#info dump off the top of my head | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zarameraki · 25 days ago

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🖊️💌 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗻-𝗽𝗮𝗹 🖊️💌

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 prisoner sukuna x his penpal 𖥔 just plot with porn 𖥔 mentions of abuse 𖥔 mentions of sexual assault 𖥔 pussayy eating rawr but also u suck his dick so 𖥔 uraume and toji found family 𖥔 he would kill for you 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw

: ̗̀➛ words: 10k?? idfk it's long

: ̗̀➛ notes: happy halloween, mamas! 🎃 i know ive been MIA for a while but thats because i wasnt feeling creative. but now ive dumped a 10k sukuna fic on you for you to read at 3 in the morning. this one's got a kick to it yall. its long but give the bitch a chance, shes good. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

So, this was where you’d ended up—on a site for writing to prisoners. A pen-pal with an inmate.

How lonely did you have to be to fill out your info, pay a yearly fee, and do this? The answer: really, really lonely. Orphaned, friendless, and scarred from a relationship that had left you with broken ribs and a blind eye. And as if to top it all off, you wanted to reach out to a criminal. I guess you deserved at least that small bit of connection.

You scrolled through inmate profiles, noting their crimes—arson, theft, cybercrime, drug trafficking, money embezzlement, and so on. None of them were charged with homicides or serious offences.

One profile did catch your eye. The smirk in his mugshot suggested he’d probably killed someone and managed to evade the cops before they could pin anything on him.

“Sukuna Ryomen,” you whispered, clicking on his profile and staring at a laundry list of crimes. “Aggravated assault, drug manufacturing and distribution, kidnapping—Jesus—extortion, cybercrime, Satanism . . . what the hell?” You chuckled as you scrolled further. “Bank burglary, vandalism of religious properties—so that’s the Satanism part—illegal possession of firearms, stalking?”

Why was this man even on this website, given his long list of crimes?

You zoomed in on his mugshot. Was it wrong to find him attractive despite his record? He truly embodied the term “bad boy,” though he didn’t look like a boy at all. He was ruggedly handsome with hollowed eyes. His light-mink hair was swept back, with a few strands falling over his forehead, and he wore a single hoop earring in his left ear. Black tattoos marked his nose bridge, jaw, and the centre of his forehead, while narrow-eyed designs were inked on his cheekbones.

You wondered if he’d get any letters, given his long rap sheet. Maybe delusional women like you, who’s pussies sang for high-profile criminals, sure.

Licking your lower lip, you picked up a piece of paper and a pen, tapping the end against the sheet as you continued to study his face.

Then you started writing.

Hello, Sukuna Ryomen,

My name is Y/N.

You thought it over. For now, you'd keep it light before diving into your deeper issues. It felt easier to share your thoughts with someone you’d never meet face-to-face than with a stranger in a bar whose only interest was getting into your pants.

You kept writing.

Dear Sukuna Ryomen,

I’m currently living in an apartment complex that’s in desperate need of renovation. I’m harvesting cockroaches—no, I’m not eating them; the fuckers just won’t stop nesting in my kitchen cabinets, and I’m tired of spending money on pest sprays. On top of that, I’m pretty broke, barely managing to keep a roof over my head. I’ve even considered trying to seduce the landlord into reducing my rent, though I doubt any man would find a woman with one working eye appealing. I noticed you have an extra beneath your real eyes. Care to share?

Anyway, this is my first time writing to someone like you, so apologies if it’s a bit awkward. I wish I could send a nude, but I’m pretty sure you’d wish you were blind after that. I feel like I’m rambling like this is my diary, so I should probably wrap it up. If you want to write back, feel free. I don’t mean to sound privileged, but I’m lonely as fuck.

Thank you (?),

Y/N

P.S. About the Satanism—care to explain?

You didn’t bother proof-reading and folded the letter into an envelope, sealing it with a lick. From your drawer, you pulled out a pack of old stickers—remnants of your childhood—and placed one where the envelope met. You wrote the prison address provided on the website and added the stamps you’d bought during your walk, which was your final push into becoming a prison pen-pal. After selecting Sukuna Ryomen on the site and uploading your ID and other required documents, you waited for your profile to be approved.

After three days of waiting, you sent out the letter first thing in the morning and anxiously awaited a response.

Sukuna’s fists collided with the inmate’s face, each strike more brutal than the last. Blood splattered across his knuckles as the crowd of orange-clad convicts roared with twisted delight, their voices a chorus of vile encouragement. “Finish him!” they taunted, while others jeered at the barely conscious man, urging him to get up and fight back, to aim a desperate kick at Sukuna’s balls.

“Sukuna!” A guard’s voice cut through the chaos, and soon the officers were pushing through the throng, shutting the prisoners who dared resist their authority. “Get up, now!”

“Fuck off!” Sukuna snarled, his lips curling into a sneer as he shoved the guard aside. He watched with cold satisfaction as the man lay still, blood pooling beneath him. All this because the idiot had the nerve to laugh when Sukuna missed a three-pointer. Now, the bald bastard had paid the price for his arrogance, and Sukuna breathed in the aftermath—his own dark victory painted in blood and broken bones.

Officer Gojo Satoru strode into the circle, handcuffs gleaming in his hand.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed at the sight of the blue-eyed bastard, a wave of hatred surging through him so fierce he could almost feel his fingers tightening around Satoru's throat. The very thought of choking the life out of him fueled his dark desires.

Satoru’s father—the man responsible for dragging Sukuna down, catching him red-handed with crates of cocaine at the border, and sealing his fate with a fifty-year sentence. If Sukuna had known the old man’s spawn would end up as a deputy officer here, watching his every move with those piercing eyes, he would have never shown up to that cursed delivery. But no—he had wanted to play the good boss, personally seeing his precious cargo off. Now, every day behind bars was a constant reminder of that one fatal mistake, and Sukuna’s rage festered as he thought of the traitor, Yuji. The little fuck who sold him out would pay dearly, and Sukuna was already plotting the perfect revenge.

His own fucking nephew sold him off. Motherfucker wanted the throne for himself—an empire Sukuna built with his bare hands.

“Throw him in the ice box,” Satoru commanded, his voice dripping with that infuriating smugness. The officer roughly cuffed Sukuna’s wrists, shoving him forward. “Cool down, Big Guy. You’re not going any—”

Before he could finish, Sukuna rammed his forehead into Gojo’s nose, relishing the satisfying crunch as the lanky bastard staggered back. The inmates roared with approval from where they were restrained by the other officers.

Gojo chuckled, dabbing at his bleeding nose with a pristine handkerchief, the kind only a spoiled little bitch like him would carry. “You think that’s funny?” he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

“Hilarious,” Sukuna whispered, a dark grin curling at his lips.

“Okay,” Gojo replied with a casual shrug. Without warning, his fist slammed into Sukuna’s jaw.

Once.

Twice.

Three fucking times.

The officers stood by, indifferent, as their captain unleashed his fury. For them, it was just another case of self-defence.

Sukuna finally collapsed to the ground, his vision swimming. Gojo leaned over him, his voice a venomous hiss. “Who’s laughing now?” A final, vicious kick to Sukuna’s chest left him gasping for breath. “Keep him in that freezer until he’s begging to be let out. No meals for a week.”

Sukuna’s vision blurred as he glared at Satoru’s retreating figure, the ringing in his ears barely drowning out the disappointed murmurs of his fellow inmates. His body, battered and beaten, finally surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

When he came to, he found himself in the prison’s infirmary, cocooned in three heated blankets. Yet the warmth did little to pierce the deep, bone-chilling cold that gripped him. The need to piss gnawed at him, but even that seemed distant compared to the icy numbness that had taken hold.

“Welcome back to hell.”

Sukuna raised his head from the pillows to find Uraume, the prison’s doctor. They were also the only person he tolerated, and somewhat close to since he ended up in the infirmary more than once. He hoped they considered him a ‘something’ after he killed a two-hundred pound guy for groping their ass in the cafeteria. How did he do it? He knew Uraume kept a pocket knife in their doctor’s coat and quickly swept it out and stuck it in the dick’s jugular.

“How long have I been out for?” he asked, squirming his arm out of the blanket to rub his eyes.

“A day.”

“What?” Sukuna pulled himself out of the blanket by wiggling around like the fucking worms his cell mate Toji liked to collect every time they went in the courtyard to play. They’re better company than your grouchy ass, he said once. “How long was I in the ice box?”

“Barely an hour.” Well, that’s just pussy behaviour from him. “They pulled you out before hypothermia killed you. What a way to die, am I right?” They chuckled, preparing some pills in a small disposable cup. “Here, take these. They’re nutrients.”

“I could use actual food.” Sukuna downed them like a shot. God, he missed alcohol. “That blue-eyed bitch restricted my meals for a week.”

“Fuck him.” Uraume took out a sandwich from their bag and threw it in Sukuna’s direction. “Just fake illness when you’re hungry. I’m always here to feed my favourite dog.”

Sukuna snorted. “Go to hell.”

“Already here.” Uraume clipped back their white hair with the back dyed red. Like someone smashed their head into the wall and the colour just bled to the sides. “Oh, this came for you.”

Sukuna shoved the sandwich in his mouth and stretched his muscles before walking over, snatching the letter. It was already opened, a flimsy teddy-bear sticker hanging from the paper. “What the fuck is this?”

“A letter.”

“A letter? For me?”

Uraume broke their attention from the computer to look at him. “Remember when you had me register you on that prison pen-pal bullshit after Toji received a pile of fan letters?”

Sukuna blinked.

He definitely remembered being jealous when Toji got a letter from an artist who drew herself naked on paper for him, and a shit ton more asking for his dick size or when he’ll be out. Of course, Sukuna was envious of the attention. Plus, no one in prison made good company. He just wanted the taste of the outside world again after being locked in for five years now. Even if it was through ink on paper.

But then Sukuna looked down at his first ever letter torn open. “Why is this open? Who read it?” If it was Satoru, he was going to rip his eyeballs from his sockets and feed it to Toji’s pet worm.

“Relax. They’ve got to identify if there’s any substances attached to the paper, or any other shady shit. Whoever wrote to you is just a harmless nobody.”

Sukuna frowned, bringing the letter up to his nose. It smelled like a plain envelope. No drugs, nothing.

He found purchase on the bed again, pulling out the folded paper and ironing the creases out on his leg. Here we go.

He began reading each word carefully.

A week went by since you’d mailed your letter to Sukuna Ryomen. A week of pure torture to hear something back from the criminal. You’d relaxed on Sunday because the post offices are closed, but on Monday, you were at your mailbox, watching the mailman sort out letters and slip them through the boxes.

Once he left, you dashed to your box and flipped through the coupons, flyers, newsletters—

Your breath hitched.

Everything dropped from your hand except the cream envelope with an address from the prison. You didn’t care about reading it upstairs and quickly, yet carefully, tore it open from the side, reading the writing.

Trying to read it.

Sukuna had terrible handwriting. It made you giggle.

You leaned against the mailboxes and murmured the words written under your breath.

Hey, Y/N

I don’t know how to start a letter since I’ve never written one so don’t mind if I hurt your little feelings. Don’t know if you’re aiming to entertain me or bore me to death with this “dear diary” bullshit. I thought I’d get a nude, at the very least. Hell, Toji over here—yeah, the bastard who was on the news last year with a thing for setting houses on fire—gets way better fan mail every week. Pictures, drawings, mostly nudes. And I get your whining about rent and cockroaches?

Look, I may be locked up, but I’m giving you some advice here. Don’t fuck your landlord. You’ve got one eye? Good—use it. Hell, that’s already intimidating enough. Threaten the prick to call pest control, or better yet, trap those damn cockroaches and give him a taste. Stuff a few down his throat if he still doesn’t take you seriously. People respect action, not whining.

Speaking of. One eye? Really? Now, how’d it happen? Was it torn out? Still got some sight in it, or is it just gone? That’s gangster. Hot, even. I’d fuck a one-eyed chick. Maybe when I’m out we can cross that off my bucket list. Nah, I’m just playing with you.

Or maybe I’m not.

Think on it.

Hate (in a friendly way),

Sukuna.

P.S. Yeah, I took out some satanist scum who tried kidnapping one of my people’s kids. But don’t go thinking I’m in with those freaks. I’m just the Devil they wish they could be.

“Woah,” you breathed out, hugging the letter to your chest. This was it. This was what you were waiting for. A pull towards something real, something thrilling. It’s all you’ve been craving for eons now.

“Whatcha got there, sweetie?” The voice snapped you back, harsh as nails against glass. Your landlord had wandered out of his door on the first floor, wrapped in a faded bathrobe and gripping his mug like some king holding court. “Made a mess on my floor with your papers.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, quickly tucking Sukuna’s letter back into its envelope and reaching down to gather the stray papers scattered on the floor. When you straightened, he was already in your space, close enough that the coffee on his breath made you flinch.

“Excuse me—”

“You’re excused.” His smirk widened as he leaned in, his nose grazing your neck. The greasy warmth of his breath made bile rise to the back of your throat. “Just wanna take a little bite out of you.”

Sukuna’s advice echoed in your mind. You’d never—never—think of following through with his revolting insinuation. But letting this sleaze get away with treating you like this? No. Not anymore.

“Step away,” you commanded. “Now.”

He blinked, then chuckled, dismissive. “Feisty today, huh? Got a letter from your boyfriend in prison, sweetie?” How did he know that? Fuck. Did he go through your mail before it was deposited? “Let me guess—you think he’s got your back now?” He leaned even closer, the stench of his laugh wafting in the air. “Come on, where's that one eye of yours aiming, sweetheart?”

“Next person who mentions my eye eats the dirt,” you snapped, every ounce of your resolve boiling up. “And as for what I’ve got—it’s something way out of your league, old geezer. So get the hell back to your apartment, and call pest control now.”

For a second, he was stunned, face going pale as your words sank in. But you could feel Sukuna’s thrill, his twisted approval in the back of your mind. You’d tapped into something that wouldn’t settle. But then, “Well, I’ll be damned. Someone put on their big girl panties.”

