#not tagging the game for. reasons of scared of that tag

[gorbo-longstocking]

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 6

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: You are not yourself. How can you be after the realization that this is your life now? What you thought was a long, neverending dream is actually reality. At this realization, you find the world and your sense of self begin to slip away between your fingers. The emperors notice, and Caracalla attempts to help you. Poorly.

Tags: Very severe dissociation from a POV character including both derealization and depersonalization, major emotional breakdown, implications of period-typical slavery, self-harm via negligence, injuries, homesickness, Caracalla is bad at comforting, low self-worth from reader, and implications of reader’s toxic relationship with their parents. I think that’s everything.

Word Count: 6.5k Words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

The days blurred together into nothing more than a foggy haze. Your head hurt. It hurt and that terrified you. There was only one reason why you could feel pain, and you struggled to keep it caged in the back of your mind where it shrieked and writhed as if it had a will of its own. Think, remember, realize, it screamed. You had to cover your ears to drown it out. Unbelievably scared and absolutely sick with terror, your stomach would lurch every time those realizations returned. It was only locked away in the safety of your clinic, the praetorian in the adjacent room, and away from prying eyes, did you allow yourself to curl in on yourself. To feel this horror, if only for a second. A single, relieving, aching moment in time before you locked it back away, deep inside your chest where it belonged. Where it clawed at your ribcage and tore at your lungs.

This was something you couldn’t think about, wouldn’t dare to ponder, and yet…

And yet—

Your hands trembled as you reorganized your surgical instruments. Again and again, for two days, you would complete your duties in a mindless haze, then return to your clinic to stare at your tools. They were deceptively sharp. Your hands were covered in little cuts, bandaged haphazardly. Carelessness got you hurt, and you tried not to think about how your hands stung with every movement. The room felt fake, it was proof that you were right all along. Your body didn’t feel like it was your own. When you stared down at yourself, the way it moved, seemingly stuttering behind your actual instructions in a way that made you feel you were in a bad video game. You knew the truth.

It was more proof that this wasn’t real. A figment of your stress-addled mind, that was all this was. You hadn’t defied all logic, all science, and time-traveled back to Ancient Rome, because that was impossible. One day, you would wake up in your bed and this nightmare would be over.

You looked down at your injured fingers, blood blooming across the bandages. Then why did it hurt? Why could you feel pain? It wasn’t until you felt an ache radiate down your spine did you realize you were picking at one of the welts Caracalla left behind. There was a scab over it, the cost of all of your inspections.

You looked at the scalpel, glinting sharp in the torchlight. It was time to count that one too.

The events of the past two days were strange. While you could remember what happened, it felt far away, as if it had happened to someone who wasn’t you. A person wearing your skin, speaking with your voice, but, in the end, was separate from who you were. A clone, or a puppet, dancing on strings that belonged to no one.

That was who you were: no one.

It was hard to be ‘someone,’ and it wasn’t until you became empty did you realize the complexities of being. The choices that came with every day, gone, the simplicity of wading through it all on autopilot as the world writhed and shifted around you, just as empty as yourself. It was intoxicating. Why would you ever go back to how it was before? For once, living was easy, you would be a fool to give that up. Deep down, you knew it was wrong. That you should be fighting to stay present rather than sink away into the swamp inside your head.

Right now, being a person came with consequences, ones you didn’t have the faculties to fight through. Not right now, maybe not ever. One day, you would wake up in modernity, and all of this nonsense would fade away like every other dream you had. You had to cling to that.

“My friend,” Aelius began, his tone soft. It wasn’t until he spoke did you realize his hand was on your shoulder. His skin was darker than the hair on his arms that if it wasn’t so prominent that it would be hard to see. Your gaze flickered from Marianus to stare at him. He looked worried. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.” Your voice didn’t sound like your own. There was an emptiness to it that echoed in the open air. The first time you had patched Marianus’ wounds, Aelius was asleep. It made the situation easier to deal with. If you looked closely, you could see the concern swimming in Marianus’ dark eyes, though he didn’t voice it.

Aelius had no such reservations. If you didn’t feel so strange, maybe it would have made you angry. You didn’t know. There was a bite in your gut. “Marianus mentioned you were acting strange the previous day, and I see why now. I think you should rest, medicus.”

“I’m not done,” Came your reply. Your fingers twitched against Marianus’ chest. There was a hand wrapped around your wrist and you stared at it before following it to where it attached to the glenohumeral joint.

It belonged to Marianus. He was frowning, and you wanted to feel ashamed. “Medicus, you are no use to anyone like this.”

He was right. Distantly, you recognized how badly you were dissociating. This is worse than it had ever been, and truthfully, treating Marianus right now, you would be more of a hindrance than a help. Your pupils flickered when you felt a wave of shame wash over you before it was gone, replaced once more with a buzzing numbness.

“What’s wrong,” Aelius tried, his thumb attempting to soothe you by rubbing against your upper arm. “Perhaps we can help.”

“I am as I need to be,” You muttered. Gently, you ducked under Aelius’ arm and stood. The exit to the barracks looked distant, and each step you took, it seemed to get farther away. Behind you, Aelius and Marianus were speaking, but you couldn’t hear what they said. Maybe it was Marianus who shouted, or maybe it was Aelius. Like all things these days, they faded away into the background, simply more noise for you to drown out.

Static faded away into silence. Blessed, blissful silence as you walked down the palace halls, your unblinking gaze fixated in the distance. You were nothing again. For some reason, you felt embarrassed, but you couldn’t remember why. It was probably not very important.

The first night that you made Caracalla his chamomile tea, he wasn’t put off by your inability to speak. He was far too preoccupied by playing with your fingers, his own tangling with yours before he pulled away, again and again. You focused on the repetition. It was comforting. His soft skin against your own, damp with sweat, only to pull away. He would clench his fingers around yours, forcing a little resistance in the motion, almost as if you didn’t want him to let go.

He did this until he fell asleep. It was his snoring that jostled you. Caracalla’s mouth was open, drool seeping from between his lips onto his pillow. When you blinked, you were using the hem of your tunic to wipe his face dry. It was an effort in futility, you knew that much. He would only drool more when you left. Still, it felt like something you needed to do.

You didn’t know when you returned to your clinic.

The sun rose as blood from your fingers dribbled onto the floor. You had spent the entire night lining up your supplies, and your absent state left you more reckless than usual. Instead of patching yourself up, you watched the red liquid drip from the tips of your fingers and onto the floor. There was an audible, rhythmic plop. It reminded you of a clock ticking.

Plop, plop, plop.

When you looked down again, there were bandages where the cuts had been. You didn’t remember doing it, but it must have been you considering you were alone. You flexed your hands, and a whisper of pain sliced through your nerves. That awful realization howled in your chest as the world felt more blurry than before.

It was morning, you had to check on Marianus.

You were back in your clinic and the bleeding had stopped. Unfortunately, the blood you had forgotten to clean up before you left had dried to the floor. It would take a rag and some elbow grease to get up. There was a nagging sensation in the back of your skull that told you to clean up before the wrong person saw. Who was the wrong person? You didn’t know, you didn’t care.

Your arm ached from scrubbing.

The floor glistened in the sunlight by the time you were done. Sweat dripped from your face — or were those tears? — moistening the marble further. You felt yourself frown as you wiped it away. There, now there was no evidence that you had injured yourself. It wasn’t until you saw the bloody bandages draped around your fingers did you realize how stupid you were being.

“Alga!” The snap of your nickname startled you enough to wince. Pulling yourself so that you were kneeling, you stared up at Caracalla. He was frowning, his arms crossed. “Why are you scrubbing the floors? We have slaves for that. This is not work for a medicus of your caliber.”

Caracalla was angry with you. There was a strange squirming under your skin and your head throbbed, almost reminiscent of how he had beaten on it. Your lips parted and you blinked at him. His eyes darted to your mouth before his pupils dilated, taking in your position with a hunger that wasn’t there before.

“Huh?” You uttered.

That seemed to snap him out of his thoughts. Caracalla’s eyebrows furrowed and he reached down to brush his thumb over the welt on your forehead. A bit of anxiety sparked in his blue eyes, only to be drowned away by frustration. “Did I knock you stupid? I don’t remember it, but Geta tells me I threw a cup at you.”

“Oh. Yes, you did.” Now you were standing. Caracalla was a short man, and you didn’t know who was taller between you or him. Either way, you were eye level with him now. “You hit me, too. It h—” You cut yourself off with a choked noise. A split second of horror buzzed under your skin before it was gone, leaving you numb once more. “I’m fine, now. I think.”

“You think?” Caracalla repeated. He was scowling now. “Either you are, or you aren’t.”

“I don’t know,” You mumbled.

With an exasperated noise, Caracalla grabbed you by your upper arm and steered you toward your chair. There was no gentleness in the way he pushed you to sit. His eyebrows were knit as he glowered at you. Underneath it all, however, was an undercurrent of concern that he didn’t seem to know what to do with.

“Look around the room and tell me what you see!” He snapped and clapped his hands twice to signal it was your turn.

All you managed was to utter another ungraceful, “Huh?”

Caracalla huffed and clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re impossible! How did you do this? Smell me, medicus!”

You didn’t have time to lean back before he was in your space. With one hand, he tugged down the collar of his tunic to display his collarbone, and with the other, he yanked you forward by your hair. Practically limp in his grasp, you allowed him to drag your nose against your skin.

“Alga, tell me what I smell like!” He ordered, his grip tightening.

“Lavender. You always smell like lavender.”

Pleased, Caracalla let you go. He seemed proud of himself, almost glowing under the force of it. “There! You must feel better now, Alga.” When you didn’t look at him, your gaze fixated on the floor, his face split into frustration again. “This is ridiculous.” He shoved an accusing finger in your direction. “You’re being ridiculous!”

Again, you didn’t respond, though you did lift your gaze to stare at the digit invading your space.

“Say something to me,” He demanded.

“I apologize.”

That must not have been the response that Caracalla wanted because he drew back, puffed up like a furious cat. His fingers gripped your shoulders as he shook you with each word. “I do not want an apology, I want my medicus back!” A bit more desperate, he added, his eyes closed tightly. “Fix! Undo! Return to how you once were! If you are like this forever, I will never forgive you!”

Even after releasing you, he was breathing heavily. Nostrils flaring, he gave you a firm pat on the cheek in an effort to snap you out of your episode. Followed by another, harder this time. It did little to break the fog you found yourself in. Caracalla looked furious, his jaw set and his other hand balled tight at his side. In the end, however, underneath all of his fury, there was regret. He reached forward, gentle now, to run his hands over the knots he left on your head.

“Geta will know,” He mumbled to himself as he ran his nails over your scalp. You didn’t realize you were leaning into his touch until a cackle escaped Caracalla’s throat. “Yes, yes, you agree, don’t you? My brother will know how to make you better. Stay here, Alga, I won’t be long.”

When you looked up, Caracalla was gone. You were alone in your clinic again. Sitting in your chair, you began to unwrap the linen bandages that covered your hand to examine your cuts. Instead of with a scholarly mind, you were bleary, poking at the scabs with an experimental finger. If you pressed too hard on one, it would hurt, and your surroundings would tunnel even further. You didn’t remember why pain was such a bad thing, all you knew was that you didn’t want to think about it.

