#i will hear no argument to the contrary | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chuluoyi · 4 months ago

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✎ all of me

- gojo satoru x reader

you understand that some things in marriage just needs compromise. and he soon understands too, when you're at your most vulnerable and he fails to be by your side when you need him the most

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship (you're married & have a son!) argument, feral gojo, mentions of injury & blood, fluff

note: if it isn't obvious by now i'm in the mood of angst-hurt/comfort this week HEHE :)) this is longer than the usual love entry, so i hope you'll enjoy it!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Bantering with your husband is not uncommon―in fact, it happens on daily basis.

"Satoru― I'm talking to you!"

But having serious arguments with him is another matter entirely.

Your fists tightening at your sides, facing his unamused expression. How insufferable is he? You told him that everyday, but right now, he's truly surpassed previous levels of infuriating behavior.

"And I can hear you, sweetheart," he retorted, casting a glance your way. The term of endearment he used for you sounding almost like a sneer to your ears and you felt offended.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," you griped, trying to calm your emotions, still balling your hands. "Someone is following our son on his way back from school―how can you be this... flippant?!"

Numerous photograph of your son exiting the school building from different angles had arrived in your mailbox, and if it wasn't a creepy warning from those who placed a target on his back, then you didn't know what it was.

Satoru let out an exasperated grunt. "I'm telling you, I'll pick him up for the rest of the week. No one will lay a hand on him."

You gritted your teeth. "And I'm telling you, they're trying to make you do just that. Even morons know not to mess with you― they're leaving hints, and you're taking the bait!"

Contrary to what you believed, Satoru felt just as worried as you upon knowing that someone might have marked his precious son, who was now six years old and had recently started attending preschool.

But this is where your approaches differ. You are always the cautious one, overanalyzing each detail, while he leans towards being impulsive, often resorting to brute force.

"Who do you think can stand a chance against me?" Satoru challenged with a real sneer this time. "Remember my words, wife, no one is going to hurt me, you or our baby. I'll end them where they stand."

"That's not the point!" you threw your hands in the air, irate. "Satoru, they're going to take advantage of―"

"Look, I don't want to argue with you." Satoru's gaze was hard on you, his tone clipped, and it made you stiffen. "His safety comes first— and you, of all people, should know I'd never let anything happen to him. You need to quit nitpicking and have a little faith in me."

"I know you are more than capable, but you are not―!"

And then he said it, and his words piercing through you like a knife―

"Don't compare me to you," your husband remarked a little too coldly. "I can do things you can't. Just rest your pretty head, I'll take care of the rest."

Nevermind that he blatantly dismissed your skills as a jujutsu sorcerer, nevermind that he totally didn't listen to you at all―he just went and made himself look like some sort unparalleled god, forgetting how much his hubris could actually take him.

And all these thoughts only made you angrier.

"So be it then." You tried desperately to hold yourself from shaking because you'd be damned if you showed it to him. "A word of advice, Satoru: beware of your arrogance."

With those words, you spun around, marching off toward your son's room, because no way in hell was you going to sleep with that obnoxious prick tonight.

But when you caught the sight of your baby scuttling away from the gap in the door, a fragment of your heart crumbled. Oh. He has seen it all.

In Gojo Satoru's mind, he is made of two things: a powerful jujutsu sorcerer and a family man.

With his immense strength, comes a certain responsibility. And with that responsibility, certain habits have formed. If you just took a few seconds to breathe and looked back throughout the past decade he'd spent with you, you'd know that in fact―

It was also his way to shield you. Satoru stands by the principle that you and his little boy must be protected at all cost, and he most certainly would pull all stops to do just that.

But frankly, he couldn't deny that he felt insulted by how defiant you were. Did you really think he would let anyone ever touch your―his―son? He wouldn't, they'd meet his wrath first and you should've known that.

Still, something akin to guilt nudged at his conscience as he lay alone in your shared bed that night. It felt strange not having you cuddling him. He felt empty.

. . .

None of your shampoo-scented pillow, none of your nightdresses, all of it replaced by a single photo hanging in the wall and the urn of ashes—

Abruptly, he jerked his eyes open, shaken from the most dreadful nightmare he had experienced—

Of you no longer by his side.

“Mama.” Your little boy looked up to you with his doe-blue eyes in the next day, his hand gripping yours. “I’ll be fine.”

You were accompanying him to the preschool. While Satoru had requested Ichiji to drive him, you insisted on tagging along to keep a watchful eye as well. You'd leave your husband to pick him up later just as he wanted.

“Huh?” you turned to him, tilting your head.

“I'll stick by Uncle Ichiji's side the entire time,” he replied in a murmur. “And papa will be picking me up too later. If there are bad guys, they'll get him first.”

You bit your lip, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. Your boy witnessed your outburst last night and hadn't inquired about it until now, and even then, he was trying to reassure you.

“So… don’t fight.” His round, cerulean eyes then darted towards you, blinking hesitantly, causing you to catch your breath.

He looks so much like Satoru. At six years old, he was the spitting image of him, except his personality—he took after you in that area. It was as if your son was a softer, more innocent version of him. And your heart twisted, remembering your argument last night.

Don't compare me to you.

With a sigh, you bent down to be eye-level with him and managed a smile, holding both of his little hands. “I’m sorry… it was just misunderstanding last night, okay? Don’t worry.”

“…really?”

“Really. Mama and papa were just tired,” you tried to reason, a thin smile on your face. "It's going to be okay, just like you said, yeah? Papa will beat the bad guys out there."

“Will he pull through...? If they bring a knife, and he's just there laughing, they can cut him.”

A giggle escaped your lips at your baby's innocent wonderings, easing the ache in your heart as you recalled how Satoru humored him in so many ways.

You gently poked your son in the cheek. "Nah, do you remember what he always goes on about?"

He puffed up his cheeks in response, his expression turning sour as if combing through memories of hundreds of shenanigans Satoru had instigated to recall his words. You let out a hearty chuckle, finding him so adorable.

"He's strong, he's going to win. He always does."

"Oh. Mmm." Your son scrunched up his nose cutely, before looking away and squeezing your hand. A sincerer smile bloomed in your lips, heart melting at the sight of your growing munchkin.

You will protect him. And maybe you could patch things up with Satoru later that night. Maybe yesterday you were just too paranoid.

That was the plan... at least until your son suddenly screamed—someone wrenching him from your grasp. Without a second thought, you reacted, flipping the attacker away from you and him.

. . . and that was the beginning of how everything started to unravel so terribly that day.

"Gojo-san...! There's been an incident!"

He got that call right after he finished some things with Yaga. Satoru teleported to the preschool right away, only to be greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Several teachers stood outside the building, and police officers were present at the scene. It was all a blur of cursed energy until his eyes caught sight of—

His little boy, red-faced and obviously in fear, was clinging to Ichiji, who was frantically making calls. Some teachers gathered around him were seemingly trying to coax him to speak.

