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starmapz · 1 month ago

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what you know - ch14: trials || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 23.4k.

❦ a/n ; this serves as a bit of a part 2 to the previous chapter and picks up right where the previous one left off! sorry for the wild word count LOL. i'll see you at the bottom!

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

Sitting in your passenger’s seat, Sukuna finds himself missing his old beat-up car. It clicked if you turned the axle too far and rattled at every stop light. One of the brake lights flickered but never quite went out. It was barely street legal, but it got him from one place to another.

It got his dad to appointments and hospitals. That was what mattered the most.

There was a certain sense of freedom that came along with having a car that Sukuna can’t help but feel he’s lacking now. Still, it’s not so bad being your passenger.

Although the ride is mostly silent apart from your music quietly playing, he finds himself able to sort through his thoughts while staring out the window. It’s not a particularly long ride, but it gives him the chance he needed to come to terms with the dirty game that Kaori is playing with this lawsuit.

Clearly she’ll stop at nothing to tear Sukuna’s life to shreds and take his brothers from him if it’s the last thing she does. Him and his lawyer just need to find an angle that lets them win without pulling dirty tricks like she is. The last thing Sukuna needs are more fees or even charges on his record.

He still can’t figure out Kaori’s angle, either. She isn’t on social media as far as he can tell, her name doesn’t pop up online. She doesn’t want the kids for the money obviously and he can’t wrap his head around the idea of her actually wanting her own kids.

Which is fucked.

His fingers tap on his thigh as he contemplates how this all stems back to one moment.

He wonders how different his life could have been had he not gone looking for Kaori at his grandfather’s funeral. Maybe even Choso and Yuji’s fates could have been different.

The car comes to a halt in a quaint strip mall parking lot, with only another car or two in the lot alongside yours. Sukuna blinks as he glances around. He vaguely recognizes the area from when you’d first spent time together working on your project at your apartment.

It feels like a lifetime ago now that you listened to The Eagles on vinyl while working on your research project.

Getting out of the car, you stretch your arms up above your head. “I hope it’s good,” you comment, casting him a glance as you lead the way up to a plain door with the restaurant logo across the front. Sukuna hums in agreement.

Within the small shop, there’s a cozy and homely warmth that surrounds you, the smell of broth wafting through the air. The lighting is soft and warm with slats of vertical wood separating each small booth along a wall with ivy green paint beneath the wood. A couple of decorative lanterns adorn stylized chandeliers in each booth, and a counter with stools runs along the farthest wall.

A waitress approaches you both and kindly asks whether you’d prefer a booth or the bar. Sukuna gives you a nudge to let you decide, and the waitress leads the way to a small booth in the very back of the restaurant. The atmosphere is welcoming, though the booth provides enough privacy that you can comfortably converse with one another.

“This place is so cute,” you comment as you both shrug your coats off. You’d almost forgotten how painfully overdressed you are as you look down at your white blouse, which is equally as unfortunate. You’ll just have to be careful not to spill.

Across from you, Sukuna hums as he pulls at the knot of his tie before slipping it off and unceremoniously shoving it in his suit pocket. He can’t say he particularly cares about whether it has wrinkles or not. After all, the next time he wears it will be-

Shit. He’s not sure he’s ready to think about that, yet. After all, they need the house study back before they can prepare. He has time. He can relax and enjoy his time with you.

He needs to live in the moment and try not to think about the dull future that plagues his mind. He needs to let himself relax for the first time in what feels like months.

To keep yourself from watching the painfully attractive way that Sukuna pulls at his tie and undoes the first couple of buttons on his shirt, you busy yourself with the menu. “The tonkatsu sounds good,” you comment.

Rubbing his eye with the back of his knuckle, Sukuna finally picks up the menu, holding it back far enough to see it without squinting as he searches for what you’re talking about. “Sounds good,” he agrees quietly, casting a glance over the menu to stare at you as he struggles to find common ground to chat with you. It’s not like his curt answers are helping, but the small talk you’re spouting to fill the dead air isn’t doing either of you any favors.

Clearing his throat, he sets down the menu. “I’ll just get the gyoza.”

Flipping back a page to take a look at the item on the menu, you eye him suspiciously. “Sukuna, that’s the cheapest thing on the menu and it only comes with three. Get what you want,” you urge, finding it hard to contain your smile as he glowers when you see right through him.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll get the curry ramen.”

“Good,” you hum, pleased.

As both menus are set down, the waitress returns to take your order before you find yourself staring at the soy sauce left at the end of the table. The dead air sitting stagnant between you burns at your skin, lapping like flames against the balance between you. Where once there was easy conversation, a void has been left in its place. Prior to your fight, there was rarely a moment where neither of you knew what to say. Even the silence was usually warm and inviting, but the trepidation left in the wake of uncertainty here doesn’t speak to what once was.

In an effort to fill the silence, Sukuna mutters out a question before he has a chance to think.

“How’s the conspiracy theorist prof been?”

Mild amusement pulls at the corner of your lips. “We had a whole class where we discussed the death of Edgar Allen Poe,” you chuckle as you lean over the table.

Blowing a breath of air out of his nose in a wry laugh, Sukuna leans his chin on his hand, his elbow bent over the table. “What’d she land on?”

“Rabies,” you shrug.

He hums. “More plausible than some of her other theories.”

“I still think it’s more likely to be-”

“Alcoholism.”

“- alcoholism.”

Sukuna’s lips quirk up at the corners as familiarity finally finds its place back within the void, filling it out just a little bit. You giggle as he finishes your sentence in the same moment that you do. “It’s the only cause that has any footing!” You insist happily, beginning to go over the ways that you claim it ‘just makes sense’.

Sukuna’s muscles relax as he listens to you, chiming in occasionally to offer his opinion or add in something his dad had once mentioned on the subject. His tongue glides across his lower lip as he watches the way your lips move as you speak, your eyes crinkling at the corner each time you giggle. He’s only pulled from his stupor when the food arrives.

A large bowl with chopsticks and a spoon is placed in front of each of you, the steam of the warm broth billowing in the air between you. Your mouth waters at the smell alone as you thank the waitress and pick up the chopsticks. Sukuna follows suit, taking a bite of some noodles.

“Everything you hoped for?” He gruffs between bites.

“Um-” you hesitate, “yeah, it’s good!”

“But?”

“It’s a bit salty,” you pout.

“It’s ramen.”

Your brow furrows, playfully offended at his dry tone, as though you don’t know that. “It’s saltier than I usually get, is what I mean,” you retort, raising your brow playfully.

His eyes flicker between your bowls before he pushes his towards you. “Try mine,” he insists.

Your lips purse, giving in without complaint. His food has a bit more of a kick to it and considerably less salt, but the flavor is downright divine. Your brow raises, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you like it more.

Smirking, Sukuna pulls your bowl towards him, exchanging the dishes. “Keep it.”

“What? Are you sure? I really don’t-”

Sukuna takes a bite of your ramen and nods.

Your hands hesitate in the air, still not quite sure what to make of the switch. Sukuna’s never been one to particularly care what he’s eating, but this strikes you as just plain sweet. “Really, it wasn’t that salty-”

“Princess,” Sukuna sets his chopsticks down, finishing his bite of noodles, “eat your damn food.”

You shoot him one last hesitant glance before relenting. Your brow knits together, a shy smile finding its way to your lips. “Thanks,” you murmur as your cheeks heat up. Surely from the heat of the soup.

Surely.

Before you can insist on swapping food again or something else Sukuna would consider foolish, he brings up a new topic, something that’s been nagging at him since he realized how much of a dumbass he’s been, and continues to be.

“How’s Toji?”

He’d seen and heard from Uraume fairly frequently, though he continued to keep them in the dark about the lawsuit. Every day that goes by, thoughts consume him about whether or not that’s the right option, and every day he struggles to find a reason why he continues to keep it a secret from them.

The truth is that he’s a coward. He can’t bring himself to tell them because it’s been so long that he fears they’ll find a reason to walk out of his life. Though his feelings surrounding Uraume differ greatly from those that involve you, he’s not sure how well he could manage without them either. He’s so deep in the hole he’s dug for himself with this lawsuit that he’s not sure he could blame them if they blew up at him for his spineless decision. Hell, he’d let Uraume dig the hole deeper for him and bury him alive if they so pleased.

Maybe Uraume and Toji could even tap their shovels together in a ‘cheers’ of sorts with the amount of secrets Sukuna’s kept from them both.

“He’s okay,” you shrug. “He asked me about you.”

Sukuna pauses, noodles dangling from his chopsticks as though he didn’t expect that in your reply.

“He was pretty upset,” you continue, hoping to share enough to help them mend their friendship while respecting Toji’s boundaries. Though you’ve grown closer to Sukuna’s childhood friend over the past couple of months, he’s definitely more of Satoru’s friend. You certainly don’t know him well enough to be confident recounting his exact words to Sukuna.

Setting his chopsticks back in the bowl, Sukuna stares down at his scattered reflection on the surface of the soup. “Shit,” he mutters simply, letting the silence linger.

Finishing up your bite, you tilt your head. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you tell him? You two were best friends, weren’t you?”

Sukuna leans back in his booth, crossing his arms over his chest. The shoulders of his suit jacket crease as the sleeves pull taut and accentuate his muscles. “Dunno. We just didn’t talk about shit like that, and…” he shrugs, finding your gaze with no definitive reasoning to offer.

You frown, Toji’s reaction coming to mind when you’d parroted that exact phrase to him a couple of months ago. ‘That was his excuse?’ Over the course of two months, you’d thought maybe Sukuna’s response might change just as the man himself has. “Don’t you think he would have wanted to know?”

“‘Course he would’ve,” Sukuna agrees, shrugging. “I guess I just didn’t think about it,” he shrugs again, searching for some sort of reasonable answer where there is none. He just didn’t tell Toji. He didn’t want to be around Toji and he didn’t want to talk to Toji. There’s no grand reason why, Toji never did anything to upset Sukuna. The simple fact of the matter is that Sukuna had so much on his plate, that all reason fell to the wayside. It was never Toji’s fault, and had it not been Toji, it would have been someone else. Sukuna didn’t want to be around people at the time.

Sensing that you aren’t getting anywhere with this conversation, you bring up another question that’s been plaguing your mind since Sukuna brought it up at the case conference. You pray it doesn’t piss him off for one reason or another but he’s been more reasonable lately so you don’t feel like you need to step on eggshells around him as much. “Hey, Kuna? Um-” You pause, setting your chopsticks down. “Where did you find Kaori at your grandpa’s funeral?” You query, watching the way his eyes snap to you at the mere mention of the question.

His jaw clenches as he sits up, fiddling with the bottle of soy that sits between you. He stares at it like it’s done a disservice to his family, huffing as he explains in the simplest terms what had happened. “I was a kid, like fourteen or some shit. Kaori was…” he raises his hand, motioning at nothing in particular as he searches for words. “She was fine. She never really cared to be involved with my life, n’ my dad kept things pretty quiet between ‘em until she got pregnant and he proposed.”

He takes a moment, huffing at nothing in particular as he pulls his hand back from the soy sauce, his fingers curling into a fist. “Found her with her fucking-” Sukuna cuts himself off as his voice cracks, his expression hardening as anger courses through his veins at the mere thought of his step-mother. It’s been so long since he’s crossed paths with the thought of what he’d discovered that afternoon. He’d almost forgotten just how vividly his mind can still conjure that image, bringing with it the disgust and self-reproach he’d longed to forget for so many years.

You don’t hesitate for a moment to reach across the table, settling your hand over his fist the moment his distress becomes apparent. With one simple movement, you seem to dissolve the void between you. The uneasy silence tapers off as things become familiar once more.

He’s not sure he’ll ever grow accustomed to your kindness. How is he meant to convince himself that he’s allowed to be selfish, to take, when he has so little to give in return?

Yet even as guilt festers in his stomach and he scowls down at the place where your hands join, he still lets his fingers relax, flipping his hand upright to gently rub his thumb across the second joint of each of your fingers. Your skin is warm, soothing the chilling sensation of the memory.

Re-centering himself, Sukuna’s chest rises and falls in a heavy sigh. “I found her tongue-fucking my uncle in some corner,” he hisses, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Your lips part in shock, the realization settling slowly as your stupor morphs to revulsion. Putting together his words from the case conference earlier, you blink in further surprise. “You didn’t tell your dad?”

Sukuna’s fingers glide through yours suddenly, his much larger hand finding a place around yours as he clasps your hands together, your fingers intertwined. Your gaze shoots to your entangled hands, unable to make heads or tails of the action as heat rises from the back of your neck to the tips of your ears. You can blame the soup all you want, but you know the truth.

You’re used to Sukuna seeking comfort within you, but there’s something deeper to this. Something you don’t know how to explore with the man, and something you don’t dare bring up as he’s opening up to you.

It doesn’t matter how fast your heart hammers in your chest, or the way that blood pumps loudly behind your ears. The mixed signals, the confusing push and pull that seems to go hand-in-hand with the brute across from you, none of that matters with the air heavy with the weight of a confession long kept behind bars, never shared with a soul.

Even Toji doesn’t know, of that you’re certain.

So, you swallow hard and put your focus into his expression, something akin to guilt, averting your attention away from the warmth of his hand as best as you can.

“I couldn’t,” he admits, a look of disdain clouding his vision. “Kaori was fine for the first few years that I knew her. She was a good enough mom to Cho and sometimes me when she wanted to be,” he shrugs, a bitter snarl tugging at his lips. “Funny. She had us all fooled.”

You nod slowly, just to tell Sukuna you’re listening.

“The week before my grandpa died, we had freshman year finals. I fucked up-” he breathes, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. “Failed all four in my last semester. Wasn’t doin’ anything important, I was just bein’ a dumbass.” He shrugs, his grip on your hand tightening. “They were gonna hold me back n’ I didn’t wanna be apart from Toji or my friends, so him and I broke in.”

“To the school?”

He shoots you a look that you recognize. One that says obviously, though he keeps his mouth shut, continuing without answering your question. Now’s not exactly the time to be teasing you over what’s just your way of showing you’re listening.

“The plan was fucking stupid from the start. Thought we could change my grades without my dad or the school knowing. Dunno, I was a kid. It made sense to us back then.” He scoffs at his own ill thought-out plan. “I got arrested. Made sure Toji got away, didn’t want his family goin’ off on him so I covered for him,” he shrugs. “They had to call a guardian, so I gave ‘em Kaori’s number.”

Your head tilts and even in the midst of the heavy air, Sukuna wants to scoff at the way his blood pumps faster. “Weren’t you close to your dad? Why not call him?”

Sukuna nods slowly in acknowledgement. “We were close, yeah, but he was a teacher and I was smart, got good grades n’ shit. He was the type who didn’t really get mad, just disappointed, which was worse than whatever I thought Kaori would do.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing,” he sighs, leaning his chin on the ball of his free hand over the table. “I never got charged, and she bribed the school into passing me, actually. It was cool of her at the time.”

Your lips purse as you listen intently. It’s a lot to take in, though you did always picture Sukuna and Toji being the type to pull a stunt like that given that you know about Sukuna’s days trying not to get caught with an incriminating can of spray paint.

“So, you didn’t tell him because she did you a favor?” You confirm with a furrowed brow. Favor or not, you’re not sure you could keep a secret like that from your parents.

But neither could Sukuna. “Fuck no,” Sukuna chuckles dryly, tensing his jaw. “I went to tell him the moment I saw her. It woulda been cruel to tell him at the funeral, but I thought it was worse to keep it from him.”

You nod intently.

“That-” His teeth are gritted as he cuts himself off, choosing his words wisely around you.

Though honestly, she’s deserving of the title he clearly wants to give her.

“She fucking blackmailed me,” he hisses. “Chased after me n’ told me she’d have the school charge me and fucking fail me,” he growls, the crease between his brows so harsh that you almost think he might give himself a headache.

Pulling his hand away from your grip, he leans back in the booth once more, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. “The fuck was I supposed to do, fail? I was terrified of disappointing my dad,” he shrugs. “I got my shit together the next year, but christ, she fucking played me. I didn’t know how my record worked back then either, getting charged with a crime when you’re fourteen or some shit feels like the end of the damn world.”

In a rare moment of genuine vulnerability, a look of innocence settles in his eyes, fleeting. You often forget just how young Sukuna was when his life got turned sideways. Even his teenage years sent him through a turmoil you can’t begin to imagine. With all his rough edges and hardened lines, it’s easy to forget that the man in front of you has a soft inside so full of a genuine love for his family and even for life. That flame got taken from him bit by bit before he ever got the chance to nurture it, stuck quelling his own desires in order to make ends meet.

Though he pulled away from your hand, you find his foot beneath the table with yours, gently nudging it. “You didn’t tell him after she left?”

He uselessly throws his hands up in a shrug, his tired expression increasingly obvious in the warm overhead light of the ramen shop. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I think…” he trails off, inhaling sharply, “at some point I realized he was gonna die, and I didn’t want him to think his wife didn’t love him at the end.”

Your lips part, jaw hanging slightly ajar at the weight of his confession. His sorrow grips your stomach, twisting it as your expression falls. “I’m so sorry, Kuna.”

He eyes you for a moment, choosing not to reply.

The silence stretches on, your hand remaining where he left it on the table when he leaned back. A part of you wishes he would take it again so that you can offer him silent comfort, pushing down the lingering yearning that comes with such a tender action. His mind seems to be elsewhere though, his eyes glazed as he stares distantly at the decorated wall beside him.

Letting the moment linger, you find yourself pulling your hand back to stir your nearly forgotten soup. It’s still mildly steaming thankfully, which you’re grateful for given the cold weather. Less fortunately, your stomach wrenches at the thought of eating under the weight of Sukuna’s admission hanging heavy in the air.

“Do you think you could bring that up at the trial?” You query quietly. Although the judge had shut it down today, it does have pertinent information about Kaori’s character.

He shakes his head. “Nah, it doesn’t look good on either of us. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, was just pissed,” he grumbles, scratching his jaw. With a deep sigh, he returns to his soup as well, taking small sips of the broth in an effort to not let the food go to waste, though he’s equally as uneasy as you are.

“Was she like that a lot? Blackmailing you and… stuff?” You wave your chopsticks through the air as you both pick at your food.

“Somethin’ like that. She just stopped pretending to give a shit, I guess,” he shrugs. “Wasn’t just me, either. Choso too,” he sighs, his brow tugging into a scowl. “Mother of the year,” he grumbles with a dramatic wave of his chopsticks in mock celebration.

If anything, it only leaves you with more questions about why she’d want the kids. Sukuna makes it sound like she didn’t care back then, what could have changed now? Of course, there’s the possibility that Sukuna could be wrong, but it seems unlikely given Kaori’s track record and her behavior earlier. The lies she’d told under oath at the courthouse may have slipped past the judge, but you saw through her.

The way she looked at you, as though you were a pawn in some game sends a shiver up your spine.

Nudging his foot as he sips a spoonful of broth, you catch his attention again. “Is she always so… ” You trail off, coming to the realization that you don’t know exactly how to describe the way Kaori acts.

He hums questioningly. “What, fake?” He asks, watching as you raise your spoon to your lips.

“Yeah, like…” You pause, holding your spoon out in front of you. “I don’t know, too sweet and caring?”

Sukuna scoffs, a hint of amusement skirting the edges of his tone. “Since the funeral, yeah.”

Poking the inside of your cheek in thought, you contemplate whether any details from Sukuna’s past could be used in the trial, but Kaori or her lawyer always seemed to have some well thought-out refute for every time Sukuna attempted to bring up her track record.

It’s almost strange, in a way, to think about how easily the judge seemed to decline any objections from Sukuna’s lawyer.

Nudging your foot to bring you back to the present, Sukuna gruffs out a “hey,” catching you off-guard. As your body jolts in surprise, your spoon tilts and the broth spills across the front of your painfully white blouse, the warmth seeping through the material. The squeak of shock that you let out sends concern rippling through Sukuna’s entire being like lightning.

“Shit,” he breathes, standing abruptly and offering napkins as he averts his gaze from the outline of your bra that’s now startlingly obvious. His gaze rounds the table as though in search of something that might fix the situation. “Fuck, did it burn you?”

Blinking as the initial shock passes, you shake your head. “Oh- um, no! No, it’s just warm.” And thank god for that, had you not waited a bit before eating, this likely would have been a hell of a lot worse. Reaching for the napkins Sukuna offers, you dab at the stain, chewing on your lip at how glaringly obvious it is, and even worse, how see-through your blouse is. You consider putting on your winter coat, but between the warm soup and heated building, that just might melt you.

Great.

Coming to the same conclusion that you have, Sukuna slips out of his suit jacket without thinking, wordlessly handing it over to you. Gratefully taking it from him, your cheeks heat up once more at the sight of his jacket draped over you. You can’t help but giggle at the way it absolutely dwarfs you in size. The sound of your laughter puts the man across from you at ease.

Between how painfully cute you look giggling in his suit jacket and the smile he has to physically fight off at the sight of you adorned in his clothes, Sukuna finds himself able to take a seat, leaning on his elbows with his hands clasped in front of his mouth.

He’d be lying if he said blood wasn’t flowing south too.

A thought crosses his mind. Something that he’s been running from, but he sets it aside. He shouldn’t even be considering the implications behind his heart’s pounding or the smile he finds himself chewing on his own cheek to fight off as he hides behind his hands. What he needs to focus on right now is your well-being.

At least, that’s what he’ll tell himself as he keeps running from that familiar thought. He knows it’s cowardly, but he’s not sure he’s in the right state of mind to face it.

“You alright, princess?” He asks from behind his hands, composing himself.

“Hm? Yeah, don’t worry! It wasn’t hot. Sorry I wasn’t paying attention,” you reply with a small smile, unbothered.

Your friend hums from across the table. “You have an unhealthy relationship with hot liquids.”

Your brow furrows as you hold his jacket around you to prevent the see-through patch from being visible. “Since when?” You can’t recall another time you’ve spilled around him.

“The oil,” he reminds you.

Your lips purse as you scour your memory, brow shooting up as the image of an employee passing you with a bucket of oil passes through your mind. The feeling of Sukuna’s arm effortlessly holding you off the ground sends an equal amount of heat through your cheeks as the embarrassment of the near-incident itself. “Oh yeah,” you murmur, quickly scowling to deflect his accusation. “That was so long ago!”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, no longer hiding his smirk now that he’s fallen into familiar territory with you. “Ya still needed to be rescued, though,” he pokes fun at you.

Groaning playfully, you give him a light kick to the shin under the table, causing his smirk to shift into a full-on grin as he chuckles at your expense. “You’re such a dick!” You insist.

“Mm, tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Rolling your eyes, you return to your ramen, careful not to spill, lest you get teased further.

Though the more you think about it as you catch glimpses of Sukuna’s mild and easy smile as he eats, maybe you wouldn’t mind making a fool of yourself if it means he’s in a good headspace. Especially given the day he’s already had, there’s satisfaction to be found in seeing Sukuna laugh.

The real Sukuna.

The one that makes your stomach flutter and your heart flip.

It hurts in a way that you’re not quite prepared for, a way that’s painfully lonely in spite of being across from the person that you never quite stopped loving.

Bittersweet, you keep the tone light as easy conversation settles between you once more. Even if you hold onto your cautious inhibitions, there’s relaxation to be found in the shared warmth. “Toji told me you used to do a lot of graffiti.”

He scoffs, amused. “Been a while, but yeah.”

“He said you used to tag all the basketball courts you hung out at.”

Humming, Sukuna nods as he slurps up a noodle. “Mhm. Courts, tunnels, n’ old trains.”

“So what did you usually tag things as? Like, your name?”

Sukuna’s content smile falters, a pale pink shade dusting his cheeks. “Somethin’ like that.”

A grin slowly spreads across your lip. “Is it embarrassing?” You ask, leaning in. He glances up at you, pointedly taking another bite to avoid your interrogation. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. You know I named myself ‘Flower’ in Animal Crossing.”

His brow raises. “Weren’t you like five when you played that shit?” He retorts.

“Yeah, but…” you trail off with a shrug. “Come on, please Kuna?”

And when you tilt your head like that, your eyes gleaming like he’s a masterpiece to behold, who is he to say no?

With a drawn out sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The King,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes shut to avoid your judgement. And for good reason as you fail miserably at fighting your grin.

When you don’t reply, he finally peeks an eye open, regretting it immediately when you break, a fit of giggles taking over.

Clicking his tongue, he rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s not that bad,” he grumbles.

“It’s not, it’s not!” You insist between giggles, coughing in an effort to cover them as he stares at you in disdain. “It’s just… so you.”

“The fuck does that mean?” He gruffs.

“Just-” you pause, covering your lips as if he won’t be able to tell you’re still struggling not to laugh. “- I don’t know! It’s just exactly what I’d expect from you.”

“Then what’s so funny about it?” He scoffs, glowering across the table.

“Kuna,” you stare at him expectantly, as though he should just know. “Come on, you were- what? Sixteen? When you came up with that, right?” You query, met with a hum of agreement. “It’s just- it’s cute!” You insist as Sukuna continues to scowl at you. “It’s just- funny to picture a little Sukuna who thought he was really cool for that.”

His brow twitches, his hardened expression cracking. Of course Sukuna thought he was cool. He couldn’t just be ‘King’ either, no, he had to be The King. He snorts at the thought, bringing a hand up to cover his face as he chuckles. Your giggles turn into a full blown outburst of laughter that’s even contagious for Sukuna as he finds himself hunched over the table at the thought of a time long past.

Your shared laughter is musical, filling the air with a fondness that’s been missing from your lives for so long you both thought it was lost. Each moment spent basking in it, you find yourself slowly letting your guard down just a little bit more.

“I wish I could have seen one of your tags,” you grin, eyes crinkling at the corners in delight. “I guess it was a long time ago though.”

His tongue runs along his lower lip, teeth digging into the flesh to stop himself from smiling and giving away his secret.

“No way.”

He stares at the wall, his cheeks now painted in a pale rose as he leans on his elbow. His hand muffles his words as he attempts to cover his smile with it. “I think there’s one that’s still there.”

“Sorry, what’s that?” You tease.

Shooting you a knowing look from his peripherals, he makes a show of huffing. “You heard me, princess.”

“Where is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses.

“Come on, please?”

“No,” he grumbles behind his hand, turning to face you finally as if in a challenge.

“I’ll ask Choso.”

His confidence falters as the gears visibly turn in his mind. He actually can’t remember if Choso knows, but there’s a very real possibility that he does. Sukuna wasn’t exactly the model brother and Choso was there for a decent chunk of his time spray painting random alleys and trains. Choso was just happy to be there with his brother, unaware of the criminality of his older brother’s actions.

With a sigh, he drags his hand over his face in defeat. “Y’know the skate park two stops past work?”

“I think so.”

“I figured out how to tag the ceiling under the bridge, it’s probably still there.”

“Oh my god, we have to go after work sometime,” you gasp in delight.

He opens his mouth to say no, but the words die in his throat at the sight of you grinning with stars in your eyes. This is the most normal things have been with you in the past couple of months, and now you’re the one asking to hang out. Not out of pity or to help his brothers. Not for work, or school. Blowing a puff of air from his nose, he relents. “Yeah, alright. If that’s what you want,” he grumbles, though even for all his grumbling, the warm look in his eyes says otherwise.

That same warmth spreads to his chest as you beam at him with a triumphant ‘yesss!’, one hand clutching your spoon as you return to your soup while the other holds his suit jacket over yourself. It drapes over your body like a dress, it's so long. The shoulders of the jacket droop, your form nowhere near as broad as his, yet somehow you make it look intentional. As though his jacket belongs to you and it always has.

His bowl of ramen sits empty as he finds his attention drawn to you. As you finish what’s left of your soup, his mind wanders. The reality he’s been running from seems to draw closer, seeping into the edges of his mind with each passing moment.

But along with it comes a guilt that settles like stones in his stomach.

“You’re still bein’ too nice to me,” he blurts out.

When you meet his gaze with a raised brow, you shake your head. “Is that a bad thing?”

He knows it’s a rhetorical question, your kind way of telling him that you want to be nice, but self-sabotage is his closest friend. “You’ve always been too nice to me. After all the shit I pulled, you’re still-” he just shakes his head, his gaze drawn to the small remaining pool of soup at the bottom of his bowl. In the depths of the dish, he finds his reflection staring back at him once more, distorting each time either of you shuffle or knock the table.

With each distortion of his own picture, he finds himself frowning. It makes him look older, somehow. As though he’s grown weathered and worn. It’s been so long since he lost himself that each glance at a mirror serves as a reminder of the missing pieces of himself, fracturing in the ripples of the soup beneath him.

Maybe that’s why he clings so desperately to you and his brothers. You carry pieces of him that he recognizes, while he’s nothing more than a shadow of what once was.

“Kuna,” you scold lightly as you recognize the look in his eyes, giving his foot a nudge and capturing his sharp gaze. “Stop it.”

You know you don’t need to elaborate, he understands. He knows the multitude of meanings behind your words. The guilt boiling at the pit of his stomach isn’t so easily swayed, though. “Just thought you’d learned your lesson.”

You laugh lightly, humoring him. “Oh, I did,” you affirm. His brow raises, the distance in his eyes clearing just enough to find intrigue in his gaze. “If you’re a dick on purpose again, I’m not sticking around to be treated like that,” you smirk, your tone too warm for the words that slip past your lips.

Amused at both your choice of words and your confidence, Sukuna snorts. “Good,” he hums, shoving his bowl aside in hopes that his dreary thoughts will go along with it. “Keep it that way. The confidence looks good on you, princess.” No matter the circumstances he finds himself in, he knows he wouldn’t- couldn’t- dare to say such outright hurtful things to you again.

Heat rises up your neck like a wildfire, averting your eyes in an effort to fend it off. Luckily, the waitress returns to the table and shields you from Sukuna teasing your shyness as you ask for the bill. She returns a moment later and lets you know to pay at the front.

“Ready?” You hum, bracing your hands on the bench. When Sukuna nods, you push yourself out of the seat, brushing down Sukuna’s suit jacket before handing it back to him with a sweet ‘thank you’ as you throw your winter coat over your stained blouse.

Heading to the front of the shop, you pull out your card as the waitress prepares the keypad, but before you can move a muscle, Sukuna slots his card into the reader.

“Sukuna, what? No-” you reach out in an attempt to pull his card away. “I told you I’d pay. Ah-!” An involuntary squeak leaves you as Sukuna pulls your hand away from his card and uses a strong arm around your shoulders to slot you against him, holding you away from the machine. Even as you claw at his bicep and struggle against him in a fit of giggles and protests to let you go, he effortlessly holds you in place.

It’s such an obvious display of his muscles and you’re painfully sure he can feel the heat radiating from your skin given how close his arm is to your collar and neck. And really, how are you not supposed to think about his stupidly buff arm when the veins are right in your vision?

Asshole.

When he finally releases his grip and you stumble forward, fixing him with a pout, he just smirks at you.

“I was gonna pay!” You insist.

He shrugs. “Ramen won’t break the bank. It’s worth it for you.”

Any protests die in your throat as all you can do is blink at him. Your lips purse, his words settling in your mind.

Had he just said that it’s worth it, you wouldn’t have thought twice about it, it’s the way he specified that it’s worth it for you. Sukuna returns to his business like it’s nothing, tucking his card into his wallet and shoving his hands in his pockets, but it takes you a moment to follow after him as he pushes back out into the cold.

The brisk air hardly even hits you. Sure, it’s gotten a bit warmer, but that’s not what you’re focused on when the intonation behind Sukuna’s words only leaves you shocked, and worse, confused. You know your friendship with him runs deeper than most that he bothers to foster and you hold a place within his life that he’s willing to fight for, but this strikes you in a way that your usual banter and nudges don’t.

It brings you back to the way you’d been stunned when he intertwined your fingers in a way that felt so real.

You remember his rejection all too well, and yet… Now you’re not so sure how he feels. Maybe you’re reading into things too much, maybe this is all part of him earning your trust back, but your racing heart wants to think otherwise.

Maybe it’s all just a sick delusion.

Swallowing hard, you push aside your thoughts as you crawl back into your shell, the sudden realization of something altogether confusing leaving you scared. “Do you need a ride?”

“Nah,” Sukuna replies, the face of stoicism. He digs into his pocket, setting a cigarette between his lips. “Gonna walk to the kids’ school n’ wait. It’ll give me some time to think,” he gruffs, his voice muffled from the cigarette. His lighter clicks as it ignites, the ashen edge of the cigarette glowing like a firefly.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“See ya, princess.”

–

The office is quiet come Tuesday. Even Yuki only stole about ten minutes of your time, mostly to complain about the fact that she’s still not done with Baby Whale, and she’s absolutely sick of it.

And really, who can blame her?

Finishing up your work, you send it over to Yuki for review and approval, met with an immediate pout from her as your email pops up in her inbox right away. With an innocent smile, you’re just about to offer to take something off her plate since you’re a bit ahead of schedule when Maya pings you with a request to come see her.

Excusing yourself, you make your way over to her office with dread twisting your gut.

She likely just has a question, but there’s something stressful about being summoned to your boss’ office no matter the occasion.

Or maybe that’s just how your brain works, finding worries in the least likely of places.

Knocking, you push into Maya’s office with a polite smile, casting a glance to the side at the sight of Sukuna manspreading in a chair across from Maya’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. Your eyes fall to his forearms, the veins protruding over rippling muscles with his sleeves pushed up. God, he’s distracting.

His aloof stare falls flickers to you before he fixes his attention on Maya again.

“Hey,” she greets, sitting up and clasping her hands professionally. Something about the momentous air in the room doesn’t settle your nerves as she addresses you. “Sorry, Sukuna and I were just finishing up his one-month review,” she explains as she hands him some paperwork. You can’t make out how it went based on either of their expressions. “While I have him here, I figured I’d call you in as well. The client pushed the due date forward on Lee’s Adventure. How far along are the edits and cover? They want them by tomorrow but I don’t want to push either of you,” she explains.

“I finalized the edits this morning, Yuki just needs to review. I can take some of her work to balance her workload,” you offer.

“Gimme an hour and the cover’s done,” Sukuna replies mildly.

“You two are lifesavers, thank you,” she sighs in relief. “I swear, as soon as we finish this, I’m done with this agent,” she grumbles. “Send me the cloud file once it’s uploaded, Sukuna. I’ll wait for Yuki and let her know you’ll take something from her.”

Once dismissed, you stretch your arms overhead as you make your way out into the main office. The moment Sukuna shuts Maya’s door, he turns towards you. “Coffee?”

Huh, you hadn’t even realized he didn’t bring you one today. “Don’t you need to work on the cover?”

“I finished it last night,” he dismisses with a smirk. “Come get coffee with me.”

You can’t help the bubbly laughter that comes with the realization of why he asked for an hour, nodding. You both make pit stops at your offices before making your way out the front door. The snow has mostly cleared and it’s finally warm enough to be in a spring jacket rather than a winter one. With the weather finally easing up, it’s nice to be outside again. No breath billowing out in front of you as your ears and the tips of your fingers freeze, just a light breeze that rustles your hair.

There’s a shop only a couple of blocks from the office that you’ve only tried once when you got to work a bit early that you had enjoyed. It’s not Sukuna’s usual choice, but his order is about as simple as it gets, so surely it can’t be too bad no matter where he goes.

“You go first,” he urges as you arrive, letting you tell the cashier what you’d like. He steps forward and requests a black coffee, playfully shoving you aside in the process because he knows you well enough to know you were about to try to pay.

“You have to let me pay for something,” you groan in mock disdain.

He shrugs, not even offering any words.

Sighing, you shake your head. “Thanks, Kuna.”