There was so much that you didn’t want to think about. It was all there, bubbling under the surface of your marrow, though you refused to let it run over. You couldn’t lose control like that, your parents would be furious with you. They’d find you even more pathetic than they already did. Geta and Caracalla would likely agree. Your parents were the smarter, better versions of yourself, you were simply a cheap knock-off. The thought of earning the emperors’ disdain even more than you already have made your heart squeeze tight in your chest.

Someone was snapping. Your eyes darted from your lap to see a hand directly in front of you. Caracalla was back, like he promised, with Geta bent at the waist, his brown eyes examining yours.

Satisfied, he straightened and allowed his arm to fall to his side. “He responds to noise. That’s a good sign.”

“Is it, brother? You are no physician,” Caracalla argued. His jaw was set in a hard line as he gestured to you. “Look at him! He’s in a state of— of—” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise.

“If you are going to be difficult, why fetch me? You wanted my help, so now you get it. Be happy with it,” Geta responded. While he was clearly displeased with his brother, his focus was entirely on you. “Medicus, are you in there? Your emperor demands a response.”

You parted your lips to reply, but you couldn’t bring your jaw to open. Ever so slightly, you felt your eyebrows twitch together. Geta let out a long suffering sigh.

“Alga, you…” He turned to Caracalla, lips pursed into a thin line. “What was his name again?”

“I don’t remember! It was some ridiculous, foreign noise, how am I supposed to remember that?” Caracalla was shouting now, his hands on his hips. His body shook ever so slightly as his gaze shifted from his brother back to you. With a vacant stare, you watched his expression morph from frustration to something imploring and sweet.

“Algacula,” He cooed. “Tell me and my brother what has happened with you, and we will give you a very generous treat.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” You replied on instinct.

Both emperors drew back. Caracalla brought his fists to his face to let out a scream between clenched teeth, while Geta let out a disbelieving scoff.

“You are not yourself, medicus, anyone can see that. Now snap out of it, you are upsetting my brother.” You were back to being quiet. It made Geta’s eye twitch, and you noted that he had kohl smeared on the outside of his eyelid. It made him look more intimidating than usual. Without taking his gaze off you, he nudged Caracalla to the door. “Have a slave fetch your pet ape.”

A smile made Caracalla’s eyes light up with relief. “Yes, yes, Dondas. That is a good idea, brother, she always helps.”

Geta waited for Caracalla to be out of earshot before he gestured to your hands with a subtle sweep of his finger. “How did that happen, medicus? It looks like you have barely taken care of your own wounds. What use are you as a physician if you can’t even do that?”

“Huh?” You looked from Geta to your hands and softly closed your hands. A few scabs pulled taut, but none split open. All you could recognize was that it hurt. “I was not careful. It was an accident.”

Geta closed his eyes and released a breath. “Accidental, yes.”

Caracalla’s giggle, followed by an animalistic squeak drew your attention. Sitting on his shoulder in her own tunic, one that matched Caracalla’s in color, and a golden leash attached to the collar on her neck, was a little monkey. She was small enough to be cute rather than terrifying, you had heard enough horror stories about chimp attacks to ever want to be near one. Still, though, there was a Roman emperor standing before you with a monkey on his shoulder. You felt your brain throb as a stab of sheer disbelief cut through the haze, causing your nose to wrinkle and your eyes to widen.

“Is that a fucking monkey?” You asked in English.

Caracalla’s expression mirrored you as he ran his fingers through the monkey’s fur. “Brother, he is speaking nonsense.”

“That he is. You made it worse, Caracalla. Remove the ape.”

His hands tighten around the monkey’s golden leash. “You liar! Dondas was your idea!”

“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was, look at him, it’s obviously making whatever is wrong with him worse!” Geta threw his arm out at you, his patience fraying at the edges.

Caracalla looked at you, then back at the monkey, his disappointment coming off of him in waves. Carefully, he allowed her to run off his arm into the waiting hands of a young man, who graciously took her leash without a word.

It was silent for a moment, only to be broken by Caracalla. His voice was soft, barely a whisper. “Brother, you don’t think I caused this…”

“No, I recognize this,” Geta said, softer than you ever heard him. He placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is what you are like after one of your outbursts, quiet and distant. I think what our medicus needs is time. He will come back, just as you always do.”

“He has been like this for over a day,” Caracalla hissed. “The praetorian I assigned to him told me.”

“We will assign guards to watch him at all times. Once he comes back, we will know immediately.” With a harsh sigh, Geta pinched the bridge of his nose. “Caracalla, we have duties to attend to today. Both of us. I don’t need you pining after an unresponsive physician while I juggle senators asking after you.”

Caracalla was ready to argue, glancing at you over his shoulder. “The senators are unimportant! We are the emperors, we should be able to do as we please. This is what pleases me.”

“Do not fight me on this, not now. Alga will be here when we are done, I’m certain of it. If they are not, the praetorian will fetch you.”

With narrowed eyes, Caracalla countered, “And you will allow me to leave?”

“Yes, brother, if that will get you to join me. Now, come.” Geta pressed his palm between his brother’s shoulder blades and began to force him out of your clinic.

Even as far away as you felt, you were able to recognize it wasn’t only Caracalla who gave you a final glance before the door shut.

It was dark now. Your reflection shone in the scalpel’s sharp metal as you held it up to the torchlight. The sight of yourself made your head spin. That wasn’t who you were, it couldn’t be. Dark circles lined your eyes and your hair hung in limp curtains around your face. If you looked closely, your roots were beginning to show. Once you woke up, you could dye it back to the green you liked so much.

“Wake up…” You murmured into the empty room. The sound of your voice almost startled you, it had been hours since there was another person in your clinic aside from yourself. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years.

There was a long cut on your palm. Blood bubbled from it as your scalpel clattered to the floor. Your hands were no longer bandaged, you didn’t remember when you removed them, nor why you didn’t bandage them once more. Staring down at the cut, you could only think one thing as it oozed red:

It hurt.

Inside your chest, your heart began to pound. It squeezed and thudded, filling your veins with adrenaline. It felt as though ants were marching under your skin, their little legs prickling along the folds of your muscles.

It hurt.

Tears began to flow down your cheeks, scorching and silent. Your lips trembled as your breath hitched and snot bubbled from your nostrils.

It hurt.

You couldn’t breathe. Weeping, heart thundering, you couldn’t breathe, no matter how hard you tried. Desperately, you clawed at your chest, an attempt to rip yourself open before everything you had been avoiding spilled from you in a white-hot frenzy. All you managed to do was smear blood in your tunic, settled next to the dried drool from Caracalla’s slumber.

You could never go home and it hurt.

“Oh, god!” You gasped. The speed at which you stood sent your chair clattering behind you. Your hands ached as you clutched at yourself, at your head, at your chest, at your leaking eyes. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing. “Oh, god! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

This was no dream, you knew that now. There was no hiding from it anymore. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fill your lungs with air. You weren’t dreaming, this was real. Rome was real, the emperors were real, Aelius and Marianus were real, every person who called this palace home was real. It was all disgustingly real.

You were running now. Out of the clinic and down the halls, you were sprinting like a mad man. Upon turning a corner, your body slammed into the wall and a sob ripped from your throat with a ball of saliva. It dripped down your chin, and you pushed yourself onward on shaking legs. You needed to see, to prove to yourself that you hadn’t lost your mind, and there was only one sight that you could think of that would prove that to you.

The one place you had avoided looking since you arrived.

Grass stained your tunic. You had tripped on the small step leading to the imperial gardens, causing you to skid through the foliage. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t force yourself to stand. Each time you managed, your knees gave out on you, sending you back to the ground.

In the end, it didn’t matter. You didn’t have to be on your feet to look up.

To see the stars in all their glory.

Above your head was a tapestry of glittering silver, more beautiful than you had ever seen it. The sky was a beautiful mix of purple and blue, the moon nestled in its edges, full and bright enough to cast a milky glow on the gardens. There were constellations you didn’t recognize, but so many that you knew the name for. Ursa major, Orion’s belt, Cassiopeia, Perseus, you listed as you felt a scream begin to form in your chest. It was a strange mix of uncanny and familiar that only served to make your tear ducts leak all the more. You squeezed your eyes shut before you opened them again to see nothing had changed. The stars, ever present, even when the modern city lights emptied the sky of their shine, laughed down at you.

You could never imagine a sight such as this. No part of your brain could ever conjure this night sky, not in a million years. This splendor, the pain that flowered from your palms, none of this could ever have come from you on your own. Pathetic, worthless you, so far from everything you knew, with no hope of return.

You would never get drinks with your coworkers after a long shift again. You would never see the rare bits of your mother’s approval, or your father’s awkward hugs. You would never have chocolate, or have coffee, or eat a burger again. You would never enter the hospital where you worked.

Everything you were, everything you had, you watched it fade away under the everpresent stars.

A sob so strong it was almost a gag caused you to double over. Snot and saliva mingled with the salty taste of your tears. Your hands clawed at your neck under the weight of the keening wails you couldn’t hear, but you knew you were making. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t turn it off this time. Weeks of repression had come back to bite you in the ass as a catastrophic breakdown. It wasn’t new, you had always been like this. Pushing onward, wading through the muck until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I— I can’t— Breathe. I can’t— Help me— I can’t…” The words fell from your lips in sporadic English, followed with a bubble of snot when you tried to exhale through your nose.

So caught up in your own panic, you didn’t realize you weren’t alone anymore.

Not until a sharp bark echoed behind you, sounding both furious and scandalized, “Who made you cry?”

Now, more than ever, you wished this was a dream. You recognized that voice, it had become such a familiar one since you fucking time-traveled that you could never hope to forget it. Caracalla was here to see you break apart at the seams. Another gasp left you, and in a desperate attempt to hide, you curled your knees to your chest and covered your face with your hands.

“Alga! Who made you cry?” Caracalla was closer now. When he reached down to shake you by the shoulder, you realized he was next to you. His grip was harsh, just as Caracalla always was. Rough and unyielding. “Tell me now! Tell me who made my medicus cry!”

For some reason, his insistence irritated you. Ripping your hands from your face, you could taste your own blood on your lips. You must have smeared it across your face. “Me! I did! This is my fault, and now I— and now I cannot stop!”

Caracalla frowned. If he was taken aback by you shouting at him, he didn’t show it. He merely looked annoyed. “Yes, you can. Tell yourself to stop crying and you will.”

“Is that— Is that how it works for you, Caesar?” You sneered. It was cruel of you to throw his own issues back at him, but all you could think about was breathing again. Caracalla narrowed his eyes at you, though he said nothing. Talking irritated your throat, and you coughed a few times to soothe the ache. All it did was make it hurt more.

Everything hurt.

Your face crumpled again, and you must have looked pathetic because Caracalla’s scowl softened. Not enough to be kind, only enough to go from furious to frustrated. He crouched down and pawed at your face, attempting to wipe it dry. Each time he managed, more tears escaped from the corners of your eyes. It ruined his progress. Caracalla got rougher the more your body defied him.

“What is wrong with you, medicus? One moment, you will barely respond, the next, you are more hysterical than a woman in childbirth.” He was kneeling now, working tirelessly to clean your filthy face. Desperate for comfort, you grabbed his wrists and leaned into his palms.

