#smoking continues to be one of those things

[lila-dalilah]

SPECIAL I

S2!sevika x chubby!reader

3.2k words

Contents: Masturbating (short), Sevika being a horny fuck, mentions of drinking and smoking weed, mentions of age gap, reader as body hair (?), kind of slow burn.

Summary: Sevika meets you at a dingy bar and can’t get your body out of her mind.

A.N: I wrote this because I’m at the motherland (🇩🇴) and my partner isn’t, so i’m horny and touch starved as fuck. This is the first time I put this much time and effort into writing fanfiction. Originally it was wayyy longer but I wanted to split it up and see how this performs first. Honestly not much happens, just Sevika being down bad. Also, I’m trying something new with the way I make my posts but idk if it’s prettier this way. Anyways, enjoy!

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MINORS AND MEN DNI

Rock Bottom was a dingy, hole-in-the-wall type of place that had once been the hot spot in Zaun. Now, it was filled by empty stools and wobbly tables. The lights would flicker from time to time, some bulbs giving out before the end of the night.

Sevika and Miguel sat in their usual spot, just as they had done for years. Their families had always been very close, and they had known each other since childhood. When Rock Bottom was in its prime, they would drink themselves stupid on the cheapest booze they could get their hands on. Now, instead of dancing and trying to pick up one night stands, they sat and reminisced about their youngest years. The loud music and chatter were gone, substituted by an almost heavy silence only interrupted by the occasional clanking of glasses or muffled conversations.

Sevika had already downed a drink before Miguel arrived. She had been desperate to meet up with him. Miguel seemed to be the only constant in her life. The new weight on her shoulders was suffocating. Sevika felt responsible for continuing Silco’s legacy while also taking care of Jinx, who had taken in a kid herself somehow. Neither of those tasks were easy to accomplish.

Those who had once been partners seemed to be turning on her one by one, and she felt the need to always keep an eye on the girls. Jinx seemed to be dealing with things fairly well, but after so many years Sevika knew better. There was always calm before the storm. She was always in high alert, waiting for something to go wrong, which happened more often than she’d liked.

On top of that, Sevika had just started getting used to the new mechanical arm that Jinx had built for her. Some everyday tasks, like holding a glass or opening a door, proved to be very difficult now. She had broken at least half a dozen of glasses in the past two weeks either from squezimg them to hard or not gripping them tightly enough. Sevika had been forcing herself to use her right hand, which felt clumsy after not being used for so long. Still, it was the safer option.

Sevika grabbed the half full glass of whiskey with her non-dominant hand and downed it all at once. She could feel the alcohol burning its way down, hoping that it would drown out everything else, at least for a bit.

“If these walls could talk…”said Miguel, recalling all the anecdotes that had taken place there.

Sevika barely heard him, her eyes fixated on you. You were wearing a short, form fitting dress that hugged every curve. When you walked, your whole body jiggled.

In Zaun, being big was almost a sign of wealth. It meant you had enough to eat well. Sevika took pride in her body, for her it showed how far she had come. She could afford to eat well enough to maintain her muscles.

Sevika also loved the contrast of being with someone softer, the feeling of their plush curves against her angular and solid body. Sevika could almost imagine how you would feel on top of her, your soft thighs pressing her sides, your belly and breasts on full display. She wanted to run her hands through every inch of your body, using your rolls to pull you closer and closer.

Sevika almost startled herself has those thoughts ran through her mind. She had too many things on her mind, sex or arousal hadn’t been a priority for a while. Her libido had always been high, but her schedule had been too tight as of late to accommodate it.

Sevika spent her days at work and her nights with Jinx and Isha, who, after much insistence, had practically moved into Sevika’s place, staying over at least three times a week. In an effort to keep Isha away from danger, Sevika took it upon herself to look after her while Jinx worked on new projects. Most nights, she was exhausted, her back aching more often than not. If she had any energy left in her, Sevika would try to catch up with friends or go for a drink with other associates, not because she enjoyed it, but because she wanted to stay informed.

She hadn’t visited the brothel in about a month. Now that everything had settled a bit, Sevika had started to feel the effects of her unintentional abstinence. The sight of you reawakened a hunger that had been missing for a while.

You approached Miguel from the side, wide smile across your face. You placed a hand on the table, leaning slightly forward, towards Miguel. Sevika started at your cleavage, noticing any subtle movement of your breast while you greeted Miguel.

“Damn, didn’t expect to see you here”Miguel said cheerfully ”come, have a drink with us”

“I’d love to, but I’m all out of cash for the night”you said”Just wanted to say hi”

“Come on”insisted Miguel”One more round won’t ruin you!”

“Seriously, I can’t”you said, shaking your head from side to side.

Sevika couldn’t pull her eyes away from your body. It just had something special, magnetic. It was almost like an instinct. She wanted to have you. No reason or hesitation. You hadn’t noticed her yet, too caught up giggling as Miguel tried to convince you to stay.

“Next round’s on me”said Sevika, her voice directed at you for the first time.

Her voice caught you off guard. You knew who she was, who wouldn’t? She was Silco’s right hand back when he was running things. Now, with him gone, she had taken over, hand in hand with his daughter. Miguel had talked to you about her, mostly when telling you stories about his youth. She seemed to be in all of them. You had heard how she could take down multiple men as if it was nothing, or break chairs in half as if they were made of twigs. You thought she was probably the coolest woman of all of Zaun.

“Have a seat”said Sevika.

And with that, you moved to sit down at Miguel’s other side, just in front of her. She followed the movement of your hips as you took a seat. Sevika tried to get a peek at your thighs discreetly, barely resisting the urge to stare . The way your dress rode up slightly while your thighs covered the whole chair made her heart go slightly faster. Further up, she noticed the soft curve of your belly, round and inviting, the kind of place Sevika would love to rest her head on. She imagined having her hands around your belly, her nails almost digging into your flesh while you were on top of her. Sevika forced her gaze towards your face, pushing those thoughts away. You smiled softly when she made eye contact, making her heart stutter.

Sevika tried to play it cool, stealing glances at you from time to time. Beneath her poker face, Sevika was almost jittery. The way your body shook with laughter, how your lips wrapped around the rim of the glass every time you took a sip, the sweetness of your voice. All of it was messing with her head, the lust your body created overcoming most of her brainpower. She was silent for most of the conversation, adding some comments here and there. Sevika hated how easily her mind slipped into desire around your body. You weren’t doing anything special, yet her imagination was spinning out of control.

“You know, JJ told me he has some good new stuff. He’s coming over later”you mentioned, then turned to Sevika”y’all can come by if you want”

“That sounds good”added Sevika, earning a strange look from Miguel.

“I heard it’s pretty strong, mixed with something exotic”commented Miguel.

Sevika knew that JJ’s “good new stuff” would be some kind of genetically modified strain of weed. He would try to manipulate the plant to get stronger, better weed as a hobby, chasing the perfect high. Sevika didn’t smoke weed anymore, hadn’t for more than a decade. She just consumed shimmer now, and Miguel knew it. Still, she was intrigued by you, not the weed. Something about you made her want to linger, even if your presence made her feel like a fool for staring. Sevika wanted more time with you.

It didn’t take long for you to leave. You thanked Sevika for the drinks and said goodbye before getting up, showing her your smile one last time. Sevika’s eyes were fixated on your has you walked away. The way your wide hips moved from side to side with every step and how you ass moved were just the last nail in the coffin. Sevika knew she needed you as she tightened her grip on the glass.

You were a bit flirty around Sevika because she was undeniably attractive, but you doubted she saw you the same way. You didn’t hate your looks, but you felt like you were nothing to write home about, just average. Sevika probably had multiple women throwing themselves at her already. You didn’t think you would stand out. Still, Sevika seemed interesting and a good friend from what Miguel had told you, albeit a bit more reserved than you had expected.

“So… how do you know her?”asked Sevika once you had exited the building.

“We used to be coworkers”Miguel answered.

“Coworkers, uh…”Sevika repeated absent minded.

“You fancy her, don’t you?”

That question caught Sevika off guard, pausing mid sip. Had she been that obvious?

“I mean, she’s just your type”added Miguel, watching her reaction.

“I don’t have a type”Sevika scoffed.

Sevika had been with a lot of women before. Tall, short, big, small, light skinned, dark skinned, long hair, short hair, hybrid. She had been with all kinds of woman, but her preference remained. Bigger women always caught her eye first. Sevika wouldn’t brush off the smaller women that hit on her, but she wouldn’t go up to them either. Still, Miguel didn’t need to know that.

“Whatever”Miguel said, taking a sip” you haven’t smoked weed in, what, 15 years? but she brings it up and all of a sudden it sounds good?”

Miguel had a sly grin across his face. He enjoyed teasing Sevika. She stayed silent for a bit because Miguel was right. She didn’t have a good comeback. Sevika exhaled sharply, irritated.

“She and JJ are nice, that’s all”Sevika said.

“Sure thing”said Miguel, shiteating grin still imprinted on his face.

On the way to your place, Sevika was unusually restless, thoughts and heart racing. She wasn’t used to feeling that way, nor did she like it.

When Sevika and Miguel arrived, the room was filled with smoke, all windows closed. The scent was trapped, pungent, yet pleasant, slightly sweeter than usual. With the celling light off, the living room was illuminated by a few candles and a lamp. JJ lounged on the armchair while you were sat on a tiny couch in front of him, passing the joint back and forth. The coffee table between you was cluttered. A few lighters, a pack of filters, a pack of rolling papers, a grinder. And in the center a big, round bowl full of dried, pinkish leaves, JJ’s new project.

