#of course there's all sorts of other things i can do with this

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

need to know!

ft; sakura haruka, suo hayato, umemiya hajime, ren kaji

synopsis ; how aware are they of your crush on them?

cw ; gn!reader, violence, some of them are stupid asf

now playing ; need to know by doja cat

sakura haruka

romantic sensor hard at work…! again.

sakura isn’t stupid. well, academically, he certainly is. but he’s aware enough to tell when you’re acting differently around him than with the others. for one, you don’t show up at suo’s doorstep every day with food while proceeding to eat it with him. you sure do that with sakura though. you don’t bombard nirei with texts whenever you can. you sure do that with sakura though.

his stupid little romantic sensor gives it away though. whenever you do anything for him, even if it’s picking up something that he dropped or making a sarcastic compliment about him, he turns bright red and his thoughts begins to ramble a mile a minute. it’s almost as if steam is rushing out of his ears.

his sensor is practically screaming “they have a crush on you! they have a crush on you!”

the biggest problem though? he’s too insecure to realize it.

logically—and even instinctively—it makes completely sense that you’re in love with him. but emotionally, sakura’s senses are completely blocked by his past experiences. i mean, what was there to like about him?

he’s internally aware, but externally too dense to figure it out.

suo hayato

he knows the tea. and he drinks it as well.

aware? oh, suo knows. he can tell. from the slight twitch of your fingers when his hand accidentally grazes yours to the slight, nearly unnoticeable pout on your lips when he leans in ever so closely to your lips only to brush a few strands of hair ever from your face and back away. he sees it all.

of course, he likes you back. a little bit too much, actually. so much that when he closes his eyes, you’re the first thing that he thinks of. that you occupy and consume all of his thoughts. he doesn’t mind confessing first, he just needs to make sure that you’re prepared. you’d probably melt and hyperventilate if he confesses to you in this current state.

you’re so damn obvious about your crush. he thinks it’s cute.

the worst part about suo is that he’s so damn nonchalant and vague about it as well.

when he finally confesses to you, after an excruciating year of crushing on him, it’s almost like an intentional slip of the tongue. “you think no one’s going to ask you to homecoming? well, i like you a lot, and if we went to the same school, i’d ask you out.”

suo is painfully aware. so much so that it’s incredibly annoying to have a crush on him.

umemiya hajime

“yeah, of course 1+1=2!” “how’d you solve it?” “…”

of course he can tell that you have a crush on him! how do you think he leads furin without good observational and emotional skills? he can obviously tell that you’re so genuine with your compliments because of your crush on him!

and yes, he can easily figure out which are the gifts you give him because you have a crush on him and which are the gifts you give him because it’s actually some sort of special day. usually it’s the former. well, at least he’s still getting the gifts at the end of the day.

the catch?

he can’t seem to process the fact that you have a crush on him.

it’s just like how it is with tsubaki’s crush on him. he’s not stupid; he can clearly tell that you have a crush on him. but he can’t seem to process it or act on it. it’s like knowing a formula for math but not knowing what the hell to do with it or where to put the numbers.

you don’t even know if you want to call him stupid or smart.

ren kaji

he’s just as in tune with your emotions as he is with music.

kaji is leagues more normal than the others. he’s keen enough to be in touch with the emotions of others, especially as a grade captain. despite how outwardly rough he can be sometimes, he can definitely take a good read on the emotions on someone else, especially someone he’s close with.

he’s not as cruel as suo or as dumb as umemiya. does he like you back? definitely. he couldn’t even deny it. but at the same time, he’s too awkward to confront you about it. he’s horrified at the thought of coming off of brash or abrasive if he ever confronts you about your crush on him.

so he just sucks on his lollipop, watching your face turn bright red whenever you catch him staring at you a bit too intently.

you’ll be fine. he’s sure that you’ll find out soon.

[orbitalpython]

Oh the horror of stabbing clowns

def fic starter

So in a pinch to get a one up on Vlad Danny, Dani and Dan constantly get into shenanigans. Be it the police, the government, the GIW, old miss Sharon from down the street or anyone who will pay any meaningful attention (look they take having chaos as a gender very seriously.) There are constant attempts to ruin Vlad's reputation. He's found the three doing the most random things to get on his nerves. He's found Dani eating furniture, Dan scaring people by telling them when and where their loved ones will or have died ( He has yet to find anything Danny has done only seeing him being scarily normal (what did he do?!?))

But this gala might just take the cake. It was simple, straight forward, Bruce Wayne has dealt with worse. Between child Richard swinging from chandeliers, Jason stealing anything of noteworthy value, Timothy's nonchalant attitude when the gala was in a hostage situation, Cassandra's standoffish quiet nature, Damian's rudeness, Duke's extroverted tendencies and Stephanie being herself. There's nothing Daniel, Danielle and Dan can do to destroy the playboy's sanity than what those brat's did.

He should have just taken that bowling invitation instead (It was really enticing too). The start of the gala was going swimmingly, Little Badger was talking with Timothy, making weird hand gestures, nothing too bad. Danielle and Stephanie were giggling about something looking near the punch bowl where Alexander Luther was, being absolutely annoyed at by Oliver Queen (they likely spiked it going to have to avoid THAT drama). Dan and Damian were squaring up each other with swords (where did they get those this is a public event ('We aren't even at Wayne manor where the Ancients did they get those')). When of course in Gotham 'do as gothamites do' some very kind gas mask wearing folk barge in and spray sleeping gas all over the place, and wake up in some sort of death contraption. It had only been 5 hours. Bowling is seeming very nice right about now.

This was likely the clowns doing if the massive amounts of green and purple spray paint everywhere has anything to say about it.

"Well hello there, All the most rich and powerful people in one Place how unfortun--- ACK." Somehow without warning, without being seen. Daniel was already on top of the Joker with Dan and Danielle off to the side quietly chanting "Stab the clown. Stab the clown. Stab the clown."

Bruce seeing an opportunity to further his case on Vlad Masters takes one look at what's about to happen asks "Your's?"

Sighing dramatically the response is quick and decisive. "No, Mr. Wayne they are... My godchildren, sadly."

A pat on the back with a quiet chuckle. "Well I see, you have your hands full huh?"

Can he have just one day where the 3 love him like a father?

[vaginalvr]

oh my gosh the gif where you asked for requests, it has me thinking. perhaps like a spencer x bau! reader and it’s just kinda pillow talk and where they sort of talk about the future, ya know like getting married and having kids type of stuff.

i supposeeeeeeee 🤗🤗🤗

a/n This is super cutie. enjoy!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! Come submit an idea :)

cw: Emotional intimacy, mild suggestive content, but mostly soft and romantic

The case had drained you both—physically, emotionally. One of those long, exhausting weeks where sleep was fleeting and grief clung to your clothes like smoke. But the worst was over. The unsub was in custody. The family would get answers. The BAU jet was quiet on the flight home, everyone lost in their own silence.

Now, hours later, you’re wrapped up in a pair of Spencer’s sweatpants and one of his old cardigans, warm skin still humming from the shower, your body curled against his under the comforter.

The room is dim, moonlight pooling through the window. Spencer’s lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his fingers lazily stroking the bare skin of your arm. Your head rests on his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart.

Neither of you has said much since you got home—just a few soft kisses, a murmured “I love you,” the kind of quiet that only happens when you don’t need words to feel safe.

But now, as your limbs tangle beneath the sheets and sleep threatens, his voice finds you.

“Do you ever think about what comes after this?”

You tilt your head, chin resting on his ribs. “After what?”

“This,” he says softly, gesturing at nothing in particular. “The BAU. Chasing monsters. Jet lag and cold coffee and hotel rooms.”

You hum, shifting so you can meet his eyes. They’re thoughtful, distant in the way they get when his mind is half in a memory and half in the future. You reach up and trace your fingers down his jaw, gently grounding him.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “I used to be scared to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I’d get an after,” you whisper. “Before you… I didn’t picture anything past the next case.”

Spencer’s eyes soften, and he brings your hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle slowly. “Me too.”

The silence that follows is full of understanding. You’ve both seen things that make the idea of ‘later’ feel fragile. But here, wrapped in each other, it feels possible.

“I think about it all the time now,” he says. “Not in a desperate way. Just… little flashes.”

“Like what?”

Spencer smiles, that boyish curve of his lips that still melts your heart. “Like you in a wedding dress. A quiet ceremony. Maybe just us and the team. And then this ridiculous honeymoon where we forget how to do anything except be happy.”

Your breath catches a little. He says it so casually, like he’s just listing grocery items. But you can see the honesty in his eyes.

“You want to get married?” you ask softly, more touched than surprised.

He gives you a look. “Of course I do. I’ve been in love with you for three years. I want everything with you.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes, smile wobbling. “Well, you’re in luck. I want everything with you too.”

Spencer’s hand rests over your stomach, fingers idly brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. “Do you think we’ll know when it’s time to stop chasing monsters?”

You exhale, thinking. “I don’t know if we ever really stop. But I think someday we’ll want to stay. To build something instead of always cleaning up after what’s broken.”

He nods. “Yeah. I want that. A house. Not too big. Maybe a porch. Some bookshelves I can overfill.”

You grin. “You’ll overfill every room.”

He chuckles softly, then quiets, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Do you want kids?”

The question lands gently, not like a bomb but like something sacred. Something careful. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“I think I do,” you whisper. “I used to say I wasn’t sure. Too dangerous. Too messy. But lately… I see a life with you, and it feels different. Like it’s something we could protect.”

Spencer’s eyes shine in the moonlight. “You’d be such a good mom.”

You snort softly. “Yeah? Even when I swear like a sailor and get hangry on stakeouts?”

He laughs. “Especially then. You’re real. You care so deeply. I see it every day. And any kid would be lucky to grow up with you as their mother.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone, overwhelmed with love. “What about you? Think you could handle the chaos?”

His smile fades into something more vulnerable. “I used to be terrified I’d turn into my mom. That I’d pass something down without meaning to. But now… I think I’d be okay. Not because I’d be perfect. But because I’d have you. And because I’d try.”

Your heart swells at the tenderness in his voice.

“You’d be the most loving dad,” you say, fingertips brushing through his curls. “You’d read them stories with all the voices. Make them pancakes shaped like animals. Teach them to be kind and curious.”

Spencer closes his eyes, like he’s imagining it. “I want to teach them chess. And long division. And how to spot a lie.”

You laugh quietly. “You’d turn them into little profilers.”

“Just the healthy kind,” he promises. “Smart, but not afraid to feel things. I want them to know it’s okay to cry. That being strong doesn’t mean being silent.”

You rest your forehead against his. “We’d build something beautiful.”

He nods, and his voice goes soft. “You make everything feel possible.”

You lie there for a while, breathing each other in, wrapped in a future that hasn’t happened yet but feels real enough to touch.

After a few minutes, Spencer murmurs, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“I already have a ring.”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, heart stuttering. “You what?”

He smiles sheepishly. “I’ve had it for a few months. I’ve just been waiting. For the right time. The right moment.”

You stare at him, heart thudding wildly. “Spencer…”

“I wasn’t going to do it tonight,” he adds quickly, voice warm and calming. “Not like this. Not after a long case, in bed with no grand gesture. But now that we’re talking about the future, it feels silly to keep it a secret.”

You bite your lip, eyes stinging again. “Is it weird that I love that you told me like this?”

He shakes his head, brushing your cheek. “No. Because this—us, talking about our lives in bed, dreaming together—this is what I want forever to feel like.”

You lean in and kiss him, slow and deep, full of promise.

When you break apart, you whisper against his lips, “So… when you do ask, I’ll say yes.”

Spencer smiles against your mouth. “Good. Because I plan on asking a hundred times over the years. Just to hear you say it again.”

You laugh, pulling him close, and he settles into the crook of your body, arms tight around you.

The future is still uncertain. The work is still hard. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like it’s okay to dream. To imagine wedding rings and bedtime stories and messy pancakes on Sunday mornings. A life that’s more than surviving.

And in Spencer’s arms, you know—whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

[existence-is-a-pain87]

Can you do self-aware, Astro and shelly?

Already sort of did one with Shelly, but I can most certainly do Astro! (I've been really wanting to make something for Astro).

Just Go To Sleep...

Yandere!Self-Aware!Astro x Reader

Warnings: Obsession and other general yandere behaviors

--☆☆☆☆☆--

Astro wasn't really interested in you at first.

So what if they could hear a player now? What's that going to change?

Then he learned of your DAMN sleep schedule.

And he was horrified.

What do you mean you don't get at least eight hours a night? What do you mean you've stayed up several times for an hour or two to play things like Dandy's World? What do you mean you've done it when you had to wake up at practically six or earlier the next day?!

And what made it so much worse was your remarks about 'not needing the sleep' or 'being able to handle it'.

That was made Astro start to care. Not about you, per say.

But definitely about your trashy sleep schedule that he desperately needs to fix.

He didn't have many passion projects, but you were going to be a welcome first.

He would make sure you actually would sleep at night.

--☆☆☆--

Astro soon learned you never remembered your dreams. And the few you could remember were never the types of dreams you wanted to have.

Maybe if he could fix this, you'd be more willing to sleep?

Oh, you also take forever to fall asleep?

Okay, he could work on fixing that too.

The only problem is getting his powers to affect you in your world...

That would be an issue he would work on later, he decided. First, we would figure out how to get you to stop playing to late and sleep...

It started off quite simple. Twisted Astro would just spawn a ton more when you stayed up later playing.

However, much to his annoyance, you'd just be happy to have more Astro research and would happily not be bothered as he spawned.

So he began spawning on every single floor until he killed you, and made you give up and go to bed.

Of course, though, his constant spawns made you start to get stunningly good at dealing with him.

So he began upping his aggression the later you stayed up until he would inevitably kill you. Or at least the Toon you played as.

He could ignore the complaints the others voiced at him forcing you to log off and go to sleep, them getting attached to you.

Astro didn't care. He just wanted to make sure you slept.

He didn't even notice he was getting attached.

--☆☆☆--

Astro was the one who heard all of Dandy's rambles about you.

He was a little scared by his friend's obsession with you, worrying for the flower who seemed to crave you.

Craving wholly and entirely you.

Astro tried not to bring up his concerns, especially when Dandy was so gleeful that Astro was putting in so much effort to ensure you had a healthy sleep schedule.

Dandy was just gleeful, his closest friend also liked you.

Astro tried to pretend that he didn't like you, that he didn't understand why his friends and the Toons around him were growing obsessed, that images of you didn't haunt him when he slept and made him crave to have the real you with him.

He was lying to himself.

But Astro didn't pretend to dislike you.

Yes, there were things about you he didn't adore, such as your rashness, stubbornness, and self-hatred.

But your positives far outweighed your negatives.

You were flawed, but these flaws only made the beautiful parts of you more amazing.

--☆☆☆--

Never has Astro been more happy for Vee's soft spot for him.

Why? Because she told him a surprising amount of little tidbits of information she learned.

And he would share some of these tidbits with the other Toons.

He told Sprout and Cosmo about your favorite foods? He caught them later practicing how to make all these treats until they were perfect for you.

He mentioned to Goob and Scraps art projects you wanted to try? He found them working on figuring out how to do it themselves so they could teach you.

He told Shelly your favorite dinosaur- huh? She already knew..?

...

Weird. She doesn't seem willing to explain why she knows anyway. He decides not to ask more if she refuses to tell.

But he does worry a bit now...

Especially since everyone is getting as clingy and obsessive over you as Dandy is...

Including him.

--☆☆☆--

You're haunting everyone's dreams.

Astro's seen it. Whisps of you in everyone's head, being a figure of comfort and even worship.

He saw them adore you. How they craved you desperately. How each viewed you differently, desired you in certain ways.

And how their love became obsession. Desperate obsession that scared Astro.

But what scared him the most was how he, too, had that obsession.

He couldn't dream. But you haunted him in his every moment. Fleeting whispers of you that made him crave the real thing.

He wanted to hold you, keep you in a blissful dream that you'd never want to wake up from, and could return to that dream whenever you pleased. Make this dream to be whatever you want it to be, and make it joyful to you.

He wanted to keep you close, all of his arms wrapped around you. Cup your peaceful, sleeping face as he gently presses a kiss to your forehead. To join you in that dream and be a figure of comfort.

Be one of the few who love you who doesn't allow their obsession to corrupt them and be a figure of peace.

Who, despite the obsession, doesn't act upon the darker urges beyond wanting you near him.

He could control himself, he swore upon it.

--☆☆☆--

Astro was more than willing to help in Dandy's plan.

Why wouldn't he be? It's a chance to finally see the real you.

What surprised him the most was how willing everyone else was to join in on this plan.

Somehow, even Shrimpo and Vee were convinced to help the plan.

It make him fully realize just how much everyone craved your presence. How they were so much more willing to act upon their dark desires.

He realized he needed to protect you from these dark desires. To shield you from the dark things the others seeked to do to you.

He wanted to protect you. To keep you healthy. To keep you happy.

But most of all, fix your damn sleep schedule.

This is why your stubbornness pisses him off. Even now, you stay up late playing the game until he kills you and makes you sleep.

So, for the sake of their Creators and Gods... For the sake of him keeping his love as pure as he could... To resist the dark urges and obsession he had with you...

Just go to sleep...

[yetrop]

Good Omens is autistic—here’s why!

First off, there’s the angelic/demonic nature of the protagonists

They’re trying to blend in with humanity, but have to pick things up as they go along

Because of this, the way they interact with and view people is different from the expected norm

Which also means they're often confused by human customs and find it difficult to read social cues (think Aziraphale asking Maggie if she actually thinks she isn’t crying later on in this scene)

Crowley has to hide his eyes, a part of his identity, from everyone except Aziraphale and the other demons for fear of seeming different/threatening/not human (masking in the most literal sense of the word)

Muriel is concerned with acting and speaking “correctly” to be seen as human

Even though both main characters don’t fit in with humanity because of their angelic/demonic nature, they also don’t fit in with their respective sides, who view them both as strange and don’t understand them. The only place they find acceptance/belonging is with each other. If that isn’t a neurodivergent (and very queer) storyline, I don’t know what is.

Next up, there’s Aziraphale as a whole

The way he stims

Loves routine, dislikes change

Gets uncomfortable when he has to break rules/disrupt order

Taking things literally— “You can’t drive my Bentley.” “I can— I have a license!” (also, this scene is another example of his insistence on order and rules— he insisted on getting a license before they were even legally required)

Paces back and forth talking to himself, planning out what he’s going to say before a conversation (scripting)

The way he suppresses stimming around Heaven by clasping hands behind back, feels uncomfortable and overstimulated there

Bookshop is super cluttered, he has an organizational system that is comprehensible to basically exclusively him

Clumsy, often sucks at motor coordination

Easily startled

He loves alone time, especially when he’s in his own space— he does everything he can to keep customers away from his bookshop

Attaches a lot of sentimental value to inanimate objects (“I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years!”)

Incredibly passionate about his interests, especially magic and books

Black and white thinking and rigid morality— He loves and trusts Crowley more than the other angels, but still has tendency to categorize Heaven, Hell, angels and demons as exclusively good or bad (“of course you didn’t go back to Hell— you’re the bad guys!”)

Crowley’s definitely got something neurodivergent going on too (leaning towards ADHD, but potentially AuDHD)

The way he sits in chairs

Hell, (…or Heaven, whatever…) even just the “ducks!” moment alone is enough to show that that his mind jumps around a lot to unexpected loose threads rather than focusing on the subject at hand

Impulsivity

Creative and has a vivid inner world. As pointed out by God Herself, he has what the other demons don’t— an imagination

Craves novelty, frequently changes appearance

Stimming starmaker

This one is from the book, but it’s too good not to point out: the way he idolizes characters like Bond and copies his behaviors off of what he thinks a cool human would do. He has a new computer because it’s “the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have” (pg 239)

His understanding of how humans fall in love is based on a Richard Curtis film he’s seen

His insistence on asking questions when things don’t make sense to him, knowing why things are the way they are rather than blindly accepting them

And of course, there’s the themes of the story

Black and white thinking vs shades of grey

Breaking away from a world that doesn’t accept you to find love, belonging, and safety

And, as demonstrated time and time again by our two protagonists: intelligence isn’t synonymous with interpersonal skills (…or common sense.)