By now, your crying had become miserable sniffles as fat tears rolled off your chin. “I can— I can never go home, Caesar.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He looked perplexed as the heel of his palm pressed into your nose. It wasn’t gentle, and it made you move to pull away. Caracalla didn’t let you, his fingers tightening against the flesh of your cheek. “It is as you told me and my brother when we hired you. Your strange little country will never let you pass through its borders again. Why is this a problem now, medicus? Or have you been lying to me?”

“I thought— I thought I could go back, I thought they’d let me in,” You choked out. It was hard to both speak Latin and weave lies into truth in the state you were in now. “I thought this was not—- not r- real and— How can this be real?”

Rather than use his own tunic, Caracalla lifted the hem of yours to wipe away snot from your upper lip. He was frowning again, eyebrows knit. “Of course this is real. I can barely make sense of what you are saying, Alga. You sound more ridiculous than usual.”

“I miss my mom, and my dad—” You were blubbering now, your fingers tangling with Caracalla’s. “— And my coworkers, and my superiors! I will never see them again!” There was an intake of air, signaling he was about to respond, only for you to bulldoze over him. “I will never be able to have chocolate, or coffee, or any other foods from home again.”

Caracalla placed his hand over your mouth and forced your lips shut. “I will have the kitchens make you whatever your heart desires if you will stop this crying! Who cares about your mater, or your pater, or anyone else. They are gone and I am here. That is better than what they have to offer. I can give you more than they could ever hope to, and here you are crying over them instead of being grateful for me.”

When you spoke again, it was muffled by his hand. Caracalla seemed to debate with himself, looking away for a moment, before he removed his palm from your lips.

“I have lost everything,” You whispered, glassy eyes staring up at him.

He huffed, and if you had to guess, he was frustrated his words didn’t sink in.

“Yes, you have!” He agreed bluntly. “Think of what you have gained, Alga. The favor of an emperor, a palace to lay your head to rest, skills that surpass every medicus in Rome! You are hopeless if you cannot see that you have gained more than you have lost.”

You wanted to keep crying. It couldn’t be that simple to soothe you, but his words, though harsh, were logical. Back home, back in the future, you weren’t happy. You had everything, yet, at the end of the day, you were miserable. Maybe that was how it would be in Rome, too. It was possible you were simply broken so completely that there was no hope of joy in your future.

It was also possible that your happiness laid in this miraculous event that defied every inch of your world view. That made sense, in a disturbing way. Everything Caracalla said made sense, even if you didn’t want it to.

“My parents didn’t even like me,” Your voice was thick as you spoke. At least the tears stopped.

Caracalla smiled, a sense of triumph in his eyes. “It is as I say, Alga. You are wanted in Rome, where in your country, even your parents didn’t want you. See how much you have gained? You should be rejoicing.”

“I am scared, Caesar.” You shook your head, far more calm than you were before. “Everything is so different in Rome. I fear that I will ruin everything by being here.”

“Then you will bring ruin.” Caracalla shrugged, his grin growing with each second that you weren’t crying. “Let it break, let it shatter in your grasp. Your Caesar will have it cleaned and you can return to his side, fat and happy.”

The assurance shouldn’t have steadied you as much as it did. Caracalla was unpredictable. While he may be attached to you now, how long would that last? You looked at his face, earnest and open in a way that betrayed his immaturity, his eyes gleaming as his thumbs traced the outlines of your face, careful to collect any wetness that remained. If there was one thing that you knew, now more than ever, it was that Emperor Caracalla was no liar. Even if the truth of his words changed in the future, for now, at least, he meant every word.

Hopefully, that would give you enough time to work out a backup plan. For once, you felt calm.

“Thank you, Caesar.” Against all odds, a tired smile made your lips twitch upwards. “I look forward to being your physician until you grow tired of me.”

Caracalla’s expression turned mischievous now that he was certain your outburst was over. Crawling closer to you, he pressed his hands against your thighs to uncurl your knees from your chest. With an ungraceful flop, he laid his head in your lap to stare up at you. “Good, good. I believe that I deserve a reward for suffering through your hysteria.”

“Would you like to watch the stars with me, Caesar?” Despite feeling better, you still sounded watery.

Impatient and uncaring now that you were no longer weeping, Caracalla grabbed your wrist to bring it to his hair. For a moment, he stared at the cut on your palm, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes flickered to your splotchy, still damp face. You startled when he tangled your fingers in his hair. “What is so special about the stars? They are the same as they are every night.”

“They don’t look so beautiful in my country.” It was grounding to play with Caracalla’s hair. His soft curls tickled the cuts on your fingers and his eyes fluttered shut with a soft hum once you began your ministrations.

“How can the stars look different in your country? Is it truly so far away?”

“Further than you could ever imagine, Caesar. In the cities, the streets are lined with torches that glow brighter than any you have ever seen. For the entire night, they are on, protecting travelers and showing off merchant’s wares. The city is so big and so bright, it drowns out the stars, making the sky empty, save for the moon.”

“Sounds like an awful place, melimelum.” Caracalla opened his eyes to search your face, testing you. “You are better off in my Empire. Here, you can see the stars in all their glory.”

“Yes.” Craning your neck, you took in the velvet sky one last time. “More beautiful than I’ve ever seen.” You took a deep breath, finally filling your lungs to the brink, then exhaled. “I apologize for my outburst.”

“You should,” Caracalla said, leaning into your touch. “I will not be so gentle next time. A good slap would have knocked sense into you faster.”

“Caesar, that would have made me cry more,” You weren’t able to swallow the incredulous laugh that bubbled in your throat.

Caracalla’s shoulders jumped in a lazy shrug. There was a hint of smug pride in his smile. “I would calm you, then. I have once already, how much harder could a second be?”

“I will be there to calm you as well,” You said, tugging at his bangs.

Before Caracalla could respond, the sound of footsteps on the walkway behind you drew your attention. When you turned, there was Geta, late to the party once more. He took in your red rimmed eyes and tear stained face with an air of urgency. It wasn’t until you gave him a small smile and a wave did his posture slump.

“Medicus, what are you doing in the gardens so late at night?”

Caracalla sat up to glare at Geta over his shoulder, your fingers still tangled in his hair. Your own expression was a juxtaposition to his, tired amusement etched into your features. “I needed to see the stars. They are beautiful tonight.”

“The stars? So, you can respond again,” Geta said, exasperated. “And somehow, my brother has found his way into your embrace for another night.”

“I calmed him down, brother.” Caracalla sat up, his breath was hot against the shell of your ear, making your face burn. It sounded almost like he was rubbing it in Geta’s face.

Geta glanced at you, his eyebrows raised. “Did he now?”

“Your brother has a way with words.” More so than you expected. Caracalla’s grin grew even more, showing off his teeth.

Rolling his eyes, Geta let out a scoff. “You are the first person to say that about Caracalla, and now he is certain to be insufferable because of it.”

“I have a way with words, brother. Perhaps I should be the one to speak to the senate tomorrow.” With his arms draped over each side of your collarbone, Caracalla rested his chin on your shoulder. You didn’t know if he was serious or not. Judging by Geta’s grimace, he was.

Now that Caracalla’s attention was on his brother, you mouthed a silent apology to Geta. He responded by pursing his lips at you, clearly displeased. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to Caracalla. “Come, brother, off to bed. If you are to speak with the senate tomorrow, you must do so with a clear mind.”

“Come with me?” Came his whisper, lips brushing against your ear. The scent of lavender was stronger now. It made your head spin, not unlike earlier, but far more pleasant.

Gently, you pushed him away as you pried his arms from around your neck. “Tonight, someone else will make your medicine, Caesar. I must take care of my wounds.”

Disappointment and confusion made his face scrunch, though he stood with little effort on your part. “Tomorrow night, then.”

“Of course, Caesar.”

Caracalla stared down at you, his gaze heavy, before he let out a huff and trudged to Geta’s side. You offered both emperors a farewell. The relief on Geta’s features was too slight for you to notice in your exhausted state. Without waiting for either’s footsteps to fade, you laid down on your back to face the sky.

The stars were smiling now.

Only in the past could they do something so quaint to someone like you.

A/N: Helloooooo, this was a hard chapter to write, I’m not gonna lie. Alga’s dissociation is based off my own experiences with derealization and depersonalization, which made it hard to type out without accidentally making myself fall into the mindset. However, do not worry, my friends! I am fine, yay! I’m actually pretty proud over how I wrote their hashtag Episode. In an effort to convey just how disjointed time feels, along with their memory, I wrote events out of order in the first half. I hope it was conveyed well!

For anyone who didn’t catch it, Geta one hundred percent believed that the injuries on Alga’s hands were purposely self-inflicted. If they were, he would have assigned more praetorians to them and have them under supervision 25/8. Caracalla is clearly very attached and he’s not risking losing the only other person who can calm his brother. Speaking of Geta, I am sooooo sorry Geta enjoyers for the Caracalla wave we are under. Next chapter will have a major Geta moment, I swear to you.

And, finally, we can address the fact that Caracalla’s got a bit of a crush. It first manifested after the needle incident, stewing for a few days, and by the time he gives the needle back to Alga, it’s like a little sprout. After they calmed him down from his flashback, it’s a full ass rosebush. From how I’m writing it, I think it’s unfamiliar to Caracalla to have this particular feeling. He knows lust, but these feelings are far too innocent for him to really know what to do with. Like, of course He Wonts Them sooooo fucking bad, but also, he does just genuinely like being near them. It makes him feel giddy. It’s new and he may or may not be obsessed with how he feels when he gets to be near them.

During Alga’s episode, they are, uhhhh, way too out of it to truly understand the depth of Caracalla’s affections. Most of what he said in the gardens didn’t properly register, so they’re like both oblivious and aware as to how Caracalla is obsessed with them. It’s a mess. Also, he did NOOOOT mean for them to make him his medicine when he asked them to join him. Not in the SUH-LIGHTEST. Yesssss, come back to his bedroom so he can seduce you. You want to so bad, ooooooo.

Oh, and before I forget. Algacula is my attemot at making 'Alga' a diminutive petname. ‘Cula’ means little, and a lot of Latin petnames have that. Like melculum (little honey) and anaticula (little duck). Melimelum is another Latin petname that means “honey apple.” Most of Caracalla’s petnames tend to be overly sweet.

Finally, oh my god, thank you guys for the feedback last chapter!!! It was so sweet and I was rocking back and forth from sheer joy. Obligatory like, comment, and subscribe!!! You don’t have to, but I won’t lie. It does encourage me to write more 😭😭

Thank you for reading, bye, ily!!!!

taglist: @snazzynacho @t6gse370 @cherrysweets-world @justlibra @001mon

[paishoeyeroh]

Bearer And The Bound

☰ Pairings: Sukuna x Reader, Slight Megumi x Reader

✧ Summary: When you stumble upon an ancient ring in an abandoned house, you unknowingly bind yourself to a cruel, powerful demon who thrives on torment. Trapped in a reluctant bond and forced to navigate a shared existence, Sukuna plots your downfall while you fight to survive his sadistic games. But as your fates entwine and secrets of Sukuna’s dark past begin to unravel, the lines between enemy and ally start to blur.