He hums in acknowledgement, handing your drink over as it slides across the counter.

Once his arrives, he leads the way to a table and slides down in the chair, taking a sip of his coffee. He sighs at the familiar taste, grateful to finally get some caffeine in his system to keep him awake.

“So, how’d your review go?” You ask, taking slow sips of your warm drink.

“Pretty good,” he nods, glancing off to the side in thought. He seems tired again, though given that you both thought the trial was last Thursday, the kids probably did too, which really would only extend Sukuna’s troubles. “I guess the fucker who thought you were his personal assistant complained, but other than that she seemed pretty happy.”

Shaking your head, you roll your eyes. “Reggie’s the worst. He’s so full of himself.”

Yawning, your friend shrugs again. “Whatever. She didn’t really seem like she cared that he complained.”

“That’s good at least. I don’t think anyone really likes him, so-”

You cut yourself off as Sukuna begins digging in his pocket abruptly, scowling at his vibrating phone as he processes the name on the caller ID.

“Hello?”

From your perspective, he continues to glower at nothing in particular as he listens to whoever’s on the other line. He hums or grunts in reply, though he doesn’t offer much for insight until something seems to catch his attention.

“What?” He growls, hackles raised as he’s suddenly sitting upright. “It shouldn’t be ready for weeks.”

More silence as Sukuna runs a hand through his hair, tousling it. “The f-” he cuts himself off, adjusting his phrasing, “what does it say, anyway?”

You take a sip of your coffee, trying to give him privacy, but it’s hard when you left your phone at the office and have no distraction beyond your surroundings.

He sighs heavily, waving his hand uselessly through the air in exasperation. “Gotta be kidding me, of course it does.”

Huffing as he continues to listen to the caller, his frustrations quickly explode into full-blown fury. “How? You said we shoulda had fuckin’ weeks, how is that fucking possible?” He barks.

Your eyes widen at the sudden change in tone. The tattooed man casts a glance around the cafe before abruptly standing and pushing out the door to continue his conversation outside. Choosing to give him privacy, you stay in your seat, watching with concern as he throws his hands in the air in disbelief from outside the window. It takes a few minutes before he hangs up and dumps his phone into his pocket. He throws his head back, dragging his hands over his face and remaining there for a good minute before swinging the cafe door back open with enough vigor that it meets the wall behind it.

Sukuna plops down in the chair across from you, picking up the coffee he’d left on the table and downing it in one go. Your brow raises as you regard him with concern.

Before you can voice your concern, Sukuna speaks up. “What’re you doing tomorrow morning?” He asks tersely, his gaze fixated on the paper cup in his grasp that he’s struggling not to crush in his own bout of irritation.

“Um-” you hesitate, scouring your mind for anything important. “Just classes, why?”

“The fuckin’ trial’s tomorrow.”

You recoil in horror, eyes wide. “What? How?”

“Fuckin’ Kaori,” he hisses. “Fucking snake put an urgent push on the date and I guess it only needs twenty four hours’ notice,” he growls, the cup in his hand fracturing under the weight of his hold. He sets it down on the table before whatever liquid’s left in the paper cup drips onto his gray slacks. “Can’t believe they’re letting her get away with this shit.”

“Wouldn’t she need, like, evidence or something to make it urgent?” You shake your head quizzically, trying to make sense of the sudden weight placed on Sukuna. It had only been a handful of days since he’d come to terms with the fact that he had more time and now the rug is being pulled out from under him as fast as it had been laid out.

Sukuna shakes his head and shrugs at once. “I don’t fuckin’ know.” His tone is disdainful as he harshly rubs his hands over his face. “She paid for a rush on the house study and it should have been done in a few weeks instead of months, not a few fuckin’ days,” he snaps, not directed at anyone in particular.

“You don’t think…” you trail off, chewing on your lower lip as you bring up something that’s been gnawing at you.

“Yeah, I do fucking think this shit is rigged,” he finishes your thought, pushing a hand through his salmon locks. He exhales heavily, eyes alight. “Fuck, I just told the kids things were okay and now I’m a fucking liar, and she’s fuckin’ cheating somehow, I- I don’t-” his anger and anxiety begin to blur, the lines separating them beginning to converge as his leg bounces beneath the table.

The fire in his eyes is quickly extinguished by fear as he considers what his next twenty four hours will look like.

You can’t watch despair take over without stepping in. Reaching across the table, you offer your hand. “I’ll be there. Class doesn’t matter. What time?”

He turns his attention to you, his eyes flickering between your face and your outstretched hand. “Ten thirty,” he grumbles, cautiously reaching out to squeeze your hand. “Thanks, princess.”

With a sympathetic smile, you nod.

“Shit, I gotta…” he trails off, inhaling sharply. “I gotta get home n’ meet with the lawyer,” he mumbles, his day immediately cut short by none other than Kaori.

Squeezing his hand reassuringly, you capture his attention again. “Do you want some tea or something before you leave?” You offer, recalling how fast he downed his coffee.

Sukuna nods hesitantly. “Another coffee would be nice,” he mumbles, standing before you can move. “I can get it, though.”

“Let me get you this,” you plead as you push to your feet.

He takes a moment to examine the determined gleam in your eyes before giving in. “Sure.”

With a new cup of coffee in hand shortly afterwards, he thanks you quietly as you begin the short and tense walk back to work. The morning had seemed so easy barely a half hour ago, and now you can’t help but think that you took that sensation for granted.

Silence follows you as you let yourselves back into the building, quietly following Sukuna to his office while you stand in the doorway as he begins packing up.

“Don’t forget to send that cover to Maya,” you remind him.

He mutters a curse under his breath, the dark circles under his eyes painfully apparent as he pulls his laptop back out and quickly sends the files over to your boss.

Once he’s finished packing up, his coffee in-hand, you stop him before the door with a hand on his forearm. He regards you with a look that breathes only exhaustion.

“It’ll be okay,” you reassure him.

Despite the swirling anger and anxiety living within the crimson oceans of his irises, something stronger breaks through when he steels himself as he replies. “I know. I won’t let her fuckin’ win.”

You offer a smile, grateful for the resolve that he continues to nurture despite his own doubts. His brothers need him, and he’ll play the role he needs to in order to win the trial, no matter how much he feels as though he’s at his wit’s end. You can only pray he holds himself above water long enough to keep himself from drowning.

“Good luck, Kuna.”

He examines your expression for a moment, simply nodding as he pulls away from your grasp and slips out the front door without a word.

–

Your stomach churns uncomfortably as you stare in the mirror. It’s funny, the way you’d felt so prepared for this day for so long, but now that it’s here, it sits like a molten lava in your stomach. It churns and sears at your insides, unsettling you to your very core. If this is how you’re feeling as a bystander, you can only imagine the way Sukuna’s feeling right now.

They’re not your family, not your brothers, but they’re dear to you. All three of them.

Running your hands down the front of your black pencil skirt, you nod to yourself in the mirror. Fiddling with the sleeve of your (now stain-free) white blouse, you gather your keys and throw on a nice coat and professional plain black heels.

Even the thought of listening to music doesn’t seem right on the drive to the courthouse. Your mind is filled with trepidation, your finger tapping idly at the leather steering wheel as you opt for silence on the way there.

The world around you seems to hold its breath as you step out of your vehicle, your heels landing on fresh pavement. The birds overhead are silent, although a pair of crows eye you from their perch atop a tree. The air is suffocating, and you long for the relief that the end of this hearing will surely bring.

Your gaze falls on the large wooden doors at the front of the familiar stone building with flags at either side. The sheer size alone is imposing enough as is, but the cool and smooth exterior of the monotonous building does no favors to ease your stress. You would almost think they want you to be nervous upon arrival.

Pushing through the doors, you’re reminded that the inside is no better. After making it through security, there are very few windows, the artificial overhead lighting beating down on you as though it’s passing its own judgement. A large reception desk sits at the center of the room, alongside a pair of hallways on either end of the lobby. Evaluating the vaguely familiar room, you find the person you’re searching for fairly easily, his hair standing out in the waiting crowd with Ms. Harte sitting silently beside him.

The click of your heels alerts Sukuna to your presence before you take a seat beside him. He’s dressed to the nines, but you don’t have the luxury of appreciating just how good he looks given the gravity of the situation. When he lifts his head, you find yourself frowning regardless. His eyes are little more than an endless sea of doubts, stress, fears, and misery. There’s a distance glazed over his eyes that suggests he’s not all there right now, hanging on by a thread.

He’s worn so thin that even the sight of you doesn’t ease any of the thoughts running through his mind. He’s gone over the case so many times with his lawyer in the past twenty four hours that he’s not sure he even can be any more prepared, yet he still finds himself feeling vastly underprepared. The short notice in particular claws at the very flesh of his being, as though Kaori is personally taunting him.

“Hey.” Your voice is soft as you offer him a smile, but your nerves are evident in the twitch of your brow. His pupils slide slowly from your face down to your wrist, where he can faintly see the red and purple twine bracelets hidden beneath your semi-translucent sleeve. You may be here in part to support him, which he appreciates more than you could ever know, but he knows the gravity of this situation affects you too, given how much you adore his little brothers.

He almost regrets ever dragging you into this part of his life. The only reason he can even dare to put the word ‘almost’ in that thought is because if he ever dared to express that, you’d chew him out. He thinks he’d let you without so much as batting an eye either, because he needs you.

“Sukuna?” You softly call out to him and his gaze finally raises from your wrist once more to meet your eyes. He examines you for a moment, his finger twitching as he longs to reach out. He longs for the comfort the warmth of your soft skin brings him, but his own self-doubt plagues him down as though he’s wading through mud. He barely has enough strength to keep himself afloat, let alone to dare ask for something.

He knows he’s made leaps and bounds of progress in your relationship over the last few weeks, but as he braves the fog of his mind, he can’t seem to make sense of the lines that separate you anymore. He can’t bear the thought of overstepping.

As is, there’s already a risk he loses his brothers. He can’t lose you, too.

Not again.

Clearing his throat, he gruffly pushes out a reply. “Hey.”

Your brow furrows, “Do you need some water?” You offer, sure you can find somewhere to get him some.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m fine.”

You both know well that it’s a lie. Neither of you are fine.

The dejected tone he speaks in doesn’t do him any favors, either. To think this is the same man you met so many months ago almost seems like a joke. Usually so full of pride and bravado, the world has stomped out every last flame that once made up the stubborn brute. He seems almost like a shell of his former self.

It’s strange, when you consider what you’d just told Shoko last week, that Sukuna seems more like himself. The more you think about it, now you’re not so sure. It’s as though his own life is beating him down into a person that you wonder if he even recognizes.

Your heart twists at the thought that somewhere along the line, the man sitting beside you lost himself.

He lost you, he lost himself, and now he’s at risk of losing what’s left of his world.

It only makes you more furious with his step-mother. You don’t see her or her lawyer on this side of the waiting room, and thank god for that. The look of control she always bears makes your skin crawl.

“How are Choso and Yuji?” You keep your voice low as you check in on your friend and his brothers.

Sukuna sighs quietly. “Uraume’s with ‘em. Couldn’t get them to go to school. When I told ‘em what was going on, Choso…” He just shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

“He shut down?”

Sukuna hums in thought. “No, I think he’s tryin’ to listen to you.” He shuffles in his seat, sitting up. Tugging at his collar and tie uncomfortably, he cracks his neck. “I just dunno what to do. He’s outside my door tryin’ to talk every few minutes, but I-” With a shrug, he shakes his head again. He knows you get him. He doesn’t need to tell you that he doesn’t have a way with words, you know.

“He just needs you to be there for him. You don’t have to say anything.”

The crimson of his eyes seems to swirl with doubts as he examines you, but he finds it in himself to nod, slumping back in the chair once more.

“How’d the house study turn out?” You query, hoping that will at least help his case.

Shakily sighing, he tilts his head in a ‘so-so’ manner. “No issues with the house,” he states, his gaze fixated on an empty chair in front of him. “But they looked at the kids’ mental health as well, and Yu’s went fine but Cho…” he shakes his head with a sigh, knowing he doesn’t need to spell it out for you. “Good news is they gave us a record of what both kids said and asked ‘em both about me and Kaori.”’

“That should help,” you agree, thankful that even if Choso is too young to testify, at least the kids’ opinions are taken into account to some degree.

“Yeah…” He agrees, though he doesn’t seem to share your optimism, his gaze still painfully distant with the weight of his ambivalence.

Unable to keep his mind on-track for a conversation, he inhales sharply as the tense silence of the courthouse surrounds you both. The closer the time strikes to ten thirty, the more the air seems claustrophobic despite the high ceilings and large, open lobby. With each second that passes, Sukuna finds his leg bouncing quicker, his mind racing faster, and his heart damn-near pounding right out of his chest.

Every muscle in his body is rife with tension, and his chest could implode at any second given the burden that claws at his lungs. He can only sit with his hands clasped in his lap, acting as though the taste in his mouth isn’t so vile that he could wretch.

Quietly drowning, he doesn’t dare to even cast you a glance. As though every mistake he’s ever made with his brothers isn’t already crashing through his mind like a wave, he can’t bear to consider the ones he’s made with you.

But you’ve always been too sweet to him.

In a silent show of support, your fingers glide across the skin of his clasped hands, settling atop them. You run your thumb gently over his knuckles, the warmth of your skin soothing the frigid water that threatens his lungs. The sympathy on your features would frustrate him if you were anyone else, but from you, it doesn’t taste so bitter.

He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. His leg gradually stops bouncing as your thumb continues to softly brush his skin. He casts you a grateful glance despite his silence, too afraid of ruining the moment and losing the one thing keeping him sane.

It’s funny, really. Or maybe funny isn’t the right word. But Sukuna remembers a time where nothing scared him. He remembers being the type of kid who would dive headfirst into a fist fight with someone bigger than him just because they bumped into him.

He’d even gotten off lucky once when he’d thrown a punch at some rich kid tattling on him for skateboarding in a park where it was prohibited, but he’d narrowly missed and slammed his fist into the wall. Why is that lucky? Because the money Jin had to spend fixing Sukuna’s fist is nothing compared to the money he could have spent on a worthless lawsuit. That was also one of the first times Sukuna had ever experienced the true shame in being at the center of Jin’s disappointment.

It’s also the single moment in his life that decided that he would call Kaori rather than Jin when he was arrested.

But Sukuna’s world has flipped on its head, and that’s not who he is anymore. He doesn’t have the luxury of throwing reckless punches at the wall.

He needs to be better, for his brothers. He wants to be better and build a world where they can have what Sukuna couldn’t.

He casts you a glance. You’re part of that world, too, though he struggles to identify what role it is that you play.

“Case number 2493, Sukuna versus Itadori.”

Sukuna’s head whips up to face a man in a full suit standing at the edge of the waiting area with a woman dressed equally as pristinely at his side. He recognizes them as the bailiff and court clerk, ready to lead the way to the family courtroom and staring expectantly at the waiting crowd.

Ms. Harte gets to her feet, leading the way with a confident gait. She greets the court clerk and bailiff with a professional smile while waiting on Sukuna who’s much slower to get to his feet. He pulls his hands away from you, brushing his suit down and adjusting his tie. He loosens it slightly, but the choking feeling he’s experiencing isn’t the tie at all.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he glances back over the chair as though he might be forgetting something, before following after the lawyer. Although your nerves are more subtle than Sukuna’s, you find yourself following his lead, brushing down your outfit as though your presence has any bearing on the case.

From the opposite side of the waiting room comes Kaori in a flawlessly fitted suit and pencil skirt with a new obvious display of wealth sparkling in the overhead light as it dangles from her neck with matching earrings to boot. Her confidence is picturesque with not a single hair out of place. Her lawyer, Mr. Cahn, stands as proudly as ever beside her in a navy suit, equally as prepared as she seems.

You’ve only seen her once before, for such a brief period of time as she drove Sukuna through hoops in an effort to take her children from him, and yet were this not a courthouse, you would have words for her. Choice words. You didn’t know back then the lengths she was willing to go through to ruin Sukuna’s life, and now you can only wonder what more is in store.

You’re not one to raise your voice, nor start fights, but she’s caused so much needless pain and suffering to those three brothers, that you find yourself wanting a fight. You can only imagine how Sukuna feels about her as you catch a glimpse of the daggers he’s sending her way.

She’s lucky his lawyer warned him to stay on the judge’s good side this time around.

In your mind, she’s the textbook definition of a monster, so her kind and somewhat sympathetic smile cast in Sukuna’s direction as she approaches immediately strikes you as fake. Much like every other nicety she’s thrown his way over the past week.

Sukuna’s hands ball into fists at his sides as the clerk ushers your parties to a courtroom simply labeled as ‘four’. The clerk pushes his way into the small room, helping both parties get situated at separate tables before the judge’s bench as he and the bailiff take their own seats.

The room is smaller than what you’ve seen in the movies. There’s very little room to move around and apart from the flags that hang at the door, the small room is painted only in dull and somewhat dark tones of cream and walnut. There’s still no windows, the sterile overhead lights being the only source of light and painfully so. The artificial feeling of the room does no favors for your nerves.

The clerk leads you to the small section of gallery seating behind Sukuna as the only viewer of the case, though you suppose that family law likely doesn’t get many spectators, so it figures that you’re alone. Still, the uncomfortable chair doesn’t add any layer of comfort.

Both lawyers quietly discuss the case with their clients while awaiting the arrival of the judge. Ms. Harte emphasizes courtroom rules to Sukuna before quickly going over the points she expects Kaori to use given the documents that had been provided by the opposing lawyer during their latest disclosure of evidence and the case conference last week. Among the evidence is a variety of photos, school records, and much to Sukuna’s dismay, evidence of every transgression plaguing his troubled childhood.

Every. Single. One.

His lawyer had assured him she didn’t see this being an issue given how old most of the documents are, but he’s still little more than a hulking mass of tension, while the opposing party on the opposite side of the room is the picture of confidence. That serves to make you more nervous, but Sukuna’s been the kids’ guardian for so long that there’s no way he can lose.

The door to the courtroom creaks open as a tall man in a gray suit enters the room. As Sukuna recognizes that the trial is about to begin, he inhales deeply, casting aside as many of his doubts as he can to present himself as one thing: determined.

For a moment, you even think you see a glimpse of the confident bravado Sukuna once wore back when you first met. It may be a mask he wears to keep up the appearance of his resolve, but a sliver of that mask bears a resemblance to the Sukuna you recognize.

He can do this.

The bailiff stands at the entrance to the room, straightening as she presents the judge. “Please rise. The Honorable Judge Martinez is now presiding.”

The judge runs a hand through his graying hair, which seems as though it may have been black once, as he takes a seat at the head of the room. His calm and authoritative emerald eyes slide across the room, taking in the scene before him and lingering a moment too long on Sukuna for your comfort. You can only hope he isn’t judging Sukuna’s ability to parent his brothers by his appearance.

That presumes anything but a fair trial, and given that Sukuna already suspects some sort of foul play on Kaori’s end, that doesn’t bode well for him.

Everything about this experience seems to differ from your expectations, as though everything you’ve seen in movies and TV isn’t quite right. Or maybe that only applies to family court, you can’t be sure.

The judge pulls a pair of glasses from his pocket, setting them on the bridge of his nose as he reads a brief summary of the case before him. As he wasn’t present during the case conference, all evidence will be new to him, which works in Sukuna’s favor as well given his outburst towards Kaori.

“Please be seated,” comes the bailiff’s instructions. Crossing your legs, you bite your lip as the hearing begins.

Judge Martinez addresses the room. “The court is now in session. We are here to address case 2493, Itadori versus Sukuna, for custody over the children Choso Itadori and Yuji Itadori. This is in regards to social file number 34785-98. I will be directing this case myself.”

Sukuna’s stomach flips in dread. Coming up on four years of taking care of them on his own and it all led to this. He wants to spew curses at his step-mother, to chew her up and spit her out wounded and bleeding, but he doesn’t dare break his calm facade. As far as anyone in this room needs to know, he’s a picturesque guardian to his brothers.

“Ms. Itadori, as the applicant in this case, we will open with your counsel’s statement.”

Kaori’s lawyer rises, bowing to the judge. He runs a hand through his well-kempt beard before beginning. “Thank you, Your Honor. My name is Richard Cahn and I will be representing the applicant, Ms. Kaori Itadori. My client is applying for full custody of these children as the biological mother of Yuji Itadori and Choso Itadori. Due to unfortunate circumstances regarding her health, Ms. Itadori was unable to care for the children after the passing of her husband, Jin Itadori, however she has since fully recovered and is now capable of providing for the children.” Her lawyer pauses, casting a glance at Sukuna, who keeps his eyes straight ahead in an effort not to break. “We acknowledge the important role Mr. Sukuna has played in their lives as their half-brother, however his actions have demonstrated that he is still young and not fit to take care of two children at this time.”

Judge Martinez nods in acknowledgement to the opposing party, motioning to Ms. Harte on Sukuna’s side. “I would like to hear from the counsel for the respondent.”

Sukuna’s lawyer stands, and you’re grateful for her confidence, because you’re struggling to share it. At least Sukuna is keeping up his confidence. Ms. Harte introduces herself in the same manner as Mr. Cahn, before beginning her statement.

“Your Honor, my client, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, is the older half-brother of Yuji Itadori and Choso Itadori and they have been in his legal care for the past three and a half years. Mr. Sukuna has raised them since Mr. Itadori fell ill and you will find that he has successfully provided stability, a safe home, and a positive environment for them over the years. While we acknowledge Ms. Itadori’s blood-relation to the children, they have shown an overall preference for their older brother, and I would like to ask that you consider what is in their best interest for this case.”

The judge nods upon hearing both opening statements. He scans the legal paperwork beneath his hands before rattling off a series of legal rules to the room. He goes over the procedures for the hearing, making a point that he would not like either party interrupting, and that he will direct the conversation. He explains that he will begin with the applicant, to have the respondent act as such- a responder.

After ensuring his instructions are clear, he allows the bailiff to call the first witness to the stand, Kaori herself. Sukuna had inquired about having you be a witness, but his attorney advised against it as your relationship with one another wasn’t set in stone or easy to describe and could serve as a detriment against an opposition like Kaori. As such, both parties had disclosed that their only witnesses would be the two guardians themselves.

There’s no witness stand for Kaori to move to in the small family courtroom, so she simply gets to her feet. Politely clasping her hands, she takes a vow to tell the truth, swearing herself in, and bows to the judge.

With Kaori now prepared to answer questions, her lawyer rounds the table to stand closer to the judge as he presents himself to the grander room. “Ms. Itadori, please explain the reasoning behind your inability to take guardianship of your children upon your husband’s passing.”

With a nod, Kaori smiles politely. “When my husband passed away, I had recently taken a job overseas to help provide for our family. It was a difficult decision to leave, however I felt it was for the best to prepare for our future. I was made aware that my husband was sick after my departure and we spoke daily, however I didn’t receive any notice that he had passed away for quite some time. I tried to reach out, but never heard back.”

Sukuna’s nails dig into his palms beneath the table at the blatant lie, but he does everything he can to keep his expression neutral. At the end of the day it’s her word against his, he can’t afford to tarnish the judge’s view of him.

“I had booked a flight back when I didn’t hear back after a couple of days, but I became quite ill out of nowhere. Um-” She pauses, her mask of confidence slipping for just a moment as she glances down at the table before her. “Here are my medical records and the flight ticket receipts.”

Her lawyer takes the documents, presenting them to the judge, who lays the paperwork out before him. He scans them briefly, motioning with his hand. “Please continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I only recovered late last year, otherwise I would have started this process much earlier. I love my children and I regret missing such a large portion of their lives.”

Mr. Cahn nods in approval at her testimony. “Please testify to the statement made that Mr. Sukuna is unfit for guardianship.”

Kaori nods, clearing her throat. “Of course. My step-son didn’t reach out when my husband passed away, and I was distraught to find that he had taken custody of my own children after learning of my husband’s passing. I helped raise Mr. Sukuna since he was nine years old, but he always caused problems. I have school records as evidence of his poor grades and misdemeanors.”

Her lawyer passes the documents along to the judge as she continues

“And here’s a photo Ryomen took with my son Choso which shows him trespassing in a train yard committing property damage. Not only is this inappropriate behaviour, but my son is very impressionable and this unacceptable.” She clasps her hands in front of herself, keeping up her responsible and caring appearance. “How is Mr. Sukuna meant to be trusted as a guardian, when he has demonstrated his poor abilities to care for my children as a babysitter?”

Sukuna’s mask of neutrality begins to break as he’s just about ready to pull his own hair out. A fucking selfie from when he was sixteen. Come the fuck on. Although he’s already seen all of her evidence, it’s hard not to be irritated with the woman when she’d held onto his records all these years later. He’s certain she did it for no other reason than to hold them over his head if she ever needed to.

“I’m aware these are older, however I don’t believe his behavior has changed. Before serving him with this case, I was going to talk to him about discussing this in a more civil manner, however I didn’t feel safe leaving my kids with him when I found him smoking outside of his apartment with someone while my kids were alone upstairs.”

Sukuna shuffles in his seat, but he can’t recall whatever Kaori is talking about. It’s not like he would have left them for long, he was right outside. If he were to guess, he was likely with Uraume if he was smoking with someone and it was before the lawsuit. It probably wasn’t you.

Kaori glances back down over the evidence on the table in front of her. “I would also like to bring attention to Mr. Sukuna’s employment. His lawyer provided us with his records, and he was working two jobs, while also attending college. This is irresponsible for my children’s well-being and wouldn’t allow him any time to be home with them. He would need to leave them in the care of other people, or even alone, rather than being with them himself.”

The worst part about this trial for Sukuna as he’s forced to sit in silence, is not being able to scream from the top of his lungs that at least he was there at all. Kaori can claim she was sick all she would like and Sukuna can’t refute that, but he sees through it.

“For those reasons, I would like to suggest that full custody is returned to me, as their mother. My husband and I have prepared rooms for both boys and we have the money and time to provide for them.”

Sukuna’s head whips towards Kaori, scanning her left hand. Sure enough, a rock as extravagant as the necklace she’s flaunting sits around her ring finger. Husband? Since when? That hadn’t been in any of the documents that had been provided to Sukuna and Ms. Harte. How had she had the time to get married if she was supposedly so sick?

He swallows hard, staring at the table in front of him. Surely the judge can see the holes in her logic just as Sukuna can.

Does she really just hate Sukuna that much that she can’t bear the thought of having a conversation with him to solve this?

That’s a useless thought, though. After everything that’s happened with her, Sukuna wouldn’t have handed over custody. It’s not what his brothers want, and he can see now more than ever that this isn’t in their best interest. He’s been trying to convince himself for months now that he’s a good guardian, but for the first time it’s glaringly obvious. Kaori is lying through her teeth, even after taking an oath, but Sukuna can’t refute any of her lies, he has no proof of anything.

Every word from Kaori is coldly calculated to take Sukuna down and his gut twists with each lie she tells.

He can’t figure out for the life of him what her angle is, either. What does she want them for? She clearly didn’t want them to begin with, so what the hell changed?

And worse still are Sukuna’s fears that Kaori is somehow manipulating the outcome of the trial. He needs to put his faith in the system, but it’s not easy when he has to watch her lie so outlandishly with such confidence, only to receive a nod from the judge.

Before her lawyer can speak, Kaori chimes in one last time, tilting her head towards Sukuna as she feigns motherly love for her step-son. “I appreciate everything Mr. Sukuna has done for my children, however he’s young, he has no support, and he has no experience raising children. Mr. Sukuna has always struggled with his emotions, as documented by his school records, and I don’t believe he can provide the emotional support my children require, particularly Choso.”

Emotional support. There it is. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? Like she knows just how to hit him where it hurts.

The weight on Sukuna’s chest bears down harder on him as she points out his shortcomings. He knows. He knows. Fuck, he knows. But it’s still better than what she can offer. It takes every ounce of Sukuna’s concentration to keep reminding himself of that. He won’t deny that he’s young and inexperienced in raising children. He won’t deny that he was horribly ill-prepared at first.

But he was there. He wasn’t perfect, he still isn’t. But he was there and that has to count for something.

“Ms. Itadori, can you comment on the urgency of this case?” Mr. Cahn pushes.

“Absolutely. We pushed for a rush of the house study due to my concerns for my oldest son’s mental well-being which that study confirmed, however upon being on the receiving end of my step-son’s behavioral issues last week during and following the case conference, I felt that it was important to place an urgent rush on this trial.” She grimaces as though this is some sort of grave and unfortunate ordeal for her.

Her lawyer nods in approval once again, all lines from both people in their party clearly rehearsed to a T. “That is all, Your Honor.”

The judge motions to Ms. Harte accordingly. “Thank you, Ms. Itadori. I would like to invite the respondent’s attorney to cross-examine the witness.”

Ms. Harte stands, confidently rounding the tables. Her heels click across the hardwood floor as she finds a place before Kaori. “Ms. Itadori,” she begins, “you claim that my client did not reach out upon your husband’s death, can you comment on the records that I provided your party detailing his efforts to reach out?”

“May I see these records?” The judge chimes in.

“Of course, Your Honor,” Ms. Harte agrees, handing over the paperwork.

“I do see here that Ryomen reached out, however none of my contact information here is right. I had moved recently and swapped to company-owned devices when I received a promotion at my job,” Kaori confidently explains. Her drawl carries an air of arrogance, as though nothing could possibly break her air-tight testimony.

“How could that be? Why would your step-son not have your proper contact information?”

“As I mentioned previously, Ryomen has a record of delinquency and I didn’t feel it was appropriate to step in and police how my husband chose to parent him,” she explains with ease. “We communicated very rarely after I left, and I didn’t have his number on-hand to reach out when Jin wasn’t replying.”

Sukuna’s lawyer pushes further. “Can you still say that you helped to raise Mr. Sukuna and know him well if you weren’t willing to step in as a parent?”

Kaori nods. “I did everything I could to appeal to Ryomen. I was there for every holiday, I took him to his driver’s test, and would take him shopping. My husband and I decided it was for the best that I tried to only create good memories with him since he wasn’t fond of me for a while. I believe for a while, he saw me as a threat to the attention he received from his father.”

Ms. Harte doesn’t so much as stutter as she continues to question Kaori. “If you weren’t willing to step in with Mr. Sukuna, why should the court believe you’ll do so with Choso and Yuji Itadori?”

“Those are my children. I’m comfortable parenting them how I believe is best, and I know their needs well.” she attests, her form straightening. “My children need their mother.”

Ms. Harte shakes her head. “Can you say that you know their needs well when the house study details not only that neither child remembers you, but also that their preference is for my client’s guardianship?”

The judge flips through the documents submitted to the court laid out in front of him, nodding in acknowledgement once he’s skimmed the children’s statements.

Yet Kaori always seems prepared. “I acknowledge that they were both young when I took a position overseas, and I have reason to believe that the preference towards Ryomen that they have stated is purely for that reason. Given the opportunity, I know they would thrive in my care,” she states confidently. “They’ve only chosen Mr. Sukuna as they don’t know what it means to be outside of his care.”

Sukuna’s lawyer mentally resets as Kaori rebounds easily. Addressing the room as a whole as she continues. “In addition, I would like to request that the documents provided by the applying party regarding my client’s educational misdemeanors be disregarded, as nothing is dated within the last four years.”

The judge regards Sukuna quietly for a moment before nodding. “Sustained.”

Ms. Harte bows politely. “Thank you, Your Honor. Additionally, I would like to ask that claims of Mr. Sukuna being seen outside of his apartment are disregarded as hearsay, as my client does not recall this.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Kaori’s lawyer speaks up, taking a stand. “I would like to ask that the court considers that a guardianship case is primarily hearsay, especially in circumstances where the children are too young to testify. Would Mr. Sukuna’s claim that he doesn’t recall this moment not be equally considered hearsay?”

The judge takes a moment to consider this, before clasping his hands together. “I agree. Your request is overruled,” he addresses Ms. Harte. Sukuna rolls his shoulders in his seat, crossing his arms to mask his irritation.

It’s not like there haven’t been small wins and pushes in Sukuna’s favor, but the cards seem to fall ever in Kaori’s favor, no matter how hard Ms. Harte and Sukuna fight.

“Very well, Your Honor,” Ms. Harte relents, clearly frustrated by this outcome. “In any case, I would like to ask that Ms. Itadori provides further information on this claim.”

“Of course,” Kaori smiles easily. “I arrived from overseas on September 4th, and went to visit my step-son on the sixth in the evening, which is when I witnessed him smoking with someone.”

“Do you have any evidence the children were home at the time?” Ms. Harte queries.

Kaori hesitates for a moment, the first crack in her confidence that sends a wave of relief through both you and Sukuna. “No, but I have no reason to believe they were somewhere else either.”

Ms. Harte nods, moving along. “You mentioned that you and your husband will be able to provide for the children. If you were unable to reach your phone due to illness, when did you have time to be married after your husband Jin’s passing while ill?”

Kaori cracks once more, hesitation crossing her features for the briefest of moments. “We met prior to Jin’s passing, and he supported me through my grief and sickness. Our ceremony was days before I returned to see my children in September and our honeymoon has yet to happen. Everything has happened very quickly,” she explains.

Sukuna sits upright in his seat, blinking at the realization that while she may not have admitted it, there’s no fucking way she didn’t cheat on Jin. Again. Sukuna grits his teeth hard, the pressure in his jaw tightening until he’s physically holding back a snarl. Sukuna can live with the ways she wronged him, but to smite Jin in his final days? He wants nothing more than to put her in her place.

But all he can do is sit in silence while Ms. Harte moves along, Kaori’s response is too sound to question further. “Ms. Itadori, you claim that Mr. Sukuna’s work schedule wouldn’t give him much time to be with the kids, however as outlined in the documents provided to your lawyer, you can see that Sukuna has recently taken a new position to allow himself more time with them.”

Kaori shoots a glance at the paperwork in front of her, nodding. “I see that, however his resume doesn’t give me confidence that he’s able to keep that job. He doesn’t seem to hold onto anything for much longer than a year, and that same document says that he recently dropped out of college.”

Unperturbed, Sukuna’s lawyer presses. “He put the children first over his own desires. Does that not show a dedication to these kids?”

Kaori considers this for a moment, casting a glance at her lawyer, though he nods confidently as though they’ve gone over the possibility of this coming up. You wonder if she’s even speaking in her own words, or if everything is a premeditated response, practiced. “It does, however I’m concerned for his ability to provide for my sons if he’s unable to hold a job or schooling. By dropping out, he’s also limited his career options,” she points out. “He doesn’t seem to have the qualifications for his current position, either.”

Sukuna stiffens at the mention of college, his leg inadvertently bouncing again under the table. He’s not sure if it ever stopped shaking, really, or if he’s just now noticing it again.

“There are more ways than just school to climb within the workforce nowadays, Ms. Itadori. Additionally, my client has proven more than capable of providing for the children financially by any means necessary. He’s shown his willingness and dedication to them through his actions,and has never once been unable to pay rent, keep food on the table. I do hope that the court will consider that money isn’t everything.” She turns to face the judge, politely bowing. “That is all, Your Honor.”

Ms. Harte returns to her seat beside Sukuna, where he’s waiting with white knuckles as he braces himself on the arms of his chair, preparing to testify.

The bailiff thanks Kaori, willing her to sit. She then turns her attention to Sukuna, giving him the opportunity to testify as well.

Sukuna turns to his lawyer briefly for assurance, before he pushes to his feet. Rolling his shoulders and smoothing down his suit, he takes the same oath of truthfulness as Kaori. He prays that neither the judge, nor the opposing party can hear the shaky breath he takes before Ms. Harte pushes him to begin his statement.