Your jaw tightened as you held your ground, taking small breaths. You’d rehearsed this moment in your head, picturing a confrontation that ended with him backing down. But things never went as planned with him.

“I’m not here to beg,” you said evenly. “But I’m not gonna let you walk all over me, either. I pay rent. It’s your responsibility to keep this place livable.”

He snorted, raising his coffee mug and giving you a once-over that made your skin crawl.

“Not for free, sweetheart. You’ve gotta give me something worth my time.” His eyes travelled down your body.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears, but you squared your shoulders. “I’m already paying rent. It’s your right to ensure your tenant's safety.”

His face darkened, lips curling into a bitter smile. “Not when that tenant’s acting like a spoiled little bitch.” And then, with a flick of his wrist, he launched the mug’s contents right at you.

You dodged, but a few hot droplets scorched your arm, leaving a raw sting that only fueled your anger. He laughed, shaking his head with a mocking scowl. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I kick you out on the streets.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You turned on your heel, heading back upstairs with quick steps, forcing the tears back until you could lock the door behind you. Once inside, you slumped to the floor, breathing hard. The letter from Sukuna crackled beneath your hands, and you clutched it close to your chest, feeling the heat of humiliation turn into something fiercer, darker.

“Damn it,” you whispered to yourself, pushing back to your feet with renewed energy. You marched to your desk, grabbed your notebook and pen, and let the words pour out, hurried and jagged. If anyone would understand this kind of anger, it was him—the one man whose entire life was carved from rage.

And this time, you wouldn’t hold anything back.

“Letter for you, Ryomen.”

Sukuna dropped down from his top bunk, snatching the letter right out of the guard’s hand.

“From your girl?” Toji asked from across the table, flipping a card, halfway to beating Sukuna in Blackjack.

“Not my girl,” Sukuna grunted, tearing into the envelope. But still, he smirked as he unfolded your letter.

Hey, Sukuna.

Fuck my landlord to hell and back. I need you to know I’d kill him if I could get away with it. I’m trying to keep this “ethical” so they don’t cut off my letters, but let’s just, I hate the elderly. They should be rotting in retirement houses instead of owning properties and doing a shit job running them. That senile asshole threw hot coffee at me this morning. Burning. I nearly shattered the damn mug over his skull.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his fingers squeezing the letter hard enough to crumple the edges.

And now he’s saying he’ll kick me out, as if I have anything to pay him with. This place is a dump, anyway. I might hit up one of those shelters for women, maybe hop from couch to couch for a bit. My job at corner store’s giving me scraps; it’s not nearly enough to get by. So yeah, you could say I’m screwed.

And to answer your question about my eye—yeah, I’m blind in it. Got it from a real piece of work I used to call a boyfriend. He decided my face was fair game, and thought I could just live with it. But he's dead now. Overdosed last I heard from his brother. Good riddance, am I right?

Oh, and for that kink of yours you mentioned—sending my picture along with a little extra treat.

Hate (because I’m about to go crazy here), Y/N

P.S. For all the things you’ve done, I can’t lie—the world you talk about sounds safer than this one. Well, except for you committing the most heinous crimes.

Toji clicked his tongue. “Look at that dumbass grin on your face.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna muttered, flipping the letter over—and there it was: a stick drawing of a woman lying on a bed, two messy circles for her chest, legs spread wide, and what looked like . . . well, he didn’t need to guess. Sukuna went from grinning to outright laughing. “She’s hilarious.”

“Not just that. She’s sexy as fuck,” Toji said, holding up a photo, ripped clean in half.

Sukuna’s eyes flashed. He swiped the photo and pieced it back together, cursing himself for tearing through the envelope like a brute. But as the two halves reconnected, he felt his pulse kick up, hard.

“Well, shit.” You were more than just beautiful. The way your hair fell, the curves of your body wrapped in that short black dress, standing under a streetlamp with the city lights glinting around you . . . But it was the smile—the easy, teasing grin—that really did it for him. “I’m definitely jerking off tonight.” Respectfully, of course.

“Can we get back to the game now, or—”

“Fuck the game. I’ve got a letter to write.” And a plan brewing to get you out of that dump and right where he wanted you.

Your landlord was pronounced dead.

An ambulance had arrived early in the morning, around nine, waking up every tenant. You were one of them, groggy from your sleep, and all the crying you’d done from realising how high rent was these days.

Apparently, he had a heart-attack, said one of the residents.

He was eighty, said another.

You stuck to the back of the crowd as his body was wheeled out on the stretcher. How could he have died just five days after you sent your last letter to Sukuna? It couldn’t have been him, could it? Maybe one of his associates? Given the man’s extensive criminal history, you suspected he had some serious connections.

As the crowd began to disperse a few minutes later, you joined them but didn’t head upstairs. Instead, you made your way to the mailroom.

And luckily, Sukuna’s letter was present.

All he wrote was:

You’re welcome.

Neutral,

Sukuna.

You broke out laughing, or crying. Whatever it was, it felt good. So good.

Hey, Sukuna!

These days, I’m feeling calm. Really calm. I’m sleeping well, eating better, even starting to enjoy work. Sometimes, I’m scared it’ll all get snatched away. By who? I don’t know. Life’s been that way, though. I’ve lost so much—my parents, my friends, even my left eyesight. At one point, I lost my will to keep going. But I guess some part of me held on, believing a better day would come.

Turns out, those days are here. Who would’ve thought a felon could make me feel less alone? I know it sounds crazy, but my life’s been full of surprises lately.

If you think you can’t bring happiness to someone, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. I’m genuinely happy, and it’s thanks to you. I already think of you as a friend—and I hope you think of me the same way. You don’t get a choice in that, by the way.

Love (genuinely), Y/N

P.S. I’d like to come visit you sometime soon.

Sukuna lowered the letter, his eyes settling on the wall where he’d pinned up your picture. “Toji?” he called out, still staring at the photo.

Toji paused mid-pushup, raising an eyebrow. “What, bitch?”

Sukuna let out a low laugh, barely shaking his head as he spoke. “I think I’m in love.”

Hello, Y/N.

When I’m out in fifty years, I’ll give you a real surprise. And don’t write me any more of that sentimental crap, alright? Save it for when you visit. I’d rather hear it in person.

Hate (but maybe not so much), Sukuna

P.S. You’re beautiful.

You pressed the letter to your chest, biting your lip as warmth spread across your cheeks, your face aching from how much you were smiling. It was official—you were falling for Sukuna Ryomen. You’d have to look your absolute best for your visit. Just the thought of seeing him, hearing his voice, maybe even feeling his hand brush yours, made your heart race. You’d kiss him if they’d let you. And if they didn’t? What could the guards do? Throw you in jail? Now that would be ironic.

But fifty years . . . Would you really wait fifty years for Sukuna to be released? How high was his bail, anyway, that even his hidden cash stash wasn’t enough to cover it? He had to have some kind of pull with the right people, didn’t he?

With a sigh, you grabbed a piece of paper and began to write your reply.

Sukuna,

Fifty years is a lifetime, don’t you think?

Love, Y/N

Sukuna read the short note you’d sent, surprised by how much you’d poured into just a few lines. He noticed small, faded dots on the paper—tears, unmistakably yours. You’d been crying, and it didn’t sit right with him. His stomach tightened, but thankfully, he’d already secured your visit through Uraume, who handled it while Gojo was away.

Now, all that was left was seeing you.

He wondered how he’d keep his hands to himself after all the nights he’d spent memorising your picture, losing himself in thoughts of you. Every night before sleep, every morning when he woke, every time Toji was out cold and couldn’t hear Sukuna’s barely-stifled groans as he imagined you were there. God, he wanted to steal you away.

The day of your visit finally came. Sukuna was led to the visitor room, wrists cuffed, flanked by two guards. He hadn’t set foot in this room since a couple of his associates had visited months back with updates on the family business and Yuji’s latest fiascos. They’d kept everything running despite his brother’s mess-ups, and Sukuna owed them.

He glanced down at his hands. Fifty years. He’d been scheming for a way out since he first set foot in here, but now, with you in the picture, the urge to escape was relentless. Bail was twenty million. Even if he could scrounge it up, he doubted he could get it done without tipping off the wrong people. No, his only real option was breaking out.

“Sukuna.”

A soft voice pulled his head up slowly. He couldn’t remember the last time his name was spoken with such warmth.

“Y/N.”

He shot up from his seat, his eyes flicking to the guards stationed in the corner before letting himself drink you in. You looked stunning—a soft sundress, hair delicately curled, makeup enhancing every curve and angle of your face. His gaze lingered on your eyes, marvelling at the contrast: one foggy, hazy, while the other was bright and striking. A smirk pulled at his mouth, but he softened it for you.

“Hey,” he whispered, the one word holding more emotion than he’d ever admit, especially with witnesses around.

“Hi,” you whispered back, eyes lowering down his muscled body, the pattern tattoos like rings around his wrist and with the first three buttons of his jumpsuit unbuttoned, you found the top of the rings on his pecs as well. His light-pink hair was brushed down, the tendrils poking his reddish-brown eyes. A peculiar colour. “Hi.”

He smiled. “You already said that, baby.”

Baby. Gosh, you were even more nervous now.

“They said I can’t shake your hand.” You looked at the cuffs on his wrists and tossed a glare at the guards. “Or hands.”

“Fuck them.” Sukuna sat down and you followed. “You’re stunning.”

You blushed. “Thank you.”

“Not gonna compliment me back?” His deep voice was cocky, smug. You loved it.

“You’re handsome and you know it.”

“I sure do.”

You chuckled and Sukuna watched you with a soft expression. “Thanks for . . . you know.”

He understood the words you mouthed and smiled. “A little Ricin never hurt anyone.”

“How did you pull it off?”

His eyebrow arched in surprise. “Just because I’m stuck in this hellhole doesn’t mean I’ve lost everyone’s respect out there. Blood is thicker than water in my clan—except when it comes to my nephew. I just want to drain it out of him.”

Your own smile faltered. “Well . . . I’d like to have coffee with you. But fifty years, Sukuna, is too long.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Isn’t there any way to get you out?”

Sukuna saw the longing on your face and wanted nothing more than to hold it in his hands and stare at you for hours. He just couldn’t believe you were real. He would’ve killed you if you were cat-fishing him. “I really want to touch you,” he whispered instead. He did. He really fucking did.

You pinched your lips in a smile. “Me, too.”

Sukuna placed his hands on the table and grabbed both of yours. They were so soft and small. He wanted to kiss each finger. Knuckle. Vein.

“Hands off, Ryomen,” the guard warned. He didn’t relent, and simply winked at you. “I said hands off.”

“Fuck you,” Sukuna spat back.

“Visit’s over.” The pair of guards pried Sukuna away, making you reach out for him with a protest.

“I’ll see you this weekend.” Sukuna winked and let the guards drag him away.

You sat stunned before the officers escorted you out of the visiting room and apologised on his behalf.

When the weekend finally rolled around, you found yourself standing at the prison gates once more, entering alongside a pair of guards.

Waiting by the visitor room was a towering figure with straight silver hair and striking blue-eyes. You got a closer look at the badge—Satoru Gojo. You’ve read the name in one of Sukuna’s letters complaining about him.

“Y/N. What a pleasant surprise,” he greeted, waving away the guards and pressing a hand on your back, leading you down the opposite direction.

“We can chat another time, officer. I’ve got to meet Suku—”

“He can wait. Prison teaches a man patience. He’s got fifty more years left. Plenty to visit then.” Gojo opened the door and guided you inside. The shutting made your shoulders flinch. The lock clicking had dread pooling in your stomach. “Sit. Would you like anything to drink?”

You eyed the dark setting bathed in a golden light from a corner lamp. There was a cart with a decanter set and a mini-fridge to the right. A bookshelf and a wardrobe on the left. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gojo shrugged and poured himself whiskey before taking his seat behind his table. You sat opposite him. “So, what’s your relationship with my favourite prisoner?”

You blinked. “Uh, we’re just pen-pals.”

“Lying to a police officer is a serious offence.”

“I’m telling the truth,” you said. “We’re strictly pen-pals.”

“I’ve read your letters to know that isn’t true, Princess. So unless you want to sit there and lie to my fucking face, I suggest you start using that mouth for good and tell me the goddamn truth.” He slammed his glass down, but his face remained smiling with false politeness.

You felt suffocated in the office, eyes darting left and right for anything sharp in case he tried some other method to get you to talk.

“I’ve been in this field for a decade now to know when someone is hiding something from me,” Gojo continued, taking a leisure sip from his drink. “I have a file on you, Y/N. You’re an only child, with no proper education or a stable job. You’re one bad decision away from being trafficked. You’re submissive, a follower, who if went missing, no one would look for.” Tears welled your eyes at his words. “And I know that bastard’s the reason you’re still living in that dump you call home.”

That was the last nail in the coffin.

“I’ve been following you since your first letter,” he said quietly. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Oh, Princess, you couldn’t be any more wrong.” He stood up and rounded his way to you.

You quickly scrambled out of your seat. “Please. I don’t know anything. I—I don’t—Sukuna’s a friend, yes, but I’m not involved in any of his criminal activities.”

“Friend?” Gojo spat out. “That man is the last person you’d ever want as your friend.” He stalked forward and you retracted. “He’s committed more crimes in his lifetime than any other man. He’s killed half the people in this country, extorted money from politicians, burned down houses for fun, and killed my father!” He grabbed the collars of your dress and slammed you back into his wardrobe door. A cry ripped from your throat. “And you, a nobody, has the audacity to call that fucker a friend? Sweetheart, you’re just a ploy, a pawn, a time-pass for him. A hole to warm his cock in.” A sardonic chuckle. “That’ll never happen since he isn’t getting out anytime soon. But, hey, maybe I can prepare you for him.”

Your breath quickened, a whimper slipping past your lips. “How does that make you any better than him?”

Gojo smiled and brushed his lips over your ears. “Because I have the power to get away with it.”

Your eyes, frightened and flickering, dragged up to his blue-ones.