✧ Tags: True form Sukuna, Enemies to Lovers, Dark Romance, Demonic Bonds, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn, Sukuna is Bad at Feelings, Possessive Sukuna, Tension, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, College/University AU, More Tags To Be Added Later

✧ Status: Ongoing

✧ You can also read it on AO3

☰ CHAPTER NINE: A Breath Away

Chapter Summary: You test Sukuna’s boundaries.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The next morning, you wake with a strange sense of clarity, though you’re not sure it’s welcome. The realization settles over you as you open your eyes, warm and unnerving all at once.

Something has shifted.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, thoughts from the day before floating back into your mind. You like Sukuna. More than you should. More than you’ve been letting yourself admit. The thought makes your breath hitch, your heart stuttering beneath your ribs.

But how deep does it go?

You’ve tried to reason with yourself. Tried to convince yourself it’s just the bond, the time spent together, the forced proximity warping your emotions into something they aren’t. But if that were true, why does it feel so real? So… inevitable?

The truth of your feelings lingers beneath your skin, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. But it doesn’t scare you, not as much as it should.

As the day drags on, you find it nearly impossible to focus in class. No matter how hard you try, your mind keeps drifting back to Sukuna, forcing himself into your thoughts like an incessant buzzing in your ear.

You think of the way he’s always looked at you. How, in the beginning, his stare had felt like a challenge, sharp and assessing, unblinking and unashamed. It had unnerved you then, the way he made no effort to disguise the intensity of his gaze. But now, in this new light, you wonder—had it always been something more?

Had he been watching you, not just in amusement, not just as prey, but for the same reason you couldn’t stop thinking about him now?

And then there were the moments where his actions spoke for themselves. The way he had touched you that night on the couch, fingertips brushing against your hair when you’re sure he thought you’d been asleep. The way his grip had lingered on your ankle, like he wasn’t ready to let go. Even earlier, on the night you were too drunk to walk, when he had been the one to guide you into bed, pulling the blankets over you, leaving water and aspirin on your nightstand, as if he truly cared.

You sit there, fingers tightening around your pen, your professor’s words fading into background noise.

It all points to the same thing, doesn’t it?

Sukuna, a demon with no reason to, had shown you kindness. He had stopped tormenting you, not just because you had ordered him to, but because… maybe he didn’t want to anymore.

Is it possible that maybe—just maybe—he feels the same way as you do now?

You steal glances at him throughout the day, watching him through a new lens, searching for something you’re not sure you’ll find. But Sukuna is the same—lounging carelessly, boredom draped over him like a second skin, offering the occasional dry remark. He doesn’t seem any different. Not in the way he moves, not in the way he speaks.

But every glance he throws your way lands heavier than before, settling somewhere deep in your chest. When his gaze flicks up and catches yours lingering, a slow pulse of heat spreads through you, igniting your veins. When he smirks, your heart kicks against your ribs, traitorous in its rhythm. You force yourself to look away, to remind yourself he’s always been this way. That nothing has changed.

Except it has.

When you finally get home, you toss your bag to the floor and sink onto the couch with a heavy sigh. Sukuna follows close behind, stretching as he takes his usual seat beside you, as if this is just another ordinary evening. To him, it probably is.

You try to act casual, to keep your body loose, your expression calm, but the shift in your emotions makes every little movement feel unnatural. You don’t know how to be around him now. Not with this new revelation brewing inside you.

Life’s too short to overthink it.

You’ll never know unless you try.

Nobara’s words echo in your mind, but they don’t help. This isn’t like before. You’ve had crushes, flirted, played the game with men who were easy to read, predictable in their responses. You knew how to act, how to move, what to say. But Sukuna is nothing like them. He is nothing like anyone.

Demon or not, he is impossible to understand—cruel, sharp edged, and wholly self-serving. A tyrant. A killer. Or at least, he was one. He is not kind. He is not good. You have no illusions about the sort of man he is, about the way he takes and takes without offering anything in return.

The thought of flirting with him, of treating this like some silly schoolgirl crush, is so absurd it nearly makes you laugh out loud. And yet, when you risk a glance at him—at the way he lounges beside you, powerful and untouchable, utterly unaware of the war raging in your mind—you wonder if you’ve already lost.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow at you as he settles into his seat.

“Long day?” he asks, his voice more serious than teasing, as if he’s truly curious.

“Yeah… long day,” you nod, hesitating for half a second before adding, “Having a seven foot menace trailing me everywhere doesn’t exactly help, either.”

His lips twitch, and then he smirks, tilting his head as he studies you. “You’ve survived this long, haven’t you?” he drawls, stretching his legs across the floor. “I think you’ll manage.”

You roll your eyes, the motion instinctive at this point. His teasing is familiar, a lifeline of normalcy in the midst of this unsteadiness, of everything shifting beneath your feet. You don’t know what you expected from this moment. Hesitation, maybe tension, a crack in the careful balance between you, but instead, there’s this. Ease. A fleeting comfort that settles over you, even as your thoughts coil and knot beneath the surface, refusing to unwind.

As you sink deeper into the couch, you glance at him again. He’s close, like always, but this is the first time you’ve noticed it like this. The first time you’ve let yourself linger on the space he takes up beside you, the effortless way he inhabits any room he’s in.

Nobara’s words flit through your mind once again, teasing and insistent.

You have to be the one to make the first move.

You exhale slowly, turning the thought over. Sukuna is not a man who gives things freely. If there is a wall around him, it is one he has built with centuries of sharpened stone, an impenetrable fortress of indifference and arrogance. But what if… what if it didn’t need to be shattered to be crossed? What if all it took was something small, something simple?

A push.

Just enough to see if he would let you in.

Before you can think too hard about it, before hesitation can creep in and stop you, you shift, pressing into him, just slightly, just enough that the fabric of your clothes brushes against his. It’s nothing, really. Barely even a touch.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t acknowledge it outright. But something flickers across his face, so fleeting, so imperceptible, you almost convince yourself it was never there. A faint twitch at the corner of his lips, the barest furrow of his brow, as if caught between understanding and restraint.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses back. Just enough that his thigh is flush against yours. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, steady and unyielding.

A current surges through you, swift and consuming, like a spark catching tinder.

You clear your throat, willing yourself to sound casual. Normal. “I was thinking,” you start, unsure, but then you push forward, your voice softer now. “Maybe we could like… hang out for a bit. Watch a movie? Or, I don’t know, just talk.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears in the silence of the room, waiting for his reaction. Sukuna finally turns his head to face you, his eyes narrowed. His gaze search yours, like he’s trying to pick apart your intentions, trying to find something in them you haven’t spoken aloud.

“Hang out for a bit,” he repeats, quoting you, his tone deadpan. “As opposed to… what, exactly? We always hang out, without you needing to ask.”

You suck in a breath, forcing a shrug, attempting to play off his skepticism.

“I guess,” you admit. “I just… want to spend time with you.”

His gaze lingers, sharp and assessing, and for a brief second, you wonder if he sees right through you. If he can sense the shift in you, the unspoken nervousness behind your words.

Then, he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s a quiet scoff, barely more than a breath, but you don’t miss the way his eyes remain on you, watching as you reach for the remote, as if waiting for you to slip, to give yourself away.

Your fingers tighten around it as you scroll through the endless selection of movies, pretending not to notice his stare. You’re not sure how to navigate this new reality, this quiet, impossible feeling unraveling inside you like a thread you were never meant to pull.

The movie begins to play, but the details quickly blur into the background, lost beneath the buzzing of your own thoughts. You should be watching, should be relaxing, but instead, you’re planning—calculating your next move like it’s some kind of delicate game.

You think back to moments ago, when he had seemingly pressed his thigh against your own. A moment so slight, barely more than a breath of movement, but it was there, as if he not only welcomed the contact, but was seeking more.

It’s reassuring, but you need more. Something that confirms that he’s feeling it too, beneath that seemingly impenetrable exterior. What would make it slip, even just a little?

As the evening wears on, you start to shift a little closer to him. Not just for your own satisfaction, but for something from him. A reaction. A sign. Something.

Sukuna doesn’t acknowledge the movement, but his eyes flick toward you, brief sideways glances between you and the screen, lingering just a second too long before snapping forward again. He’s still not giving you anything.

So you decide to push a little further.

You subtly stretch your arm along the back of the couch behind him, a casual motion, practiced and unassuming. It puts your hand within reach of him, lets your fingertips brush against the farthest slope of his shoulder once. Twice. Testing the waters.

Then, you leave them there.

Your palm settles softly against the curve of his shoulder, fingers just barely curled, feeling him, soft yet solid beneath your touch.

At that, he reacts. His jaw tightens. The muscles in his arm flex under your fingers, like he’s attempting to resist the urge to move any further. You hold your breath, trying to anticipate his next move. Then he turns his head, just enough so that his face is suddenly there, so close it nearly sucks the air straight from your lungs.

For the first time, at this distance, you notice something you never had before—rings surrounding his pupils. They’re like rings of fire, burning bright with the quiet intensity of his stare as he regards you.

“You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” He mutters, his voice low and rough, but there’s no edge to it. It doesn’t sound like a warning, not really. If anything, it sounds reluctant.

A quiet thrill sparks throughout you at his words—it’s not quite reassurance, but something similar. He’s acknowledging it. Acknowledging you.

“Maybe,” you reply, “But you haven’t told me to stop.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he turns his attention back to the screen. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

You let out a quiet laugh, light and breathy, but beneath it, your pulse is alive, thrumming like a war drum in your veins. You don’t push closer, but you don’t retreat either, staying pressed against him, your fingers brushing his arm in delicate, fleeting touches. It’s bold, bolder than anything you’ve done before, but he lets you. He allows it.

And that sends more of a rush through you than anything else.

The show plays on, but it may as well not exist at this point. The words and images flicker meaninglessly across the screen. Sukuna remains still, his eyes trained forward, his face carved into a perfectly trained look of indifference. But his muscles seem to hold a quiet rigidity, his fingers twitching against his knee. His weight keeps shifting slightly, like no position feels right, like stillness has become uneasy.

He’s ignoring you. At least, he wants you to think he is.

Your fingers twitch, the urge to push just a little further creeping into your mind. To see just how much he’s truly willing to give you. If you trailed your fingers lower, if you leaned in just a fraction more, would he stop you? Or would he let you do it?

But you know better.

So instead, you retreat slowly, slipping your arm back from where it had rested along his shoulder. But you don’t pull away entirely. You stay close, your body still pressed lightly into his. You’re content just being here, close to him, even if neither of you is quite ready to admit what’s really happening between you.

As the movie drifts toward its end, so do you—gradually, unconsciously sinking further into him, like the pull of gravity itself is drawing you closer. Your shoulder presses more firmly against his, your body angling toward him without a second thought. By the time the credits roll, you’re fully leaning into him, your weight resting against the solid expanse of his frame, lulled by the comfort of him next to you, quiet and calm.

A yawn tugs at your lips, and you shift, curling your legs up beneath you, settling deeper into the cushions. Sukuna notices. You feel it before you see it, the way his eyes cut to you, sharp and lingering.

Then, he leans back, stretching out like a king at rest, his upper arms draping lazily along the back of the couch. Close enough to surround you, close enough to make you feel it. But never quite touching, never quite crossing that final inch.

“You’re tired,” he says, his tone neutral, but you’re sure you feel the soft hint beneath it. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, though the weight behind your eyelids tells a different story. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look away either. His gaze lingers, steady and watchful, like he’s waiting for something—for you to push again, and for himself to pull away.