He didn't waste a second to dash towards him, tearing through the crowd.

"Are you okay? Hey, buddy, what happened?" Satoru pulled him away from Ichiji and turned him over, crouching to his level to check for any signs of injury or harm.

And upon seeing him actually here, his son's eyes immediately welled up with tears, and Satoru felt a chill run through his veins as he broke into sobs, which quickly turned into heart-wrenching wails.

"Mama—! F-find mama—!" the little boy choked out through his tears, clutching onto his shirt tightly and crumbling in his embrace, thoroughly inconsolable.

Satoru's sharp gaze quickly swept over the scene, seeking any clues, while he tightened his hold over him. It was then he noticed traces of your cursed energy mingled with blood.

They hurt you.

"Hey, kiddo—listen to me, it's going to be alright, yeah?" Satoru said, gently pulling away to wipe away his tears, holding the boy's face tenderly in his hands. "Go with Ichiji for now, okay? I'm going to bring mama back, I promise."

He didn't need to be told twice. Your son is always obedient when it matters the most. He gave him a small nod, still shaking with tears.

"Don't worry," he flashed a reassuring smile and ruffled his hair. "I'm the strongest, remember? I'll get her back," he vowed once again. "She'll be fine. Wait for me until then, yeah?"

Ichiji was ready to leave as he had called for those in headquarters as backup in case anything were to happen again. Trusting him to keep his son safe, Satoru took off as soon as he could no longer see the sight of his son's tear-streaked face trying to watch him as the car pulled away.

"I won't repeat myself— where is my wife?"

Satoru wasn't playing this time. He skipped past taunts and just plain threats. These little fries, he thought.

The man he held by the throat was in a lot of distress. "Hyaaa! It's him! Please, please, let me go! I'm acting under orders!"

He then flung him across the wall— might have added more cursed energy than necessary.

At the moment, his entire focus was on trying to locate you. He couldn't let his mind wander to anything else; in fact, he didn't permit himself to.

It didn't take him long to piece together the general location of where you were through the residual of your cursed energy. They stationed several hooligans in this abandoned warehouse to stall him, but he got rid of them quickly and he could sense that you were close by.

"It's Gojo Satoru!"

"Run! Ruuuun!"

What a pain. They picked the wrong person to mess with, and Satoru's lips curled into a manic grin as he opened his palm, pulling them in—

"Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue."

Chaos erupted as the building collapsed around him. He hoped you would realize he was here and manage to avoid getting caught in the wreckage. He was sure you'd know though.

And true to his thoughts, soon he found you— blasting your attacker away with a powerful kick.

Satoru thought that you were a sight to behold, really. And he was about to call out to you when he felt it.

It happened almost in an instant. The way his heart dropped to his stomach, and how his body reacted, barely whispering the incantation for Red as he shot it at something lurking behind you—

At that moment, the only thing you were aware of was the foul stench of a curse. Time seemed to stop before the overwhelming force of Red expelled it away from you.

But before then, you experienced a searing, white-hot pain that scorched through your flesh and pierced your abdomen—

"Y/N―fuck―!" The voice that came from Satoru's throat was raw and laden with panic.

He pulled you against him protectively as you collapsed, blinded by pain. He immediately felt warmth spreading across his lower body—your blood was rapidly drenching his shirt, and he felt a shiver down his spine.

You held onto him tightly while suppressing your scream, feeling every bit of your strength drain away along with the dark crimson blood that poured out of you.

"―toru―" you managed to croak amidst the scalding pain, curling and whimpering in his hold.

"Hey― sweetheart, please―" his voice rang in your ears, as he pressed down on your wound. His hands were shaking, and you clawed at him and groaned in agony. "I-I'm taking you back now― You're going to be alright, yeah?"

The wound was beyond anything you had experienced before, causing you to cry out and gasp for air. It was almost as if something fried your insides. It was hard to stay conscious.

"I've got you now. You're going to be okay." His voice was coarse, as he hurriedly carried you out. And he tried not to let the full-blown panic take over him when your body went limp in his arms, your breaths slowing, head lolling in his chest.

"You're going to be alright! You hear me, sweetheart? You're going to make it. Our baby― he's waiting for you. I promise you, you're going to be fine―"

Perhaps he was trying to tell that to himself, because despite the excruciating pain, a wave of reassurance washed over you.

You were in the arms of the strongest sorcerer alive, what more could you possibly afraid of?

A special grade curse. They had actually unleashed a potent curse and likely aimed at him as their final card—until it veered off course and struck you, leaving a searing gash across your abdomen.

Satoru felt numb as he sat in the waiting room in his bloodied uniform. You got hurt so terribly right in front of his eyes, and all he could feel was this profound void that seemed to bore through him and pierced his soul.

He was supposed to protect you. He said it to your face that nothing and no one would touch your son, and it was in his wedding vows that he'd protect you with his life too.

And yet what happened?

If only he was faster. If only he was able to pull you to him and protect you with his infinity—none of this shit would have happened.

Seeing your face twisted in agony and smeared with blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Inside that OR, you hovered on the brink of life and death, and he was here, unable to do anything.

Satoru rested his head against the wall, feeling a sharp pain surge through his chest. He remembered waking up to your face every morning, the way your touches felt, and how you had brightened his world for the past decade. If he lost you now... he wouldn't survive it. He would wreck anything, everything—

"Papa!" and came his voice of reason. Satoru immediately discarded his bloodstained jacket by instinct, throwing it away before his boy could see it, with Ichiji and Megumi closely trailing behind.

His son crashed himself into him and threw his little arms around his torso, crying—and in that very second, the thump of his heart sounded louder in his ears. Somehow it felt like a knife that twisted his insides.

"Hey, kiddo." Satoru repositioned him so that he would sit on his lap and hugged him, patting him in the back. "There, there... it's alright, yeah? Mama is inside, she'll get better soon."

Your little boy pulled away and wiped his eyes, and Satoru chuckled as he helped him blow his nose. His child was incredibly adorable, and his actions mirrored yours to such an extent that it made Satoru's heart soften.

"Mama g-got hurt trying to... tell me to g-go..." the boy suddenly said amidst his quieter sniffles. "And... she s-said... papa— i-is strong and g-going to win..."

You believe in him. Ignoring the ache in his chest, only able to reply him with a "Yeah..."

Not long after, Shoko emerged from the operating room and informed him that the surgery had been successful, though you would likely need to have a one-week stay in the hospital for observation. He intended to move you to the VIP suite and stay the night there, but then he remembered his son, who was holding his hand.

Satoru crouched down and patted him in the head, fixing him a smile. "See? Mama is okay, but she needs to sleep here to get even better. Now you go home first with big brother Megumi, yeah?"

Your son adored Megumi and often begged you to let him stay over at his place, but this time he looked hesitant, fiddling with his little fingers. "Really? Mama will be home... soon?"