In the blink of an eye, you slapped him across the face, taking him by complete surprise and broke free from his hands. He leaped towards you as you unlocked the door and ran out and down the hall, shouting for help.

A pair of officers turned the corner.

“Help, please!” You fell into the arms of one of them. “Please, he’s going to hurt me!”

“Who?” one asked with concern.

“Satoru Gojo!”

They exchanged a look and briskly turned away, leaving you standing. Their spines straightened as Gojo walked down the hallway, flattening a hand down his chest. The duo saluted him and walked away with their heads down.

Your heart sank.

You had no power here.

“I told you, Princess,” Gojo purred, prowling towards you, “this is my domain.”

You cried out and ran towards the visitor’s room. The door knob was locked and could only be opened with a keycard. “Help!” You slammed your palms on the surface. “Please, someone! Help—ah!”

Gojo gripped the back of your hair and pulled you from the door. “Perfect timing, actually. I’d like to see the look on Ryomen’s face before I split his woman on my cock.” He swiped the card and opened the door, pushing you inside but controlling you with the grip he had on your head.

Sukuna was already standing and enraged, held back by two guards who struggled. He must’ve heard your helpless cries. You wish he didn’t have to. “Let her go, Gojo!”

“Oh, I will,” said Gojo, “as soon as I’m done with her.”

Sukuna growled, thrashing against his restraints. “You fucking prick, I’m gonna tear you in half if you touch her!”

“Like this?” Gojo squeezed your left breast and laughed.

Sukuna elbowed one of the guards in his nose, momentarily seeking freedom to hit the other. Hope blossomed in your chest as he fought them off and made his way towards you.

Gojo chuckled and pulled out his gun, shooting Sukuna in the leg. You jumped with a scream as he fell to the floor, clutching his thigh. “All this chaos for a common whore,” he muttered. “Come on, Princess. Let’s put you to good use.”

“No, please!” You shouted as he dragged you away. “Sukuna, no! Sukuna!”

“Y/N.” Sukuna reached his arm out, his hand curling into a fist and falling defeatedly onto the floor. “Don’t hurt her, please.” His face was squeezed in pain, as the guards kept him pinned to the floor. “Please! Don’t fucking hurt her—”

The door closed shut, and the last sight before your eyes was Sukuna crying.

Sukuna hadn’t heard from you in over a month.

He’d also spend the month in the infirmary after Uraume did an extensive surgery on his leg. It hadn’t hit a vital artery. He believed Satoru’s aim was calculated to keep him alive. To continue letting him suffer.

Sukuna also went quiet. He hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone except murmuring to himself. He read back on your letters, slept with the papers under his pillow, if he slept at all.

Every morning, afternoon, night, in and out of his dry sleep, he was plotting a way to get out of this hell and find you. Would you even want to see him? Would you even care? Were you even alive? He’d dragged you into his mess, put you in danger, and fell into Satoru’s disgusting trap.

“You need to eat something, Sukuna,” Uraume advised as they have been since his injury. They placed the tray in front of him. “At least eat the yogurt.”

Were you eating? Were you still living in his house? Were you alive? That question rang in his head again.

“For fucks sake.” Uraume brought forth a stool and sat next to his bed, staring at the side of his face. “What the hell do you want to do?”

He wanted to kill Satoru first. Then escape with Toji since he was the only bastard he trusted in this place. Then find you and run away from the law as far as possible. It was a simple plan that required efficiency.

“Are you gonna talk—”

Sukuna shoved the tray aside, the food falling onto the floor. He was irritated by the questions outside and inside of his head. “I need to find her,” he mumbled to himself. “I need to know if she’s alive.” Please, baby, please be alive.

“Everything all right in here, doc?” One of the guards stationed outside the door asked with his head peering through the door.

Sukuna stared at him, then went back to Uraume. They met his eyes with their blank stare. They scanned down his body, to his injured leg, then back to his head.

A sigh left them. “No,” they replied. “Do you mind helping me clean up the mess?”

Sukuna gritted his jaw as the guard walked in, closing the door and crouching down, grumbling curses at Sukuna. Uraume stood from their stool and made their way to the cabinet, pulling out a syringe and a small vial.

Sukuna's eyes lightened, spine straightening. A smile curved at his lip as they flicked the droplets from the tip of the injection and walked over, making small-talk about the weather.

Suddenly, Uraume jabbed the needle into the officer’s neck and pushed down the plunger. He fell to his side, clutching his neck and staring up at them as they shrugged. Sukuna watched with pure delight as his body began to convulse, foam gathering at this mouth and dripping from the side.

Then he stopped.

“He’s dead,” Uraume said before Sukuna could ask. “Works the night shift so you won’t have a problem running into anyone else. Change into his clothes. I’ll drive.” They walked away to grab a face mask.

“Why?” asked Sukuna.

Uraume sighed, head dropping. “Because I fucking hate it here.”

Sukuna was definitely going to hire them once he killed his Gojo, and his nephew.

He quickly changed into the officer’s clothes, giving him a hard kick in the stomach that had Uraume rolling their eyes.

Sukuna followed behind as they led the way. “Let’s take Toji.”

“Why?” they asked. “That’s a hassle.”

“Just feel bad.”

“And when did you start feeling guilt?” Uraume easily slipped past the security gate, waving to the officer who was busy on his phone.

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling because he knew. Sure, you’d only touched him once, but your letters were what truly began to change him. Just the other day, he’d lost a round of blackjack, stacking his debt to Toji by a million, and instead of knocking the guy out cold, Sukuna shook hands and called it a ‘good game.’ “On second thought, let’s leave him here for the time being.” Until he got his money in check.

Once they settled into Uraume’s car, Sukuna quickly discarded the officer's cap, tie, and badges. Uraume entered your address from the letters, and they drove in silence for the next thirty minutes.

When they arrived, the building matched your description: shitty.

Uraume stopped Sukuna before he could leap out of the car. They scanned the street for any signs of police presence. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

Sukuna nodded and dashed out of the car, walking inside the apartment. There was no buzzer system, which meant anyone could stroll in, armed and dangerous. This was a problem. He needed to get you out of here and into one of his safe houses—a hidden place even his bastard nephew didn’t know about.

He hurried up the emergency stairwell to the tenth floor, slightly winded by the time he reached door 1090.

This was it.

With his hands gripping the edges of the door, he hunched forward, heart racing. Please, be alive.

Finally, he knocked.

He chewed the shit out of his bottom lip, hissing impatiently through his teeth. “Come on, Y/N.” He knocked again, his impatience boiling over. “It’s me, Sukuna! Please, open the door.” He pounded harder, fear creeping in with each passing second. The Sukuna Ryomen was . . . scared. “Goddammit!”

“Sukuna . . .?”

He halted mid-breakdown and turned slowly, his heart dropping at the sight of you standing there with two bags of groceries. You looked so fragile, your complexion pale, and the radiance he remembered from your visit had completely vanished.

The grocery bags slipped from your hands and fell to the ground.

In an instant, you both rushed toward each other, and he lifted you off the ground effortlessly. You wrapped your arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably as he buried his hand in the back of your hair, inhaling the comforting scent of your body wash.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay, I’m here.” His eyes were directed straight ahead, and he was shaking. Terribly. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

You pulled back, cradling his face in your small hands. Gently, you brushed aside his dark, mink-like hair, tracing the tattoos on his skin with your fingertips. “You’re alive,” you whispered, overwhelmed by relief. You couldn’t help but touch him, and he simply smiled, allowing you the closeness. “God, you’re alive. Sukuna—you’re really alive. How?”

“Of course, I am. I just needed to know you were alive,” he replied, his hands enveloping your cheeks. “Where did you go? Why did you stop writing to me?”

Your face went blank. “What do you mean?”

“Your letters. You stopped writing to me.”

“They . . .” Your voice cracked. “They told me you were sentenced to death.”

He was taken back. “What the fuck?”

Realisation dawned upon you. The second time you visited Sukuna, Satoru had literally dragged you out of the station, kicking you out the doors. He’d threatened to take you to his office next time, but since he had a meeting with officials that day, he’d reluctantly let you go. That didn’t stop you from sending countless letters, pouring your heart out until, two weeks later, you finally received a notification from the police station. Sukuna had been sentenced to death by lethal injection and was no longer alive. You’d cried for days on end. You imagined he had been cremated and reduced to ashes, stored away somewhere. The thought shattered you. For an entire month, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your house.

Until tonight.

And he was here. Sukuna was here. He was alive.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his thumb gently brushing the area below your sightless eye. “Let’s head inside, alright?”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his wrist. He held your hand tightly while using his other arm to carry your grocery bags. Once you reached your apartment, you opened the door and locked it securely. The deadbolt you had installed was a precaution against Satoru, just in case he showed up.

“I’m so happy you’re al—”

Sukuna kissed you before the words could leave your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, moaning from the taste of his lips, the taste you’d been craving for months now. He didn’t allow you to breathe, didn’t pull away. You both stood there in the alcove, kissing for minutes, clinging to each other. He cupped the back of your head and drew apart from your lips, peppering kisses over your face, especially your foggy eye.

“I don’t want to fuck you, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “I want to make love to you. For hours.” Your grip tightened in his shirt. “Then I need you to pack everything in a bag and run away with me.”

“Run away?” You searched his dark-reddish eyes. “Run away where?”

His knuckles grazed your wet cheek. “Somewhere not even God can find us.”

You swallowed hard. “They’ll send out a manhunt, Sukuna. What if we get caught? What if they take you—”

He cut you off with a kiss. “No one is going to take me away from you. Do you get that?” His strong fingers moved through your hair. “I’d turn this world to dust before that happens.”

Your insides melted from the threat. “Take me,” you murmured over his lips. He kissed you. “Take me everywhere, anywhere, wherever, as long as it’s with you.”

Sukuna lifted you effortlessly, carrying you like a bride as he kicked open your bedroom door. He set you down on the bed, then began stripping off his clothes, revealing the geometric tattoos that marked his thighs and torso. You were caught off guard by how quickly he moved, fumbling to take off your sweater and jeans. By the time you looked back at him, he was already naked, and your gaze dropped to what you could only describe as a gloriously, long erection.

“Woah,” you whispered, feeling your mouth go dry. “You’re abnormally big.”

“You can take it.” He leaned over you, tearing your panties without a second thought. Before you could protest about them being your favorite pair, he spread your legs and went down on you. “Oh, my god—Sukuna—wait—”

“Waited too long,” he growled, his mouth finding your clit as he buried his nose between your wet folds. He nipped, licked, and bit, his tongue plunging deep into you, creating messy sounds that filled the air. You couldn't form words or catch your breath, gripping the roots of his hair tightly.

When you came like a flood, Sukuna lifted your hips, making sure not a single drop of you was lost to the sheets. He let out loud, deep moans as he sloppily lapped at your sensitive cunt.

He wiped his glistening mouth with his fingers and then pressed them against your lips. You eagerly sucked on his warm, thick digits, noting the lustrous glint in his eyes. He pulled his fingers out abruptly. “Suck my cock.”

Suck his what?

You looked down and saw him leaking at the tip. You clenched your legs, unsure. He wanted you to take that into your mouth?

You licked your lips, managing to kneel while he stood before you. He took hold of himself, rubbing the tip against your lips. You instinctively flicked your tongue out to taste him, causing him to flinch. “Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” He seemed to enjoy it. “Just take it in your mouth.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around his hot, veiny length. You opened your jaw as wide as you could and slowly took him in. His head fell back, and he engulfed your face with his palms. Your performance was mediocre, and yet he was entertained.

His tip pressed against the back of your throat, making you pull back to cough. He laughed softly, brushing your cheek with his hand.

“Come on, baby. You need to get used to it.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you replied, your voice shaky as you reached for him again.

“Stick your tongue out.”

You took a deep breath and extended your tongue. He rested the head of his cock on it and started to move his hips slowly.

Slowly, you took him in, feeling his satisfaction as he gently rocked his hips back and forth. He tasted warm and a little salty, and you found your hand wandering between your legs, seeking some relief.

“I’m going to pick up the pace, alright, baby?”

You nodded in response.

“Don’t be embarrassed if you choke,” he said, hooking a stray lock behind your ear. “It’ll just make me come faster.”

With that, he thrust deeper, and you gripped his hips tightly, struggling to catch your breath. He noticed and pulled back slightly to give you a moment, but it was brief before he pushed back in again. “You’re taking me so well, baby. Fuck.” His movements became more feverish, and you felt the pressure building as you choked and gagged, saliva escaping at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come down your throat.”

You tapped his leg, shaking your head.

“No?” He smirked. “You don’t want me to come down your throat?”

You shook your head again and pointed between your legs.

In an instant, Sukuna pulled out. He flipped you onto your chest, lifting your ass up in the air. Without a second thought, he thrust himself deep inside you, and you cried out his name into the pillow.

He felt so full, so thick, pushing into you with a force that made your breath hitch. It was everything you needed—so good, so fucking good. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. He filled you completely, driving into you with a fast rhythm that left you moaning, completely lost in the pleasure.

Your nails clawed at the sheets as his thick tip pressed against your womb, punctuated by the stinging slaps of his hands against your ass. He showered you with a blend of sweet and dirty words—“good fucking girl,” “cock slut,” “so perfect and tight,” “little whore”—and you pushed back, needing him deeper and deeper.

Sukuna released a torrent of warm cum inside you, still driving his hips against you, holding you securely by the waist. The sensation sent waves of pleasure through you, and he pulled out, flipping you onto your back. He bent your knees, driving himself back inside without hesitation. How was he still so hard?

Your hands cupped his flushed, beautiful face, a lazy smile stretching across both your lips. Sukuna leaned in, kissing you deeply before trailing his lips down to your neck while his hand found its way to your breast. “I’m not on birth control anymore, you know?”

“Good.” He pulled back to meet your gaze. “And don’t even think about getting back on it.”

“But we can’t afford the risk, Suku—”

“I love you,” he said, his grip firm on your jaw. Everything inside you exploded. “I love you, baby. I love you so fucking much that I’ll take every fucking risk.”