Thanks for reading all of that! This isn’t the kind of post I normally make, but I have so many thoughts about this that have been on my mind for almost two years now, so I decided to share them.

While there are of course a lot of plot-related reasons for why they behave the way that they do and many of the traits I brushed on could be explained by other factors, I still find it interesting to explore it through a neurodivergent lens. I also think the existence of angels with physical disabilities (like Saraqueal) adds credibility to the idea that other types of disabilities or neurodivergence is at the very least possible for angels and demons in this universe.

Feel free to point out anything I forgot to include (which I have no doubt is a lot) and let me know your own thoughts in the comments or tags— I’d love to hear them!

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hi! Re your post about Harry not really viewing the Weasleys (apart from Ron) as his surrogate family, I reread the series recently and that's definitely the impression I got as well! Something that really stood out to me was that Harry felt like an outsider after Arthur was attacked:

“Fred fell into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto his shoulder. Ginny was curled like a cat on her chair, but her eyes were open; Harry could see them reflecting the firelight. Ron was sitting with his head in his hands, whether awake or asleep it was impossible to tell. And he and Sirius looked at each other every so often, intruders upon the family grief, waiting . . . waiting.”

Like, Harry is worried about Arthur, but primarily as Ron’s father – he never thinks, “I’m scared of losing Arthur because he what he means to me personally”. Harry is also a lot calmer and rational here as well, in contrast to his sheer terror when he believed Sirius was captured.

Similarly, in Deathly Hallows, when Ron is relieved about his family’s safety after the wedding:

"Harry," [Ron] said over Hermione's shoulder, "I -"

"It's not a problem," said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. "It's your family, 'course you were worried. I'd feel the same way." He thought of Ginny. "I do feel the same way."

When Harry says that he feels the same way, it’s specifically because of Ginny (who I don’t ship him with at all, but who is his endgame love interest in canon), not the rest of the family as a whole. He cares about them and wants them to be safe, but he never feels like they’re “his”.

When Harry is wistfully imagining the life he could have had if his parents survived, he says, “it would have been his mother [instead of Molly] who had made his seventeenth birthday cake”. It’s interesting because Harry never does this with Sirius, he never says, “oh, I wish it was my mom/dad doing this instead of him”. Sirius exists alongside Lily and James to Harry just as he did when they were alive, and Dumbledore also identifies Harry with all three of them: “spoken like your mother and father’s true son and Sirius’s true godson”.

And there’s everything about Sirius, who is canonically “the closest thing to a parent" that Harry has ever known. There’s no way Harry would have become attached to him so quickly if he viewed anyone else in his life (the Weasleys, Remus, Hagrid, Dumbledore, etc) in a parental capacity.

I would argue that when push comes to shove, it’s maybe possible that Molly and Arthur don’t instinctively think of Harry as their family, either. Like you said, they never write to Harry (to the point where Molly writes to Ron to invite Harry to the Burrow for Christmas in OotP rather than send a letter to Harry himself), nor does Harry ever even expect them to. And when Ron is injured in HBP, Arthur says:

“Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. “Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.’

Imo, whatever Molly says about Harry being as good as a son to her, they ultimately do sort of differentiate between “our family” and Harry. Which obviously doesn’t change that they love Harry deeply, and vice-versa.

Idk, some of these quotes just stood out to me during my reread after seeing your answer. What do you think?

Anon is referring to this post and really I don't have anything to add, you got it spot on and this is great analysis! I really live the quotes you brought up here and you're 100% right. (I'm gonna ramble more anyway because it's what I do here).

Sirius is the only adult Harry really sees as a parent, and not only that, a parent he can trust (which is so so important to a kid who grew up like Harry). He doesn't have that kind of bond with any other adult in the series. When he has worried while Sirius is alive, he goes to Sirius, and when Sirius died (or before they met), Harry kept these worries to himself for the most part. He loves the Weasleys, but it's only Ron that he really sees as family.

(I agree he cares about Ginny in the final books even though I don't ship it either, but she isn't family to him the way Ron and Hermione are:

He spotted Ginny two tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: There would be time to talk later, hours and days and maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Along the aisle between the tables he walked, and he spotted the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they were supposed to be there, but nobody was paying them any attention. Everywhere he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw the two whose company he craved most.

(DH, Ch36)

He likes her, he cares about her, but she's not at that family level by the end of DH. At the end of DH (pre-epilogue), Ron and Hermione are those he wants to see most, Ginny is an afterthought in the same paragraph with Neville and the Malfoys. His family he wants to reunite with once it's all said and done is just Ron & Hermione, not the Weasleys, not Ginny)

And regarding Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, they 100% can tell the difference. There are their children, and there is Harry. I think they really do love Harry, but they don't quite see him as their own. The magical watch 17 birthday gift shows this a little too:

“It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age.” said Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the corner. “I’m afraid that one isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but-”

(DH, Ch7)

Ron gets a brand new watch, Harry (who honestly has money to buy his own) gets a used one.

I don't think it was done out of any malicious intent in the Weasleys part, I think it was more that they didn't really consider that they have another son they need to buy a watch for in their budget (which they are bad at managing anyways) and so scrambled with the gift sort of last minute — because they don't really see him as their son, as much as they love him.

(Added note because I was reading through OotP, I think Sirius' relationship with James' parents was similar to the one Harry has with the Weasleys. James is Sirius' best friend, his family who he is closer to than his actual brother. He lived with Harry's grandparents, and yet:

Yeah, I camped out at your dad’s during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold — he’s been wiped off here too, that’s probably why — anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s for Sunday lunch, though.”

(OotP, Ch6)

They are Mr. and Mrs. Potter, not their names. It's "Your dad's place", not his own. And it's why I don't think post-DH Harry would stay in the Burrow. I don't think he'd feel comfortable to intrude — because that's what it'll feel like. Same as Sirius got a flat the first chance he got — so he won't intrude)

[lizzybugsblog]

Based on this post, here's how I think Leo would react to a new friend or potential person of interest. (This is just for human type of reader.)

I feel like if you are a human and meet Leo, he'd try to explain that he isn't a giant talking turtle and "you're just seeing things" or ask for directions to the science convention he's currently dressed for(I don't remember the exact quote). Chances are you would see him again, since they do little to nothing to hide themselves from the general public. Probably just avoid actual citizenship as to not pay taxes. But anyway, you'd probably also find out they exist from April(I'm writing this in the pov that you are teenage or young adult going to school with her). After Leo properly introduces himself, he'd want to learn a little about you. Y'know, just incase you're trying to get close to them for some reason nefarious. But since you aren't because you're a good person and good people don't betray their turtle friends out of nowhere. He's not all quick wit and funny poses. Anyway, you two are friends are now, you've joined his list of 'people to bother when he's bored'. Expect a bunch of sudden drop ins with his portal swords and rants about the Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu lore. He sometimes gets annoyed by the questions you have about why he is the way he is. "You have you're weird habits! I have mine!" If you forget something at home, he'll be fine with portaling the item to your location. If you're standing beside him, chances are he'll hold it above your head to mess with you. He's 5'5" cannonically. There's only so high he can hold it.

Leo enjoys challenges, so if you're competitive or at least willing to play along, there will be a bunch of races or competitions of some sort. He doesn't let you win. You have to win fair and square or drop a banana peel to make him fall. In any video games, he'll always be excited to set a high score for you to try and beat. If you do, he'll try his hardest to beat it. It's a vicious cycle of trying to be better than each other.

If you're not as competitive, Leo does some of his "impressive" tricks, like skateboarding tricks, or trick shots in basketball, or the pizza tower balancing on his head just to earn a surprised look from you or a "how did you do that?" type of reaction.

Also, you'll probably catch on to his aromantic tendencies or he'll show it. Probably because his brothers tease him sometimes since you two spend so much time together. "I don't have many outside friends! Of course I'm going to hang out with them. You guys are no fun anyway." I feel like he'd say something like that so his brothers would quit teasing him. Hopefully, you can resist the "prettiest face" of the Mad Dogs. *Insert eye roll*

He comes to talk with you on the rooftops or just the park if you're not that casual. Mostly about his missions and how he totally had everything under control. Definitely, tells you all his one-liners or "jokes" he said that day. If you actually laugh, he starts smiling a little more softly and genuine as opposed to his usual smirk.

He wouldn't think of you as a love interest, just someone he can talk to that isn't family. Based on your reactions most the time, he doesn't think you find it weird. And if you do ask questions about it, he'll deny and say something to most likely make any assumption or fantasy about him evaporate from your brain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the events from the Movie, Leo tends to call you for conversations on rooftops. Or depending on your injuries, you two will just talk on the floor or couch in your house/room.

He still sees you as a friend. Even if you did tell him never to do that again and constantly hold onto him when he's the slightest bit sad. Leo may feel a little confused to be cared for by a human. And even if he does somehow feel a little different around you, he can't let any lovey-dovey thoughts in his mind. You're a human and he's a freak of nature. Literally.

Although, after a few session with Mikey or Dr. Feelings and an overlook of his relationship with you, it's clear as day that he's fallen for his best friend. "No, I haven't. That's ridiculous. I think the Kraang did a number on you to think of a situation as crazy as that." He's definitely in denial. Poor boy can't realize he's in love.

Gross. He can't be in love. That's icky.

So what if he knows what you like and don't like? That's what friends do. So what if he spends more time with you than he would with April or Sunita or Casey, both of them? You're the newest and least judgmental friend he has. And when you are judgmental it's kind of funny. So what if he text you in the middle of the night? He's an insomniac and he's bothered his brothers long enough. So what if he hugs you and spins you around and shares his pizza with you? OH. He shares his pizza with you. Yeah, he's toast.

At first, he doesn't know how to approach the idea that he likes you more than a friend. Leo mostly tries to ignore it, but every time you smile his way or laugh at his jokes or say he's actually got "rad skills". OHH! WHY??! He sometimes has to cover his face or act like he's adjusting his bandana to make sure you don't see him sweat or blush a little in embarrassment.

If you confess first, he might react like "Oh, of course you do. I am the face man. The greatest ninja of all time, who wouldn't love me?" He'd say with the most confidence, flipping his bandana tails and smirk while trying to ignore the blush on his face. If he has to confess, eh boy. He's acting a lot more flamboyant until you ask him why he's acting so weird. "Weird? I'm not acting weird! You're being weird! You're being weird hanging out with a turtle who can do ninjitsu!" He eventually calms down and takes a deep breath to look you in the eyes. "Okay, don't freak out, but I may have an attachment to you further than... oh, I can't say it." He'd probably turn around to actually figure out what to say. He can't wing it this time, he's gotta be professional. "OK! Listen, I... I like you. And... more than a friend should." Leo has to say it since you're probably confused if he's getting a flashback or just speaking gibberish at this point. "And I was wondering if... maybe... you... like me too?" He's looking down and tapping his fingers together like this.

This idiot.

If you return his feelings, he's shocked at first. Real shocked. You like him? How? He's a clumsy, weird, arrogant, impulsive, and self-sacrificing. Why would you like him?

Well, somehow you like him back and he's so happy. He's a little confused on how to react since... romance. Icky. So he just settles with hugging you and spinning you around like he normally does.

If you don't like him. Oh. Yeah that makes sense. He's weird and you guys are just friends and romance icky. You guys agreed on that. No lovey and or dovey talk. You can still be friends. He's just glad to get that off his chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is my opinion so take it with a grain of salt. Or pepper if you don't like salt.

Why I headcanon Leo as aromantic

While I enjoy the fanarts and fics of Leo with Usagi, if I would gonna write a Rise fic, I would write him as aromantic, cause canonically, this boy is disgusted about romance.

Is not just that he doesnt like it: he is GROSSED OUT.

Look at this boy, and tell me, do you think someone that reacts like him is cannonically interested in romance 😭 And of his brothers, is the only one that reacts this way.

... so, yeah, thats why I headcanon him as aromantic.... and gay. Cause you dont need to be in love to feel atraction.

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Y'all, Freefall Gambit is so good 😩❤️‍🔥 Loved the return of Onychinus Sylus! He was aura farming so hard in this card, I had to restrain myself from audibly fangirling ijbol. I do feel like this card is sort of preparing us for the upcoming branch, where we'll most likely see alot more of this type of stuff and of this particular dynamic of SylusMC. Of being on opposing sides. Lots of angst and potential for drama, as well as self reflection and growth on especially MC's part.

My sole complaint is that Sylus isn't wearing the suit from the illustration ＿|￣|● I love his Onychinus fit as much as the next person but man... that suit... I will cry if they intend on forever gatekeeping it.

Because I want to avoid spoiling anyone that doesn't have the card yet, I've decided to write down some of my immediate thoughts below the cut.

Let's get the angsty predictions out of the way first – these lines set my alarm bells off. I feel like they are foreshadowing that something of Sylus' will indeed get taken or lost. Or rather someone. That someone ofc being MC, his most precious treasure.

I'll admit that these would not have alarmed me had it not been for certain lines in Sylus' birthday event and in Greedy Heart. I go into why exactly those lines make me uneasy in the linked post, and I just feel like the above ones further reinforces my theory. Call me paranoid or angst obsessed, but I predict pain for both SylusMC and for us in the main story, perhaps even in the coming branch.

On a similar note, just as how Sylus' vulnerability and fear (MC, and MC getting hurt or worse respectively) has been brought up more than once recently, so has MC's. Namely, that Sylus will get caught and put away, or become weak. We see these fears in Valleydream Bloom and in this card, as well as in Where Hearts Live. So things might be building up exactly to that.

I thought it was interesting how MC specifically mentions that the Association have Evol suppressing equipment. Which leads me to believe that said equipment could potentially be used against Sylus at some point to subdue him (provided of course that Sylus' powers are indeed Evol and not demonic/draconic based, but that is an eventual topic for another day). Idk but something tells me that Sylus will get captured whether willingly (most likely) or unwillingly. After all, we do see Sylus behind bars in the music video to Visions Opposées.

Could it be foreshadowing or just a neat visual? Only time will tell.

Me personally though, I am leaning towards the former, and I can see both MC's and Sylus' fears coming to fruition. Maybe even in a connected way (MC gets kidnapped and/or hurt and Sylus jumps in to save her but gets weakened or subdued in doing so, or Sylus gets captured by the Association, MC gets gravely injured trying to save him and maybe in the process triggers Sylus' dragon form and with it MC's memories? Boom. Several birds one stone. Helluva plotline imo)

What I still don't believe will come to pass however is either of them perma dying. This is an otome gacha. The main character nor LI can't die, especially not in a game as young and fresh as Love and Deepspace. So on that front I am not at all worried. Doesn't mean the angst we do get won't hurt a lot, though. But that being said, SylusMC will persevere in the end. Trust. Neither will let the other get torn away from them. Either will move heaven and earth to bring their lover back come what may.

Moving on...

I thought this was a nice callback to Sylus' anecdote

Here Sylus is revealed to actually be a sort of deepspace Robin Hood. We stan.

And the crowd cheered!!!

Also this is actually why Sylus jumped out of the plane. Man needed some cool and fresh air after this comment made all his blood flow south...

This makes me cackle 😭 bro is so unserious. And actually kind of insane, but again, we stan.

MC is living the dream. Do you know what I'd sacrifice to wrap my arms around that waist?? Happy for my girl though 💞 ( and for Sylus, you know that man is on cloud 9 here).

I adore that the card ends on a sweet and nostalgic note, with them gazing at the moon... like they used to in a distant past 💗

[ccazimi]

You Are Also Like Me

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt. 3

cw: incest (uncle/niece but there's some faux dadcest idk how to explain... either way it's only between reader and sukuna), age gap, dubcon, freudian elements, reader's daddy issues are explored in depth, reader has family issues, fluff, angst, mutual hurt, dry humping, kissing/making out, unprotected piv sex, creampies, loss of virginity, degradation/namecalling, dirtytalking, humiliation, sadism/masochism, slight blood kink if you squint, pussy eating/ass eating, blowjob, deepthroating, spit play, cumplay, fingering, DDDNE wc: 21k a/n: im sorry the if the formatting is ass, apparently tumblr only allows "1000 blocks in a post" so i had to go through and cut a bunchhhh of paragraph breaks D: it might read better on ao3

“I want you to take my virginity.”

Sukuna’s eyes flit to yours as he takes another bite of his food, not answering right away, just watching you.

Annoying.

You put down your chopsticks and refuse to take another bite until he gives you some response.

Finally, he smirks at you, speaking lazily. “That’s a big step. You sure you’re still not just worked up from the other night or something?”

“That was like four days ago,” you hiss, “So no— it’s obviously not that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs as he chews. “Maybe you got all horny remembering it.”

You lean forward, teeth clenched, scowling at him hard enough to kill. “Can you please just give me a useful answer, for once?”

His eyes flicker down to the chopsticks laying across your plate of food. “Eat. I don’t pay Uraume as much as I do for you to throw a tantrum and waste your food.”

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

“Eat. Now.” Sukuna’s voice drops to a stern command and he stills, watching you expectantly until you finally pick up the chopsticks and shove a bite of food into your mouth, angrily.

“Good girl.” He resumes eating, and you swear he waits a beat longer just to piss you off before finally adding, “I’ll do it whenever you sign up for classes.”

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

You know damn well what you agreed to. Logically, it's the right move—and yet, any mention of it makes your chest tighten with a dull, anxious ache. Makes you want to think about literally anything else.

But Sukuna—in the most ironic way—is actually good at getting you to do things. You know he won’t bend on this, not when it comes to your future.

“You know I’ll have to ask my parents about that, right?” you point out flatly. “Especially if you’re financing it.”

“Already spoke to them,” he says, casually.

“What?! When?”

“None of your concern. But your mom’ll probably call you later today or tomorrow to confirm, so might as well start prepping now.”

You stare at him for a second, then just huff. “Fine. You promise?”

“Of course, princess. You’ll have to show me proof, though.”

Reluctantly, you nod.

Just like he said, the call comes later that evening—your mother’s voice neutral, if a little relieved, as she runs through application deadlines and housing options. She doesn’t say it, but you can hear it in her tone—anything to get you back on track. Back to your degree, to who you used to be.

You tell her you’ll look into it.

And you do, sort of. You open your laptop that night, click through your old student portal and check a few deadlines.

But the tabs sit there open and unanswered. Because you’ve always been like this—avoidant, stubborn when it matters most.

Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe it’s something deeper, some twisted logic that if you never re-enroll, never hit submit, then the end of your six months here won’t come, and that staying will stay possible.

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

But as the days pass, your need for him grows heavier. Hungrier. Harder and harder to ignore. Sukuna promised you ruin and while you waited expectantly for the next three days, on edge and feeling like a fool, he gave you absolutely nothing, leaving you out to dry.

His way of messing with you, probably. Making you really beg for it.

Just like now — dangling himself just out of reach, so you’ll cave and sign up for those damn classes. The day after he told you his condition, he’s definitely started playing with you more — not cruel, but deliberate.

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

In the evening, when you come out of the bathroom with your hair still damp and dressed in pajamas, Sukuna calls to you from the dining table where he’s nursing a glass of whiskey.

You expect a lecture—maybe about forgetting to empty the dishwasher again—but instead, he catches your wrist as you pass. You let him pull you in, straddling his lap, pleasantly surprised.