"Mm-hmm, the more she sleeps here, the faster she'll go back home, alright?"

And with that, his baby nodded and Satoru turned to Megumi with a nod. "Thank you for this, Megumi."

The boy whose life he had once saved on some sort of a whim, now grown up and shared the same concern he had for you, Fushiguro Megumi had never before witnessed his benefactor expressing such sincere gratitude for anything before.

When you came to, your body felt as heavy as lead.

The discomfort in your abdomen made you flinch, and you almost let out a groan until you turned to your side and saw him.

Satoru was asleep while sitting in the sofa next to your bed, dark circles evident under his eyes. It might have been your imagination, but his cheeks appeared to be slightly red too.

You tried to recall what had happened to you when it came back—you urging your son to run away as you let yourself being taken away, almost escaping from that warehouse, the flash of excruciating pain, and Satoru's stricken voice.

So he must've been here since last night. Any remnants of your disagreement seemed to have vanished, seeing him there with you, barely covering himself with the blanket, with a frown still marking his forehead even in his sleep.

You wanted to reach out to him until the movement sent a sharp jab to your stomach and you cried out a bit.

In that split second, Satoru's eyes jerked open, and realizing you were awake, his gaze locked onto yours. "Y/N—" But your strained whimper and expression told him everything. "Does it hurt? I-I'll get Shoko, wait—"

And then he hit the call button. Throughout it all, he kept a firm grip on your hand for reassurance. A few minutes later, Shoko arrived and examined your wound, subsequently administering painkillers to alleviate your discomfort.

"It's going to leave a scar," she explained grimly, showing the mangled skin where the curse had made its mark on you, and seeing that, Satoru clenched his fists.

Shoko sighed, empathizing with her friend's frustration. "It's going to fade with time, don't worry. You did well, Gojo. You brought her here quickly. Had you been even slightly later, there could have been an irreversible damage to her organs."

But your husband remained quiet, unable to bring himself to look at you. And after she left, you tried to finally voice your question to him.

"O-our—"

"He's fine," Satoru immediately answered, squeezing your hand. "Our boy is fine. I'll tell Megumi to visit later—he's with him."

A sigh of relief came out of you. "Thank... goodness."

But his expression seemed to fall even further after hearing your response. Satoru settled himself on the seat next to you and lowered the rail on your bed, allowing you to be even closer to each other.

"Do you not feel any pain anymore?" he asked then, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He looked so sad, a stark contrast of how he usually was, and it bugged you.

"No... I feel fine now."

"Then, can I hug you?"

Of course you nodded without a second thought, and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you close and resting his face on the crook of your neck.

You knew what it was. Satoru was still visibly shaken by what had happened to you, and he wasn't great at expressing himself, so he tried to find consolation through this physical closeness instead.

"I'm okay..." you patted his back, trying to convince him. "I'm alright now, yeah?" But to your surprise, suddenly his whole body started to shake. "Satoru...?"

“…’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he nuzzled you. “I shouldn't... have let you get this hurt...”

It always amazes you how Satoru always gets this distressed whenever you sustain any injury. You had seen him cry precisely two times now—once after you gave birth to your son and experienced severe bleeding, and now.

"It's not your fault..." you whispered in response. "You... have protected me well."

He held you tighter, his tone faltering. "I didn't."

"You have..." you stroked his hair, trying to convince him. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hearing you say that made Satoru's chest ache. The thought of something like this happening to you was unimaginable, and now that it had, he couldn't come to terms with seeing you hurt right in front of him.

"Don't—" he choked on his voice, his breath trembled against your neck. "Don't ever put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself..."

You couldn't make that promise. Despite the pleading in his voice, you knew deep down that your son's life—and his—meant more, and given the chance, you would obviously save theirs for yours.

“Satoru... I love you, you know that, right?”

So you simply embraced him close, hoping that in this life, you would live long enough that he would never have to see you like this again.

Epilogue

"Papa, how do I become stronger?"

Satoru blinked when his son asked him that so innocently and curiously, taken aback as he led him to your private room later that afternoon. "Oh? What brought this on?"

His first and only son, a perfect miniature of himself, pursed his lips. "I don't want Mama to get hurt again..."

Satoru's heart warmed at his baby’s sincere words, and despite himself, he chuckled.

"What's funny?" his son leveled a glare at him. "I'm being serious."

"Well, aren't you such a good boy? Don't worry, kiddo, I'll teach you my ways~"

"What ways?"

"Well, no need to rush, pumpkin. First of all, you will have to harness your skills and then you have to be more like me—"

"Do I have to be like you…? Is there no other way?"

"—? What's wrong with being more like me?"

"Everything...?"

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amy-chow · 10 months ago

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judges give raena a 10 challenge!!

#i won’t hear arguments to the contrary

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doyouknowthemossinman · 2 years ago

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i can only eat hot chip, watch ted lasso, and cry. it is simply the cycle of my life

#episode 9 is perfect and i will hear no arguments to the contrary #treewords

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cvpidzcvrse · 5 months ago

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𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

MDNI, like pls omg leave me alone

✦ A/N: omg this my is first time writing a small story or even smut in a whileeee. To introduce myself, i made a tiny little post, check it out!! anyways, enjoy this one loves!!

⋆.ೃ࿔*synopsis: Armin had pissed you off at Connie's birthday bash and you weren't gonna let him forget about it. But little did you know you weren't the only stern one in the relationship.

⋆.ೃ࿔*wc: 2,097

⋆.ೃ࿔*warnings: slight msub, switchy, arguments, begging, praise, make-up sex, degradation, missionary, mating press, pussy slaps, squirting, oral fem!receiving, slight kissing of the feet, p in v, and ofc creampie (practice safe sex)

(I'm an advocate for top armin.)

Armin Arlert pissed you off. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t get mad at a man or even throw a fit at one because you didn’t want to waste your time. But here you are, in the living room of your shared apartment. Y’all have been arguing for hours since you came home from Connie’s party, You’re sure the neighbors are posted up with a bag of popcorn and a free show they can hear through the walls. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if someone wrote a book about it.

You let out another sigh before crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at Armin once again. He rolls his eyes in response before sitting down on a chair next to your kitchen island.

That sassy mothafucka.

“You know I don’t fuck with that bitch Minnie and you still started chatting her up. What? You wanna fuck her next? Huh?” You huffed out while looking at him with some crazed look. He must’ve thought you were some dumb heffer who doesn’t know when a girl is flirting with her man. You practically have steam blowing out of your ears, anyone can see that you’re pissed. Contrary to your current attitude, Armin looks at you with that worried and loving look in his eyes.

“I didn’t know you didn’t fuck with her, love! I swear I never would’ve talked to her if I knew. Also, I wasn’t ‘chatting her up’ we had a 2-second conversation and that’s all.” He responds this time he gets up from his seat and starts walking towards you. Once he’s a breath away from you he grabs your hand and holds it for a few seconds before you snatch it away and walk past him, your heels clicking dramatically on the floor. You hear him let out a sigh as you take your dear time walking to your bedroom. You weren’t going to let his loverboy tactics get to you, you seemingly shook it off.