You moaned softly as he came again, your trembling fingers brushing against his lips. “I love you, too.” He kissed your fingertips, a promise in every touch. “I’ll take every risk with you.”

“Fuck yeah you will.” He didn’t pull out, his eyes locked on yours. “Starting with putting a baby in you.”

You happily accepted your fate.

Sukuna pulled the trigger, shooting another police officer in the back of his head. The sound of the gunfire mixed with the blaring sirens, echoing through the flickering lights of the corridors—a devious melody composed just for him. He chuckled low, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a grin as another officer lunged out, attempting to stop him—pathetic. A single shot rang out, and the man crumpled like paper.

The path to Satoru’s office was a long one, and the bodies he left sprawled out in his wake were only a brief distraction from the task at hand. He had things to do today, after all.

Another officer stumbled into view, eyes wide, panic evident. He didn’t stand a chance. Sukuna barely glanced at him as he fired, stepping over the man as he slumped against the wall. Blood splattered his shoes, but it was hardly the worst stain on his day.

You were going to be pissed. He could practically hear the biting tone, the disappointed scowl that’d meet him the moment he finally made it to Mai’s first birthday party. Sukuna scoffed as he shot a bullet straight through a door that dared open near him, knocking down yet another obstacle.

But this was necessary. He needed to do this.

Free Toji. Kill Gojo. And then, eventually, deal with his meddling nephew. Everything would finally align, and maybe—just maybe—he could stop all this. For you. For your daughter.

Satoru’s office was close now. He could smell the antiseptic scent of the door, the false air of authority that seemed to reek from it. He cocked his gun, steeling himself. Because when he was done here—when he’d finally finished what he’d started—he’d make it up to you.

Or so he told himself, as another officer charged and met the floor with a hole in his skull.

Sukuna didn’t bother with the doorknob. He slammed his boot into the door, sending it splintering inward with a loud crack. The office was stripped bare; Satoru’s usual pile of clutter, the irritating stench of his cologne—gone. Only the dust of where things once sat remained on the shelves and desk.

The bastard had fled.

Sukuna’s jaw clenched as he surveyed the room. Gojo knew he was coming and had bolted like a coward hours ago. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his thumb, the small flame dancing aglow. Without a second thought, he stepped to the heavy, pretentious curtains Gojo insisted on, pressing the flame to the thick fabric. It caught quickly, embers licking up and curling black around the edges as the fire took hold, consuming Satoru’s last pathetic hold on this place.

He turned and walked out, ignoring the smoke that was already billowing into the hall. The prison alarm was still blaring, red lights flashing down the cold corridors as he made his way to the cells. Every so often, he’d pause, assessing the prisoner cowering behind bars. Rapists, pedophiles, molesters, abusers, killers of innocent lives—he moved on from them. But when he found those who didn’t quite repulse him, he took a single shot at their lock, releasing them in a stream of confused, wary freedom.

As he approached the far end of the corridor, a familiar sight greeted him—his old cell. And standing behind those hard, metal bars, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, was Toji.

“Didn’t think you’d come back to this hellhole,” Toji remarked.

“Not for long,” Sukuna replied, levelling his gun at the lock. He fired once, the lock shattering as the cell door swung open.

Toji stepped out of his cell, took one look around, then paused. “Hold up.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, watching as the man crouched beside a loose brick in the wall. With a wry smile, he pulled out an old, scratched-up plastic bottle with a wriggling, sickly-looking worm inside. He tapped the side of the bottle, making the creature twist and writhe. “Almost forgot my little friend here.”

Sukuna barked a short laugh. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

Alarms blared louder as they navigated the winding corridors and ran past prisoners surging toward freedom. Some guards tried to block the path, but they were quickly swept aside by Sukuna’s bullets and Toji’s fists. By the time they hit the outer gates, the entire prison was pandemonium, prisoners scattering into the open like ants from a burning nest.

Outside, a sleek, black car idled just past the gate. Uraume sat coolly behind the wheel, watching the stampede of convicts with bored detachment. As they approached, Uraume rolled down the window, glancing at them with their nose slightly crinkled.

“I could smell you two from a mile away,” they said dryly, eyes flicking to the stains of blood on their clothes. “Maybe next time, schedule a prison massacre that doesn’t fall on your daughter’s birthday?”

“Just drive,” Sukuna replied, sliding into the backseat with Toji following. Toji glanced at Uraume with a quick nod, still keeping a light hold on his bottle, the worm twisting inside.

“Welcome back to the real world, Fushiguro,” they said, starting the car as they drove off into the night.

The road stretched long and dark, winding into the depths of a thick forest. The further they drove, the thicker the trees became, their branches curving overhead to cast everything in shadows. The road narrowed into a rugged trail, overgrown and wild. Uraume navigated it deftly, until at last, the forest opened up, and they could see the soft glimmer of moonlight on the water beyond.

Perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean stood their safe house—a dark brick estate against the endless stretch of water. Waves crashed against the rocks far below, the scent of salt and sea heavy in the air.

Sukuna looked at the house, then at Toji’s surprised face.

“This is where you’ve been hiding for the two years?” he asked as soon as they were out of the car.

“Not for long if I fuck this up.” Sukuna slipped in through the garage, keeping his steps light. He had just one goal at this moment: reach the shower before you spotted the blood streaked on his clothes and the smell of gunpowder clinging to him.

But as he shut the door, there you were, arms crossed, eyes sharp as they landed on him.

“Sukuna,” you started, an edge in your tone that he recognized all too well. “Do you have any idea what day it is? Look at you; you're a mess!” You gestured at the dark stains on his shirt and his unmistakable smirk.

Instead of trying to dodge the lecture, he listened, that faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched you, soaking in each scolding word. You were the one person who never held back with him, and it made something dangerous in him soften, something in him settle. “I know, baby,” he replied, pecking your cheek. “But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” you replied, sighing, though you couldn’t quite hide the relief in your voice. You glanced over his shoulder. “Toji, Uraume—it’s good to see you both.”

Uraume gave a slight bow, a wry smile still tugging at their lips, while Toji just gave you a quick nod.

You waved a hand, turning back to the kitchen. “Both of you boys—shower, now. I won’t have the two of you smelling like a prison while I’m trying to decorate my daughter’s cake. Go on!”

Toji gave Sukuna a knowing look and shrugged, as if to say, She’s right. Sukuna shot him a warning look, then followed up the stairs, chuckling under his breath as he imagined how you’d cornered him like this.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, cleaned up, feeling far lighter as he tugged on a fresh shirt and came downstairs, catching the scent of the dinner you’d prepared.

He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that melted your anger as he pulled you close.

“Gojo got away,” he murmured. “He knew I was coming, and he ran like the coward he is. But I’ll find him. And I’ll make him pay for what he did to you. I swear it.”

You paused, looking up into his eyes, your hand settling on his cheek. “I know you will, Sukuna. But don’t miss the important things here. We’re what’s important now, not just revenge.”

The words took root in him, grounding him, but that flicker of rage still danced in his eyes. He pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll never let him touch us again. I promise you that.”

Just as you leaned in for another kiss, Sukuna heard the faint sound of your daughter stirring awake from her nap on the living room floor. Mai’s soft little whimpers broke the room’s quiet. Instinctively, he abandoned your kiss, his attention snapping to her as he practically floated over to where she was squirming in her pink dress, rubbing her tiny fists over her eyes.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, scooping her up with all the gentleness he could muster. Her sleepy eyes blinked open, and he was rewarded with that toothy little grin she’d recently mastered, one that brought an uncharacteristic softness to his entire face. He pressed a cascade of kisses on her cheeks, nose, forehead—anywhere he could reach. “Look at you, sweetheart. All dressed up for your birthday, huh? The prettiest girl in the world.”

You laughed softly from the kitchen, watching as Sukuna held her close, stepping into an impromptu waltz around the living room, his steps surprisingly skilled. She squealed in delight, her small hands reaching up to his face as he spun her around. Even Toji, who had just come down from the shower, stopped in his tracks at the sight, a rare, amused smile tugging at his mouth.

Sukuna glanced up, catching Toji’s presence, and with a proud smirk said, “Toji, meet my daughter, Mai. She’s already got more spirit than most of the people you and I have met.”

Toji stepped forward, studying your daughter. He reached out a hand, and she looked at him with wide eyes, inspecting him with her natural, innocent curiosity. “She looks like trouble. Must take after her old man.”

“Her mother, mostly,” Sukuna said in your direction, bouncing her lightly. “She’s going to have a whole world to handle, with us around.”

In the background, Uraume was setting the table, their usual precision in each movement. They threw Sukuna a blank look, brushing off their hands. “Now that the table’s set, if you’d all just take your seats, maybe we can have a peaceful birthday dinner without the talk of blood and violence for once.”

Sukuna chuckled, shooting them a dry look before turning back to his daughter. Holding Mai close, he took a seat at the head of the table with you beside him. He looked around, taking in the sight—the cake you’d just set down, the quiet chatter as Uraume and Toji exchanged comments, and his daughter babbling in his lap, still pawing at his face with sticky fingers.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt peace.

The “Happy Birthday” song had been sung, candles blown out, cake shared, and Toji had crashed in the guest room, completely knocked out. Uraume, too, was resting in another room, finally allowing herself a few hours of sleep.

In your bed, the soft rise and fall of your daughter’s tiny breaths filled the space between you and Sukuna. She slept peacefully between you both, tiny fingers curled into fists as she dreamed. But you and Sukuna were both wide awake, eyes locked on each other in the moonlight. His hand drifted up, fingertips brushing your cheek.

“Do you remember my first letter?” you asked.

A smirk began at his lips. “You mean the diary entry about the cockroaches in your kitchen and how you thought seducing your landlord was a better solution than paying rent?”

You laughed, covering your mouth to keep quiet, not wanting to wake your baby. He loved that laugh—the way it sounded like music only he got to hear.

“Or how no one with one functioning eye could ever be taken seriously romantically,” he added. “Debunked, by the way.”

Your laugh softened, and you looked at him with a smile that held a thousand memories. “Do you remember the last thing I wrote?”

“The part about Satanism?”

You laughed again, the sound bubbling up and melting into the dark. And as he listened, he couldn’t help but chuckle alongside, his thumb tracing along your cheek, taking in the moment like he was trying to memorise it.

You took a breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “I said I was lonely as hell, remember?” Sadness wove into your words. “And . . . I was. Back then, I thought no one could ever really understand me. Until you did.”

Sukuna shook his head. “You were never meant to be alone, baby,” he murmured. “Not then, not ever. Not while I’m here.”

You swallowed, heart catching as you looked at the life you’d built, the fragile happiness that now lay nestled between you both. “I’m just . . . scared sometimes,” you admitted. “I’m scared of losing this. Of losing you. I don’t know if I could protect what we have.”

“We’ll protect it together,” Sukuna affirmed. “Nothing will take this from us. Not while I’m still breathing.” He leaned forward, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was deep, reassuring, exactly like the one he’d give you when you’d sealed your vows. When he pulled back, you met his eyes, a soft smile tugging at your mouth.

“I love you, Sukuna,” you whispered, fingers brushing his sharp jaw. “Genuinely, your wife.”

He took them and gave a kiss to the tips. “And I love you most, baby. Genuinely, your husband.”

Moments later, your eyes drifted shut, your breathing evening out as you finally slipped into sleep. But Sukuna stayed awake, his gaze never leaving you, or your daughter.

This was the family he’d fought and bled for, the life he’d killed to create. And yet, an unsettling undercurrent of unfinished business tugged at his nerves. But tonight, he forced it away, just for a while.

For now, there was no room for anything but the second chance he’d been given.

Genuinely, by you.

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naffeclipse · 3 months ago

Text

A Tease

Reader x Grease

Commission Info

I am rattling @o-cinnamonstickz for commissioning one of my monster boyfriend OCs and letting me go absolutely feral with this guy! Grease is such a menace and the poor reader must sweetly suffer him. After stealing a break while on a late shift, the reader will run into Grease behind the diner, and one tease will lead to another.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

The customer smiles as he hands you back the black check presenter, his mouth spread a little too wide to show off his molars. You feel the money tucked within, but with an inward groan, you fear there is no tip. You wish him and the few others eating with him a good night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one of his friends will pity you and dump a few quarters on the dirty table.

As they all throw down their napkins and scurry away, out into the night of Hebron, you step back to the cash register. Feeling the inside of your apron pocket, you brush against the worn and half-crumpled box of cornstarch hidden within before snagging your pen to tuck behind your ear.

With a few taps and clanks, and a little slam to get it to open properly, you deposit the cash for the meal. Stealing a glance over to the table, you find the dishes piled high, the clear cups half filled with watered-down soda, and not even a dime in sight.

Great. Just lovely.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and huff through your nostrils. Where did the virtue of tipping go? Is it just tourists or is it simply everyone that steps through the diner doors who forgoes the practice?

Such questions will only leave you with a headache pounding away at your temples. Biting back a few choice words due to their rowdiness and the not-at-all-subtleness in looking you up and down, you slip the bill into the towering pile that has collected throughout the day.

It’s close to the end of your shift, right? You keep yourself from staring at the clock in the diner too frequently lest the hands get stuck in one place, endlessly ticking without spinning. Everything seems stuck in time here.

The Hebron Diner, aptly named after the town Hebron, in which you and this poor restaurant reside, is a vintage theme with black and white photos of old cars driving between the trees and sepia pictures of scenery from the nearby national park. You’re growing to hate the lilac coloring of the tables, stools, and booths, and your own stupid waitress attire is drenched in the same hue. Your apron is white—a poor choice, considering how well it shows the stains of burger grease and ketchup.

You return to the table and begin gathering plates. One hardly touched his fries and you think the other merely played with his country-fried steak. Only an hour to go and then you’re free to rush home and scrub off the smell of fast food from your skin and hair. As the darkness holds over Hebron and its neon-dusted but quaint main street, your hope for the end of a long shift grows.

You bring the dishes back into the kitchen. Darren, the cook, seems content to clean the grill while the diner remains open but inhabited by hungry customers.