His fingers skim your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Make sure to dry your hair before bed. Don’t want you catching a cold,” he murmurs.

You snort under your breath, but don’t bother saying anything. In your experience, explaining to anyone your parents’ age that cold wet hair making you sick is nothing more than a myth, is a futile endeavor.

But then his lips are on yours—soft at first, then deeper. All tongue and teeth and the faint bitter taste of whiskey melting into your mouth.

Your hand slides into his hair as you tilt your head back, letting him in, sighing when he nips your lip. Your hips shift instinctively, seeking friction—pressing down against the bulge in his pants in a slow, barely-there grind. His hand slides to your lower back, holding you steady, letting you move just enough to feel it.

Ever since he taught you how to kiss, it’s secretly been one of your favorite things to do with him—making out at odd, quiet moments until you’re breathless and aching without even realizing how far you've gone.

But then he pulls back, leaving you flushed and involuntarily chasing after his mouth.

You blink up at him, frowning, your thighs still tight around him—and the smirk tugging at his lips tells you everything. Abruptly, he pushes you off his lap and stands, tossing back the rest of his drink before looking down at you, smug.

“Well, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

You shoot him the dirtiest look you can manage as he turns away, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

And with that, he’s gone—leaving you alone, warm, aching, and seriously considering banging your head against the wall.

Two more days pass, still no progress.

You want him—crave him in the way your body always does—but your mind keeps recoiling from the one simple task that would make everything easier.

Instead, you take the long way around it.

Late at night, you drift to his room like it’s nothing, one of his shirts hanging off your frame soft and oversized, paired with the smallest pajama shorts you own. You don’t knock, as has become habit lately.

He’s seated in his bed, glasses on, looking at something on his phone, not even bothering to glance up when you speak.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

His eyes stay on the screen, reflecting on his frames. “You’ve got your own room. What’s wrong with it?”

You pout a little, speaking softly, “I just…don’t feel like being alone.”

There’s a pause as he scrolls, and you step a little closer, the air thickening.

“You said you’d do it if I signed up for my classes. I did.”

You didn’t—not yet, at least. But maybe if you keep him distracted, he’ll forget about that part.

Sukuna just cocks a slitted brow. “That’s funny. Don’t remember seeing any proof yet.”

You hesitate, but decide to push on anyway, hoping you can soon make him forget about the proof. So instead of answering you climb onto his lap.

Sukuna stiffens, jaw ticking slightly, but he lets you. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, shaky fingers coming up to unbutton the top of his shirt — in nervousness, frustration, need, you don’t know.

He doesn’t react, just watches you quietly, face impassive before quietly asking, “What are you doing?”

You swallow, trying to sound as confident as you can. “What do you think?”

His hand finally moves, up your back, till the nape of your neck, and you finally think you’ve won. You lean in slightly, but then he tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his narrowed eyes.

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

You gulp, and he smiles — all teeth, no warmth.

“You think this is how it works? You crawl into my lap, bat your lashes, and I forget every condition we laid down?”

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

“It’s not like that,” you protest defensively.

“No? Then what is it like?”

You don’t answer, as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “I know what you want. You’ve made it very clear.”

Then he pulls away, leaving you sitting on his lap flushed and frustrated.

“You don’t get to change the rules just because you’re impatient. Desperate girls don’t make demands.”

“I’m not desperate.”

Your second lie of the night, and both of you know it.

He snickers. “What’s this little show then, hm?”

You bristle, and he leans in, speaking softly, just a little cruel. “Show me proof, princess. Otherwise you’re just pretending you want it.”

You’re not given a chance to retort before he lifts you off his lap, deposits you onto the bed like a doll, and goes back to whatever he was looking at on his phone.

If he was trying to get through to you, it certainly worked.

“I did it.”

As usual, he barely looks at you. “Did what?”

“My application. I signed up for classes. Check your email.”

He’s quiet for a beat—then his phone buzzes, and he opens the attachment. Your name, bold and official. All real.

He exhales, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Tch. Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You said you’d stop dodging me if I did,” you say, voice taut.

Sukuna sets the phone down, gaze cutting toward you like a blade. “And you followed through,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

Then he rises slowly, deliberate, until he’s standing in front of you. His voice drops; quiet, amused almost. 

“So that’s all it takes to get you to commit to your future,” he says, brushing your hair back. “One fuck from your uncle?”

You tense, but he just leans in to whisper near your ear, “I bet your parents wouldn’t be so proud of you for going back if they knew the real reason…”

You flinch, heat and humiliation mixing in your chest because of course he has to make this as vulgar as possible.

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

“I did,” he says simply. Then he cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Just remember,” Sukuna adds, gaze dark and steady, “You signed up for this.”

You don’t look away, not even as the air grows heavier, as you feel a certain thrum starting up between your legs.

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

He watches you for a long beat, eyes roaming over your face like he’s searching for hesitation. But you don’t give him any — you want this more than anything.

“Take off your clothes,” he says finally. It’s not a request.

You’ve done this before, you’ve done worse than this before, and somehow you’re still not entirely used to the feeling of undressing in front of someone — certainly not in front of him.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the hem of your shirt, but you do it, breaking the silence with the soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of cotton slipping off skin, revealing the expanse of your skin.

Next your pants, pulling at your ankles before you step out of them. His gaze darkens with every inch of bare skin revealed but he doesn’t move to touch you, not yet.

He watches, waiting, expecting as your hands reach around back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the ground, exposing your tits, your tightening nipples. You stand there, bare under his eyes that roam your curves, heart thudding, trying to ground yourself.

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

“Are you scared?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

You step forward anyway, closing the distance between you, resisting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. “Do it before I change my mind.”

His hand slides into your hair, firm but not cruel, tilting your head back. He looks at you like something he wishes he didn’t crave as badly as he did. Something he wants to leave his fingerprints all over anyways.

“Six months,” he murmurs against your lips. “That’s all we’ve got. Then no more of this.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you—nothing like the last time. There’s no pretense now, no power play. Just heat, and want, and something else buried beneath it all, something like the night he told you he wants to ruin you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the bedroom. There’s no hesitation in him, just intent.

You feel it in the way he throws you onto his bed, peels your underwear down your legs, the way he tilts your chin back to bare your throat to him, kissing it like something he owns. Kisses turn into something harsher, sucking, biting, and the rough scrape of teeth that stings enough to make you suck in a sharp breath. You know now there’ll be marks of his claim littering your skin for days after.

But when he pauses—just for a second—eyes meeting yours again, it’s not just control you see there. It’s restraint.

A question, silent but real. You answer it by pulling him down, mouth meeting his again.

And then there’s no more waiting.

There’s a sound that escapes you when his mouth finds your throat again—quiet, startled, and helpless. He drinks it in like it’s what he wanted all along.

Warm palms roam slowly, like he’s mapping out every fragile inch, learning you by feel, by the way you shiver under his touch as his he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck, along your collarbone.

You wonder if this is what sex is supposed to feel like - being worshipped and ruined at the same time. His hands make their way to your tits, tweaking one of your hard nipples between his fingers, before he bends to capture the other one in his mouth.

You whimper a little at the feel of his tongue tracing wet circles over the areola, then sucking hard enough on the bud for it to sting just a bit before he releases the pressure again.

"You really went and did it,” he mutters against your skin. “All that pouting, all that begging... just to get fucked like a slut.”

You swallow, your own trembling hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging at it, craving more of him, the feel of his bare skin against yours. Sukuna takes the hint, pushing off you with a low chuckle, just enough to pull his own shirt over his head. Dark markings crawl from over his shoulders, along his chiseled abs.

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

It occurs to you that you’ll never want a boy after this, not after you’ve been with a real man.

“It’s rude to stare,” he comments, arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside.

“Give me some more to stare at,” you mutter shamelessly.

Eager to see him again, all of him.

Sukuna smirks, an arrogant gleam flickering in his eyes as he steps even closer, his body hovering over yours.

“Mm, you’re getting impatient again. We’ve got all night sweetheart.”

His eyes roam down to the apex of your thighs, where they’re clenching together, trying to relieve some of the ache.

“Spread yourself.”

You take a shuddering breath as you part your legs as wide as you can, heat flowing directly to both your cheeks and your cunt. He lays on the bed, and you leak more arousal in anticipation of his face right in front of your folds.

“I said spread yourself, girl. Do I have to show you how it’s done?”

You frown at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “I d-did, can’t spread my legs any further than this—”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, before taking your hand and using your fingers spread your inner folds open.

“Like this. Hold it.”

The flesh inside is softer, more sensitive, and you cringe when you feel it cool from air brushing against the slick skin.

“Why? It’s not…comfortable…” you mutter nervously.

“It’ll feel better,” he states simply, large hands wrapping around your thighs to pull you in closer while you try to breathe and stay calm.

You trust him and hold yourself open as he leans in, and in a moment you understand what he means now — his tongue hot and insistent against not just your clit, but the surrounding areas of your sensitive inner labia.

You can feel everything, every stroke of his tongue, every small nudge of it against your clit and your sticky flesh. Bolts of pleasure light up your spine, as he works against your dripping cunt, lapping with increasing fervor. You whimper and quiver as he licks inside every crevice of your cunt, sucking on your clit, eating you out greedily.

You pant, feeling hot from your cunt all the way to the backs of your watering eyes as you twitch and tense, feeling yourself come closer and closer.

“Mmh, j-just like that, don’t -ah- fucking stop—” you whine desperately tilting your pelvis into his mouth for more, and soon you’re cumming all over his tongue, his hands keeping your thighs pried apart as they threaten to lock in around his head.

You finish, muscles laxing into a trembling mess and he intentionally gives you one last, harsh lash of his tongue right against your overstimulated clit, making you flinch in pain. He pulls away, inspecting your sopping hole, humming in approval before standing up to slip off his pants.

Down they go, and you can’t help but watch the large bulge in his boxers straining against the fabric, a wet patch already formed. They slip off and you ogle unabashedly at his large, leaking cock, his hard length swaying slightly as he steps forward, crawling onto the bed.

His mouth latches back onto one of your tits, suckling and licking gently as he strokes himself a few times.

“You’re shaking,” Sukuna murmurs, almost amused.

“I’m not scared,” you breathe, though your voice wavers.

He smirks against the slick mess on your breast. “Maybe you should be.”

His hand trails down your waist, rough palm against skin, as he finally rests his cock between your thighs.

Warm, with a dizzying weight. Soft skin against skin.

Just the sensation of his bare cock on your folds feels oddly vulnerable and intimate, enough to make your ears burn hot. Your stomach does a flip when you peer down, finally able to gauge the sheer size of him when his length is laying across your mons like this, his swollen tip reaching all the way till your navel.

Despite it, you could stare at his cock for hours.

And then it occurs to you—

“Wait, do you have a condom? I’m…I’m not on the pill.”

The words come out like a choked gasp, as though something inside you finally gives way. Your mind stutters, the fog of desire lifting just enough for the ugly reality to sink in. The heat that was rushing through your veins turns cold, a creeping dread that coils tight in your chest.

A terrible realization of what you’re actually doing. How real this all is. Because the chance of conception would be horrible enough on its own, but with a family member?

Well, that’s what the natural revulsion to incest was supposed to prevent, right?

Your body’s response is instantaneous—an involuntary shiver that starts deep in your gut, an icy feeling that spreads outward, stiffening your spine. You thought you’d come to terms with this, but perhaps you hadn’t — not all the way, at least.

“I do, but I won’t use them,” he states coolly. “I have more than enough money to afford a plan B pill if needed.”

He’s right, but still…

Sukuna looks up at your face, taking in the hesitation written all over it.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks, voice too smooth, too knowing.

Were you? You don’t know.

Because in spite of the cold, you want this, and maybe the perversion of it all makes you want it more.

“You knew there wouldn’t be any holding back if we did this, didn’t you?” He drags his cock languidly along your glistening folds, the head of it catching on your clit over and over, as he speaks.

Cruelly slow. Like he’s savoring every inch of your hesitation, every stifled breath, every twitch of uncertainty you don’t want him to see.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, the hesitation still curling in your chest, but it’s fading. Slowly, so slowly.

Your body betrays you, the cold tightening in your stomach transforming into something deeper, more urgent with every drag of his swollen head across your clit, pre smearing with your own slick.

Your hands, trembling but eager, make their way to his chest, pressing against his skin. A part of you wants to pull back, to stop this madness—but the other part? It’s begging for more. The thrill, the perversion, it warms you.

You want to feel him completely.

“I did,” you whisper, “So don’t hold back. Even if you think you should.”

“So you’re really gonna let me do this?” he asks, his mouth brushing your collarbone, tone low and mocking. 

He wants you to want him, but he also wants to test how far you’ll go — and that contradiction is Sukuna’s affection.

You should say something. Anything. But all that comes out is a soft gasp when his fingers ghost over your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure it hurts just a little. You’ll remember it.”

You hate how that thrills you. That you want him more for it.

His hand slides beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist. You feel everything in that moment—his breath, his warmth, the coiled tension under his skin as he presses in closer.

“Breathe,” he says, right against your lips. “It’s just me.”

He finally pushes forward to part your lips, slow and deliberate, and you gasp. Building pressure gives way to pain, sharp and acute as you feel your walls stretching to accommodate him.

It burns.

“Uncle,” you gasp, hips reflexively trying to pull away from the intrusion in your virgin cunt.

But he holds you in place, murmuring against your panting lips, “Almost there, sweetheart. It’ll get better after this, I promise.”

You believe him, but your body reacts of its own accord — walls clamping down, trying to push out the invading length.

“It w-won’t fit—“ You start to panic a bit as you feel the burning stretch.

He hisses through his teeth at the tightening of your cunt, fighting the urge to simply slam in all the way as you wince and tremble.

“Fuck, you need to breathe, I’m serious — take deep breaths.”

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

You swallow and nod, forcing a deep inhale all the way into your belly. As soon as you do, he slides in all the way in one final push till he’s bottomed out inside of you.

There’s a moment of stillness, where it all weighs down on you. The feel of him sheathed inside you, the stretch, his breath mingling with yours, the gravity of what you’ve let happen. What you wanted to happen.

He presses a quick, light kiss to your lips. “Good?”

“Uh, y-yes, I think so…” you reply unsurely, trying to get used to the feeling of something inside you. “Feels a little weird…”

“Mm, well we can stay like this till you’re ready for me to move again.” His lips pepper your face in gentle pecks. “I don’t mind having you cockwarm me.”

You stay there for a second, basking in this rare show of affection from him, as twisted as the circumstances might be.

And then, another deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

You pull your face back to glare at him, finding his lips twisted into a smirk. “You fucking sadist, can you just do i— ahh!”

You wince in pain as he abruptly pulls out, till only his tip is left inside and he grins down at you wickedly.

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

Your sentence once again ends in a yelp as he slams back inside of you, hard enough to make your nails dig into his back as you jolt.

He groans obscenely in response at your heat enveloping him again, clenching down on him.

Your face is contorted now as you grit your teeth. “What is your problem?! I swear you’re doing this on purpose—“

“I told you I was going to make it hurt. Or do you not listen to the things you agree to?” he snaps back too quickly. A bit too sharply. 

“I—“ Your face crumples and you swear you see his eyes soften ever so slightly in response, like something akin to pity. Maybe realization that he’s being a bit too mean right now. Especially given what’s actually happening here. You trusted him to take your virginity, after all.

You must look upset—maybe even a little scared—because something in his face shifts. That awful grin fades.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, his hand coming to cradle your cheek, slow, almost gentle. And then, as if to make up for earlier, “You’re doing so good for me, you know that?”

You blink up at him, breathing uneven. You don’t trust the softness, not from him. But you don’t pull away, despite your trembling. His other hand strokes the inside of your thigh—too gently for someone who just made you cry out a moment ago.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, quieter now. “But it’s still gonna hurt.”

You bite your lip, nodding slowly. He watches your expression, like he’s testing how much of your fear you’re willing to swallow for him.

“But it’ll pass. It always does,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You just have to take it. Be good, breathe through it. I’ve got you.”

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

And back in his cock goes. You try to keep your breathing even, but it’s true, he shows restraint and goes slow enough for the pain to begin subsiding.

Sukuna watches you carefully, your lip still held between your teeth in slight discomfort, though your body starts to relax.

The pain might be fading, but you’ve heard it’s supposed to be replaced by pleasure. Except you can’t really feel any — you think his fingers felt better.

You look up at him. “More. Go harder.”

“More?”

You nod.

“Finally ready for me to actually start fucking you now?”

He smirks at the slight pout forming on your lips, soothing the slight sting of his teasing with another kiss to your lips as he begins to thrust faster. You’re not sure when but soon your fingers are digging further into his muscle, anchoring yourself there as he begins fucking you with short, shallow thrusts, and soon your mouth parts around a sound you don’t even recognize.

He groans softly in response, and it’s not mocking now. It’s something raw, something real. “There you are, my pretty girl…”

His praise goes straight to your gut, coiling in with the heat slowly building there, more of your arousal lubing your silken walls making it a bit easier for him to slide in and out.

And then he stops.

You look at him confused, as he pulls away, standing on his knees, cock slipping fully out of your raw hole. It glistens in the dim light, flushed and turgid.

“Just wait,” he says as he grabs a pillow from besides you, and drags it under your legs. “Here, put your butt on this.”

You’ve heard something about pillows making penetrative sex feel better — you figure that’s what this is as you shift downward till your ass is cushioned, pelvis raised slightly higher. He kneels a bit to the side, positioning one of his knees under the crook of your bent one, and grabs your other ankle, lifting your leg straight up.

You just can’t help the snarky words from falling out of your mouth, “Thought we were having sex, not doing yoga.”

He gives you a warning glare, the same disciplinary kind whenever you purposefully annoy him, or try to protest against some mundane chore he’s assigned to you.

And then he’s positioning his cock against your entrance again, the other hand coming to toy with your clit, making you sigh at the sensation.

“You’d better shut that mouth while I’m still trying to play nice, sweetheart.”

You want to say something but you feel the round head of his cock breaching your entrance again, and instinctively you tense up as he pushes inside.

There’s still pain, but it’s tolerable now.

Sukuna starts fucking you again, harder now, and this new angle makes you moan, back arching slightly off the mattress.

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

“What was all that you were saying about yoga, earlier?”

He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, a high-pitched noise coming out of your throat as you savor his fat cock massaging that spot in your swollen walls that makes you feel utterly gone.

“’M s-sorry, I didn’t mean it,” you babble mindlessly, eyelids dropping as he fucks all the attitude right out of you.

His pelvis snaps forward, dark pink hair brushing against your burning skin, as he tightens his grip on your ankle, pulling your leg taut with ease.

“Silly girl,” he chides you, though his lips are pressing kisses along your ankle, down the length of your calf. “You never learn, do you?” he mutters against your skin. “Good thing I’m here to teach you your lesson over and over again…”

“Ha—ah!” you mewl when he abruptly bends your leg a bit, placing his lips to the back of your knee to suck and lick at the delicate, sensitive skin there.

“U-Uncle!” You moan and gasp in ecstasy, shivers running down your spine all the way to where his cock is thrusting into your drooling cunt.

And then you take a look at him, a good look at him, in the faint warm light of the bedside lamp falling over his features.

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

The broad shape of his muscular chest, the veins that run down the forearm gripping your leg, the set to his angular jaw as he fucks you, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

You pull your leg from his grip slightly, moving around a bit in discomfort at staying in this physical position.

“Stop squirming,” he says authoritatively, like he’s talking to some petulant, hyperactive child.

“Mh, w-wait lemme just—” Soon you’re pulling your leg from his grip, planting your foot on the other side of his body as you stand on your hands and feet, arching your back, panting in desperation to feel more of him.