��Babe come on, you’re acting crazy.” Crazy. Crazy he says, you stop in your tracks before taking a breath and slowly turning to face him. You blink at him for a bit before walking towards him. The only thing that can be heard is your heels connecting with the floor and your heart pounding out of your chest. “Crazy? You think I’m fucking crazy?” You squint at him, the tone in your voice daring him to say it again. You stop about 2 feet in front of him, with your hands on your hips and an angry glint in your eyes. “No…no. I didn’t say you were crazy. I said you were acting crazy. Baby, you know I would never call you crazy.” He’s reaching to you with his eyes, pleading that you understand where he’s coming from, but the anger never leaves your eyes.

“No nigga, you just called me fucking crazy. Talk with caution, because I’m not having it.” You step close enough to slightly nudge his chest with your acrylic nails. You stare at him for a bit before turning and walking back to your bedroom.

“That is not what I fucking said and you know that! You’re twisting my words!” He continues to plead after you but you’re not having it. You just chuckle a bit at the statements. “Don’t walk away from me, (✧)!” Slam!

The door shuts with such force you can hear the neighbors banging on the shared bedroom wall. You walk towards your vanity and take a seat on the matching chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror before letting out a frustrated sigh. The front door slammed closed before you let out a loud groan and started your nightly routine.

1 hour later

You’re lying in bed in a graphic tee and shorts, alright by Victoria Monet playing softly in the background. You fix the purple silk bonnet on your head before finishing up the paragraph you sent to your group chat. You’ve told your best friends everything about the argument, of course since they’re your ride or dies they completely agree with you. Terms like ‘fuck that nigga’ and ‘fuck ass nigga’ are being said constantly which brings a small smile to your face. You continue to type before you hear a knock on the bedroom door. You know it’s Armin, and still holding a grudge you don’t get up or answer. You hear the knock again but this time it’s louder.

“Love, can I come in? I want to talk.”

You hear his soft voice through the door, sounding like a sad puppy. You let out a small sigh before mumbling a soft ‘Come in’. He slowly opens the door and notices your smooth brown skin shimmer in the glow of the fairy lights hanging above your bed. He melts at the sight of your body sitting there but completely ignores the irked look on your face.

“I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry for arguing with you, I knew you were right just, Please…”

He pleads softly, taking another step towards. You sit up on the bed still looking up at him with an ‘I’m not having it.’ look on your face.

“Armin-”

“No…Listen to me, please. I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. You were right, I was being stubborn, I wasn’t listening to you. This isn’t us, and you know that.…”

He rambles on softly, still looking at you with pleading eyes. He takes another step forward before grabbing your hand softly.

“I can do better…for you…I don’t deserve you. I’ll spend lifetimes to be the man you deserve.”

You blink in surprise at his sincerity. You sigh softly before taking your hand out of his. You look up at him shaking your head.

“Armin, come on…you don’t-”

“Baby, please? Forgive me. Do you want me to beg? I’ll do anything.” Armin starts getting down on his knees in front of your feet. Your mouth goes agape before trying to pull him back up.

“Armin, please you-”

“Baby please, please, please, forgive me. My love…” He starts begging on the ground. He grabs your leg and starts rubbing it softly. You sharply gasp at his soft touch and his cold hands. He trails small kisses up your leg, mumbling soft ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me’. He makes it up to your thighs before looking up at you with those pitiful puppy dog eyes.

“Let me make you feel good. Fuck my face, please.”

He begs while giving your plump thighs loving kisses. You cave into his lover boy approach and slightly open your legs. He smiles lightly before grabbing your legs and putting them over his shoulders. You grab his hair roughly and bury his face into your pussy, he moans into it before harshly grabbing your hips. He gives your clit small kisses before you groan with his teasing. You grab his hair and pull it harshly so he’s looking up at you.

“Eat it right.” You tug at his hair again before he pushes his face into your cunt and sucks your clit hard. You let out a breathy moan before dipping your head back in satisfaction.

“I’ll do better for you, I promise.”

He groans again, sending vibrations straight to your clit. You let out another moan before he pushes his tongue further inside. He takes his free hand to rub the bulge in his pants. He can cum just from eating you and he wouldn’t complain. You can feel your orgasm approaching as he’s working wonders on your clit.

“Armin…I’m about to..”

He nods slowly before licking more aggressively on your clit. He chuckles a bit as your hips thrust into his face.

“Come on baby, you can do it. Do it for me.”

He mumbles into your lips before he does one more good attack on your clit before you cover his face in your juices. You let out a loud moan as you try to catch your breath, you look down at him as he pulls away with a string of saliva leaving his lips. He looks at you with his pussy drunk eyes before smiling softly.

“What else does this greedy pussy need? Huh?”

His voice makes a shiver go down your spine and your pussy grows even wetter. As he gets up you hear the unbuckling of his belt. He slowly undoes every buckle and unzips his pants. You whimper slightly at his teasing and give him a small frown.

“I know baby, I know. Lay back for me..” He whispers in your ear before putting his hand on your shoulder and softly pushing you back. He lifts your legs on his shoulders, letting out a sigh while admiring your glistening lips.

“You’re such a slutty mess..”

He mumbles before taking his cock out and slapping it against your clit. You whimper slightly before looking up at him with pleading eyes. He just gives you the same pussy drunk stare before chuckling.

“Please?”

He gets closer to your face, your nose practically touching. You nod quickly before his cock sinks into you, he lets out a moan before slowly moving in and out. Your eyes roll back from the pleasure heading straight to your head. Armin’s pace quickens as his moans get louder.

“You piss me off sometimes, you know that?”

His pace grows harsher and sloppier after every word he says. Your moans grow louder as tears start building. He takes pleasure in turning you into a dick-addicted slut, he looks down to take in the view. Your tits bounce every time his dick plunges into you, his cock twitches at the sight before his head falls back with pleasure.

“You love making me mad, just so I can treat you like a slut.”

You’re completely zoned out as his cock is hitting that spot you loved. He’s turned you into putty in his hands, you’re a moaning mess getting put in your place by your boyfriend.

“You take this dick so fucking good, Fuuuck.”

He lets out another drawn-out moan before slowing down his pace. You let out a loud whimper as your eyes shoot open at the sudden change of pace.

“Minnie…”

He laughs at your frayed voice and continues his torment with his very slow thrust.

“Look at it go in and out, look at what this dick does to you, baby.”

He smirks before pushing your knees to your shoulder and picking up the pace again. Your bedroom is flooded with the aroma of sex, your moans can be heard over the music that’s playing. The neighbors will definitely give y’all another noise complaint, but you could care less about that. Armin’s pace starts getting sloppy as he speeds up, pushing you into a mating press.