The air between you hums with unspoken possibility, a fragile thread stretched thin. For a fleeting moment, you wonder, if I reach for him now, if I try to close that final space between us, would he let me?

But you already know the answer.

So instead, you exhale softly, letting the moment settle around you like a quiet understanding. Sukuna doesn’t move. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say, nothing to define. Not right now.

For now, it’s enough just to be here, suspended in the quiet shift between what was, and what’s slowly becoming.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The dining table is cluttered with open textbooks, scattered notes, and stray pens rolling across the surface, a testament to the hours you’ve spent hunched over your work. Your back aches from being in the same position for too long, your fingers cramping around the pen as you scrawl yet another line onto the page.

The room is quiet, save for the faint scratch of your writing and the occasional shift of movement from the living room. It’s Sukuna, of course, restless as ever, making his presence known without a word.

You roll your shoulders back, trying to ease the ache that’s settled in your spine from hunching over your notebook for too long. Your eyes feel heavy from staring at the same pages for what feels like an eternity.

It’s time for a break.

Standing up, you stretch your arms above your head and arch your back, letting out a quiet groan of relief as your muscles loosen up. You turn toward the living room, curious about what Sukuna’s been up to while you’ve been drowning in schoolwork.

To your surprise, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the coffee table cleared of its usual clutter. Before him, your chessboard is set up, but not in any way that makes sense. The pieces are scattered in an arrangement of his own making, some lined up neatly while others stand isolated, pushed to the edges as if discarded.

His fingers skim absently over the board, pausing on a rook before picking up a knight, turning it between his fingers. He studies it with sharp focus, turning it one way, then another, like he’s waiting for it to reveal its purpose to him. There’s no frustration in his expression, only pure curiosity.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I didn’t take you for the chess playing type,” you say, stepping closer.

Sukuna doesn’t look up as he continues to fiddle with the pieces. “You had it lying around,” he mutters, “I got tired of watching you scribble nonsense for hours.”

You chuckle, taking a seat across from him on the couch. “Do you know how to play?”

Sukuna glances up at you, his scarlet eyes glinting with something akin to excitement. “No. But it can’t be that hard.”

“Oh, it’s more complicated than it looks,” you start clearing the board of the pieces, placing them off to the side. “Want me to teach you?”

He hesitates for a second, before nodding once.

You begin to explain the rules, placing each piece on the board in its starting position.

“Okay, so, these are your pawns,” you say, tapping the front row. “They’re like your foot soldiers. They can only move forward one space at a time, except for their first move, when they can move two spaces. And they can only capture pieces diagonally.”

Sukuna watches you with a focused intensity, his eyes flicking between your face and the board, absorbing every word. You move on to the other pieces, explaining the knight's L-shaped moves, the rook's ability to move in straight lines, the bishop's path, and the queen's versatility.

“The queen is the most powerful piece on the board,” you explain. “She can move in any direction, as many spaces as she wants.”

Sukuna smirks. “Of course she is,” he mutters, giving the queen a little flick.

You smile, moving on to the next piece. “This is the most important piece. The king. The goal is to protect him, because if he’s trapped, you lose the game. The king can move in any direction as well, but only one space at a time.”

After your explanation, you start the game, taking it slow so Sukuna can get used to the mechanics. His movements are tentative at first, as he tests out the pieces and considers his options. But you quickly realize he’s no ordinary beginner. He starts picking up on strategies faster than you’d expected, and after a few turns, he’s starting to make moves that surprise you.

You’re explaining a potential strategy for controlling the center of the board when Sukuna interrupts, moving one of his rooks with precision.

“You’re leaving your queen wide open,” he says, his tone casual, but there’s a spark of smugness in his eyes.

You blink, then look down at the board, realizing he’s right. “How did you—“

“It’s simple,” he cuts you off. “Anticipate your opponent's moves. It’s not much different from battle.”

You pause, shaking your head with a quiet chuckle. “Not bad for a beginner.”

He snatches your queen off the board, keeping his eyes on the table as he answers.

“Strategy isn’t new to me.”

You stare at him, realizing after a moment what he's just said. For the first time, he’s offering something about his past, willingly, without you prying. Though he’s being vague as ever, it’s still a shock that he’s decided to open up, however small.

Like, really small. Minuscule, even. But there, nonetheless.

You decide to push your luck, feeling an irresistible pang of curiosity.

“You must have been some kind of big shot back in the day to be this good at strategy.”

He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, Sukuna’s expression shifts. The smugness fades, a kind of quietness slipping into the space it leaves behind. He moves another piece without answering, his fingers steady, but there’s a distance in his eyes now, a flicker of thought that you’ve got a feeling has nothing to do with the game.

Even still, he plays effortlessly. His moves grow sharper, more deliberate, each one closing in around you like an inevitability, but it feels like his mind is somewhere else entirely now.

“Checkmate,” he announces, his voice a little quieter than before.

You stare at the board to see that he’s won. “Damn.”

You sit back, impressed but also not entirely surprised by how quickly he’s picked it up. Sukuna leans back as well, stretching slightly, his gaze finally rising up to meet yours again.

“Care for another round?” He asks, the amused glimmer returned to his eyes.

And who are you to deny him?

“Alright, but I’m not going easy on you this time,” you tease.

“Neither am I,” he says with a smirk, resetting the pieces.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

A shuddering breath pulls you from sleep. The sudden stillness of your bedroom feels unnatural, like something was lost in the space between dreaming and waking, something important that you can’t quite grasp.

Your pillow is damp beneath your cheek, the coolness seeping into your skin. Your chest feels tight, a dull, aching weight pressing against your ribs, the kind that lingers even as the dream itself begins to fade.

The remnants of it cling to you like mist, shapeless and inescapable, slipping through your fingers the harder you try to hold onto it. But the feeling, the grief, the loss, the quiet devastation remains, settling deep in your bones.

You blink into the darkness, your mind slow to catch up with wakefulness. The air in the room feels stale, thick with the remnants of a dream already slipping far beyond your reach.

To your surprise, Sukuna is there, crouched beside you, his form half-draped in shadow, the dim light proving it difficult to make out the features of his face. His hand hovers just inches from your shoulder, fingers poised as if he’s been caught. But the moment he notices your eyes open, he pulls back—so quickly, so smoothly, that if you hadn’t seen it, you wouldn’t have known they were ever there.

It was as if he’d been just about to wake you.

“You were crying,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges, his words more of observation than concern.

You inhale sharply, dragging the back of your hand across your damp cheeks, only now fully aware of the tears. The movement does little to quell the ache tightening in your gut. Pieces of the dream continue to resurface, vivid and suffocating, stirring something deep and mournful inside of you.

A sob threatens to rise, coiling in your throat, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to remember it wasn’t real. It was only a dream. But as you sit there in the hush of your bedroom, Sukuna’s quiet presence next to you, the grief still lingers like a bruise, deep and palpable.

You take a slow, trembling breath, too raw, too unsteady to say anything out loud. Instead, you give a small nod, hoping it’s enough of a response.

Sukuna continues to linger at your bedside, his movements clearly uncertain. His eyes flick over your face, scanning, searching, but for what, you don’t know. If he had a reason for coming in here, a plan, it seems to have abandoned him now.

The room feels colder in the dark of the night, emptier, the shadows creeping in at the edges, swallowing the warmth that once lived here. And all at once, that sense of loneliness comes rushing back—violent and suffocating, a tidal wave crashing over you, dragging you under with it.

It has lived inside you for so long now, gnawing at the edges of your heart, carving itself into your bones, whispering its presence into every moment. You had almost learned to live with it. It had gone quieter recently, almost dormant. But in the wake of your dream, in the silence of your bedroom, it resurfaces with a vengeance, cruel and relentless.

You curl in on yourself, arms tightening around your body as if you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You try to breathe through it, try to ground yourself in the present moment. But the feeling of desolation is just too much, a hollow ache swallowing you whole. It feels as though no matter how close someone stands beside you, you will always be alone.

Sukuna shifts, pushing himself to his feet, already turning to leave. The absence of his presence is immediate, like the air itself is pulling away from you, leaving nothing but cold emptiness in its wake. Something in you frays at the edges, unraveling more and more with each step he takes toward the hallway.

A quiet panic sparks in your chest, raw and concerning. If he leaves, if he walks out the door, you’re certain the loneliness will swallow you whole, dragging you back down into the dark. The thought terrifies you, and before you can stop yourself, your voice speaks of its own accord.

“Wait,” you call out, the word escaping like a reflex.

He freezes mid-step, his back rigid, his shoulders tensing just enough for you to see the movement. For a moment, the air in the room stills, as if holding its breath alongside you. You swallow against the lump in your throat.

“Stay?”

The word is barely more than a breath, fragile and small, but it hangs heavy between you, waiting.

You watch Sukuna’s silhouette in the dark, still frozen in place. For a long moment, you think he’s going to ignore you and leave anyway. That he’ll disappear without a word, let the silence take you for itself.

But then, slowly, he turns. He doesn’t come closer, doesn’t break the space between you. But he doesn’t leave, either.

“Why?”

His voice cuts through the silence—it’s hesitant in a way you’re not used to. He’s guarded in the way he says it, like he’s bracing himself for an answer he doesn’t want to hear.

You swallow hard, fingers curling into the blankets beneath you. The words are difficult to form, catching in your throat, almost too fragile to be spoken aloud.

“I… I can’t be alone right now.”

The admission feels too bare, too exposed, your voice cracking on the last word. You hate the way it sounds—so quiet, so desperate. But it’s the truth.

Sukuna shifts, barely, the fabric of his robes rustling against itself, his weight settling unevenly, like he’s fighting some unseen battle within.

You can’t see his face, but you see it in the way he stands—reluctance. Like he’s hovering over the edge of something unfamiliar, something that doesn’t fit into the world he’s built for himself.

“I don’t sleep. You know that.”

His voice is quiet, almost an afterthought, like he’s grasping for an excuse, anything to put distance between himself and whatever this is. He’s already at the doorway, one foot practically over the threshold.

But you can’t let him go.

“Please.”

You don’t realize how pathetic you sound until the word leaves your lips. You hear the way it wavers, how it clings to the air between you, and it would normally make a sense of shame pour into your veins, but right now, you can’t find it in yourself to care. You lower your gaze, gripping the blankets tighter in your fists.

“Please, I just… need you to stay.”

More silence. The space between you is impossibly heavy. You brace yourself for rejection, for the sound of him leaving, already preparing to swallow your pride and pretend you never asked.

But then, after what feels like an eternity, he shifts.

A single step. Back into the room.

Then another.

He remains silent as he steps further into the room, his movements calculated, as if each step is carefully measured. Like he’s still weighing his options, still deciding whether this is something he’s willing to do.

When he finally sits, it’s at the very edge of the bed, his posture stiff, his presence distant despite his proximity. His hands rest on his knees, fingers curling in on themselves, his body angled away from you as if he’s ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Every part of him is wound tight, rigid, like this, being here, is something unnatural to him.

It’s not enough.

“Can you…” You hesitate, your pulse pounding loud in your ears, the request pressing against your tongue, forcing itself out. “Can you lay with me?”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Discomfort, maybe. Annoyance. He huffs out a sharp breath through his nose, a muscle in his jaw twitching, but he doesn’t look at you.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, his voice strained.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly, your sense of vulnerability rising, basically overflowing at this point. Any hesitation you had before is gone, replaced with raw desperation at this point.