“Your Honor, Ms Harte,” Sukuna addresses the judge and his lawyer as he begins, hesitantly shifting from foot to foot as he stares down at his hands. Clearing his throat, his chest remains tight, his voice low as he speaks. “I- uh- I’ve been taking care of my brothers since my dad died. I got us an apartment, started workin’ and have letters from my employers to show my work ethic,” he pauses to hand these to his lawyer, “and I found a babysitter my brothers like.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifts up to the judge as the letters are passed along, straightening as he feels the scrutinizing glares of his step-mother and her lawyer in his peripherals. His own voice sounds unfamiliar to him as he tries to match the formal tone of the courtroom.

“I taught myself how to cook their favorite foods, I read to ‘em,” he wracks his brain for more details. “Learned how to change diapers, and I make sure they stay in school.” He sighs quietly as he scowls down at the table before him in thought. Every hardship and distant memory of the difficulty of teaching oneself to take care of children seems to weigh him down as he recounts each and every way he taught himself to step up.

He may have been forced into this life, but in every lifetime he’d do it over again if it means his brothers are happy.

Steeling himself, he fixes the judge with a determined gaze. “I stepped up. I did what I had to when I couldn’t reach their mom, and I’m still here. My little brothers are happy, they got food on the table, a roof over their heads, n’ they’re in school with friends. I’ll do anything for my brothers, and I’ve always been there for them, even when their mother wasn’t, no matter how much that affected them.” Sukuna finishes his statement, making a point of dragging down Kaori without being disrespectful in an effort to make a point about Kaori’s disingenuity.

Turning his expectant stare towards Kaori and her lawyer, he keeps his head up and gaze certain. The minute shake in his hands is well-hidden by the determination that keeps him looking at ease.

There was a time where his confidence wouldn’t be so thinly veiled. Shit, if he was testifying on any other subject, he’s sure he would be the picture of confidence itself, unperturbed by the goings on around him. It’s dejecting to know that he’s been reduced to a shadow of his former self by the very same woman who Sukuna knows openly rejected her own children’s calls.

The woman who wouldn’t step up and be a mother to him is now the woman tearing him down through legal means rather than having a conversation.

She’s selfish.

She’s a coward and an asshole and it pisses Sukuna off to no end to know what he’s become because of her. He hardly recognizes himself.

It’s strange. The person he sees in the reflection of the judge’s glasses doesn’t feel like him. He’s accustomed to the dark circles and pale reflection he sees, but the anxiety and doubt that cloud his vision taints his perspective of himself.

Sukuna is confident. He’s sure of himself. He’s brash, bold, and egotistical. He’s a hothead and a bit too quick on the draw to jump to conclusions. He’s smart, cunning, and hard-working, but under all those layers is a man who cares very much about those dear to him.

But the man who stares back at him is scared. In fact, he can’t see any of the qualities that seem to make him Sukuna aside from a set of tattoos that his father sighed at when he saw them.

He considers for a moment your presence behind him as well, and the version of himself he’s trying to be. He strives to be better. For you, for his brothers, and even for himself.

But the real difference between his step-mother and you is that you still want the version of Sukuna you saw before his step-mother tore him to shreds. You still want his confidence, his boldness, even his ego. You like his sharp-tongue and cunning remarks, and you’re willing to work through his emotions with him when he gets a little bit too impetuous for his own good. You’re even willing to help him through the unfamiliar territory that amounts to what he’s become after Kaori’s meddling.

You only ever ask him to treat you with the respect you give him. You want him to be himself, while being conscious of others.

Ms. Harte nods, shooting Sukuna a kind smile of reassurance before falling easily back into her role. “Thank you, Mr. Sukuna. Can you provide further information on how you reached out to Ms. Itadori upon your father’s passing?”

Sukuna swallows the lump in his throat at the mention of a time he still can hardly bear to think about without guilt, shame, and grief washing over him. “Yeah. Got her number from Jin’s phone and tried his and my phone to call her, I had lawyers calling and writing, we sent letters from Choso and I, and emails to any contacts I could find.”

“Did your lawyers attempt any other method of contact?”

Sukuna nods. “Yeah, they pulled a-” he pauses, brow furrowing in thought. “A land title, I think, to try to find her new address, but nothing came up.”

Ms. Harte nods. “Thank you. Can you confirm you had no knowledge of Ms. Itadori’s illness prior to this case?”

“I didn’t,” Sukuna gruffs in confirmation, shooting a glare at Kaori as he still doesn’t believe her for a second.

“Can you attest to your connection with the children?”

Sukuna nods slowly. “Choso n’ I have been through a lot and I’ll always be there for him. I taught him how to cook and he wants to be a chef when he grows up, he even wants to take classes when he’s older,” Sukuna explains, inhaling sharply. “I’ve been there for all of Yuji’s firsts. First words, first steps, that was all me. He’s like my own kid n’ I know how to raise him and what he needs just fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna. Can you speak to your work ethic, please?”

“Mhm,” he hums, taking a moment to mentally reset. “I worked two jobs ‘til I was able to find one that pays well enough for less hours. I did what needed to be done while I got my footing and now I’m stable and spend almost every night with my brothers.”

“Do you believe that having a babysitter affected your ability to care for your brothers?” Ms. Harte queries.

Sukuna’s thankful for this portion of the questioning, as this is all rehearsed. “No. They like their babysitter a lot and I still spend all my free time with ‘em.”

Whether he’s talking about you or the kind woman across the hall you can’t be entirely certain, but you get the feeling it’s you. Even in the midst of the stressful trial, you find a minute smile pulling at the corners of your lips at the thought.

“Can you speak to the matter documented in the case conference last week in which Ms. Itadori states that you lashed out?”

Sukuna shuts his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to keep himself composed. “It’s been an emotional time, I don’t want to lose the kids.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna. No further questions,” Ms. Harte nods, bowing to the judge as she takes a seat. With Mr. Cahn taking her place, Sukuna feels a chill run up his spine at his hardened disposition.

“Mr. Sukuna, would you not agree that it’s important for the kids to have a motherly figure in their life?”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “They have lots of good influences in their life other than their mother.”

“Do you believe you’re one of them?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow slightly as he blows a breath out through his nose. If he weren’t in a courtroom, he’d have choice words for the man in the navy suit. “I do.”

Mr. Cahn presses harder, sensing Sukuna’s mounting frustration. “Would you not consider your nicotine addiction to be a detriment to the children’s health and your ability to uphold a positive influence in their lives?”

It takes everything in him to keep his tone neutral as he replies. “I don’t smoke around the kids.”

Unfortunately, Sukuna doesn’t realize the angle that he gives the man across from him. “So you admit that what Ms. Itadori saw when she intended to visit her children could be a possibility?”

Sukuna’s brow furrows, casting a glance at his lawyer who shoots him a signal to simply tell the truth, whatever he believes that to be. “I usually smoke on the balcony. I don’t like leaving my brothers alone,” he decides after a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Kaori’s lawyer examines his expression as though reading him like a book, moving along. “You claim that you had to teach yourself to cook for them and learn their preferences, were you aware of the needs of children when you became their guardian?”

Sukuna shifts. His patience for this man is on thin ice. As is, he hates that he’s sharing his life with a group of strangers, his step-mother included, but to be grilled over his decisions and abilities is downright insulting. He may be a shadow of his former self, but he’s competent and he won’t let Kaori take that away from him.

“I looked after Choso when my dad was still around, so I knew a bit. I had some growing to do when I took over, but I figured sh- things out,” he replies, crossing his bulky arms over his chest.

“But wouldn’t you agree that their mother is better suited for the position of their guardian? Her ability to care for them is borne into her instincts as a mother.”

“No,” Sukuna replies immediately, his lip curling as he snarls his response. Momentarily forgetting to hold his tongue, he barks angrily, “maybe if she ever reached out or tried to be a mother to them I’d change my mind, but she was gone for four years without a word.”

“Mr. Sukuna,” the bailiff warns in an authoritative voice.

Sukuna shoots the bailiff a sharp glare, physically biting his tongue to prevent himself from speaking out.

“Mr. Sukuna, I’d like to remind you of my client’s illness. She was bedridden for a majority of the years you speak of, unable to even sit up, let alone use a phone. On top of that, she spoke to her husband and Choso weekly at a minimum before Mr. Itadori passed. She attempted to call his phone, but you never picked up.”

Sukuna mutters an inaudible ‘whatever’ under his breath, fixing the lawyer with his harsh stare. Of course he didn’t pick up the unknown numbers calling his dad’s phone while he was grieving. That was the last thing he needed.

Chewing on your lip, you pray Sukuna can keep his frustrations under control. Given Kaori’s urgency to push the trial forward and her statements against his attitude, you can only guess he’s hurting his argument.

“Moving along, how do you balance your full-time position with taking care of the children?”

“I work while they’re in school,” he answers easily.

“And do you make enough to support them with that position alone?”

Sukuna nods slowly, lacking total conviction. “I pick up the occasional shift at an autoshop if I need to, but it’s enough.”

“And would you not agree that this allows you less time to ensure that the children are taken care of and that their needs are met?”

“Their needs,” Sukuna barely keeps his tone neutral, his teeth grit. “Are met. They have a good babysitter who they love. They’re happy.”

Ms. Harte casts a glance up at him, her expression unreadable. The judge may keep a straight face through the conversation, however you can practically see the way he’s passing silent discernment over the burly man each time he struggles to keep himself in check.

“Mr. Sukuna, a house study took place last week, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Detailed in the documents provided to the court,” he gestures towards the broader room, “it mentions that Choso Itadori is not only quiet, but seems as though he’s struggling emotionally. Have you been unable to meet his emotional needs?”

Sukuna swallows hard.

Time after time after time, it always seems to come back to the ways in which Sukuna has failed Choso. As though his own guilt isn’t enough, even those around him seem desperate to choke his failures out of him.

How the fuck is he meant to answer? ‘No, I haven’t been able to’? What good will that do him? How the hell is he intended to deflect the question without lying, the one thing his lawyer drilled into his head over the past couple of months?

Sukuna purses his lips, searching desperately for anything to appease a court. He’d been specifically advised against mentioning you due to your complicated relationship, could he take credit for the ways you’d gotten his little brother to come out of his shell?

Unfortunately for him, Kaori’s lawyer is a vulture waiting to strike. He takes Sukuna’s drawn out silence as his opportunity to address the judge. “Mr. Sukuna does not possess the emotional maturity to provide for such young children. I would like to advise the court to consider Choso Itadori’s mental well-being and struggles when making decisions on their guardianship,” he advises without so much as a stutter.

Kaori’s lawyer takes a pause, staring down Sukuna as the older man feels he’s beginning to wear through Sukuna’s shell.

Clearing his throat, he addresses the judge once more. “While I recognize that Choso’s statement reads that he’s particularly fond of Sukuna’s care, I also want to point out that he’s young and impressionable. He has no frame of reference for any other care and it’s important to take into account the fact that he’s suffering under his current care.”

If he hadn’t already been shushed by the bailiff, Sukuna would have burst. He would have thrown down every way that Kaori failed not only his brothers in the past four years, but all the ways she’d failed him growing up.

He wants to lash out, scream about the school events he only attended to make his dad proud, only for neither of them to show up because she was too busy getting her nails done and forcing Jin to wait. He want to lay out the way she forgot about him at Toji’s place, instead opting to take Choso to a movie, or the way she chose not to attend his high school graduation in favor of a girls’ day with her friends.

It was one of the very last events his father ever got to attend before Sukuna became little more than his father’s personal ambulance as the brutish kid was forced to watch his father deteriorate- alone. Whatever energy Jin could muster was used up on taking care of Choso and Yuji in order to alleviate Sukuna of the duty.

If only Jin could see what had become of his family now.

Sukuna seethes with rage at the thought.

All these years and he’s never once thought to try to get his father’s phone records, bills, anything to prove that Jin wasn’t consistently speaking with Kaori. He’d never considered needing to keep receipts or records that would prove that the woman sitting on the opposite end of the courtroom from him isn’t what she claims.

But now every last detail of their lives is nothing more than hearsay. His word against hers.

It’s the word of an exhausted and scared older brother, against the formal documentation of an overly confident mother and her disgustingly expensive lawyer.

His hands ball into fists at his side as he flashes a snarl at the opposing lawyer. “I’m perfectly capable of providing for them. Including mentally,” he retorts, strained as he finally finds some form of footing.

“Your Honor, I would like to call an additional witness to the stand,” Kaori’s lawyer speaks up as though taking Sukuna’s words as an invitation to speak.

“Objection, Your Honor!” Ms. Harte roars as both her and Sukuna tense. “There were no additional witnesses previously disclosed to my client, we haven’t had the opportunity to prepare.”

Judge Martinez adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Can the counsel for the applying party provide some insight on why this witness was not previously disclosed to the respondent?”

“Your Honor, we were only made aware of concerns of Choso Itadori’s mental health upon receiving the house study, which we received yesterday morning. Upon review, we felt it was necessary to contact Choso’s school for further analysis of his mental health. We only received word back last night that his teacher would be able to testify.”

You can only sit and watch, your mouth agape in horror, as the judge replies. “Objection overruled. Given the short notice, I understand that there was no time to disclose the witness, so I will allow them to testify. I will allow a small break after the testimony to give the respondent time to prepare for the cross-examination.”

Sukuna’s rage may as well manifest in the form of smoke blowing out of his ears with how furious he clearly is. He takes a seat with a drawn out, frustrated sigh as he begrudgingly holds his tongue.

You want to cry out that this is Kaori’s fault to begin with, that Choso wasn’t always like this. You want to shake her by her shirt collar that probably costs more than your entire car and blame her for everything that’s happened to this poor family, but one word from you will surely have you thrown out of the room. The most you can do is shoot Sukuna a reassuring look when he casts a fearful glance at you.

Whether it eases him or not, you can’t tell.

The court is hushed, murmurs between each lawyer and their clients are the only thing that can be heard as the bailiff retrieves the newest witness. You recognize Choso’s teacher, who likely has no real idea what’s going on, and thinks this is what’s best for the little boy, as she makes her way to the side of the opposing party’s table. Her brown hair is done up in curls, her long skirt pleated from where she sat as she awaited her part in the trial.

The bailiff has her introduce herself as Ms. Donovan, Choso’s teacher of several years due to the shifts in the school system, and she takes an oath to tell the truth, before she’s allowed to give her testimony. Mr. Cahn pushes for her to give a broad statement.

She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable in the courtroom setting as she begins. “Choso Itadori has been a part of my class for the past few years, and I currently teach him with a class of twenty three other students. I’ve known him for about five years, and he’s been an absolute pleasure. He’s bright, and he seems to enjoy learning.”

Your heart warms as she praises him, however you dread the ‘but’ that you know comes next.

“However, I’m concerned for his well-being. He got really quiet out of the blue about four years ago, though I’m aware that’s when his father passed away. He came out of his shell bit by bit and began to excel in science and math, and made some good friends, but a couple of months ago, it happened again.”

She adjusts her blouse, sending a sympathetic glance at Sukuna, though he only feels betrayed. Of course, she doesn’t know the mess she’s entered into, but what the hell is he meant to do in response to this? He can only pray his lawyer is as good as Hiromi had mentioned.

No, he knows she’s good. He really needs to pray that the judge didn’t have his mind made up from the beginning. While real trials differ greatly from the scenes he’s accustomed to on television, one thing stands the same between both.

The system is flawed and favors the rich. It favors those with power, and if Sukuna’s being honest, he doesn’t know a damn thing about the capacity of Kaori’s wealth. She always brought money to the relationship with Jin that she worked for, but everything seems different now, and she covered her tracks well. Sukuna hadn’t been able to track down any information on her online despite the status she clearly has.

“I don’t think I’ve heard Choso say a word in the past couple of months,” Ms. Donovan continues. He doesn’t seem to pay attention anymore and his grades are slipping. I know he’s young and he has time, but I’m more concerned for his mental health. On top of that, his attendance was perfect until recently. There have been a couple of weeks this year where he hasn’t shown up at all,” she adds with a frown.

Fuck. That was meant to be a positive break for the kids, and now it’s ammunition against Sukuna’s own case.

“Lastly, Mr. Sukuna has been late to pick them up on multiple occasions. He’s usually only a few minutes late at most, however there was an occasion where he didn’t show up at all.”

“Thank you for addressing your concerns, Ms. Donovan. No further questions.” Kaori’s lawyer takes a seat with an overly pleased look on his face.

The judge leans back in his seat as he addresses the court room. “I’ll allow twenty minutes for discussion and break, before we resume.”

Ms. Harte sighs, running her hands over her face as she faces Sukuna. You can’t hear her words from the viewing area, though you can feel her exasperation.

“That certainly puts a wrench in our argument,” she sighs, tapping the table. “But we still have an angle. Choso’s behavior changed when he became aware of the lawsuit, correct?”

Sukuna, desperate for a break, a cigarette, anything, grunts. “Yeah.”

“Right. We use that, and advise that Kaori’s interference in the childrens’ lives is what’s negatively affecting his health,” she nods, remaining confident. Though Sukuna doesn’t share the same confidence as his mood shifts and fear dwells in the corner of his mind, he agrees with a small nod, putting his faith in her.

You can only shuffle uncomfortably in your seat as Sukuna and Ms. Harte prepare for the cross-examination. Their murmurs are the only sounds filling the silence that clings to your lungs like water, drowning you in uncertainty.

Casting a glance at Kaori, you can’t help but notice the way she confidently crosses her arms over her chest as she discusses details with her own lawyer with a goddamn smile. You wonder if the judge sees through her innocent and sweet grins just as you do, but you fear that hope is misplaced.

Just as you’re sure Ms. Harte and Sukuna suspect something, you can’t help but wonder if there’s manipulation of sorts going on behind the scenes. Everything feels skewed and even if the balance of the court is only off-kilter by a couple of degrees, it’s enough to catch your attention. But what can you do? There’s no way to prove your theory.

While you can understand the judge’s decision to allow an additional witness, something about the whole situation seems to play into the idea that something is wrong and the system is failing before your very eyes.

What’s Kaori’s angle here, anyway? You can understand being sick, but the details don’t add up given what you know about her. But that’s just it, she has an excuse for everything. It’s as though this is nothing more than a routine. Hell, even Ms. Donovan speaks with a practiced air of confidence that makes you wonder if her speech was equally as fake as Kaori’s. Her argument is painfully air-tight.

Is that all this is to Kaori, a game? Are her own children pawns in some scheme you can’t put your finger on? If her love for them is as fake as her love for Sukuna clearly is, then what does she gain out of this?

You can only hope to never be sure as the court returns and the bailiff announces that the hearing is back in session, allowing Sukuna’s counsel to begin the cross-examination.

“Ms. Donovan, good morning,” Ms. Harte stands, greeting the young woman. She returns the lawyer’s greeting with a genuinely sweet smile. “Can you confirm when Choso Itadori’s behaviour took a turn for the worst again?”

Chewing on her lip, the teacher takes a moment to consider the question. “It was early in January. The first week, I believe.”

“Thank you. Can you confirm that the change in his behaviour has been similar to how it was around four years ago?”

The teacher nods. “That’s right.”

“Your Honor, Choso Itadori’s mental health has taken a turn at two pivotal moments in his life. The first is when his father passed away, which coincides with a time where the child thought his mother had chosen not to return. Much like my client, he had no way of knowing his mother was ill,” she points out, pacing somewhat closer to Sukuna. “The first week of January is when Mr. Sukuna informed the children of this trial. He is raising them to be mature and responsible and did not believe that keeping information from them was wise. They’re smart children,” Ms. Harte points out.

Sukuna breathes out a sigh of relief at how strong of an argument his lawyer makes in his favor.

“I would like to advise the court to take into consideration how a revelation of that gravity would affect a child. Each time that my client chose to keep the children back from school was in order to preserve their mental health. While school is important and Mr. Sukuna is well-aware of this himself, he puts an emphasis on taking breaks when necessary and teaching the children to manage their mental health.”

Turning to face the judge, Ms. Harte stands confidently in the center of the room.

“Ms. Itadori herself is responsible for Choso’s declining mental health, whether it was her intention or not,” she claims, leaving the possibility open-ended so as not to make accusations she can’t back up. “Mr. Sukuna has proven he is capable of nurturing Choso’s mental well-being, as detailed by Ms. Donovan. She confirmed that the child’s attitude improved over the months following his father’s passing, a time when only Sukuna was present in their lives. My client cares a great deal about the children and would not allow their health to deteriorate without taking the appropriate steps to care for them.” She bows. “No further questions.”

Judge Martinez directs his attention to the applicant party. “Does the counsel have any further questions?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Mr. Cahn adjusts his tie as he pushes to his feet. “Ms. Donovan, does the school offer the children any tools to manage their mental health?”

The teacher nods slowly. “We offer a limited range of programs to assist, but Choso hasn’t been receptive to anything.”

“Can you confirm whether the faculty has made any suggestions to Sukuna in order to manage Choso’s mental health?” Mr. Cahn pushes.

With a hum of thought, she clasps her hands as she replies. “When Choso’s grades began slipping, we suggested it may be worth having him evaluated by a mental health professional. I’m not sure if that happened.”

Sukuna stares at his hand as his grip on the arm of his seat tightens. He’d forgotten about that. She had mentioned it, but the thought had burrowed itself into the deep recesses of his mind and quite simply disappeared. He’d had so much on his mind, he’d figured he had time.

Constricting around his lungs, his guilt slices and claws into him once more, dragging the breath from his lungs.

“Thank you. Has Mr. Sukuna ever mentioned his reason for being late on multiple occasions?”

Ms. Donovan shakes her head, shrugging. “I don’t recall, sorry.”

“Not a problem,” Mr. Cahn moves along. “Have you witnessed Mr. Sukuna smoking around the children?”

“On occasion,” she replies without hesitation. “Never on school property, but usually right before class ends.” Sukuna grits his teeth. What bullshit that twenty minutes prior to class ending supposedly counts as smoking around his brothers.

“Thank you,” Kaori’s lawyer nods his head calmly. “One final question.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Sukuna could be a negative influence on Choso Itadori?”

Ms. Donovan casts a glance at Sukuna. She seems to consider the question seriously. “I don’t think he’s a driving negative force in Choso’s life,” she replies. Sukuna breathes out a sigh of relief a moment too soon as the teacher continues, “however, I think Choso would benefit greatly from more guided care. In the six years that I’ve been teaching, I’ve never seen a child as withdrawn as he’s become, and he shows no signs of improving.”

“Can you describe his behavior?”

Fiddling with her skirt, Ms. Donovan nods. “Of course. Choso seems to look right through everyone, and often when I think he’s paying attention, it’s not until I address him that he seems to tune in to what I’m saying.” She swallows, shaking her head as she continues. “He turns in homework without issue, but any in-class work goes unfinished. His tests don’t have any rhyme or reason behind what he writes or what options he chooses in multiple choice and he doesn’t show his work, either. I don’t think he’s reading the tests at all.”

Sukuna’s brow furrows as his shortcomings are laid bare for him. He knew Choso’s grades were slipping, but the homework he’d been doing seemed fine whenever Sukuna looked it over. Sure, Ms. Donovan had advised him that she’d like to meet, but he’d pushed her worries away given the gravity of the upcoming trial. He’d been under the impression that he would win, and everything would be fixed.

It’s not that he didn’t heed the teacher’s warning that Choso needed help, but he thought he understood what was going on with his little brother. He wasn’t aware just how deep the roots extended into the little boy’s life.

Failure after failure after failure.

How many times would he need to fail Choso before he learned his lesson?

He’s always known school is important, there’s a reason it took Sukuna so long to give up on college, but he didn’t realize just how much Choso’s behavior in school painted a picture of how Sukuna is as a parent.

The room feels claustrophobic as Sukuna continues to listen to the witness.

“At recess, he’s completely closed himself off from the other students. He eats alone in the classroom and won’t respond to me if I try to engage with him in conversation. He’s always been quiet, but he had a good group of friends. They’ve all expressed their worries to me, as well.”

He stopped talking to his friends? Shit, why is Sukuna even surprised? The kid stopped talking to his brothers. Still, his heart drops.

“On a couple of occasions that he did leave the class- which is rare-” she continues, “I caught a couple of children bullying him. I don’t tolerate that, and have punished them appropriately, but this is new as far as I’m aware. His behavior seems to be making him a target for teasing.”

Sukuna’s shoulders drop to his sides as he stares across the room in wide-eyed disbelief. Choso was being…? Why had he never mentioned it?

Of course Sukuna wants to do right by Yuji, but he carries a deep conviction to do right by Choso. The eldest of his little brothers may not look like him, but Choso is a very obvious product of Sukuna’s shortcomings.

He just didn’t realize how obvious.

Sukuna struggles to remember the last time Choso even smiled. His heart twists as the image he conjures in his mind of his little brother is adorned with a frown and eyes that speak of unspoken battles that Sukuna’s incapable of helping him through.

There was a time, so far into the past now that the tattooed man hardly remembers it anymore, where Choso was much closer in personality to Yuji than to Sukuna. He’d always been a bit more on the calm side than his youngest brother, but he was filled with a genuine curiosity for the world, his eyes so filled with light.

He can’t say for sure when that light dulled and eventually flickered out.

Sukuna’s not sure he ever really came to terms with the fact that at the root of this issue, he became a father at eighteen.

A father.

He’s not sure he really understands the meaning behind the term, in truth. He can’t be sure where the line falls between brother and father, unable to clearly define the roles. The brother in him wants to teach the kids bullying his little brother a lesson. The father in him, whatever part of him that is, is lost. What do you do when the kid you’ve raised is being bullied?

What’s Sukuna meant to do? There’s no handbook for this.

Would Kaori know how to deal with this?

Would Jin have known?

He wonders if Jin’s watching this unfold somewhere on the other side. If he’s as torn up about his fractured family as Sukuna is. How would he feel to know his oldest son dropped out of college and has amounted to nothing more than another bill on an expensive lawyer’s docket?

Sukuna’s guilt towards Jin is misplaced, though, when Choso is sitting back at home. He thinks his remorse regarding his mistakes with Choso set in before he ever really realized what role he’d been forced into playing. It lingered deep in the recesses of his mind, back when he still grappled heavily with his grief, but it wasn’t until he’d processed his situation that he realized just how fucked he’d been.

Choso was so young. Sukuna was so young. Eighteen is old enough to legally be a guardian, but not to drink. What kind of sick law is that? To have that responsibility thrust upon him with no other options left Sukuna as a horribly bitter man suffocating from the weight of the pressure. Rather than asking for help, he chose to drown his brother in his sorrows, to bring them both down.

But could you even call it a choice he made when the reality is that they were both just kids?

There’s no guide for this sort of shit. No YouTube videos, no ‘For Dummies’ book.

What would that even be called? ‘How to Become a Father to Your Little Brothers for Dummies’?

How many times would he need to remind himself that he acted so childish back then because he was a child? Hell, sometimes he thinks he still is. The weight of his immaturity bears down on him harshly when he remembers forgetting to pay taxes just a couple of years ago because March and April were never tax season to him.

They were the beginning of skateboarding season, of paint sticking to walls and basketball with Toji.

Only, Toji wasn’t there anymore.

He just forgot to pay.

The worst memory he carries with him from that time is one that keeps him up at night. Worse than when he snapped at Choso when Kaori didn’t reply, and worse than relying on a kid to help him make it through a house study.

He remembers staring at Choso with resentment, seeing only Kaori in his features. He remembers the discussions with lawyers quickly turning into arguments. Choso was always on the sidelines, listening in. Sukuna had no real regard for him at the time, too caught up in his own issues. He recalls yelling about how he didn’t ask for any of the responsibility, he didn’t ask to be looking after his brothers like this.

“I don’t want them, or any of this shit!”

His words echo in his mind, burrowing themselves into his very being like a parasite.

He shuts his eyes briefly. If only Choso could see him now. See how much this really means to Sukuna. Just once, he wants to do right by his little brother. He can’t erase the past, but he can make up for it with a better future. He can show Choso that his misgivings in the past were a product of the misdirected anger of a delinquent child.

Like every other time he’s stumbled through life and learned as he went, he’ll figure things out this time too. He’ll scare off the bullies with a glare as Choso’s brother, and let Choso know to tell him if it happens again as his parent.

He’ll figure it the fuck out.

He faces straight ahead, his face hardened with resolve.

“Ms. Donovan, did you make Mr. Sukuna aware of the bullying?”

She hesitates, casting a glance in his direction. “This development is recent and I haven’t had the opportunity to, no.”

“Would you say it’s safe to assume that Mr. Sukuna isn’t aware of what goes on with Choso at school?”

She hesitates once more, her face falling as she watches Sukuna from her peripherals. “... Yes.”

“Can you confirm whether or not you’ve attempted to get his attention around your concerns with Choso?”

She nods again. “Yes, I have.”

Sukuna’s resolve shatters before it has the chance to flourish. Even Choso’s teacher thinks Sukuna’s failing.

As much as he wants to say he stands on equal footing with Kaori, fear crawls up his spine and grips him by the throat.

Is he losing?

He can’t lose, by all accounts he’s been there, he’s the living and breathing proof of what it means to care for someone. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes he’s made, he’s still learning. Maybe he is young, maybe he is inexperienced, maybe Choso needs more help than Sukuna’s been giving him, but he can figure that shit out.

It’s true that Sukuna didn’t ask for this responsibility. He didn’t want it. But he’ll fight for it. He’ll fiercely protect the family he recognizes now as the most important part of his life. The people who each hold pieces of him and make him who he is. Choso, and Yuji. His eyes trail back slowly to you, seated on the edge of your chair.

You look gorgeous. Even with your brow furrowed in concern and fear that mirrors his own, you look flawless. You hold a piece of him, too. A piece that he can’t bear to live without, for fear that he might completely fall apart.

He wants to scream from the top of his lungs that every person here is a damn fool if they believe any of Kaori’s words. He wants to list every single misdemeanor that she did that he could never tell his dad about. Yet, every single time he tries to lead the conversation in the direction that Kaori isn’t all she seems, they have some sort of concrete proof or evidence to say otherwise.

It’s fucked, and all Sukuna can do now is pray to whatever god will listen. His heart is in this and that should be what matters, because Kaori’s isn’t. If it’s obvious to him, it’s obvious to the judge. He has to cast aside his concerns of outside manipulation of the judge, because this is all he has.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

As the bailiff dismisses the final witness, the courtroom becomes deathly silent. It penetrates through Sukuna like a banshee, ringing loudly in his ears. As closing arguments finally begin and Mr. Cahn rises, his words are a blur to Sukuna. His, Ms. Harte’s. They’re all the same, reiterating the points they’ve gone over already and emphasizing the importance of this case. Mr. Cahn makes a point that there’s a reason a rush was placed on this case, as Choso can only be put through so much, but Ms. Harte easily refutes that once this case is over, Choso will find his footing in the world once more.

As Judge Martinez requests a moment to consider his notes before delivering a decision, the silence bears down further on Sukuna from all sides. It threatens to suffocate him, clawing at his insides as the taste of iron floods his mouth when he bites down on his tongue a bit too hard.

He’s kept his fears so well-masked over the course of the past hour that his body seems to burst as he feels his hands physically shivering in his lap. It’s not cold in the room, if anything the sweat rolling down his jaw from his temple should spell out just how warm the room really is.

He’d spent so many days preparing for this moment, so many hours on the phone with telecommunications companies for phone logs, putting in extra work to get letters from his employers, and pulling files out from the darkest depths of closets to prove anything.

Had this been a couple of years ago, he’s not even sure if he could have managed to get the files. Not because he wouldn’t have cared or wanted to, but because the sight of his father’s obituary tucked among all his bills would have sent Sukuna spiralling. He’s come so far over the past few years, he can’t let it be for nothing.

How had it come to this, in the first place?

When would karma come for Kaori like it had so often haunted Sukuna?

His attention snaps to the judge as the man addresses the room again. “I have carefully read through all of the provided evidence. After considering this and the testimonies from witnesses of both parties, I have reached a decision that I believe is in the best interest of the children and their mental well-being.”

Their mental well-being? Sukuna’s heart drops. No.

“I would like to start by acknowledging how much love is clearly being put on display for these children. I can very clearly see that both parties care greatly for them. My greatest consideration today will be to ensure the long-standing welfare of the children and ensure they have what they need in order to flourish int he future.”

On the edge of his seat, Sukuna clings to the table with white knuckles. This can’t happen. He has to interrupt.

“With that in mind, the decision I have made today is one that I feel will allow the children to heal from any prior transgressions. Concerns on both sides have been noted, and I believe both parties today will be able to understand where my decision is coming from.”

Sukuna’s gaze whips towards Ms. Harte, whose expression is grave. She knows too. He has to say something. He has to-

“The applicant, as the biological mother of Choso and Yuji Itadori will be granted sole guardianship. While I understand the applicant placed a rush on this trial, I do not believe that Mr. Sukuna places the children in any immediate danger and as both their half-brother and prior guardian, he will retain visitation rights. To allow the children a safe and easy transition, this will be effective as of Monday next week.”

“No! She doesn’t fucking care!” Sukuna barks in a desperate plea, losing control as he finally stands.

The bailiff stands immediately. “Mr. Sukuna! Order, please,” she requests, matching his fervor with confidence.

With venomous intent, he opens his mouth, but Ms. Harte places a hand on his forearm to catch his attention. “Please sit, Sukuna. I’ll work through this with you.”

Surely she has cause for a retrial or an appeal or something, right? He has to put his belief in her and her abilities right now, because it might damn be all he has left.

As he takes a seat, his vision closes in on him. White from all edges, he shuts his eyes and rubs harshly at them. The ringing in his ears is overbearing, his throat closing up on him as he struggles to sit still.

The trial continues on without him as Ms. Harte makes decisions on his behalf for the handover of the children on Monday morning. Sukuna can’t make out a single word being said. It’s nothing more than jumbled and broken letters, gibberish in his mind.

He feared this outcome so heavily, yet it never seemed like it could be a possibility. What happened here that Kaori had gotten away with so much deception? Where had these supposed hospital records come from?

What kind of dumbass is this judge? Did Kaori pay him?

On paper, the case was always tough, but the more evidence he pulled up, the more it leaned in his favor. Yet with each piece of evidence he compiled, Kaori had something up her sleeve to throw the balance off.

Would he spend a lifetime wondering what went wrong?

Kaori would never let him visit no matter his rights, would he not see Choso for six years? Would it be thirteen years before he sees Yuji again? Surely not, his lawyer has to figure something out. He’ll drain every penny he has to make it happen. He can’t let this happen.

He can’t fail Choso again.

And yet, he already has.

You sniffle from behind Sukuna, though he doesn’t move, he doesn’t seem to hear it. You want just as badly as he surely does to reverse the decision, to fight more, fight harder if you can, but it’s to no avail. You’re at a complete and utter loss. Your head feels horribly light as the decision truly sets in.

The bailiff adjourns the court, advising an exit of the room.

Wiping tears from your eyes and inhaling sharply, you cling tightly to the bracelets that round your wrist, forced to watch in horror as Sukuna stands abruptly, stumbling out of his chair with the scraping of wood across the floor. He clutches at his chest, anger ablaze in his eyes as he slams out the door while Ms. Harte attempts to reach out to him.

Your lips part as you call after Sukuna as well, but he’s gone before it ever reaches him. Whether he’s going to throw his unsuspecting lighter into another wall or to gasp for air out in the cool morning, you can’t say for sure, but one thing’s for certain.

It took Kaori only one hour and twenty four minutes to rip whatever remained of your dear friend to pieces.