“You drive me…fucking crazy, shit.”

He moans loudly again before he leans down and gives you a messy kiss. A string of saliva leaves his lips before he harshly slams his cock into that favorite spot of yours. He’s fucking you deep into the mattress, you don’t know where your back starts and the mattress begins. Your eyes are practically stuck in your head, the bliss is so strong you can't barely moan anymore. You claw at the bedsheets as you feel pressure building in the pit of your stomach.

“Minnie, I’m about to cum.” You let out another soft moan before he speeds up his pace again.

“Say…say you forgive me. Say…it” He groans as he quickens the pace, the squeaking of your mattress gets louder as he loses control and completely fumbles.

“You can’t cum unless you say it, just say it…please.”

He’s plowing into your pussy so good you’re too stunned to speak. After a few seconds, you compose yourself enough to say the words he’s been wanting to hear.

“I for…forgive you. Please let me cum, please I need it minnie.”

“Good girl…”

He takes his hand and rubs circles around your clit, tears fall from the corner of your eyes before reaching your relief.

“Fuuuck..”

You let out the loudest moan you could muster, now you’re 100% sure the neighbors heard that. Armin lets out one last sharp stroke before he cums inside of you. He collapses on top of you before planting a kiss on your neck.

“Do you really forgive me..?’

He asks with a huff while trying to catch his breath, he smiles at you softly with that pussy drunk grin.

“I don’t know yet.”

You laugh out while stroking his hair.

“Fine, I’ll just fuck you until you do.”

#new writers on tumblr #aot x black reader #armin arlert #armin aot #armin x reader #armin smut #armin x black reader #armin x black y/n #armin x fem reader #aot x reader #aot x black y/n #aot fanfiction #x black reader #x black fem reader #x black y/n

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sheliesshattered · 1 year ago

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@chromacryptid is it, by any chance, this post?

This was inspired by that post on here that was like “what if doc loves hotguy but hates scar bc he doesn’t know theyre the same person” but i cant find it now 😭😭😭

#I cannot tell you how much I cackled when I saw this #excellent art OP thank you for this #lol #Hermitcraft #HC s9 #MCYT #fanart #comics #DocM77 #HotGuy #GoodTimesWithScar #GTWS #the headcanon continues to grow #spurred on by perfect visuals #also yes that is the official way to write HOTGUY I will hear no arguments to the contrary

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sp0o0kylights · 1 year ago

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Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms.

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans.

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at.

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming.

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme.

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym.

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel.

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give.

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures.

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.)

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds.

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious. “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.”

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was.

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it.

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome.

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again.

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

“First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!”

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!”

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s.

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!”

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.”

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise.

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for.

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.)

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con.

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.”

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of;

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all.

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.”

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this.

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game.

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all.

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.)

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly.

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

“Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?”

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of a few silly images.”

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room.

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!”

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air.

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking.

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!”

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed.

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.)

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway.

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.”

Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.”

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

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that-ineffable-devil · 6 months ago

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Literally every time no one is looking at Charles (as far as we can see) while Monty is showing Edwin his chart, his face drops.

Like the happy mask is literally only there as long as it has to be.

Now, I know he's just been thru a lot but I'm still saying he's down bad and I'll be hearing no arguments to the contrary.

#dead boy detectives #dbda #dbd rewatch #charles rowland #payneland #paynland #paineland #painland

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cherrylovelycherry · 2 months ago

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𓂅new order. "tarte aux fraises and a pain au chocolat."

Insolence and control

pairing. Sunday x gn!reader cw/genre. angst, argument, some slow burn, TW(abuse), first time slap, criticism, synopsis. his control-freak behavior started to get on your nerves. full menu note. something short to keep up with the language heh.

As the Family's spokesperson with a hectic schedule, Sunday is arguably the busiest person in Penacony. His workday often extends beyond 15 hours, occasionally reaching over 19 hours. In short, he rarely makes it home, even when he desires to.

On an unusual Tuesday, he manages to arrive home before midnight—a rare occurrence. You casually sit on the living room couch, watching TV until you hear the front door open. It's Sunday. You promptly rise from the couch and assist him with the briefcases in his hands.

"It's okay, Y/N. I can manage them," he declined, visibly exhausted as expected.

You persist, attempting to take the briefcases from his hands, but his demeanor suddenly changes.

"I said it's fine! Can you just fucking leave me alone?!" he shouts, his voice strained. His sudden temper leaves you questioning what has come over him.

You freeze upon his unexpected outburst. His usual composed self was now replaced with a completely different aura.

Sunday drops the briefcases on the floor and takes a step back, averting his gaze. His breathing is heavy, as if he's holding back. The outburst was seemingly triggered by seemingly minor interaction.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted," he says, trying to regain his composure. He's still avoiding eye contact with you, but then his expression suddenly shifts to one of surprise.

His eyes widen slightly upon realizing something.

"Are you…wearing one of my shirts? A hint of irritation laces his tone as he finally looks at you, examining your appearance. You're wearing one of his work shirts that you had borrowed.

You nod, a bit confused by his reaction.

"I missed you—"

You thought he wouldn't mind you borrowing his shirt.

Although hey, he'd never found out you were using them, until now.

He grits his teeth, the irritation in his voice evident, but his eyes remain fixated on the shirt.

"Take it off." he says, his tone firm.

Your heart skips a beat at his command. The shirt suddenly felt too tight.

You look at him, searching for a hint of humor, but you're met only with his intense gaze.

"But why?" you asked, managing to push the words out of you, despite the growing knot in your stomach.

With a great notorious irritation on his face, he spoke again.

"Because you're going to dirty and wrinkle it."

You look down at yourself, noting that the shirt is barely wrinkled and clean, contrary to his statement.

However, the tension in the air was palpable.

You tried to protest, not understanding why he was making such a big deal about something so trivial. "But this won't - "

Before you could finish, he silenced you, his voice filled with irritation and authority.

"Don't argue with me. I said take it off. Now."

But oh right, he wanted to always have everything controlled and in place.

You hesitate, torn between obeying him immediately and questioning his unreasonable demand. But his stern stare leaves no room for argument.

Slowly, you lift the hem of the shirt, preparing to take it off.

However, the moment the shirt slides halfway up, revealing the midriff, he abruptly grabs your wrist.

His touch is firm, his grip preventing you from going further.

"Change in the bedroom, not here," he said.

He released your wrist but recorded your other hand before leading you towards the bedroom, his demeanor still emanating tension and irritation. You followed behind, still trying to wrap your mind around the situation.

Once inside the bedroom, he went to the closet to put on slightly more comfortable clothes.

You stood by the bed still puzzled, wondering why he was so upright about this. It was just a shirt.

But anyway, you approached your side of the wardrobe, to take out your own clothes and put it on.

Once you finish changing, you turn around to find him sitting on the bed, still visibly agitated.