You smiled as Sevika sat by your side, your eyes redder than before.

“Here, glad you could make it” you said handing Sevika the blunt.

During the night, Sevika watched you with no caution. You figured she was zoning out, after all, JJ’s batch had turned out to be very strong. She had complimented your necklace and earrings earlier, so you didn’t think anything of her looking in that general direction.

But really, Sevika was taking in every detail of your lips and your neck, taking full advantage of her closeness. Her eyes fixated on your lips while you took a drag, the tip of the joint glowing, a faint stain of lipstick left around the filter. Then you would exhale, shaping your lips into an “O” that made them look plumper as the smoke dissipated around you.

Further down, your neck was adorned with a necklace that once shone, but had since adopted a dull, spotty pinkish color. Real silver or gold was expensive, so you just settled for what you could get. Sevika felt the urge to change that. Someone as beautiful as you deserved jewelry that wouldn’t tarnish, something that would last.

You weren’t the most discreet either. You knew she was older, around Miguel’s age, but that didn’t deter you that night. Alcohol and weed made you frisky on their own, together they made you downright horny. Having a woman like Sevika near you wasn’t helping the situation.

For all you knew, Sevika was the type to be bold, going after what she wanted. If she found you attractive, she probably would have made a move by now, right?. Still, you leaned on her more than you would with others, your legs touching hers and your hand going on her bicep every time you laughed. With each touch, Sevika would almost stop breathing, tensing up a bit under your hand. She wasn’t fond of physical affection for the most part, but yours was different. Nobody had really touched her like that in a long time. Sevika was surprised to find that she didn’t mind it, even liked it.

Your eyes kept drifting to her metallic arm . It was a big, probably heavy, metal structure covered in doodles. Sevika didn’t seem like the type to decorate things in that way, but Jinx and Isha were. Isha had taken to doodling in Sevika’s arm when she took it off or was distracted. Sevika would act grumpy when she caught the little girl in the act, but her heart melted looking at every little thing drawn on it and she wore it with pride. And, when Jinx repaired or updated Sevika’s arm, it would come back with at least one new drawing around it.

As you adjusted your position to get more comfortable, Sevika couldn’t help but look at your thighs. By that point you were fairly intoxicated, your moves a bit messy. She just kept staring as your dress rode up, showing a few centimeters of your plain grey underwear, dark, short hairs peeking through the sides. It was barely anything, but she felt the heat raising up. Sdvika clenched her jaw, forcing her eyes away from you. She felt worse than a fucking perv, getting riled up over just that. But she couldn’t help herself. She wondered how soft your pussy would be, probably as soft as the rest of you. Her eyes went back for a second peek. The thought of burying her head in between your thighs made her clear her throat.

Then you leaned into her, resting your head on her shoulder as if it were natural. Sevika hesitated for a few seconds before wrapping her flesh arm around your shoulders. She knew nothing smart would come out of her mouth that far into the night, so she let the gesture speak for itself. Miguel flashed her a slight, knowing smile. Sevika ignored him, instead running her fingers up and down your soft upper arm, waiting to see your reaction.

You weren’t really paying attention, your eyes closing every couple of minutes because it felt just right, as if you were meant to do it. It was just so pleasant that you drifted off to sleep without even noticing. Sevika only noticed when Miguel and JJ started talking in a softer voice. She had been too busy thinking about what she would say or do to you based on your reaction to notice that your breathing got heavier, faint snores coming out of your mouth. Soon enough, Miguel made up some flimsy excuse for him and JJ to leave. It was just the two of you now.

Sevika tried to stay as still as possible, not wanting to wake you up. Her heart was going way too fast for no good reason. She just had someone sleeping on her shoulder, no big deal. Except, it was you. Sevika just stared at your face. Eyes closed, mouth half open, chest raising and lowering rhythmically. You looked at peace, probably having a very deep sleep fueled by the drugs consumed. Sevika still didn’t know what her next move would be. Ultimately she just sat there, enjoying your warmth against her.

Eventually, Sevika had to go to the bathroom. She shifted slowly, trying to slip from under you without waking you. Sevika moved around you as if you were some kind of bomb that could detonate at any moment. As she finally got on her feet, a slight grin appeared on her face, almost proud for not waking you up. That dissipated the second Sevika came back into the living room to find you sitting up on the couch, groggy but awake. Sevika sighed softly, then explained where JJ and Miguel had gone. You only hummed, reaching towards the table.

“Guess I’ll roll another one for us, then”you said, matter or factly.

Sevika watched your hands while you rolled the joint slowly. Neither of you seemed to be in a hurry.

Sevika had been quiet for most of the night. You figured she was the type to listen rather than talk. You decided to take matters into your hands and just started asking her questions. She humored you, sharing stories about her childhood antics. In turn, you launched into your own memories. You would always ramble on and on when you were intoxicated, jumping between slightly related topics. After a while, you decided to call it a night. Sevika was exhausted by then, ready to crash into bed for a couple of hours before heading to work. Still, she didn’t mind staying over for a bit more. You weren’t just easy on the eyes, you were easy to be around.

Before Sevika walked out of your home, you hugged her, thanking her for coming over. Sevika almost blushed, caught off guard by your body pressing into hers. You squished her tightly, while she hesitated before just lightly patting your back and awkwardly wrapping her arms around you, stiff as a stick. On her way home, all she could think about was your touch. You, on the other hand, thought you had made her uncomfortable, maybe gotten too close for her comfort. After all, you had only known each other for a couple hours.

That night, your hug kept replaying on Sevika’s mind. She wished she could go back in time and tighten her arms around you, explore every inch of your body with her hands while kissing along your face and neck. Sevika needed to touch somebody and be touched again. It had been just way too long for her and your body was calling to her.

When her hand made its way down in between her legs, she was already wet. With a sigh, Sevika’s fingers pressed against her clit and rubbed it with urgency while she closed her eyes, trying to remember every detail of your body. She imagined you on top of her face, feeling the pressure of your whole body weight in her while your thighs caged her in, heath and softness overwhelming her. Sevika whimpered, bitting her lower lip until she was finally relieved.

While she changed her sheets, an uncomfortable feeling washed over her. She felt ridiculous, like a horny teenager, getting off just thinking about your thighs and cleavage. As the embarrassment started to settle in, Sevika knew one thing for sure: you had something special.

[bangtanhoesthings]

Long ask.

Forgive me, this will be all over the place.

I have noticed that over the past few years the hate for the boys has been escalating particularly for Jimin, Jungkook and Joonie.

For Joonie, among other things, because as a leader, if they break him, they might break BTS. (Gosh look at him😭. Has me my man, my man, my man-ning all over the place like a dog in heat, it's embarrassing and a little concerning). Sorry, I digressed but look at him 😭😭😭, y'all don't thirst over this man enough. Woof! 🫦

Anyways, moving on.

For Jungkook, among a plethora of other reasons, because of the unrivaled, unmitigated global success he has had and continues to have (am so proud of my funky lil popstar ✨).

He came, he saw, he conquered. Kicked ass and took names. Ate and left no crumbs. Had them by the neck. Pulled up and shut it down (Somebody stop me 😭)

The way some army attribute his success to the 🛴 guy boils my blood, and that rage is for another day.

This post is towards Jimin.

Jimin's hate is both from outside and inside the fandom ( am not talking about solos, toxic shippers, mantis and the like) but people who claim to be 0T7.

I know that Jimin has had haters for years but the shady tweets I saw during the FACE and MUSE era from so called "ARMY" said a lot. Am not here to debate who is or isn't ARMY. That's for another time.

My question is, why does Jimin's success seem to be a sore spot for some 0T7s? The one reason I have been able to come up with is that Jimin sort of messed up the hierarchy system.

Let me explain and see if I make sense. For a long time, when people thought of the maknae line, no matter the order in which they ranked Tae and Kookie, Jimin was always the third one. Too many posts relegating him to the role of cheerleader and not much else. I saw posts before solo works commenced dismissing the idea that Jimin would ever release an album but would instead fully support the others. Well, he not only released two solo albums, but was also a composer, lyricist among other things, so they can take their opinion and smoke it.

When the solo era started, people had different expectations for what every maknae members would achieve but no matter the expectations, those for Jimin were that he would be third. Bronze medalist if you will.

FACE was released, Like Crazy got to number 1 and I logged off twitter. We were in hell particularly when it went from 1 to 45 after Billboard deleted over 100k sales and changed the rules (thank you Travis Scott for freeing Jimin and finally taking that number 1 spot). The hate from outside was expected, it was when it came from within the fandom that it hurt.

Fast forward to MUSE and it got worse. Sprinkle in a dash of Are You Sure and we have

Here I have a list of things I have noticed

1. An increase in the number of people talking about how they hate PJMs and how they are making them turn against Jimin. Honey, if a solo can make you dislike one member, you aren't sh*t anyway.

2. Dislike for Jimin disguised as dislike for his solos. If you haven't seen it, consider yourself lucky.

3. How sometimes ARMY came in droves when a member didn't achieve something but Jimin did. For example Spotify US. When a new song failed to enter but Jimin's songs increased ( during both LC and Who era).

4. His long run on the hot 100 has really revealed people's true colours. It's not his fault. Blame the fandom for their clear bias.