“Please.”

The word trembles between you, unguarded, unpolished. Whatever shame you might have felt is a distant thing now, drowned out by the sheer need to feel something solid, something real beside you. To know that you are not alone in this moment.

The silence stretches between you. The hesitation is written in every line of his body, in the way his fingers flex against his knee, in the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest like he’s carefully planning each breath.

You don’t know what you expect from him—rejection, maybe, a sharp remark to cut through the vulnerability hanging in the air. But instead, after a long moment, he exhales.

Not irritated. Not exasperated. More like… resigned.

Wordlessly, he moves to the other side of the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he finally lays beside you.

He settles onto his back. His arms fold beneath his head, both sets of them, like he’s feigning nonchalance, trying to pretend this is nothing. But his body is stiff, tension carved into his muscles, and you can almost feel the effort it takes for him to remain still. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t so much as graze your arm, as if keeping space between you will keep the moment from becoming real.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The silence between you is thick, stretching like a fragile thread that might snap if either of you breathe too deeply. Sukuna stares at the ceiling, jaw set, arms still folded beneath his head in a careful display of indifference. He remains incredibly still.

Slowly, tentatively, you shift closer.

It’s an agonizing process, your movements measured, deliberate. Not because you fear him, but because you don’t want to startle him—not when he’s already on edge, not when you’ve already asked for so much. It feels like approaching a wild animal, sharp-edged and untamed, who might bolt at the first sign of vulnerability.

You hold your breath as you ease into his space, inch by inch, until you’re close enough to rest your head against his chest.

The moment you make contact, Sukuna’s body tenses beneath you, a sharp inhale barely audible in the stillness. His chest is solid, warm beneath your cheek, his muscles rigid. For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, like he’s deciding whether or not to let this happen.

Then, slowly, the tension starts to ebb from his frame.

You can feel it, the small shifts, the subtle surrender. The way his breathing evens out, the way his muscles release one by one. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t push you off. He lets you stay.

For the first time tonight, you finally begin to relax.

Your lashes flutter shut as you sink further into the large expanse of his chest. The silence doesn’t feel so crushing now, the loneliness doesn’t feel so suffocating. He is here, beneath you, beside you, with you. But still…

Something is missing.

At first, it’s just an absence you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s a wrongness lingering at the edges of your awareness, whispering to you that something is off. Your brow furrows slightly, your breathing slows as you focus—searching, listening—until it finally becomes clear.

It’s him.

There is no heartbeat beneath your ear.

No steady rhythm, no reassuring thrum of life beneath warm skin. Just silence.

It should unsettle you, the eerie absence of a heartbeat where there should be one. It’s an undeniable reminder that Sukuna is not human, that he exists outside the fragile rhythm of mortality.

And yet… it doesn’t unnerve you at all. If anything, it soothes you.

There is something strangely constant about him—unchanging, untouchable by time in a way that feels almost invincible. With him, there is no fleeting fragility, no sudden departure, no risk of things slipping through your fingers like sand. With him, nothing can touch you. Not even the loneliness that has haunted you for so long.

A slow shift in movement pulls you from your thoughts. Sukuna unfurls beneath you, his arms slipping from behind his head. You feel it when they settle, one resting idly at his side opposite you, the others coming to rest just behind you, his forearms grazing lightly against your back. Not holding you, but there. Caging you in against him. Like a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

Your body instinctively melts further into his side. Just as you begin to drift, your breath evening out, the world fading to quiet, something pulls you back to the surface.

A touch. So light, so hesitant, you question whether it was even real. But then you feel it again, and again.

Fingertips grazing the side of your head, threading gently through your hair, the motion slow and smooth, as though savoring the feel of it. It’s careful, almost reluctant, as if he’s testing the waters, weighing the risk of letting himself be this close, this unguarded.

Your heart swoops, a quiet thrill rushing through your chest, and you have to fight the urge to smile like an idiot, to keep your body still, to keep your breaths steady.

You don’t want him to know you’re awake. Because you don’t want him to stop.

So you stay like this, unmoving, silent, letting him believe you’re lost in sleep.

The last thing you’re aware of is him beside you, the quiet sensation of a hand in your hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. The dream is gone, the ache it left behind fading into nothingness.

For so long, the thought of Sukuna had been an unshakable burden, an inescapable force pressing into every part of your life. But now, as your body sinks deeper into rest, that certainty no longer unsettles you.

He will always be here.

And right now, that thought doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like safety.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You wake earlier than usual, the world outside your window still bathed in deep blue, the first hints of dawn barely beginning to stir. For a moment, you don’t know why your eyes are open, why your body feels lighter than it has in a long time. You blink, sluggish with sleep, disoriented as you try to grasp the edges of wakefulness.

Then, it all comes back to you at once.

The dream. Sukuna. In your bed. Laying with you.

A flush creeps up your neck, embarrassment licking at the edges of your thoughts—but it doesn’t last long. Because beneath it, something else settles in, something louder, something far more enticing. You think about the way you had fit against him, the solid weight of his body beneath yours, the way his hand had rested in your hair, careful, almost reverent.

A small smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. Your eyes flutter closed again, chasing the remnants of that feeling, letting yourself linger in it for just a second longer.

Just a second more before reality pulls you away.

You open them again, glancing over at the space where he had been lying beside you, and as you expected, Sukuna is gone. He’d probably left shortly after you’d fallen asleep, preferring to roam the apartment or do whatever it is he does during the night.

You pull yourself out of bed, shaking off the remnants of grogginess as you make your way to the bathroom, the cool tile helping to wake you further. But no matter how much you go through the motions—brushing your teeth, getting dressed, gathering your things for the day—you just can't shake this feeling that the events of last night have placed in your chest. It’s almost making you feel giddy. Like you’ve accomplished something.

By the time you’re sitting in class, your thoughts are still tangled in it, replaying every moment, every fleeting touch. You expected things to feel different between you and Sukuna today, for some unspoken shift to settle into place. But if Sukuna feels anything at all, he refuses to show it.

He’s the same as always as he sits next to you. Aloof, unreadable, posture draped in indifference. However, it does seem like there’s something off about him today. A tension in the set of his shoulders, maybe, or a quietness that goes beyond his usual silence. His eyes, normally sharp and keen, seem distant, his mind somewhere far away.

You steal a glance at him, but he doesn’t return it.

Maybe it’s just your own hopeful mind looking for things that aren’t actually there. You try not to dwell too much on it.

Later that evening, after dinner, you find yourself drawn back to the bathroom, craving the warmth of a bath to relax your muscles and let your mind drift peacefully. You twist the faucet, watching as steam begins to rise, the water filling the tub in gentle waves. As you wait, you lean against the counter, absently tracing a finger along the cool porcelain edge, your thoughts wandering.

Did Sukuna take baths, back when he was human? Surely they didn’t have showers in his time.

Your mind paints a picture of the shrine you glimpsed in your dreams—grand, imposing, shrouded in flickering candlelight. You try to imagine what his baths must have looked like, if the luxury he surrounded himself with extended even there. A vast, open air spring, perhaps, carved from stone, steaming beneath the night sky. Or maybe an ornate wooden tub, deep enough to submerge in fully, scented with rare herbs, the kind only a man of power could afford.

Whatever it was, it was definitely more luxurious than the cramped porcelain tub you were climbing into now. You sigh as you sink into the hot water, but there’s no stretching your legs out properly, no reclining into endless space. Just the small, familiar confinement of your own bathroom.

Sukuna probably had servants scrubbing in between his toes for him, tending to him with unwavering devotion, feeding him delicacies as he basked in the steaming water like a self-satisfied king. The thought makes you snicker.

Now that was a bath. You’d definitely indulge more often if you had something like that.

You wonder if he’d be willing to answer questions about his past, now that your relationship has grown to… whatever it is now. Maybe you’ll work up the courage to ask him about it later, but you’re still wary of pissing him off, of ruining all the progress you’ve made.

You towel off, stepping out of the tub as you put on more comfortable clothes. You make your way across the hall and enter your bedroom, phone in hand as you slide into bed. You scroll through social media for a while, mindlessly flipping through posts and videos, but it doesn’t hold your attention for long. Your thoughts keep coming back to the same thing: Sukuna. You’re just about to go out into the common space to see what he’s up to when a knock stills your movements.

You glance up, surprised to find the aforementioned demon lingering in your doorway. It’s odd, he’s never been one for knocking—he always comes and goes as he pleases, sauntering through your home like he owns the place. But this time, the door was already ajar, and he’d stopped himself just shy of stepping through, like he’s waiting for your permission.

Why he feels the need for such pleasantries now, you have no idea.

He clears his throat, appearing to be thinking the same thing as you. His fingers twitch briefly at his sides, his stance shifting as if he himself isn’t sure why he’s hesitating.

His eyes land on you, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, only to shut it again. You watch on, curiously, amusement creeping in at the sight of him struggling. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s almost nervous.

“What’re you doing in here?” He eventually asks, but there’s something about his tone that convinces you that’s not what he had originally planned to say. Your brow furrows slightly as you try to figure out what he’s really playing at.

“Nothing, I guess,” you shrug, setting your phone down in your lap. “Why? Something on your mind?”

Sukunas gaze shifts, like he’s contemplating something, and instead of answering, he takes a step further into the room, before stopping, hesitating once again. You decide to put him out of his misery.

“Come sit.” You pat the spot on the bed beside you, gently coaxing him to join. He watches the movement, before he lets out a quiet sigh and moves to sit down next to you at the head of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. For a few seconds, neither of you says anything, and eventually it becomes clear he isn’t going to speak. You tilt your head, studying his face.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your brows knitting together as you look at him. He looks back at you, but only for a moment before looking away. He looks… uncomfortable, to say the least. His finger drums against his thigh, a steady rhythm that betrays the unease he’s trying so hard to mask. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks.

“Last night, when I came in here,” he begins before finally returning your gaze, “You were crying, in your sleep. Why?”

The question hits you like a wave, catching you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up at all, much less ask you outright like this. If anything, you figured he’d brush past it, pretend it never happened. But here he is, watching you expectantly, waiting for your answer. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your phone as the dream rushes back in vivid detail.

“I was dreaming about my ex,” you admit quietly. Your eyes drop down to your lap, your throat already tightening around your words, despite your best efforts to hide your emotions.

“I still, um, dream about him sometimes. But the dreams are always… sad. Like he’s there, but just out of reach. I can’t—I can never get to him in time to save him,” you force the words out through your wavering voice. You feel tears prick at your eyes, but you force them back, taking a slow breath to relax yourself.

“How did he die?”

You bring your eyes back up to Sukuna, surprised by the bluntness of his question. He’s watching you, quiet, focused, like he’s weighing your words, turning them over in his mind like they hold some significance beyond your understanding.

“He was coming home late one night, driving across the bridge just outside of town. It was a drunk driver. He was going over twice the speed limit. He hit him so hard,” you pause, looking away, the emotion overcoming you making it too difficult to meet his eyes, “they say he was dead before his car hit the water,” you spit, the venom evident in your voice.