Another tear rolls down your cheek and you find yourself choking back a sob as you hide your face on the way out.

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❦ a/n ; forgive me :')

trust, i promise this series will have a happy ending <33 i'm a sucker for angst though and you guys are subject to my whims 🙂‍↕️ LMAO anyway regardless of the angst and devastation, i really hope everyone is still enjoying the series! ty all for sticking with me, there's still much more to come! i never could have anticipated how long this series would be but i'm super grateful to be able to share it with you all

shoutout again to all the lovely and amazing people who helped me with the legal drama as well, it's been a huge help! if you see any legal process errors, no you didn't ;)

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

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xmunsonlovex · 2 months ago

Text

Somewhere I Belong

Summary: You leave home for a new opportunity in Hawkins. You're on your own, and your first day, you meet your metal head neighbor. Will this be the start of something that you've always been longing for, or will you keep it at a distance, as you always do.

Pt.2

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Shy Fem!Reader

wc: 8600+

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. female reader, reader has low self esteem and a lot of insecurities, slight angst, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc) mentions of male masturbation, mentions of oral(f!receiving) reader is inexperienced and a virgin, mutual pinning, idiots in love, eventual smut in later chapter(s), Eddie is little bit of perv, but only for you.

a/n: It's here, guys. A day earlier than I had originally set myself to release it. I had to break it up into multiple parts, which I am currently writing already. I hope to have pt.2 out next week. That'll be the smutty chapter, for those wanting to see these 2 take the next step. Thank you to whoever reads this, I hope you like it. While I've read HUNDREDS of fics from all you lovely loves here on Tumblr, this is my first fic I have ever written. I think I read it over at least 20 times. I'm sure there are still many grammatical errors and things I may have missed. Please let me know if you like it. Please reblog and comment your thoughts 💗

Dividers by: saradika-graphics

You huffed as you placed the last box of your belongings on the carpeted floor. This definitely needs to be replaced, you thought as you looked at it. The move to Hawkins was grueling, between heavy traffic and nasty weather, you were trying to just make it there in one piece. Thankfully you did, and now you stood in the middle of your living room, taking in your new surroundings. It's around 6pm, and it's starting to get dark. You felt lucky to have a nice view of the sunset from your backyard, if you could call it that. It was a small section with enough space for maybe a little garden (you’ve always dreamt of growing your own veggies), and patio chairs. You had found the relatively inexpensive trailer for sale in a community called Forest Hills in Hawkins. Looking at the photos, you knew it needed some repairs. A new paint job too, maybe, but with your new job in the city, you figured you'd make it your own in no time. It was supposed to pay fairly well too, working as an administrative assistant.

You walk over to the kitchen, checking the fridge and stove. All seemed to work fine for now, and with that, you were putting away your kitchen belongings in the cupboards, making note to fix the wobbly door to each cabinet. A box of Mac and Cheese sat on the counter while you boiled some water in a small pot, and then started to cut up some cucumbers and cherry tomatoes, making your favorite salad. You were singing to yourself as you made your food, that you didn't hear the knock on the door. It was soft at first, but quickly became louder after the 4th knock. You grabbed a towel to dry off your wet hands, and walked to your front door, looking through the peephole, but could not make out who was on the other side. You opened the door just a bit, and see a frizzy- haired man, who didn't look much older than you. He sported a denim jacket with lots of heavy metal band patches on it. That definitely caught your eye.

"Hey Jack-" He turned his head to look at you, then scratched at his cheek. "You're not Jack.." He said.

"Hi, no. I'm not. I'm guessing he's the one I bought this trailer from though..?" You asked, a small smile on your lips. He was cute, you thought.

"Makes sense. I haven't seen him in like..2 weeks. I thought maybe he went on vacation then got another car.." he pointed to your shitty car that sat on your driveway, practically falling apart. "You left the trunk open. I um..closed it for you. Don't want any raccoons to get in there.." He chuckled softly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

You smiled at him, and nodded. Of course you left it open. "Thank you. I was doing a million things at once.." You sighed, and rubbed your forehead. "I just moved in today. I'm Y/N, by the way.." you say, noticing him smile softly when you mentioned your name. "I'm Eddie. I live next door to you.." He nodded towards his trailer and then kicked a rock as he looked down, making sure it went to the side rather than in your home. "Well, nice to meet you, Eddie. I uhm, I'll see you around? I have dinner cooking right now. Don’t want to burn down my new home.” You said with a chuckle.

“Yeah. Maybe I can show you around town..whenever you're free." He says quickly. You felt your cheeks heat up as he looked at you. Those big, beautiful brown eyes, they could put you in a trance. "I'm usually home by 5:30..and I'm off on Sundays."

“Ok, yeah, I like that idea. I’m off on the weekends, so that works out.” You say.

He felt a giddiness inside him, the thought of making a new friend and even the possibility that the friendship could turn into something more, gave him butterflies. Hope, even. For so long, he was used to being blamed for the events that happened in Hawkins. For so long..he was called a freak and spat at for his taste in music. He wasn't a bad guy, at least he didn't think so. Steve and Robin, and the boys (who were all graduated now) didn't think so. So why was it so hard for him to make other friends? To get a date? He was tired of the meaningless sex that usually transpired at The Hideout, not that it happened often. He wouldn't call himself a ladies man by any means, or someone the girls would seek after. Most times, girls wanted something from it. A little weed. Or maybe the right to brag that they had a quickie with a front man of a rock-band. They never specified which band, though. So when the opportunity arose to show a pretty, new girl around town, he was absolutely going to take the chance to do that.

"I'll stop by Sunday. I can show you around town, and where to go for all the good food places. Maybe I can take you..to get some groceries, if you need. I don't mind." Eddie offered.

"Ok, yeah, thank you, Eddie. I uhm...gotta get going though, but I’ll see you Sunday." You try to sound confident, but it comes out a bit shy and timid, instead. He says goodbye, and you watch him jog to his trailer, looking over at you and waving before going inside his home. You can't help but bite your lower lip, knowing he would be trouble. You weren't exactly looking for a relationship, not romantically anyway. It was embarrassing to think about the fact you had no experience aside from a few pecks on the lips from the 3 dates you had gone on back at home. The dates always ended with a "I had a nice time, but I think we should see other people." You weren't sure if you were maybe too boring for them, or maybe it was your looks? Your self esteem had always been low, even back to when you were in middle school. Kids were relentless and brutal.

High school was no better. Girls were rude and mocked you for your style, or lack thereof. Boys were cruel too. Laughing when you once tripped over your own feet, nervous around a football player you liked. He looked at you apologetically but it didn't stop the chuckle that left his mouth when your knees and palms slammed on the tile floor. You were 23 now and still remembered it like yesterday. It was the reason you left home. Your mom was sad, she'd definitely miss you but understood the change you needed in your life. She wasn't about to stop you from becoming a better version of yourself. And this was your chance.

Sunday rolled around way quicker than you anticipated. Between putting away the remainder of your items around the house and doing a deep clean; you were exhausted. But, looking forward to the city tour with your new neighbor. You had woken up earlier than usual to have a shower and a quick breakfast to settle your growling stomach from skipping dinner the night before. After finishing your food, and cleaning up the kitchen, you grabbed your purse and keys, setting them on the small console table by the door as you pace around, growing a little nervous. What if he decided he didn't want to show you around? He probably had better things to do. Your thoughts were promptly silenced as a knock was heard. Giving it a couple of seconds to not seem too eager, you then walked to your door and opened it. Eddie smiled. You could tell he was freshly showered, his hair still a little wet and the smell of soap mixed with some cologne invaded your nostrils.

"Morning, I have an appointment with Ms. Y/N." He said, with a sheepish smile. You giggled.

"Good Morning, sir. Yes, I'll be happy to help you with that. Please come in and take a seat. She will be right with you. Could I offer you some water?" You say in your most professional voice. Eddie was in your home now, admiring your decor. It was simple but you. There were some framed photos on the wall; and a light blue couch taking up quite a bit of space in the living room.

"Huh? Oh yes, thank you ma'am." He said and took a seat on the couch, that intoxicating smile now reaching his eyes. "You're a metal fan." He said, noticing your CD and vinyl collection by the TV stand. "Hmm. Alice Cooper, Black Sabbath...Dio??" He said excitedly, holding the vinyl for Holy Diver. Oh, he's going to have to marry you, now.

"Yeah, I love them. My dad’s a huge fan. Would put the album on when I was younger." You say, smiling at the fond memories, then hand over a glass of cold water to Eddie, who accepts it with a smile. "I fear that you will never get rid of me, now. These are my favorite bands. Not to mention...there is some stuff here that I haven't listened to yet..you have quite the extensive library, sweetheart." He chuckled. The heat that emitted from your cheeks at the nickname was for sure evident, you thought. No way he didn’t see the pink tint on your face. And he did. He proudly gave himself a mental high-five for making you blush.

"Alright, let's get going. I have loads to show you." Eddie said after drinking the water you so kindly offered him.

Eddie took you around to all his favorite spots in Hawkins, starting with showing you where your new job was located, then drove back south towards Hawkins again. You learned a lot about him while he drove you around. He was 25, worked as a mechanic at a local auto repair shop, and on some weekends, he'd play with his band, Corroded Coffin, at a bar called The Hideout. You said you'd definitely go see him play and that you were sure he sounded amazing, despite him saying otherwise. That made him blush this time around.

"So, this is where I went to high school, figured I'd show you since it's on the way to the farmers market you wanted to go to." He tapped on the steering wheel. His hands couldn’t stay still, between either the tapping or him playing air drums to the song that quietly played on his radio.

“Kind of looks like my school...but mine was filled with the most obnoxious and hateful people I'd ever met." You say, your tone a bit softer. "It's the main reason I left home. Everyone I knew...they held this standard of 'I'm better than you.' A lot of people with money. An easy life. Meanwhile, my mom worked her ass off all day and night to keep our mouths fed." You then fell quiet for a bit. "I hated my high school years.." You chuckle faintly and look over at him, who looked back at you while he waited at a red light. "I know all about that.." He nodded. "I wasn't a...popular guy in high school either. I was bullied here and there, but most people left me alone. They didn't want to mess with the one guy who dealt them their weed. Or whatever drug they needed." He said, a little bit of a white lie but you didn't need to know the whole story. With that, he winked at you with a small smirk, and drove to the farmers market.

"What?! How can you not like cucumbers? They're so tasty! With some salt and ranch. So good." You said, laughing as he made a gagging face while you picked some fresh fruit and placed them in the basket you were holding. "Respectfully darling, they taste so bland. Like crunchy water."

You scoff and shake your head. "They’re super healthy, though. If you ever come over for lunch or something, I'll make you my special tomato and cucumber salad. It has some dill weed in it. And ranch. You'll love it."

"I take it back. I don't think I can hang out with you anymore. Dill weed? You're killing me here." He joked. The laugh that you let out was now his favorite sound in the world. A genuine laugh at his lame attempt at joking around with you.

After you paid for the fruits, he gently placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you towards the next stall, which was selling homemade sauces and jams. The older woman on the other side of the table gives Eddie a rather unpleasant look, then notices you. What she can only imagine to be this innocent young woman who is being put under a spell by Eddie the "devil worshipper". This worried her. It took her no time to pull out a pamphlet of their local church, and handed it to you, but you immediately shut that down, and handed it back to her.

"I appreciate the suggestion, but..I'm not really religious. Thank you. I'd just like to buy-"

"I will not sell my items to devil worshippers like you and Munson, here." Her tone immediately changed to unfriendly and unwelcoming. Eddie felt himself start to get angry, not so much of what she said about him. He was used to that. But because now you'd been given the same treatment as him, and you didn't deserve that. You were sweet. And so beautiful. Welcomed him with a smile rather than spiteful comments and-

“That's OK. I can go spend my money elsewhere. I saw a few stalls that had better prices, actually. And frankly, they also seemed nicer. I can't imagine your jams and sauces taste any good when you have such hate in your heart.” You say. It wasn't meant to be an insult or anything of that nature, you genuinely didn't know why she was being so mean to Eddie. He looked at you, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. “Come on, I know the one.” Eddie grabbed your hand, leading you to a different part of the market. Near the parking lot.

“Hi Sammy. Y/N, is this what you're looking for?” He asked you, this vendor was selling lots of different jams. He'd known about him from The Wheelers. Particularly Nancy. “You bring me a new customer? Eddie. How can I ever repay you?” Sammy smiled fondly at him. One of the very few people in town that treated Eddie with some dignity.

“Yes. I'm new in town. Wanted to check out the local farmers market. See what you guys had.” You smile shyly. Eddie came to the conclusion that you were quite shy by nature. Not that he was observing every small detail of you on purpose. Or maybe..

“Oh, Eddie. She's so sweet! Polar opposites, I see.” He joked and Eddie glared at him, with no real mean intention behind it. “Teasing. Eddie's a great guy. You've made a wonderful friend.” He hyped him up, trying to be a wingman of sorts.

“I agree.” You simply say, worried you'd start babbling. Wouldn't be the first time, and instead, you offer Eddie a warm smile as you look at him, a look that lingered for a couple seconds longer than usual. “Alrighty lovebirds. What can I get for yah?” Sammy smirked, looking at both you and Eddie, noticing the flustered expressions. Oh, young love.

“Um, yes. I would like the grape, blackberry and..peach jam, please.” You say, your face is on fire as you stutter your words. Get a hold of yourself. You hadn’t known Eddie for more than a week, and already you were a mess. Stumbling over your words, blushing every time his fingertips brushed your skin or sent a sweet nickname your way. Eddie is definitely going to be the death of you. Sammy hands you the 3 jars of jam, and puts them in a brown paper bag, adding a smaller jar in there with the others. “This one is my famous strawberry jam. My bestseller. This sample is on me. Let me know if you like it.” He says, smiling sweetly as he hands you the bag. You pull out your wallet, and go to grab some money, but Eddie stops you, grabbing his own wallet quicker. “I got it..” He mumbled with a smile, and before you could put up a fight, he slapped a 20 dollar bill on Sammy’s palm. “I'll see you, Sam.” Eddie says and he guides you two to walk over to his van.

“Anything else you want to do?” He asked, opening the door for you and watching as you go in, his eyes admiring the round of your ass. He shakes the impure thoughts from his mind, and watches you buckle yourself in.

“We can head home. Maybe I can make you some lunch? At…my place. If-if you want. I don’t want to impose, or anything. I’m sure you’re a busy guy and all-” He chuckles at your rambling, thinking you couldn’t possibly be any cuter than you already were. Oh, he’s in trouble, as well.

“Let’s go have some lunch. I guess I’ll try this special cucumber and tomato salad you keep trying to sell me on. With the dill weed and ranch.” He smirked, and gently shut the door to his van, then went around and got in the driver side, buckling in. “Ready, madam?” He said, shaking his wild mane side to side. He turned his head towards you, and gave you a goofy smile as he started the van, and then drove out of the parking lot. You softly laughed at his antics, already enamoured with him. “Hey Eddie, can I ask you something?” You cautiously say, not sure whether this would offend him. “Hm.” He replies, turning left to get into the correct lane towards the trailer park. “Do people really think you’re a satanist? I mean..if..you are, I promise I am not bothered by it. I don’t put down anyone’s beliefs. Unless you’re a shitty person. Which I do not believe you are. You’ve been really nice to me.” You say, once again, rambling. “I am. Why do you think the whole town gives me such scared looks? Poor Jeannie, the lady with the jams, was so upset when I sacrificed her chickens and goats. But..I needed them! I wish she’d just understand.” He sighed, shaking his head and then glanced at you, finding you wide-eyed. “I’m joking, sweetheart.” He let out a soft laugh, and came to a full stop right before their turn. “This town is very stuck on old beliefs. I like metal music, and the media painting it as the devil’s music a few years ago certainly didn’t help my case. I also played dungeons and dragons in high school, still do actually. And this whole place came after me with pitchforks.” He once again left out some important key facts regarding the history of Hawkins. A conversation for another day, perhaps. “Not everyone is horrible, but I’ve kept my circle small for this very reason.” He added.

Once he arrived back at the trailer park, he parked his van at his place after dropping you off at your front door like a gentleman. He said he’d come over in about 20 minutes, saying he had a few calls he had to make. You didn’t ask any questions, and instead focused on getting started on lunch. Your “special” salad, along with some sandwiches, chips and 2 glasses of cold cokes. You hoped he would enjoy it, now second guessing everything you just did. To the paper plates you placed the food on, to the silly Halloween table cloth you had put on your small dining table. It was only March. You thought of earlier as you sat on your couch waiting for him. When he placed his hand on the small of your back. His hand felt like fire on you, over your clothes and yet, you recall the goosebumps traveling all over your body from such a simple and soft touch. You wondered how his hands would feel on other parts. Your shoulders. Massaging out years of tension and stress. Wondered how his hands would feel if he held your cheek in a romantic manner. Or what they would feel like caressing your neck down to your arms, until they were in an area you wanted to feel him the most. You shut your eyes tightly, and lean your head back against the top of the cushion on the couch, letting out a soft sigh.Your insecurities overwhelming you as you sat there alone with your thoughts.

“Steve, I..I need your guidance here, man.” Eddie panicked over the phone, pacing his small kitchen, playing with the phone cord out of habit. “What are you talking about? You got this. It’s like a damn movie. A cute girl moves in next door. Voluntarily wants to hang out with you. You’re golden!” He tries his best to comfort Eddie in his state of anxiety. “I don’t know. She’s beautiful, absolutely. Is she wanting to hang out, out of pity, though? Because some dumbass called me a freak in front of her? Is she-” Eddie is quickly cut off by Steve. “Yes. She is inviting you over for lunch, after she accepted your offer to show her around town, and laughed at your jokes, because she feels bad that some lonely, old woman called you a freak.” Steve deadpanned. “You really think so?” Eddie sadly sighed. Steve wanted to strangle him over the phone. “Eddie, no! I know your expertise with women isn’t as evolved as mine…but listen when I tell you, she’s into you. To some degree, anyway! Go over, have lunch with her. Be a little flirty. See where it goes. No harm in trying.” Steve smiled. Easy for the Stud of Hawkins to say.

You hear a knock at your door, one you were now familiar with, pulling you out of your negative thoughts. Something you really had to work on. You’re a little quicker to answer the door this time, and see Eddie standing there with a few flowers he picked from The Wilson’s front yard on the other side of his trailer. They’ll never notice, he’d argue. “Oh wow, those are so pretty..” You say, your attention immediately drawn to the light blue flowers in his hand. He swallows hard. “Just like you.” He smiles softly, and hands them to you, and you graciously take them. He doesn’t miss the crimson blush that spreads over your cheeks to your ears. “Thank you, Eddie. Come in.” You bashfully say, stepping aside to let him in, and then shut your door. “I made us lunch. Um, I hope it’s to your liking.” He watches you walk into the kitchen, grab a small vase and add water to it, then place the flowers he picked out into it. “I’m sure I will love it. Let’s try that salad, huh?” He said and sat down at the table.

It was close to 6 in the afternoon now, and Eddie was helping you clean up the dining table, his belly full of the delicious food you made. “Sooo…I could tell you liked the salad. Just admit it. Cucumbers are amazing.” You smirk, looking at him. “Whoa. Let’s not get crazy. You’re lucky that I am fond of you.” He throws the paper plates in the trash, with your approval of course. “But yes, it was really good, Y/N.” He smiles, looking back at you. “I wanted to ask you something now.” Eddie says, walking up to you as you stood by the kitchen entryway. You feel your heartbeat start to hammer in your chest at the close proximity. Noticing the faint freckles that paint his upper cheeks. He is so pretty.

“My band is playing next weekend. At The Hideout. I would…really like for you to be there. We go on stage at 9..Not too late at night. And! You’ll get to meet my friends. Steven and Robin. Possibly Nancy. She doesn’t care for the loud music, so she doesn’t really go to these things.” He said, looking down at his feet, then up at you, trying to read your expression. “What if they don’t like me?” You say, your voice so small, you wanted to curl into yourself and disappear. His features soften, and he places his hand over yours, which was on the kitchen counter.

“Believe me, they will love you.” He gives your hand a comforting caress, making you a blushing mess for what felt like the 50th time today.

“I would love to meet them. And to see you perform.” You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm your anxiety. He could make out that you were a little hesitant in your response.

“Do I make you nervous?” He says suddenly, his eyes boring into yours. You freeze at his question, because it was as if his demeanor changed in a blink of an eye; from gentle to dominating. It was all in the way he looked at you with his dark eyes.

“N-no. No, not really. I mean, I am just a shy person. I get nervous around new people. As you can tell.” You say. He takes your hand in his, holding it, and flashes you a warm smile.

“Don’t worry. You’ll fit right in with us. I promise. They don’t bite.” He then leans in, close to your ear, whispering. “Though, I do a little.” Eddie says, and patted your hand, smirking. He learned that he really liked to make you squirm, and see you flustered. Sometimes he would get this burst of confidence that he had to take advantage of. It’s how he got himself more gigs at The Hideout. How he got himself a better paying position as a mechanic at J’s Auto Service. That was a milestone, because he was able to save up enough money to get Wayne his own trailer a few blocks away, in a better neighborhood. He deserved it.

You open the door for Eddie, smiling as you watch him check the doors hinges, making sure the lock worked well, for your safety, of course. “Well, have a great first day at work. If you need anything, give me a call, ok?” He assures you that giving him a call at work would be the highlight of his day. “And you can call me whenever you want too. You know I’m all alone here.” You giggle, biting your lower lip. The playful flirting that occurred throughout the day really put you in good spirits, giving you a tiny bit of confidence. “I’ll definitely remember that. Sleep well, princess.” Eddie smirks, and walks down your porch, but stops to look over your car. “You’ll need new tires soon. You should bring it into the shop during the week. I’ll take a look at it and do an inspection.” He then waves, giving you no time to answer.

It’s Friday afternoon, and you had 2 hours left of your shift. Counting the minutes until it was 5:00. You didn’t mind the job, it was practically the same as your office position back at home; filing papers, taking calls and sending out emails all day. While this position gave you a bit more responsibility and tasks, the environment was relaxed and the rest of the staff seemed to be chill. One girl, Veronica, would come over and talk to you on her way back in from her smoke breaks. You remembered Eddie smelled the same. He must smoke often enough.

“Are you doing anything fun this weekend? Not much to do in Hawkins.” Veronica popped her chewing gum, playing with a strand of her long hair as she leaned at the reception desk, looking at you.

“I am, actually! My neighbor asked me to go to The Hideout. To see his band play.”

“Eddie Munson? Ugh. The Hideout is so gross. He always takes all the girls there.” She rolled her eyes, chuckling as she nonchalantly picked her nails, admiring the design painted on them. She’d excitedly showed them to you earlier in the day. Your heart nearly sunk to your ass hearing her say that. Were you just another easy girl to him? No way would you give yourself up that easily to Eddie, or any man for that matter, and you didn’t feel that you gave off that kind of energy. You wondered if his whole shy persona was just a ploy to sleep with you, and call it a day. You were sure you liked Eddie. And you thought he genuinely liked you too. He had been so kind to you throughout the week, you reminded yourself. Everytime you came home, roughly 15 minutes after him, he’d walk over and greet you. Ask about your day. Smile and even hug you goodnight after you two would chat for a bit. It was like clockwork, at this point.

“I don’t think this is a date. Just..him being a friendly neighbor.” You shrug, trying to sound indifferent to the news she just broke to you.

“Y/N, I hate to break it to you, but he most likely thinks it's a date. And will probably end up fucking you in that smelly, tiny bathroom in the back of the bar. He does this every time. Will fuck anything in a mini skirt.” She shrugged. “Just use protection, doll.” She winked at you and walked back to her cubicle, sighing loudly as she sat down. You try to blink away the stinging in your eyes, focusing your attention on your keyboard. You absolutely did not need to cry your first week at work. It would be almost as embarrassing as you falling for your next door neighbor in such a short span of time.

It’s 5pm and you’re driving home, hoping you arrive before Eddie does. Luck must be on your side because you make it by 5:27, and quickly get out of your car, nearly tripping up the steps to your front door as you rush to pull out your key from your large purse. This stupid, big ass bag. You unlock your door, and shut it behind you, locking it back up. Your breathing is heavy as you let your body fall in disappointment. The sun shines through your kitchen window, illuminating the flowers he had picked out for you. They were still lively and vibrant. You made sure to change the water every couple of days to keep as so. You’re sulking as you decide to go and take a hot shower, to clear your mind. Then you hear his van roll in, music blasting from it.

Eddie looks at your driveway to see your car parked, in a rather chaotic way. You must’ve been excited that it was Friday. Maybe you were excited to see him and wanted to share how crazy of a day you had. He hoped that was the case, since he was ecstatic to see you. On his way to work earlier today, he stopped by the record store next to the J’s Shop, and saw Alice Cooper’s new album, Hey Stoopid. He recalls you mentioning that you’d been looking for the vinyl, wanting to add it to your collection. He gathered the last few bills he had on him, and bought it for you. He figured he’d make some extra cash anyway at The Hideout before the show, selling to the usuals.

He knocks at your door, practically beaming. He’s so excited to gift you this album, knowing it would make you happy. That’s all he wants and cares about. When you don’t answer after his 4th knock, he tries a few more times. “Hm..” He ponders, and leans to the left, trying to peek into your living room window, but the curtain blocks anyone from seeing inside. “Hey, Y/N?” He calls out. He assumes you're in the bathroom when you don't answer, and decides to possibly try again later. He wouldn’t want to disturb your “you time” in there. You hear him jog back to his trailer, his chain wallet giving him away. You felt bad, but then remember what Veronica said to you earlier in the day. That was why you were avoiding him in the first place. Though, it would be impossible to do this everyday. Well, for now, you're just going to try your best to hide from him. That means, you’ll have to stand him up at The Hideout. You turn on the shower after stripping off your work clothes and stood there for what felt like hours, playing every scenario in your mind.

Eddie is tapping his foot impatiently on his carpeted floor, his much more worn out than yours. It's close to 8:30p and you still haven't come over. And he's contemplating whether to go over to your house or not. Your lights are not on. He guesses you had a really bad day at work, and instead of bugging you, he leaves you to rest. The album can wait for tomorrow morning.

It’s bright and early, you can hear the birds chirping from your bedroom window. You rub the sleep from your eyes and groan, sitting up on your bed, looking over to look at the time. The clock read 09:47a. You better get up and make most of your Saturday as you do not plan on leaving your 4 walls tomorrow. You stretch as you stand up, and walk over to your fridge, and then jump at the loud knock. “Y/N!” a familiar voice calls out. Fuck. Ok, you need to at least confront him of his true intentions. Whether you were just another girl to him, and nothing more. You close up your robe a little as you drag your feet, letting out a shaky breath as you open the door.

“Oh, thank god!” He breathes in relief. “ I was worried about you.” He said.

“Right..well. I’m ok. Just trying to rest up.” You said. He notices your tone is a bit more cold.

“Oh. I-I’m sorry. I just wanted to check up on you. I knocked yesterday, but didn’t see you. Did you have a bad day at work?” He said, frowning now.

“You can say that-”

“Then I have something that will cheer you up! Close your eyes.” He grinned, practically jumping in excitement. You raise your brow, and hesitantly shut your eyes, then feel his warm hands grab yours, pulling them out in front of you. You feel a heavy-ish item now land on your hands and you immediately open your eyes. “Oh shit..” You hold the album, looking at it. It was a special edition one.

“Eddie..how’d you find this?” You say quietly, a smile growing on your face.

“Saw it at the record store. Had to get it for you.” He couldn’t be any prouder. He got you out of whatever slump you were feeling.

“Oh Eddie..I know this had to be expensive. Let me pay you back.”

He shook those curls you were so crazy about. “Nope. I only request your presence tonight, sweetheart. Steve and Robin are dying to meet you.” He says, crossing his arms. Your gaze travels down to them, admiring the tattoos and oh. He’s caught you staring, that smirk on his face confirms that. “I-I will be there.” You nod, going against everything you said to yourself the night before. “Great! I have some errands to run, but I will see you tonight, darling.” He bows like you are his Queen, and you might as well be at this point. You giggle, and watch him go to this van, wave at you and drive off. Maybe this wasn’t a bad idea after all.

You’re standing in line at The Hideout, waiting to be let in. You assumed that you had to wait like everyone else. There weren't that many people, about 50 all together but judging by the size of the bar, it would be a full house. You dress in a low-cut top, purposely choosing one that showed a decent amount of cleavage. A cardigan rests over your arm, and you opted for black leggings, the ones that made your ass look the best. If Eddie really did intend for this to be a date, you might as well look the best you could, with what you currently had in your closet. You hear your name being called out, and you see Eddie jog over to you. He’s wearing a sleeveless DIO shirt, and leather pants, his combat boots all untied. He looks so good. You’re practically drooling.

“What are you doing here?” He incredulously asks.

“I..you invited me.” You play with your fingers, nails digging into your skin.

“Babe, I meant in line.” He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulls you out of the line, where all eyes then fall on you and him. You noticed a few girls eye Eddie, too. Almost like a prey. “You get backstage access, doll.” He whispers as he leanes into you, and smirks. “You’re VIP.” He holds your hand, and takes you to the back of the bar, opening the door that lead you inside. “After you.” He says, eyes falling to your ass. It looked so plump in those pants, so biteable.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” He says, admiring the subtle make up you had on. It wasn’t much, just some mascara and eyeliner. A little foundation to hide any blemishes and imperfections. “I like this top.” He runs his fingers over the fabric near your collarbone. Your cheeks heat up, as you send him a smile, looking down all shyly.

“Eddie!” A man calls out, and you look to your left. You assume that is Steve, and a girl walking alongside with him. Robin?

“Hey, man. Glad you could make it. Guys, this is Y/N. Y/N…this is Steve and Robin. And as I assumed, Nancy did not make it today.”

“Or ever. You know this isn’t her scene. She’s out with Jonathan, anyway.” Steve shrugged and turned his attention towards you. “Nice to meet you. Eddie has talked non stop about you.” He smirks over at Eddie who is internally cussing him out. “Let’s go get some good seats.” Robin smiles at you, and grabs your arm, locking it with hers as she pulls you to the stage floor.

“Ughhh Steve, why’d you say that? Now she’s going to think I’m obsessed.” Eddie rubs his face, giving him a look.

“Are you not?” Steve smirks, and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. Eddie shook his head and bit his nails, nervously. “I like her, alot.” He admitted to Steve, eyes following you around as Robin decided which area was the best to stand at. He liked how nervous you were around him. You were the sweetest girl he’d ever known. On the opposite end, he also felt like a creep though. All the perverse thoughts he had about you. They’d come to him when he was in bed late at night, a rhythmic movement of his hand over his aching cock as he'd imagine his tongue deep in your wet, throbbing pussy, satisfying his hunger.

“I gotta get onstage, and set up.” He says to Steve, wanting to avoid any more of Steve’s banter. He nods, then meets up with you and Robin on the stage floor. Your gaze follows Eddie onstage, where he and the rest of the band finish setting up. He winks at you, and tunes his guitar. Most of all the equipment is there, just had to be connected and set up in the proper place.

“You excited to see the show? They’re actually really good! It’s a shame they haven’t been signed by a record label yet.” Robin says. You are caged in, front row, between both Robin and Steve. “Yeah, I’m excited. I just..don’t want to get my hopes up. Feelings hurt and all.” You say softly, seeing all the people from outside being let in.

“What do you mean? Their songs are not really offensive.” Robin says.

“Well, unless you’re someone with sensitive hearing. They’re loud.” Steve snorts.

“No, I mean. I don’t want Eddie to see me as..like the other girls that he brings here?” You say, a little unsure if you are going to get your point across. Their his friends, obviously they’re going to take his side.

Steve snorts again. “What girls?”

“All..the girls..?” You say, feeling a bit foolish at that moment. “This chick I work with knows Eddie. Says he brings all his dates here. And uhm, has his way with them. I'm not-it's not that I'm not attracted to him. He's super handsome, but I don't want it to be that type of date. I like him and don’t want it to be a one night stand type of date..” You nervously chew on the inside of your cheek.

Steve and Robin both start to laugh, a good belly laugh, which makes Eddie look at you three. What are they telling you about him?

“Y/N. He's NOT like that. At all. I don't know who that chick is, but Eddie is lucky if he's able to get a girl to look his way anymore.” Robin said.

“I mean, he's had girlfriends and dates, sure. But to say he brings all the girls here like he's some ladies man, is comical.” Steve said. “But don't tell him we said that.” He smirks. “Eddie is a great guy, Y/N. And I'm not just saying that because he's my best friend.” Steve looked up at him. “Shows starting.” He says to you, nudging your shoulder with his as the lights dim, and a loud guitar note plays. The stage area is packed with all the people from outside, and they cheer. The band seems to have a large following, people singing along to the songs. A lot of older, trucker looking guys and scattered were lots of girls too, older and younger, like yourself. In the middle of the setlist, you see Eddie grab the mic, placing his foot on the amp as he addresses the crowd, thanking them for coming out and supporting the band. He had a little surprise for you, and hoped you listened to Alice Cooper’s previous album, Trash, because he was going to cover one of the songs on there. He figured he’d take the risk and sing Spark in the Dark. The lyrics were quite suggestive, and maybe tonight, he’d be brave enough to make a first move.

You immediately recognized the guitar riff to the song, a big smile forming on your face, as you were by now more relaxed and enjoying the show, just like Robin and Steve suggested.

“Ah, welcome to the party.

It’s only me and you

Tell the world to go away, babe

And I’ll tell you what to do

Come over here and kiss me

I wanna pull your hair

Turn out the lights and hold me

I wanna touch you everywhere”

You sing along, all while your face is burning from the blush that spread over your cheeks, and thankful the stage lights are not pointed directly at you. You were certain you’d combust. You also notice a familiar sensation, one that was directly between your thighs. One that needed to be taken care of. Preferably by the front man looking down at you.

“We don’t need nobody, baby

We don’t need champagne

I’ll take you to the deepest

Darkest, hottest lover’s lane

For a little spark in the dark

Just a little spark in the dark.”

You’re staring at each other as he sings the song. You’re singing along, and he’s so good up there. Your favorite rockstar. You notice his hips move a little with every enunciation during the chorus. He grabs the mic stand, placing the mic on it as the guitar rests over his hips, hiding the semi he’s rocking right now thanks to the song’s lyrics and the perfect view he has of your cleavage.

“I’ll come ‘round midnight

We’ll be crawling on the floor

Burnin’ with a fever

And yellin’ out for more

But don’t you write in your diary, baby

Don’t blab it on the phone

‘Cause if your dad and mom find out,

They’ll skin me to the bone.

We don’t need instructions, baby

Don’t you be afraid

It takes a little friction, uh-uh

That’s how our love is made

For a little spark in the dark.”

You want to melt into a puddle once the song is finished, noticing the sweat that glistens his skin, still sporting that sleeveless tank top. He sings a few more covers, and once the show is over, he bows to everyone, then directly tosses you a guitar pick. You’re giddy, as you’re bouncing on your tippy toes, holding it between your fingers.

“Look at the fangirl, now.” Robin smirks, clapping as the band gets off stage. “We get backstage privileges, being long time friends of the band and all.” She laughs, walking to the back of the bar, noticing the crowd had spread out between leaving for the night, and others to sit at the bar. You follow Robin and Steve, until you reach a room that almost looked like a utility room with all the amps.”Hey!” Eddie says, wiping the sweat off with a small towel. He looks directly at you, as if Robin and Steve aren’t even in the room. “That was amazing! And…the cover was really good, too.” You blush and try not to be too obvious as your eyes scan his body. His shirt is all damp from his sweat, shirt stuck to his body. You could make out his toned stomach.