5. The number of ARMY accounts on X low key calling AYS fanservice.

6. Discourse on Jimin's ability to sing. I don't argue with stupid people.

I could go on and on but what I am trying to say is that in a perfect world, it would be wonderful if all the members had the same support from ARMY. The discrepancy needs to be addressed (caused by a multitude of reasons) but making it a member's fault and not the fandom is asinine.

I used to be a 1D fan and my favourite member to date is the least favourite and successful, Louis Tomlinson but that doesn't mean I hate on Harry, Zayn or Niall for their success. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

What prompted this you may ask? I saw a post talking about Jimin being the company and fandom fave and having special support. Like huh?

All in all what I am trying to say is that Jimin really shook things up and some people resent him for it. That one post (article?) about Jimin bringing out either admiration or envy keeps getting proven right.

Keep supporting this angel for a long and happy life.

What do you think are some other reasons for the increase in the 0T6 agenda against Jimin?

[hazbinshusk]

overlord!husk x bunny!reader x transmasc!partner. when you stumble into the private bar of a certain casino-owning overlord, you find him charmed rather than irritated by your presence. when he propositions you and you tell him that you have a boyfriend, husk isn't daunted. he's intrigued.

so happy and flattered to have been asked to write this smutfic for @mckeeks by their absolutely wonderful partner @top-shelf-tender for valentine's day. this is my first time writing a threesome fic featuring a non-canon character alongside the reader, and it was so much fun to do! happy valentines to the both of you, my loves!

featuring: smut, husk is kind of sleazy, oral sex, vaginal sex, threesome, thigh-riding. partner is unnamed and transmasc, and hell is gender-affirming because I say so, so they have markings where their top-surgery scars would be and both sets of genitalia. again, because I say so.

The Overlord notices you before you do him, but his attention still leaves goosebumps prickling against the back of your neck in a way that has nothing to do with the way the cool breeze of the air conditioning caresses the bare skin of your arms, your thighs. You’ve wandered into one of the more secluded areas of the casino, the sounds of tumbling slots and excited players muffled and replaced by the soft, playful chords of jazz music and the muted conversations of the few sinners around you. The spicy-sweet scent of cigar smoke tickles at your delicate nose as you order a drink from one of the imp waitresses. Confusion wrinkles your brow for a moment as she hesitates, glancing over your shoulder for a few seconds before nodding and heading to the bar.

Despite the pause you still get your drink, and you find a seat at an isolate table towards the side of the room. The boozy mix of maraschino cherry and gin is cool and fresh against your tongue, the alcohol joining the previous drinks already muddling the edges of your mind. There’s this buzzing in your skin; an awareness that doesn’t seem to be dulled at all by the alcohol, those instincts that seem to have come hand in hand with your sinner form keeping a wariness itching inside you.

It doesn’t seem to unsettle you though… instead there’s a warmth that curls in your stomach and up against the small of your back. So, when a tall, silver-furred hellhound approaches your table, you don’t feel all that surprised.

“Stand up,” he tells you gruffly. “The boss wants you at his table.”

You blink, an ear twitching as you set your glass on the table in front of you. “The—”

“Let’s go.”

Shit.

You almost stumble over your heels as you do as your told, the chair legs catching briefly on the carpet. Your face warms with nerves as you realise what you’ve done.

You’ve managed to walk yourself right into the private lounge of the gambling overlord himself.

Following obediently after the hound to the opposite corner of the room, you run your palms over the skirt of your dress, nervously smoothing away non-existent wrinkles in the sparkling fabric. The bar is dimly lit and the glow of the overlord’s eyes is the first thing you notice as they watch you, half-lidded, as you cross the bar to his table. The demon takes a long drag of his cigar as the hound pulls out a seat and guides you into it with a genial hand against the middle of your back. The smoke curls around the overlord’s features as he studies you with a weighted gaze that seems to heat your very core.

“You’re new.”

You open your mouth, close it again as you fail to find your reply. His voice is rough but melodic, a hypnotic blend of torn velvet and warm honey that makes you shiver. When you don’t respond, his smile curves wider with amusement, his claws sounding a quiet tink against the crystal of his whiskey glass as he picks it up. He takes a sip, unbothered by the burn of it, before he continues.

“I’d remember you.”

You swallow as the heat doubles in your cheeks, and you finally find your voice again. It quavers slightly, and you twist your fingers together in your lap beneath the table. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t realise this was your private… area.”

“The security outside didn’t tip you off?” he asks with a raised, red brow. Off your look, his smirk widens, and he turns his head to address the hound now standing beside him casually. “Roscoe, remind me to give Dex a bonus. He always has the best taste.”

The silver hound – Roscoe – nods, hands tucked behind his back. “Yes, sir.”

The exchange makes you shiver; a fly, served up to a spider in its web.

“I should go,” you offer, your tone deferential, polite. “I was just looking for somewhere quiet, and—”

“In a casino?” the Overlord seems entertained by your explanation. He raises a hand, and moments later another drink is set on the table in front of you. His whiskey is replaced, too.

“I never said it was logical,” you defend yourself, waving a hand pointedly up at one of your ears, the one that bends down against your hair, the tip of it brushing your forehead like bangs. “They’re kinda sensitive.”

He chuckles, and the sound of it almost feels as though it pulses into you. “I bet they are…”

You press your thighs together under the table, feel the cold wet of condensation against your fingers.

The Overlord leans forward on the table, his wings shifting, spreading slightly behind him imposingly. “Your luck turn on you, doll?”

You shake your head, fidgeting with the stem of your cocktail glass. You take a sip, hoping the booze will banish the tension you feel tightening almost addictively in your stomach. “I’m not actually much for games of chance.”

The words slip out before you consider them, and you bite your lip. The cat demon’s smirk only widens though, and his eyes watch your nose twitch almost predatorily. “Smart girl.”

You breathe a soft laugh despite yourself, and for a brief moment, you think maybe his pupils actually widen at the sound. “It’s not really about being smart, I just… how lucky can I be if I’m in Hell?”

The Overlord snickers, letting his gaze travel down over you for a moment, every inch of you warming under his glowing gaze. He takes a long drag from his cigar, eyes returning to yours, and when he speaks his voice comes huskily, a tone low enough for just you to hear. “Ever thought about tryin’ to make your own luck?”

Something in his question makes you bold, and you finish your drink, lick the sweet liquor from your lips with the tip of your tongue. “And how do I do that?”

He swallows the last of his whiskey, waving away the bottle immediately offered by a nearby imp. Instead, he gestures to the hellhound, standing up and rounding the table towards you. “Find Roscoe here, later. He’ll show you to my private suite.”

The suggestion in his voice is enough to make your breath catch. Excitement rises unbidden inside you at the suggestion, the promise in his voice. “I…” you clear your throat, remembering yourself. “I have a boyfriend.”

The Overlord smirks, smoke curling around his muzzle as he leans down to speak in your ear.

“Bring him.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Everything between telling your partner about the offer you’d been made and you now kneeling on the Overlord’s plush carpet floor was a blur. You’d mentioned it teasingly, a joke that the two of you could laugh about as a what-could-have-been anytime you passed by the Lucky Hearts Casino, even as your face had flushed with the pink of arousal, of possibility. And now that pink burns in your cheeks again as you watch the Overlord light a fresh cigar, considering the two of you with bright, hungry eyes. He smirks when his eyes fall to where your fingers are laced with your partner’s between you.

“Oh, sweet girl…” he croons, relaxing back into the soft fabric of the armchair he’s reclining in. His tail twitches back and forth slowly, and his tongue slips out to lick slowly against the side of his muzzle. “Don’t you two jus’ make up the prettiest pair of playthings?”

You swear you can feel your partner’s pulse drumming against your fingers, their anxiety, their excitement mirroring your own. The Overlord had welcomed the two of you into his suite with a knowing, cocky smirk, and the burn of the drinks he’d plied the two of you with still burned a little against your parted lips. The demon exhales a trail of smoke towards the ceiling before he leans forward in his seat to bring his face level with yours. He takes your face in one paws, claws digging into your cheeks as he tilts your face back. His smirk widens as he holds your gaze for a moment as though he’s considering you, and then his mouth is on yours.

His kiss is warm and rough and intoxicatingly demanding, tasting of whiskey and smoke and something you’re sure is just him – his tongue slides against yours, surprising you with its rough texture, and your hand tightens in your partner’s as you whine into the Overlord’s mouth. His fangs catch briefly on your bottom lip as he pulls away, and you whimper. He holds your gaze long enough to catch your reaction, see the way you lean forward instinctively to chase his lips, before he moves to kiss your partner too.

You watch the two of them like you’re suddenly starving for the way they look together, a thrill curling through you as your boyfriend leans up into the embrace, as you catch glimpses of their tongues meeting. The Overlord’s claws are curled around his throat, the point of his thumb claw digging tauntingly into his raised chin. Your partner dares to raise a hand to cup the Overlord’s cheek, and the cat chuckles into the kiss before he finally pulls away.

“Mmmm…” he hums almost thoughtfully as he settles back in his chair, pleased, and takes another drag from his cigar. The claws of his other hands trail over his thigh idly, as though he isn’t fully aware of it, and they linger over the fastening of his pants. “Y’know, guests really should make a point of thankin’ their host.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You lick slowly up along the length of the Overlord’s hard cock, the barbs tickling along the flat of your tongue. Your fingers curl in the soft fabric of his trousers, tugging them further open, baring more of him to the two of you. You can’t help but moan as you feel your boyfriend’s tongue meet yours, curling around the other side of the cat demon’s cock as he mirrors your moments. The Overlord groans, head falling back as the two of you tease the head of him.