“He was everything to me. Everything. And then, just like that, he was taken away.” The words crack as they leave your throat, splintering beneath the heavy weight of your grief. The tears are spilling freely now, tracing familiar paths down your cheeks. You bring a hand up to wipe them away hastily, but before it can reach your face, another touch beats you to it.

Sukuna’s thumb grazes your skin, rubbing ever so gently across your cheekbone, wiping away the salty liquid that’s gathered there.

You turn to him, eyes wide, stunned into silence by his sudden touch. And to your surprise, Sukuna looks just as startled. His own shock mirrors yours, his crimson eyes slightly widened, as if he’s only just realized what he’s done. His fingers twitch, already beginning to pull away. But before he can, your own hand flies up, catching his wrist, pressing him back against your skin. Holding him there.

With him sitting so close, you can’t help but study him, drawn to the sharp, striking features that make up his face. The soft pink strands of his hair, carelessly pushed back yet still falling in unruly wisps, framing his pale skin, smooth and unmarred despite the centuries he’s lived. His eyes, large and deep and predatory, catch the glow of the lamplight, flickering like glowing embers in the dark. There’s something almost regal about the cut of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, sharp and severe.

He is imposing, intimidating, and yet… undeniably captivating.

You can see it in his eyes, just beneath the surface. You can see the desire. It may not be obvious, but you know it’s there. It has to be.

“Sukuna,” you whisper, your fingers sliding down to grip his wrist. And for a split second, you swear you hear a hitch in his breath. Sukuna’s breath. Actually faltering.

Suddenly, his hold at the side of your face shifts, no longer just a touch, but a pull. You follow without thought, without resistance. It feels effortless, almost dreamlike, like a lost soul chasing the echo of a siren’s call. And at the end of it, you find him—lips slightly parted, waiting. And you wonder, for the first time, as your face sits inches from his…

How would it feel to kiss him?

You think your heart may really explode this time, it's pounding so hard. But you need to know. You have to know how his lips feel on yours, and he’s so close now, his breath fanning out in short puffs against your lips. He’s no longer pulling, but you move closer anyway, your eyes sliding closed.

This is it.

It’s really going to happen, his lips mere centimeters away, you can just feel them on yours—

Your phone rings.

You both jolt back as if shocked by a live wire, the spell between you snapping in an instant. Your breath is unsteady, your pulse roaring in your ears as you stare at Sukuna, wide-eyed, his expression just as stunned as yours. Then, your gaze drops to your lap, where your phone vibrates insistently, the screen alight with an incoming call.

Megumi is calling.

The ringing persists, sharp and grating, dragging you forcefully back to the present. You lift your eyes back up to Sukuna, but his expression has already hardened, his eyes cold and void of emotion, as if nothing had happened at all.

Just like that, the walls are back in place.

Sukuna stands abruptly, not sparing you another glance as he strides toward the door. Just before crossing the threshold, he pauses, turning his head slightly.

“Better answer that,” he mutters, his voice tight, his shoulders tense. “I’m sure Megumi is dying to hear from you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you sitting on your bed, mouth slightly parted, wondering what the fuck just happened.

You look back down at your phone, still ringing in your lap. You close your eyes, running a hand over your face, before you decide to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Everything alright?” Megumi asks, completely oblivious to everything that just occurred.

“Um, yeah, everything’s—” you wipe away the last trace of a tear from your cheek, “everything’s alright. Why, what’s up?”

“I just haven’t heard from you in a while. I was wondering how things were going with you and the—with you and Sukuna.” The soft sound of Megumi’s voice carrying through the phone's receiver calms you a bit, your heart finally slowing to a normal pace in your chest. You take a deep breath before responding.

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I’ve just been dealing with a lot. Not about Sukuna. Just… other things. I don’t mean to keep pushing you away. Maybe we could hang out, this week some time.” You ramble, not really giving him a clear answer, hoping he won’t notice. Thankfully, Megumi doesn’t press the issue.

“It’s okay, I understand. I just have to make sure you’re still alive, you know? You should send a text in the group chat, ask the others to hang out too. I’m sure Yuji and Nobara would love that.”

“Right,” you reply, that all too familiar feeling of guilt settling in your chest once again at the mention of your friends. “I will. Goodnight, Megumi.”

You hang up, pulling back the sheets as you lay down to go to bed. Surely he could’ve just fucking texted me that, you think, then my phone wouldn’t have rang, and Sukuna and I could’ve been… your thought trails off as you imagine exactly what could’ve happened between you had the call never came.

Anger rises inside of you at Megumi, but it’s quickly replaced by shame. No, it wasn’t Megumi’s fault. It’s your fault for being a shitty friend and not reaching out. When was the last time you’d asked him how he was doing? How any of them were doing? You make a mental note to text each of them tomorrow, rolling over with a frustrated sigh.

You turn your lamp off, and as you lay there, engulfed in the darkness, you can’t help but wonder what went wrong. You bring a hand to your cheek, the same spot where Sukuna’s had rested only minutes ago, but the warmth of his touch has long faded now. You turn on your side, curling up beneath the blanket, the ache in your chest growing heavier.

You wanted that kiss. God, you wanted it so badly it aches. But now, the moment is gone, and in its place, there’s nothing but the sharp sting of absence. Sukuna’s coldness, the way he shuts you out, it cuts deeper than you’d like to admit.

Because you know he’s in there. That man he used to be, the one buried beneath layers of cruelty and time. You saw it in his face, in the way his breath caught, in the way his hand rested against your skin, pulling you in.

But only for a second.

That’s all he ever gives you. Just a fleeting glimpse before the doors slam shut again, leaving you stranded on the outside. You wonder how much longer you can stand at the threshold, waiting.

You fall asleep with that thought weighing heavy, wondering if he’ll ever let you fully step inside.

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[correctproseka]

enstars is a whole uh. its a whole thing alright

it does have some of the same costume issues that proseka does with like vaguely southwest asian outfits but... i mean that might be some of the most outright malicious stuff in enstars, but it doesnt even scratch the surface of the weird shit in that game

as for sexualization, i dont have any real experience with the first game (where basically all the characters are in high school), but in enstars music most of the characters are around 19 years old. some characters are still in high school, but they're almost never sexualized - the only sexualized cards of them i could find were tomoya's optimistic sports festival card and airas napping serval card. in some cards hajime, aira and kohaku act a bit flirty to the viewer as well, and kohaku does sing and dance in some songs with very sexual themes (rinne could you write one (1) song about something other than penises please)

the real weird shit in enstars, though, comes from the story. oooooooooooh boy it is. it is something

so starting with our cast of characters we've got four entitled rich boys who bullied half a school into suicide in an event known as The War, an actual terrorist who tried to blow up said school (hes the mascot of the games!), a guy who can talk to fish and was worshipped by a cult as the god of the ocean, a guy who lives in the ceiling, a christian missionary with a body count, a guy whose only friend is a haunted talking doll named mademoiselle who also abused his bandmates, a guy who was sent into the idol industry by a priest to impersonate his half brother who was killed by the christian missionary dude, a 15 year old assassin who is also a part time cowboy, two actual literal vampires, a guy who thinks hes a wizard who can kill people with his mind, and a full-time cowboy who calls himself mama and whose mission is to destroy aforementioned cult.

yeah

its uh

its a game alright!!!

Yeah i knew most of the sexualization of the characters came from the story/talks rather than the cards.

And i finally understand that these characters did not go to actual war oh my god i literally thought they did. Im. Going to ignore the rest. For my sanity

[dykedvonte]

You ever just see a Mouthwashing take that makes you want to bang your head into a wall? I literally just saw someone claim Curly couldn't have been emotionally abused by Jimmy before the crash because he was in a higher position of power than Jimmy.

-Shrimp Anon

The mouthwashing fandom has shown me that people genuinely do believe that certain types of abuse are not as detrimental as other types especially when they deem those immune/resistant, ergo, believing one is objectively worse no matter how it affects the person nor the intersections of power, history and dynamics at play.

Get ready cause this is a yap session:

Cause like it's heavily implied that Curly and Jimmy's friendship was toxic and abusive, pointedly in the direction of how Jimmy uses Curly's belief/comfort in him. Curly wasn't forced to enable Jimmy but he was emotional and mentally on edge around him in almost every scene in some way. Mental and emotional abuse are not contingent on what positions you have at work. Yeah, he's Jimmy's boss but he was Jimmy's friend first and it's like getting into Psych discussion to talk about how social power tends to overshadow any perceived organizational power in the human mind. People are concerned about their jobs ofc but they tend to hang onto and put more value/investment into their personal relationships, hence why there tends to be laws and restrictions around mixing the two.

I always see the sentiments that "Curly is a grown ass man", "Curly is bigger than Jimmy", "Curly is Jimmy's boss", "He just needed a backbone" as criticisms of Curly and while I do agree that on the surface level all of these to be true and viable ways Curly could've taken more control of the situation, I often look at the parallels of Anya and Curly as victims of Jimmy pre/post crash.

The way Jimmy talks to Anya post crash is how he talked to Curly in the pre-crash segments. It's hard to pin-point mainly because we know he hates and wants nothing to do with Anya compared to his contrary but similarly handled obsessions with Curly. It's a weird sort of "honey-moon" effect of abuse Jimmy does in terms of emotional and mental victimization. He is always horrid to Anya, always talking down or questioning her abilities and thoughts in a situation, this of course includes the harassment and assault. However, he has a moment of attempted gentleness/conditioning when he question her about the mouthwash when she's contemplating drinking it at the table. The key difference is he has no personal investment in Jimmy outside wanting nothing to do with him, meaning there is no sort of romanticized version of him that he can condition her off of. He knows this, hence, why he always reverts to trying to make her to scared to oppose him.

This sort of give and take of "kindness" doesn't work on her because she knows he is just doing it to take more from her than whatever he could possibly give but it reflects even the "softer" scenes between him and Curly where he always rewords or rephrases Curly's sentiments and concerns to sound more shallow. He is feigning a deeper understanding by reworking Curly's emotions into something bad and needing to be hidden. Everything is laced with envy and resentment, an outburst just around the corner, I mean he even slams the table in the birthday party scene, a tactic in emotional manipulation to set the victim on edge and cloud their ability to respond. Even if Curly knows Jimmy won't get physical in that moment, the physical actions is intended to make him back down in the confrontation in case it does. This is something that is just not person specific. It ingrains itself into how you interact with the world and life and it shows in major and minor ways with Curly.

Post-crash, the abusive nature is more in tandem to the physical victimization Anya went through and the stripping of voice and autonomy we see take place. Like the parasite in HFIM, Jimmy speaks for Curly most of the time and puts words in his mouth, similarly to how he takes Anya's plans as his own. He very commonly, with the both of them mind you, supplements the worst aspects of himself into them; pettiness, selfishness, lack of understanding... And tries to cover himself with their best qualities; kindness, planning, initiative, etc...

These parallel are just to say that positional power has little to do with if a person can be abused and how it can even be flipped to further the abuse. There is no doubt that Curly could've picked up on Jimmy's envy of his position hence another reason he never confronted him as a Captain but as a friend as doing so would immediately put Jimmy in a space to be confrontational/combative.