“I’d give you a thank you hug, but I smell. And I’m all sweaty.” He chuckles, noticing you shifting a little, your thighs pressing together. He gives you a little knowing smirk, and pulls out a cigarette, but Robin is quick to snatch it.

“No smoking. Especially not around your date.” Robin speaks out.

“You’re right. Bad habit, and manners. Sorry. sweetheart.” He cheekily smiles and puts away the pack of cigarettes.

“We gotta get going, but we’ll see you later, Eds. Come on Steve. Remember…we had that thing we had to do..” Robin says, pulling him on his arm. “OH right! That thing. Yes. Alright, you two have a good and eventful night. Nice meeting you, Y/N! We look forward to seeing you again real soon!!” Steve says as both him and Robin go running out. You let out a soft laugh then look over at Eddie, who is looking at you, not once did his sight move away from you.

“Can we..talk?” You say to him.

Oh fuck, did he do something wrong? Was it the way he was looking at you? Shit.

“Of course. We can step outside. It’s hot as fuck in here.” He says and you both walk out into the back of the bar, the loud slam of the door shutting making you jump. Eddie is nervous now. He’s sure you’re about to break the news to him that you don’t want anything to do with him. Maybe you found out of his late night activities, but that wouldn’t make any sense. He was sure you partake in those kinds of solo activities. Maybe you believed he was truly a devil worshipper. How can he convince you otherwise?

“I uhm, almost didn’t come tonight.” You start.

This makes his chest feel heavy. He’d done something, surely.

“How come?” His voice is small.

“I was stupid. I believed something someone at my job said about you.” Your stare is focused on the littered and dirty floor, not wanting to meet his eyes. You felt ashamed.

“What’d they say about me?”

“I-I don’t-”

“What’d they say about me, Y/N? I assure you..I’ve heard it all. I’m used to it at this point in my life.” He says, his tone was a bit more irate and cold than what you were used to him being with you. Your eyes took no time in watering, and now Eddie was ready to throw himself off a cliff for making you feel this way. He really fucked this up already, as he always does. Good job, Munson.

“She said that…you basically slept around. That you take them here on dates, and..and take them to that nasty bathroom for a quick fuck. Eddie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have believed something like that. I just, I got scared to have my feelings and emotions played with. I didn’t want to be just another girl added to your roster.” You try to keep your composure as you talk to him, your eyes are for sure still watery, but by some miracle, you didn’t stutter. “If I’m being honest, I don’t have much experience with this. Like, yeah. I’ve done a few dates and all, but I've never had a boyfriend or had anyone touch me, or-”

“Sweetheart, it's ok.” Eddie takes a step forward and grabs both your shaky hands, holding them in his, practically engulfing them. “Look at me.” His voice is low, and he places a finger under your chin, tipping your head up. “I promise you, I am not that type of person. People will say a million things about me, and I can guarantee that most of them are just rumors. I certainly do not sleep around. I can't remember the last time I had a legitimate date with someone, let alone fuck someone.” He risked making himself look a loser just to make you feel better. His hand goes up to your cheek, and caresses it, letting out a chuckle. “Baby, there's no one I desire more than you…and I want to kiss you so bad.” He whispers, taking another step forward, his scent invading you. “Give me a chance to prove to you..I'm not like whatever these stupid fucks said about me.” His lips are impossibly close to yours, making your breath hitch at the close proximity. “Kiss me.” His voice is raspy. You embrace each other, your lips pressing together as the kiss deepens slowly. It was the first time you've experienced a true, deep kiss. You were sure he could tell. You opened your mouth, letting his hot tongue in to glide along yours and the quiet whine you let out makes him want to take you right there and then. You were inexperienced, yes, but quickly learned to breathe through your nose and move your mouth with his. Eddie's hand rested on your hips, and the other was around the nape of your neck, pulling you against him even closer, wanting to hear those whines again.

“Alright, get a room, you two.” Gareth groaned, hauling the large amp into the van that was a few feet away from you both. You blush heavily as you both simultaneously pull away from each other. “We will continue this at your place? I got to finish helping the guys..” Eddie breathed heavy, a similar rosy shade painted over his cheeks.

“Yes, I'll leave my door unlocked. You can just come in..”

“Hm, sweetheart. I don't think that's a good idea. What if the big, bad wolf gets in? And wants to eat yah?” Eddie smirks.

“I certainly count on it.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson fics #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fandom #fluff #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #some steve and Robin #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader smut

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sy-on-boy · 2 months ago

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Damianya turning point

I'm sure this is fairly obvious but I adore Damianya so I'm still going to write this. Damianya has subtly shifted over the years so has my fanon interpretations of them. I think they've became less one-sided and the bus hijacking was when Anya started to see Damian differently (ie. in a better light).

Anya has always reacted in accordance to whether Damian is being mean or nice. (Eg. She only went for Plan B after Damian saved her from the dodgeball despite initially disliking him to the point of not bothering with Plan B.) So when Damian takes the initiative to apologise, Anya instantly beams and sincerely tells Damian he was "super cool". She even calls him a hero (heroes like her dad and Bondman). I think this is genuine on Anya's part because when Damian did his big self sacrificing moment, he had no idea the bomb was fake. He saw all of that danger with none of Anya's knowledge and decided to go for it.

Anya likes being the protector more than the protected (ch 105.5). She is very proactive in trying to save her parents and her classmates. While her parents and the adults are obliged to look after her, Damian is... not. Arguably, his higher social status would make him more "worthy to be protected" than a commoner kid. But while Anya puts on a brave front, she gets scared and anxious like any other kid, seen as when the adrenaline rush fades and she cries into Yor's arms.

Damian, as a fellow child, is not obliged to stand up for Anya. He said he would make the perfect hostage, and while what he said makes sense, Anya can read his mind. The catalyst for Damian to make a move was seeing Anya "look scared" (misinterpretation of Anya being overwhelmed by other's thoughts). And I think hearing Damian's panicked thoughts afterwards made Anya appreciate him more, because he wasn't fearless. He stood up for her while being acutely aware of the risks and being terrified himself. He was a "hero" who 1) wasn't obliged to protect her 2) lacked the information Anya had 3) was just a kid like her. Anya now sees the similarities between herself and Damian (will protect people they care about) while feeling touched by his determination. She's always protecting people so it feels nice to be protected. (And not just in silly situations like dodgeball matches.)

Note that Anya only called Damian a hero after his apology, but not before he called them friends. Anya might be reminded of Strix afterwards, but before that, it was all genuine. Damian acknowledged his mistakes and said something nice, so Anya was also willing to say something nice (and be honest).

There is also the aspect about Damian's family. I think Anya has always understood, even if just subconsciously, that she and Damian are similar because they want to impress their fathers. Now that Anya has met Melinda (and Demetrius), she comes to the conclusion that Damian's family is weird. Someone who wants the same things as her (a loving, caring family) is less fortunate than her. I think this is why Anya directly reassured Damian that his mom loves him + why we got that close up of Damian saying "your family seems nice". Now that she sees more similarities between herself and Damian (and feels better about him), she wants to be kind to him.

Then it seems like Damian and Anya are returning to their bickering status quo. Interestingly, Damian apologies in both the post hijacking chapter and the crunchy cakes chapter. Granted, for the latter he was apologising to Henderson, but I think Anya could tell Damian really wanted to give her the cakes. She happily agrees that they're even and that they can be good friends.

And then, of course, the famous school party chapters.

It is SO important to me that Loid literally thought Anya could dance with whoever she likes. He had a logical train of thought Anya could follow. "So long there isn't any major rift" -> Damian and Anya's friendship improved after the hijacking, and while they still bicker, it's not anything major. Loid points out the Desmonds wouldn't consider Anya and Damian deserves to make his own choice. After Loid "set Anya free", Anya looks at Damian (reading his mind? Judging the situation?) and decides she wants to dance with him. This is a decision she made of her own accord. Throughout the story, Anya obediently followed Loid's requests for Plan B, but when she is permitted (and requested) to "not go for Plan B" and can choose whoever she wants, she still goes for Damian.

Then Anya fought tooth and nail to be Damian's dance partner. It didn't matter that she looked undignified or tore her dress. She just really, really wanted to win. And she shocked even Loid. She won this part without any interference from Loid or reading minds. Anya's just that determined.

And then we have the second most insane panel of this chapter.

No sparkles! No mind reading sparkles! She knows! Because of course she does! While the other girls see it as an opportunity to swoon over Damian, Anya gets straight to the point. She didn't do it with fanfare, didn't do it with a smug "heh". She just said what she knows. Because she knows Damian.

Tying in with what she knows about Damian's family, Damian's words seem like a confession. He's already admitted to her that he's not close with his parents (bus hijacking chapter), and he's now openly envious of a commoner's family. Then he tries to walk it back but Anya knows the truth.

So she also tells him a truth. A truth that she keeps hidden from her own family, but will tell the boy she calls a hero.

Anya openly values Damian as more than an asset to Plan B and no longer grudgingly puts up with him. Sure, he's still a jerk sometimes, but Anya's also seen his nicer/ more vulnerable sides. If Damian is nice to her, she will be nice to him. If he tells her a secret, she'll also tell him a secret. They are similar kids with similar motivations. And Damian is important/special enough that Anya told him her most well guarded secret (which can be dangerous!! Given he's the son of the "evil superboss"!!).

I don't Anya likes Damian in the way he likes her (ie. not puppy love), but she definitely cares about him and almost has a soft spot for him? Like when she truly wanted to dance with him. And she told him that his mom loves him AFTER Damian said something mean (while reading his true thoughts).

While Damian frustrates Anya and she says she doesn't like him (for good reasons lmao he's still annoying), she is willing to be kind and vulnerable. She sees through Damian's snark and arrogance. Almost like she wants to encourage the softer side of Damian to come out instead of his prickly defensive side.

This is subtly different from the fanon in the initial Damianya boom of spring/summer 2022, in which it was jealous/pining/tsundere Damian x smug/annoyed/oblivious Anya. They aren't just bickering push-and-pull frenemies with romcom potential, they're kids with a real connection and they're willing to be soft in front of each other while toughening up around everyone else (eg. Damian instantly calming down in the cake chapter when the other kids left). Anya has always been special to Damian, but now Damian is also special to Anya even without Strix. And he will likely continue to be special. <3

#long post #spy x family #damian desmond #anya forger #damianya #i loveeee damianya aaaaaaa

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yourcutelittlegayfriend · 4 months ago

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✧✦✧ Chapter 2 ✧✦✧

A New Reset, An Old Story

Yandere Platonic Bat Family x Neglected Regressing GN Reader

Warning this part contains: low qual English + corny/cringey usage of it, lots of cursing, emotional stuff, weird hallucinations, and bad editing I guess? was someone there before? Can someone pick me up? MC is being weird.

Note: a bit longer part this time

MASTERLIST Pages ↻ 1 , 3 ...➣

NOW PLAYING ↻◁ ||▷↺ Mona Lisa - Nat King Cole lıılıılılılıılıılı

✧✦✧✦✧

How do you act when you feel like your day keeps repeating?.

Would you be content? to just go with the flow? to memorize each of your steps, actions or words?.

Or, would you go crazy? lose your mind and sanity? to see red dancing on the edge of your eyes if you keep remembering the shit that keeps happening to you?.

I would, especially if you went through what I did, all effort I did just gone with one bullet from a gun, from a high fall, a kidnapping gone wrong, get killed by a villian, a sword, a freak accident or maybe just one very very bad day.

Gripping my seatbelt I wait for Commissioner Gordon to open the car's door and let me out, stepping out of the police car with it's siren and lights off, I stand on the graveled road that leads to the stone steps of the old and dark mansion I knew too well.

A little scribbles pops in my vision roughly drawings and crossings on the mansion as if it's giving it an evil and snarling look of a giant man eating beast.

The older man gently stir me up to the porch and I watch as he ring the doorbell - The tiny mean words and drawings floating around the door flew away from the sound - on the side of the giant doors as we wait for anyone to answer.

Tensing when I heard someone's familiar shoes thudding on the otherside of the closed entrance, I step back as I grabbed Gordon's coat and braced myself to put up a new face again.

'By now Alfred should open the doors and be surprised to meet us'. a little tiny voice said by my ear as they hide behind my back- peeking over my shoulder as if they were scared even though they're not the one confronting them anyway.

As soon as they're guess was right, I observe the old event unfolding in front of me seeing Gordon hand Alfred a manila folder and show him what I knew was my DNA test, citizen papers and profile inside.

I stare blankly at Alfred who looked at me with slight pity and worry after he heard that Gordon personally escorted me here because I was supposed to be relocated to my biological father custody more than a few months ago.

'Would have prefer to stay there as well but the broody asshole insisted on one of the last resets and got my hopes up just to go back to becoming #1 fucked up dad on my list'

'Yeah! he's such an asshole!' The voice pipe up with a snort and a laugh while leaning on my shoulder.

I turn back to Commissioner Gordon one last time as he drove off as I sadly wave goodbye from the door before side eyeing the butler who was already watching me.

"Would you like some tea young master?". He kneels down and hold out a hand to me.

I stare at his face as I see glimpse of scratches around the air and scribbles on his face - crude lines to circle around his only slightly older look - a wobbly arrow to point at the small cracks of wrinkles on the edge of his eyes and a small older doodle of him from my old memories comparing his age before a glitch switching between a golden halo to devil horns floated above his head.

Blinking two times suddenly everything turned back to normal as I look at him again properly and I study his white gloved hand before grabbing it in a practiced motion as I keep on with the old scrip that I memorize long ago.

Walking close to him I follow as we pass long dark hallways that was only illuminated the flashing of lightning during the current storm and a few dark oakwood doors each one seemed taller and more menacing than the last as we entered a fairly large kitchen that I grew to love and spent most of my time in before.

He led me to an kitchen island with a marbled top so shiny I can see my face's reflection clearly along with a few stool chair with actual leather covers and I carefully climb before proceeding to watch him prepare me a tea and some of his prized cookies.

While waiting I got lost in my thoughts as I re-assess on what to do in this reset.

'What do I do now? does it even matter?'

'Do we even matter?' the small voice questioned in my ear.

I remember the times I try to use the past knowledge I have to get closer to them but........

'nothing really works for us anyway' again they reply with a murmur and lean on my shoulder.

No matter how hard I try, everything I sacrificed, anything I do nothing happens, sure there were some................. progress but I always get cut off by another death.

'We're just born to do this shit all over again' they spit out now with anger in their voice while I hear their teeth grinding together and their sharp nails digging on my skin.

If nothing else works then.......

Looking down at my bandage hand filled with little doodles from the other children in the orphanage and some cute yet old sticky cartoon bandaids, I relaxed my small hands on the flat marbled surface and breathe out.

I got nothing to lose, 2790 resets made me understand how dumb and starved I am for attention and love.

'So hungry and leaving us Starving-!' They groan and wail in pain before vanishing away.

Snapping my head up I see Alfred gently pushing a nice steaming cup of tea in front of me as well as some cookies on a plate.

I slowly reach out and take the cup before blowing on the warm tea then taking a tiny sip and relish the hidden memories that this tea have brought me.

As I stare at my reflection I see it ripples as my hands shake and my body soon followed as I sniffled and hiccup, Alfred the ever gentleman that he is carefully took a hold of the tea cup as I cry finally cry out.

I cry till my eyes are puffy, I cry as let all the pain I have endured for so long, I cry out and childishly try to wipe off my snot as I asked for my mother to come back.

I cry because

I can.

--- ✧✦✧ ---

After finishing my tea and the cookies Alfred asked me if I wanted to wait for 'my father' before I go to my 'new' bedroom.

I see them in the corner as the shadows collects on that side and rise up to reach the ceiling 'They' shook their head and blared a large rough 'X' in the air then disappear with a flash of lighting coming through from the large windows.

"No,...... it's fine maybe tomorrow". I said looking down before turning up to Alfred and set my plan in motion.

"Mr. Alfred?". I asked as I gently tugged on his slacks making him look down to me.

"Yes young master?". He angles down to me as he put away the dried dishes.

I see 'their' wide and sharky smile behind Alfred's shoulder before popping back down his back.

"Can I stay with you?". I asked tightening my hold on him.

'From now on, nothing else matters except you.........If we can't get a family out of this shitty one then We'll make a new one' They murmur down while twirling a small baby hair on my nape.

But first-

We'll have to prepare for a little reunion.

✧✦✧✦✧

U I A U I A A U U I I A

Taglist later because I'm now entertaining food coma bleh *dies*

#No More Chances #yandere batfam #x reader #batfam x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere #yandere batman x reader #Yandere batboys #yandere Platonic #yandere platonic x reader #yandere alfred pennyworth

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ittybittyfanblog · 5 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory.

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes—you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages—you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window.

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut.

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down.

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes.

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with.

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are.

“Seems we’re at an impasse.”

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two.

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit.

You need another hit.

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus.

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?”

You pick up your phone.

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.”

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely.

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.”

There’s a shocked silence; then—

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character.

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.”

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth.

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary—which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance.

“So you could, like–hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?”

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you—half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago.

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal.

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.)

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows.

He knows the question you’re about to ask—curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?”

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.”

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else.

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?”

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.”

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!”

“Move, then. Let me handle it.”

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?”

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC.

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh?

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.”

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work.

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate.

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value?

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway.

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten?

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices.

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.)

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway.

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say.

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.”

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "... Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing.

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it—brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando—when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh?

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…”

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten.

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit—you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?”

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure.

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use.

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say.

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph?

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is.

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK.

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages.

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic.

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps.

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately.

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder.

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie.

"Um, hello—?"

Your gaze snaps back to the–very real, very present–person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops.

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice.

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK?

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply.

You: will do !:9

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl.

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?”

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing.

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue.

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger.

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.”

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies—enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real—and you’re bored to tears.

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards—no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups.

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you—not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait.

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?”

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker.

“... How are you so good at this??”

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying.

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.”

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening.

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll—if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!”

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore.

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen.

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed.

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation?

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions.

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much––

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.”

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours.

I don’t care. I don’t.

You take the first shot.

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise.

“Uhh—Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?”

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.”

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop.

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio.

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep.

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact.

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient.

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3*

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it.

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum—the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection—something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade.

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude—one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time—comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth.

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore.

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been.

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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sunshine-jesse · 23 days ago

Text

The Painful Realities of Andy and Leyley

Decay gave me a lot to chew on. While there was very little that caught me by surprise, per se (insofar as there’s a difference between shock and surprise), I didn't expect Nemlei to Go There with regards to some of the themes she covered in the newest update. I had a hunch, sure, but it was so (seemingly) out of place compared to the tone of the rest of the game that I didn't explore it as well as I could've. Most writers who cover the things Decay did don't play it dreadfully straight or treat it with so much respect. And even when they do, it often comes off as fetishized, which isn't bad per se, but so little of the rest of the game came off as The Author's Poorly Disguised Fetish that it was hard to take the prospect as seriously as I could've.

Effectively, Nemlei outplayed my media analysis skills by being an even better writer than I anticipated.

And so, I will respond in turn.

...or at least, I can try to.

I don't think I can type an analysis that is purely analytical anymore. Episode 3 hit me so much harder than anything that came before it that it's very difficult to write what I do with any sense of detachment. I can't pretend it didn't get personal. I love these characters. I love this story. I love the themes it covers. And I relate to many of them.

That's why seeing TCAL playing everything so dreadfully straight hurt so much.

(This essay is going to be somewhat narrativized to reflect my playing experience of Decay. This is a writing exercise as much as it is character analysis. But I also didn't have the patience to proofread this, so please be gentle.)

Part 1: The Games We Play With Ourselves

My first route was the Cliffhanger route. I want to pretend that I picked it because I knew it’d be the best outcome due to my unparalleled (insert ashley smug face here) understanding of the characters but I actually wasn’t expecting that one moment to be the big decision that caused the paths to diverge. It was just the only save file I had for Decay because it was the most hopeful outcome to me at the time. Because of that, when playing through Decay, everything felt so… business as usual. Things didn’t even feel as tense as they did in episode 2 when the paths diverged. This is, as a matter of fact, how I reacted for most of my first playthrough of the game. I didn’t see it as weird. It made sense. Nobody was really wrong here or making particularly bad decisions.

The only thing that caught me by surprise for the first half of it was when Andrew slapped Ashley, but I didn’t even feel like it was that shocking of a moment. Ashley has a chronic problem with taking things seriously, so I don’t think Andrew showing her what it means to take a threat of violence seriously is a particularly out of pocket response. However, it’s also not the only way to assert his identity as Andrew, because Burial showed us a better way for him to do the same: quiet dismissal with a confident assertion that ‘Andy’ is dead. Slapping her wasn’t the only way to get the point across, but it was -a- way, and I think it was important for Ashley to internalize it even though the slap was a simultaneous sign of strength AND weakness on Andrew’s end.

He didn’t need to play her game, but he did, and he managed to make it mean something.

The episode in general went through great lengths to show how unseriously Ashley takes her own actions. Which is a mood (she’s literally me, chat), for sure, but we’ve already seen that offhanded remarks by Ashley are enough to deeply sting Andrew.

This whole scene was an example of her not taking her own words seriously, by highlighting a dynamic we took for granted in prior episodes. Their endless back and forth is perceived as a harmless game by her. A lot of people perceived this dynamic as toxic back in prior chapters but it’s fairly common in long-term relationships. As someone who has a tendency of doing that myself- at least with friends- it makes social situations easier to navigate when I know that both of us are aware that the other person isn’t actually trying to hurt the other in a way that sticks.

(I’m obviously not saying that their dynamic isn’t toxic, just that this one aspect of it is fairly normal and often taken uncharitably)

There are dozens upon dozens more examples than this but I assume that if I need to list them off to you then you haven’t actually played the game. I’m just listing this one because it’s useful for highlighting the way she views their dynamic.

Either way, Andrew isn’t having it this time, because he’s focusing harder on something he wanted from Ashley all along:

Respect.

Respect is a huge running theme in this episode, and the decision to accept being called Andrew or Andy is the make or break point for the route, and by proxy, their relationship. If Andrew decides to demand self-respect by asserting his identity as Andrew, then Ashley takes his request to not roast the camper seriously. But if he doesn’t demand to be called Andrew, then she does roast the camper. The implications of this decision are huge, but if you choose to be called Andy, he’s too much of a doormat at this point to show why it’s so important.

Accepting being called Andy gives Ashley permission to double down on all the worst aspects of their dynamic. There’s a lot to say about how Andrew reacts to this, but most of it is retreading old ground, because he’s made his issues with this and what it means to him abundantly clear already. What’s more interesting- to me- is how Ashley reacts. When Andrew reacts to “Why do you think it’s okay to hurt me?”, Ashley responds with… confusion.

"(It's) fine to stomp over every boundary I've ever set, isn't it?"

"I- uh...... wouldn't know."

She doesn’t get it. She genuinely doesn’t get it. She does not understand boundaries, flat-out. She has very few of her own, and therefore doesn’t see them in other people. Even when Andrew expressed boundaries to her in his past- the few times it actually happened- he quickly lowered them, never teaching her what they actually mean. While we don’t know for absolute certain because of how few flashbacks we’ve seen from her perspective, it seems like she’s never been held to account for transgressing a boundary.

Even when she’s slapped in the face, she doesn’t quite understand that it’s Andrew setting a boundary and showing self-respect. We see this later on with the argument she has with Andrew later in the episode:

"...............I stopped calling you Andy."

"Ooooh! Hallelujah! She hasn't called me by the wrong name for a few days! Mercy me, do I stand corrected! This must be love! And not just any love, but true love of the highest caliber!"

She thinks it’s just doing him a favor. She’s not respecting his boundaries at all. It’s something she’s GIVING to him.

With Ashley’s general inability to take things seriously in mind, and her lack of understanding of boundaries, I think there’s one more piece of the puzzle I need to explore before I can explain why I think things I really went to shit:

HOT

SIBLING

BREEDING!!!

Coffin is, still, even with Decay in mind, not making a statement on whether or not incest is good or bad. I can say that with full confidence. It's going further than that: it's using their incestuous relationship to highlight the ways in which the siblings interface with sexuality. Their more romantic, intimate moments are still portrayed as cute, and something that makes both of them happy. Physical affection stabilizes their relationship, and is something the two of them need to feel like things are okay. It doesn't hurt them.

...to a point.

Because she sure as fuck isn’t showing that it’s good, either.

In the Shoot/Dead End route (I'll be referring to this route as 3B from here on, and the cliffhanger route as 3A), their incestuous tendencies are unambiguously portrayed as a negative thing. Everything they do together makes one or both of them uncomfortable, unlike almost every other instance we see in every other route. But why? What's the difference between 3A and 3B?

Let's compare the scenes of intimacy between 3A and 3B:

In 3A, Andrew was slow, patient, and gentle, resulting in something that both Ashley and him enjoyed. They cracked a laugh, hugged each other, very cute, wholesome, and not at all weird if you don't look at the shared genetics behind the curtain.

But in 3B, he was sudden and forceful, resulting in something Ashley didn't enjoy. She tries to reciprocate but he pulls away shortly after, supposedly because she's not good at kissing, and also because he still feels gross about actually enjoying a sexual encounter with his little sister. Her reaction to this was visible confusion.

I want to establish my takes on these scenes now because I’m going to draw attention to them later on.

So, let’s recap:

Ashley doesn’t take things seriously enough. She doesn’t understand personal boundaries. She attempts to reciprocate affections and act with visible confusion when it’s rejected. What does this mean? I want everyone to hear me out on this before they respond with ‘well, no fucking shit Sherlock’, because this little fact about Ashley’s character goes far deeper and is more wide-reaching than many might think, at least given the kinds of analysis I see on this game:

Ashley treats life like a game.

And I don’t mean that as a heavy-handed metaphor for her thinking everyone needs to be played and manipulated and that she has very little personal investment in anything that goes on. I mean she actually, literally, treats life like a game. Let me highlight something from the Q&A so I can explain just how important this really is:

“She doesn’t want to grow up”

“her fantasy of Andy and Leyley.”

When she calls Andrew Andy as a teenager:

"It's supposed to be endearing!! It's our secret game! I thought you liked that kind of thing."

You see where I’m going with this? Her whole dynamic with Andrew is part of that ‘secret game’ to her. It’s something she takes seriously, unlike everything else in life. Every deviation from it is merely doing him a favor. She’s allowing him to break the rules, if only temporarily. She doesn’t take many things seriously because she can’t emotionally grasp the significance of it. In her mind, she’s still a child. And for much of the story, no matter the route, she’s still playing that game with Andrew, no matter what’s at stake.

Ribbing at each other? Part of the game.

Their mutual displays of affection? Part of the game.

But boundaries? Those weren’t part of the rules.

This is why Ashley is so confused and distressed when none of ‘her’ games work on Andrew anymore.

The rules have changed. And she doesn’t understand them anymore.

Here lies the core differences between the routes in Decay. In 3A, Andrew is still willing to play that game with her.

Just like in real life,

Just like with his peers, with his mom, with Julia,

Andrew knows how to pretend to play Ashley’s game.

He’s not quite aware it’s a game in the same ways as her, but he does know the sets of behaviors he can use to calm Ashley down. And as shown with the Entity, he’s extremely good at negotiating rules even when he’s not aware there’s a game at play. But he still doesn’t understand it as a game, and that’s where many of his frustrations come from (not to say Ashley is fully aware it’s a game either, but he’s even less aware than she is). Ashley doesn’t listen to him as often as he’d like because he’s not fully aware of the rules she expects them to operate under. Or perhaps, more accurately, not aware of what he has to do to change the rules rather than just create exceptions.

I don’t exactly know either, but I think it has something to do with how much gifts mean to Ashley. Keep in mind that all it takes is a wedding ring to avert the double suicide ending.

I think this proclivity for engaging with life as if it was a game might be why Ashley is said to be in-tune with the Demon Realm and enjoy their puzzles so much: everything has clear rules and conditions for winning or losing. Agreements are ironclad, and a deal is a deal. It’s a series of easy and somewhat predictable input->output mechanisms, as long as she’s precise with her desires. While the Entity is clearly manipulating her in some way, it’s yet to do so through lies, and she has been shown no reason to believe that it ever lies, outside of when it tells her highly emotionally inconvenient information.

(If your eyebrow rose when reading that, mine rose while typing it too, but I’m not here to diagnose anyone because that makes analysis less interesting and I literally wrote the essay on why people shouldn’t do that)

One detail I want to point out before tying this all back together is that games are something Ashley has appreciated from the absolute youngest we’ve ever seen her, before either of them did anything wrong: The flashback where they visited the grandparents. Andrew turning his pursuit of Ashley into a game was shown to instantly get her to behave better, as it’s given her clear and obvious rules to adhere to, and conditions to get something she wants, no strings attached. I wanted to point this out so I could establish that this is how she’s always been and not a pattern she fell into, because I need to emphasize just how pervasive games are to how Ashley interfaces with the world.

With Andrew, her ‘secret game’ becomes something different.

Tying back into my first essay, the ‘games’ she plays are the framework with which she uses to feel in control of Andrew. They’re what her entire sense of safety is predicated on, and without the rules and reciprocal ‘play’ that comes with games, she loses any sense of emotional stability and becomes extremely volatile, confrontational, and sometimes violent. She’s not one who can function without an understanding of what’s going on, which is precisely why she lacks foresight and operates on intuition.

It’s not like she’s not trying, right? I’d like to present the scene where Andrew calls Julia with Ashley on the line.

At first, Ashley loses her shit and just barely manages to keep herself together. It really seems like an act of wanton cruelty on Andrew’s part, but it’s important to note that you get a star for this scene. You don’t get stars for scenes where their relationship deteriorates. So why do you get a star? She initially appeared upset, but the moment Andrew reframed it, her expression flipped, and she immediately became happy.

"So she can behave. Somewhat."

"Hmph! You dared to doubt me? Shame on you! Despite your underhanded bullshit, I emerge victorious!"

Andrew had to stop Ashley from yelling, and from hanging up, but Ashley managed to quiet down and stabilize herself enough to not loudly explode and get violent and uncontrollable.

And outside of where they were forced to be separated either to solve a puzzle or at the whims of the Entity, Andrew led her through every challenge they faced and she didn’t spend the whole time questioning his ability.

Why do you think we play as Andrew for the vast majority of the episode, even when they’re together?

She trusts his judgement more, even if she can’t quite understand (or at least vocalize) why. There’s a reason she roasts the camper in every route where this one interaction isn’t possible: Her desire to gain strength from eating people supersedes her trust in Andrew’s ability to handle difficult situations. She has to gain enough power for the both of them, or they’re fucked. But if Andrew has the strength to assert his identity as Andrew, maybe she doesn’t need to do all the heavy lifting.

(This is why I believe the star scenes are what they are. They’re not required to improve their relationship, but they ARE required for the necessary context to show why “the future” (as stated by the Entity in the Vision Room when he mentions them) is what it is.)

For a large part of the rest of the episode, we see a lot of smaller moments like this, where Ashley is at least trying to reach some kind of mutual understanding with Andrew and Andrew is trying to convey his actual feelings to Ashley, but the two of them keep speaking past each other because they simply do not understand the language that the other speaks. But what’s important is that their relationship manages to not deteriorate, and despite the vicious fighting, they still express a desire to understand the other when left to their own devices. By this point, I was feeling vindicated, as a lot of my initial analyses that were incredibly charitable to both siblings seemed to be at least somewhat correct and that I was right to give them the benefit of the d-....

Part 2: The Lies We Tell Ourselves

...-id Andrew just kill a fucking child in cold blood?!

I want to draw attention to the wording I used to describe how Ashley treats life as a game. I said she treats it as a game, not necessarily inexorably understands it as such. This is not a tendency she had no choice but to manifest; outside of being part of the way she manifests the Andy and Leyley fantasy, it’s also an emotional regulation tool that simplifies her interactions with the world. I want to specify this because I feel like, if I don’t, it might paint a picture of her being a helpless victim in a world that treats her poorly. Nor that growing up would solve her problems, and that she has no agency because she had no choice but to be this way. While I would never deny her nor Andrew victimhood of each other and the world around them, I also don’t want to confuse people into thinking that I don’t think they could’ve done better, and that I shouldn’t expect them to. Because the more I played through the game- and after finishing it, the more I thought about it- it became clearer and clearer that they could, because Andrew…

Holy shit, Andrew. Talk about dropping the pretense.

When the parents were sacrificed, Andrew- and his life- could never be normal again. The man realized that too, because nothing Ashley suggested registered as objectionable anymore. He offered so little resistance to killing the campers that it didn’t even sink in what kind of action that was. He was never much of a moral conscience to begin with, but from that point on, he stopped trying.

"Aaah, you know I can't say no to a family value pack."

Oh, Andrew, you wretched little shit. I get it now.

The thing about Andrew that I didn’t quite get last time is just how loose his grasp on the idea of normalcy actually was. It seemed like a central facet of his character and something he desperately wanted to hold on to at all costs, but now it looks much, much different. It wasn’t something he wanted to convince himself was true much past his teenage years, but the moment hormones started setting in, he made almost no effort to come to terms with his sexual desires. He made no attempt to distance himself from Ashley, to not project his fantasy on to Julia, or even to not peep at his sister in the shower.

‘Normal’ wasn’t something he wanted to be. It was a role he wanted to play.

At every chance he got, he fed into his darkest desires like an addict, and projected those fantasies on to Julia. He didn’t even bother trying to make space between him and Ashley; no, she had to do it for him, because she was mad at him. And the best part is, it wasn’t even good for him.

As much as he tried to lie to himself, what he really wanted is to lie to others. Not once did he try to change himself in accordance with the person he wanted to be, and especially what others wanted him to be. Not once did he self-reflect about what he really wanted, or what would be best for him, or even Ashley, for that matter. He just wanted other people to shut up. Andrew was not a victim of his own impulses and desires. I really feel the need to emphasize just how messed up this man is; Without Ashley taking an active role in his life, he didn’t get better. He filled in the gaps in his heart by choosing to be worse.

Nemlei took subtext, turned it into text, and then turned that text into a baseball bat that she used to crack our skulls over and over again. He was never the ‘good person’ in their relationship, and never once tried to be.

And the worst part is that I fully understand and empathize with why.

There’s a funny thing that sometimes happens when you have impossible standards piled on to you and enforced through abuse and you’re denied a chance to ever be your own person: You fail to develop a coherent sense of identity. You latch on to anything that ‘seems’ right and predicate your whole sense of self on it. You need this sense of identity to navigate the world, so anything that threatens it is a threat to everything you know, and you respond to it in turn. Everything you do outside of that one core idea (or several ideas) becomes an act, a puppet show you play to placate others and serve your own ends. You can’t afford empathy or understanding to ‘threats’, because you’re too busy trying to protect what you ‘know’ you are. A threat to your world is a threat to your life, and so you respond by desperately doing whatever it takes to remove that threat. Sometimes lies, sometimes violence, of varying degrees of intensity depending on the threat.

Sometimes you learn to shut your feelings off.

Sometimes you learn to react too strongly.

Sometimes you learn that nobody else matters, because everyone else will just hurt you anyway.

You devalue people. You overvalue people.

Anything to feel safe, anything to feel like the outside world is less of a threat. Anything to remove that threat, manage that threat, or protect the only thing in the world that matters to you, whether that thing is yourself, or someone else.

And for Andrew? It’s said to us in the beginning of episode 3:

Andy’s Leyley

Leyley’s Andy

Yeah, Nemlei. I get it. You understand.

There’s another side to this coin, but I’ll get to that.