Sukuna lets you change positions, wrapping his arms to support your lower back as you grab his neck with one of your hands, undulating your hips so that his cock hits you in a new place — deeper than before.

“F-Fuck, greedy fucking girl—” he grits out and you can tell he’s losing his restraint now too, slowly focusing more and more on taking his own pleasure from your body rather than just giving. He thrusts into you harshly, kissing your cervix with each squelching movement, watching your tits bouncing on your splayed out torso.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

The musky smell of sex, the salty tang of sweat-slicked bodies now permeates the air as you move sensually, trying to feel him deeper inside you.

“Good girl, keep going baby, just like that,” he rasps, voice rough with arousal as he ruts into you.

The furrow of his brows, the smell of his skin, the warm, steady weight of his hands holding you, supporting you.

Familiar.

“Ah, a-again, say it again, that I’m good—”

He slows down for a millisecond, eyes flicking to yours, at the needy look all over your face as you look up at him with pleading eyes, clouded and hazy with lust.

“Do you deserve that?” he breathes lowly, taking lead and fucking you harder with an intense pace you can’t keep up with. “My dumb, needy little niece. Wonder which side of the family you got all that desperation from, because it certainly isn’t mine—”

The sound of his heavy breathing, the shape of his smirk, slightly lopsided.

“P-Please!” Something claws in you, something desperate and vulnerable to hear it from him, to hear that praise and validation, god, why can’t he just give it to you—

To your dismay he sneers, too far gone in that side of him that needs to degrade you, hurt you, control you.

“Good? You’re bleeding all over my cock like a dumb piece of meat.”

“H-Huh?” You open your eyes, realizing they’re blurry with tears as you look at where you’re connected.

And it’s true, his cock is covered in streaks of red every time it pulls out to slam back into you again. Maybe the sight should’ve alarmed you, or made you feel more cautious or whatever — what it shouldn’t have done was make you moan lewdly, clenching down on his length.

Sukuna notices your reaction, and it only sends him into more of a frenzy, gripping you so tightly he’s practically holding your nearly limp body up like a doll, as he fucks your hole.

“You like that? Sick little slut—” he growls, before leaning in to whisper in your ear, “You think your dad would still call you his daughter if he saw you like this?”

Your watery eyes widen, all the air sucked from your lungs as the words hit like a punch to the gut.

That’s what it is. Who he reminds you of, why he feels so oddly familiar.

Did you forget you were fucking your dad’s brother?

The similarities are undeniable now, a physical reminder of the genes you share.

Something twists in your gut, like a writhing serpent with the realization, yet your cunt leaks more and more, waves of shuddering pleasure only growing in their intensity.

Sukuna grins at your shock, before abruptly dropping you onto the bed, cock slipping out from your abused hole.

“Straighten your legs and turn on your side a bit.”

You obediently do as he tells you, and then he’s straddling your bottom leg, folding the top one and hitching it over his waist. You watch him, spine twisted so your torso lays supine on the mattress.

His other hand grips your ass, before he thrusts himself back into the warm, wet heat of your tight cunt, stretched perfectly in this position so that he hits you even deeper, like he’s in your lungs. He watches the pout on your lips, the crestfallen expression on your tear-stained cheeks as he fucks you so good that he’s forcefully pulling moans from you.

“Still gonna look at me like that? Well cry if you need to — I’ll still be here, fucking you through it.”

And even as he’s fucking you, losing himself in your pussy, Sukuna’s mind is sharp — he knows the reason behind this change in your demeanor. What it is that’s bothering you. It's the same reason you need him, need his validation right now, his words of praise and reassurance.

You don’t care if they’re fake.

“Mm fuck, p-please,” you pant incoherently between moans, crying out when he hits another spot that makes a rush of warm liquid drip out of you, coating his cock. “B-Be good to me—”

Sukuna snickers, reveling in the way you beg. “Why? I’m not your fuckin’ dad, slut.” He slaps one of your tits, making you jolt.

“S’kuna!” you cry his name, slurred with the weight of your tears, at how cruel he's being when you feel most vulnerable.

“I’m not him,” he repeats, hand grabbing your ass, digging his nails in till it hurts. You barely notice that pain amidst everything else right now, with the way he’s fucking you stupid. “But we are blood. That’s why you fit so perfectly around me. Your cunt was made for this, sweetheart.”

He grinds his cock inside you, making you squeal in both pleasure and shame and disgust at his downright disturbing words.

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

Your words are cut off as a large hand wraps around your throat, pressing down onto your esophagus as he picks up the pace even more, heavy balls slapping against your skin.

“Say it and I’ll tell you all the things you wanna hear,” he whispers darkly.

You don’t have much resistance in you, not when he’s ruining you like this, when your cunt is simultaneously aching and sore but screaming in pleasure.

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

“How…fucked up this all is. That we’re related. And that..” you hesitate, and the grip on your throat tightens, making you wheeze a bit, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper from your strained throat. “And that you’ve been like a…father to me.”

“There it is,” he breathes triumphantly, loosening his hold on your neck though his hand still stays collared around it. “My good little girl. Finally being honest for once.”

His thrusts turn sloppy as he leans down to kiss you messily, and murmur against your skin.

“You’re so perfect, you know that? Smart, capable, pretty...”

You moan at his praise, feeling your pussy clench tighter and tighter around his pistoning length. The words go straight to your core, building and building, melting with the pleasure into something that threatens to swallow you whole.

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

You cum instantly, wet noises spilling out at you gush slick and kiss him messily, a thin droplet of drool running down the corner of your mouth. And then with a twitch of his cock and a guttural groan, warmth is spilling inside you, the most heavenly feeling, as he fills you with ropes of his hot seed.

A few euphoric moments of him emptying his balls into you, and then the cum stops flowing and he stills his thrusts. Warm breaths fill the silence, then he’s collapsing on top of you, careful not to put the majority of his weight on top of you. Your damp skin sticks against his, and he grabs your body as he spoons you from behind.

“You feel that?” He rolls his hips, slow and deep, his softening dick squelching inside the mess of fluids he’s plugged you up with. “This is what it means to be mine.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath as he pulls out of you, cock exiting your hole with a wet pop.

And then stillness. Too much of it.

The only sounds are the hum of the lamp and the uneven rhythm of your breathing. Your body curls in on itself instinctively, sheets tangling around your legs. You half expect him to push you away as you press your cheek to his chest, listening to the slow steady thrum.

He doesn’t. And the sound of his heartbeat is the only constant you have in the chaos still blooming inside of you.

Sukuna doesn’t speak. One arm lies draped lazily behind his head, the other wrapped around your waist—possessive, but not tight. His thumb strokes the small of your back, lazy and unthinking, like he’s petting a sleeping animal.

You don’t know what you expected after — a sharp word, a joke, indifference, maybe. But not this. Not him letting you hold onto him like this. Not his lips brushing against your temple like it means something.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally, voice low and almost too soft. “Regret already sinking in?”

You don't answer with words. Just shake your head a little against him, like you're refusing to answer something you can't explain.

Numbness. And the physical need to feel him next to you. That's all you feel.

His hand moves up to your hair, fingers threading through it. “Hn. Didn’t think you’d cling like this.”

“I’m not,” you mumble, even as your fingers curl tighter in the sheet between you.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Liar.”

There’s no malice in it, no mockery. Just a strange, patient warmth that makes your throat ache. And when you finally dare to glance up at him—at the faint cut of his jawline in the soft light, at the familiar cruelty in his eyes dulled by something quieter—it aches deeper.

Not regret. Something else, something softer and more tender that feels like it shouldn't hurt.

And yet it does.

But then something shifts — imperceptible, but there. The slightest stiffening of his body under yours.

“You good?” you murmur, sleep-heavy, cheek still pressed to his chest.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand lingers in your hair, then stills. His breathing changes—not relaxed, not calm; more like he’s suddenly aware of something he hadn’t let himself think about.

The silence between you stretches, no longer warm. You’re already half-asleep when you feel the mattress shift, his voice cutting through the haze a moment later.

“Don’t get comfortable. We need to get you cleaned up, and more importantly you should go pee.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “Are you serious? I don’t need to go.”

He tugs the blanket down with one hand, unimpressed. “Yeah, well you’re still sticky, bruised and probably bleeding a little. Get up.”

You scowl. “So romantic.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying not to let you get a damn infection.”

“I’ll survive,” you mumble, rolling over.

And then—before you can react—his arms are around you, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you yelp, squirming in his grasp. “Put me down! I can walk!”

“You had your chance,” he mutters, already heading toward the bathroom. “You made your choice when you started whining like a brat.”

“I am a brat,” you snap, arms crossed, glaring at his jawline. “And you like it.”

“Right,” he replies sarcastically, “Or maybe I just don’t feel like explaining to your parents why their daughter has a goddamn infection.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, but despite your annoyance, you can’t help but relax a little into his chest, finding some strange comfort in the way he holds you. Maybe it’s the fact that you know he’s right—he’s always right about these things, even when it’s irritating.

“Well actually you’d be the one explaining, in that case. Don’t want Mom and Dad to know the kinda things you’ve been up to, huh?”

You glower at him as he tries not to look too pleased with himself, dropping you clumsily to your feet in the dark bathroom. You suppress a grimace as you feel his cum leaking out of you, sliding down your inner thighs.

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

“There’s nothing!” you snap, slightly embarrassed that the topic of you peeing is still being brought up. “I went….before, okay?”

Sukuna just sighs. “Make sure you do it next time. Don’t wanna deal with a UTI.”

You make a face but he’s already pushing you with a hand on your back to step into the shower. The warm water hits your skin, and you shiver before it starts to soothe. You’re still sulking, arms crossed under the spray as Sukuna steps in behind you like it’s just another chore he has to handle.

“You gonna stand there pouting all night, or do I need to wash that attitude off first?” he drawls, already grabbing the wash towel like you’re completely useless.

You try to snatch it from him. “I can do it myself.”

“I’m sure you can, sweetheart,” he replies condescendingly sweet, though he holds the wash towel up and away. “But I can do it better.”

You glare at him, but he’s already starting to lather your arms, completely unbothered by your glare. “You’re so annoying.”

“No,” he says, deadpan, “You’re annoying. I’m just responsible.”

You let out an exaggerated scoff, but your shoulders relax under his touch. You hate how smug he is when he’s right.

“You know I hate it when you treat me like a kid.”

“You act like one,” he replies, adding more of the fragrant bodywash onto the towel, before forcefully spinning you around to face him. “Especially when you’re tired. Or hungry. Or pretending you’re not clingy.”

You sputter a bit at the sudden spray of water in your face, before finally giving him another cold look.

“Me? Clingy? Are you out of your mind?” you reply, genuinely a little offended for some reason.

He just snorts, clearly unconvinced, and drags the towel down your back with a slow, deliberate hand. “You literally cried the last time I left for more than two days.”

“That was once,” you bite back, jaw tightening. “And I was on my period.”

“You called it a ‘separation-induced emotional collapse,’” he quotes flatly, then dips the towel just beneath the curve of your ass like he’s cleaning you, though you know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.

You swat at his arm, but he grabs your wrist and pins it lazily against your side, still holding the towel in the other hand. The motion isn’t aggressive—just practiced, smooth, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“I’m going to push you and you’re going to fall in the shower and not be able to get back up because of how old you are.”

He huffs out a short laugh through his nose, clearly amused. “Sweetheart,” he says, still calmly lathering your skin, “if anyone’s breaking a hip in here, it’s you. I saw you nearly sprain your knee trying to climb on top of me last night.”

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

You squirm against his grip, which only tightens slightly—enough to keep you still, not enough to hurt. He lathers the soap with the cloth on your chest, then squeezes it till the foam drips lewdly down your breasts. You only notice what’s happening when he smirks, eyes trained on the bubbles traveling the curve of your chest.

You swat half-heartedly at his chest, cheeks burning. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, utterly unrepentant. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“Sometimes I forget how unbearable you are when you get your way."

“And yet, you keep letting me have it.”

His eyes flick down again—languid, slow—watching the water and suds slide down your skin like it’s a show meant for him alone.

You roll your eyes and try to pull away. “Maybe I’m just too tired to argue.”

“Liar,” he murmurs. “You like it when I take care of you like this. Even when you pretend to hate it. Especially then.”

You stare at him like you're about to challenge him, but no words come out.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice low, fingers dragging just slightly along your waist now, “and I will.”

You look at him. He’s still holding the cloth, still waiting—for once, serious.

So you cross your arms to give him another stubborn look. "You forgot to get behind my ears, by the way."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like a warning.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, but the way he tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans in tells you he’s taking the bait anyway.

You hold still, stubbornly proud, even when his hands bracket your jaw and tilt your head just so. He uses his thumbs first, rough pads gliding just behind your ears, then switches to knuckles as if he’s mocking the gentleness of the gesture.

“Since when you got so bratty?” he mutters. "This definitely can't be the same girl who showed up on my doorsteps a few months ago."

You glare at him, lips parting for a sharp retort—but he beats you to it, voice dipping just low enough to make your stomach flip.

“She used to be quiet. Timid. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

You scoff dryly. "I’ve always thought you were unbearable. Difference is, now I say it out loud."

He huffs out a laugh, more breath than sound, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And here I was thinking you’d just grown attached.”

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his fingers slide from your neck to your collarbone, slow and measured like he’s mapping you out again.

“Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll start thinking you enjoy mouthing off just to see what I’ll do.”

“Maybe I do.”

There’s a pause. A taut little silence between you—charged, waiting, thick with steam and something heavier than heat.

Then suddenly his grin widens, wicked and boyish all at once.

“Alright then,” he says—and then, without warning, he twists the shower handle.

A blast of cold water smacks your skin like a slap, and you let out a shriek, practically leaping backwards into him.

“Uncle!” you gasp, teeth chattering as you try to scramble out of the spray. “Are you insane?!”

He laughs—really laughs—arms effortlessly catching you as you flail, pressing you against his warm chest like you aren’t soaking and furious.

“You looked like you were overheating,” he says smugly, completely unfazed by your glare. And the ice cold water, for some reason. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re a menace,” you hiss, shivering as you try to reach around him for the handle.

His hand closes around your wrist before you can reach the knob.

“Easy,” he says, voice low but firm. “You’ll throw off your system if you change the temperature too fast too much.”

You blink at him, teeth still chattering, but he doesn’t budge. Just calmly reaches past you and adjusts the water himself—slowly, carefully—until it warms again, just enough to stop your skin from prickling.

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

“You’re lucky I don’t have hypothermia.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You were flushed and bratty and needed cooling off. Don’t make me explain the logic.”

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

“Soft violence,” he replies. “Therapeutic, even.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already guiding you gently under the warm spray, his touch firm and no-nonsense now. Not serious exactly, but steadier.

“Head down."

You sigh, complying, letting the water run through your hair as he works shampoo into your scalp with methodical hands—fingertips massaging a little too well for you to keep up your grudge.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

He finishes rinsing you off in silence, hands steady and impersonal now—guarded, almost, like the line between teasing and responsibility has been redrawn. 

Soon you’re out of the shower, wrapping yourselves in towels, drying your hair. The bathroom is silent as Sukuna brushes his teeth. 

That feeling, in your stomach again. Something bitter and unpleasant. Fear? You’re not sure of what.

“Can I…sleep with you here tonight?” you suddenly ask, voice smaller than you’d like.

Sukuna pauses, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, and there’s something unreadable in them.

Uncertainty, maybe? 

You don’t want to think about it — the thought would only make you spiral. If he regrets this, if he sees you differently now. Maybe he’s even disgusted by you. 

He spits into the sink, rinses, and sets his toothbrush down with a clack. For a second, he doesn’t say anything, and your chest tightens.

“Tch. You’re clingier than I thought,” he finally mutters, avoiding your eyes as he wipes his mouth with a towel.

But it’s not biting , it’s hollow. Deflection.

You flinch slightly. “Sorry. I’ll just—”

“I didn’t say no,” he cuts you off, voice quiet but firm, still not looking at you.

You freeze. “So… I can?”

He finally meets your gaze in the mirror — and for once, there’s no smirk, no mockery in his eyes. Just something tired, maybe even resigned.

“It’s your bed too,” he says after a pause. Then adds, almost too low to catch, “At least for now.”

Your eyes flit over to his toothbrush, and as quickly as you can, you reach for it. But Sukuna’s faster. He grabs it out of your hand, squeezes the toothpaste, and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, brows furrowed.

He doesn’t answer—just shoves the toothbrush gently between your lips and starts brushing your teeth for you, slow and deliberate.

“Are you serious right now?” you try to say around the bristles.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, condescendingly calm. “Since you probably can’t do anything without me, apparently. Mouth open.”

You try to pull back, but his hand is firm against your jaw. “Uncle.”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Open your mouth wider.”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed up, while he carefully brushes in exaggerated little circles, way too pleased with himself.

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

He grins. “Is it? I think it’s adorable. You’re like a spoiled little cat. All hiss, no bite.”

When he finally pulls the toothbrush away, you shove him lightly in the chest, scowling. “I hope you don’t do this with your girlfriends.”

He smirks, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re not my girlfriend, you’re my—”

"Do not," you quickly cut him off, shooting him a venomous glare.

You expect the usual smirk—that smug, needling grin he wears whenever he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a flicker of something else—a beat of silence that lingers just a second too long. Then he looks away, the moment slipping like steam through fingers. “Go put on your pajamas,” he says quietly. “I need to change too.”

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns away. “Because we’re not animals.”

That gets under your skin. Deeper maybe, somewhere more sensitive. “Yeah, except we just fucked like animals, so—”

“It’s not about that,” he cuts in, too quickly, too quietly. “It’s just… better this way.”

You watch him, frustration rising like heat under your skin. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

He pauses, back still turned. “Do what?”

“Draw lines.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to—brittle, breaking around something you didn’t expect to feel. “You promised. Said you'd give me all of you. Until I had to leave.”

He’s quiet. His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds heavier than it should. You’ve hit something, and you both know it.

You press. “What—did you think I wouldn’t actually take it?” you sneer. “And you were the one accusing me of pretending to want it.”

That makes him turn, just slightly. His eyes meet yours, and for a flicker of a second, there's something raw in them. Frustration. Guilt. Or worse—fear.

But he doesn’t argue, just exhales through his nose, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he says. “Get in bed. But don’t complain if you wake up with my elbow in your face.”

You roll your eyes, but move, letting the towel fall from your body. You’re bare, except for your panties—the liner catching the faintest trace of blood and what’s left of him. You don’t look away as you straighten the blanket and peel it back, sliding under the sheet. It’s cool against your skin, kissing your chest where you’re usually too shy to sleep uncovered.

But not tonight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing—unsure, maybe even uncertain where the lines are anymore. You don’t say anything. Just wait, still and quiet, as he kills the light and lies down beside you. The space between you feels fragile, thick with everything neither of you is saying.

At first, neither of you moves.

You lie on your side, facing the wall. He’s behind you. Not touching, not close.

You shift slightly under the covers. “Are you really gonna sleep all the way over there?”

You meant it to sound teasing—but it comes out... needy, almost.

A heartbeat passes and then the bed shifts as his warmth touches your skin, his body fitting behind yours. Not quite touching yet, but it’s much closer than before. Tentatively, you push back, your back brushing his chest, careful not to let your ass brush up against his groin. He doesn’t pull away, just lets out a long breath, like he’s been holding it this whole time.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything,” you whisper.

But you know that’s not the real question. The real question is what this is, now, why he’s gone distant, why the warmth of his body doesn’t quite reach the space where you needed it to.

Guys pull away after sex — you’ve heard that. But he isn’t just some guy, and this wasn’t supposed to be just sex. There’s something more to his silence than that, you’re sure.

Or at least you hope.

That maybe the twisted, complex nature of your relationship would count for something here, where it matters more than ever, perhaps.