“Hey, would you mind taking out the trash?” he calls over his shoulder, never even looking up from the faint steam that sizzles over the grill top. “I’ll keep an eye out, let you take a break for a minute if you do.”

“Deal,” you answer without hesitation. You still need to wipe down the table, but you’ll do that after your break. You’ve earned one.

Dropping off the dishes, you look to Darren for directions on which garage. He jerks his head in the direction of the trash bag sitting in a gleaming silver can, and you quickly tie it up and lift it from its container. Without another word, you breeze outside towards the dumpster.

Darren scratches your back, you scratch his. You don’t talk to him much, but your habitation as coworkers is seamless as butter on fresh hotcakes.

The coolness of the night washes over you, chasing away the heat and stress of the diner. A faint street light shines into the employee parking lot filled with cracked pavement and the remnant odor of grease traps.

The dumpster is located on the other end of the small lot, unfortunately. The light doesn’t quite reach there and deep potholes collect water and whatever may fall into their depths. Your heart skips a beat, your fingers white-knuckling the tied-off garbage at your side.

There are monsters out there. You never thought of such things since you were a child, but the world became a lot bigger and unknowable, and this town became a lot smaller and strange since you discovered the truth. There are things in the dark that hide with mouths full of teeth. They like to watch you. They hope to follow you home and catch you where no one will hear you scream.

Is your paranoia striking because you’re alone now? The darkness is thick and inky, wrapping around the edges of the weak streetlight.

No. Stop being a child. Heaving the trash bag up with a soft clatter, you grind your teeth. The night isn’t what scares you. You push yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you catch sight of one of the potholes. It brims with dark liquid shining iridescently. It stands between you and the dumpster, and you catch an unmistakable ripple across its surface. There is no breeze tonight.

Your breath catches in your throat before you roll your eyes. A name is on the tip of your tongue, ready to call out, but you stop yourself.

A wicked grin crosses your lips. A juvenile idea infiltrates your brain and you run with it. You set one hand on your hip before arching a brow, staring down at the oil puddle. Does he really think you don’t know he’s here?

Dropping the trash bag into the puddle, you promptly sit on top of the black material—not allowing logical thoughts such as the fear of something sharp poking you or the general distasteful smell reeking from it stop you—and throw the puddle outwards in a thick, black splash.

You recline back on it, hands on your knees, as you shift your hips slightly to sink into what feels squishy and crumples slightly, perhaps old food and cardboard boxes. Gross. You ignore it and keep sitting pretty. Underneath you, the puddle begins to bubble and froth. The iridescent sheen of purples and blues and yellows flash in a way you haven’t quite seen before.

Then the thought lingers a little too long before it manifests into something searing with embarrassment. You might as well have plopped yourself into a demon’s lap.

No. You hold firm. This is payback. He’s stalked you, hunted you down, and grabbed you. The least you can do is embarrass him with the rotten cherry being a trash bag on top of him. You lounge as if it were a throne.

Then a growl emerges from below you. Goosebumps roll over your arms until every tiny hair pricks. Your heart begins to thump hard and fast like a rabbit fleeing from a fox.

You spring off of the garbage bag as if burned. Breath caught in your throat, you whirl back to face the sleek ripples of the oil puddle.

The black liquid rises, funneling into the figure of a man, lithe with muscles and powerfully sleek not unlike a tiger. The trash bag is ripped upwards in a grip of indignation. Your gut clenches as claws, iridescently gleaming and dark, sink into the thin black material.

A creature of living oil. A demon. Grease.

Two dark tendrils drip down from the top of his head, the tips resting at his shoulders. A long, sleek, and wicked tail snaps behind him. His face is flat with a sharp jawline, lacking a nose but his mouth bears bone-white teeth. Two pale blue eyes, centered with black pupils, pierce you in the darkness of the parking lot as if he might devour you whole. You’re reminded so vividly of a tiger before it strikes.

“How disrespectful,” Grease snarls, his silky and dark timbre carrying a slight threat underneath it. “I’ve come to see you and you put trash on me. Must I remind you who I am?”

You shift on the gritty pavement from one foot to the other. The candle flame of mirth inside of you is not yet extinguished. A small voice warns you in the back of your mind that you’re pushing your luck, but you are nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

“I know who you are, oil boy,” you say, much braver than you are. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

His grin widens.

“Oh?” He steps forward, his shoulders lowering like a cat about to bounce. The sway of his tail is excited, thrilled for a chase. “Neither are you, little nymph.”

A brief burn infiltrates you at the nickname he’s unfortunately bestowed upon you. Your brow furrows as you take a step back. A powerful concoction of adrenaline and confusion floods your veins, interrupting the flow of your thoughts as a primitive instinct to survive takes hold.

“What…?” Your tongue is too heavy.

He tilts his head, revealing a terrible mouth filled with shark-like teeth. Fear spears your heart.

“If you want to sit in my lap, you merely need to ask.” He cackles a heinous sound of black glee.

Red heat fills your face, coloring you in both rage and embarrassment. No, no, this is backfiring. You should have known he would have twisted it in his favor. He’s so seductive and intimidating. You forget which part of him is more dangerous: his teeth or his words.

“Ah, just how I like you, all pretty and pink,” he purrs deep in his throat. His black tongue, oily and black as midnight, swipes over his teeth as if he just found dessert.

Forget this. You twist on the balls of your feet, pushing off the cracked pavement in a dead run for the back door of the diner.

It’s over before it’s truly begun. Long, slick claws snatch you by the arms. Grease rips a gasp from you as he whirls you around and pins your back to the wall. You glare up at him, a breath rattling into your lungs.

“Let me return your little favor.” His voice coils within you. Your heart beats against your ribs, wild under his devouring gaze. “A little tease for another.”

The sleek tip of his tail finds your ankle and begins winding up your leg. You bite back a yelp at the squeezing, staining pressure from the tendril. A chain to ensure you can’t run.

“I wasn’t teasing you,” you protest, but it’s a lie. A filthy lie that is only met with a sinister chuckle from Grease.

“Don’t be so coy. It’s not a good look for you.”

Fighting words long to fly off your tongue but his own emerges from his jaws. Dripping black saliva coats it like thick honey. Your eyes widen. He leans in closer with a monstrous grin. The tendrils upon either side of his head twist up gently and press into your cheeks, securing you into place as you suck in a sharp breath. Your palms press flat against the wall at your sides. He bends low to find access to your neck.

The cool, slick caress of his tongue on the curve of your throat draws out a shiver. It fills your chest and rolls down your spine. Tenderly exploring your skin, the tip of his tongue licks slowly upwards before disappearing from underneath your chin with a cool trace. You gulp.

The fiend. You would curse him if you weren’t half-paralyzed underneath his mouth. Your fingers inch toward your apron pocket.

“On second thought, why stop with a tease?” Grease slips back just enough to capture your gaze and watch you squirm. A threat of blush is bearing down upon your defenses. “You deserve more. A proper… tantalizing…”

He finishes his thought with a too-wide smile and his tongue flicking out of his mouth, closing the precious little distance between your lips. The gallope of your heart roars in your ears. You can’t name the roiling in your middle. It is too hungry, too excited for an oil demon’s touch.

Still, you lean forward in the slightest, just to catch him the slightest bit off guard. His tail loosens from your leg. His eyes widen, but he presses in—

You snatch the box of cornstarch out of your apron and whip it in front of you, spilling out fine white powder onto the oil demon. He screeches in fury. Backing away from you as the cornstarch latches onto his chest, he writhes and hisses, claws raking at the substance gluing up his sleek form.

“You—! You—!” He howls but all you can do is steal one breathless sound before sliding out from underneath him and grabbing the door handle. Twisting it, you fling yourself into the kitchen.

You twist back to slam the door closed but catch a sharp, pale blue glare, frothing with a promise so vile, it ignites your core into a hot bubbling mess.

Grease will make you pay. But not tonight.

You lock the door and fall back against it. Deep gulps of air heaves through your chest. You slowly push your hair away from your sweaty face.

You got away. For now.

#naff's writing commissions #monster boyfriend #monster x human #sweet savage hearts #<<< monster boyfriends story title hehehe #also hi grease is a tongue terror to the poor MC #oc: grease #naff ocs #naff writing

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stealingyourbones · 9 months ago

Note

What suggestions would you have for cool, lesser known DC characters I could write a crossover fic with.

Preferably not Gotham-based characters because as much as I love them I need a break and I want to try something new. I know you mentioned Animal Man in another post. Does he have a solo run I can look up or is he usually in group comics/a side character in somebody else’s comics?

(I am deliberately baiting you to info-dump to me about any DC characters you want and I will write a fic with them so go nuts.)

Sadly at this current moment I can’t infodump nearly as much as I’d want to because my carpal tunnel is being a lil bitch but I can give synopses:

Animal Man- Buddy Baker, a typical suburban dad who also happens to be a hero that can use abilities based on any nearby animal (including bacteria?). He is powered by The Red which is the animal version of The Green (Plant Life). The Red is less the concept of all animals but more the concept that all animals are meat. his comics are either a beautifully terrifying body horror gore fest or a 4th wall breaking mind bending creation. No in between. Having Animal Man fight the Lunch Lady and realize she’s fundamentally a different being and not of The Red would be crazy awesome.

Booster Gold or Ted Kord: Booster Gold is a Time Cop who got his job from stealing shit from the Hall of Justice Museum and heading to the Age of Heroes to fund enough money and fame to pay for his mothers cancer treatment. He could be used in Clockwork related fics a lot and he’s also equally as much as a dumbass as Danny.

Blue Beetle also known as Ted Kord, is basically in the same package deal as Booster. Ted Kord, Late owner of Kord Industries, ja a brilliant master of technology and has stuff from a massive beetle ship to a gun. He’s best friends with Booster and their bromance could be fun if you want Danny to have two partially functional adult mentors.

Wally West. The second and fastest flash. A he’s the most go with the flow dude I’ve seen in recent comics, including dealing with an inter dimensional WWE esque fight where he fights alongside Space Hulk Hogan, and has a wonderful Wife, Linda West, and (sometimes) twin kiddos. The Flash’s entire sthick is family. They’re more family centered than the Fast and Furious movies for god sake. Having Danny find a new home in any speedsters home would be incredible.

The Spectre: the embodiment of Gods Wrath. I would go on far too long of a rant remind me to do one later but for now all I’m saying is that it would be sick as fuck for The Spectre to kill Vlad for the horrible things he’s done.

Green Arrow or in general Star City: Oliver Queen, inheritor of Queen Industries is a dude who got trauma after a boat sank and some island thing (tbh I don’t know his backstory off the top of my head), but he’s a very quippy and hilarious guy who’s jokes would mesh pretty nicely with Danny’s humor and in general he’s underutilized in both dpxdc and DC so it’d be nice to see that change :)

Ok hands are getting angry but I hope that’s a fun starting example list for ya!! :D

#dpxdc #bones replies #bones writes #bones prompts

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lazypanartist · 1 year ago

Text

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

I love him 💙

pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection. Canon-typical injuries

Features info dumping and personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's long ASF. And just self indulgent

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

DIY/punk Hobie Brown

If you're in the scene, you know the basics

Patches?

Hand-Stitched

Usually with dental floss for durability/cost efficiency

And originally painted with white-out for the same reasons

Spikes or studs?

Cheap, bulk buy, screw em on yourself

Or just make em out of cans

Hobie's fit looks like it fits the bill

Old leather or denim jacket with the sleeves cut off

FN/SM painted on the back

Shirt's kinda tattered iirc

Spiked collars are easy

Same with the wristbands

When he meets you?

Whoo boy

It was one of his shows he was putting on

New songs, new faces in the crowd

He spots you from a distance at first

Little sketchbook in hand

You stay through his whole performance

When he's chatting up the crowd afterwards, though?

You're already gone

(Bitch writes a song about the pretty thing watching from afar, bc ofc he does)

He next sees you during one of President Osborne's speeches

Standing in the front row of a gathered crowd, shaking your head at the screen

He drops down after a few minutes, hanging upside down and blocking the less-than-pleasant view

He takes a few moments between questions from others

Little explanations

A promise to do what he can

Takes just a glimpse to look you over

You have a similar touch to the rest of the crowd

Worn out boots, tattered clothes, hand-sewn and painted patches

And your sketchbook still in hand

It's a little peculiar for the crowd

But he doesn't question it

What he does question is where you've gone after he turns to look at you

He only took a second for more reassurances

But when he goes to see you again

You're gone, just like the first time you caught his eye

He realizes then

That he's intrigued

He doesn't know what it is about you

Until he keeps seeing you pop up again

Riots

Concerts

Shows

Speeches

His immaterial object of interest

He finally starts actually talking to you the third or fourth time he sees you

At another of Osborne's liefests

An ambassador on a stage, surrounded by punks

Speaking of the President's virtues

Yeah

Spider-Punk shows up pretty quickly to run him off

And gets to chatting with you

When he first approaches, you ask for his opinion on a patch idea

And turn your sketchbook to show him the page

His spider symbol backpiece

But instead of FN/SM, it simply states

"Down With President Osborne"

He takes your pen and signs as a seal of approval before swinging away

Sure, it was a short interaction

But it led to even more meaningful ones

Like, say..

Him practically dropping out of the sky into a park

You were just minding your business, sketching the scenery

When he almost fell on top of you.

Covered in injuries

He laughs when he looks up and sees that it's you

Because of course it's you

Tries to resist when you start futzing over him

If you're the parent friend like me?

Patch him up

PLEASE

Even if you can't see him back together

Just

Bandaids and gauze pads

And maybe some candy

Bc suckers help with creativity

Or it's just my neurodivergence? Idk

Just. Offer him one in case he needs to bite on something while you're putting alcohol on his injuries

When you're done he looks them over

Promptly winces when he twists his arm 🙄

But then thanks you for your help and swings off

Again

These kinds of interactions become common

He'll find you hanging around the city

Either doodling or just vibing

And drops down to talk for a bit

Or get patched up

Loves when you offer to fix his costume

Bc it looks just as nice & homemade as the rest of your/his fits

Grins under his mask when he sees a new patch or two

And starts snickering if you deny their application

He really appreciates everything you do for him

And figures he should prove it

Sure, he's saved you

But he's saved a lot of people..