The sound turns to a heady chuckle as he watches the two of you kiss, your fingers curling around the base of his cock and pumping him slowly. You’re straddling your partner’s thigh, and you can’t help but gasp into his mouth as you grind down against it, matching the pace of your hips with the pace of your hand. You can feel his familiar smile against your lips, feel him bite teasingly at your lip as he mumbles, “That’s my eager girl…”

He kisses you again before he swirls his tongue around the Overlord’s cock and sinks his mouth down onto it, taking it in until he gags.

“Fuck…” The Overlord moans, wrapping a fistful of hair in his claws and tilting your head back. He tugs it harder when your hip still, pulling a gasp from your lips at the sudden flash of pain. “Did I say stop, doll?”

You shake your head, rolling your hips against your partner’s thigh obediently. You clutch at the Overlord’s thigh, your partner’s shoulder, feel the claws leave your hair to skim down over the side of your face. They trail over your shoulder, bare except for the strap of your bra, and one claw catches under it, dragging it down to your arm.

“Give daddy a show, baby.”

You hold his gaze as you unhook your bra, slipping the flimsy lace from your arms and tossing it aside. You can feel your partner’s eyes burning into you too as you run your hands over your chest, squeezing the soft, giving swell of your breasts. You nipples harden under your touch, sparks of pleasure with each flick of your fingers. The feathered end of the Overlord’s tail tickles over the small of your back, the curve of your ass, and you hold his gaze as you bring your mouth back to his cock.

The two of you make out almost sloppily, tongues and lips teasing over the demon’s cock. He thrusts up into your mouths, claws in your hair and your partner’s, and you take turns deep-throating him until you’re both gasping for breath, drool hanging in a thread from your lips. Your partner catches your cheek in his hand, wipes the saliva away with his thumb before he kisses you again. You practically melt into it, light-headed and breathless.

“I’d say the two of you might be the most wholesome little creatures in Hell if I ain’t just witnessed all that,” the Overlord smirks, stroking himself a few times before he pushes himself up to stand. He gives you both a dark, cocky smirk, reaching up with one paw to undo the buttons still fastened around his throat. His other hand comes down to stroke your partner’s cheek, and the sinner leans into the touch, eyes closing for a moment. “On the bed, the both of you. Now.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You shiver as you feel the soft, soft fur of the Overlord’s chest press against your bare back, his claws claiming your hips. He has you kneeling on the bed in front of him, and you can feel the firm line of his erection pressing against the cleft of your ass. You push your hips back against it and he groans a quiet laugh in your ear, squeezing your hips and brushing a biting kiss to the curve of your throat.

“Easy, doll,” he tells you, tail tickling at your ankle. “We’ve got time for that yet, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

He breathes another laugh, rewarding your teasing with a kiss to your jaw. You whimper the barest breath of a moan in response, pushing your hips back into his again needily. He watches your partner over your shoulder, directing his next words to him. “She always this… enthusiastic?”

Your boyfriend is laid out on the bed before you, their legs parted as you slowly circle his clit with your fingers the way Husk had murmured in your ear. Their chest heaves with every laboured breath, a crease between their brow as you work them slowly undone. He nods, a breathless smile softening his features in a way that makes your heart flutter against your ribs. You want to bend down to kiss him, to catch his lips with yours and taste the quiet moan that escapes him, but the Overlord’s paws keep you anchored against him. When you dip your fingers into him and then raise your hand to trail your slick fingers along the line of his cock, he bucks up into your hand.

“Yes…” he sighs, eyes rolling back for a moment. He reaches down blindly, fingertips just managing to graze your thigh. “I fucking love it…”

Husk snickers, touching a claw to your chin and turning your face towards his. His voice is low and rough with desire. “So do I.”

He kisses you deeply, claws making you shiver as they tease over the soft flesh of your stomach, down to whisper over your inner thighs. One paw moves back up your body to squeeze your breast, curl around your throat, and your breath catches against his palm.

“Now, pet.” he tells you, his lips so close to yours you can feel his breath tickling your cheek. “You’re gonna be a good girl, and sit on his face, yeah?”

He relaxes his paw just long enough for you to nod, to breathe out an eager, “Yes…”

“And you’re gonna watch me make myself at home right there, right where those clever little fingers of yours are now.”

Again, he flexes his grip on your throat, and you partner moans again as you flick your fingers back over his clit. “Yes, sir…”

The cat’s smirk widens at that, his other paw slipping a little further up between your thighs. You know he can feel just how wet you are as his fingers graze the thin fabric of your underwear, and you ache with the need to feel something inside you.

“And you’re gonna show your boy here just how much you appreciate how he feels between these sinful thighs of yours by tellin’ me what to do.” he releases your throat just to press a kiss to it, the rough barbs of his tongue sliding against the sensitive flesh there. “Sound like somethin’ you can handle, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” you move your head in an attempt to catch his lips with yours, but he pulls away.

“Be a good girl, now,” he says, running his claws up the back of your thigh to squeeze the soft cottontail at the base of your spine. It makes you jump, your nose twitching. “And do as you’re told.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Your back arches with the force of your moan as you feel your partner’s tongue press deep into you, his fingers playing almost too lazily with your clit. He echoes the sound, muffled by your thighs, as the Overlord laps his tongue up from his hole to the head of his cock. The demon is laid out on his stomach between his thighs, wings quivering as he grinds his own erection against the sheets. His tail waves behind him, his claws wrapped firmly around your partner’s thighs, forcing them to stay open to him.

“Fuck, right there…” you breathe, honestly unsure of which man you’re talking to. You lean forward, bracing your hands against your boyfriend’s chest so you can grind down against his mouth. He groans headily into your cunt as you trace your fingers lovingly over the markings that line the curve of his pectorals, your thumbs flicking over his nipples. “Right there, baby, fuck…”

The Overlord’s ears flick towards the two of you greedily, drinking in every little sound you make. An almost desperate urge to run your fingers through the soft fur between them overtakes you, and without thinking, you lean forward to do so. The gambler stiffens the moment he feels you fingertips graze his fur, but at the ridiculous softness of that hair draws you in and you sink your fingers into the thick fur. And when your nails graze along his scalp, the big bad Overlord does the most endearing thing you could possibly imagine –

He purrs.

The sound is a rough, chainsaw rumble that seems to vibrate into the very mattress beneath him, and your partner’ moans loudly into you, arching up under the Overlord’s mouth. The cat meets your eye, gaze aglow with arousal and need and what you swear is a warning not to say a fucking word about what you’re hearing, but still he arches his back in that gorgeous, fluid way only cats can seem to manage when you move your fingers lower to scratch at the base of his neck and between his shoulders.

“That’s it, sir…” you murmur, voice catching as your partner’s fingers quicken on your clit. You fuck yourself needily on their tongue, stroking your fingers through the Overlord’s fur. He has a paw fisted around the base of your boyfriend’s cock, his tongue on their clit. “That’s it, a little… faster… fuuuh—”

Your eyes roll back as your partner mirror’s the Overlord, fucking you on their tongue in a way that makes your toes curl. He’s thrusting his hips as best he can to press his cock further into the cat demon’s paw, the higher pitch to their muffled sound betraying just how close he is.

“Keep—fuck, keep going, I—” you feel your partner’s hand tighten on your thighs as you buck against his mouth, holding you in place over his tongue. The Overlord groans, that purr still rolling through his throat, and you choke out praise as you watch your partner’s body tense so hard his hips rise off the mattress. You’re so fucking close.  “Good kitty…”

The Overlord jerks away from your partner, glowing eyes snapping to yours. There’s a strained, begging whimper between your legs, and your own orgasm slips out of reach, but you’re trying to fumble for an apology, a question, whatever that expression on the gambler’s face means. Your chest heaves, skin marked with the memory of bites and rough hands.

“Get up,” he tells you, voice rough and reedy and hot. You open your mouth to apologise, worried he’s ending the night there, but instead he says. “Turn around. On your knees.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh, God…” you bite back another moan as the Overlord fills your cunt with his cock, fucking you just roughly enough to send a wonderful prickling up along your lower back. Your fingers curl in the sheets beneath you, and you open your eyes when you feel your partner’s hand smooth over your cheek. The touch is soft, gentle, then he’s grasping at a handful of your hair and jerking your head back to meet his eye. The Overlord curses as you tighten around him. “Shit…”

“Fuck, she’s tight…” he growls, claws digging into your hips, your thighs. He releases one to squeeze a handful of your ass appreciatively, withdrawing his cock only to slide the barbs of it up against your slickened clit. He snickers when you whimper. “Ain’t too good at takin’ a hint though, is she?”

Your partner smirks, and there’s love and desire all mixed in with the darkness of his arousal, and he uses his other hand to squeeze your cheeks, urging your mouth open. He hums his approval when you slide your tongue down along the underside of his cock and take it into your mouth. “That’s my girl… fuck…”

The Overlord thrusts into you again, hard enough to force you forward and make you gag on your partner’s cock. He groans, hand flexing in your hair, savouring the softness of your locks even as you suck slowly up along the length of him. Every press of the Overlord’s hips into yours makes you take him further into your mouth; saliva dangles in a thread from your lips as you choke around him.