Not that this happens to everyone, but it absolutely happened to Andrew. The ‘role’ he was had forced upon him was that of Leyley’s _____. Her protector, teacher, parent, general caretaker. Her emotional regulator. Her brother.

Her everything.

It was all he could be. All he was allowed to be. Because the moment he diverged, he was punished greatly by Renee, and at some point, Ashley herself. He predicated his entire value system on being her ‘Andy’, to the point where every action he took that wasn’t part of the act he put on to attempt to interface with the world normally became for her.

It was all for her, because he was her _____. Anything to keep her under control, anything to keep her safe.

One of the most notable examples of this is shown when Lord Unknown was attempting to give him therapy. When he started hearing how people spread rumors about how he slept with Ashley, and Douchebag told him that the people in Ashley’s class said that she spread them, he just glossed over this fact. So little attention is drawn to it that I actually missed it on my first playthrough. Instead, the first thing Andrew expressed internally was concern over whether or not she was being bullied; it didn’t even register in his mind that she was responsible for smearing his reputation.

To him, she was never responsible for anything. She was his responsibility above all else. The incestuous rumors hardly mattered to him, and he kept finding holes in the story and pointing them out, such as how she didn’t have time to spread them early (since we saw them enter school together) in the day because she stood Douchebag up on a Friday, and how there was no way to catch them behind the auditorium ‘yesterday’ given it was a Monday. The presence of those holes is why I’m skeptical of whether or not she actually spread them, but it’s not like it’s something she wouldn’t do. More on that later.

Above all else, Andrew wasn’t concerned about how people saw him; he hardly even cared. He was upset mostly about people thinking that he’d take advantage of Ashley in that way. There was nothing weird to him about how clingy they were to each other, how affectionate they were, how protective he was.

Of course he was all that. Andrew was her brother. It was his job to be all that. It was his job to be her _____.

I’d like to present an alternate theory to the idea that Andrew dated Julia to appear normal. The theory isn’t mutually compatible with that, but it feels woefully incomplete. Given the focus on bullying, the anger had over the idea that he’d ever hurt her, and the fact that sexual feelings started creeping in his mind thanks to the magical curse of teenage hormones, I believe the primary reason he dated Julia was so that he could prove to others- and himself- that he would never hurt his precious Ashley. Not in that way, not at all. It was everything he predicated his sense of identity on. It was what he had to be, above all else.

So in order to protect his ‘role’, his identity, he chose something he, deep down, knew would hurt her, because nobody could ever be led to believe that he’d take advantage of her like that.

Especially himself.

Appearing normal to others was a pleasant side-effect of this, and if he could convince himself he loved Julia, he’d never have to add ‘boyfriend’ to the list of things he had to be for Ashley.

Hahahaha, whoops.

Surprise! It was the thing he actually wanted to be for her the most!

Teenage hormones are an awful thing, aren’t they? In realizing that he had sexual feelings for Ashley, he finally found something he’d actually enjoy being for her!

And it was something he could never be, lest it risk everything else he thought of himself as being for her!

Oh, the wretched irony of sexual desire. I could never.

Which way, western man? Everything you think you should be, or the one thing you actually want to be?

Andrew tries to have it both ways, but, y’know how that went. No attempt to rein in these desires, projecting his sister on his girlfriend, etc etc. Already been over that. But now I can highlight why I believe he got worse and kept feeding into his desires; the closest thing to a moral conscience he had- his identity as Leyley’s _____- takes a step out of his life for reasons I’ll cover when I cover how much of a fuck up she actually is.

What, you thought I’d skip over her just because I was- and still am- her number one defender? Oh no no. Now that I know better than to give these losers (that I love very dearly and desire nothing but happiness for) so much charitability, I have a lot to say about her too. But back to Andrew.

Without that sense of personal identity- without his proximity to Ashley- he sees no reason not to give into his desires, watch her while she dresses, and project all of his most sexual fantasies on to Julia. His interactions with Ashley were, as fucked up as it is, grounding to him. They stabilize him, give him a reason to act right that isn’t just a facade. With that, he has nothing. Nothing except his facade of normalcy.

I think the year-long gap between his interactions with Ashley are precisely the reason why ‘normalcy’ became so important to him. It became a second sense of identity that conflicted with what he predicated his identity on before. He could finally emulate being a somewhat normal person, with a somewhat normal attachment to a somewhat normal person. Horray! But the prior identity still existed. It never went away. Ashley was where his heart was, and trying to give it to someone else only hollowed out what was there before.

This one CG speaks louder than any words the man has ever spoken, up to this point.

These are not the eyes of someone who is merely depressed. These are the eyes of someone who is confronting the idea of living a life without the only thing that ever gave him meaning.

He can’t even make eye contact with himself, because there’s nothing there.

Andrew, without Ashley, is a hollow husk of a man who starts to crumble the more he tries to convince himself he could be anything other than her everything.

She is the light of his life. The nightmarish, toxic, corrosive light of his life.

(cont. in next post)

#the coffin of andy and leyley #andrew graves #ashley graves #tcoaal #gaming #gravecest #tcoaal essay

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motorsportbarbie13 · 3 months ago

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Aftermath - Chapter 7

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something out of nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

Aftermath - Chapter 1 Aftermath - Chapter 2 Aftermath - Chapter 3 Aftermath - Chapter 4 Aftermath - Chapter 5 Aftermath - Chapter 6 Master List

warnings & a note: this is mostly smut but like, emotional smut? idk but while this was a struggle to write, i think it's one of my favorite bits. so enjoy!! as @lestapiastrisgirl said, this feels like a sigh of relief, like a FINALLY moment. but don't worry, we still have a bit to go so this is a sigh, but not the end!!! pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader word count: 4.7k

When Max kisses you for the first time if felt like something in your soul slotted into place. Like you’d been holding your breath for your entire life and the moment his lips found yours you were finally able to breathe for the first time. He’s slow and unhurried with it at first, like he wants to savor that first taste of you for the rest of his life. Your hands clutch desperately at the fabric of Max’s shirt, a shudder zipping through your body at the way he works his mouth over yours like he’d been waiting years for this moment. You’re fairly certain he had been.

Every nerve ending in your body sparks to life when he drags his heavy calloused hands up your bare arms. Nothing has ever felt quite this good and he’s only just begun touching you. You lean into Max’s touch, needing the heat from his body as much as you need air in your lungs. Meanwhile, Max is trying to commit every curve and dip of your body to memory so he never forgets this moment. How he ever thought he’d be able to get over his obsession with you is utterly insane. The sound you make, a mix of a whimper and a sigh, when he licks into your mouth has Max’s hands gripping at your waist even tighter.

Your hands find their way up into his hair, your fingers carding through the blond strands in a way that nearly sends Max to his knees. The strangled groan that rumbles through his chest when you tug at his hair sends a shimmer of satisfaction up your spine. He can’t get enough of the way you taste, the way you feel, the way your perfume overwhelms his senses. He’s fairly sure that he’ll never recover from this moment and he’s absolutely certain he’ll never forget the way you melt into him when he pulls you closer. His tongue works into your mouth, pressing against yours, licking against you in a way that has your breath catching in the back of your throat. You’re having trouble breathing against him you’re so overwhelmed with how he tastes and feels, warm and solid in a way you’ve never experienced before.

It could be five minuets or five hours, you get so lost in the way he’s kissing you but eventually Max pulls back, blue eyes hazy with need. You should be embarrassed at the pathetic whimper that slips from your lips when he removes his mouth from yours, but the look that Max gives you tells you he feels the same. Your chest feels heavy with the weight of what just happened. Like the years you’ve known Max have all been leading up to the tension that crackles between you and the way it burns brighter when he touches you.

Max lifts his hand to cup your cheek in his palm and you lean into the touch, sinking into the feeling of his warmth. You both can sense the weight of the moment, like there’s no going back to the way you two were before that kiss. Lines have been crossed and everything finally feels like it’s clicked into place. Like the thing that you two have been dancing around for however many years has finally been unleashed and you’re finally found the person to whom your soul belongs to.

He drops his hands down your body before they finally grip your ass as he yanks you towards him. It’s like you weigh nothing when he picks you up, strong arms cradling you against him. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, giggling as you bury your head in the crook of his neck. It feels so wildly satisfying to be with someone who clearly not only wants your physically, but mentally and emotionally as well.

Max takes a few steps towards the corner of your studio where the couch that converts into a day bed sits. When Max spots it though, he freezes. You crane your neck around, wondering what’s made him go still. “Max?”

“Have you been sleeping here?”

Panic surges in his chest as he observes the little nest you’ve built yourself. It usually is folded up, disguised as a full sized couch but lately, you’ve been using it as your bed. Piled on one end are several pillows while a pile of blankets are spread out across the cushions. It gets cold in your studio at night due to the large windows that take up one wall and the lack of efficient heating in the building.

Max slowly sets you down, needing a moment to get the pain in his chest under control. Your eyes dart away from his, cheeks burning in embarrassment. You had totally forgotten you hadn’t tidied up the bed from last night. You hadn’t needed to as no one really came in here lately and it had morphed into your second home.

“Yeah.” You whisper, taking a step away from Max.

“Because of me?”

You shrug, knowing that he’s going to take on the guilt when he hears you confirm his suspicions. “It just seemed like you didn’t want to see me. I didn’t want to make it awkward if we ran into each other in the building.” You pause, noticing the guilt etched into Max’s features. “It was easier to just stay here.”

Max takes a step towards you, crowding you against the edge of the couch. You can see how labored his breath is and you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him. When you do though, Max flinches away from your touch, brows furrowing as his eyes drop to the floor. “Fucking hell.” He swears under his breath. “I was just like him, wasn’t I?”

He doesn’t have to say Lando’s name, you both know who he’s talking about. Guilt sits heavy in his chest as he looks down at you, your eyes wide and innocent starting up at him. You reach for his waist, desperately needing to touch him. “Max…” You sigh, knowing that nothing you say is going to ease the anger you can see he’s going to beat himself up with.

“No, don’t try to tell me that what I did was okay.” He shakes his head but doesn’t pull away when you reach up to cradle his face in the palm of your hand. “You’re right, I took a page right out of his book. I gave you the silent treatment and ignored you for weeks because I couldn’t handle being honest with myself or with you.”

“But baby,” You coo before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You know how hard Max is on himself on and off the track and can sense that he’s about to go down a road that’s going to end up being destructive. “Baby, listen to me.”

Max drags his gaze up to yours and the pain in his eyes has the breath catching. “You’re not him. He used the silence as punishment, as a way to get me to fall in line with what he wanted. He was abusive with it, and that’s not what you were doing.”

“It doesn’t matter though.” He argues. In a move that shakes you to your core, Max sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands drag down your body until they come to rest heavily on your hips. He looks up at you, brows knit together like he can’t believe you’re allowing him to be in your presence. “I hurt you and I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself for that.”

“Well,” You run your fingers through his hair, tugging a bit to get his attention back up to you. “How about we start with the fact that I forgive you, oui?”

“That’s not enough.” Max’s voice scrapes a rough path against your skin like sandpaper. “I need to show you how sorry I am. I need you to know that I’m never going to do this again.” From where he sits kneeling, Max gently pushes you towards the couch. The backs of your knees hit the edge and you’re forced to sit. Your knees part to allow him closer and he wraps his arms around your waist. Your hands sit at his shoulders, gripping desperately at his shirt.

“You’re safe with me, liefje. I need you to know that. Need to show you how much you mean to me.”

“Then show me, Max.” You whisper.

Max’s pupils blow wide as he stands, encouraged by the heavy rasp in your voice. The way he towers over you, staring down with eyes so dark you swear they’ve gone black has your stomach twisting in anticipation.

“Lay back.” He orders and you obey instantly, scrambling back to where your pillows are stacked. “Let me show you how fucking sorry I am. How much I need you, how much I adore you.”

“Max.” You breathe, breath coming in short bursts as he reaches underneath the hem of your shirt.

The rough scratch of his calloused hands send shivers skittering over your skin, goosebumps erupting whoever he touches you. Your shirt is the first thing to be discarded on the floor, tossed into a corner as you fight the urge to squirm under Max’s heated gaze. It’s almost too much, the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s been waiting for this very moment for his entire life and his wildest dream is about to come true.

Max swings his knee over you so he’s straddling your hips. He leans down, pressing heated open mouthed kisses to the slim column of your neck before dragging his tongue so tortuously slow towards your collar bone. You gasp when he nips little bites into the delicate skin at the hollow of your neck, his tongue immediately licking in soothing strokes across the heated skin. Your hands skate over the fabric of his shirt, clutching at anything you can use to ground yourself in the moment. You fear if you don’t, you’ll float right off the bed.

Max continues his perusal of your body, an erotic discovery of the sounds you make when he kisses new pieces of skin that have been long neglected.

“Look at you.” He murmurs right before his mouth closes over a lace covered nipple. The whine that leaves your lips is breathy and should be embarrassing but you’re long past caring. All you care about is never having to go without Max’s mouth on you ever again. “So pretty for me. Always so pretty for me.”

You whimper as he sucks the lace deeper in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the already pebbled skin. His hands slip under your back, lifting you up just enough to get access to the clasp of your bra, and before you’re able to blink you’re bare beneath him, bra discarded somewhere on the floor along with your t-shirt.

His gaze meet yours and the raw desire you saw in his blue eyes just moments before is replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. He traces the curve of your breast with a trembling finger. “God, you’re beautiful.” He whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I…I never want to hurt you ever again.” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the fierce hunger of his earlier kisses. “Can I do this? Please?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for permission.

The question hangs in the air, the vulnerability in his voice striking a chord deep in your chest. You reach out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, the rough stubble a familiar comfort to you now.

“Max.” You breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper. His name feels like a prayer, a plea for the connection you both crave. His eyes close briefly as your fingers graze his skin. He nuzzles his face against your hand, his breath warm against your palm.

“Tell me.” He murmurs, his voice raw with need. “Tell me what you want. Tell me how I can fix this.”

It almost sounds like he’s begging and that sets the fire stoking even hotter deep in your belly. The words are so simple but they carry the weight of everything that has happened between you over the last few months. All the hurt, the anger, the longing…it all boils down to this moment. You swallow hard, your throat tight with unshed tears. Looking into his eyes you see the man that you grew up with, the man that you thought was just a friend for so long, the man that would never love you because of who you were and who you were with. But he’s more than that now. You see the man that you love, the man that is asking for your forgiveness, for permission, offering you a chance to rebuild what he broke with him.

“I…” You start, your voice trembling. You take a deep breath, trying to find the words to express the complex web of emotions and feelings swirling within you. “I want this…I want you, Max. More than anything but I need you to promise me you’re going to be gentle with me. I need you to be careful.”

A flicker of understanding crosses his face. He nods slowly, like he knows you’re not only talking about tonight, here in this room where everything feels so heavy and at tipping point, but beyond this. You’re asking him to be more of what you need and more of what you’ve never gotten from anyone else.

“I know.” He whispers. He leans down again, this time his kiss is feather-light and tender, full of promises he fully intends to keep for the rest of his life. “I promise I’ll be everything you need me to be. Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze when he pulls back once again, your heart aching with a mixture of fear and hope. You knew there were no guarantees, that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. But this was Max you were talking about. You know more than anything that he’ll keep his word and will protect you with everything he has. In this moment, looking into the vulnerable depths of his icy blue eyes that you’ve found yourself lost in so many times over the years, you believe him. You believe in the possibility of healing, of rebuilding, of finding your way back to who you were before Lando had tried to destroy you.

You nod slowly, a single tear tracing a path down your cheek. “Yes.” You whisper.

With a nod, Max reaches behind him, pulling his shirt off in one quick movement. You’ve seen him without a shirt before but this is completely different. The dim light of the room catches the subtle play of muscle across his chest and shoulders, a familiar landscape that suddenly feels both familiar and utterly new to you. You sit up on your elbows, breath catching in your throat, not just from the physical beauty of him but from something else.

As his shirt falls to the floor, your eyes are drawn to a black smudge of ink on his side, right in the middle of his rib cage.

A dove.

A thin black outline, its wings slightly outstretched as if poised for flight.

The sight of it steals the breath from your lungs. You stare at it, transfixed, your mind reeling. The vulnerability you saw in his eyes moments before deepens as he notices your eyes fixed on his ribcage, becoming something more profound. This wasn’t just a fleeting desire of his, a momentary lapse of control. This was…commitment. A brand.

“Max.” You breathe, heart pounding in your ears as he sits frozen on top of you, watching your reaction silently. You reach out, your fingers tracing the outline of the dove. Max shudders under your touch, his hips rolling into yours ever so slightly. “When…when did you…”

Max watches you, expression unreadable. He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze locked on yours. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and husky. “Vegas last year.”

After he secured the championship, ending Lando’s title hopes.

His mind flickers back to that night. He had been drunk before he even left the track but not drunk enough to say no when someone on the team suggested tattoos to celebrate. No one on Red Bull had made the connection that night and at first, he had been able to reason with himself that it was just a generic dove, that it didn’t have any extra meaning. But watching you walk off with Lando that night, watching you console your boyfriend instead of celebrating with him had been a punch to the gut.

“I guess drunk me knew I wanted you longer than sober me was willing to admit.” He chuckles lightly, but there’s a heaviness to his words that has your chest squeezing.

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with regret and the weight of the past. You look at him, your heart aching with mixture of tenderness and a new sense of fear. This gesture, this permanent mark, it changes everything. It raises the stakes, making the possibility of future pain even more terrifying, but also making the potential for happiness that much more profound.

You close your eyes briefly, trying to process the wave of emotions crashing over you. When you open them again, Max is watching you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that mirrors your own. He reaches down, his hand covering yours where it rests on his ribcage. His touch is warm, reassuring. And in that moment, you know that whatever the future holds, you’re not alone in this.

Max leans down and kisses you again, this time with more urgency. His tongue traces the shape of your lips before slipping in side as he deepens the kiss, a silent conversation of longing and need. His hands move over your body, discovering curves and sensitive places that are now reserved for only his touch. He unclasps your jeans, the zipper whispering open, and you lift your hips against him, your own hands fumbling with the button of his pants.

The air crackles with anticipation as he pulls back, eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?” He asks, tone rough with need.

He’s achingly hard and desperate to be inside you but he’d stop if you said the word, no questions asked. And you know that.

You nod, your heart racing in your chest. “More than anything.” You murmur.

He kisses you again, a deep, possessive kiss that leans you breathless and your hips rolling up into his, searching for more friction than ever. With a slow, deliberate movement, he slides your jeans down your legs, revealing the soft skin of your thighs. He pauses, his gaze lingering on your body, a flicker of admiration in his eyes.

A blush creeps up your neck but the heat of his gaze quickly chases it away. You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, then move lower, to the pulse beating at the base of his throat. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his breath coming in short ragged gasps.

With a shared breath you both move, the remaining barriers of clothing falling away, discarded somewhere on the floor. The contact of his bare skin against yours ignites a fire within you that’s been smoldering for years now, a burning need that’s been simmering for so long.

Max pulls you closer, his body molding against yours. His touch is careful, as is he’s afraid he might break you. He kisses you agin, a slow and sensual press of his mouth to the crook of your neck. His hands roam over your body, caressing your curves, teasing at your skin.

You moan softly, your own hands finding their way to his body, exploring the hard muscles of his back, the smooth skin of his chest. You trace the outline of the dove tattoo, a silent reminder of his commitment and vulnerability.

Max shifts slightly, his weight pressing down on you and what a welcome pressure it is. His fingers dip below your waist, swiping at the wetness pooling between your legs. The growl that rumbles in his chest has your hips tipping up towards his cock that sits heavy and hard between your bodies. “So wet for me, my sweet girl.” He murmurs in your ear. “Are you ready for me?”

All you can do is nod, eyes pinching shut as the heat between you two grows needy and frantic.

“Open those pretty eyes for me, I want to see how you look when I fill you up for the first time.”

You whimper at the filthy words, heated pleasure pulsing between your legs as Max pumps his dick a few times in his hand. The spark that started all those months ago when he walked you home from the art show has grown into an out of control forest fire, blazing it’s way through both of your souls to where it’s brought you here in this moment.

When Max presses into you for the first time, your entire world narrows to that delectable stretch of him filling you. He moves slowly at first, leaning into you inch by maddening inch. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to drive you crazy or to make sure you’re not too overwhelmed with the size of him. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever had before and the way he stretches you has you crying out.

For a moment, Max freezes which has you shaking your head and scratching at his back. “No, oh my God, no. Please, don’t stop Max. Keep going.” You beg, lifting your hips up towards his in a desperate attempt to be so stuffed full of him. It’s the only thing on your mind, the way your world has completely narrowed down to the spot where you and Max are connected on the most physical level two people can be.

The sensation, the heat, the overwhelming pleasure is almost too much to take. You arch against him, your breath catching in your throat. His name escapes your lips, a whispered prayer for friction that you so deseparely crave from Max and Max alone.

And then, he’s bottomed out and you’re full of him. Every bit of your existence stutters down to his touch, the way he feels, the way his skin tastes as you latch your mouth onto his shoulder, muffling your cries of pleasure as he begins to move.

Max answers with a groan of his own, his body moving in perfect rhythm with yours. The years of longing, months of dancing around each other, the mutual pining that you’ve both been too scared to act on since your youth…all of it melts away in the heat of the moment. It’s replaced by pure, unadulterated connection that you didn’t even know was possible to experience with another person.

Max feels the release building at the base of his spine but he’s determined to bring you along with him. “I want you to come with me, baby. Can you do that for me?” He murmurs, tongue licking at the shell of your ear. His hips stutter erratically as he struggles to hold onto some sense of control.

Your eyes flutter closed as your entire sense of being sparks to life. This feeling of connection, of pure pleasure, of being so full of another person, of Max is so foreign you almost don’t know what to do. The pressure builds deep in your tummy and you know you’re not far behind Max in chasing down your orgasm. In a desperate attempt to glean more pleasure out of the moment, you reach between your two sweaty bodies, fingers swirling around your own clit as Max continues his slow, deep grind into your needy pussy.

“That’s it, shatje. Take what you need. Come with me, sweet girl.”

The words are exactly what you need and the first waves of your orgasm crash over you, threatening to drown you in the waves of pleasure. Seeing you come undone beneath him is all Max needs to follow you over the cliff. The low groan that rumbles from deep in his chest has you clamping down around him, his name tumbling from your lips over and over.

It takes several minutes for you both to come down form the high that washes over you and several more minutes for Max to find the strength to pull out of your soft, warm center. He doesn’t want to, fairly certain that he could spend the rest of his life buried deep in you. The whine that scratches at the back of your throat tells Max that you feel the same.

Outside, the sun has long set and the night has settled over the city. The lights of the harbor drift in through the bay windows that hover above you, casting a soft glow of moonlight over your naked bodies. Goosebumps pebble your cold skin, missing the warmth of Max being buried deep inside you already. Max pulls you into his chest, your back fitting perfectly against his front as he pulls a blanket over your exhausted bodies.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, a deep sense of calm settles over you. Max’s steady breathing behind you lulls you into the sort of peaceful sleep you’ve been chasing for years.

Max isn’t sure how long he falls asleep but it’s still dark when he wakes up. The first thing he notices is how cold it is. He’s still under the heavy blankets he tugged over your sleeping frame as you cuddled into his frame after the most amazing sex he’s ever had but there’s one thing missing: you.

His eyes blink open, confusion pulling at the spider webs of sleep still clouding his brain. “Liefje?” He croaks, sitting up. The room is chilly and dark, the quiet of the night still settled over the studio.

A soft glow burns across the room where a lamp sits switched on. Next to it, Max spots your frame, sitting on a stool in front of a canvas. You’re wearing his shirt form earlier, the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hem barely covering the tips of your thighs. Your hair is piled on top of your head in a haphazard knot, golden light from the lamp beside you reflecting off the shiny surface. You may be working on a painting, but Max is pretty sure you’re the prettiest masterpiece in the room.

You turn to him then, soft smile playing on your lips. “Hi.” You whisper before turning back to the painting in front of you.

Max gets up, tugging on his boxers, before padding across the hardwood floors to join you in front of the painting. His painting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks, lips finding the warm crook of your neck as he whispers into your skin.

“I wanted to get this finished.” You murmur, leaning back into his solid frame. “I’m debuting several new pieces at Nessa’s gallery in a few weeks.”

Max grips your waist as your words sink in. “Including this one?”

“Is that okay with you?” You twist around so you’re facing Max fully now and he crouches down so you’re eye to eye.

“Of course it is but it’s going to cause a stir, don’t you think?”

The passion you’d poured into the painting of Max is undeniable. Anyone looking at it can tell your raw feelings for the man in front of you.

“I think we’re about to give people a lot to talk about, so why not just get it started ourselves?” You shrug, a glint of mischief winking in the corner of your eye.

Max chuckles before pulling you in for a kiss. “God, I love you.”

You smile against his lips, “Love you too.”

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164

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elodieunderglass · 1 month ago

Text

Submission by @Zorilleerrant How to Write a Novel

When I make bullet point lists, each bullet point tends to be a couple hundred words, so that’s what I optimize for. But! I find writers usually have a consistent average for that, so everyone should tailor their bullet points to their own experiences. Modify all the numbers as necessary. (And be prepared to revamp them as you go. The outline never survives contact with the writing.) Now how do we turn bullet point ideas into a full novel outline?

Alright. Let’s get down to it.

Step 1: A novel is 50k words.

Let’s break this into smaller sections. 50k is a nice even number, so I like to make 5 parts. A 10k section sounds much more manageable; that’s a normal (long) short story! If you have 5 (or ten) short stories that naturally link up into a novel, this is the final part of the outline. Usually I think that doesn’t happen, though. Anyway, write the 5 high level Events, Inciting Incidents, or Arc Developments. (It could be themes or structural points, if that’s what drives your writing forward, it just has to be The Important Things.)

Step 2: What’s the shape of this section?

So we’ve got our major plot point or what have you. Now it’s important to figure out how to set it up and how to knock it down. I generally block this into a timeline of 10 points (because that’s 1k) to begin with, and then add or collapse bullet points as necessary. The first bullet point should be the opening scene or setup, and the last should be the end of the section or the transition to the next part, but in between is just how to get from A to B. The what is important, but I tend to find why is more helpful to answer so I can figure out how to get characters to do things. If you tend to bang out 1k at a time this is the end of the outline!

Step 3: The Devil in the Details

This is where the bullet point granularity really varies. You can break it up into 10 again (100 words each: a drabble!) or even more if you need to. This can be really helpful because at a certain point you just end up translating the Ideas List into Writer Voice, and once you get the narrative tone down it becomes more consistent. But in general you only need a couple bullet points here: the ones absolutely integral to the scene. Maybe there’s part of the setting you need to describe, or an internal monologue, or a reveal. Put them in order.

Step 4: To write it you have to write it, unfortunately.

Each bullet point should be a fairly short writing section, now. Which means getting all the way through one should be doable in a single writing session. If you know how you want to say it, great! If you don’t, imagine describing it to friends, whether that’s in the silliest way possible, or to try to make it intriguing, or anything else. The beauty of the bullet point lists is you can switch between styles, and you’ll remember during editing why there’s inconsistency every few paragraphs. You can sand that off later; just get the words down.

Step 5: Editing

Throw out the outline. I mean, don’t actually throw it out, in case you need to figure out what you were talking about here or there. But try not to the various sections/segments/bullets as hard and fast rules; some of them will need to be broken up, and others smushed together more. Here’s where you look for the natural chapter breaks. You should also look for any missing scenes, or maybe places where a scene needs to be moved earlier or later. You’ll also, unfortunately, find things that just don’t need to be in the final draft. Save them in a different document, in case people want to see the outtakes later.

Congrats! If you get your novel all the way to this point, it’s ready to be sent to other people to look it over and help you polish it up!

Anyway, for people who like outlining, put all your planning in this part. For people who like figuring it out as they go along, only do the top level breakdown for any section you’re not currently writing; leave most of it blank until you get there.

I hope this helps you or someone write a novel!

-- submission by @zorilleerrant

Thank you so much for writing this!

#eggs for killie

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal.

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that.

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie.

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods.

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips.

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight.

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time.

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday.

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life.

And on Sundays?

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care.

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness.

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation.

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat.

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook.

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah.

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady.

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking.

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm."

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours.

Puts his basket down.

Stands too close.

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him.

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar?

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around.

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine.

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent?

That's... kind of pathetic, actually.

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About."

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense.

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely.

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield.

The same way you use sarcasm as one.

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is.

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster, "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything.

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you.

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman.

A widow.

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries.

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine.

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate.

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh.

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine.

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition.

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent.

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking.

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question.

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this.

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why?

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close.

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are.

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone.

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that.

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you.

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades.

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction.

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read.

Neither of you moves.

His eyes dart between both of your pupils.

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling.

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird.

This whole morning has been weird.

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it.

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces.

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets.

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb.

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face.

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned?

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes.

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side.

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker.

You don't ask. Not your business.

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall.

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?"

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what?

Surprise?

Interest?

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number.

Ah. Barnes & Noble.

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care.

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs.

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket.

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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cressidagrey · 9 months ago

Text

The Witching Hour - Chapter 2 - Cassian

Summary:

5 Times members of the Inner Circle get absolutely terrified by Azriel's...whatever she is, and 1 (of many) times Azriel thinks that his witch was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Warnings:

Nightmares, mention of murder, physical attack, slutshaming, threat of bodily harm, mention of imprisonment, light Cassian bashing, Azriel is a simp for his witch

(super pretty dividers by @cafekitsune)

Nesta's nightmares subsided.

Cassian wasn't sure why...wasn't sure what had been the cause, because it was like they disappeared utterly and completely in the blink of an eye.

Cassian, who had seen the toll that the nightmares had taken on Nesta, was both relieved and confused.

The nightmares, which had tormented her for so long, had vanished. And that puzzled him. He couldn't help but wonder what could have caused such a sudden and complete cessation.

He thought back to the days before the nightmares had stopped, trying to recall any changes or events that might have caused such an abrupt change…he came up empty. The days before had been fairly routine, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could have…

And then suddenly...they were gone. He was glad about it of course.

And as he drew the tips of his fingers down his mate's bare back...he was glad for her.

He traced the line of her spine, feeling the smoothness of her skin under his fingertips. Her back was bare, her hair spilling over her shoulders in a tangled mess from where he'd buried his hands into it earlier.

She was relaxed, her body loose and pliant, and the stress and tension that was usually present in her slowly bled away with each gentle caress.

"The nightmares...have lessened, haven't they?" He asked lightly.

She hummed in assent, her eyes closed as she relished the feeling of his hands on her body.

"Mmm," she murmured sleepily. "They have. I haven't had one in a few weeks now."

He continued to trace his fingers along her spine, feeling the subtle shift of her muscles as she breathed.

"That's good, sweetheart," he whispered pressing a kiss against her neck.

She let out a soft sigh of contentment as he kissed her neck, arching into his touch slightly."It is," she agreed quietly, her voice a sleepy murmur. "I feel...rested. More so than I have in months. I just hope the spell keeps working."

He froze his lips against the elegant column of her neck.

The spell? What spell?!

Cassian pulled back slightly, his hand still resting on her back, his mind churning.

Spell...did she say spell?

He couldn't remember Nesta mentioning a spell. Or anyone, for that matter. And yet...

"What spell?" he asked, his voice rough as he tried to control the hint of alarm that crept into it.

"The spell that's helping me with the nightmares," Nesta mumbled, her voice still sleepy and content. He stared at her, his heart clenching as the words sank in.

She had a spell? But…how? When? And why hadn't she told him?

"Nesta," he said, his voice tense as he tried to keep his concern in check. She hummed in response, her eyes still closed. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"When…did you cast a spell to help with the nightmares?" Cassian asked, forcing his voice to remain level.

"Oh," she mumbled, her eyelids fluttering open slightly as she processed his question.

"A few weeks ago," she said, her voice gaining a bit more clarity.

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as she spoke. A few weeks ago? Why hadn't she told him? Or any of the others for that matter?

"A few weeks..." he repeated slowly, his mind whirling.

"Yes," she said, her eyes now fully open, though her voice still held a hint of sleepy tiredness.

He swallowed, trying to keep his worry in check.

"And...who cast it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Azriel found me after a nightmare," Nesta said quietly. Azriel couldn't have cast a spell like that, that made no sense.

Cassian felt a new wave of confusion mixed with worry. If it hadn't been Azriel, then who had helped Nesta? And how did it have anything to do with the spells?

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his alarm in check as he continued to speak.

"Who," he began, his voice measured, "cast the spell then?"

Nesta's expression softened slightly, a hint of apology in her eyes as she looked at him.

"Azriel..Azriel brought me to see a friend of his. She's a witch"

There was only one witch Azriel was friendly with.

"Nesta, please tell me you didn't let Hecate cast a spell at you," he pleaded with his mate. He saw the way her shoulders tensed slightly at his words, her eyes shifting away from his gaze.

"Azriel said she could help," she said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "And it worked. I haven't had a nightmare since I went to see her. And Azriel calls her Cate," she added.

He felt a wave of disbelief crashing over him. Cate.

Azriel had taken his mate to see Cate.

The mere thought of it sent a chill down his spine.

"I am going to kill Az," he growled. He hadn't even known that Cate was still around. The last time he had heard about her had been a century ago.

But clearly, she had survived the war against Hybern with nary a scratch. Somehow it didn’t surprise him at all. Cate seemed to thrive where chaos was concerned.

Nesta rolled her eyes at his comment. "You most certainly are not," she said with a huff.

Cassian stared at her, torn between fear and irritation.

"And why not?!" he exclaimed, his hands tightening on her hips. "He let you go see Cate. Cauldron knows what kind of spell she laid on you."

"It was just to help with the nightmares," Nesta protested, shifting in his grip.

He held her tighter, not ready to let her go just yet. "And you just believed that? Azriel told you it was just for the nightmares, and you took his word?" Cassian questioned, the tension in his body ratcheting higher.

"I trust Azriel," she snapped. "It's a dreamcatcher spell. Something Care has cast on Azriel multiple times. You think Azriel would have let anything happen to me?!"

"It's Cate!" he retorted, his grip on her tightening even more.

How could she not see how dangerous this was? How could she trust Azriel's word so completely?

"Azriel's judgment when it comes to her is...compromised," he ground out, his voice tight with worry and irritation.

"Compromised?" she repeated, her eyebrows shooting up.

He scowled at her, his fear and frustration mounting.

"Yes, compromised," he snapped. "They have...history, and Azriel has...certain blind spots when it comes to her."

"They're friends," she said firmly, her eyes flashing with a familiar stubborn gleam.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. She was completely missing the point.

"That's putting it mildly," he retorted. "They're...they're... together, in a sense. Azriel would let her do damn near anything to him."

She rolled her eyes at his words. She didn't believe him. Didn't believe that Cate was a threat.

He let out a frustrated huff, pulling her closer to him, trying to get her to understand.

"Nesta," he said urgently, holding her gaze. "Cate is...she's dangerous. She has a reputation, and has for centuries. The spells she casts, the favours she asks for..."

"The only favour she asked for was from Azriel," Nesta snapped. "She did nothing but help me. And flirt outrageously with Az. Is this about her stabbing you? Are you holding a grudge?" She asked with a roll of her eyes.

He winced at her question. The memory of being stabbed by Cate was still a sore spot for him.

"Yes, it may have something to do with her stabbing me!" he exclaimed. "She is a dangerous witch, Nesta. She should not be trifled with. You went to her, let her cast a spell on you, and now you're….you're fine with it?"