He wants this to be special

Unique

And he thinks he knows how to do that..

---

Click for next part

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harmonyrae · 1 month ago

Text

Power Couple

CHAPTER 9 - Dirty Work

You can't stop thinking about that night. How intoxicating Sylus was. His aura, his voice, his taste in wine, the conversation. It's definitely making work much harder than it should be...

*NSFW 18+ Content Ahead*

Hazy memories of you and Sylus in the dining room. Candles glowing, the chandelier swinging above you, red wine. You find yourself looking around for the fireplace, you don’t remember there being one in the dining room. The heat was nearly unbearable, sweat dripping down your face, your hair clinging to your neck. You reach for your wine, but before your fingers even touch the glass your core tightens and you can barely breathe.

Your breathing is punctuated and shallow. You throw your head back and before you register what’s happening, a breathless moan leaves your lips. The breathlessness is accompanied by warmth and… pleasure.

You’re finally able to lean back and you look down at the table. How could you forget? You weren’t seated at the table. You were on the table. And you are the meal.

Seeing Sylus’ head between your legs, his hands holding your thighs… The sight is intoxicating, but what he’s doing with his tongue shuts down every thought in your mind. Your toes curl as he traces circles around your clit. He brings a hand down from your thigh and slides a finger into your pussy. You hear him moan your name as his finger swirls and strokes. You arch your back off the table as he slips another finger inside you. He drags his tongue down to drink you in before returning to your swollen clit and sucking, hard. You grab his hair with one hand as Sylus tightens his grip on your thigh and begins thrusting, faster and faster. You slam your other hand down on the table.

Bang

Your eyes fly open.

Bang Bang

“Boss, wake the hell up, we have a problem!” Dorian’s voice is loud and angry.

You stare at your ceiling, breathing heavy. You did not… you absolutely did NOT have a wet dream about Sylus. Of all fucking people. Didn’t you just rip Dorian a new asshole for bringing up the not-date for the 10th fucking time? Jesus. Are you that desperate? You have a vibrator for a reason. It takes care of you just as good as a man. Okay… maybe not “just as good” but pretty damn good.

“Boss! Seriously, you need to wake up!” His voice is getting more irritated.

“I’m awake, just let me get dressed!” You sit up and wipe the sweat from your forehead. You swing your legs off the bed and hurry to your closet to throw on a pair of black sweatpants and a tank top. You just hope whatever this “problem” is, you’ll have a chance to finish getting ready before going out in public.

You swing your bedroom door open and Dorian shoves a folder into your arms. Glancing down you see Ridgeway Liquors stamped on the front.

“Ridgeway burned down this morning.” Dorian turns to land face first on your couch. Grabbing a pillow to cover his head. You flip open the file and start to read.

“Who’d you send to walk the grounds?” Your brain shifts into what Dorian lovingly calls “high-functioning boss bitch mode.” Basically, you’re going to sound like a bitch with no heart, only talk about business and there’s a 95% chance you’re going to hurt someone’s feelings.

“Hugh just got back. He’s writing something up.” Dorian’s voice is muffled by the couch cushions.

“Get your face out of my couch and make me a coffee.” Checking your phone, you see you have almost half a dozen missed calls from the CEO of Ridgeway. Thankfully, when you call he picks up immediately.

“We’re on it, I will have an answer by the end of day. Contractors are working on an estimate. And you’ll get the address for your backup location in the next 2 hours.” Before he has a chance to speak, you info dump Ridgeway in an attempt to dampen the hell storm this has, no doubt, started for Himitsu.

“I want the name of the fucker who lit the match. I want the name of the fucker who gave the order. Hell, I want the name of the gas station attendant who sold the gas to fuel the flames. End of day TODAY or I break the contract.” Click. He hangs up.

“Yep, that stick is still up there.” Dorian snorts at your comment and focuses on foaming the milk for your coffee. You thank him as he sets it down in front of you. You stare at your mug, the largest in your collection with “Best Boss” printed on it. You immediately look up at Dorian.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Dorian sits down across from you, looking at his phone.

Ding

Your phone buzzes with a new message. It’s a picture of a ship with hundreds of containers. Dozens of men cover the boat. You try to zoom in but everything is too pixelated. But there’s a clear logo on the side of the containers. A black bird in a red circle.

“An Onychinus freight ship? The docks are off limits, who took these photos?” Your voice strained as you try to reign in your frustration.

“I’ve had a PI looking into Onychinus for months now. He got these last night. Personally, I don’t think it violates your - so called - deal with Sylus.”

“And if Sylus finds out we have this information?”

“Then we deal with it. Right now, it’s important you know this. Onychinus is bringing new shit into the zone. And they can dispose of things with that ship too.” Dorian rubs the back of his neck.

“Can we focus on one thing at a time please? The Ridgeway issue is more pressing to us. I need the phone number for our contractor. I also need you to find a new site for them to continue their operations as soon as possible.” Dorian nods and stands up from the table. Pacing in front of the windows making call after call.

Ding

A text message, not from your usual phone. You’re not sure why you decided to start carrying around your burner phone. But on days like today you’re glad you do.

(Sylus) They’re serving a Chardonnay at this meeting that tastes like I’m biting into a tree. (You) Wine. That’s a good idea actually. (You) Forget coffee. I definitely need wine at 10am on a Tuesday. (Sylus) Who has you riled up? (You) Besides you? It’s just a normal day in paradise.

You couldn’t tell him anything, but teasing each other via text made you smile. And you needed that, especially today. You sit at your kitchen table for nearly four hours making endless phone calls to get every tiny detail about the fire. You read the reports a second, third, fourth time to make sure you don’t miss anything. You only take a break to make another coffee and eat a banana. Everything is falling into place, but your anxiety is getting worse by the minute. Or maybe that’s the coffee? You’re not sure at this point.

Ding

A text from Dorian. He left about an hour ago to pick up something. You’re hoping this text will confirm delivery.

(Dorian) Delivered. Want me to get started? (You) No. I want to deal with this.

You go to your room to change into black jeans and a fitted black turtleneck. You slick your hair back into a bun and slip on your favorite chunky moto boots. When you don’t get a reply from Dorian you sigh. He always asks, but never listens. You hurry to the elevator and click the basement level button. Show time.

The elevator opens and you’re greeted with the sound of loud thuds and men shouting. You pick up your pace as you head for the door at the end of the all too familiar hallway. The men stationed beside the door give each other a worried look, wondering if they should have intervened when the shouting began. You fling open the door letting it bang against the wall.

Dorian’s fists are bloody and the face of the man cuffed to the chair is already starting to bruise. Dorian looks up at you, his brow furrowed and forehead glistening with sweat. His eyes burn with anger and he doesn’t lower his voice from a shout.

“He’s close. I’ve got this.” You grit your teeth as you watch Dorian hit the man again.

“I’m not telling you shit you fuck!” The man yells before he spits. Saliva and blood splatter against Dorian’s face and Dorian pulls a knife from his belt.

“Stop.” Dorian is inches away from slicing the man's nose off. He slowly turns his head to look at you. “Outside. Now.” Straightening up, Dorian tucks his knife away and walks out of the room.

Dorian loosens his tie and glares at you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You shove him. He was unprepared so he stumbled backward, but he never breaks eye contact with you.

“I had it handled.” Dorian damn near growls back at you.

“I’m taking it from here. Leave.” Dorian stares at you for a moment before turning to stomp off down the hall like an angry toddler.

“Sorry about that.” You say as you re-enter the room. The man in the chair looks up at you, there’s a hint of humor in his eyes.

“No problem princess.” Your smile widens.

“Do you know why you’re here?” You lean against the wall in front of him, your face hidden in the shadows.

“Not a clue. Your boy thought it’d be better to just fuck up my face than tell me shit.” And it was true, his face was bloody, black and blue. Dorian worked him over.

“Ridgeway Liquor. What do you know?” You sink your hands in your pockets.

“They have good Vodka.” He chuckles.

“So good you make late night trips for a bottle or two?” He remains silent, so you continue.

“If it was so good, why did you burn it down?” He throws his head back to laugh.

“Bitch, I didn’t do shi-” Before he can finish the sound of metal on bone cascades through the room. You stand fully in the light, looking down at the man. His nose crumpled against his face, blood gushing down over his mouth and chin.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?” The man spits, splattering blood on the floor in front of him. A tooth included.

“Dorian usually goes bare knuckle. I prefer a bit of sparkle.” You stare down at the brass knuckles that adorn your clenched fist. Custom made, diamond encrusted, now painted with a hint of blood.

“The next words out of your mouth will be the reason why your car was in the alley behind Ridgeway last night.” The man looks at you, surprised by your strength and terrified by your question.

“I don’t- I don’t know what-”

THUD

Another punch lands on the man's face. More blood and another tooth falls to the floor.Another punch lands on the man's face. A loud crack of bones breaking and wails of pain flood the small room. Blood gushes from the mans nose and mouth.

“OKAY okay okay okay… I was there. I was there okay?” There’s desperation in his voice.

“What was the job?” You pick up a towel off the nearby table and clean your brass knuckles.

“I don’t know…” You raise your fist again. “I DON’T KNOW because… because I just had to put a USB in the computer and I don’t know anything else besides that.”

“Who did you deliver it to?” The man drops his gaze. He stares at the floor and cries out in pain.

“I answer that I die. You can hit me all you want, but I can’t…”

“Die now or die later. Up to you. At least I’m giving you a choice.” You pull your gun from your holster and place the barrel to his forehead. He cries out, his eyes widening.

“Okay, okay OKAY - I delivered it to a man on 2nd and Vine. He only gave me the name Oni.”

“How’d you communicate with him?”

“A burner phone. Texted me the details.”

“Where’s the phone now?”

“Bottom of the ocean. His instructions.”

“Where’d you toss it from?”

“Whitesand Pier.” You turn and walk to the door. “Wait wait WAIT, you gotta let me go. Please! They'll kill me for this!”

“Don’t worry. Oni won’t kill you.”

Bang

It takes a few minutes for the ringing in your ears to subside. You holster your gun once more and face the door. You swing it open to see Dorian running towards you from down the hall. He slows when he sees you.

“You good?” He glances over your shoulder to see the man slumped forward in his chair.

“Fine.” You stride forward down the hall, Dorian follows you. “We need divers at Whitesand Pier. If you find a phone, send it to Mack. Get a clean up crew in here.”

Lord Almighty Feel my temperature rising

You pull your burner from your back pocket.

“What the fuck is that?” Dorian picks up his pace to look over your shoulder at the screen.

“Elvis Presley.” You answer curtly before sliding to answer the call. “Hello.”

Sylus laughs before saying, “It’s a video call, sweetie.”

“Wait, that’s-” You push Dorian out of the elevator before the door closes so you’re in the elevator alone. You take a deep breath and pull the phone away from your ear.

“What happened?” Sylus looks shocked when he sees your face. You quickly tap the screen to show yourself. Your face is lightly splattered with blood.

“Oh, I’m fine. I was… painting.” Sylus stares at you for a minute.

“Sure.”

“Why are you calling anyways?” You try to clean some of the blood away with your sleeve. Switching hands to make sure your brass knuckles don’t come into frame.

“Just confirming I have permission to enter your territory to pick you up on Saturday?”

“Yes, of course. I still fail to see why a video call was necessary?”

“I wanted to see you. Is that a problem?” The blood could have blended in with how red your cheeks were turning. When you don’t respond, Sylus continues, his eyes sparkling.

“I’ll see you Saturday, kitten.”

The screen goes black as Sylus hangs up leaving your reflection in the glass. Specks of blood still splattered on your face, a bead of sweat drips down your back. He couldn’t have picked a worse time.

Tag List (comment if you wanna be added!): @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human

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catihere · 6 months ago

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Moby Dick is one of the most brilliant pieces of literature out there and not for the reasons you think. Sure, it’s a great analysis on the state of the human ego in relationship with nature, but it’s also an absolutely hilarious piece from top to bottom. I mean:

•The kickstarter of the story is that, one day, Ishmael, a relatively ordinary man, gets frustrated with his life and the best solution he finds is to give up on everything and go whale hunting on a ship in the middle of nowhere. 100/100, what a fucking mood

•Ishmael is not even his name. If I remember correctly (I haven’t opened this book in three years), he picked his name himself and it means outcast, reject. Really now, why are no transmascs out there naming themselves Ishmael??

•He’s not even the main character but he’s the only one I care about

•This book probably INVENTED the “there was only one bed” trope. It introduced Queequeg by literally making him lie in the same hotel bed as Ishmael. Peak strangers to lovers if you ask me

•That’s not even it. Ishmael, uncomfortable at first, wakes up surprised by how well he slept. And in a later chapter, they are described to lie together as compared to a husband and wife.

•Also, Queequeg is an enormous Polinesian man with Māori tattoos on his face, who BY THE WAY collects human heads. Yeah, that gave Ishmael a very fun first impression of him

•The author breaks the narrative every few chapters to info dump us about whales (sometimes inaccurately, there was no Google in 1850 so I don’t blame him). Oh, yeah, because Herman Melville accidentally embarked on a whale hunting expedition for few years, so Moby Dick is inspired from his experience. But that’s a story for another time.

•My favorite info dump/conspiracy theory that he has is presented right at the start of the book. It’s about how different heroes of mythology and history, including Hercules and Saint George, might have been actually whale hunters. Ishmael is such a dork I can’t-

And these are only the things that I can say off the top of head, with a faint memory of the book from three years ago, when I binge read it in two days, so please feel free to add on. I fucking love Moby Dick go read it right now

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corrodedcoffins-blog · 6 months ago

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1x10

spencer reid x morgan!reader

note: its spencer x yn crumbs, shes like barely in it i just want to put something out because ive been feeling burnt out and only these small blurbs are helping me so expect more

request more criminal minds moments that i can insert these two in! im already planning to do when the team goes to Derek's hometown

word count: 587

“Easy there, touch guy. Have some coffee with your sugar.” Derek teased as he walked into the kitchen area, Spencer was standing not facing him pouring an extensive amount of sugar into his coffee.