Once you finished changing clothes, you left his shirt on dirty clothes.

You sighed and turned your body towards the bed, he was sitting there.

As you approach, he pats the bed, motioning for you to sit next to him. You comply, taking a seat next to him. The air in the room was thick with tension, each moment of silence felt uncomfortable.

He took a deep breath before turning his gaze toward you. His eyes were filled with frustration.

He spoke, his voice softer but still tinged with irritation. "Do you know how long I've been working this week?"

You replied, a hint of guilt in your voice. "I know. It's been incredibly busy for you lately."

He let out a heavy sigh. "I've been working non-stop, sometimes not even coming home till midnight. I'm exhausted, mentally and physically."

You moved your gaze to his face. Dark rings under his eyes were visible, evidence of his tiredness.

He continued, venting his frustration. "And what do I find when I finally get home? You, wearing my shirt as if it's nothing."

His voice rose, the irritation in his tone evident again. "That's not just some random shirt; it's mine. It's supposed to be clean, pristine, hanging neatly in my closet. Not being casually worn and wrinkled on you."

"I'm sorry," you replied, feeling a mix of guilt and frustration. "I just missed you, and I thought you wouldn't mind."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out an exasperated sigh. "You've been living here, in my house, with me, for how long? You should know not to 'borrow' my belongings."

The tension in the room was escalating quickly, and you found yourself feeling defensive.

"It's just a shirt, Sunday," you said, trying to stay calm. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

He shot you a stern glance, irritation evident in his gaze. "It's the principle, not the shirt itself. I have specific ways I want things organized and kept in order."

His control-freak behavior started to get on your nerves.

"I wanted to feel closer to you, that's why I wore it. Is that such a crime?" You said.

His jaw tightened at your response as he shot back angrily, "You could've done that in a different way; not by disrespecting my belongings,"

His control started to leak out of him completely. The outburst was not only about the shirt, but the frustration built up during the week, from his stressful work to the lack of time you both had for each other.

He paused, taking a deep breath to compose himself. "I expect more from you, especially as my partner. You should understand and respect my boundaries,"

"Boundaries?" you replied, the frustration in your voice evident. "Is it really about boundaries, or is it about control?"

You were starting to lose your patience.

"I do respect your boundaries," you added, your voice starting to rise. "But there's a line between having expectations and being ridiculously controlling. And right now, it feels like you're being the latter."

Sunday's eyes narrowed, clearly not appreciating being challenged. He retorted, "I'm not being controlling; I just have high standards, and I expect them to be met. You know exactly who you're living with."

His voice grew more frustrated. "And instead of understanding and appreciating that, you're questioning me, and accusing me of overstepping boundaries. I demand a certain level of order and respect. Is that really too much to ask for?”

"Are you serious right now?" You snapped back, your frustration reaching its peak, "Of course it's too much to ask for! You're acting as if this is all my fault. You're being completely unreasonable,"

"I can't just sit here and take this—this verbal abuse because I wore your stupid shirt," you exclaimed.

The room was thick with tension.

"Verbal abuse?" Sunday's voice rose, clearly offended. "I'm not abusing you; I'm expressing my expectations and frustrations. There's a difference."

He pointed his finger at you, frustration etched on his face. "And yes, it is your fault. If you had respected my boundaries, we wouldn't be having this argument. It's not about the damn shirt, it's about your disregard for my wishes."

You let out a slight laugh in mockery, as you rolled your eyes.

"You know what? Fine, you win, I'm not going to touch your stuff," you said, as you got up from the edge of the bed.

Sunday's eyes followed you, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. "Where are you going?"

You replied, "to the living room, i need some space to cool off."

He let out a scoff, clearly not satisfied with your response. "You want space? Fine, take all the space you need. But come back here when you're ready to apologize and accept you're in the wrong."

Your eyes narrowed at his insistence that you were in the wrong. You retorted, "I'm not going to apologize for something that doesn't make sense,"

He clenched his jaw, his tone stern. "You know what, maybe you shouldn't come back until you see reason."

His words stung more than you expected. The implication that you weren't being reasonable made your heart flutter, mixed with the hurt of his cold statement.

You crossed your arms, your voice filled with determination. "Fine, I won't. Consider this a break from your 'expectations and rules.'"

His eyes flared with anger as he responded, "A break from my expectations and rules? You make it sound like I'm controlling, but those boundaries exist for a reason."

He got up from the bed, his voice raised, "And if you can't respect them or me, then maybe we need more than just a break."

The tension between you both palpable, your relationship suddenly hanging on a precipice.

You let out a hollow laugh, the hurt and frustration bubbling up within you. "Maybe that's what we need – a break from each other."

You moved back towards the bedroom door, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'll go stay somewhere else."

His expression hardened, a mix of surprise and stubbornness evident on his face. "You can leave. Go ahead."

You opened the door, your hand gripping the handle tightly. The urge to turn back, to argue further or something, was strong.

"Fine, I will," you said, your voice quiet, almost resigned.

You took one last glance at him, noted his tense stature, and then walked out the door, shutting it behind you with a sharp click.

The sound of the door shutting echoed through the apartment, leaving Sunday alone in the quiet room. He stood there for a moment, his mind racing with frustration and anger.

He ran his hand through his hair, the silence in the apartment felt deafening. He looked down at the floor, the argument still fresh in his mind.

You didn't end up leaving the house, first of all, or know where to stay.

So you stayed in the house, huddled on the couch.

As the hours passed by, the silence in the apartment felt deafening. Sunday still hadn't come out of the bedroom.

You sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a mix of emotions swirling within you.

You lay on the couch, choosing to sleep.

You didn't know how much time passed, but you felt someone pushing you a little bit, to make room for the couch.

As you stirred from your sleep, you felt someone gently pushing you on the couch, attempting to make room. You opened your eyes slightly, groggy from the disrupted sleep.

You noticed Sunday hovering above you, a tired expression on his face.

"Move over," he said, his voice softer than before, but still holding a hint of tension.

You shifted slightly, creating space for him on the couch. He slumped onto the spot you just vacated, his presence immediately filling the room with his energy.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, sighing heavily.

The two of you stay there in silence for a moment, the weight of your unresolved argument still lingering between you. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the dim bedside lamp, casting shadows on the walls.

Sunday broke the silence first, his voice a low rumble. "You didn't leave."

You looked at him, your gaze meeting his weary eyes. The tension from your earlier fight still hung in the air, but his comment felt almost like an olive branch, a hint that maybe he didn't want you to leave either.

You replied softly, "I didn't know where to go."

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then, after a few more seconds, he spoke, his voice holding a hint of resignation.

"You could have gone to a friend's place. Or a hotel. Anything but here."

You responded, your voice quieter this time, "I didn't want to go anywhere else."

He shifted his head to look at you, your eyes meeting his. His expression softened for a moment, before the tension returned.

He continued, his voice slightly strained, "You'd rather stay here, even after what happened?"