"I am fine with it," she said firmly, her chin lifting in defiance.

His frustration grew even more at her stubborn stance. She didn't seem to be grasping the gravity of the situation.

"You're fine with it now," Cassian hissed through gritted teeth. "What about later? What if that spell has lingering effects, or if Cate decides she wants something from you in return? Did that ever cross your mind?"

"If it does, I'll deal with it," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand

He wanted to shake Nesta, to make her understand.

"You will deal with it?" he repeated, his voice rising in anger. "How exactly will you deal with it, Nesta? What if the spell backfires, or she wants something that you can't give? She is a powerful witch. You shouldn't have even gone near her in the first place!"

Nesta opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off, his voice low and intense.

"No, don't even try to defend it," he said, his eyes blazing with anger. "You let Azriel take you to see Cate. You let her cast a spell on you. And you didn't even tell any of us about it until now."

He paused, taking in a deep, frustrated breath.

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been? How worried we all have been about your nightmares?"

"I was fine!" she protested, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

He gritted his teeth, his hold on her hips tightening.

"No, you weren't fine," he snapped back. "You were having nightmares that were tormenting you. I heard you in your sleep. I saw how tired and drained you were during the day. You were not fine."

Her expression softened slightly at his words, some of the defiance leaving her eyes. "I'm fine now," she said weakly, her voice losing some of its conviction.

He let out a scoff, his grip on her still firm.

"Now that you've let Cate cast a spell on you, you're fine," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That doesn't mean it will always be that way. Spells can have consequences. Side effects. Did you even ask her about that?"

"Nesta," he said, his voice softer but still tinged with irritation. "You should have told us. You should have told me. We could have figured something out together. We could have found a solution that didn't involve going to that witch."

"She said the only consequence would be a headache."

Cassian clenched his jaw at her words. A headache. That's it.

"A headache," he repeated, his voice flat. "And you believed her?!"

"Why wouldn't I?" she snapped, her eyes glittering in annoyance. "She helped me. She cast a spell and now I'm not having nightmares anymore. Why would she lie about it?"

He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head.

"Because that's what Cate does," he said, his voice taut. That’s what she had always done. Cate manipulated everybody around her to her liking. "She lies. She manipulates. She twists favours and spells to her liking. You can't trust her, Nesta."

"Well, I did, and it worked," she retorted.

His anger flared at her words. How could she be so blind to the danger she had put herself in?

"It worked, for now," he shot back. "What about later? What if she decides she wants something from you? What if the spell has consequences down the line?"

"I'll deal with it," Nesta repeated.

He felt his patience reach its breaking point.

"You keep saying that!" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "You'll deal with it. You'll figure it out. But you can't. Not with Cate. She's playing games, and you're playing right into her hands."

"So you think Azriel would risk me like that?" Nesta asked icily. "You think your brother would do that? Maybe you should trust his judgment!"

Her question struck a nerve, and he felt his irritation spike even higher.

"Trust his judgement?!" he exclaimed, his control slipping further. "When it comes to Cate, his judgement is more than a bit impaired."

"He's smart, Cassian," she shot back, her stubbornness showing. "He wouldn't let her do anything to hurt me."

He bit back a scoff, his anger continuing to grow.

"You're underestimating how blind he can be when it comes to her," he said through clenched teeth. "He was practically obsessed with her hundreds of years ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he still is."

He was going to fucking kill Azriel. Probably after he killed Cate.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, as he got out of bed.

He was seething, his anger and fear swirling together into a roiling mass inside him. Azriek...he'd deal with her too.

But first, he needed to find Cate and give her a piece of his mind.

"Cassian, where are you going?" Nesta asked, watching him as he moved off the bed.

"I'm going to find Cate," he said through clenched teeth, his voice hard as steel.

Nesta's eyes widened, surprise flashing in her expression.

"You're...what?" she asked, her voice tinged with alarm.

He stomped from that room. He was going witch hunting.

He was seething with anger as he stormed out of the room, a mixture of worry and fury driving him forward.

Cassian stalked through the house, his steps heavy and purposeful, his mind focused on one thing - finding Cate.

She still had the same apartment she had centuries ago. He stood in front of her apartment, his anger still seething within him.

The wards that surrounded the place felt all too familiar, and just as deadly as they had been centuries ago. But he wouldn't let them stop him, not when he was this riled up.

Cassian slammed his fist against the door, the force of his blow reverberating through the solid wood.

He waited, his patience already at its limit.

After a few moments, he heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door, followed by the sound of several locks being released one after the other.

Finally, with a creak, the door slowly opened to reveal Cate.

There she was, standing in the doorway, looking at him with a mix of surprise and annoyance. Her green eyes sparkled in the dim light of the hallway, and her full lips curled into a smirk.

"Well, well," she drawled, her voice as sharp as a blade. "If it isn't Cassian. I should have known you would show up eventually." His anger flared at her mocking tone, and he had to bite back a string of curses.

"You knew I would come," Cassian said through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on her. "You knew, and you still did it anyway."

She leaned against the doorframe, the smirk still on her face.

"I had a feeling you'd eventually figure it out," Cate said with a shrug. "And here you are. Ready to yell at me, I assume?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to yell at you," he replied curtly, his voice a low growl. "You put a spell on my mate. You let her believe it was just for nightmares, but I know better. You're up to something, and I want answers."

She raised an eyebrow at his words, her expression unimpressed.

"Always so quick to assumptions, Cassian," Cate said coolly. "You always were one to jump to conclusions. You don't know as much as you think you do."

His blood boiled at her careless attitude, and he took a step forward, his muscles tense.

"Is that so? Then why don't you enlighten me?" Cassian said, his voice laced with anger. "Why don't you tell me why I shouldn't strangle you right here, right now?"

Cate chuckled at his words, her smirk widening.

"You're welcome to try, General," she purred, her chin lifting in a challenging manner. "But you and I both know it won't end well for you."

He clenched his fists at his sides, the urge to strangle her almost overwhelming. But he knew she was right. She was a powerful witch, and he was well aware of the fact that he couldn't match her magic. By the time he had drawn his sword, she could have already turned him into a slug.

"You're enjoying this," he gritted out, his jaw tight. "You're loving every moment of this."

"Of course I am," Cate admitted with a shrug. "Your temper has always been a source of great amusement to me. I do love seeing you all riled up, ready to go charging into danger. Such a predictable male."

Her words cut through him like a knife, and he had to take a deep breath to avoid letting his anger get the better of him.

"You're enjoying playing games with people's lives," Cassian shot back, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "You knew what you were doing when you cast that spell on my mate. And you still did it anyway."

"I did her a favour," she said drily. "Every action has its consequences, General. You should know that better than most. What did you think were the consequences of imprisoning your mate in the House of Wind? Of making her Rhysand's little soldier?"

Her words hit him like a blow, and he felt the air get caught in his throat.

"Don't you dare bring that up," he warned, his voice almost a whisper. "Don't you dare act like you know what happened between me and my mate. You have no idea-"

She interrupted him with a scoff, her smirk growing even wider.

"Oh, I have plenty of ideas," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I can see it in your eyes, General.

The guilt, the regret. The knowledge that you made more than a few mistakes.

"Your mate is the one paying the prize for your actions. All I did was help her. I took the weight of the nightmares from her. That's all I did."

"You took the weight of the nightmares from her, but what else did you take in the process?" he shot back, his voice rising in anger. "What other consequences did you leave unmentioned? What other costs is she going to have to pay down the line?"

Cate rolled her eyes at his questions, her smirk still in place.

"Oh, spare me the dramatics, General," Cate drawled. "You act like I made her a sacrifice to the Cauldron or something. It was a simple dreamcatcher spell, nothing more."

His anger flared again at her flippant attitude, and he had to clench his jaw to keep himself from exploding.

"A dreamcatcher spell?" Cassian repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that all it is? Just a simple little spell, huh?"

"Indeed it is," Cate confirmed with a shrug. "No lasting consequences, I assure you. The nightmares are gone, and your mate should get a peaceful rest for a good while."

His hands itched to strangle her, the casual way she spoke about his mate's mental well-being driving him insane.

"And that's it?" he asked, his voice tight. "There's no price to pay for this 'simple little spell'? No cost?"

"No price you pay at any rate," Cate said, a grin on her face.

His eyes narrowed with suspicion at her words.

"What does that mean?" Cassian growled, taking another step closer to her.

Her smile widened, the gleam in her eyes almost predatory.

"Oh, General, you're so easy to read," she taunted, her voice low. "You always were. You wear your emotions on your sleeve like a damn fool."He bristled at her words, his hands clenching into fists.

"Cut to the point," Cassian grit out. "What do you mean there's no price we have to pay?"

"Exactly that," she repeated.

He let out a frustrated huff, his patience wearing thin.

"Don't play coy with me," Cassian snarled. "What is the catch? There's always a catch with you."

Her smirk turned even more arrogant, her tone still dripping with mockery.

"Is it so hard to believe that I would do something selflessly? Out of the goodness of my heart? You always think I have some ulterior motive. It's quite insulting, really."

He sneered at Cate’s words, his anger making him fearless.

"You? Selfless?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Yeah, right. You've never done anything that didn't benefit yourself in some way. Never."

She let out a scoff, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"You have such a low opinion of me, don't you?" Cate said, her voice cool. "It's almost endearing, how you don't trust me at all. Not that I'm surprised, of course. You've never believed in my good intentions -"

He cut her off with an angry scoff. "Good intentions?" he repeated, his voice rising in volume. Her only intentions seemed to cause Chaos. He had lost count of how many different things she had her grubby little hands throughout the centuries…how often she had decided to twist fate around her little finger.

"You expect me to believe that you had good intentions when you cast a spell on my mate without my permission? That you were being selfless and not scheming something?"

She rolled her eyes again, clearly becoming more irritated.

"You have no idea how much I helped your mate," she said with a huff. "That girl was tired and drained to the bone. She could barely function. I did you both a favour by taking away her nightmares. That's all there is to it, General. Besides, she doesn't need your permission."

He clenched his jaw, his anger turning almost painful.

"You had no right," he bit out, his voice taut with fury. "No right to touch her, to cast a spell on her, without my knowing. She's my mate, not yours. I was supposed to protect her, and you interfered with that."

Cassian wasn't sure what possessed him. It was fundamentally stupid, to attack her in her own apartment, where the wards listened to her. And still, he reached to throttle her.

He lunged for her, propelled by his anger and frustration.

But just as his hands were about to close around her throat, a blast of magic hit him square in the chest, sending him flying back.

Cassian hit the wall with a thud, the air getting knocked out of his lungs. He cursed, pain coursing through him as he slumped down to the ground.

"Do. Not. Put. Your. Hands. On. Me." Cate hissed.

"What exactly is going on here?" Came the icy voice of his brother. Bare chested, barefoot...clearly coming from bed That godforsaken jaguar at his side.

Cate had stabbed him and that stupid jaguar had taken a bite out of him. He had forgotten neither.

Cassian looked up to see Azriel standing in the doorway, the shadowsinger's eyes fixed on him with a hint of irritation.

The jaguar at his side growled low in its throat, its eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Azriel," he grunted as he pulled himself up, his body still aching from the blast of magic. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he responded, his voice harsh.

"I'm here to deal with this scheming witch," he bit out, his anger still burning within him as he gestured towards Cate. Azriel glanced at the witch in question, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"That scheming witch has a name," Cate shot back. "You are supposed to sleep, Azriel," she said quietly, but Azriel just shrugged, still glaring at Cassian.

"What exactly is your problem?" Azriel asked him.

"My problem?" Cassian repeated, his voice still charged with anger. "My problem is that this meddling witch decided to mess with my mate without my knowledge."

"I was helping her," Cate cut in, her voice sharp. "More than you have in months."

He turned to glare at her, his anger once more reaching boiling point.

"I don't want your help," he spat. "You had no right to cast that spell on her. No right!"

"I had every right," Cate shot back, her own anger flaring. "That girl was a mess, and you were blind to it! You were ignoring her struggles, letting her suffer in silence. Someone had to step in."

"I was handling it!" he argued, his voice rising. "My mate is my responsibility, not yours. I was the one who was supposed to protect and care for her, not you!"

"And that worked so well, didn't it?" Cate said, her voice like a whip. "She was drowning under the weight of her nightmares, and you were doing nothing to help her. You call that protecting her?"

"Cate helped Nesta as a Favour to me," Azriel said evenly.

He spun to frown at his brother.

"A favour? What kind of favour?" he asked, suspicion in his voice.

Azriel walked closer to them, his footsteps almost silent. He looked exhausted, the muscles in his bare chest still tense. The jaguar followed him, its tail sweeping the ground.

"A favour," Azriel repeated, his tone flat. "I asked her to help Nesta."

"You what?" he asked, shock and anger warring in his gut. "You asked her to help my mate? Without telling me?"

Azriel let out an exasperated huff, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, I asked her. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd overreact. And lo and behold, here you are, overreacting."

He felt his fury rise at Azriel's nonchalant reply.

"Overreacting?" he spluttered, his voice rising in disbelief. "You're calling this overreacting? You asked this scheming witch to mess with my mate, and you think I'm overreacting?"

"I didn't ask her to 'mess' with your mate," Azriel said impatiently, his own irritation evident in his voice. "I asked her to help, plain and simple. It's not like I didn't have a reason, Cassian. Nesta needed help, and you were clearly not providing it."

Cassian clenched his fists, his anger flaring even higher. "And you thought Cate was the right person to help her? You know how she operates. You know how she is. You trusted her to help my mate?"

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I do know how she is. Which is why I trust her."

He let out a bark of incredulous laughter at that response.

"You trust her?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You actually trust her? After everything she's done? After everything she's messed with over the centuries, you trust her?"

And Cate had done a lot. Not many people had her kind reputation...the kind born out of fear and respect... Hecate The Undying. She was a ghost story. And she had meddled in politics over centuries and had changed the history of Prythian more than once.

His eyes flicked to Cate, who was watching the argument with an amused expression on her face. She gave him a sly smile, aware of his inner turmoil.

"You're out of your mind," he told Azriel, his voice tight. "How can you possibly trust her? She's a master of manipulation and deception. She thrives on chaos and disaster."

"Aww," Cate cooed. "It's so cute that you think you know me."

He turned to glare at her, his jaw clenching.

"I know enough," Cassian bit out, his voice harsh. "I know enough to be wary of you. You're dangerous, Cate. You're untrustworthy. You're a scheming, conniving whore -"

"Enough," Azriel bit out.

"And you -" Cassian rounded on Azriel. He spun to face his brother, his anger boiling over.

"You," he snapped. "How could you do this? How could you betray me like this? Asking Cate to help my mate without telling me. Behind my back. You KNEW how I felt about her, and you still went ahead and did it!"

"How much of an idiot can you be, Azriel? I hope to gods, her cunt is worth it," he sneered. "Don't come crying to me when cuts off your manhood for waking up on the wrong side of the bed."

Azriel's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing.

"Watch your mouth, Cassian," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't know anything about my relationship with Cate, so don't presume to make assumptions. And as to my manhood, I'll have you know that she's far too fond of it to take it away from me."

He felt his own anger spike at Azriel's dismissive tone.

"Fond of it, huh?" he retorted, his voice sharp. "Fond enough to keep you in line, clearly. Gods, you're so blind, brother. You think she really cares about you? About anyone? She's using you, can't you see that?"

"She doesn't care about anyone but herself," he continued, his voice growing more impassioned. "And the second she gets bored with you, she'll toss you aside like a toy she no longer has any use for. You're just another gullible male, fooled by her charm and wits."

Bright green sparks of magic hit him, at that moment. Cassian could nearly taste her magic. Cate was cast in an eery glow.

He stumbled back a few steps, the magic from the woman hitting him like a blow. The room seemed to grow darker, all his senses tingling. It was a potent, overwhelming magic - ancient and primal, like thunder and storms.

"Enough, Cate," he heard Azriel say softly, but Cate's eyes were fixed on him, a strange intensity in her gaze.

"Out." One word, laden with power. "And do not come back."

The power in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Cassian found himself backing away, the anger draining from him and being replaced with a sense of utter fear. It was an unfamiliar feeling, to be so utterly powerless in the face of a woman's anger.

"Cate..." he began, but the look in her eyes silenced him instantly. He turned to face his brother, but Azriel refused to meet his gaze.

Azriel was watching the witch, and the look on his face was...reverent. Awed.

"Go calm down, Cassian. it's only a dreamcatcher spell. Nothing else. I vow on that for my life."

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #my writing #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #The Witching Hour

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vorestarr · 1 year ago

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ascended astarion and vampire spouses

so I've been reading the dnd 2e manual "Van Richten's Guide to Vampires" for fic/game inspiration, and there's this really interesting chapter on vampire brides and grooms. after reading it, it's very clear to me that Astarion didn't turn Tav into a typical spawn, but into a vampire spouse, which are two very different rituals with very different outcomes.

the typical vampire spawn creation process is exactly what Astarion describes happening to him: a painful death, a painful rebirth into undeath, fighting his way out of his own coffin, and Cazador's complete control over him. this is described pretty clearly in the guide to vampires:

According to most related tales, a vampire can create another simply by killing a mortal either with its life-energy draining power (draining all the character's experience leveIs) or by exhausting the mortal of his or her blood supply. If the victim's body is not properly destroyed, it arises as a vampire, under the control of the creature who killed it, on the second night following the burial. [...] Most vampires remember the instant of their death and the nature of their killer, and understand immediately their new nature. Certainly their new hunger gives them a good idea of what they have become. They must immediately free themselves from their grave. either by breaking it open from within or by assuming gaseous form and diffusing out.

so that's definitely what happened to Astarion, but that's not what happens to Tav. after ascended Astarion turns Tav into a vampire, they can ask him what happened, and he describes the following:

Astarion: You are so beautiful... And you will be beautiful forever. Thank you for trusting me. Player: What exactly happened? Astarion: You were drained dry, and at the height of your delirium, I granted you one drop of my own blood. Things will be a touch different for you than they were for me when I was a spawn. I'm imbibed with unfathomable new talents. I am fairly certain I can extend Mephistopheles' blessings unto you. Player: Does that mean I need not fear the sun? Astarion: You need not fear anything. You will be stronger, swifter, sharper, but you won't be different. You were already perfect before. It's hard to improve.

for reference, this is how the guide to vampires describes the ritual for vampire spouses:

To actually create the bride, the vampire bestows what is known as the "Dark Kiss". lt samples the blood of its mortal paramour—once, twice, thrice—draining her almost to the point of death. This process causes the subject no pain; in fact, it has been described as the most euphoric, ecstatic experience, in comparison to which all ether pleasures fade into insignificance. Just as the subject is about to slip into the terminal coma from which there is no awakening, the vampire opens a gash in its own flesh—often in its throat—and holds the subject's mouth to the wound, As the burning draught that is the vampire’s blood gushes into the subject's mouth, the primitive feeding instinct is triggered, and she sucks hungrily at the wound, enraptured. With the first taste of the blood, the subject is possessed of great and frenzied strength (Str 18, if the character’s Str isn't already higher), and will use it to prevent the vampire from separating her from the fountain of wonder that is its bleeding wound. lt is at this point that the creator-vampire's strength is most sorely tested. He is weakened by his own blood loss, and also by his own rapture as the "victim" of a dark kiss. Overcoming the sudden loss of strength and the inclinations of lust, the vampire must pull her away from its own throat, hopefully without harming her, before she has overfed. Should the subject be allowed to feed for too long (more than 2 rounds), she is driven totally and incurably insane, and will die in agony within 24 hours. Once the subject has stopped feeding, she falls into a coma that lasts minutes or hours (2dl2 turns), at the end of which time she dies. Several (1 d3) hours later, she arises as a Fledgling vampire—and her creator's bride.

this to me sounds like what Astarion describes. he drains Tav almost dry, and at the very last moment, gives them a single drop of his blood. (also interesting reading this guide, the single drop avoids the problem of the vampire spouse being driven ravenous with hunger for the vampire creator's blood and attacking them. did Astarion know this and give them one drop on purpose to avoid that and Tav potentially being driven mad by it? or was he being selfish and this is just a nice but unanticipated outcome?)

i kept reading and there's a lot more interesting information about vampire spouses, but the most interesting thing I found related to the game was this:

Although there are some folk tales that describe the bride of a vampire as its slave, in much the same way that offspring are slaves, a bride is free-willed from the moment of her creation. The creator vampire does have great influence over the bride. however although this control is totally nonmagical. When a vampire is created in the traditional manner—that is, when a victim's life energy is completely drained away—the new fledgling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses* and needs. Not so the bride.

so basically, the vampire spouse is not tied to the vampire creator in the same way as a spawn (i.e., not able to be fully controlled) but is still extremely reliant on the vampire creator to teach them how to live as a vampire. the guide goes on to describe that some vampire creators may lie to their vampire spouse about the control or powers they have, in order to exert more control over them.

interestingly, if you ask Astarion if he can compel you the way Cazador compelled him, he doesn't give a straight answer, he just says this:

Player: Cazador could compel you - can you compel me? Astarion: Why would I need to? You're going to be wonderfully obedient.

to me, all of this says that Astarion was telling the truth when he told Tav that they would be different from him as a spawn, and also in emphasizing that they are not a spawn but a consort. he didn't create a spawn, he created a vampire spouse. he married Tav, and because of this Tav also retains their free will.

of course, Astarion doesn't say this. if he knows, he withholds this information in much the way that this guide describes, as a way for the creator to maintain more control over their spouse. but still, extremely interesting implications for the ascended Astarion romance, imo.

other interesting facts about vampire spouses from the guide to vampires:

the married couple has telepathic communication that can span miles -- so Tav and Astarion can potentially have a telepathic bond even after the tadpoles are gone. (another note, this communication has to be consensual both ways for it to work, so you can't just dig around someone's mind if they don't want it.)

the vampire creator is extremely jealous and possessive. (yeah lol)

their life forces are linked, so one suffering a great deal is felt by the other.

the bond can be broken, but the ritual to do so has to be initiated by the creator. to break it, they both spill their blood on the ground and allow it to mix. this dissolves all aspects of the bond (i.e., telepathy and linked life forces), but the spouse stays a vampire.

#forgive me if this is already posted somewhere #i went looking for a post like this but tumblr's search system is so abysmal i couldn't find anything #so i'm just posting for my own reference and then tagging it for others in case :)#astarion #ascended astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #for reference #meta #baldur's gate 3

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briefinquiries · 2 months ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 15

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 15

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Campbell's final plans for you take a brutal turn, pushing you past the edge of suffering and pain, but a last-ditch effort from Tommy leads them closer to finding you before it's too late.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

The darkness was thick, heavy, and suffocating all at once.

Time had blurred. Minutes had turned into hours, which turned into days. You had no idea how many.

All you knew was the ache deep in your bones, the fire in your ribs every time you breathed too deep.

The cold from the stone floor had seeped into your skin, into your veins, leaving you shaking despite the fever you were fairly sure was burning beneath your skin.

Your wrists throbbed from the cuffs, your head pounded relentlessly, and every inch of you ached, bruised and raw.

Your body ached. Your head pounded. Your resolve was slipping.

But worse than the pain was the waiting.

The silence.

The moments in between when Campbell wasn’t there– when you were left alone with your own thoughts.

What if Tommy wasn’t coming at all?

You tried to push the thought away– tried to hold onto something, anything. But the longer you sat in the dark, the more your grip began to slip.

The exhaustion was too deep now, sinking into your bones. Your head lulled slightly to the side, the weight of it too much to hold up.

The bruises, the cuts, the ache deep in your ribs– it all blended together. Pain had been a constant companion for days now, so much so that it felt like a part of you. Like breathing. Like blinking.

You could barely tell where one wound ended and another began.

Your thoughts blurred. Memories twisted. The shadows in the corners of the room moved if you looked at them too long. The cold stone beneath you began to feel softer, warmer. Your lashes fluttered, too heavy.

If you just closed your eyes for a moment…

Just a moment.

The dark wasn’t so bad.

It was quiet here. It pressed down on you, seeping into your skin, curling around your ribs like a vice. The air was thick– too thick. Damp. Heavy with something bitter, metallic.

Smoke?

Your vision was swimming, the blurred edges of the room warping into something else entirely. Dirt. Packed thick beneath your fingernails. Filling your nose, your mouth. The damp walls of the cellar blurred, shifted– it became stone. Then it became the earth.

Somewhere, in the distance, you heard the muffled crack of an explosion. The ground beneath you shuddered, and for a moment, your breath hitched as panic clawed up your throat.

No, not here. Not again.

Your fingers twitched against your restraints, but the movement only sent a sharp, splintering pain up your arms. You barely registered it. Your mind was already slipping further, dragging you back.

Back to the war.

Back to the moment everything collapsed.

The tunnel shook violently, a deep, shuddering roar of earth breaking apart. Someone screamed, sharp, panicked, before it was swallowed by the dust.

You were thrown against the dirt wall, your ears ringing so loud the world became muffled. Your lungs burned, choking on the thick air, dust coating the inside of your throat.

Move. Get up. Get to them.

Your body responded before your mind caught up, your hands blindly searching through the darkness, the only source of light now a dim, flickering lantern hanging from a bent nail in the wooden beams overhead.

Men were buried.

Buried alive.

You could hear the groans, the coughing, the desperate scraping of fingers against dirt. But one voice cut through it all.

Sharp. Ragged.

“Get the fuck off me–”

Your stomach lurched as you stumbled toward the sound.

And then you saw him.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Thomas Shelby laid, pinned beneath a collapsed beam, his face half-covered in blood and dirt. His breaths were ragged, sharp, labored.

A different kind of panic surged through you.

You dropped to your knees, hands immediately pressing against his shoulder, assessing the damage. “You’re alright,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Just hold still.”

Tommy let out a rough, breathless laugh. “Not sure I’d call this alright, love,” he had said.

Your fingers trembled as they ghosted over his side, pressing against the warmth of blood soaking through his uniform. You forced yourself to focus.

The tunnel was still shifting, the wooden supports creaking under the pressure, dirt spilling from the cracks above. You didn’t have time.

A sharp snap jolted through the air– another support beam groaning, giving way.

You grabbed the front of Tommy’s uniform and shook him. “We have to move. Now.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up, but the pain hit him fast. His body tensed, his jaw locking, his breath coming too sharp.

Your hands pressed against his ribs, trying to still him. "You're bleeding."

He let out a low huff, the ghost of a smirk curling at the edge of his lips despite the blood smeared there. “Well, you’re the nurse.”

The tunnel groaned again.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t think. You just moved. Hooking your hands under his arm, you heaved, ignoring the burning in your muscles, the way the earth beneath you shook as more dirt rained down.

Tommy let out a strangled groan, his body half-collapsing against you as you pulled him free.

And then, a deafening crack. The lantern snapped from its post, shattering against the ground. The sounds of earth groaning, collapsing. The shouts of men, frantic and panicked. The crushing weight of dirt swallowing everything whole. And the tunnel went dark.

Suddenly, you felt a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek.

Your breath hitched, your body tensing on instinct, but your limbs were too weak to react. The pain in your ribs burned, sharp and unrelenting, as your vision swam back into the dimly lit room. Not in France.

Campbell loomed above you, his lips curling into something cold. “Still with me?” he murmured, tilting his head.

You blinked slowly, your mind still half-stuck somewhere else, the sound of collapsing dirt still echoing in your ears.

Campbell hummed, brushing his fingers against his coat. “Thought I lost you there for a moment.”

Your stomach churned. Because for a brief second, you wished he had.

Your body felt like it was failing. Not just from the beatings, not just from the bruises blooming beneath your skin like storm clouds. Something deeper. Hot. Burning.

Every breath hurt. A dull, twisting agony settled in your ribs, making it harder and harder to fill your lungs. Campbell was still speaking, still taunting, but his voice was distant, warped like sound traveling through water.

Your head lolled slightly against the back of the chair, your vision flickering at the edges.

A fever. Possibly an infection.

Campbell sighed, stepping closer, his shadow stretching across the dimly lit room. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, feigning concern. “You don’t look well.”

You forced yourself to swallow, but even that made your throat ache.

He crouched slightly, examining you like an animal on display. “You can feel it, can’t you?” His voice dipped lower. “The way your body is starting to shut down?”

Your stomach twisted, nausea rolling in sharp waves. You clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t answer him.

Campbell hummed, as if your silence only amused him further. “I have to say, you lasted longer than I expected. I’ll give you that.” He straightened, adjusting his coat.

Campbell let out a soft tsk. “And here I thought we had more time together.” He leaned down, his voice dropping into something mockingly gentle.

A sharp wave of dizziness crashed over you. The room tilted. Your ribs screamed in protest as your body lurched, a strangled sound escaping your throat as you gasped for air.

Campbell smirked. “Oh, my dear,” he sighed, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound good at all.”

He tapped two fingers against your bruised cheek, his touch mocking, cruel. “What do you think? A few more hours? Another day? What will give out first?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with delight. “Your body or your mind?”

Campbell sighed, as if bored. “Not much left in you now, is there?” His fingers drifted to your pulse point, pressing just enough to feel the weak, rapid flutter beneath your skin. “I wonder how much longer this little heart of yours will keep going before it just–”

Suddenly, a sharp thud echoed from outside the door, causing Campbell to still.

His head tilted slightly toward the sound. Another noise. A shuffle of boots. A low murmur.

Campbell exhaled through his nose, straightening his coat as he stepped away from you. His eyes flickered toward his men– two of them, positioned near the walls.

One of them, a burly man with a scar splitting his lip, turned toward the door, brows furrowing. “You expecting someone, sir?”

Campbell shook his head. “No. Go look.”

The two men near the wall exchanged a look before nodding, moving toward the door with practiced caution.

The cold air rushed in as one of them cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor beyond. You could hear the faint shuffle of movement outside, something just out of reach, something not quite right. They slipped through the door, their shadows stretching long against the floor.

A long, tense silence followed. But it was quickly interrupted by a gunshot– sharp, violent, deafening.

Your sluggish, fevered mind barely processed it before another one followed.

Then another. Closer this time. Shouts erupted from the corridor– panicked, frantic, then cut short.

Campbell’s entire posture stiffened. His gaze flicked toward the door, then to you, calculation spinning behind his eyes.

Then, he moved.

Before you could react, before your battered body could even try to resist, his hand fisted in the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in your ribs, your legs buckling under the weight of your own body as Campbell hauled you out of the chair.

A sharp, metallic click rang in your ears, the sound of a revolver being cocked. And then, the cold, unmistakable press of steel against your ribs.

He barely let you find your footing before dragging you toward the back entrance.

“Change of plans,” he muttered, voice tight with something dark. “Walk,” he ordered, his grip tightening, the barrel of the gun digging harder into your side.

Your boots scraped against the floor, legs barely cooperating as he kept moving, his grip unyielding, brutal.

Your vision swam, the fever weighing you down like molten iron, but you understood.

He wasn’t going to let you be found.

He was taking you with him.

The hallway was long and dimly lit, the flickering light from an overhead bulb casting warped shadows against the damp, crumbling walls.

Campbell dragged you forward, his grip iron-tight, fingers digging painfully into your upper arm as he pulled you through the corridor. Your legs barely cooperated, heavy and sluggish beneath you, the fever turning your body into something unresponsive, something weak.

You stumbled, your boots scuffing against the floor again. He let out a sharp snarl of frustration.

“Keep up,” he snapped, jerking you forward so hard your vision blurred.

You tried– tried to force your feet to move faster, tried to keep pace, but your body wasn’t working the way it should, your ribs screaming with every step.

You tripped again, your knees nearly buckling. Campbell let out a curse and yanked you forward.

“Useless,” he hissed. “Absolutely fucking useless.”

Before you could brace for it, he shoved open the back door, the damp night air crashing into you like a wave of ice.

The alley beyond the mill was narrow and dark, the air thick with the smell of wet brick and sewage. The second your boots hit the pavement, your legs gave out. Your body collapsed to the ground, hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. You barely had time to breathe before Campbell’s rage erupted.

“Get up!” he bellowed, his voice sharp, enraged, echoing off the alley walls.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arms trembled violently beneath you, the fever and exhaustion dragging you down.

A shadow loomed over you. Then, a hand fisting in the back of your shirt. He yanked you up with brutal force, your body jerking limply in his grip. The sudden motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you, the fever making your vision swim.

And then– a blinding, shattering pain as Campbell slammed your entire body against the back alley wall. Before you could brace yourself, your head snapped whipped to the side, colliding with stone.

A sharp crack echoed in the side of your skull, white-hot agony splintering through your mind. Your body seized, the impact sending a violent shockwave through you. For a moment, everything flickered. The world blurred, warped, then tilted sideways.

Your ears rang. The taste of copper flooded your mouth. Somewhere in the distance, Campbell was saying something. Laughing. Mocking. But you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even tell if you were still upright or if you’d already started to collapse.

A slow, creeping warmth trickled down your temple, thick and wet– blood.

Campbell was on top of you before you could even react, his weight pressing you down into the pavement. The fear was worse than the pain.

“Ah,” Campbell murmured, his breath hot against your face, his hand pinning your shoulder down hard. “So this is how you want to play it?”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, panic clawing at your throat. And your head– God, there was a brutal, relentless pounding throbbed at the base of your skull, each pulse like a hammer driving nails into your brain.

The nausea curled hot and sour in your stomach, your vision tilting, shifting, like the ground itself was unstable beneath you.

He let out a low, breathy chuckle, shifting his weight deliberately against you.

“You always were stubborn,” he murmured, voice mockingly soft as he pressed you further into the ground.

Then, his other hand moved. Lower. Fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And then– a sharp, violent tear. The sound ripped through the night, a shock of cold air hitting your skin as the fabric split beneath his grasp. You struggled, grasping at the ground, your body desperately trying to fight back, but he was too strong.

His knees caged you in, his weight an immovable force. The smell of whiskey and sweat and gunpowder filled your nose.

And then– you felt him. Hard. Pressing against you.

Your lungs seized. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

No.

A wave of sickening nausea rolled through you, worse than the fever, worse than the pain. It was raw, visceral, a deep, twisting horror in your gut. Panic exploded in your chest, clawing at your ribs, making your breath come in short, desperate gasps.

You thrashed– screamed. But exhaustion and sickness kept you pinned.

Campbell just laughed. His weight shifted, his hips pressing harder against you, grinding down just enough for you to feel the shape of him through his trousers.

Your stomach turned.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, his fingers dragging slowly, deliberately over exposed skin. “You should’ve learned by now, I like it when you struggle.”

A choked sob caught in your throat. “Get off of me!” you screamed, with everything you had left.

Campbell leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Fight all you want,” he murmured, grinding his hips against yours again, pressing you further into the ground. “No one is coming for you.”

Your body betrayed you, freezing, seizing up. Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs, a wild, erratic drumbeat of terror and helplessness, but you couldn't move. Your vision blurred, spots of darkness creeping into the edges.

You wished for it.

For death.

For an end.

Because this– this was worse. Because this was the moment that would break you.

And if Tommy really wasn’t coming, if no one was coming–

You didn’t want to survive it.

As Campbell’s hands pressed harder, as his hot breath ghosted against your throat, as he ground his body against yours– for the first time since the war, you prayed.

Not for rescue.

Not for mercy.

For the darkness to take you before he could.

But fate had other plans.

Because the gunshot rang out before the darkness could take you– A brutal, deafening crack ripped through the night.

Campbell’s entire body jerked violently.

Blood splattered warm across your face.

The force of the bullet sent him reeling, his body twisting as he collapsed onto the ground beside you, his weight finally off you.