“Good girl…”

“Such a good girl…”  

“Fuck…”

“Feel so fuckin’ good…”

You feel your partner lean forward, hear the sound of the two of them meeting above you, torrid moans and open-mouthed kisses. The Overlord squeezes your tail again, claws sinking into the delicate puff of fur to dig into sensitive flesh. In the same moment you feel fingers pinch your nipple roughly and you moan around the cock in your mouth as you cum. You gag again, and tears wet your cheeks as your partner holds you in place there for a few moments more, fucking themselves into your mouth with a groan. When they release you and you’re gasping, they brush the tears from your cheeks with loving fingers, and you take them back into your mouth the moment you have your breath again.

It’s practically them that is all that holds you up by the time they both approach their release, your arms and thighs shaking as you cum again. Your legs are slick with cum, drool dripping onto the back of your hand, an ache in your jaw, and one in your cunt and god, you hope they never go away.

Your partner strokes your ear as he cums, deep into your mouth with a groan of your name. You swallow eagerly, tongue curling around the head of him until he pulls out with a gasping, breathless laugh. He murmurs sweet nothings, cradling your overheated face in his hands until the Overlord cums, too, thrusting hard and deep into you as he growls a ragged curse.

He doesn’t pull out until you stop shaking, sliding the length of his cock up between your thighs a few teasing times before he sits back on his calves.

“Sweet Christ, fuck. That was…” he watches as you roll over, your head pillowed against your partner’s thigh as you press your own together, still trying to catch your breath. You can feel him run tender fingers through your hair, pulling it gently away from your face. The Overlord runs claws through the fur of his chest, seeming to consider the two of you for a moment before he huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle and shakes his head. “That was fuckin’ something.”

[bisexual-horror-fan]

"Show Me How You Do It." Bo Sinclair and Rusty Nail X FEM! AFAB! Reader.

So! I have been talking about doing a cross-over fic with these two for a while, you know, the fucked up chain-smoking, truck driving, southern bastards who would totally get along AND make each other worse. So I went kinda hard on this, it gets pretty messy and nasty and violent, I hope you all love it and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And most importantly, Happy Valentines Day!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 5.6K. Bo Sinclair and Rusty Nail X FEM!AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: EXTREMELY DUB CON. Blood. Gore. A Mutual Murder Hobby. Chase. Predator/Prey. Kidnapping. Restraints. Duct Tape. Nipple Clamps. Masochistic/Pain Slut Reader. Blow Job. Rough Oral Sex. Throat Fucking. Gagging. Knife Play. Pain Play. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Insults. Voyeurism. Torture. Vaginal Sex. Branding. Crying Reader. Cream Pie. Raw Sex. Sloppy Seconds. Serious Threats. Forced Orgasm. The Idea Of Wound Fucking.

—

The pair met by chance, a totally random run in, they figured out each other's hobbies and proclivities by pure happenstance, but a strange friendship was forged all the same as a result. 

Rusty had been on a truck route he'd done multiple times, so when he came across someone rude and in need of correcting? It was all too easy to go after their clique, safe in the knowledge he could indulge his murderous thirst and still hit his destination on time. He'd been on the group for two days, it was near midnight, her car was badly damaged, finally died with a sputter. 

The massive truck comes to a stop, and she sees him in the rearview mirror, she curses and gets out of the car, all her friends are dead, she is alone as she makes a futile attempt to run, key word is attempt. They had got in a nasty fight earlier, Rusty took a tire iron to her leg, pretty sure he broke the bone, but she'd wriggled away, got back to the car had made a getaway, except now if she wants to continue her escape, no other option but to do it on foot. It's amusing how pathetic it is as she limps away. Rusty gets out of his truck and makes his way, not in a particular rush, following behind, she can see him coming, try to speed up, he laughs, then he breaks into the lightest jog and catches up so easily. 

He locks a hand onto her shoulder, leg kicks out, his foot connects, and he violently dislocates her knee, causing her to go down like a sack of bricks with a sharp scream that matches the sound of the sickening crack of her bones breaking. She sobs weakly as Rusty stands over her prone form, back lit by his truck lights, he pulls out a pocket knife, flicks it open, lingers for a moment, simply watching and then he lowers down. A hand is in her hair, he stabs home, sinking into her throat, then tugging, dragging from the left to the right and cold metal tears through fragile flesh and hot blood jets out onto the pavement, staining his knuckles as he removes the weapon from her now dying body. He stands and waits, crimson dripping down silver, drop, drop, drop onto the asphalt. He watches until she stops making those sick gurgling sounds from choking on her own blood and stop moving all together. 

Rusty admires the scene for a moment, and that's when he hears it, the unmistakable sound of an engine turning over, the headlights flicker on and wash over him in profile. He turns his head to see the pickup truck that created the sound, it had been turned off, partly hidden off-road in the grass. He can't see who is at the wheel, his hand tenses around the knife, the door opens, and a man gets out, he leans against the door and calls out, “Nice work.”

Rusty pauses, he isn't sure what to make of the supposed compliment, he keeps his guard up as the stranger approaches, soon he is standing close enough, bathed in the lights from Rusty's truck. He looks to be in his 30s, dark hair, a navy blue jumpsuit, a baseball cap, a crooked smile and the one thing that makes the tension ease, blood speckled across his own features. Rusty considers him, then asks, “You have a good night too?” 

Bo laughs, genuine and joyful rolling off his tongue, “Oh, the best. Wanna hear about it?”

They drag the body off the road, move Rusty's truck off to the side, the pair of them lean against Bo's truck, they both talk and smoke. Bo opens up first, an olive branch, sharing how he and his brothers have their small town project, how people who run through get adopted into the “repopulation effort”, and how he had dispatched the last one who tried to get out of the town. Bo had the corpse in the truck bed, he showed it off, and that was pretty good proof for Rusty.

After that, Rusty shares the indiscretion that idiot made, the cross state chase, the friends he murdered that led to the finale’ Bo just witnessed. It was an entertaining hour to say the least. 

“I gotta finish my delivery, but I got some free time after that, would love to see this town you’ve been talking up in person.” Rusty admits, which has Bo telling him, “Would love to have you, don’ wanna keep you an’ I have to head back myself.” 

Rusty made a move to pick up the body and Bo brushed him off, “Nah, I can handle that for you, if my brother can’t do somethin’ with her, she can go in the gore pit.”

That intrigued him further still, “The gore pit, huh?”

Bo jerked his head behind him, a vague gesture in the direction of where it was, “S’ where undesirable bodies go, you know the ones too fucked up for our purpose, spare parts and whatever can’t be salvaged, t’aint far from here.”

“Well, mighty kind of you, thanks.” Rusty said it sincerely, he hasn’t met someone with his same hobby and certainly not someone willing to be so helpful. Bo told him, “Don’t mention it, I’ll see you round. I’ll make sure to warn my brothers who to look out for so they don’t do nothing untoward to you.” 

They parted ways and Rusty held true to his word, he was back around here in a few days time, and it was all true, just as Bo said. He was shown everything from the gore pit to the basement, and now he had a home away from home and some friends to come visit, like-minded people who he can truly be himself around. They both got along on at least their shared motivation, setting right people who have a distinct lack of manners, Lester’s collection of knives and hard work ethic appealed to him, Vincent’s art was as impressive as his brutal nature, but he got along best with Bo, they were the most alike overall. 

So it became a regular thing, swinging by and stopping when he was in the area, and the friendship grew over time, one of the best times they ever had was when Rusty stuck around for a few days and got to see them all in action when some unlucky people passed on through, he even helped out and fuck, if that wasn’t some of the most fun he ever had. Killing was usually such a solitary activity, sharing it with someone else with an affinity and talent for it, against trespassers and rude individuals? It threatens to border on the euphoric. 

The friendship has developed to the point that they didn’t just spend time hanging around Ambrose, some nights they venture out, do it the Rusty way, find some “talent” and go from there, and that night at the bar, is how they meet you. 

You don’t get nights out as often as you’d like, honestly, this was a rare occasion, you were headed to the table with a fresh drink when they noticed you.

“How bout her?” Bo asked, a glance to the man atop the stool next to him, once he caught his eye he tilted his head in your direction. Rusty followed the movement, looking you over as you settled into your seat, fingers gripping the cool glass in front of you, yeah you were definitely to his tastes, but it wasn't up to him.

Rusty focuses his attention back to Bo and replies honestly, “S’ your birthday, more about what you want than me.”

“True. So I want the illusion of bein’ polite, sue me.” He grinned before taking a sip of his own drink. 

Once they had their sights on you, it was going to happen no matter what, the pair ganging up on you made it laughably easy, especially since the facade only needed to be maintained to get you out of the bar, into the truck and down the road.

The next time you got up the “meet cute” was executed, you were partially distracted and being convinced you knocked into Rusty and spilled his drink due to not paying attention was very believable, as opposed to the truth of him forcing it.

You were thoroughly embarrassed, offering napkins you snatched off the nearest table, stumbling over an apology, “Oh my God, I am so sorry-” 

“S’ fine, accidents happen.” He assured you with that long southern drawl that caught your attention with an easy smile, and you insisted, “Really though, I am sorry, is there any way I can make it up to you?” 

“Well actually…This drink? Was for my friend, not only that, it's his birthday, maybe buy a replacement and come sit with him?” He gestures over his shoulder, and you look in the direction he indicated, not a bad looking man at all, neither was the man in front of you. 