You nodded, your eyes not breaking contact with his. "Yes. Despite our argument, I didn't want to leave."

He inhaled deeply, his eyes still fixed on you.

After another moment of silence, this time you spoke first.

"Couldn't sleep?" You asked, seeing his tired look.

He let out a weary sigh, stretching his tired figure a bit.

"No," he admitted, "I've been tossing and turning in bed for hours."

His eyes searched your face, studying your expression.

"Why is that?" You asked, curiosity piqued.

He shifted his position once again, clearly not wanting to give a direct response.

"The bed felt too empty," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

You let go of a little 'mhm' while also moving yourself a little on the couch, looking for comfort.

"Then let's sleep," you said, closing your eyes.

There was another moment of silence, this one felt heavier.

Sunday didn't say anything at first, but then you suddenly felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

You allowed yourself to intertwine your legs with his, feeling more comfortable so you could sleep on the narrow couch.

You both settled into a rather tight, but somewhat comfortable position on the couch, with your head resting on his chest.

The sound of his steady heartbeat and the warmth of his body were strangely soothing, despite the lingering tension between you.

His arm remained around you, his hand gently tracing light circles on your back.

It didn't take long for you to fall asleep again.

The sky outside had started to darken, dusk painting the horizon in hues of purple and deep blue. It was getting late, signaling the end of another workday.

Sunday was still at work, finishing up a few tasks before returning home.

You were sitting on the couch once again, scrolling through your phone when you heard the sound of keys in the front door.

The door opened, and in walked Sunday. He looked weary and tired, exhaustion evident in his gaze.

This time you didn't get up to try to help him, because the last time you did he was too irritated to be kind.

"Hey, sweetheart," you greeted, as you turned your gaze towards your phone again.

He closed the door behind him, locking it as he always did.

He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook next to the door, his movements weary.

He turned to face you, his expression revealing his fatigue.

He couldn't help but make a grimace when he saw you sitting there.

"Did you wash the dishes?" He dared to ask, as if he knew the answer.

You immediately felt the irritation rise in you. Despite your attempt at not letting it affect you, his first words felt like another challenge.

You replied, trying to keep your tone even, "Yes, I did."

He walked over to you, stopping in front of the couch.

He didn't seem convinced, as he raised an eyebrow and asked again, "Are you sure?"

His tone was laced with skepticism.

The doubt in his voice made your annoyance flare up even more, the feeling of being constantly questioned and disbelieved by him was wearing thin.

You shot him a look, before answering again firmly, "Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't lie about something as simple as washing dishes."

He shifted, leaning his arm against the back of the couch, towering over you.

He responded with a dry tone, "And how am I supposed to know? You've been known to forget before."

You crossed your arms, meeting his skeptical gaze with your own. "I'm not a child, Sunday. I'm perfectly capable of doing basic chores, without being questioned and doubted constantly."

He didn't respond and headed to the kitchen, where he saw for himself that the dishes were clean.

But not in the right way.

Or at least that's what he thought.

"Y/N, did you dry the dishes with the cloth for the dishes or to dry your hands?" He raised his voice, from the kitchen, so that you could hear his words.

You felt your frustration rising again. Why was he always so nitpicky about every little thing?

You stood up from the couch and walked towards the kitchen. "What difference does it make?" You replied, trying to keep your voice even. "They're both clean, aren't they?"

He looked at you, his expression stern. "It does make a difference. One cloth is supposed to be used for the hands, not as a drying cloth for dishes."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. The way he was picking on such a trivial issue was mind-boggling.

You retorted, "Sunday, this is ridiculous. It's just a cloth, and it serves the same purpose, right? The dishes are clean."

He shook his head, his expression remaining stern.

"No, it's not just a cloth. The dish cloth is for the dishes, and the towel is for your hands. It's about order and organization," he responded matter-of-factly.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath.

"Well, I'm going to wash them again and dry them with the right cloth," you said, in a tense voice.

As you approached to start putting the variety of dried dishes inside the sink.

He stopped you with a gesture, placing his hand on your shoulder. "Wait."

His tone was firm, preventing you from moving forward.

"Let me do it. You'll probably just use the wrong cloth again." he declared, his gaze fixed on you.

You let go of an unconscious mockery after his words reached your ears.

"How nice," you said, as you left the kitchen.

You left the kitchen feeling frustrated and annoyed. The fact that he thought you couldn't handle such a simple task as washing dishes felt like a blow to your pride.

You sat back down on the couch again, still see something but trying to control yourself. You picked up your phone, pretending to be distracted, all while feeling his presence in the next room, taking care of 'your mistake'.

And yes, you thought he was just irritated and it would only be the only times he would make those kinds of comments.

Oh, aeons. How wrong you were.

Time after time again, every time he came back late at night, he insisted on criticizing the things you did, from how to fold your clothes, to how you eat.

At this point you were starting to feel frustrated, and of course, you couldn't help but defend yourself, sometimes speaking badly or raising your tone of voice.

It wasn't the best way to speak for you, but it was infuriating for you to criticize everything.

And obviously, he didn't like your attempts at defense and tone of voice.

At this point, you were sitting on the couch, somewhat relaxed not to have Sunday in the living room.

You were now glad that he spent so much time away from home.

The door opened once again, revealing the tired figure of Sunday once more. As he stepped into the room, his gaze instantly focused on you, sitting on the couch. The moment he saw you, a disapproving frown settled on his face.

He closed the door behind him and approached the living room, his footsteps reverberating in the quiet apartment.

"Y/N," he began, his voice stern. "You're sinking into the couch again. It's going to wear it out."

You couldn't believe it.

He was now criticizing how you were sitting on the couch. It was as if everything you did was wrong in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your composure.

"I'm just sitting comfortably," you replied tersely.

But Sunday wasn't satisfied.

"You're sinking in the couch," he repeated, his tone disapproving. "You know it's not good for the couch, or your back, to sit that way. You need to sit up straight."

His constant criticism and corrections had been wearing on your nerves, and this latest comment was the final straw.

"Oh, for Aeons sake, Sunday," you snapped, your frustration boiled over. "Can you just relax for a moment? I'm tired, I'm just trying to relax."

He didn't take your response kindly. His expression hardened.

"And I'm tired of coming home every day to find you slouching on the couch," he replied firmly. "It's not respectable, or good for you."

Your eyes widened at his words and this time, you lost it.

You stood up, your voice raised and filled with frustration. "Respectable? Are you serious? You're more worried about how respectable I look on the couch than how I feel?"

He was taken aback by your outburst, but stood his ground. "It's about maintaining a certain standard… "

You interrupted him, your voice filled with sarcasm. "Oh, spare me, Sunday. We're not living in some uptight Victorian house."

Sunday's expression tensed, his eyes narrowing. "Watch your tone, Y/N. I'm just trying to help you be more presentable… "

You laughed bitterly. "Presentable? Is that all you care about? My appearance and how it reflects on you?"