He doesn’t reply but soon his arm is slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the expanse of his broad chest, fingers resting right beneath the curve of your breast. They caress the underside so softly it almost tickles.

And then, softly—so quietly you almost don’t catch it—he murmurs against the back of your neck, 

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

You wake up to the smell of grilled fish and miso.

Sukuna’s here this morning. You’d half expected him to fuck off to wherever he goes for work, just to avoid seeing you after last night.

And not necessarily the sex part—but the part after, where you slept tangled together, limbs knotted, his body curled around yours. You swear that at some point during the night, between dreams, you felt one of his large palms gently cupping your breast. Not sexually. More like the way a kid hugs a stuffed toy in their sleep. Something unconscious.

Possessive yet soft.

But now, there’s nothing in his place except rumpled sheets and an empty stretch of mattress. You get dressed in your pants from last night, then pull one of his oversized shirts over your head to cover your chest. You’re not in the mood to cross paths with him in the kitchen half-naked, just to grab clean clothes from your own room. Finally, you make your way to the dining table and slump into a chair.

Sukuna’s standing at the stove, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast like it’s any other morning.

“You need to talk to your counselor today. About the dorms.”

You blink. “What?”

“For school,” he says, like you’ve asked something stupid. “Next semester starts in a few weeks. You still haven’t put in your housing request.”

You frown, slowly sitting up straighter. “Okay, well—good morning to you too.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. “Morning. Now eat.”

You study him carefully. There’s no trace of last night in his expression. No warmth, no softness, just that familiar sharp-edged irritation, like you’ve already done something wrong. “You’re being kind of a dick this morning.”

“I’m being realistic,” he replies flatly. “You want to finish your program, don’t you?”

It’s true—you do want that degree. But something about the way he says it now digs under your skin. “Yeah, but—why are you suddenly on my ass about it? You’re acting like I’ve been slacking or something.”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead sets a bowl of rice in front of you with a little too much force. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you challenge, looking up at him. “Why are you suddenly breathing down my neck about this stuff?”

Sukuna dries his hands with a towel, leans against the counter, and stares at you. His face is unreadable—annoyed, yes, but there’s something else under it. Distant and resigned.

“You said you wanted to go back,” he says simply. “I’m making sure you do.”

“Yeah, but why now?” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “We literally just—” You stop, cheeks burning. “You know.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That doesn’t change anything.”

You push the bowl away. “Right. Of course it doesn’t.”

The silence that follows is thick and bitter. “I’m not hungry,” you mutter, standing up.

“You need to eat.”

“Oh my god, can you stop acting like my dad for five seconds?”

He freezes. The words land in the room like something dropped and shattered. You hadn’t meant to say it but there it is, ugly and raw. He stares at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

You cross your arms, scowling—but your insides are trembling. Embarrassed. And you don’t even know why. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he says, voice going cold. His expression twists, sharp and mean. That look he wears when you push him too far—when he lets something rotting and cruel crawl to the surface just to watch it burn you. “As if your dad’s ever seen you naked. Wrapped around his—”

“Okay, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. Instead, his voice goes low, flat and weaponized. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it when someone tells you what to do. You melt for it. Like a fucking pet. Tail wagging the second someone shows you attention.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between each word. “You want someone to feed you. Dress you. Tell you what’s good for you. Praise you when you behave. Punish you when you don’t. Isn’t that right?”

His smile is wrong. There’s no humor in it. “You don’t want a dad. You want an owner.”

Your stomach drops.

“And you’d rather it be me than anyone else. That’s the sick part, isn’t it?”

You clench your jaw, knuckled white around the chopsticks you grip so hard you’re surprised they don’t snap. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” you hiss, eyes burning.

His voice is equally low, gaze equally cutting. “Then sign up for your goddamn housing and make sure you’re out from under my roof in six months.”

Sukuna had almost forgotten what you were like before all this. Before you let him in.

But over the next few days, he remembers. He remembers how cold you can be. How distant. How easily you can withdraw behind those walls of yours, quiet and unreachable.

Polite, even — that’s the worst part. Not cruel, not defiant. Just... cordial. Impeccably so. With that measured tone and perfectly impassive face, like he’s a stranger you owe civility to and nothing more.

You don’t sleep in his bed anymore. Most nights, you’re behind the door of your own room. You wake up early, make breakfast before he’s even down the hall. You greet him with a sterile “Good morning,” eat when you’re supposed to, excuse yourself without fanfare.

And through it all, not once do you snap at him. Not once do you cry.

It’s this version of you — competent, composed, independent — that reminds him, with aching clarity, that you don’t need him.

You do the things he used to remind you about before he even opens his mouth. You fold your laundry without being asked. Clean your space, your dishes, your bathroom. You eat, on time, like clockwork. When you struggle with a jar, you don’t ask him. You run it under hot water, twist a rubber band around the lid, and open it yourself.

At first, it annoys him. Then, it sinks in.

You’ve always been capable. Always sharp, always resourceful. You could take care of yourself. You did, before him — before he inserted himself into your life. But now he sees the truth, that all those moments when you leaned on him weren’t signs of helplessness. They were choices.

You let yourself rest, let yourself be cared for, for once. Gave up the exhausting self-sufficiency because, for the first time, someone was there — and you wanted that someone to be him.

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

And now you’re showing him that you can go back to holding it all again, alone, if you have to. And that, somehow, is worse than any screaming match, any slammed door. You even inform him one evening yourself — perfectly neutral — that you’ve talked to the counselor. That you’ve applied for housing, and the results should get back in a few weeks.

In many ways, you are certainly much more tolerable than before. And at the same time, in the most ironic twist of fate, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand those guarded, polite smiles you give him. The way you clean your own dishes without being asked. How you only come to him, or speak to him, when it’s necessary. How you seem unfazed by his longer hours, how you barely seem to even care or notice.

Sukuna only realizes then how much you’d opened up to him, how much of you you’d let him see. That the clinginess, the neediness he used to tease you for—those weren’t flaws. They were the soft depths you’d chosen to reveal beneath that armor he now remembers all too well. The quiet trust behind it, the way you’d let him in. And he’d taken your vulnerability and used it against you.

Vulnerability—somehow your greatest strength. Because he doesn’t know how to show it himself. Doesn’t know how to be soft without destroying something in the process.

He knows—as your guardian—that whatever this is between you has to stop. That it’s fundamentally wrong, that you deserve a future untouched by this, by him. That you should go to school, finish your degree, meet someone your age, live clean and normal and free.

But as a man who wants a woman—wants you—he doesn’t want any of that. He wants to keep you close. Keep you his. Make sure no one else ever sees you the way he has, touches you the way he has, ruins you in the way he already has.

And gods, it would almost be easier if you didn’t look at him like that—like he’s worth everything. Like he’s still someone you want, even now. And that’s what makes it dangerous. Which is why he had to draw the line and set the goddamn deadline. Force you to take control of your own life, even if it hurts you. Even if it kills something inside him.

And the worst part is—it’s working, isn’t it? You’re moving on. Maybe not willingly, nor gracefully, but you’re moving on.

And he’s stuck somewhere between what he owes you as your uncle… and what he wants as a man.

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

A freshly folded towel left outside your bathroom door. A full cup of barley tea placed by your laptop while you study. Groceries restocked with your favorite brand of yogurt.

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

You ignore them all. Not because you don’t notice — you do. Every single one. But acknowledging them would mean softening, and softening would mean giving in. And that strange, ugly ache still swells inside your chest every time you see him. So instead you harden.

When he knocks gently at your door one night, a quiet “You eaten yet?” slipping through the wood, you pretend you have your headphones on. He waits a few moments, doesn’t push. Eventually, you hear his footsteps retreat. You stare up at your ceiling and feel the guilt press against your ribs, dull and stubborn. But you don’t open the door. Not yet.

Because some part of you still wants him to feel it. That you were hurt and that you’re not just going to pretend like it didn’t crack something open. And until then, you keep that distance. Even as it eats at you too.

A few days later, Sukuna finds you on the balcony.

You’re small in the dark. Knees pulled to your chest, sleeves tugged down over your hands. It’s cold, but you don’t shiver.

He leans in the doorway for a long moment before stepping out. Doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a quiet flick, exhales a slow curling stream of smoke into the night.

You don’t look at him, but there’s that familiar ache in your chest. A tightness.

“You’re freezing out here,” he says eventually, like it’s casual.

Nothing.

He tries again. “Didn’t touch your dinner.”

Still no response, not even a shrug.

A longer pause this time. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair.

“You remember that stray cat? The one you used to leave food for down the block?” His voice is low, rougher. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”

You don’t respond but your fingers twitch. Sukuna stares at the side of your face. The line of your jaw, clenched tight, the blankness in your expression.

But inside, you’re fracturing. You don’t know what it is — this urge to hurt him, to dig in the knife and twist, even if it hurts you too.  Some side of you that’s simultaneously sadistic and masochistic, that wants to sabotage everything good, that enjoys the mutual pain.

You suppose that like your uncle, you have a cruel streak somewhere within you as well.

It's been a full week now.

Sukuna lingers in the doorway of your room, like he’s debating whether to say something or leave. Hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes low. He doesn’t look like himself, not in the way you’re used to — no sharp smirk, no biting comment ready to tear into you.

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

You don’t look up from your notebook. “Fine.”

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

A pause. You let it stretch out, wanting him to leave. Or maybe, secretly, you want him to stay and try harder.

“I made soup,” he says. “You could’ve just—”

“I didn’t want it.”

He tenses — not a lot, but enough that you notice. It makes you feel that rush of power, laced with bitterness. With hurt. And somehow you can’t stop yourself.

So instead you flip a page, scribble down a word you don’t care about.

He exhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t do it to punish you. I thought... if I didn’t give you a push, you’d never try. You’d stay here. Get stuck. With me.”

Now you glance over your shoulder, barely. “So you thought hurting me was a favor?” Your voice is flat, almost bored. It stings.

He clenches his jaw. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You finally lower the pen, clipping it to the side of the notebook to close it and keep it down. Then, you turn — calm, composed, lips pressed tight.

“No,” you say coolly, “I think you meant every word. That I’m a burden. That I should get out of your hair.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in. “It’s fine. You want me to move on, right?” You smile a bit. “I have a date tonight, by the way. Don’t wait up.”

It lands exactly where you intended it to. Sukuna goes still. A slow, bitter kind of stillness, the kind that simmers behind his eyes. You walk past him without another word.

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

Your date is forgettable.

Some guy from a dating app you downloaded on impulse a few nights ago, during a moment of defiance or loneliness — you can’t tell which. He talks about cryptocurrency the entire time. You nod along, barely listening, more focused on finishing your ramen than the words coming out of his mouth.

When the check comes, he glances at it, then at you. "Want to split?"

You don’t even bother sighing, just slide your card forward and nod.

On the way home, the silence in the train feels more like relief than emptiness. You realize it then — the whole outing was a quiet attempt to prove something. To yourself, or to Sukuna, you’re not sure. All it proves is that he’s still the one you think about, even when you're sitting across from someone else. He would never ask you to split the bill. And for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely, that thought makes your chest ache more than it should.

You unlock the front door quietly, out of habit. The home is dark except for the low flicker of a lamp. You toe off your shoes, slip inside, and pause there for a moment — unsure why.

He’s not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. You glance toward his closed bedroom door

You expected to feel…something. Triumph, maybe. Validation. Or at the very least, distraction. Instead, there’s only that dull, familiar ache settling back in your chest as you wash your face, brush your teeth, change into pajamas..

You should get to bed, sleep it off. Pretend the date meant something, that it helped.

But you don’t.

Instead, like some quiet pull you can’t resist, you drift toward his door, knock once — barely audible — and let yourself in without waiting for an answer.

He’s in bed, half-asleep or pretending to be. The soft glow of the lamp beside him casts shadows over his face. He doesn’t say anything when you approach, just watches you through lidded eyes.

You hesitate at the side of the bed. Then, without a word, you crawl in beside him — careful, uncertain.

His body is warm, solid. You don’t touch him at first. Just lie there, facing away, the space between you sharp with tension. Then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. A hand brushes your back, barely there.

You don't speak; you don't need to. Eventually, your hand finds his, and holds.

Not an apology. Certainly not a resolution. But something.

You wake up before him.

It’s still dark out, just the faintest grey bleeding into the corners of the sky through the window. His room smells like sleep and the faint woody aroma of whatever soap he uses. You’re curled toward him, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting lightly near his chest.

Not touching. Just…close.

For a while you just lie there, heart aching and quiet. You hadn’t meant to come to him last night but now, in this slow, blurry moment, you realize it was the only place you could’ve ended up.

He shifts a little in his sleep and a quiet sound escapes him, the kind that makes your throat tighten for no good reason.

Finally he speaks, voice low and groggy. “...You came home late.”

You don’t answer. Just breathe slowly, carefully.

His arm shifts, hand brushing your back again tentatively.  “Was he any good?”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh. Not amused, just tired. “No,” you whisper. “He was boring as hell.”

A long pause. You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t press. “Good.”

Another beat. You almost laugh again, but it catches somewhere painful in your chest. So instead, you let your eyes fall closed again and say nothing. His fingers linger on your back, warm and uncertain.

Still no resolution. Still no answers. But somehow, the silence between you feels less like distance — and more like a thread slowly weaving itself back together. You fall asleep like that, side by side. 

A couple days pass.

Things don’t go back to normal, not completely, but the ice isn’t as sharp as it was before. You’re both still circling each other, careful, cautious. But the air between you is a little less brittle now.

It’s late morning. You’re in the kitchen, halfheartedly eating some toast, still in your sleep shirt. He walks in, dressed and ready to head out, keys in one hand, phone in the other. He says nothing at first, just grabs a bottle of water and downs half of it.

You keep your eyes on your plate, but then, casually — maybe too casually — you ask,

“You working today?”

His brow lifts, ever so slightly though he doesn't turn to face you right away.

“Mmh,” he hums, wiping his mouth. “I am.”

You nod once, like that was all you wanted to know. But the smallest flicker of something akin to disappointment flashes across your face, and he catches it. He leans against the counter, watching you for a beat too long. “…You gonna miss me or something?”

You roll your eyes without looking up, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins faintly — just a hint of smugness there, but it’s gentler than usual. Almost soft. “Mm. That’s not a no.”

You snort under your breath and finally glance up at him, just for a second. He’s already turning toward the door, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now like maybe your question meant more to him than it should’ve.

And maybe your asking it meant something to you, too.

You don’t say anything else as he leaves. But when the door closes, you sit there with your half-eaten toast and feel the quiet press of his absence in the apartment. And this time, it doesn’t feel like punishment.

It just feels like… missing.

You don’t plan to wait up. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You clean up the kitchen after dinner. Do a face mask, scroll on your phone. You even get in bed at a decent hour, lights off, pretending you're tired enough to sleep. But you don't; instead you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in too many thoughts and too much quiet.

You hear the front door open sometime after three in the morning. The soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off and keys landing in the bowl. 

You could stay in bed. You should. But before you can put thought into it, you're getting up and padding out into the hallway quietly, not sure what you're doing, until you catch sight of him in the living room — jacket off, sleeves rolled up, rubbing his neck like it’s been a long day.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You hover a moment, then casually speak up, your voice quieter than you intend. “Late.”

He glances up, just a little startled. But his gaze softens when he sees you — rumpled from bed, arms loosely crossed like you’re pretending this is some kind of ambush and not the result of waiting for him for over three hours.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you. There's a quiet tension that might’ve been awkward once, but now just feels…careful — like both of you are trying to speak without saying the wrong thing.

Then, after a moment, he gestures with his head toward the couch. “Wanna sit with me for a bit? We can watch TV or something.”

You hesitate but only for a second. “…Yeah,” you murmur. “Alright.”

You curl into the corner of the couch, and he sits down beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulder brushes his when you shift. You just sit there silently, some late night talk show on the screen that neither of you are really watching, the clock ticking on the wall.

Neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing. That this… is better. You missed this.

The room is dim, the air thick with the remnants of the night. You can feel the weight of his presence even without looking at him. It’s strange, how the space between you doesn’t feel empty tonight.

You sit, stiff at first, then relax, just enough for the warmth in the room to seep into you. You can hear him breathing — slow, steady, and soon the quiet becomes comfortable. He’s the first to break it, his hand still lingering in the air, hovering above you, before he drops it to his lap.

“Go to bed if you’re tired.” His voice is low, almost absent, but there’s something in it — a softness you don’t expect from him.

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you just feel the weight of your own exhaustion settle in. The events of the night, the day before, everything else—all of it starts to catch up. You never realized how much you needed this quiet.

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Then just let me.”

Your eyelids flutter, and the weight of sleep tugs at you, slow and irresistible. You try to fight it, but your body betrays you and involuntarily you lean back, just a little, and your head slips sideways.

His presence is warm, familiar, an anchor that you can’t seem to pull away from. Before you realize it, you’re not just leaning against the couch anymore. Your cheek is against his shoulder, your body curling slightly in towards him.

You don’t move. His hand is still resting near you, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin if you shift an inch. You want to move away, to keep that distance, but you’re too tired. Too drained. And, despite everything — despite the fighting and the sharp edges between you — you feel safer here.

You don’t notice when you finally drift off, your breathing evening out in rhythm with his. Sukuna watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the top of your head. He doesn’t move, even as you shift slightly in your sleep, closer to him.

His hand hovers for a beat before he rests it on your head, just a light touch, like he’s afraid of waking you. Or maybe afraid of needing you. He doesn’t let himself think about it too long. He shifts slightly, adjusting his own position to make you more comfortable, but he doesn’t push you away or force you to go back to your room. For the first time in a while, he simply allows himself to be in the moment with you, even if nothing is fixed.

Slowly, your odd relationship begins to rebuild itself. Almost like nothing’s changed. Which feels good, but you know is probably ultimately bad.

There isn’t much left for you to do regarding your college application now other than wait, which works in both your and Sukuna’s favors since he doesn’t have to ask you about it. And for a little while, you can both pretend like it doesn’t exist, like there isn’t a definitive end to all this.

You once again start bugging each other in that way, where it becomes a game to push each other’s buttons. The subtle jabs, the teasing remarks — it feels familiar, like slipping back into an old pair of shoes. Comfortable, easy.

One morning, you deliberately make a mess with the breakfast dishes, leaving them in the sink just to see if he’ll say something. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Spoiled,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the unwashed plates before he grabs his coat to head out for the day. You’re about to say something snarky back, but he catches you off guard when he pauses by the door. “I’m leaving. Don’t forget to eat. Don’t make me come back here to check on you.” His voice is sharp, but there’s something behind it that catches you off guard.

You don’t even reply, just raise an eyebrow as he walks out.

The day stretches on, and as usual, you find yourself stuck between the feeling of wanting to be left alone and the pull of his presence — a silent, strange comfort.

A few days later, you’ve had enough of your own thoughts spinning in circles. You’re lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone when Sukuna walks in, the air shifting the moment he steps through the door.

“Made yourself comfortable?” he remarks dryly, nodding to the mess of books and papers scattered around the coffee table. You shrug, not bothering to answer, but he continues, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’re avoiding me again. Good to know I’m still that important.”

You roll your eyes but a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Oh? And how am I avoiding you?”

“You’re still keeping your distance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you today. Less guarded. Almost vulnerable, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t respond immediately, the tension in the air thick. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then, the game kicks in. You look up from your phone, tilting your head with a feigned innocence. “And what about you? Still not asking about my college stuff? You’d think you’d care by now.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he smirks in that infuriatingly smug way. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to care? But I’m leaving it up to you. All of it.” His voice softens just a bit, and for a second, the tension fades. “Just don’t waste the chance.”