Honestly, there were worse ways to spend your evening, it was more than agreeable. You look back up to his face, partially hidden from his hat, asking a question of your own and answering his query at the same time, “So what's he drinking?”

Once the drink was purchased and introductions were made, you were pleasantly surprised by how well you got along, the conversation flowed easily, the tone a bit flirty and when the offer to attend Bo's birthday party was made a long while later, you thought why not? 

You took a cab here and had already had a couple of drinks, so riding with them in Bo's pickup truck just made sense. The mood on the way there remained light, music playing, and you were excited by the sound of the upcoming festivities. The drive flew by, leading to you riding up the main drag in Ambrose, you were at ease and distracted so you didn’t notice the lack of any other car on the road, or any other living person, but you would come to question that as soon as you were out of the truck and in front of the large dark house. You expected lights, music already pouring out, life, not this, the utter still and quiet that was permeating the street.

“Where is everyone else?” You asked in slight confusion and the pair shared a laugh, Bo asked, “What do you mean?” 

A quirk of your brow with a point to the house, before your hand opens, palm flat and up as you press, “The party? You said there was a party here?” 

Another laugh, this one much more devoid of humour, “Sorry for the confusion darlin’ see, this is the party. One-” Bo points to himself, “-two-” then pointing to Rusty, “-three.” He finished pointing at you.

“A party of three sounds pretty great to me.” Rusty agreed with a grin and Bo confirmed, “A threesome sounds like the perfect gift, hm?”

You would be lying if you hadn’t thought about that earlier in the bar, with the certain touches, being pressed between them, thought maybe the night might trend that way in a different set of circumstances, you were into the both of them, but the choice being all but removed is a horse of a different colour. The response in you is automatic, you turn, and you bolt, you run back the way you came, and part of you was very aware you wouldn’t get away, but wasn’t this your fault?

You should have known better than this, then to get in a truck with two strangers you had just met, it was stupid. Now you were running down the street, terrified, and judging by the lack of help from your calls and cries and no people around, this town is deserted save for you and the two of them. Any other town running down the main street screaming for help would at least get some attention, but clearly this is no normal town. 

This is all calculated, and you played right into it, you can hear them behind you, hooting and hollering, they gave you a small head start, but now we're coming quickly, this is part of it obviously, the chase. You wonder how many times they have done this, if you would ever be found, if your story would eventually be covered on some morbid as fuck true-crime podcast, you push yourself harder, lungs burning, thighs straining and feet hurting from how hard you were pounding the pavement in an attempt to get away. 

Of course, they catch you. 

The one named Rusty had been the one to get his arms locked around your waist, yanked you up with a delighted, “Gotcha!” 

“Damn, she almost made it all the way to the church!” Bo sounded like he was genuinely happy and your stomach twists, you scream, Rusty whistles in response and Bo comments, as if you weren’t there, “Good set a lungs on her, huh?”

Rusty grunted in the affirmative as he tightened his arms around you, keeping a tight hold as you attempt to squirm, kick and struggle. “Let’s get her into the basement.”

The basement? The last fucking place you wanted to be alone with these two was the fucking basement, it was futile, but you tried, you called out into the dark nothing of the night.

The basement under the garage was a dank dirty place, you don't take in many details, but your eyes do scan the photo wall, the mattress with no sheet on it, but the focal point is obvious once it enters your line of sight, the chair. Leather and metal, able to change the position, an archaic dentist chair.

You are put in it, held by one tightly and your wrists and ankles duct taped by the other, several loops around your knees and elbows further restricting your movement, in less than two minutes you know you weren’t going anywhere.

“Think this'll hold?” Rusty asked, grip loosening, and Bo hummed, “Yeah it should, has before.” 

Confirming you are definitely not the first, then again the simple fact this room existed communicated that, a knife is drawn, and he says, “Too bad you are so restless, might have been able to save these pretty clothes if we coulda stripped 'em off before we had to tape you up.” 

Rusty follows Bo's musing by saying, “Yeah, now we'll need to cut them off to get to what we want.” 

“Shame.” He says it in a tone that gets across his overt joy at the situation. 

You say nothing because you know it won't help, there are a few displeased sounds that escape when he begins to work regardless. The thin strap of your top is caught with the blade, he pulls it up and the strap snaps, the second one follows, next the shirt's hem is gripped with one hand and the knife saws up until the fabric is able to be yanked off your frame. You are pulled up from your sitting position and your nice jeans are cut in multiple places before the blade is put between his teeth and then strong fingers slip into the open spaces, then tearing until only some denim is left on the lower half of your legs, thanks to the tape. He nicked you with the knife a few times, and each time you inhaled sharply from the small jolts of pain, the blood slowly running.

Rusty sat idly by, on a chair of his own, watching this all go down, you wonder why he isn’t getting in on it himself, most he is commenting on what's going on, at the moment he is talking about your underwear, saying it's  “Cute, think she was looking to get laid tonight?”

“That's a great question, let's ask her, she's been too quiet.” A hand is in your hair, jerking your head up to look at him instead of the cut he left on your inner thigh. “The panties are real nice, you dressed up cuz you were lonely? Desperate for some company?”

So maybe you were, perhaps that was the main reason you were out there tonight, but that doesn't mean you had to admit that to them. You don't want to not respond, so you lie, “It's for me.” 

“Oh really? Don't know nobody who wears stuff this slutty just for themselves, do you, Rusty?” Bo's hands are on your body, knife off to the side as he starts to feel you up, fingers playing with the lace edges and delicate material covering your chest.

“Personally? No, I don't. Wearing something like that is just asking for it, inviting all sorts of attention.” Rough palms explore your tits, thumbs brush already hardening nipples and your breath catches. You bite out a response, “Ever heard of the saying look good feel good? That's all it is.” 

Mutual scoffs and laughs, before Bo taunts, “Yeah, sure, let's follow this line of thinking, you look good to feel good, so I'll help you feel real good.”

“So generous.” Rusty complimented and Bo thanked him. You thought about how isn't this what you wanted in a roundabout way, you might as well try to enjoy it, right? Might be sick and twisted, but so is this whole situation, you’d be a filthy fucking liar if you said you weren’t into the idea of being restrained, perhaps if you mentally reframe this you can get almost as much enjoyment out of this as they are.

“You gonna put some of that to good use?” Rusty asked with a gesture to the wall, your head turns to see a series of what looks like torture implements on hooks and racks. 

“Course I am! That's half the fun right there.” Bo left you on the chair as he headed over, your eyes went wide with panic, and you said, “What about what you just said? About feeling good?”

“Awe, you don't get it, see, the hurt is gonna make what does feel good, feel even better.” He said it slowly and carefully, as if you were stupid, and he needed to spell it out for you to be able to begin to comprehend it. You resent that, hate how much it arouses you.

He came back over, something in his hand that you couldn't quite make out, his opposite hand reached out, fingers hooked in your bra, and he pulled it down under the curve of your breast so it would stay in place. Bo says casually, “Nice tits.”

You laugh, a shocked nervous thing from how casually he stated it, that laugh is cut off abruptly when he flicks your nipple, you yelp and then that makes him laugh in turn. Some more flicks, hard pinches and twists led to him saying, “You look ready.”

Both his hands get into the mix, and you find out what he brought over, nipple clamps, worse still clover clamps. Traditional clamps pinch from two sides, clover clamps resemble their namesake and instead provide four points of pressure, like the directions on a compass but more sadistic in nature, boxing the sensitive bud in on all sides. He takes his time placing and tightening both of them until you can't hold back your whimpering, the pain is burning, more than slightly distracting, the chain connecting the clamps that currently rests between the valley of your breasts is freezing cold. You are trying to reign yourself in, not show just how much of a pain slut you are, but it is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. 

“Looks good.” Rusty praised, and Bo followed with, “Have to say I agree.” 

You are repositioned, the chair is moved, the leg rest stretched out, you are pulled forward, and adjusted to his liking until you are on your knees and elbows, eye level with his belt buckle. 

“I can't resist it, I gotta have that mouth, but M’ not stupid, I know it's dangerous, so keep those teeth in line, or I'll make it hurt much worse-” As he speaks he is opening his belt and dragging down the zipper on dark washed jeans, staring down at your face. “-you do a good job we can get to you feeling’ good too, faster.” 

Makes sense, you do love sucking dick, you can fake some added enthusiasm, you can do this.

You had noticed how hard he was through his pants, and now he was standing before you, thick and hot shaft in his hand, he nudged his hips forward, the head of his dick to your lips. You resist for a fraction of a moment, but even that is enough to displease him, he grips and yanks your hair, breaching your less than willing mouth, he starts to slip inside you, closing your eyes and taking him halfway down on the first stroke, rewarded with a pleasured hum from him. The taste is strong, salty, but by no means bad, just the kind of flavour you’d find from a man who hasn’t showered in hours.

You pull back and then rock forward, you tighten your lips around him and suck, you think to other times, different circumstances to fuel you, a running track of your thoughts, “Act like you love it. Act like a slut. Give it your all. It might just save your life.”

And that is exactly what you do, you press your tongue to the underside of his shaft, dragging up and then forcing yourself down harder, sucking all the while, but you don’t just do that, you make sure to provide some good variety. You pull him almost totally out and focus on the head, tongue swirling around the tip, eyes open, and you look up to meet startlingly blue eyes, “Not a bad start.”

You can do a lot better than that. Rusty piped up, and your eyes shot over, watching as he is opening his own pants now, “How about you give her some more motivation?”