Sunday tried to maintain his stern expression, but the tone of your voice was starting to chip at his composure.

You continued, your irritation rising, "You're always criticizing me, finding faults in everything I do. I can't relax without you nagging at me to be 'more respectable' or to do things your way. It's like I'm walking on eggshells every moment you're here."

Sunday clenched his jaw, clearly growing irritated. "You're exaggerating. I just want you to have some basic decency and standards,"

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "Decency and standards?! Is that what you call it? I call it suffocating and controlling. I can't even relax in my own home without you breathing down my neck, telling me how to sit, how to fold my clothes, how to talk‐"

Sunday interrupted you, his own irritation seeping into his voice. "Because you're not doing it right! Someone has to keep things in order around here. You think the house will magically stay organized and tidy without any effort?"

You retorted, "I'm not saying we need to live like pigs, but there's being tidy and then there's being overly obsessive about every little detail."

"You're making me feel like I can never do anything right, and it's driving me insane."

"It's about showing some self-discipline and self-respect. You're always so slovenly and careless…" He said.

You felt like you couldn't take his comments anymore. "Slovenly?" you replied, your voice filling with incredulity. "I'm not a slob, Sunday. I'm just being comfortable in MY own home."

The tension in the air was palpable. Sunday's irritation was now almost palpable, and he looked like he was on the verge of losing his composure.

"Your 'comfort' is an excuse for being undisciplined," he said, his voice growing louder. "You think because you're at home, you can just relax and do whatever you want. You have an obligation to yourself to maintain a certain standard of behavior and appearance."

'Obligation?'

You snapped.

"Who the hell do you think you are to dictate my behavior and appearance?" Your frustration boiled over. "You're not my boss, Sunday. You're my partner. You're supposed to support and respect me, not nitpick and control every little thing I do. This isn't a military drill, it's a home."

Sunday's own frustration flared up as you stood your ground. "I'm just trying to help you be better. If you'd just listen and take my advice - "

"Oh, so it's 'advice' now?" You interrupted, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're not advising me. You're ordering me around like a damn soldier."

"I'm not just supposed to sit idly by and watch you act carelessly. It's my duty to guide and correct you when you're veering off the right path." he shot back, his voice rising in volume.

You couldn't help but use sarcasm again at his loud tone of voice. "Oh, right, right."

"In the process, teach me how to breathe, yes? I'm sure I'm doing that wrong too."

That comment clearly hit a nerve and Sunday's irritation turned into anger.

"You're being sarcastic and disrespectful again," he said.

"Disrespectful my-!" Your words were quickly cut off.

By he stepped closer, towering over you.

"How insolent!" And the moment he spoke, his hand rose above his head.

Just as you were about to retaliate, your words were cut off by a swift and firm slap across your cheek.

The sudden shock left you stunned, your mind spinning for a moment. Your hand gingerly touched your now stinging cheek.

Sunday stood there, his face filled with disbelief. It was as if he was just as surprised as you were by what he had just done. For a moment, both of you remained silent. The air was filled with shock and a tense silence.

You knew Sunday was stern and strict, but this was the first time he had ever raised a hand at you.

The atmosphere in the room was now even more tense. You felt a knot forming in your stomach and throat, fear and anger mixed together forming a confusing sensation.

The realization of what had just happened was slowly reaching your brain.

He slapped you. He actually dared to lay a hand on you.

The room echoed in deafening silence, the only sound was your own breath, which now came in and out rapidly.

Sunday stood there, his hand still slightly raised as if frozen in time.

Sunday's breathing started to quicken as he began to regain his composure.

His eyes widened after realizing what he had done, his gaze fixed on your reddening cheek.

Your own mind was reeling, trying to process this moment. Just moments before, the conversation was heated, but it had never crossed the line into physical violence.

The stinging sensation on your cheek was slowly turning into a dull ache.

You could feel tears start to sting the corners of your eyes, at that point, you couldn't identify whether it was because of the fact that he had dared to do that or because of the sudden sharp pain in your face.

Sunday's expression morphed from shock to something akin to helplessness. He had crossed a boundary that he never thought he was capable of crossing. All this time, he thought that words were enough to guide and correct, but for the first time, he had crossed the line.

He tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the right words, but all that came out was silence.

The tension in the room was palpable.

He finally managed to speak in a shaky, low voice. "I… I didn't mean… I'm sorry, I don't-"

But you were already at the brink of breaking down. The pain on your cheek combined with the emotional turmoil was becoming unbearable.

You couldn't hold it back anymore.

A soft sob escaped your lips, your tears starting to spill down your aching cheek.

Sunday's heart ached as he saw you starting to break down before him.

He captiously took a step forward, his hand reached out towards you, but stopped midway. He didn't know if he should comfort you or keep his distance after what he had just done.

His voice was a hushed whisper. "Please, let me-"

The sight of him trying to touch you after what he had just done sent a shockwave of fear and anger through you.

"Go ahead," you said, trying to get your voice out without any sobbing.

"Go ahead," You repeated, turning your face a little, pointing to your cheek that wasn't hit. "slap me again,"

At no time did the tears stop, practically you spit out the words between cut-down and agitated breaths.

"Surely this is how your 'father' hit you," you said again, with hatred in your tone. "Surely he did the same for you to be obedient,"

Your words, despite being fueled by anger and pain, stung like a dagger through Sunday's heart.

He stood frozen in place, shocked at the comparison you had just made.

Sunday had revealed to you in a previous conversation how strict Gopher Wood was, raising him to be obedient and disciplined. Growing up, there were times him had used physical means to discipline him for mistakes.

He couldn't deny that his upbringing had influenced his way of thinking and acting, but he had never, ever considered crossing the same boundaries Gopher Wood had.

He had never spoken about it with pride, and in fact, he often looked ashamed when he spoke of the times he was reprimanded in such a manner.

He shook his head, voice shaky. "I'm not like him, It's not the same-"

"Isn't it?" you cut him off, your voice quivering with pain and anger.

"Why? Because you love me?" you continued, the tears now flowing freely down your face.

"Because your father didn't love you? That's the difference?"

Sunday clenched his jaw, your words hitting him deep.

You continued, your voice choked with emotion. "If that's the difference, then you're just as bad," your words cut like blades.

"Maybe even worse, because you should know better." you finished, your voice a broken whisper.

The room was once again heavy with silence, the only sound being the occasional soft sob that escaped through your tears.

Sunday's face was pale, a mix of shame and helplessness.

All he could do was stand there, watching you fall apart before his eyes.

The sight of you broke his heart, but the knowledge that he had caused this breakdown weighed heavily on his soul.

He didn't know what to say, how to justify this to you or even to himself.

He just stood there, feeling like a complete failure.

"I hate you, Sunday," you murmured, As you passed your hands across your face, be careful not to dry your tears abruptly, down your sensitive cheek.

Maybe he is a failure.

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