It stings. Not because of the words, but because you know they’re true. And deep down, you’re not sure if you’re ready to make that choice.

Sukuna won’t admit it, but he’s secretly thrilled at the way you’ve started to cling to him again.

It begins with you sometimes crawling into his bed at night, asking if you can sleep with him. He agrees, and soon the asking eventually just turns into you announcing that he’ll be sharing the bed with you.

And then the casual, domestic bickering returns full time to your daily life. One morning you’re sitting at the breakfast table, innocently eating leftovers from last night as he opens the fridge to grab some milk from his coffee.

The carton is suspiciously light, but he tries his luck anyway, unscrewing the lid to pour some into his glass.

A single drop falls out.

He catches you trying not to look at him, clearly hoping to escape the reprimanding that’s about to come your way.

“Seriously? Can you just throw away the damn containers when they’re finished?”

You sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it next time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Okay what do you want me to do? Go back in time and throw the carton away? I just forgot.”

He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’d buy into it a bit more if he didn’t see how well you could really do things, when you weren’t talking to him. Weaponized incompetency - that’s what this is.

If you’re not acting like some poor woman’s kind of shitty boyfriend, you’re acting like a spoiled pet.

You stand in the doorway to his office, arms crossed over your chest. Sukuna is bent over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up at first, but you can feel his awareness of your presence, as always.

“I’m bored,” you announce, breaking the silence.

Sukuna barely glances up. “Do I look like your entertainment?”

“Not really,” you mutter, stepping closer. “But I’m here, so I thought you might want some company.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches until you can’t stand it any longer. You move behind his chair and sit down on his lap without asking. He freezes for a moment, but doesn’t push you off. His hands remain on the paperwork, not acknowledging the shift in your position.

You lean in slightly, eyes flicking to the paper in front of him. “What’s this? Planning to buy something else you don’t need?”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “I’m working.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight a little to grind—barely—against his thigh. “It must be hard to focus when you’re this uptight,” you say, deliberately lazy in your tone.

He glances at you sideways. “I’m not the one climbing into someone’s lap uninvited.”

“Don’t need an invitation. It’s my birthright as your only niece,” you reply with a half-smile.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t bother responding. Pen scratching against the page like he’s willing himself to ignore you.

You want his attention, maybe something more — to get a peek into his head. But you know him; he never gives anything away when asked outright. That’s fine, you’ll go for the side door instead.

After watching him for a moment you lean in a little, voice laced with provocation. “Let me guess—you think this is annoying. That I’m clingy and that you’d rather be alone.”

He pauses just for a second, but you catch it. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Push a bit further.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or maybe you’re just trying not to care too much. Wouldn’t want to make things messy, right?”

That’s when his pen stops moving. His jaw tightens, just enough to make you smirk.

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my head,” he mutters, low and sharp.

There we go.

“Well, maybe you should share then,” you respond casually.

He leans back in his chair slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, and you feel your breathing quicken. Your pulse stutters—God, you’ve missed this. Missed him like this. Sukuna grins slowly, in that way that tells you he’s up to no good as his hand finds its way to the curve of your hip.

“You really wanna know what’s going on in my head?” He shifts beneath you, just enough for you to feel it—hard and rising under your weight.

“Guess I do,” you breathe, feigning calm.

“I’m thinking,” he says lowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “That the shipping clause in the new procurement contract’s gonna screw us if customs get nosy in Kobe again.“

You blink before your face settles into a scowl of irritation. “God you’re fucking insufferable,” you mutter, looking away.

“What, did you want me to say I was thinking about you?”

You give him a dry, biting, pointed look that makes him smirk even wider.

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

“…And how you still haven’t bought the milk you finished without telling me. Or taken out the goddamn trash.”

You turn away, trying not to let the dejection get to you. Sure maybe you’re horny but it was more than that too — you wanted him to want you like that again. To feel that he still desires you in the way you know he shouldn’t.

So you begin to get up with a sigh, when he pushes you back down abruptly before casually adding, “Oh and how I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock right now-” He grabs your hips, grinding your throbbing cunt right onto where his bulge is straining against his pants, “So I can fuck your throat till you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitching a little in surprise. Exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, considering how it makes him smirk.

“Is that the kind of thing you wanted to hear? Huh?” he teases.

Yes, it is, but you’re feeling a bit more bratty after the way he just messed with you.

So you purse your lips, trying once again to climb off him. “Nope. Not anymore at least. I think I’m gonna go take out the trash actually since you were so concerned about that—“

His gaze darkens and before you can even catch the movement he’s gripping your wrist. “Knees. Now.”

You shoot him a glare. “And give me one good reason I should do that after that shit you just pulled?”

Of course the thought of getting to feel his cock in your mouth for the first time is more than arousing, but your penchant for demand avoidance proves to be just as stubborn.

“Because you waltzed in here practically begging for my attention—and now you’ve got it,” he says smoothly, thumb brushing along your lower lip, hand cupping your jaw. “Interrupting me while I’m working…”

His eyes drag over your face. “Might as well make yourself useful. Help me burn off some of this stress...”

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. He watches you, waiting. When you still don’t move, his hand trails lower—fingers wrapping around your throat with deliberate pressure.

“Get on your knees.” His voice drops, grip tightening just slightly. “I won’t ask again.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on his. Then you move. He releases you as you shift, lifting yourself off his lap and lowering to the floor between his legs, gaze never breaking from his. Sukuna’s eyes follow you, widening his thighs a bit more so that you have better access to the bulge now at your face level.

And before he even has to ask, you’re reaching forward, unzipping his fly to expose the swell in his boxers. He exhales softly when you finally pull down the waistband, freeing his erect cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip.

You swallow again, this time louder, the sound exaggerated in the quiet between you. He hears it, clearly, and lets out a low, amused snort.

“Nothing to say now?”

You give him another half-assed scowl, before returning your attention to his dick. His skin is tan against the dark pink of his hair, a contrast that draws your eyes before anything else. And when your hand finally wraps around him, the weight of him is undeniable—solid, warm, real.

His cock is just as imposing as the rest of him. No wonder he acts like that.

“What do you want me to do?” you murmur, giving him an experimental pump of your fist, before bending forward to lick the pearlescent bead of pre gathered at his slit.

A little salty, maybe even sweet, ever so slightly.

Sukuna breathes a bit sharply at the touch, though his voice stays composed, condescending and arrogant as ever. “Suck it? Give me a blowjob? Want me to say it in another languag— ah, fuck,” he hisses when you deliberately stiffen the tip of your tongue, firmly prodding into his slit.

Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to probably feel uncomfortable. You lift away, stroking his length gently with a small satisfied smile.

“Was that good?” you ask innocently, knowing few things annoy him as much as your weaponized incompetency.

“Just open your mouth and let me fuck it since you can’t do it right yourself.”

You place one hand on his thigh, the other bringing his tip back to your lips to give it another kitten lick. “In a moment.”

You tease your tongue around his frenulum, sliding your tongue up and down with soft, almost curious licks. He lets you explore dick as you borderline inspect it, lifting his shaft to peer at the heavy balls sitting below before running your tongue along the seam with almost reverent carefulness. Sukuna’s breath deepens, as you feel his hand coming up to knot in your hair.

“What’s this all about? Never sucked a dick before or something?” he murmurs, though he stays patient, letting you go at your own pace.

“I have. Just not yours,” you mumble, as you bring your lips back up, rubbing it against his sensitive glans just to see what it feels like.

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

You’ve sucked dick before, yes, but never felt the need to get so familiar with another man’s intimate areas, to take your time like you’re trying to permanently imprint the memory of it in your brain. You find yourself wanting to memorize every vein you trace with your tongue, the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him in your mouth.

Perhaps you understand now why he was so adamant on wanting to see every inch of your own pussy. Not to mention no other man’s ever leaked as much precum as he is right now, oozing from his slit as you coat your lips with it in a slick sheen. Sukuna’s muscles are visibly tensed beneath you, you can tell he’s reaching his limit from the steady tightening of the hand gripping your roots. Good.

But you want to push him further, just a bit. So you look up at him as you collect spit in your mouth, before parting your lips to drip it obscenely over his tip. And then, you blow on the wettened skin, ever so gently.

A notch forms between his brows, jaw clenching as it does when he gets irritated. Suddenly your head is yanked back, scalp stinging from the harsh tug.

“Enough,” he growls. “Stick your tongue out like a good slut.”

You do as you’re told, and soon he’s taking his cock and rubbing it against the flat of your tongue as you gaze up at him.

“That’s it.” He slides cock off your tongue, and onto your face, slapping it against your cheek with a wet noise, your saliva sticking to you skin. “Now open up.”

You widen your jaw and take a deep inhale through your nose right before he slides his girth in, inch by inch, feeding it into your throat. Immediately your gag reflex kicks in as he goes deeper than you’d expected, sooner than you’d expected.

Sukuna only snickers meanly when he hears you choke a bit, your throat convulsing around his cock. “Too much?”

You narrow your watering eyes in defiance, inhaling again through your nose before remembering a trick you’d heard somewhere about squeezing one of your thumbs so you don’t gag.

So you ball your left fist around your thumb as hard as you can, and strangely enough, it works. With that you hollow your cheeks and push your head down until your nose reaches the coarse hairs on his pelvis, taking in how tight your throat feels around his cock sheathed fully inside.

He smiles as you still a bit, the grip in your hair loosening so that he can stroke it instead, as he murmurs pleasantly surprised, “Oh, good girl. You learn fast, huh?”

Before he can do it himself, you begin moving your head back before sliding back down again, feeling the velvety skin of his shaft brush along your tongue as you bob your head up and down. Slick, squelching noises fill the study, your throat making wet clicks as it moves around him. You can feel your saliva starting to drool out, dripping down his shaft, some smearing on your lips and chin.

It feels sloppy, even more when you hear him groan in pleasure as he grips your hair again, the noise sending an unbearable warmth down to your core while you try to focus on keeping your teeth out of the way and breathing through your nose.

“Mmh, just like that baby, your throat feels so fucking good,” he rasps.

His praise goes right to your head, feeling much better than it had any right to. It’s enough to make you push away the aching pain flaring in your jaw from holding it open, just to hear more of it, to show him how well you can please him. You unclench the fist you were squeezing to fondle his balls, caressing and massaging them delicately while you work your throat around him, rubbing your tongue along his length and letting more of your spit drip out and onto his cock as you swallow around it.

You know Sukuna. You know beyond a certain point of pleasure, his lust will morph into something worse, something vicious that likes to ruin.

And you know it's what compels him to abruptly grip your hair so tightly it stings, and thrust his hips so hard into your mouth with a guttural noise that you make a muffled squeak of surprise, losing your rhythm and feeling you gag reflex claw up your chest, trying to push him back out of your throat. He grins wickedly, cock only twitching in excitement when he feels you struggling to take him, only encouraging him to go harder, fuck your skull till tears are streaming down your face and spit froths at your lips and dribbles down. Strands of your hair stick to the mess, but he’s too busy bruising the back of your throat to care enough to peel them away.

“Hah, I think this is your birthright as my niece,” he sneers between pants, as you try and regain some semblance of control, fingers trying find some purchase on his thighs to steady you a bit. “Finally putting that fucking mouth of yours to proper use.”

You’d be annoyed normally, but in the hazy mess your mind is in right now, with nothing existing but the wet heat of your throat engulfing his cock, the musky scent of him and the stiff pain in your jaw, you’ve been reduced to a primal need to devote yourself to his pleasure. So you relax, and let him use your throat, gazing up at him through teary eyes, drinking the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, brows pulled together, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

Surrender.

Maybe he can sense the moment you finally do so because then his face is crumpling and you feel his hips stutter as he pulls back so his tip rests heavily on your tongue.

“Oh, fuck-“

Spurts of seed spread across your tongue as he fills your mouth, warm and viscous, as he fills your mouth. He finishes finally, pulling out his wet dick from your mouth with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t swallow; instead you keep his semen in your mouth for a bit, tasting it, feeling it, as he tucks himself back in. The texture is somewhere between saliva and diluted syrup, and under the saline taste there’s a strange sweetness — warm, earthy, almost like the smell of skin after sex. You chase it with your tongue, savoring the taste not because it’s objectively good, but because it’s his.

And then, an idea comes to mind.

Before Sukuna can react, you’re getting to your feet and climbing onto him. You tilt his jaw towards yours, muffling his surprised grunt as you abruptly kiss him, pushing your way through his lips, guiding the slick taste into his mouth with the tip of your tongue

You more than half expect him to push you away, but he catches you off guard when he kisses you back instead, deepening it and groaning softly as sucks the cum off your tongue, some of the white fluid leaking down the corners of your lips. When you no more is left, you pull away, breaking a thin strand of fluid connecting your wet lips.

You sit there for a moment, flustered and out of breath, before wiping your lips and face with your sleeve, scowling when he smirks at you completely unfazed.

“Was that supposed to be revenge? Because it kinda turned me on instead.”

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a fucking freak,” you comment dryly.

“Guess you got it from me.”

You glare at him again, pushing against his chest. “I’ve had enough of you.”

But Sukuna’s hand is trailing up your waist, coaxing you to stay there.

“Aw, and here I was thinking about rewarding you for your good work,” he purrs.

“Rewarding me?” you repeat, suspicious but a bit intrigued.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

Your brow furrows as you peek at the desk behind you, still covered in documents. “What?”

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

Sukuna sighs. “Just do it. And take off your pants.”

And for some reason you comply, getting off him to hastily swipe the papers to the side before shrugging your pants down your legs and sitting on the desk in front of him.

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want you to turn around. I’m gonna eat you out.”

Oh.

You’re certainly not going to fight against that. Sure he’s never eaten you out from the back before and the position makes you a bit nervous, but then you remember you only get him like this for a few more months and soon you’re climbing up all the way onto the desk.

You feel a bit more vulnerable like this with your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your ass presented to where you can’t see him.

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

You hear him moving and a warm palm squeezes one of your cheeks, kneading the pliant flesh before his second hand joins on the other side.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Just don’t try anything …weird.”

He doesn’t respond, but you think you catch a light laugh under his breath. Not a good sign, but you’re too far in now.

And then your panties are being pulled down your ass till right above your knees, and you can already feel how wet you are just in anticipation.

Sukuna doesn’t waste any time, and immediately his tongue is caressing at your damp folds, before slipping in and gliding through them till your clit. You moan softly as he begins lapping at your pussy, tingling heat building between your thighs as he licks you firmly, suckling on your clit in between.

Sukuna’s certainly talented at eating a woman out, you’ll give him that, because not even five minutes later you’re whimpering and shaking as the pressure in your clit builds till you cum on his tongue.

A few breathless moments and then you feel yourself loosening up again, coming down from your high, feeling much better now than a few minutes ago when you were sure he had some devious plans in mind.

“Shit, that was good,” you mumble as his tongue pulls away from your sopping cunt.

The relief you were basking in is ripped away when suddenly you feel him gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart.

Uncomfortable.

“I said no weird stuff—” Your words end in a squeak of surprise when you feel something warm and wet press against the tight rim of your asshole. Heat quickly rises to your face in indignation as you shift, trying to get away from the ironclad grip he has on your ass. “Oh my god, do not do that—”

A sharp slap to your ass shuts you up as you wince in pain instead. “You should really try new things, you know that? It’ll get you a lot farther in life.”

“Uncle!” you cry out in mortification when you feel his tongue back on your hole, prodding at it. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes,” his answer comes between small licks at your hole, making you flinch when he abruptly spits on it. “How else will you take my cock up here if you can’t even take my tongue?”

“What!?” You squirm, twisting your head to try and look at him. “No, no, that is definitely not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Why does it have to!? Is my pussy not good enough for you?” You can barely see him behind you from the way he’s holding your ass firmly in place, but that won’t stop you from trying, even if it makes your neck hurt a lot.

You hear him audibly sigh. “Do you always have to fucking argue with me?”

And then maybe as punishment, or just because he likes to torture you, he presses the tip of his tongue firmly enough against your puckered hole that it actually breaches through. You yelp at the odd, visceral sensation

He pulls it back out just to laugh at you. “If you can go three minutes without moving around or fucking bitching, I’ll let you go. How about that?”

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

Sukuna sighs, but he agrees, setting the time on his phone before putting it back on the desk. “Now shut the fuck up.”

It is still far from comfortable, this strange new sensation, and at first you’re still fighting to try and not squirm, especially when his tongue presses teasingly into your entrance again, before probing a little deeper. You’ve never done this before, not even with your own fingers, really.

His tongue feels delicate and invasive at once- even though he’s barely in deep, it’s somewhere untouched. Yet somewhere along the way you stop tensing and just let him play with your hole, and when his tongue pushes a bit more insistently against the tight ring of muscle, a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

Then his fingers are joining by pushing into your wet pussy, and the feeling of him massaging your walls as his tongue works diligently at your other hole is enough to make you moan and melt into the touch.

You hate it. That’s he always right. That he really, definitely, knows what he’s doing if he’s actually able to make you enjoy this despite the discomfort and your initial reluctance. And fuck, it feels good- dirty and sinful enough to make your arousal drip down his fingers and your hole clench around his tongue. But then the shrill ring of the alarm cuts through, startling you and yanking you before you can fall deeper into the haze. You don’t even realize you’re panting till he pulls away and you turn to look at him, feeling a bit conflicted.

“You can…keep going,” you mumble. “It felt kinda good.”

And to that, Sukuna looks at you with amusement as he licks his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? My dirty little niece actually likes getting her ass eaten,” he coos as you stare at him venomously.

“But,” Sukuna leans back into his chair, grinning lazily. “The timer rang, and I promised I wouldn’t go longer than that remember?”

Irritating, infuriating man.

But you did say that, so this one’s a bit fair, even if you always feel like he’s setting you up on purpose every single time. You don’t say anything, just huff and roll over to pull your panties back up before sitting and getting off his desk, putting your pants back on.

Sukuna stands and stretches with a low grunt. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Then I’ve got work to finish.”

You nod, shifting a little where you sit, and watch as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the quiet room for a moment, then cuts off. When he returns, drying his hands on a towel, his gaze flicks to you—still lingering where he left you.

He drops back into the chair, spreads his thighs, and pats one. “Come here. Sit.”

“Do you always have to talk to me like I’m a dog?” you mutter under your breath, though you quickly move to make yourself comfortable on his lap, resting your head against his chest as he gets back to work like you still can’t taste the faint astringent aftertaste of his cum in your mouth, or the dampness on the gusset of your panties.

Your relationship not only returns to what it used to be, but becomes something even more—evident from the fact that you now regularly sleep with him at night. Hours of tossing and turning trying to fall asleep turn into minutes as soon as you’re next to him. But with him next to you, the restless ache that builds in your body each night has nowhere to go—and you can’t exactly handle it the usual way with him lying inches away.

After a few nights, Sukuna can’t take it anymore. You crawl into his bed again, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and he lets you in without a word—again. You curl into him like you always do, seeking the warmth and safety he pretends not to offer. And as always, he runs his hand down your back, lets you rest your head against his chest, even pulls the blanket up over your shoulders without complaint. But then it starts- the shifting. The sighing. The squirming.

He can feel every frustrated twitch of your body, every little exhale like your skin is too tight to hold in whatever’s stirring inside. He cracks an eye open, jaw clenched. You’re on your back now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s personally offended you.

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

You glance over, sheepish. “Sorry… I just—can’t sleep.”

“No shit,” he says, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “And you’re making it my problem too.”

You try to apologize, genuinely feeling kind of bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is—“

Sukuna just sighs and then his hands are sliding to your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You don’t say anything. Words are never needed with him — he understands what you need, even before you do. How to offer you some relief. He notices how your breath hitches, thighs shifting as he slips his fingers under your top, skimming along your skin. He notices all the things you try to hide.