Sinking down again as your captor says, “I love how you think.” Bo reached over, you falter, and he said, “I didn’t say slow down.”

His tone is harsh, you fight a wince and step it up, picking up the pace and making sure to hollow your cheeks on every upward movement. You only got a few bobs of your head in until he had whatever he needed in his hand, he reaches down, and soon you are clued in, the harsh pull on your nipples, the chain pulled taut, now it was crystal clear, he added a weight. You were feeling it, back arching slightly to try and ease it, but there was no helping it, the pain in your nipples nearly doubled, and you had to fight to maintain momentum in sucking his dick. 

Your focus is on Bo, but Rusty still checks in, and you can hear him openly jacking off at this point.

You begin to find your footing, some semblance of confidence, when Rusty cuts in again, “You're being so nice to her, M’ shocked.” 

That gets the intended rise out of Bo, him muttering, “Shut up Rusty, I’m not fucking nice, and you know it.” 

Rusty hits back with, “Coulda fooled me.”

Bo picks up the discard knife and holds it to your cheek, a shock of fear runs through you, body tightening up, and he barks down at you, “Is that the best you can do?”

Christ, you are being put to work. You begin to throat fuck yourself roughly, hoping that will please him enough, that the added pressure of the head of his cock penetrating the tight wet heat of your neck will soothe him. He does seem to enjoy it, in fact he enjoys it so much that the knife slips slightly and cuts your cheek, you whine around his dick, and he groans at the mild vibration. 

Rusty even notices your efforts, calling out, “Look at her get after it.”

He can’t help himself, hips starting to move, fucking into your mouth that is steadily leaking drool down your chin. 

You had been faring pretty well but with him getting increasingly rough, the pain from your chest and the second, fuck, third cut on your cheek, the lack of air, you feel your stomach turning, you gag too hard and pull yourself back with a gasping breath. 

No rest is given, no kindness show, an open hand hit to your bloody cheek makes you cry out before fingers tangle in your hair and twist, pulling you closer to him, you don’t comply immediately. You are still trying to breathe, to rein in your stomach and not be sick, but he isn’t having it. Head pressing to your closed lips, and you shake your head, tempted to tell him you need a second, he tells you, “Open that addictive little mouth again.”

You shake your head, and he tightens his grip on the knife, “I’ll get in that mouth one way or another, even if I have to make a new hole to do it.”

The severe look on his face tells you how serious he is, you should have realized sooner that he is the kind of man who would get off on fucking an open wound. His fingers prod at the slice on your cheek and the image of him ripping it open with his own brute strength just like he did to your jeans earlier filters through your mind, like water rushing over a rock.

That convinces you, mouth back open, he shoved inside, and you find a way to make it work. The worst thing about all of this is how it is getting to you, the extreme situation, the degradation, the audience and pain, him using your mouth with no regard, your inner thighs are soaked. In a few more minutes, the extreme nature of the throat fuck has your eyes tearing up and when he catches the shiny wet tracks pouring down your cheeks he cannot help himself. 

“She puts on a good little show, doesn’t she?” Rusty praised and Bo grunted in agreement.

He is hauling you up, no concern for how it hurts and pulls on the clamps, he throws you down onto that dirty mattress, you are on your back and that eases the pain on your chest a bit. 

You wonder how he is going to do this with the tape around your ankles and knees, your legs are together and straight, but the answer comes quickly, your legs are brought up, rested on his chest, feet placed beside his head on his left shoulder. Rusty gets up, not bothering to put his dick away, “I got you a present, don’t let me stop you, I’ll get it ready.”

He is able to get great leverage, have complete and total access and still look down at your, as he puts it, “Pretty cryin’ face.” 

One hand falls down, and he touches your soaked cunt for the first time, his fingers swiped up between your folds, and you arch, a gasp slips out, and he laughs, “Holy shit, you are soaked!”

Bo holds his hand up for Rusty to see, and he pauses whatever he is doing and laughs too, your eyes close, and you bite your tongue, suppressing a groan, you just want relief, you want him to keep touching you and hate yourself more than a little for that fact. You are wet, yes, but unprepared for how swiftly he enters you, essentially no preamble, it tears a loud moan from you and all pretense is abandoned, you can’t even remotely pretend this doesn’t feel incredible and exactly what you need. It both soothes your need and stokes it at the same time, the thick shaft dragging along your swollen walls, stretched to what it feels like their limit. 

He doesn’t waste time, he is rough, cruel, he slams his hips into you with such force it hurts the backs of your thighs, but the positive far out weighs the negative, it feels amazing. 

You lose yourself, moans and curses spill forth from your lips as you rock with him, his hands are needy, busy grabbing on you, feeling the soft planes of flesh within reach, the sound of skin on skin and his own curses and groans fill the space. Whatever Rusty is up to has totally fallen away in the background.

 Even when he first got inside of you, actually cumming wasn’t honestly on your radar, and yet, here you are, hurtling towards that edge. You swear that at times with attentive partners giving it their all you can’t get off, and here is this total asshole, with zero care for your pleasure, his fingers brushed over your clit all of one single time, and he might just make you cum harder than anyone else ever has. It creeps up quickly, going from the thought, “I think I might actually cum-” to gasping out, “Holy fucking shit!” cumming with an ample gush in the span of less than two minutes. 

The pleasure makes you shiver, body trembling, every small inhale noisy, you feel like your body isn’t your own and yet you are still locked inside of it, helpless to the complete overwhelming force of it sweeping through you. The walls of your pussy rippling around his shaft, as if trying to pull him even deeper, an impossibility because he is slamming every single inch into you on every forward thrust of his hips.

Bo groans loudly, his head tipping back, a swallow that makes his Adam’s apple bob heavily, “Christ I could die in this cunt happy.”

You are overstimulated, still struggling to come down from your high, when Rusty’s voice filters through your pleasure induced haze, “I think I got something to make it even better.”

Bo looked over his shoulder to Rusty, you can’t see him from your angle, but Bo gasps, “No you fuckin’ didn’t.”

“I sure as shit did, so you want it?” Rusty asked, and you hear a grunt in the affirmative, “Yeah, fuck, hurry tho, M’ gettin’ close.”

You hear the steps coming closer, even over the obscene sounds of your sex, the wetness and meeting of your bodies, you try to brace yourself, but you have no idea what you are preparing for, still struggling with your body weak from the evening's strenuous activities.

“Got a place in mind?” Rusty asked and Bo said, “Anywhere, you’re the expert.”

Bo’s voice sounded strained, his hips are flattering, but every thrust that does fully connect is somehow even harder, he really is close, and you know there is nowhere else he is going to cum but inside of you.

You don’t see it, you feel it first, the pain is unlike anything you have ever experienced, the pain is blinding, the scream that it rends from you is the loudest you have ever let out, no doubt. It goes on for a solid twenty seconds, your entire body locks up, naturally your cunt is included in that, and it proves too much for Bo, it pushes him over the edge, and he holds deep, cumming fully in your seizing pussy. You are begging, broken and nonsense, begging all the same, just for whatever they are doing to you to just end. 

When Rusty steps away, your vision takes a moment to come back into focus, once it does, you see it, he is holding a branding rod, the still angry red capital B, they branded you, right on your outer thigh near your hip. Long after this night is done, if you make it out alive, a permanent reminder and souvenir from this, branded for Bo, his birthday present always, even if you manage to get away. 

The pain is still ruling your mind, you are not at all focused on it when Bo pulls out, he lets go of your legs and lets them fall to the mattress you don’t notice the cum pouring out of you because of the sudden terrible pressure on the brand makes you sob. You don’t notice Rusty getting onto the mattress next, vaguely hearing him ask, “Mind if I finish up in her? I got real close earlier.”

“Go for it.” Bo encouraged, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand as you continue to cry. “Shhh, I gotcha.” Rusty puts you on your other side, taking all the pressure off your brand mark, thankfully, he lines up and slides into you with a deep groan, the sound of it makes you clench around him. 

Rusty taking him up for sloppy seconds provided essentially no relief, the waves of pain radiating cuts through any pleasure, it is too strong for even a little masochist like you to enjoy. No way you are going to cum again tonight.

Rusty must have been very close before because he is cumming in you, adding to the mess, less than five minutes into fucking you. You feel pretty out of it when he pulls out too, you know you are making a mess, stuffed with far too much cum for any one hole. You lay there, still taped, sweaty, more tired than you think you have ever been when you hear Bo say, “Lets go have another drink and then see if we wanna come back and play with her some more tonight or leave her for tomorrow.” 

“Love the way you think.” Rusty replies, you hear them head up the stairs, and you lay there, bringing your still bound hands up to take off the clamps still fixed on, far too tired to even think of escape, hoping they leave you for tomorrow and that the pain ebbs enough that you can get some much-needed sleep.

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 36: A Burial Of Things

*Please read below before continuing*

A few clarifications: I should have named the Zen’in we met back in Chapter 19—the one potentially seeking Yuna’s hand. From now on, we’ll be calling him Zen’in Kaito. And yes, he’s essentially Toji, but I chose not to name him that because (personally) picturing Toji in this setting would pull me out of the time period. Previous chapters have been updated with this change. That being said, my burnout-ridden brain made a mistake in the last chapter (and will likely make many more). The very last sentence shouldn’t have referred to the “blade” coming up behind Sukuna—it was meant to be the man, oops. Keep that in mind, and I apologize for the mix-up. Anyway, this chapter completely broke my brain, and I have many feelings about it. (And thank you, Muse and Arniee, for coming to the rescue and anyone who said they would beta-read this chapter <3)

Word count: 11.7K

Content warning: Violence, death, descriptions of corpses (including children), war-like scenarios, blood, stressful situations.

