling out like a prayer. “You’re going to be fine. Shoko’s... Shoko’s going to fix you. She always fixes us.” 

But even as he said it, he knew the truth. His Six Eyes could see the faint flicker of life in both of them, like a candle guttering in the wind. Too faint. Too far gone. 

Satoru clenched his teeth, his hands curling into fists against the frozen ground. “No. No, no, no!” He struck the snow with his fist, the icy sting biting into his skin. “This isn’t how it ends! It’s not supposed to be like this!”

But the world didn’t care about what was supposed to happen.

For the second time in his life, Satoru Gojo—the strongest—felt powerless. The weight of that realization crushed him, suffocating and unbearable. His friends were slipping away, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

A hollow laugh bubbled up in his throat, bitter and broken. The silence around him was deafening, the cold gnawing at his flesh as the wind whispered through the trees.

He stayed there, kneeling between his two friends—the strongest sorcerer in the world, completely and utterly helpless.

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