“What’re you…” Your voice trails off as his fingers dip lower, beneath the waistband of your pajamas.

“Shut up,” he murmurs gently, hands slipping fully into the waistband of your panties.

Lower and lower, till they brush against your slick folds.

“You really need me to do everything, huh?” he muses, his voice low and lazy. “Can’t even get yourself off like a big girl?”

“Sukuna,” you whisper, flustered now, but your legs shift again—nervous, needy.

“What?” he taunts gently, like he’s scolding a pet. “You want to toss and turn all night like a brat, or do you want to cum so hard you pass out?”

You glare at him, cheeks flushed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smirks, leaning down, mouth brushing just under your jaw as he deliberately dips a finger into the arousal collecting at your entrance, before puling it back out to smear your slick across your folds. “Yeah. And you’re wet for it.”

You let out a breathy sigh, just giving in, relaxing your body into his and letting him take over. One of his fingers slips inside you at first, and he presses it right against the spongey part of your wall. He can feel a throbbing under the sensitive, swollen flesh there, like your heart is literally beating in your cunt.

It makes blood flow to his own cock, but he ignores that for now.

He fingers you under the sheets, your juices spilling and dampening your panties, though you don’t really care. Soft, wet noises are audible from under the blankets, amidst your small whimpers and mewls, grinding into his hand for more.

Finally you cum with a small cry, and when Sukuna pulls his hand back out his fingers are covered in a glistening glaze. And just like he predicted, your body stays lax, satiated, no longer restless and squirming, and he can feel you starting to doze off against him.

But he’s Sukuna, so right before he lets you fall asleep he sticks his cum-coated fingers into your mouth abruptly. You make a muffled noise of surprise, and agitation.

“Clean them,” he says plainly. “You made a mess.”

You’re too drowsy to really fight back anyway so you lazily suck his fingers clean, tongue licking at the crevices in between , the taste of your own arousal coating your tongue before you swallow it down.

And when you decide you’re done, you pull his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, turning your head away in quiet defiance. He snorts under his breath, wiping the damp fingers on your cheek just to get a rise out of you.

You groan, muffled against the pillow. “Can you not?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, unbothered, like you’re the one making a scene.

You try to swat at him half-heartedly, but your arm's too heavy with sleep, and he easily catches your wrist, pinning it lazily to the mattress.

“Such a brat,” he mutters, voice low and warm near your ear.

You don’t bother answering, just sigh, turning your face into his chest instead, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you down. His hand lingers at your back, a quiet weight as you fall asleep and neither of you realize it's the first time you've addressed him by his name of your own accord.

There’s something about growing up with very little family. No buffer—no siblings to confide in, no cousins to rely on, no grandparents to balance things out. Every relationship carries extra weight.

In your case, it’s your parents. In an ideal world, this would’ve drawn you closer. A small, tight-knit family. But in reality, emotional absence from either parent creates a gaping void—whether you name it or not.

For you, it’s a paternal wound. One that only becomes glaringly obvious when Sukuna slips into your life, uninvited, into the role of a pseudo-guardian.

It isn’t some cliché Freudian desire to date your father; it’s something deeper. What draws you to Sukuna isn’t the simple need for a father figure—it’s how he fills a hollow space inside you. And the quiet resentment that he wasn’t there to do it sooner.

But there are downsides to filling a wound. You haven’t forgotten that moment—the horrible, embarrassing moment the morning after he took your virginity. When, raw and vulnerable, you snapped, calling him "your dad."

Neither of you ever brought it up again. And maybe that’s for the best, because the implication was too real. Because while the sense of protection from him draws you in, it also comes with expectations you never asked for. Sometimes, when Sukuna acts like he cares, it feels like a leash—an invisible tether you never wanted, but can’t escape.

You don’t look too closely at it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t dig into why it feels this way, because deep down, you know that if you did, you’d start trying to excuse it. And that feels worse.

So you let it haunt you quietly instead. You let it settle in your bones, a constant undercurrent of discomfort that you’ve learned to live with. And you don’t question it.

Not even when, one evening, in the middle of one of your usual bickering sessions, Sukuna announces—out of nowhere—that he’s taking you on a date. Especially since, according to him, your last one was pathetic.

You’re pretty sure it’s just his way of proving a point, another game to pass the time.

But still.

Your stomach flips. That giddiness bubbles up, childish and bright, almost shameful in its intensity—not because you crave male attention, not just because someone chose you.

But because he did. Because it’s Sukuna, and everything he represents.

The one person who never had to care, who didn’t owe you anything—but still chose you, regardless. And even if his gesture is wrapped in sarcasm and ego, it feels surprisingly pure. Like something tender buried beneath something cruel.

It disarms you.

Especially when he adds, almost carelessly, that you’ll need a new dress, proper heels, maybe even a little makeup.

“If I’m doing this,” he says, “I’m doing it right.”

Of course, you try to laugh off the part about him buying you things. You’ve been trained to never take from others, to never be the one who gets lavished with attention, and you don’t know how to accept it anymore. Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe you’ve never known how to let yourself be spoiled.

Sukuna, however, just gives you that look—a sharp, unamused stare—and tells you to shut up.

So you do. You nod, face flushed, trying to hide the way your chest tightens. Not just from excitement, but from something heavier, something sharper. The ache of being cared for in a way you were never shown how to care for yourself. Something dangerously close to wanting—no, needing—to be wanted in a way you never learned how to ask for.

Sukuna means it when he says if you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.

Which is how you end up at the store that weekend, standing in front of an employee assigning you a changing room. You hold out the dresses draped over your arm—four of them—for her to count.

“Ooh, those are great choices. What’s the occasion?” she asks, smiling.

And then Sukuna appears behind you like some large, intimidating shadow, and you swear you can see her recalibrating behind that smile—trying to figure out if he’s your dad or an older boyfriend. She definitely lands on the worse conclusion when he smirks and rests a hand on your shoulder.

“She has a date tomorrow night,” he says.

You force a small smile, shifting under his touch, laughing nervously. “Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” she replies—now clearly convinced he’s your father. "You can take that big stall at the end,” she adds with a knowing look.

You blink, eyebrows knitting as you glance between Sukuna and the girl. “Oh, he’s not co—”

“Thank you,” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, steering you away before you can finish your sentence.

The second you're out of earshot, you twist out of his grip, shoving the door to the stall open. “There is absolutely no need for you to come in with me. Just stay out here. I’ll show you each one when I try them on.”

Sukuna tilts his chin toward the bench inside the stall. “See that? That’s for uncles supervising their bratty nieces. Tradition.”

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

“Oh my god—shut up.” You glance around, mortified. “Don’t say shit like that. People’ll get the wrong idea.”

“More like the right idea. Hope they all know you suck your uncle’s—”

You slap him before he can finish, cheeks blazing, and yank him inside by the wrist as he laughs.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

The door clicks shut behind you. You hang the dresses up one by one, studiously ignoring him as you grab the first one off the rack. Sukuna sprawls on the bench like he owns the place—and you. Legs wide, arms folded, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You peel off your top, then pause at your waistband. “Can you, like…close your eyes?”

He opens his mouth—no doubt ready to say something disgusting—so you cut him off before he can get the words out.

“Ugh, never mind. Forget it,” you mutter, yanking your pants off anyway.

Now you’re hyper-aware of the mirrors. Of the lighting. Of the man sitting behind you who doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Can you not ogle me like some creep?”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches, then slowly palms himself through his jeans.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?”

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up. You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands. Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him. His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier. He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him. Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic. Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate. And then you see the store sign. Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips. “No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in. A red lace set that’s mostly straps. A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts. Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks. “You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything. Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even. But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you. This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want. Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes. Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by. Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded and polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory. The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller.  The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn't. Instead he sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should. You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look. A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts. You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears. You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on. Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts. Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting. Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him. He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered. You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real. Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs. A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever. That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural. Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him. Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart. You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop. Because in this moment, he makes you forget. Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

[burningcheese-merchant]

What potential dynamic do you imagine with Eternal Sugar and Hollyberry, and Whity Lily and Silent Salt?

One final ask before I play the update lol. I'm holding off just for you, Anon. You're welcome

I see Eternal Sugar being attached to Hollyberry, because... of course I do lol. I'm the Beast x Ancient spokesperson at this point (and they actually are canon, they are soulmates, it is true). Beyond that soul bond, though, perhaps Sugar both resents and is fond of Holly's outgoing attitude. The way Holly is always smiling and laughing, the way she always champions friendship and unity. The way she's always happy. Sugar was probably like her once, and perhaps some part of her genuinely likes that she finally found a like-minded person after an eternity alone. But she's frustrated, too, because to some degree, Holly's happiness (Holly jolly lol) isn't real. It's a mask. It's Holly making herself strong for everyone else's sake. Being everyone else's shield, like she always has been. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she waste time and effort pretending? If she let go of her burdens, if she gave into sloth completely like Sugar did, then she really would be happy.

And I say "completely" because... well, that's the other thing Sugar likes about Holly: Holly already is slothful. All she does anymore is drink and be merry. She surrendered her shield and her crown ages ago (she may have taken the former back, but the latter is forever lost). She ran away from her kingdom, she ran away from her friends, she ran away from her family, she ran away from herself. In her despair over having failed so many people so many times, from Pure Vanilla to her own missing granddaughter, Holly threw her life away and instead turned to "happiness": the sweet but fleeting kind found at the bottom of a beer stein, the foregoing of all responsibility and reality in favor of believing everything is fine. Their "in the end, you will become me" moment will be Sugar pointing out that Holly already IS her. She's been her for a long time now. So why keep pretending she's not? Just give up and be happy. Be happy for real, for once in your life. They can be happy together once she does. Wouldn't that be nice?

As for Silent Salt and White Lily... Personally, I would really, really enjoy if Salt was exactly like Lily in that he is "the odd one out". I always imagined Salt being some sort of outcast, both in general society and among his own friends. Just like White Lily is. Two people that are just too different from everyone else. Who think too differently from everyone else. Who just don't fit in anywhere, no matter how anyone tries to pretend that they do.

I want their relationship to be a deviation from the norm. I don't want Salt to want to fight her (if he does, then he does so only because he feels he has no choice. He finds no joy or satisfaction in it), I want him to want to commiserate with her. Because in the end, she already is him. She became him a long time ago. Before Holly became Sugar. Before any of the Ancients "became" their Beasts. Lily has already fallen to darkness and turned her back on the world, just like Salt did. And there was always something missing from her life, even before; just like him. Salt does not see an enemy, he does not see a thief. He just sees another person who the world couldn't help but disappoint. It would be nice if their battle was primarily a philosophical one, as opposed to a physical duel. I want Salt to be the one Beast who has always been 100% self-aware of his flaws and mistakes (no verbal dressing down necessary, like all the other Beasts got), and is not afraid to acknowledge them publicly, but sticks to them anyway because he chooses to. He CHOSE evil. He CHOSE to become a Beast. And he will gladly tell Lily why, because now, there's someone who could finally understand. Because the exact same thing happened to her.

If there is just one scene, one single scene, of Salt and Lily just sitting somewhere, watching the dark horizon in melancholic silence, then I'll feel complete

[fishwithaphone]

I've never done one of these before! I'm actually super exited since I was tagged by @cursedcatchild 🤩

Favorite Character and One Reason Why:

My favorite is Donnie :) I love the new look of every character in this series, but my favorite is the relatability I can get from Donnie with hyperfixations and the implied autistic traits. It makes me feel seen while not making it overbearing or something debilitating like it does in other media!

Least Favorite Character and One Reason Why:

I've got to say it's Casey JR. Of course I love the new twist of it, but before the movie, I absolutely LOVED Cassandra as Casey and thought that that was the end of it. She had a redemption arc and a dramatic reveal, but with JR coming in through the movie, it kinda ruined it. He's also the most un-Casey Casey in any TMNT media I've seen. Still love him, like all the characters, but there was definitely something his character ruined that I hold a grudge against him for.

A Character you Think is Attractive:

Donnie, ofc. Been a Donnie boy ever since I found out TMNT existed, always will be 😤

Favorite Villain:

The Kraang. I loved the story line that they had in the movie, and with what happened, the fight during it left so many spaces for things like angst and aus to be made and expanded! The more angst, the better, and I sobbed during that movie.

Least Favorite Villain:

Big Mama. I hate to say it. I absolutely love her character, but when she's in the storyline, rottmnt moves away from being mutants who aren't accepted to being normal. While there are the occasional episodes where they go to the mystic city and do this on their own, it still holds that sort of loose vibe, whole Big Mama brings an almost corporate undertone that I hate to see the turtles in.

Favorite Duo:

Disaster Twins. This is the only version of TMNT where I'm not on the PB&J agenda 😌

Favorite Ship:

Honestly, I don't have one. I'm not super big on ships with TMNT media, but if I had to choose, I'd say Cassandra and April, they'd be cute.

2 Reasons Why you Love ROTTMNT:

Like I said, I absolutely love the new look into the brothers! They're less of ninjas, and more actual teenagers who are finally seeing the world, but don't really know more than each other, so they stick together with a more comedy aspect.

And I'm absolutely obsessed with how they're all different turtles! I love how they show it too, Donnie protects his soft shell, and Mikey ducks into his shell more often than his brothers since he's a Box turtle, while Leo is a Red Ear Slider which will eat anything they need to when they don't have food and silently suggested eating Donnie during Todd-scouts.

While my all time favorite will always be 2012, if not only because of the nostalgia factor, rottmnt is amazing and will always be something I come back to rewatch every year or so 😊

And I actually don't have any other friends to tag, so... Yk, feel free to quote or something, lmao.

Calling all ROTTMNT fans

Hi i'm new and I've been seeing these on Tumblr, so I thought to do one :) Btw tag your Rottmnt friends to do this to!

Favorite Character and 1 reason why: (Mine is Donnie because he's funny XD)

Least Favorite Character and 1 reason why: (Mine is the Leader of the Kraang bc of what he did to Leo..)

A character you think is attractive(Can skip if you don't have one): (Mine is DONNIE >:))

Favorite Villain: (Mine is Kendra, or Big Mama)

Least Favorite Villain: (Mine is same as my least fav character)

Favorite Duo: (Mine is DISASTER TWINS)

Favorite Ship: (None tbh)

2 reasons why you like Rottmnt :3: (Mine is because it's a genuinely funny show, the humor in it is great, and the characters are so well done.)

Your tags: (Mine: @donniecrazy20, @geese-ball, @mycomars, @tonystarkwasrobbed, @ihateitallsomerandomguy, @yourlocalmia, @sockkllyy, @strawberryswirl4321)

[yumeka-sxf]

Japanese Linguistic Observations in Spy x Family - part 7

Part 7 - Supporting character musings – other characters

As mentioned in Part 6 where I focused on the Eden kids, today I'll be discussing the supporting adult characters in SxF. Like with the Eden kids, I'm only going to be touching on a few characters who I think have the most notable things to say as far as the Japanese version.

Starting with Yuri, if you've ever watched the SxF anime in Japanese, you've probably heard him shout his signature 姉さん! ("Nee-san!") whenever he sees Yor, with 姉さん meaning "older sister." It's standard in Japanese for younger siblings to address older siblings with these kinds of terms rather than by their actual names.

We saw another example of this in the previous post where Damian calls Demetris 兄貴 ("aniki") which means "Big Bro." While it's normal in English for a younger sibling to call an older sister "Big Sis" or "Sis" or something like that, it's not something one would do as consistently as in Japanese. So even though Yuri only ever calls Yor "Nee-san" in the Japanese version, the official English manga will fluctuate. Sometimes it'll have him say "Sis" while other time he'll just say "Yor."

I can sort of understand this decision as it is less common in English for siblings to address each other like this all the time. Interestingly, the official anime subtitles are more consistent. I haven't checked every example, but it seems like they have him say "Sis" more often, at least in scenes where the manga doesn't.

When it comes to Yuri's nickname for Loid, in the Japanese version he calls Loid ロッテイ("Loidy" or "Loitte"). This originated from when Yuri first visited the Forgers and, in a drunken haze, demanded to know what nicknames Yor used for Loid, with this being one of two he "suggested" (the other being ロイロイ or "Loi-Loi"). Ironic how he ended up being the only one to use the nickname!

What's kind of weird is that the English manga translations have him call Loid the other of the two nicknames, "Loi-Loi," instead. Not a big deal as it doesn't change the meaning of anything, but still odd.

And of course, there's Yuri's nickname for Anya, チワワ娘 ("chihuahua girl"), which I discussed in detail in Part 5 if you haven't yet read it.

Moving onto Fiona, similar to Yuri, she has her signature term that she always uses for her "special" person – for Twilight, she refers to him as 先輩 ("senpai"). If you're into other aspects of Japanese pop-culture, you're probably familiar with the term "senpai," which is used to address someone who's your senior. It can either be used on its own (calling someone "senpai") or as an honorific (calling someone by their name+senpai). It's commonly used in school settings with students calling upperclassmen "senpai." It's used in work settings as well to address senior coworkers who are older than you and/or have been at the job longer. There's actually another example of "senpai" used in SxF – Yor's coworkers call her "senpai" or "Yor-senpai." They don't call each other "senpai," only Yor, which to me indicates that Yor has been working at City Hall longer than them.

Unfortunately there's no consistently good translation of "senpai" in English, at least not one that would sound natural to use in the same way as Japanese. Because of this, it's often omitted in English translations and replaced with just the character's name. Going back to Fiona, even though the English translations have her call Twilight just "Twilight," she always calls him "senpai" in the Japanese version.

Another thing to note is that, when she needs to be in her undercover role as a nurse who works with "Dr. Forger," she calls him 先生 ("sensei"), which is the term used for a teacher, doctor, or professor.

And lastly, I wanted to talk briefly about Melinda. Along with Becky, she's the only other reoccurring character to use feminine speech in most situations, which is defined by adding softening interjections at the end of sentences, like "ne" (ね), "no" (の), and especially "wa" (わ). It makes sense since she's a lady of high society, as well as being from a family of political influence, so she has a dignified persona to upkeep.

She also calls Yor "Yor-chan," with "-chan" being an honorific used among female friends. She called her "Yor-chan" fairly soon after they met, which shows how fond she was of Yor right away. Makes me even more excited to see what developments there will be for "Plan C" in the future!

<- Return to Part 6

[regency-monster-love]

Grumpy orc and sunshine human, part 12

Male orc x female human | Regency era | SFW but references to sex, racism, and injury

Master list for this fic

Chapter starts immediately after part 11. Garek and Esther just fucked in an empty countryside chapel.

~ 😈🎩 ~

While cleaning themselves up, Garek remarked that it was lucky that the wet spots of his seed on their clothing would simply blend in with all the other water spots from the rain, and Esther started to feel that little trickle of unease that came now every time he talked about hiding their relationship.

Garek peeked out the door. “It's stopped raining. Good. We have to get you to my house for a bath quickly.”

Nausea started to swirl in her belly. “To get your scent off me?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll do the same to get my scent off you?”

“Of course.”

“Garek, are you ashamed of me?”

The orc jerked as if struck. “What? Why would you ask that?”

“You don’t want anyone to know about us. Not just the sex—you never spend time with me openly; never once have you called on me at my house.”

His face contorted in a mix of confusion, anger, and disgust. “That’s what you wanted, so your suitor wouldn’t find out.” He spoke the word “suitor” like it tasted bad.

“What on earth are you talking about? What suitor?”

“You have more than one now?” he snarled.

“My God, what kind of person do you think I am? There's no one but you!”

“Don't lie to me. The first time I walked you home, you said some other man was courting you and you wanted that.”

Esther stared at him silently for several breaths as she worked through what Garek was referring to, and as she realized what he meant, was nearly dumbstruck by the enormity of Garek’s misunderstanding and twisting of her words.