You sucked in a ragged breath, chest heaving, trying to scramble away, but your body barely cooperated. Your ribs screamed in protest, your vision swam, and you barely managed to drag yourself back a few inches, your torn clothes hanging off your trembling frame.

Your breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, panic coiling tight in your gut.

John Shelby stood at the edge of the alley, gun still raised, his chest rising and falling sharply.

“I got him!” he yelled back toward the street, voice urgent, shaken. “I fucking got him!”

Then, John’s eyes landed on you, and his expression shifted into a look of pure horror.

Before you could react, Campbell let out a wet, guttural wheeze. He was still alive. He lay on his back beside you, blood pooling beneath him, his lips parting as he sputtered, a faint, broken chuckle escaping through the pain.

Your body shook, too weak to move further, too weak to do anything but stare. Your head throbbed violently, the relentless pounding deep in your skull making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Warmth trickled down your face, sticky and thick, pooling at your brow, slipping into your lashes. Blood.

Yours. His.

You couldn’t tell whose was whose at this point. But it blurred your vision, staining everything red, the world twisting in and out of focus.

Campbell gurgled beside you, sputtering, his own life spilling out onto the ground.

And then– you vaguely heard another pair of footsteps. Your vision swam as you tried to process what was happening.

But Tommy moved past you without a word, his boots splashing through Campbell’s blood. And then– he was on him. Tommy dropped to his knees, straddling Campbell’s chest, and the first punch landed hard.

A sickening crack. Then another. And another.

Campbell’s head jerked violently with every hit, his body already too weak to resist, but Tommy didn’t stop.

His knuckles split, blood smearing across his skin, but the pain didn’t register. Only rage. Only vengeance.

Punch after brutal punch, his body moving with sheer force, years of fury and hatred pouring into every single blow. Campbell coughed, his chest rattling, but the laughter was gone now.

Tommy didn’t stop– he didn’t hear the voices shouting behind him.

Just like you didn’t hear John moving toward you. Not until you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder.

The instant his touch met your skin, you flinched violently, every nerve in your body igniting with panic.

“Get off me!”

Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely more than a raw, desperate gasp.

Instinct overruled recognition. It didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t matter that the danger was gone.

All your body knew was fear.

John immediately pulled back, his hands up, his face twisted with something between concern and horror.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” he said quickly, voice low, soothing. “It’s just me, yeah?”

But your body wouldn’t stop trembling. “J-John?” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, causing your breath to hitch. It was a sharp, ragged sound. John stared at you– helpless. Because even though he was right there, even though you were safe now, you sure as hell didn’t feel safe.

Before you could apologize for shouting at him, Arthur was rushing over, breath coming heavy, taking in the scene before him in one sharp glance.

Tommy was still on top of Campbell, still swinging, his knuckles covered in blood, Campbell’s and his own.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of Tommy’s coat and hauled him off.

“Enough, Tom. He’s gone!” Arthur barked, his grip tight, unyielding. “It’s done! It’s fucking done!”

Tommy struggled, still burning with rage, his body coiled so tight he was shaking.

And then, through the chaos, he heard you just as you let out a choked, broken sob.

The sound cut through him like a blade. His body stilled. And for the first time since he entered the alley, he turned.

The second Tommy saw you, bleeding, trembling, gasping for breath, everything else ceased to exist.

He rushed to you, dropping to his knees so fast the gravel scraped against his boots.

You were barely sitting up, your arms shaking under your own weight, your ripped clothes hanging loose. Your chest heaved, every breath sounding like a struggle, your eyes wide, unfocused. And your head– a relentless, pounding ache throbbed behind your eyes, radiating from the gash at your temple, the warmth of fresh blood slipping down the side of your face.

The pain was blinding, suffocating, like your skull was splitting open with every ragged breath you took.

The world tilted, the edges blurring, but then– Tommy’s hands found your face, cradling it gently, his thumbs skimming over your bruised, bloodied skin, his own fingers shaking.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice was low, urgent, breaking at the edges. “Where are you hurt?”

You just stared at him. Mouth parted. Silent. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. Couldn’t breathe through the wreckage of everything that had just happened.

Your body shook violently.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, panicked.

His hands swept lower, skimming down your arms, across your ribs. His eyes scanned you, sharp, assessing, taking in every injury, every wound, every fucking thing Campbell had done.

And then– his gaze caught on the blood trailing down the side of your face.

His jaw tightened. Gently, carefully, he reached up, his fingers threading into your hair. You barely reacted, too exhausted, too lost in the haze of pain and fever.

Tommy’s fingers found the gash hidden beneath your hairline, and when he brushed against it, you winced.

His breath came sharp, uneven. “Shit,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over the wound, careful not to press too hard.

The blood was still fresh, still warm, mixing with the dried streaks smeared across your skin– his blood, your blood, Campbell’s blood.

He swallowed hard, his grip gentler now, soothing.

His voice softened, just slightly. “Love,” he murmured, so quiet, like he was afraid you’d break apart completely. “I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

Your lips trembled. You tried, tried so hard, but the words wouldn’t come. A choked, ragged croak escaped your lips instead. And then, you sobbed. Not loud. Not even fully. Just a small, broken sound, barely more than a breath.

And Tommy felt something inside him snap. Your sob barely left your lips before he was moving again. Carefully and deliberately, his arms slid beneath you, one under your knees, the other around your back, securing you against his chest. The second he lifted you, a sharp, searing pain tore through your ribs, and you let out a broken cry.

Tommy’s hold tightened instinctively. “I know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair, his breath shaky, uneven. “I know. I’ve got you.”

You barely registered anything else– not the cold night air, not the distant sound of voices, not the way your torn clothes left you far too exposed.

Only him and his warmth, his heartbeat against your ear– the scent of gunpowder and whiskey and home. He tucked you closer, pressing your cheek to his collarbone, his jaw resting lightly against your temple. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, even as his own hands trembled. “Let’s get you out of here.”

His grip never wavered as he turned toward his brothers. “Arthur, get the car around.”

Arthur nodded without hesitation, already moving, disappearing down the alley.

Tommy’s gaze snapped to John. “Get rid of the body.”

John’s face was still stricken, pale, but he gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

And just like that, it was done.

Tommy didn’t wait. Didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. He just walked. Carrying you out of the alley, away from the wreckage, away from everything Campbell had done to you.

For the first time in two days, you were leaving hell behind.

The car skidded to a stop in the road, the tires grinding against the wet cobblestone as Arthur threw it into park.

Tommy shifted your weight in his arms and carefully maneuvered you inside the cab, one hand bracing the back of your head as he lowered you onto the seat. The second your back hit the worn leather, a sharp burn tore through your ribs.

You let out a weak, pained whimper, your fingers gripping at nothing.

Tommy grimaced. “I know, love,” he murmured, tucking his coat around you, his hands gentle despite the war still raging behind his eyes. “I know it hurts.”

His voice was soft, quiet, but his hands were steady as he pulled the car door shut beside you and settled in.

Arthur didn’t ask questions. He just pressed his foot to the gas, and the car lurched forward, pulling you both away from the alley, away from the blood, away from Campbell.

The city lights blurred past the window, but you could barely focus.

Everything hurt.

A relentless, burning pain curling under your ribs, along your bruised skin, up into your aching skull. Tommy’s hand found yours, his fingers wrapping around your weak grip.

His voice was low, firm. “I need you to stay awake, yeah?”

You blinked slowly, sluggishly. The fever was still there, your body aching, and the familiar pull of unconsciousness was beckoning, dragging you under.

Your head throbbed. The relentless pounding pulsated behind your eyes, radiating from the gash hidden beneath your hair. Everything felt heavy.

Your skull, your limbs, your chest, it was all too much.

The world tilted, the sounds around you muffled, distant, like you were already slipping away.

But then– Tommy’s fingers tightened. “Stay with me,” he said again, his voice rough with something he wasn’t ready to name.

You swallowed, tried to focus on him and breathe through the pain. But every inhale set your ribs on fire. Every bump in the road made your skull feel like it would explode.

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what’s hurting.”

Your lips parted, but it took a moment to force the words out.

“Head,” you murmured.

His grip on your hand tightened slightly. You took another shallow breath.

“Ribs,” you rasped.

Tommy’s expression darkened. His throat worked as he swallowed. “What else?”

You were slipping, exhaustion weighing you down.

“Can’t–” Your breath hitched. “Can’t breathe deep.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to steady himself. Trying to stay in control.

You blinked sluggishly, the movement slow, wrong. The world was fading at the edges. Shapes weren’t holding. Shadows bled into one another.

And then, the realization hit.

A choked, panicked breath left your lips, your fingers grasping weakly at his coat.

“Tommy–” your voice was small, fractured.

His hand tightened around yours. “I’m right here.”

You swallowed, struggling to get the words out.

“I–” Your voice shook. “I can’t see.”

Tommy stilled.

The words hung between you, heavy, suffocating. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, your breath quicker now, uneven.

“I–” your fingers curled into his shirt, desperate. “It’s– it’s dark, I can’t–”

“Shh.” His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your temples. “It’s alright, love. You’re alright.”

But he was shaken. You could feel it in the way his hands trembled just slightly against your skin.

Tommy’s grip on you tightened. Not hard. Not painful. Anchoring.

But it didn’t matter– because you were slipping.

Your chest tightened, panic crawling up your throat like ivy.

“Tommy,” you whispered, voice fragile, breaking. “I’m scared–”

Tommy reacted instantly. His hands left your face and slammed against the front seat.

“Arthur. Drive faster.”

Arthur, still gripping the wheel, snapped his head toward the rear view mirror.

“Tom–”

“Drive the fucking car, Arthur!”

The urgency in Tommy’s voice was razor-sharp, slicing through whatever hesitation lingered in the air.

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressing his foot down hard.

The car lurched forward, tires grinding against wet cobblestone as they sped through the streets of Birmingham.

“Where the fuck am I going?” he asked.

Tommy barely looked at him.

His gaze was locked on you, on your pale face, on the blood that hadn’t stopped dripping from your temple.

His jaw clenched. “The bloody hospital.”

“Tom–” He hesitated, throwing a quick glance his way before shifting his focus back to the road. “You just killed a bloody police officer… You really think that’s a good idea?”

Tommy’s head snapped up.

His eyes were burning.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s a good idea.” His voice was low, dangerous, barely contained. “She needs a hospital.”

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

He just drove.

Tommy held you tighter, his grip firm but careful, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful enough.

His touch was the only thing grounding you. His voice, low and steady, was just a murmur at the edge of your consciousness. You couldn’t make out the words anymore.

The pounding in your skull was pulling you under. The world was tilting, slipping.

Your eyes fluttered, your breath hitching as a deep, creeping tiredness settled into your bones.

And then– his touch. Tommy’s thumb brushed against your temple, rubbing soft, soothing circles into your skin.

A quiet comfort. A silent promise.

You focused on it– on the rhythmic motion, on the warmth of his touch, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

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#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders x y/n

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thesilmarillionblog · 5 months ago

Text

𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 ─ Special Part 𝟷

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F! Reader

Warnings: +18! (Minors DNI), SMUTTTT! (their second first time hehe), oral sex (f! receiving), prejaculation problems, jealous dean, unprotected sex, established relationship, gentle dean, insecure reader, sweet, fluff

Word Count: 5588

A/N: English is not my first language.

A/N 2: This is a special chapter for complete series WASTE. You can read this special part as a one-shot or after reading the series.

After seeing how exhausted you were in the mirror, you hurriedly changed and washed your face frantically when your shift finally finished. While brushing your hair, you were moving so fast that you injured your finger, acting as though you were heading into battle rather than meeting Dean. Your boyfriend. Thank you very much.

You've been experiencing butterflies in your stomach and all over since he sincerely expressed a week ago that he wanted to establish a new kind of relationship with you. You remembered how sweet the times he took care of you until you got better were, and you smiled to yourself as you applied lipstick. You continued putting on lipstick just because you were too focused on him to realize that you looked like a clown. Panicked, you wiped your lips quickly once more. God. You needed something like a trial month to get used to dating the person you fell in love with.

It was enough to make your cheeks flush like someone had painted your face crimson to think about him and your first date. You hurried out of the hospital after making sure you didn't look like you'd been working long hours.

When you saw Dean grinning and watching you as you walked closer with small but rapid steps, you were fairly certain he could see how thrilled you were and how your eyes were sparkling with joy. You were afraid that he would feel stuck to you after your confession, but your anxieties were swiftly allayed when you saw him offer his arms.

As soon as Dean had you in his strong arms, your hands found him again, and he started kissing you without saying a word, making you melt with crave. His fingers grabbed your chin and kissed you quickly but passionately. In between kisses, he spoke. “I,” another kiss. “..missed,” One more kiss. “...you too.” There, you were on the clouds.

At last, you withdrew, pressing him to his car while your hands moved from his handsome face to his jacket. When he noticed that you had been acting a little playful since the morning, Dean grinned. He had insisted on waiting until you were fully recovered, even though it had been a while and you were desperate to have sex with him. However, you were skeptical if he was merely taking pleasure in watching you become a little sexually frustrated.

“You know, it seems like you could fill me at any moment.” Dean laughed as he saw himself as the one who had pressed against the car. “I'd rather get spanked on the ass before I get laid.”

You stopped kissing him and giggled at his filthy remark as you withdrew. “I'll keep that in mind.”

He inquired as he opened the car door for you, “So, how was your day?”

“It was good,” you replied, watching him work the car. “For the first time today, Robb and I—” began talking excitedly, but you stopped when Dean's smile vanished and his eyes narrowed, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured solemnly, mimicking your voice while you bit your inner cheeks to keep from laughing at his voice.

You whispered, “Don't be jelly,” but you couldn't resist touching his hands on the steering wheel. When he was acting unreasonably jealous about Robb, it was difficult to keep your hands to yourself. After all, he was only an old friend. “I'm close friends with him. I was about to say that he and I worked together today.”

“Jealous? Me? He should be jealous of me since I'm the handsome guy in here,” he simply said. It's clear that Dean was attempting to imagine what you meant by working together. There was no doubt that he didn't enjoy the way it sounded. “Does he know about us?”

You were taken aback by the question he asked. You looked at Dean remorsefully, remembering that you hadn't discussed private matters with Robb recently since you were sick and too preoccupied with your lover lately. “Uhm... No.”

“And why is that?” Now that he was really irritated, Dean turned his head to your side, and you told him to keep his eyes on the road.

“We haven't had a proper conversation in the past few days. I was busy with healing under my beloved's hands,” you whispered softly as you lightly traced your fingers over his hand on the steering wheel. When he looked at you for a moment, you gave him an innocent smile, and the corner of his lips curled as he watched you caress his skin in your own naive manner.

“Stop giving me that look. It won't work. I would like to visit you soon so your friend may congratulate us. Is that okay?” Because you didn't want him to have concerns about your close friend, you nodded to him instead of rolling your eyes at him though you wanted to.

“Does Sam know about us?” This time, you queried suspiciously, and Dean cleared his throat, clearly considering his justification. You've got him.

“When we get there, he'll learn.” He continued, almost embarrassed, “We've been busy cuddling and spending time together, right, sweetie?”

“Robb and I haven't spoken much lately since we both were busy,” You whispered, “You didn't bother to tell something to your brother?” You couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy if Dean was reconsidering your relationship. Your hands stopped on him, even if you didn't want to stop touching him as if you were trying to start your first fight by putting physical distance.

“Hey, he's somewhat aware of what happened between us. He finally figured it out before I came to see how you were that day, after all. I felt that we should be very upfront about our relationship before talking to others. Also, I would really like to see Sam’s face when he sees us like this today.” Your heart melted at Dean's unbelievably beautiful action once he took your hand in his and kissed it.

“You're good at words, aren't you?” You gave him a smile, and he was pleased to see how quickly you softened.

“Only when my ass is hunted.” He gave you a wink, and you both chuckled.

Despite having keys, Dean pounded on the door harshly, presumably to annoy his brother when you got there. When Dean grabbed your hands in his and rubbed your skin with his thumb, you felt a sudden wave of timidity. It was funny to watch you becoming anxious, but Dean didn't say anything to stop you from being shy as you continued to nibble your inner cheeks.

Sam was cursing at Dean as he opened the door, and his hair was still shampooed, and he was only holding a tiny towel between his legs, covering his obvious part. Dean immediately let go of your hand and closed your eyes when he saw that his brother's entire body was visible, but for the small towel covering his dick. “Fucking hell, Sam!” he shouted, and you put your hands on his and loosened his touch because Dean was pressing on your eyes as though you could see something.

“Where the heck are your damn keys?” Sam said firmly, as you heard. He complained about obviously the shampoo getting in his eye.

“Just fucking go to your room and put some damn clothes on!” Dean said, ignoring his inquiry, as if he were speaking to a small child. “Bitch.”

You groaned in frustration, “Dean!” Your hands were tightly clasped around his, and Dean was making sure you didn't see anything until Sam's naked ass vanished entirely. He used his leg to close the door and forced you to move, but you were terrified of hitting a part of your body.

When he finally released his hands, you rubbed your eyes and exhaled in relief. You walked over to him and gave him a light slap on the side of his stomach. “God’s sake, when did you become so jealous? He's your brother.”

“Who's jealous?” As you sat down on the couch, he whispered to you. He immediately pulled you into his arms and squeezed your nose between his fingers, causing you to giggle. “I simply don't want anyone to be seen out in the open, wandering ass naked. I define it as 'home principles'.”

You arched an eyebrow in remembrance of the day you arrived home to examine Dean's wounds and found him walking half-naked, with only a towel wrapped around his belly, as though he was doing it intentionally. “I guess the rules don't work for you, Mr. Winchester.”

“Who knows, maybe I just wanted to impress one of my friends a little.”

You put your finger to his mouth and muttered, “Hmm,” as he approached to plant a kiss on you. “What do you say? Is she impressed?”

“Fell so hard.” His hands were already on your thigh and on top of you when he nearly groaned, taking your hands into his and giving you a tender kiss. Immediately, your leg wrapped over his hips, pulling him closer as you grasped his shirt.

You had both forgotten your surroundings, and Dean's gentle, sweet kisses had changed to forceful, passionate ones till Sam cleared his throat. It had been a long time since Dean had been inside of you the last time. “Hold on for a minute. Since when are you two eating out each other?” Clearly a little surprised as he saw you two become lost in the moment, Dean on top of you, he exclaimed, “What the hell did I miss?” Sam disgusted his brother when Dean was acting like a rabbit in heat while he was around. He frowned.

As soon as you heard Sam's puzzled but playful tone, you used all of the power you had to shove Dean away from you, causing him to groan in agony as he crushed the coach's corner. You patted his back and hastily muttered an apology.

Sam was waiting for a response with his hands folded across his chest when you pressed your lips together and gave him a bashful smile.

“We talked it out; are you blind?” Dean bent slightly and muttered this in a grumpy manner, suggesting that he needed your small massage a bit more. He also pointed out the area that needed your touch. You were yearning to slide your hands under his shirt. It would definitely feel great to be skin to skin. Only to look after him, of course.

He was already being whiny even though you hadn't pushed him that hard. You suspected that all he wanted was your attention, which you were glad to give him in whatever amount he demanded.

“Yes? Now, what are you two? Does it contain the ‘no strings attached’ thing?” Sam sat on the chair and looked at you and Dean inquisitively as he checked his phone, looking like he was waiting for a call.

Your hands on Dean's back slowed. You whispered, “What does that even mean?” Dean became tense beneath your touch.

“Don't you see what we are exactly right now?” Dean said, looking at Sam intently as though he wanted him to stop talking.

Sam gazed at you, amused by his brother's response and the warning that Dean gave him to stop talking. “You've probably heard that phrase before. It's stated on Dean's dating app profile. You just fuck and spend time in a 'no strings attached' relationship, but you never fall in love.”

When Sam explained it, your face sank, and you looked at Dean for a moment before returning your hand to yourself. After all, he never declared he loved you. Even though you haven't fucked yet, you were disheartened to see that Dean was using a dating app like this and had that term on his profile.

“Are you using a dating app?”

“No! I mean, I used to, but not anymore. Deleted already.” He throws a pillow in Sam's face angrily and explains, “Sam is just trying to be a pain in the ass right now.”

“Well, you'd better periodically check his PC and phone, Y/N. Dean probably doesn't mind if you impose some control on him.” When Sam saw that Dean was growing irate, which was a positive sign because he seemed really in love with you, he threw back the pillow to Dean with an enormous grin on his face.

You mumbled, “I don't do that!” But now you were a little curious.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. You bit his lip a little when Dean kissed you, but you couldn't help but smile into the kiss when he made a noise that sounded like an animal whining. When Sam got the message he had been waiting for from Ruby, he couldn't help but smile and roll his eyes at your goofy moment before getting up.

“Congratulations, by the way, although I must admit that I thought you and Robb would make a good couple. Friends to lovers, lovers to childhood friends to lovers... It's the healthiest way of relationship building, so I guess it always works. However, picking Dean... Good luck with that. After spending enough time with his insufferable ass, he turns a lot of women lesbians.”

When his brother was telling him that you and Robb would look fine together, Dean shot him a severe look that made him think of absurd things that were disturbing him. He should have just said ‘congratulations’ and departed. In a possessive way, Dean's hand seized your waist and drew you closer to him. “As you can see, bitch, it already worked in a really healthy way. I'm telling you, if you liked him that much, you should give it a shot. You won't work with Ruby anyways. You'll see that.”

“Dean!” you warned him as he began insulting Sam and his girlfriend. You could see he meant every word from the way he was distant while she was around.

“I'm just being honest here,” he defended himself when Sam started to tell how good Ruby was to him they kind of had chemical pull. “He's sabotaging our relationship here.”

“He's just messing with you.”

Sam lifted his hands in surrender as Dean became a little irate as Sam started to walk toward the door, all the while Dean continued to criticize his brother and tell you about the dating service he used and every detail he put there, how it was unimportant.

The last thing Dean said to Sam before he left the house was, “Don't fucking come back tonight.”

“Not on the couch, and use protection!” Sam winked at you, and before Dean could respond, he hurriedly closed the door behind him, his smile wide, your cheeks flushed.

Since you were no longer sick and had the entire night ahead of you, you actually hoped Dean would approach you and so that you could take a bit more pleasure in the relationship you had. You've been feeling somewhat sexually frustrated recently, so you wondered whether he was thinking the same thing. You couldn't help but wonder if Dean was less interested in you since he was eager to spend his nights with women before you, practically used to having fun.

“So,” you began, lowering your voice to block out the unwanted ideas that were distracting you. “What are our plans for tonight?” You moved slightly on the couch and started using both hands to rub Dean's neck.

Dean smiled broadly and quickly sat you on his lap, causing you to gasp. “Well, just like we planned, we're going to watch a good movie and spend fancy time together like the lovely couple we are.”

Even though you were a little bashful, you inquired, “And?” to find out whether Dean had any other splendid ideas with you. After all, Sam wouldn't be here all night.

As Dean watched you try to express what you really intended to happen tonight, his smile widened. Due to wanting you to know that he was real with you and that what you had had nothing to do with sex, he had been putting off your cravings for a while no matter how much he yearned to be inside you.

“And what?”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” His hands lingered delicately around your hips as you whispered and moved your fingertips across his chest. He was just taking pleasure in your efforts, even though he got what you were suggesting.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm a naïve man.” You nearly rubbed against Dean as he drew your body closer to his. The way he touched you caused your body to react so intensely that you might melt at any second.

“Well, that's unfortunate. In his home, alone with him, I hoped to spend some romantic time with my boyfriend.” When you tentatively moved on him a bit, doing your hardest to seem confident even if you didn't feel like it, Dean's smirk changed to a cunning smile. He opened his legs wider to offer you extra room to move, as if he wanted you to demonstrate how much you needed him, even though you already wanted him to take action.

“I wouldn't want to shatter my girlfriend's hopes, though. Don't you think that would make me something of an awful boyfriend?” He whispered as his hands gently moved up your waist and into your shirt. You instantly shuddered when he touched you. Even though he had touched you several times, the way he was doing it now seemed different, as though your body was preparing for what was about to happen.

“I think so.” You gasped when Dean's seductive lips fiercely captured yours before you could respond, yet you instantly returned his kisses by wrapping your hands around his neck.

In between kisses, he said, “I've been patient with you, right, sweetheart?” as you frantically pushed yourself against his bulge.

“It would be better if you weren't. I missed you.”

Dean groaned in eagerness against your lips as you spoke, and his hands further squeezed your hips into his manhood to express how much he desired you. He craved this. Your bodies were on the verge of exploding, but shyness was keeping you in control, and he had control over how you moved on top of him.

When he let his hands slide into your shirt and began unbuttoning it, the sensation of his hands on your flesh made your body tremble. He was not quick nor sluggish. He was staring into your eyes when he let it go down on your shoulders. Dean looked at you with such tenderness and desire that it was enough to make your pulse race. But you were too thrilled to blink or even swallow. You just let him do all the work as you waited on top of him.

He continued to maintain eye contact even after you were down to wearing only your bra. After giving you another passionate kiss, Dean carried you to his room. As if to officially proclaim your relationship, you kissed into the smile when you knew you would finally be able to touch and feel each other completely.

Dean placed your body on his bed and used his foot to close the door behind him. When you felt the smooth sheets on your back in Dean's bed, you felt as though it was your first time with him. The first time you spent with him was on the couch, and the second time was in someone else's bed, which was not a very nice experience.

“Are you absolutely okay with this?” Breaking the kiss, Dean asked. His lips were crimson from the kissing.

“Having my attractive boyfriend between my legs? Let me think....” you said playfully while you slid your fingers under his shirt and touched him in a teasing way. “Yes.”

“Good. I don't want to wander around with blue balls anymore.”

You said, “We don't want that,” and Dean kissed you again, more urgently, as if you didn't have any time.

Dean started licking your neck after releasing his hold on your lips to let you both catch your breath. You were a bit nervous, but you didn't want this to stop. Instead of worrying about things, you did your best to give yourself permission to feel Dean in that very moment.

With your hands running shamelessly down his wide chest and muscular abs, Dean swiftly removed his shirt once you grabbed it and signaled for him to do so. Your eyes were now fixed on his body. He urged you to get up a little and unbuckle your bra as soon as his lips started to go downward. You kept telling yourself that you weren't a virgin and that you had waited a long time to do that with Dean when your body tensed instantly, but you didn't want him to feel that way. Under your lover's flawless body, you were all right.

Without waiting a second, he removed your bra and began sucking and softly biting your nipple. Now you had to take deep breaths. Dean dropped his other hand, which was kneading your other breast, and unbuttoned your jeans as he escalated his sucklings after noticing that you were slightly nervous and not unwinding or making any loud noises.

Dean quickly pulled back after he was finished with your tits and removed your jeans with your panties with a single move. He was still wearing his pants, and you were now lying on his bed, entirely naked. When he gave you a sweet yet passionate smile and stared at you intensely, you felt somewhat vulnerable. “You do realize, my dear, that this isn't the first time, right? Why are you so tense?” he whispered as he positioned himself between your legs and started gently brushing you in an attempt to soothe and calm you.

It's true that his gentle hands helped you relax.

“I'm not tense,” you said, smiling shyly but steadily looking into his eyes. Your body was already longing for more, so it would be a huge letdown if he decided to alter his mind now.

Dean started unbuckling his belt while staring straight into your eyes. The noise that filled the room made your heart race even faster, and you thought your walls were already tightening around nothingness as he swiftly removed his underwear and jeans. And now he was lying on top of you, naked too. You couldn't help but smile when you recalled how dark it was and how you didn't see each other well on your first and second times. That would be your second first time.

You grabbed Dean by the neck and started kissing him, allowing all of your worries and negative thoughts to subside as a wave of bliss swept over your whole being. Everything you wanted, dreamt about, and loved was yours. You could tell Dean cared about you even though he didn't say the same three words.

You were reminded of Dean's hardness as he positioned himself between your legs and promptly returned your kisses. This time, you were unable to stop moaning into his lips and wildly lifting your hips to get him to take charge and enter you right away.

“Dean,” you protested frantically into his lips, causing his cock to ache with desire, but he drew back a bit instead of thrusting inside you and spreading your legs more. Under there, you felt like you were leaking.

Dean ran his tongue over your entire body. When his lips moved closer to your abdomen and he didn't stop, you stiffened up again. Your legs shook as you realized he was about to place his head between your legs, right there, so you covered yourself with your hands on your pussy to stop him in his path. You had no clue what he was planning to do.

You said, “What are you doing?” When you covered your pussy with both hands to prevent Dean from sucking you off, he was perplexed.

“What do you suppose I'll do, my beloved? I have to taste you.” Dean swiftly grabbed your hands without waiting for you to speak, and suddenly there was nothing between his face and your pussy. You arched your back.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmured, sounding almost frustrated. “You're gonna love this.”

As you remained still beneath Dean, his lips were now on your clit, and his hands were locked on yours, making sure you didn't interrupt his little enjoyment. Your back arched instantly as his warm lips found your most sensitive spots and attacked your clit to taste you. You moaned aloud as Dean stuck his tongue out and gave your clit a hard lick, and you were now unable to stop suppressing your voice. Your moans became louder the more he nibbled you, sucked you, and kissed you there.

The little, soft noises you were making under him as he swallowed your lovely pussy were making Dean hard as a stone, even though he never liked noisy partners. Once he entered you, he knew it wouldn't take long to reach his satisfaction. Dean continued to suck you in order to ensure that you were thoroughly relaxed. He held himself back and made sure you enjoyed the procedure even though he longed to touch himself when you were arching your back and placing your legs on his shoulders without even realizing it.

You attempted to warn him just before you came. “Wait, Dean! Dean, I'm almost—” As your walls constricted and his lips and tongue continued their wonderful agony, you moaned and attempted to shove him off by also trying to get your hands free of him, but Dean was now holding you still even tighter, intensifying his attacks on your clit.

Rather, he went on to lick your pussy while moving with greater force on your clit. Your legs on his wide shoulders shook wildly as you did your best to break free of his tight grip, but as he pushed his tongue into your wet hole, you reached your peak. It was even more intense than the times he fingered you. This time, you extended your legs a bit wider and started to lift your hips to ensure that he kept his lovely, skilled lips there until you rode your orgasm, rather than attempting to push him away. When you felt him grumbling as he made sure to swallow your come and continued sucking you even after you became too sensitive, you couldn't stop moaning.

As you fought to control your breathing, Dean gave you a gentle kiss on the thighs and climbed on top of you once again. Dean's warmth was enough to warm you up even when you felt cold.

“You have a really sweet taste, honeycomb. From now on, we should do that frequently,” Dean stated, causing your cheeks to flush. “Taste yourself, sweetheart; see how delicious you taste.”

Now that his tongue was inside your lips, Dean groaned as you gave him a more intense kiss as he tasted your own cum. The intensity of your kisses increased with every second. You stiffened up uncontrollably again when Dean grabbed his pulsing cock into his own hands and drew back a bit. You didn't have any second thoughts, or there was nothing wrong. You were desperate for him to enter you. But you couldn't help but become a little nervous.

Dean gave his thick cock a few more strokes while spreading your legs a bit wider. You became excited when you realized he wanted to get inside of you without using condoms. In any case, you were on the pill.

Uncertain of what to do at this point, you grabbed him by the shoulders as he positioned himself between your legs. He was staring into your eyes as he slightly pushed himself within, but you tensed up and pulled back without noticing.

Eagerly, “Come on,” he urged. “You're wet enough to take me. Just relax.”

You said, “Sorry,” in an apologetic tone, afraid that you would spoil this wonderful moment.

“It's okay.” Dean responded gently, “Just look at me,” but it was obvious that his cock hurt and that he needed to be inside you now.

You looked into his eyes as you moved slightly beneath him and placed your hands over his back. You hoped your flushed cheeks and messy hair didn't make you appear ridiculous.

Dean pushed his cock within you without waiting any longer after giving himself another stroke. You were fighting to keep from nailing his back while holding your breath. Dean was thick, but not particularly long. It was just the head inside of you when you whimpered.

You frantically said, “Dean, slow down!” as he kept pushing his cock. Even though you were bizarrely more at ease the previous time, this time seemed different. You were a little worried up because you wanted him to feel good. Perhaps you should have offered to give his cock the same mouth action. Is it appropriate to make the offer now? You didn't know.

“I'm not even moving fast. Calm down, you're almost there,” he said. “You're doing so good.”

His praises caused your body to relax a bit. However, your walls clenched around him due to the pressure his cock provided. It seemed as though you were on the verge of experiencing your orgasm once again. Dean looked at you as soon as he sensed that. “Don't come yet.” But your body was out of control.

Dean groaned, realizing that despite his best attempts, you were a little too sensitive and tense at the moment. Then, with a single thrust, he shoved his hardness inside of you, making you moan and bite your lips fiercely. His hands were buried on each side of your hips as he grumbled, nearly in agony, “Fuck, how are you so tight?”

The way you were tightening around Dean and staring at him with your gorgeous red cheeks didn't make him any softer. You were both like teens now, but he needed to take his time and enjoy that moment with you. "Will you just quit clenching, sweetie? You're a lot tighter already." He said, “I won't be able to hold it back,” as Dean withdrew slightly and thrust in you again.

You responded, “I'm really trying,” but you knew you wouldn't last long.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and without wasting any time, Dean started to fuck you quickly and deeply after realizing that you couldn't control your body at the moment.

“You feel so good around me, so perfect,” Dean said, groaning against your lips and placing his hand on your chin, amazed at how tight you were around him. “Are you mine?”

He kept slapping his hips into yours, but you were just able to moan and wrap your legs around his hips. “Always,” you murmured. Your heart was pounding with nervousness and thrill as the room filled with the filthy noises made by skin contact, yet you continued to stare into Dean's eyes in awe at how much he was having fun fucking you. Your spirit purred with joy as you could see him getting satisfaction from the way he tightened his grip on your chin and his increasing speed.

“Dean!” you cried out in despair as he aggressively and deeply drove his cock inside of you, causing the bed to shake and the walls to slam.

“Don't come yet, sweetheart!” Your walls suddenly clutched around him so tightly that you couldn't contain yourself, and your orgasm hit harder this time. When you realized you hadn't given him exactly what he wanted, you felt worry growing.

As your climax continued to make you quiver with ecstasy, you frantically exclaimed, “I'm sorry!” as you continued to move beneath him as though you could flee, but Dean's firm grip on your hips prevented you from moving.

With a loud moan, Dean buried his head on your neck and started painting your walls with his white ropes since he could no longer hold himself back. Your eyes widened in surprise as you felt his thick cum in your walls while you were still shaking from orgasm and realized he didn't pull back this time. You shivered as you felt him spilling since you didn't think he would, but as you focused on his moans and how he jerked inside of you, your lips gently curved into a smile. The way he kept you motionless as you both rode your orgasm was so intense and fulfilling that you could come again, even though.

Dean offered you a reassuring smile and a hard kiss on the neck after your orgasms had subsided. “Well, it looks like we have too much to do with your sensitivity.”

You smiled shyly at him. “You shouldn't have teased me for that long.”

Dean laughed, then put a blanket over your bodies and grabbed you in his arms after kissing your forehead strongly and affectionately. You were already feeling drowsy. “Look on the bright side. Practice makes perfect, right?”

You smiled and murmured, “We'll see about that,” as you drew nearer to him, prepared to get some sleep.

Observing that you were already ready to go to sleep, Dean assumed that you wouldn't be prepared for the second round. He should undoubtedly have needed to work on that as well. His arms were drawing tighter around your body. You realized that you couldn't be happier right then and there.

A/N: It's not very good, sorry for that but I hope you like it. Let me know what you think pls <3333

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