I think the disdain some people have when they talk about the heavily implied if not implicitly stated emotional/mental abuse Curly experienced being Jimmy's friend is when treating it as an excuse to why he didn't do more. I can understand that completely because it is not an excuse to why he didn't do more but is a very real reason people in his position in these scenarios can experience whether in the context of a work or social environment. However, I also think the way people talk about it really does demonstrate a bigger problem when talking about abuse when somehow who is/was abused is either part of the issue or enabled it.

Harkening back to the sentiments about Curly's inaction regarding Jimmy, I think the exact phrases I used/have seen show how there is an inherent belief that it is easier to overpower the effects of emotional/mental abuse that go in tandem with the perception of Curly as someone who should be able to. There is not an age you suddenly stop being susceptible to abuse nor a set point or low where you realize how it has affected you. You don't suddenly know to stand up or put a face on to face your abuser nor admit that you inadvertently enabled them to subjugate someone else to the same treatment. Maybe it's my psych brain but their is this growing belief that direct action is somehow easy or always the best method with the game shows you instances where it is not always the case. In real life that rings true too. He should have done more, but it's not impossible to see why he struggled to find a way or didn't even if it makes us mad.

It's not easy to suddenly gain a "back-bone". You don't immediately want to resort to aggression, especially if it mirrors the type you were a victim to. You don't want to believe you allowed yourself to be treated this bad, let it get that bad or allowed something bad to happen to someone else. It is easy to be in denial, to retreat to your thoughts or make excuses to avoid the painful truth. It's frustrating but in a way we know is relatable. It why we both hate and love Curly for it. We know we'd be better, we think we'd be better, we like to think we wouldn't falter in the same ways but it's always easier to say that from the outside looking in. It's easy to see what he was doing wrong because we are seeing it, not him, but the game really does make you picture what you would do if this was your raw reality and it's why this debate about Curly seems so never ending/contradictory. We can all say what we'd do but bottom line is that's much different when you're in the moment with all the emotions and human feelings attached.

I personally think Mouthwashing tackles the themes of rape culture, enabling, toxic masculinity, types of abuse and patriarchy in ways that are meant to deconstruct the typical straightforward views we mostly have of these concepts and how little subtilities of them are just as, if not more, detrimental than the overt/obvious parts. The game deals with the idea of little details and bigger picture in a way to show that sometimes the bigger picture is not the issue but the little details that make it up. It's why I have a personal dislike of depictions of Jimmy as the typical horrible person who would of course do something like this because the game is about noticing the little warning signs, the foreshadowing and foresight.

It's why I dislike the typical discussion of "bro code" and "boys will be boys" for the game because the game makes a point to avoid the standard depictions of such. It is about the type of men who still enable despite not condoning, agreeing or even perpetuating harmful beliefs because they can't see the little details or the ways it seeps into their everyday. The severity is not obvious to them as it was not obvious to Curly, Swansea or even Daisuke the way it was to a woman like Anya. There are little details about Jimmy that should ring alarms but if you are too naive like Daisuke, too distant like Swansea or too conditioned like Curly, they are just off markers.

There is 100% more constructive/concise ways to say "Curly was a victim of Jimmy's abuse on an emotional and mental aspect that clouded his judgements and perceptions in the scenario" while also critiquing on the side of "Curly still had a responsibility to protect Anya as a crew mate and Captain that he failed to do due to biases and stigma's he failed to surpass" without the weird condemnation people give him about should've knowing better than to let himself be manipulated by a person he considered a close, if not family/best-friend and had his own reasons to trust initially. Also stop being weird about victims of abuse in general with this fandom, like sorry not everyone has a like social epiphany the moment someone's nasty to them. People are treating it like you immediately know when you are in a toxic relationship immediately or comprehend when a person is actively dangerous and either it's your fault for not knowing how to leave/cut them off or you deserve it. Like the hypocrisy of people believing how certain fans treat the story reflect their irl views but not their own is crazy.

End statement is: I honestly don't even know man, I've been writing this too long and just like no man on that ship was perfect or really helped Anya when it mattered and I feel like pitting them against each other in discussion on who did the least or most or how it was justified sucks cause in the end Anya always did the most and best thing for herself.

[significant-narratives]

the blunt truth is this team needs auston to score and score often. we have a lot of talent on this roster and we can cover for the occasional off-night but like. at the end of the day for better or worse the leafs will only go as far as auston can take them.

[sonknuxadow]

wishing that the hype for sonic 3 would just die already because im tired of hearing about it vs knowing that the suffering wouldnt truly be over because theyre talking about making a fourth movie . hell on earth

[amegeddon]

The Pikmin vs my art block battle continues! I wanted to mess around with the airbrush and just do a thing with that so white pikmin make yet another appearance... I love those little freaks they're so shaped :)

Was originally just gonna be the one pikmin in the centre there and then I decided to add more. And then the bulborb. And then the text. Probably could be better but eh I'm lazy tonight, this is the best I'll do.

Also might post a version without the shadow layers later, just to show the difference those things make in this. It's genuinely wild how much just rabidly airbrushing black over an image can do lol

[konohamaru-sensei]

Not to kill the big euphoria that's been in my dash since Saturday, but I (personally) did not like the ending of a rcane

[girlinthetardis04]

Me: the MCs for otome games need to be more varied! Not everyone is a brown eyed brunette white girl with bangs!

Also me: *is in fact a brown eyed brunette white girl with bangs*

[izzy-b-hands]

Was doing okay holding back all of the fear re: the potential election outcome until literally this second what the fuck to my brain lmao

[crossbackpoke-check]

inspired by @colap1nto <3 and posting here to hold myself accountable: writevember! attempting to write something every day no matter how much and what it is

i am however inventing stipulations for myself so i cannot weasel my way out of it, which includes a valid definition of “write”:

actively put words into a document in the form of a proper fic!!! too many wip not enough hands!!

poems (actually laughed at me coming up with this but maybe i will go back to my roots)

research/meta/primers

tag stories are permissible IF i actually compile and edit them into a readable document that day

editing to post to ao3 (the optimism) is also valid. it takes me so long

i do have concrete arbitrary deadlines for one and a half fics that i would LOVE to finish and post in november (dewey^2 and [redacted :)]) so i’m hoping this helps!! also, this is secretly just a sticker chart where i get to put down emojis for each fic i worked on and check off boxes but a win is a win

day 1:🪻🐈‍⬛

day 2: 😇🤭 (🕒 -> 🕜)

day 3:🫃2️⃣

day 4: 🍎

day 5:🫃2️⃣

day 6: 📑, 💌

day 7:🫃2️⃣ AND ☁️💧. who is she

day 8:🪻🐈‍⬛

day 9:🫃2️⃣

day 10:🫃2️⃣

day 11:🫃2️⃣ we are on a STREAK and also a countdown 🫡

day 12:🫃2️⃣

day 13:🫃2️⃣

day 14: 📬💍

day 15: 😇🤭 (🕒 -> 🕜)

day 16:🫃2️⃣

day 17: 🔴 ⚫️,🫃2️⃣

day 18:🪻🐈‍⬛

day 19:🪻🐈‍⬛, 😇🤭 (🕒 -> 🕜)

day 20:🫃2️⃣

day 21:🫃2️⃣, 🤫 🪽🃏

day 22:🫃2️⃣

day 23: 💯❕

day 24: 🪢

day 25: 🐛🏮🦋

day 26:🫃2️⃣

day 27:🫃2️⃣

day 28:🫃2️⃣

day 29:🫃2️⃣

day 30:🫃2️⃣

WRITEMBER RECAP: an overall sucess!!!! this was so much fun and really forced me to write even if it was only a little bit every day. like, to the point that i'm debating doing a cute little twelve days of christmas snippet fest. absolutely could not have finished and published dewey^2 p2 without this challenge or posted p3 :)

thirty days of writing

twelve different fics worked on

poems: 1

i have no word count for you sorry i wish i did but it is at least over a few thousand words!!!!

times i wrote for a day past midnight (making it technically the next day) but because i was still awake i counted it for that day: at least 17 if not closer to like. 25

tags i forgot what they mean: one. what the FUCK is 🪢??? OH MY GOD I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THAT IS NEVERMIND

duolingo streak (worked on the same fic in a row): 5

[jackass-jones]

Yeah the mouthwash game is pretty good

[desi-yearning]

KKR CANNOT BOTTLE THIS FROM HERE PLEASE 😭😭😭

[t3acupz]

—

matthew has a womrat named hannibal

[sleepy-stitches]

omg please post about your sdv co-op i love hearing about them

(i am currently going through my first solo playthrough and i like to pretend my mutuals farmfarm is a distant neighbour i occasionally hear about, would love to incorporate your shenanigans into my delusions)

fuck everything that was here before i wrong like a long post but we have been on the grind to try and get the entire community centre done in year one and we have been cutting it CLOSE desperately trying to find red cabbage seeds before they appear at pierres in year two. we just found them at the traveling cart on the day that we got married happy pride <3

[neriyon]

Then vs Now (November 2019 > November 2024)

Thank you for the tag @stalwart-spirit ! I think most have already done this, so I'll skip tagging anyone directly this time. This is an open invitation to tag me if you get inspired to make your own post tho! I'd love to see what everyone's blorbos used to look like ♥

Gasp, he barely looks different! Hawu'li's actually only ever had one hairstyle change - from the starter hairstyle to the one he has now - during which I also swapped his original forehead dot to the red makeup on the outer corners of his eyes. I did have him cosplaying Popola/Devola for like a month or two back when Tower released, but other than that his looks have been the same ever since that fateful day in post-HW patches where I got annoyed about his mullet clipping through his healer outfit (￣▽￣)"

Since I took the trouble to go digging through old screenshots for this tag game, I'll add some older extra pics and rambling under the cut~

Don't think I ever posted these here, but yeah I had a full Popola/Devola cosplay going on for couple of months after getting that top on patch day haha. Red hair looked pretty nice on him, but wearing anything blue felt weird while I had it, so sometime around when Paglth'an dropped I swapped back to his normal hair.

The True Oldest Screenshot I have of this game, taken Sept. 29 2019 while waiting for Nana (brd) to finish a quest so we could go do Praetorium for the first time (we started playing somewhere around mid-august). I didn't even know how to hide HUD back then, so pls ignore the uh, very weirdly set skill bars.

First meeting with the bratty red cat + first time I could measure Hawu'li next to the pretty blue elf (Dec 4th and Nov 26th). There's like 5+ pics from the CT questline of just... me parking Hawu'li next to G'raha and trying to mimic his pose lmao. I wasn't even shipping them back then, I just found it very fun that they are the same height + share the same face base (and tail).

Very zoomed in since this was from a cutscene, but the last pic I have of Hawu'li with his old hair AND literally the only shot I ever got where his little forehead dot is visible. His bangs covered it most of the time, so I chose to take it away when changing his hair. (Dec 4th, according to screenshot dates I changed his hair less than week later)

Some of the few good shots left of Maito (Jan 19th 2020 / Feb 15th / Feb 18th), my first alt who actually finished MSQ before Hawu'li (with whom I was waiting for friends). She no longer exists at all: she was fantasia'd to Yusui (her older brother) sometime during ShB patches, who in turn was later fantasia'd to Einn sometime after EW gave us bunnyboys. I sort of miss her sometimes (Einn has a retainer made with her characer creation save data but that's not quite same), and have thought doing some silly stuff and maybe merging her and Momo in some way, but we'll see if I ever actually go through with that.