“First of all,” she said with calm precision, “what I said was that I thought one person might be courting me, and that I wasn't opposed to it. Secondly, I was talking about you, Garek.”

Now it was Garek’s turn to stare while he tried to make sense of things. “The suitor was—me? From the start?”

“Yes, you simpleton.”

“Then why didn't you say so outright?”

“I was smiling right at your face when I said what I did, and I let you ravish me immediately afterwards—I was very clear it was you.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm certain you didn't say ‘you,’ you said ‘he,’ like it was some other person.”

“I was being playful with my manner of speaking! It was obvious what I meant!”

“Obviously it wasn't!”

Esther released her breath in a frustrated sort of huff. “Sakes alive—did you ever see me close with any other males, Garek? Smell any other males on me?”

“No,” he growled.

“Shouldn’t that have made it obvious then?” Esther huffed out with an expectant raise of her eyebrows.

He stared back. His stomach dropped. Ohhh fuck. Fuck. Of course there was no one else. He had been such a colossal fool. He dropped his head into his hands.

“You really thought I would just lead some other suitor along while I was secretly carrying on an intimate relationship with you?” Esther asked after a moment, the hurt thick in her voice. How could he think so little of her?

Garek’s cheeks burned in shame, but he forced himself to drop his hands and look at her. “I didn’t really let myself think about it at all, not lately.” His love for her had made it too painful to think about, so he simply hadn’t, and in doing so, had missed all the obvious and logical signs of what was truly happening.

The ache in Esther’s throat had spread down into her chest, squeezing around her heart. She thought Garek was better than her former lover Frank, but it seemed like Garek had just been using her for sex after all. He hadn’t cared what it said about Esther’s character or the feelings of this other suitor as long as he was getting to use her body.

“I’m going home,” she told him, and turned toward the chapel door.

“Wait!” He grabbed her hand and stared at her with wild, desperate eyes. “I was a fool, but now I know the truth. Everything can be all right between us now.”

She pulled her hand back from him. “You can’t just say things are all right and make it so! Nothing has changed. Nothing is ever going to change with you.”

She stepped toward the door, and he grabbed for her again—she pushed him off her, just like that first time he’d kissed her, then jabbed a finger at him. “You leave me alone! I’m going!”

He obeyed. No running after her, no calling her back. He just let her go, his chest heaving as he watched her solitary figure walk quickly away from the chapel.

— — —

Four days. Four days since he had seen Esther, heard her laugh, touched her, been inside her. Four days without his mate.

Just a month ago, four days without her would have been nothing. Well, not nothing—it wouldn’t have been pleasant, but it was bearable, and nothing out of the ordinary. He would masturbate to the thought of her and be all right. Now, four days was torture.

He didn’t know if he ought to try to end it. He had made a tremendous mess of everything, and he feared that it was irreparable. Esther would probably turn down any attempt he made to reconcile—nothing is ever going to change with you, that’s what she’d told him. She’d given up on him. People are allowed to change their minds about what they want, that was another thing she’d told him once. Now he knew that she’d wanted him as a suitor from the beginning, but it seemed likely that she’d changed her mind on that now, and no longer wanted him as a suitor or a lover. But this was too horrifying a possibility to confirm. Knowing for certain that they were done would be far worse than the uncertainty he was living under now.

His mother wasn’t helping matters. She kept asking him what was wrong with him and how Miss Dayton was doing and why he was moping at home all the time. And his home smelled like Esther, especially in his bedroom, no matter how much he washed everything. 

He finally had to escape the house, and went for a walk into the village. He hadn’t gone very far when his minotaur friend came running straight down the main street at him. “Garek!” he shouted.

Garek rushed toward him. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Miss Dayton!” the minotaur said, and every fiber in Garek’s body snapped into focus. “Her carriage, there was an accident, I saw them dragging it to the wheelwright’s across from my office—”

“What happened to her? Where is she?” Garek demanded.

“They said the lady inside was hurt, took her to the nearest cottage to await the surgeon—”

“Where!”

“Other side of the village, nearly to the mill—”

Garek took off running, panic making him move faster than perhaps he ever had before. He reached the row of cottages that he thought the minotaur meant and started pounding on every door, frantically asking after the human lady who was injured in a carriage accident. The third one finally told him that she had seen her taken inside the next one over, and Garek rushed to that door to hammer his fist on it. It felt like an eternity before anyone answered, though it was probably less than 10 seconds.

A female dragon opened the door, standing at least a head taller than Garek and filling its entire width with her bulk.

Garek didn’t bother with any greeting. “I need to see Miss Dayton!”

The dragon gave him a disgruntled look. “Who are you?”

“I’m her mate, now let me in,” he growled. It was the first time he had said it out loud, but he hadn’t hesitated—he wasn’t scared of that word anymore, just needed to see Esther without delay.

The dragon gestured to his right tusk. “You’ve no ring, and she’s a ‘miss.’”

“We haven’t had our ceremony yet—get out of the way,” he snarled.

But the dragon didn’t budge; Garek was furious that she was bigger than him. “Well.” She sniffed, looking him up and down. “You’re certainly acting like a mate.” From her tone, it was clear that she did not consider that a good thing. “All right, you can see her, but if she wants you to go, you go.”

She cleared out of the way, and Garek barreled right past her, not needing her to show him the way to Esther’s room—he could smell exactly where she was, and he could smell that she was unwell.

“Wait!” the dragon hissed behind him, right as he reached her door. “You can’t go barging in when she’s resting.”

“I know that,” he hissed back. “I would never hurt Esther.” Not anymore, at least.

He put his hand to the doorknob and very slowly opened it. Esther lay unconscious in a huge dragon-size bed, looking so tiny and frail it made something sharp twist painfully in his chest. Her hair was covered by a large bandage. He crept over to her side. “Esther,” he whispered.

The dragon had come in too. “Don’t touch her head or neck; the surgeon isn’t sure yet if there was any damage to her spine.” More pain stabbed through Garek’s chest at that.

After telling Garek to fetch her when Esther woke, and warning him again not to bother her, the dragon finally left them alone. Garek carefully climbed up on the bed to lay beside Esther, facing her but not touching her, except for stroking his fingers over the top of her hand that rested on the blanket.

He ached with the desire for Esther to be all right, and to be with him. He’d been such a stubborn, cowardly fool to try to deny and fight against their mating bond. If they had been mated and married, he might have been in the carriage with her and could have prevented her from getting hurt so badly, protecting her in the strong cocoon of his arms. That’s what he wanted—to be with her all the time, at her side to protect and please her, no more hiding.

Despite his fretful thoughts, he must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing he was aware of was the feel of someone petting his hair. He opened his eyes and saw Esther looking at him with a serious expression as she caressed his head.

“You’re awake!” He sat up abruptly. “I have to tell—um, I don’t know her name, actually, but the surgeon needs to see you!” He jumped out of bed.

“Wait, Garek. What happened?” Esther said in a weak voice.

He leaned over her and reached for her face, but stopped himself before touching her. “You got hurt in an accident, and they carried you here,” he said, as gently as he could, to not scare her, but it still came out rather rough, because having to speak the words “you got hurt” made him angry. “I’ll tell you more soon, but let me fetch the surgeon first.”

It was agony to wait for him, then wait all through his examination of Esther, but when he said that her spine was fine and that her head would probably be healed enough to move her in a couple days, with no lasting damage, Garek’s relief was immense. And then the surgeon and dragon left them alone again.

Esther gestured for Garek to get on the bed with her again, assuring him that the surgeon said she shouldn’t move her head much, but the rest of her was fine. She opened her arms, and Garek laid his head on her chest with a relieved sigh.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Esther told him, petting his hair again.

“You are?”

“I missed you.”

His heart twisted and throbbed. “I’m sorry, Esther. I’ve been stubborn and unkind to you from the start, and it was never because of you, it was always because of me. Me being a coward.” In the interest of not being cowardly, he sat up so he could look into her eyes as he said this. “I’m sorry I insulted humans and made you feel like I was ashamed of you. The truth is…I did feel guilty about getting intimately involved with a human. It had nothing to do with you personally, it’s just…” He huffed out a ragged sigh, wishing he could explain this better.

“Look,” he tried again. “My father wanted to be a writer when he was young, got laughed at by every human publisher he went to, until one day he found his book for sale with some human’s name slapped on it. One of those bastard publishers had stolen his manuscript and published it as his own. Father couldn’t even get the courts to take his case seriously, because they were all run by corrupt humans too. That’s how everything was for monsters back then. That’s why I only print books by monsters—because human presses rarely did it, until recently.”

Esther was looking at him teary-eyed, but she made no attempt to speak, so he just let it all keep pouring out. “My father taught me to hate humans, so I felt like I was betraying him by caring for one, even betraying myself, what I stood for. I think that’s why I stupidly didn’t understand your hint about me being your suitor: the idea of courting a human myself was just so foreign to me at the time, that it had to be someone else you meant.

“But it was never actually about you—I’ve never been ashamed of you. The only one I’m ashamed of is me. You’re perfect. I’m lucky and proud that you’re with me—or, were with me. I don’t care that you’re human, or that my father would be ashamed of me, not anymore. I was such a fool to ever think that any of that mattered. And I’m so sorry for not trusting you to be committed to one male at a time, to think that you might be involved with someone else at the same time as me. I know you’re too good for that. It made no sense.”

Esther finally spoke up. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t know about what happened to your father, and in the chapel, I didn’t exactly let you explain yourself or give you a chance to try to fix things—I just stormed off. And I shouldn’t have said you can never change. That was unfair of me. I should have been more open with you about my own feelings and wants. I was a coward too, because of what happened with Frank.”

Garek shook his head fiercely. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did.��

“No.”

“Are you arguing with me about apologizing?”

He ducked his head to rub at his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered.

She huffed out a weak laugh, then winced. “I don’t think my body approves of that right now.”

“No more talking, just rest,” he declared, and laid his head back on her chest again. She immediately set about stroking his hair again, and warmth spread through him at the affectionate touch of his mate that he had been starved for.

They laid quietly together for some minutes. Then Esther asked, “How’d you convince them to let you see me?”

Garek’s heart started to race, but he wasn’t going to be a coward about this. He sat up again. “I told her that you’re my mate—which is true, Esther.” The rest of the words tumbled out of him in a rush, now that he’d said it. “You’re my mate, and I’m yours. But only if you want to be. You can reject the mating bond, it’s your choice, but, oh, Esther!” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I hope you don’t, because I love you, and I want us to be together always. Mated and married.”

Well, so much for no more talking, just rest.

She stared at him with her mouth opened, before she said, “How dare you”—his heart sunk to his stomach—“say this to me when I can't spring up and kiss you.”

Now he was the one staring at her open-mouthed. “You, you mean…”

“I love you too.”

Excitement was starting to bubble up inside him. “And you’ll marry me?”

“I will, if you’ll give me a kiss right now.”

“I don’t think I ought to, with your head…”

“Kiss me,” she said firmly, and just like every time she gave that order, he obeyed. But he tempered the wild joy rioting inside him to make it a gentle kiss, at least. No more hurting his mate, ever again.

His mate! She was really going to be his mate, completely, no more of this halfway business where only he knew and there was no ceremony. He couldn’t stop grinning. It kept making Esther laugh to see it, which hurt her head, so he finally had to hide his face in the sheets.

The smile finally got wiped off his face when he asked her to tell him what happened in the carriage, because it made him angry to picture his mate getting hurt and being scared, but he had to know. She related how they had been going around a sharp turn when a wheel came off, throwing the whole carriage onto its side, and she flew against the inside wall with quite some force when it hit the ground.

She had to pet his hair again and remind him that the surgeon said she’d be well soon to get him to stop growling in anger.

Once he was calmed down, he couldn’t resist saying, in a soft, teasing rumble, “I told you that your carriage is no good.”

Her eyes crinkled up in amusement. “You did. You were right. Though I think I agreed with you even then, you may remember. You were the one being contrary; I was being agreeable.”

He smiled and lifted her hand to kiss her palm. “Of course.”

“Now I have the opportunity to purchase a better carriage, that meets your approval.”

“Big enough for both of us?”

“Exactly.”

“But I’m not as opposed to being squeezed into a tiny carriage with you anymore.”

~ 😈🎩 ~

End of part 12 | Master list for this fic

Hooray! I tortured them some more, but they finally got everything in the open for their happily ever after!

One more chapter—spicy of course—and then their story is finished!

Art of them coming soon, too!

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing or my master list.

Taglist: @apuddleonthelivingroomfloor, @slightly-knot-insane, @99goosebumps, @decaffeinatedtreewitch, @curiousmons, @cinnabbxx, @dreamerl0v3, @iamsamuraisword, @flippinsweettots, @not-nana-ly, @eclaire-and-pocky, @iluvzayne, @blushycadaver, @vurelliex, @graveblanketgreen, @xxfeelmylovexx (comment if you want to be added to the list)

[puprdou]

Hii! I love your writing and I saw you wanted requests soooo, could you write the reader playing with Baji’s hair and he absolutely loves it, even though he was skeptical at first. When they stop he’s disappointed and wants them to do it again? ❤️❤️❤️

yes, yes, of course! sorry for the sort of late reply on this one, anon^^ this will prob just be a short drabble, but i hope you enjoy it!

his low groans and soft moans in content were muffled by the fabric of your shirt, his head buried into your tummy. he was laid between your legs on his stomach, arms wrapping needily around your waist as you played with the silky black locks of hair on his head. you were by far, the only person that baji keisuke would allow to touch his hair. he doesn’t even let his mom touch it!

his hair was just about the only thing on his body he truly cared about, as the rest was just average to him; despite his immense strength and muscles hidden beneath those hoodies and uniforms he wore constantly. but, you were his partner, and he could never say no when you pleaded to play with his hair with those doey eyes of yours.

so, now, here he was, laid between your legs as you played with his hair whilst sitting back against his bedframe. he had a particular hair care routine, so, of course, his hair was soft, fluffy and silky beneath your nimble fingers as they ran through the lucious locks, skin disappearing into the dark black of his hair.

baji was never too big of a believer on all of that kinds of religious crap, nor did he care, but, god, being in your arms like this, your hand running through his hair felt like a blessing straight from heaven. maybe he could get used to this; to your hand in his hair. but, you, and only you, he will allow it for.

of course, he was skeptical about it at first; and why wouldn’t he be? his hair was precious to him, and he’s never let anyone touch it since he was just a child, since those times when his mother was the one who was cleaning him in the baths when he was just a small boy with big hopes and dreams.

but, suddenly, your hand released those fluffy locks of his, making him whine out of displeasure. he lifted his head from your tummy, resting his chin on the little chub of your stomach over the wrinkles of your shirt, looking up at you with dark, lidded bronze eyes and a soft scowl.

“why’d you stop?” he complained, nuzzling and rubbing his cheek onto your shirt now. he used his canines to latch onto the fabric, pulling it up so he can rest his cheek on your stomach rather than the material of your top. this made you giggle, seeing how pouty and upset he got, all disappointed because you stopped petting him.

“awh, you want me to continue giving you pets?” you teased him, giggles erupting from your throat. he’s so cute, you thought. there were times where he was a big, strong, intimidating man, and there were times where he was just a small, needy boy. but, as you always said, a needy keisuke is a happy keisuke, right?

“don’t call it that..” he huffed, grumbling beneath his breath. he felt embarrassed when you called it ’pets’. it made him feel like he was just some needy puppy when you called them that.. he much preferred you to just call it head pats.

“well, what else do i call it..?” you inquired, a brow raised. you simply rested your hand on his arm, which was wrapped around you rather than continuing to play with his hair, gently rubbing the skin with your thumb.

“...head pats. call it head pats. now keep doing it, brat.” he sighed softly as he felt you rubbing his arm, making him nuzzle his face more against the soft skin of your tummy. you giggled in response, rolling your eyes and how pouty he is that you had stopped.

“okay, okay, fine.. just stop pouting.” humming softly, your other hand returned to the top of his head, scratching his scalp as you caressed the gentle black locks of hair. he almost immediately stopped pouting, closing his eyes in happy content.

he placed a soft kiss to your tummy, before just choosing to lay there with you. this was so comforting to him, and he truly would not wish for anything more.

© 2025 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔, all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, steal or translate my works onto other social media platforms.

[askvectorprime]

Where do the names "Autobot" and "Decepticon" even come from? Are there any sort of root words that go with them?

Dear Etymology Enthusiast,

This answer is complicated by language barriers that span galaxies. As Galvatron alluded to—albeit in tones I would never use—Cybertronian words can be very linguistically dense; a translation that conveyed every nuance of our equivalent for "Autobot" would take over seventeen minutes for a human to say! As such, "Autobot" and "Decepticon" are only approximations of the neocybex names of these factions.

In many universes, my faction is named for the ideals of freedom and autonomy—hence, "Autobot" is derived from the term "autonomous". Sometimes this reflects a casting off of Quintesson rule or triumph over a caste system, but in other contexts—sometimes simultaneously—it reflects a darker facet of Cybertronian history. A famous bot once said that autonomy was a gift, a spark of sentience kindled by Primus himself. That bot's name was Nova Prime, and he used that belief to justify the subjugation of hundreds of alien worlds.

The suffix translated as "-bot" encompasses ideas such as "person", "individual", "independent agent". It could be considered an adaptation of the common English-language "man", of course—you might be familiar with the Aerialmen, the Dinomen, and the Sparkamen—but "bot" conveys that it most commonly refers to mechanical lifeforms. While typically used in the names of teams and factions, occasionally an individual might be called "Dinobot" or "Dreadbot"; such sobriquets can be seen as similar to a human being carrying a family name as their first name, such as "Jackson".

As for "Decepticon"… much has been said of the phrase "you are being deceived." In many universal clusters, this is indeed the earliest origin of the term. "Decepticon" suffers to a greater degree from the imperfections of localization. In many universes, Cybertronian language uses nuances related to subject and object that fail to translate, especially when neologism is concerned; "Decepticon" principally suggests "deceptive" in English, but in its original Cybertronix, the waveform can simultaneously be read as "the deceived".

The "-con" suffix is not dissimilar to "-bot", though it carries subtly but significantly different implications. "Person" is an adequate translation, but its meaning is much broader, not being restricted to living creatures; you may know of data-cons, information storage devices commonly used in my home reality. The closest equivalent to the suffix in your language would be "entity"—or, more bluntly, "thing". As such, the translation "-con" is derived from your language's "construct", a created object or idea.

The reasoning for the use of this suffix varies across the multiverse. On versions of Cybertron where Functionism took hold, Cybertronians of lower labor castes, or with alternate modes considered fit only for use by others, were more likely to have "con" names or be assigned categories like "Constructicon", "Agricon" or "Recordicon". Conversely, in universes where the Decepticons originate as a military junta, the use of "-con" carries the suggestion of component; all Decepticons are considered to be a part of Megatron's war machine. These implications, of course, carry over to the Mini-Cons. While I am proud to count Safeguard as a friend and partner, for much of my world's history, Decepticon and Autobot alike treated his kind as "smart tools", as mere objects to be collected. Regardless, the Great War created extreme political polarization of the "-con" suffix, and nearly no self-described Autobot adopts it; even as Decepticons freely use "bot" to describe themselves, "con" is almost exclusively used by Autobots as a term of animosity.

One more suffix you may have heard of is "-tron"; here, the root is "positron"—which, before the introduction of microscope alt-modes, we simply understood to be the stuff of sparks. The Cybertron factions of realities like the G1 World and BT World draw their names from a well of indigeneity; unlike the invading, colonizing Quintessons, the Cybertrons are the true sparks of the planet and derive their name thus. The Destrons, then, are destructive sparks who oppose the planet. Naturally, "-bot" and "-con" recur in these worlds too, following similar etymological patterns.