“I need something to wake me up.” The younger boy mumbled.

“Late night?” “Very.”

Derek, taking that comment the wrong way, said, “My man.” He then suddenly remembered his little sister calling him last night saying she was going over to the young Dr. Reid’s home. “Hold up- weren’t you with my sister last night?”

“Wasn’t that kind of late night.” This response put Morgan at ease to continue his teasing remarks, “Okay, so tell me, what does keep young Dr. Reid awake at night?”

The older man started walking, patting Spencer on the shoulder just as the young man was taking a sip of his sugar-coffee concoction, “Wait, let me guess. Memorising some obscure textbook?” Spencer finaling turned to face the man, an unamused look present on his face as Derek continued, “No, no, no. Working on cold fusion. No, my baby sister was there.. I got it, I got it. Watching Star Trek and laughing at the physics mistakes.”

Spencer shook his head slightly, “Actually there aren’t that many scientific errors in Star Trek. Especially considering how long ago it was made. There are certain improbabilities, but not that many outright errors.” Derek, in a state of disbelief and not knowing what to say, responded with, “Right.” Before leaving Spencer alone in the kitchenette and making his way to his desk. Only Y/n was there at her own desk, doing her paperwork. She looked up to see the two walking somewhat towards her.

“I don’t know what you see in him.” Derek mumbles sitting down in his chair, but before he could Elle comes walking through the bullpen saying, “Hey, Hotch wants everyone at the round table.”

Y/n immediately made her way to follow Elle, saying to Derek, “How can you not?” as she walked away and before Derek could leave too, Spencer asked him about what was really keeping him up. The nightmares. Derek always seemed to be that person Spencer could lean on, they were family at this point. You have to be to do a job like theirs.

-bonus-

The team got to the crime scene site, Spencer was poking around when he noticed wax on the scene.

"Candle wax?" JJ asked, confused, Spencer only replied with, “Candles are used in rituals.”

“Also used on birthday cakes.” Gideon was adamant that this was not a ritual killing, Y/n did agree but wasn’t turning down the idea all together.

But what Gideon said seemed to hit a knowledge nerve on Spencer as he went into one of his usual info-dumping sessions, “Actually, they were originally used to protect the birthday celebrant from demons for the coming year.” Spencer let out a smug-sounding chuckle that made Y/n need to hide her smile behind her hand, “As a matter of fact, down to the fourth century, Christianity rejected the birthday celebration as a pagan ritual.” He ended with his usual smile, the one that always made Y/n want to give him a hug.

Though, everyone else looked at him like he was insane for just knowing that off the top of his head. The sheriff that was on the scene with them asked, “What kind of doctor are you?” And that was when Y/n had to let her laugh go, seeing the look on Spencer’s face.

~taglist~

@chrissyclg @pillsbury-doughgirl @the-holy-trinity-l @theillestvillain3 @random000000sblog @flow33didontsmoke

#spencer reid #spencer reid x morgan!reader #spencer reid x morgan!sister #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #derek morgan x sister!reader #spencer reid x derek!sister!reader #spencer reid x dereks!sister #spencer x derek!sister #derek morgan #dere

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comphetkoncass · 1 year ago

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little fic about tim's love language being contingency plans

////

The thing is, Tim has a way of attacking Kon’s problems like a puzzle. Like a riddle, waiting to be solved.

Tim’s plans also don’t involve much feeling, usually, even if the issue is purely an emotional one. While Tim is decent at listening and empathizing, at a certain point he always gets his Robin face on. A signal that, while he’s still certainly listening, there’s a chemical reaction in his brain, completely out of his control, that activates his detective skills. His problem-solving skills.

It has taken Kon a combined two lifetimes, four years, five collective identities, and two–maybe three?–timelines, but Kon has finally gotten Tim to at least ask before starting to strategize. But lately, Tim has undergone some personal growth, and Kon is starting to wonder if, perhaps, he has learned to not even ask. To instead, politely wait for a signal – a sign, an invitation, even– that said advice is actually wanted.

Kon would like to take the credit for training him, he really would. But he has a feeling he’s only one of many factors.

Today, Kon is sitting face-down on Tim’s bed. Krypto sits on top of Kon’s back, the world’s most powerful emotional support dog pinning him in place. Preventing him, more like, from leaving before he's gotten all his complicated, messy, unwanted feelings out. Also preventing him from looking up at his boyfriend before Kon is done feelings-dumping, because otherwise Kon just won't finish talking, and it will go unsaid.

So Kon can’t see it; he can't see the detective face for himself. Can’t verify, for sure, absolutely, 100%, that TIm’s detective face is on.

But he knows it’s there.

He’s just spent half an hour talking about his latest identity crisis. Of course Tim’s detective face is on. It’s probably been on since minute two.

However, Tim is also running his fingers through Kon’s hair, and making the occasional appropriate comment, always generous and rational and kind, always active listening, and– listen, Kon isn’t immune to the soft victim support voice. He’s definitely not immune to the Robin leader voice, but the softer, empathetic, gentle one Tim uses with people who need help? And when it bleeds in so subtly into his regular speaking voice that it’s not immediately obvious that’s where he pulling it from?

Incredible. Show-stopping. Kon could listen to it all day, if he wasn’t the one monopolizing the conversation by info-dumping all his problems.

Finally though, he finishes the garbled, soft, self-deprecating speech about how he’ll never be completely free of Lex’s braingook (yes, that is the scientific name for it, thank-you-very-much) and how that means he’s always going to have a chip on his shoulder until Lex dies and even then Kon’s going to have to worry about some secret chip in his brain that transfers Lex’s consciousness to his or what-the-fuck-ever.

He can hear the comment Tim wants to make. The unspoken, soft little, 'You know, we could probably test you for that... A chip would definitely show up on an MRI...'

Instead, Tim only pauses the briefest, softest moment. “...That must be really stressful for you, worrying about that.”

Kon looks up, just a little. Sees Tim’s best poker face.

Then sighs, and bids the victim comfort voice goodbye. “Okay, I give in,” he says, and moves to cross his arms in Tim’s lap instead. Krypto lets out an annoyed little huff at being jostled from Kon's back, but he soon hops off Kon’s back and moves to lay at his side instead. Kon rubs him behind the ears, Krypto butts his head against his hand, and all is well again. “C’mon, out with it.”

“Hm? Out with what?” Tim asks, still in the same plaintive tone. “What do you mean?”

“Relax, you can stop the sympathy. I know you want to start strategizing how to solve all my problems,” Kon says, and leans up in what he hopes is a very kissable position, because he really wants one. “You’ve suffered enough, I know you’ve already thought through eighteen different plans.”

Tim lets out a shuddering breath, immediately sagging his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, sounding exhausted. Distracted, and clearly already thinking of how to phrase his plans, he meets Kon halfway for a kiss. It's even a proper kiss, soft and sweet, and it really does make Kon feel better. Then, to his surprise, Tim also presses a more tender one just between his brows. “I really do empathize, though. Just so you know. This isn’t me not empathizing. But I mean, if you're giving me explicit permission it's not like I haven't been starting to think about how we could test for these and help you stop worrying about them-”

Kon shakes his head, fond and sweet. “I know. Your love language is solving people’s problems for them, I've accepted this about you."

Tim looks the tiniest bit offended. "I- that's not a love language."

"It is for you," Kon says. Then, he grins, looking up at his boyfriend through his lashes. "So come on. If it's your love language... Show me you love me.”

Tim’s cheeks bloom red. But he smiles instead of shying away, then runs his fingers through Kon’s hair again, gentle and sweet. “Get comfortable then, because I’ve got a lot of- love to show. To finish the metaphor, I mean. There’s only five so far, but number three is kind of complicated, you're going to want to take notes, but I could summarize it again for you afterwards, when you're less cozy-”

Yeah, Kon thinks. There’s no denying how much Tim loves him. He might be a strategist at heart, but Tim also wouldn’t make immediate contingency plans for just anyone, either.

Kon curls up on Tim’s lap soon after, with Krypto snuggled up onto his chest. As long as Tim keeps stroking his hair, Kon doesn’t mind the clinical approach to his problems. It’s nice to have a boyfriend who can both meet him where he’s at, and say what he really feels. Even nicer, he thinks, to know that it’s all coming from a place of genuine affection.

#timkon #cdw writes #kon-el #tim drake

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of-a-chaotic-mind · 3 months ago

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I Can't Say Part 2

Summary: An Earthquake turns everyone's world upside down and nearly takes part of Eddie's away from him.

TW/CW: Eddie Diaz x Reader, Hurt, Earthquake, Injured Reader, Blood/Blood-loss

Requested?: No

Word Count: 4,136

A/N: Our grand total of words for this trilogy is 11,325... I'm ngl was kinda stuck on how I'd get from break up to make up but then I was rewatching season 2 the other night and well... Earthquake it is. Anyways, hope you enjoy the read! Love to all! Requests are Open!

[ A/N: him so purtty... ]

Part 1

--- Your POV ---

Groaning, I silence my alarm and drag myself to my bedroom to change clothes. I really wish I had changed out of my work clothes last night because it is so uncomfortable to sleep in jeans. I opt for a more comfortable outfit for today since I'm just taking Talia to therapy. My jeans are replaced by sweats, my LAFD t-shirt by an oversized hoodie, and I yank on my high tops to finish it off.

As I make my way to the kitchen for coffee, with a pit stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth, I throw my hair up into a messy bun and check my phone that had miraculously stayed in my back pocket all night. The smell of coffee fills the air as I swipe through notifications which include a few random info dump texts from Buck that I hadn't checked yesterday, a missed call from an unknown number here and there, and a few texts from Tommy checking in on me.

After closing out all the notifications and apps, I find myself staring at my home screen and fidgeting with my bracelet. Glaring back at me is a photo that Buck took in which Chris is sandwiched between me and Eddie as we both hug him. All of us are smiling brightly and my heart hurts at the reminder of my boys. My thoughts are racing when my alarm rings again. I quickly silence it and tuck my phone away before pouring a cup of coffee. As I head out the door, I grab my keys and wallet off the counter.

A good bit later, I'm arriving at Talia's house. I had finally convinced her to let me pick her up if she wants me to drive her to therapy. I shoot her a text to let her know I'm here, forcing myself to ignore my home screen. It only takes a few minutes before she's rushing out of her house and getting in the passenger seat, "Sorry, I woke up a bit late."

I smile, "All good, you should probably brush your hair though," I respond, motioning to the bird's nest atop her head.

As I pull away from the curb, she flips down the visor and giggles at herself in the mirror, "I slept hard last night."

"I can see that," I state, unable to withhold a laugh. Talia has made so much progress in the past week. This is only her second appointment but I can tell a huge difference; she's actually smiling again. She had taken some time off work because she was scared it would either push her over the edge or she wouldn’t be as focused as she needed to be on the job but yesterday, she said she thinks she’ll be ready to get back out there soon.

She grabs my phone from the cupholder, "What kind of music are we feeling today?"

I shrug, "Whatever boats your float."

She erupts into a fit of laughter, "God, I will never stop thanking Tommy for blessing us with that phrase."

I grin as I remember the time a very exhausted, end of shift Tommy responded to the question, "Where do you guys wanna eat?" with, "Whatever boats your float." I'll never forget the look of pure astonishment on his face when he immediately realized what he said and mumbled to himself, "Boats your float? What the fuck?" Talia and I teased him about it for weeks after but it got stuck in my vocabulary and became a regular response for me, causing Talia to giggle and Tommy to roll his eyes every time I say it.

Talia cranks the volume up as she decides on a hip-hop playlist and starts singing along horribly on purpose. This goes on for a little bit, with me giggling at her the whole time, before she finally turns it down, "Alright, what's up with you?"

I tilt my head at her, "What do you mean?"

"I mean not too long ago it was always Eddie this or Christopher that," she pauses, "You haven't mentioned them in like forever and I kind of miss seeing the smile on your face when you'd talk about them." I shrug and train my eyes on the road ahead. She doesn't give up, "Come on, (Y/N). You've let me trauma dump on you for weeks now. If you need to talk, I'll listen."

I take a deep breath, "We broke up."

"What?!" her volume and pitch nearly bursts my eardrums.

I dramatically cover and rub my right ear, "We just decided that it wasn't gonna work out." I hate lying to her but if she knew the real reason she'd blame herself and I don't want to upset her.

"So, it was mutual?" her tone says she doesn't think so. I can't even bring myself to nod. She reaches over and tugs lightly on my bracelet, "I could see keeping the bracelet if it was a mutual break up. That kid means the world to you but-" She picks up my phone and shows me the home screen, "Mutual break ups don't keep photos of their ex as their home screen. People who get dumped do." It's quiet for a couple seconds, "Besides, last time I heard about Eddie, you were asking me if I'd be your Maid of Honor when you guys got married one day. Not if! When."

I internally cringe as the words spill out of my mouth, "Okay, he decided it wasn't gonna work out."

I see the look on her face out of the corner of my eye and she still doesn't buy it, "You mean the man who would fight the entire world for you? The man who would kiss the ground you walk on and bow at your feet? The man who absolutely adores the shit out of you and can never stop staring at you like he can't believe you're real?" I clench my jaw but her phone rings, saving me from having to come up with a response.

A short time later, I am parking on the curb outside her therapist office. She hangs up the phone and grabs my shoulder, "First of all, we're not done talking about it. Second, you should come sit in the waiting room instead of wasting your gas." Praying she won't try to continue the conversation right now, I turn the car off and get out, following her inside.

We ride up to the second floor in the elevator, check her in at the front desk, and take seats in the waiting room before she speaks again, "So, how's Tommy doing? I heard he's got himself a new boyfriend."

I smile and nod, laying my head on the back of my chair, "Yeah, Buck. I work with him at the 118. They're very happy together."

"Oh, that's great! What's Buck like?" she asks. I'm certain she's trying to fill the silence without talking about Eddie.

"If I had to sum him up in one sentence I'd say, there's a reason the team and I call him a golden retriever," I answer and look over at her with a grin.

She laughs, "Oh my god, tell me more."

"Well, he's got a heart of gold and loves his job. He's got tons of energy. He's always got something interesting to talk about because he's constantly researching random shit. One time, he gave me an in-depth explanation of how microwaves work," I pause, "Tommy is absolutely wrapped around his finger. I don't think I've ever seen him smile more than when Buck is info dumping on him."

I sit up, holding my hand up to quiet Talia as she's in the middle of gushing about how adorable that is and how she must meet Buck asap. I stare at the floor beneath us as its small vibrations turn into violent shaking, "Quake!" Everyone in the waiting room ducks for cover. Talia and I slide under a coffee table just as rubble starts falling around us. Quickly covering our heads with our arms, we brace for impact.

When the quake subsides and the dust settles, Talia and I make eye contact as we hear other people panicking. We shove the slab of concrete off the edge of the table and make to get up but instead have to army crawl under another slab of concrete. Keeping my head low, "I sure as hell don't miss this," I grumble, thinking back to my days of army crawling through muddy obstacle courses and sandy war zones.

Behind me, Talia chuckles, "What? Earthquakes or army crawling?"

I pause and look back at her, realizing it has been a while since our last quake, "both," before proceeding cautiously. Our short tunnel opens up into a pocket that is a good bit taller and has more space to maneuver. "Everybody just stay calm. If you're panicking, we can't properly assist you," I announce to those who were blessed by the pocket.

"Please! Please, you have to help her," a young woman cries by the furthest edge from us. She is hunched over another woman whose legs are pinned by a chunk of debris.

"Talia, check everyone else over and get a head count while I try to figure out the safest way to get her out," I instruct.

Behind me, Talia shuffles toward the others, "On it," as I head for the debris.

"Stay with me, Penny," the younger woman begs as Penny groans in pain.

I finally reach them, "Penny, my name is (Y/N). I need you to tell me where it hurts."

"Everywhere," Penny mumbles and I mentally slap myself.

"Okay, yeah. Stupid question, I'm sorry. Can you wiggle your toes?" I respond.

I notice the younger woman's name tag that reads Chelsea as Penny answers, "Yeah I think so."

"Alright, that's a good sign. Chelsea, I need you to see if you can find a piece of wood or something that is big enough for her to lay on," Chelsea nods and begrudgingly leaves to scavenge.

I drop to my stomach and scoot closer to Penny, "We're gonna get you outta here, I'm just a little more limited on resources than usual." I take her hand in mine and drop my forehead to the floor with a thump. My head is pounding; I think I hit it on the underside of the coffee table earlier. I'm having a hard time thinking straight.

I remember Bobby's advice for times like this, "Don't worry about the things that you can't do anything about. Focus on one task at a time." Alright, first task, get Penny free and on a makeshift back board.

I check her pulse, it's weak but steady, "Penny, I need you to focus on your breathing, okay?" She nods, taking deep breaths, as I look up at the debris that is pinning her. It looks like a thick and heavy wall but doesn't appear to be supporting anything. I crawl to where her legs disappear out of sight and stick my hand under as far as I can reach, feeling for any bleeding and thankfully finding none. I crane my neck to look at the others, a few are assisting where they can as Talia checks everyone over. "I need as many hands as I can get over here!" I yell across what remains of the waiting room.

Talia stops what she's doing and points to few men who look to be in pretty good shape considering the circumstances. She directs them to me before squeezing a little girl's hand tightly and joining me herself. As they approach, Chelsea comes hobbling around a corner with a piece of wood.

When everyone is there and ready for instructions, I start dishing them out, "You guys," I point to the men, "spread out around this wall and get ready to lift." I roll over on my back and scoot until my shoulders are even with the edge of the collapsed wall, "Talia, Chelsea, as soon as this wall is up enough, pull her out as gently as you can and get her on the wood." Once everyone is in position, "On the count of three. 1... 2... 3..." I push as hard as I can against the underside of the wall. The men help lift from their positions and soon they've pulled Penny out.

"You get out from under there, we got this," one of the men insists.

I nod and roll back over on my stomach to shove myself up to my feet and away from the wall, "Let it down easy." They do and now I'm left trying to figure out my next task. I scan the pocket looking for any possible exits. A pile of rubble blocks the door to what I hope is still a somewhat functioning stairwell. It will take some time to clear the way enough to get the door open but it's our only shot. I notice the massive receptionist desk is still somehow standing making a decent place for everyone to take cover for the inevitable aftershocks.

"Talia, help everyone get under the reception desk," I look at the men who are patiently waiting for further instruction, "You guys are gonna help me get that door open," I punctuate my sentence with a point at the door. They nod and immediately head that way, as do I. Behind me I hear Talia start instructing the others. Once everyone is under the desk, Talia joins us in the small bit of headway we're making.

--- Third Person POV ---

The 118 is heading toward a downtown building collapse. Despite knowing it's futile, they've all tried contacting various loved ones. Buck sighs in relief as he hears Tommy's voice on the radio, "This is 127 Pilot Kinard. 118 please check in."

Immediately, Buck grabs his radio, "Buckley checking in. Nash, Diaz, Wilson, Han, and Panikkar all accounted for."

It's quiet for a split second before Tommy asks, "(Y/L/N)?" Buck hesitates, looking over at Eddie who has been staring out the window ever since he gave up on trying to reach Chris and (Y/N).

Voice shaky, Buck answers, "No contact. She's off duty."

Tommy's voice sounds strained, "Copy. Y'all stay safe."

Buck responds, trying to sound reassuring, "We will."

As they near the building, Eddie nearly slams his head against the window as he looks back behind them. "Woah, what?" Hen asks across from him, startled by his sudden movement.

Eddie whips his head around to look at his team just as the engine parks next to another one from the 133, "That was (Y/N)'s car!" He flings his headset off and scrambles out of the vehicle as everyone else piles out behind him.

Buck catches up to him and grabs his shoulder when he stops in front of a crushed car, "A-are you sure? She's doesn't exactly have a unique car..." Eddie only points at the shattered windshield. As he spins and takes off toward Bobby, Buck looks to where he pointed to find the rubber duck wearing firefighter gear that he and Tommy had helped Chris buy for (Y/N) on her last birthday. Chris had insisted the duck needed a cowboy hat so they also bought a small Toy Story Woody action figure. Woody himself was sitting at home on one of Buck's bookshelves but his hat now laid beside the little duck in the pancake that was formerly a car.

--- Your POV ---

I wipe the sweat and dust off my face as I hoist another chunk of debris to the new pile we've made. We've made a decent size dent in the blockage but it's still not enough to get through. As the ground begins to tremble again, Talia yells, "Aftershock!"

I turn and attempt to make it to the desk with everyone else but a bout of dizziness takes me down. I feel a blinding pain as something punctures my lower back close to my left hip. I look back to see a piece of rebar sticking out. When everything stops shaking, Talia rushes over to me. I try to get up but the rebar has me staked to the floor. She presses her hands against my blood-soaked hoodie, "(Y/N) you better stay with me!" I try hard to focus on my breathing as she yells at the men to keep working on the blockage and calls Chelsea over to her, "I need you to keep pressure around this, okay?"

Talia drops to her stomach, face to face with me, "How bad is it? Be honest."

I wiggle my toes and reach around to feel exactly where the puncture is, "Shouldn't be too bad. Main concern is the bleeding. Thank god for love handles because I think that's all it hit."

She nods, "Alright, hang in there."

Talia returns back to Chelsea who whispers, "She's losing a lot of blood." I hear fabric tear and feel my hoodie lift up. I'm sure Talia is trying to stem the blood flow as much as possible by sandwiching fabric between my hoodie and skin. I lay my clammy cheek against the cool floor and look out at the wreckage. It's starting to get hard to breathe and my vision is already blurry.

--- Third Person POV ---

Just as Talia finishes packing fabric around the rebar in her friend's abdomen, another aftershock hits. The others rush to the desk and Talia tries to move to cover (Y/N)'s body as much as possible but one of the men pulls her away, "You can't save her if you take a chunk of concrete to the dome."

Talia screams, "(Y/N) don't you dare leave me! Stay awake, okay?!"

As soon as the shaking dies down enough, Talia rushes back to (Y/N), who is now losing even more blood, and adjusts the fabric to accommodate what is now a bigger hole. "(Y/N), you still with me?!" she screams, panic is evident in her tone. She looks over to see that her friend is unconscious, blood trickling down her forehead.

Chelsea joins her, tearing off a piece of her shirt and pressing it to the gash near (Y/N)'s hairline, "She's still breathing but barely."

Talia nods, finishing with the pile of fabric, "Swap with me." The two swap places before Talia shakes (Y/N) gently. She softly smacks her cheeks, "(Y/N) you gotta wake up! Please..." Tears flow freely down her own cheeks now as she looks up at the ceiling, "God you wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me..."

As she continues her attempts to wake (Y/N), one of the men shushes everyone, "I think I hear something," he announces, pressing his ear to the little bit of the door they had uncovered. "It's voices!" he cheers, "Help is here!" The room erupts into excitement as the man bangs on the door, "In here! Hey! We're in here!"

On the other side of the door, the 118 team hears the banging and rushes up the stairs as carefully as they can. Bobby yells, "We hear you! This is Captain Nash with LAFD. How many of you are there?"

From (Y/N)'s side, Talia whips her head up and yells back, "10! Firefighter down! One of yours!"

Panic blankets the team and Bobby has to grab a hold of Eddie to keep him from busting the door down, "We don't know what's on the other side of that door," Buck places a hand on Eddie's shoulder so Bobby can turn back to the door and find out what they're dealing with.

The man answers Bobby, "A pile of rubble! We've been trying to clear it because (Y/N) said this stairwell is our best bet on getting out."

Eddie's heart leaps into his throat at the confirmation that it's her. Buck's grip tightens, warning him to calm down. Bobby instructs, "Okay, I need everyone to get away from the door. We're gonna have to saw our way in."

The man looks down at (Y/N) and Talia, "We can't move (Y/N), she's staked to the floor by rebar. I think if I try to pull Talia away from her again, she might murder me." Buck's ears perk up at the mention of Talia. Maybe Tommy was onto something there. He shoves those thoughts aside as Bobby asks for the saw in his hands.

"Alright, the rest of you back away. Talia, do your best to shield her," Bobby responds, "Let us know when we're clear."

In the room, everyone puts plenty of distance between them and the door as Talia covers (Y/N)'s body the best she can, "Clear!"

Buck drags Eddie away as he and the team back up to give space. Bobby cuts a large enough hole in the door before handing the saw to Chimney, "Buck, help me with this." Together Bobby and Buck remove the metal chunk and as soon as he has a clear shot, Eddie rushes through the hole. Hen is right on his heels, med bag in hand, as Talia moves away from (Y/N) to let them work.

Bobby, Buck, Chimney, and Ravi set to work helping the others out of the building as Hen grabs Eddie's frantic hands, "You need to calm down, Eddie."

He takes a deep breath before placing two fingers on (Y/N)'s wrist, "Pulse is steady but dangerously weak." The two medics set to work doing their best to stabilize her. When Buck and Bobby join them, she has an oxygen mask on, IV line in, a pulse/ox monitor on her finger, and Hen is keeping pressure around the wound.

"What do we got?" Bobby asks firmly as he crouches beside Eddie, placing his hand on the distraught man's shoulder. Eddie can only stare down at her, repeatedly brushing her hair out of her face as he silently begs her to wake up.

Hen answers, "Vitals are steady but in the danger zone. She's lost a lot of blood. Rebar isn't too close to any vital organs but it went all the way through and into the floor."

Bobby nods, "We transport her with the rebar. Eddie, lift her up as gently as you can. Buck, hand me the bolt cutters and lift on the other side. Hen, keep pressure on that wound and an eye on her vitals." Everyone nods as Chimney and Ravi return from helping the last of the others out with a back board. On the count of three Eddie and Buck lift (Y/N) up enough that Bobby can cut the rebar underneath her. Once they've rolled her onto back, Hen quickly sets to work dressing the untouched side. In minutes, they're lifting her onto the back board and headed out of the building.

As they approach the scene commander, Bobby states, "We need an ambulance now."

The commander nods recognizing (Y/N), "We've got more on the way take the 133's." Bobby leads the way toward the 133 ambulance. Behind them, the commander yells, “I still need hands on deck, Nash.”

As Hen and Chimney load (Y/N) into the back, Bobby looks at them all, “I know we’re all worried about her. One driver and Eddie can go. Everyone else needs to stay here.” Talia takes a few steps back from the group as Eddie climbs into the back and Hen heads to the front. She looks up at the collapsing building and around at the firefighters and paramedics rushing around near them.

She looks back toward the ambulance as Bobby calls her name and holds his hand out to help her into the back. She’s still nervous about getting back out there right now but she knows she can be of more help here than at the hospital blaming herself for (Y/N)’s injury. She steps up beside him, ignoring his hand, “Got an extra turn out?”

Before Bobby can ask if she’s sure, Tommy runs up to them already wearing turn out gear and carrying an extra, “Heard you guys are down by two.” He sees (Y/N) in the back of the ambulance and he feels a touch of anger in the worry that settles in his chest as Eddie frets over her vitals. Bobby shuts the doors of the ambulance and gives it a few knocks before it pulls away.

He turns to Tommy, “Shouldn’t you be in a helicopter?”

“Commander radioed for extra hands and I’ve been grounded. Our station got hit pretty hard and took my ride down with it,” Tommy answers. He turns to Talia, offering her the extra gear that she can see her last name written on, “I had a hunch you’d be here so I grabbed your old gear before I left.” She takes it and quickly puts it on, looking to Bobby for orders.

Part 3

More 911

Main Masterlist

#911 #911 show #911 imagine #911 imagines #eddie diaz #eddie diaz x reader #eddie diaz imagine #eddie diaz imagines #y/n #eddie diaz x y/n #hurt #injury #injured reader #earthquake #blood #blood loss

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