Chapter 35

“Hopefully, this isn’t a mistake.”

Exhaling a slow, steadying breath, you shove your letters under the saddle, pressing them firmly into place before swinging yourself up onto Ayana.  

She paws at the soft ground, her head bobbing—eager, almost like she senses what’s coming. And what you’re about to do is either entirely reckless or stubbornly brave. You hope for the latter as you take the reins and steer her toward the main road.  

Before you, the landscape stretches wild in every direction—hills giving way to wide, open plains, with mountains beyond rising like rows of teeth.

You could choose left, ride for the capital, and leave it all behind—bury the truth in convenience, pretend you never saw what lies ahead, turn a blind eye and be with your sister. But under your skin, it prickles, watching as low hanging clouds churn in the distance, hinting at things far worse.  

And you see it.

That slow, continuous thread of dark smoke siphoning into the sky.

That’s your destination.  

East—toward the carnage already unfolding, toward whatever village is unfortunate enough to be caught in the path of the force bearing down on Sukuna’s domain. All because of your actions, what you asked of him, and what you did. And you know what lies ahead. Bodies burned beyond recognition, women brutalized, children with their heads bashed in.

Sukuna won’t protect those under his rule.  

But you might.  

Brave or foolish—you suppose you’ll find out soon enough.

Shifting in the saddle, you grip the muted indigo lining inside your obi and tear the strip of fabric loose. Twisting it, you knot it around your neck and let it hang there.

Taking the reins in one gloved hand, you pat your mare’s neck with the other. She chuffs and stamps a hoof.

“It’s time to go,” you murmur, lifting your chin, eyes fixed on the smudge of orange crouching against the dull horizon. Then you drive Ayana forward.

* * * * *

Riding along the outskirts, beneath the swelling black cloud above, you know the village lies just beyond the hill ahead.

At this distance, it’s quiet. You’re not sure what to think. You’ve come across no one, yet you can feel them—feel the energy shuddering through the air, pressing into you like the throb of an open wound. Others like you—many of them. But one presence rises above all.

Pushing your mare forward, you guide her up the gentle rise. It doesn’t take long to reach the crest, where the world breaks open, and everything comes into view.

You’d like to think devastation and ruin had become a part of your life over time. That being in a union with death itself had exposed you to such things. But looking at what lies before you now, you see how little that truly was in the grand scheme of it all.

The raid must have struck before dawn, tearing the village from its sleep. Body after body, shape upon shape, all resembling people, lie at its edges. Smaller forms that are children. Frail ones that are elderly. It didn’t matter if they ran. They were cut down.

And those still alive flee from the fire that led you here. It burns in scattered pockets, forcing the survivors in every direction—but the assailants don’t let them get far.

You take it all in, the calamity, the loss.

But above all else, there is the sound.

The blaze hisses and crackles, but that’s not what you hear. What you hear are the screams, the wailing, the shouting—all running together like the rush of a storm swallowing everything whole, growing louder, more numerous. Panicked.

Horrible guilt finds its way into your stomach, where it fists and settles.

You take a deep breath.

All the horrors you’ve experienced mean nothing compared to this.

Nothing.

Beneath you, Ayana fidgets, ears pricked. She must sense it too—this violence. But you can't stay here. You need to get down there. Have to.

Reins in hand, you straighten in the saddle and reach for your leather gloves. Some half-buried-alive instinct knocks inside your chest, a warning telling you that this will be brutal. One tug, and the first glove slips free. The second one follows just as quickly, and you push them inside your obi.

No turning back now.

Blood surges, pounding through your veins as you nudge your mare and descend the hill toward the fire.

At first, the ground is easy to traverse—flat and grassy, scorched only where tiny embers have drifted. But as you draw closer, the soil turns uneven, scarred. You guide Ayana through the wreckage of abandoned lives—broken oxcarts, scattered belongings, straw sandals, clothing, things left behind.

Across your path, a gust of wind sweeps through, carrying with it a thick plume of smoke. Cinders float down, soft as snow, tangling in your hair, clinging to your lips, streaking your cheeks. Your eyes burn. You pull the fabric from around your neck, tightening it over your nose, warding off the fetid air and burned flesh.

It stings.

You squint against it.

Just ahead, the first line of bodies rise up from the earth, grey with soot. They lie where they fell, lie with eyes wide, mouths open to circling crows and falling ash. And pressed among them, a child curls in on themselves, arrows sprouting from their tiny frame, small hands outstretched toward the figure beside them, as if reaching for comfort in their final moments.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped there until a blink clears a bit of smoke from your vision.

Numb. You feel… nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And yet—disgust, blind rage, hatred—each emotion wedges itself deep in your throat. Sick. Stomach-in-your-throat sick.

You swallow them.

You have to.

There will be time for those later.

In the distance, through the haze, the living flees in every direction. They run, stumble, fall—only to be dragged down by the snare of chaos. You move toward it, urging Ayana into a faster gallop, her hooves tearing into the earth in time with the hammering of your pulse.  

Closer, and the inferno blazes hotter.  

Closer, and more traces of what lies ahead come into view.  

Closer, and down your spine, a searing of energy.  

Sukuna’s presence tightens around you—he’s fighting in this writhing mass of life. But you steer away from where you think he might be, angling toward the north end of the village instead.  

Get in, get out. Usher as many to safety as you can.  

Simple.  

Hopefully.  

But maybe you’ll die here.  

Your hands tighten around the reins.  

But let’s try not to, okay?  

Gaining speed, you tuck in close to Ayana’s neck, her silver mane lashing against your cheek. She’s tense beneath you, muscles coiled, stride steady. Your heartbeat roars inside your ears.  

Closer.  

The screams swell.  

Closer. 

The splintering of wood groans under heat. 

Closer.  

You barrel into another layer of thick smoke, tunnel through and burst out the other side.

The village snaps into view.  

So do the assaulters. Their clothing, their insignias, barely visible through the haze but you see it. 

Heian-kyō and—  

Zen’in.

Bastards.

“Rider!” A voice cuts through the melee.  

Your head jerks to the sound just as a dozen eyes snap toward you.  

For a beat, there’s confusion. Feet scuffle. A clang. The glint of weapons.  

You yank Ayana left, then right, weight shifting, hooves striking, weaving tight arcs around fallen beams and bodies. You drive her toward a narrow break in the wreckage—a clear path to relative safety.

But a man steps out from behind the ribs of a collapsed home, bow drawn, arrow nocked.

He releases.

Whoosh.

You throw yourself low into the saddle, making yourself small as it streaks past your head.

Your breath snags. You twist—just in time to see it quivering in the dirt behind you.

Fuck. Too close.

“Kill her!” A command from somewhere in the fray.

Squeezing your thighs, you yank hard on the reins, wheeling Ayana around the archer. But stance widening, he moves with you, grin sharp, nocking a second time.

Your pulse pounds. His fingers tighten on the string—

He draws.

Aims.

Shit.

At this distance—

Under your fingertips, an ache flickers to life. You know what needs to be done.

“Come on, girl! Stretch your legs!”

Ayana’s breath heaves in the smoky air, but she pushes harder, galloping straight into his path—a smear of snowmelt against dust.

The archer squints into the cloudy morass, arrow set, wavering between you and the swarms of shifting bodies.

Seconds. That’s all you had. Seconds to reach him and end this.

You push harder.

The distance closes.

Tightens.

Collapses.

You make it, fingers shooting out, brushing the grip of his bow hand, right where it steadies the riser.

The arrow flies—

Misses.

Because by then, the decay has already started, crawling up from the point of contact, and his hand falters. Knees slamming into the dirt, he drops, and a satisfying shriek bursts from his chest.

Speeding away, you glance back just as the swelling overtakes him, his body tearing itself apart from within. It starts with the bones. Bursting through the skin, they erupt in a messy spray of blood and innards that uncoil like soggy plants to the ground. 

There’s a scream. Then silence.

For a heartbeat, everything stills. Your eyes search the area as the atmosphere shifts. Some of the surrounding men hesitate, a few peeling away, backing off instead of advancing.

Good.

You take it as your cue to move.

Skin humming with power, you tear down the empty, narrow path at full speed, forging your way to the north end with Ayana thundering beneath you. Anyone in your way—anyone attacking, butchering, skewering civilians—you touch. And it’s quick. An unsuspecting graze, a skim of a finger at the back of a neck as you streak past, so light and gentle you almost wish it wasn’t.

Still, they all die.

As they should.

Hooves drumming faster against the earth, teeth rattling, your body moving with your mare’s powerful gait, you break through the far end of the village. The smoke thins, and near its edges, a cluster of frightened people picks their way through the wreckage, stumbling, confused and disoriented.

“I can help you!” you call, slowing beside them. But they shrink back, wary.

Understandable.

You pull the cloth loose from around your face, letting it hang at your neck as you wipe soot and sweat from your forehead and cheeks.

“Keep heading for the treeline,” you urge, lifting a hand to motion toward the forest. “I’ll hold anyone off.”

At least there, they’ll have cover to escape—instead of running into the open fields or back only to be slaughtered like animals. And if anyone follows them into the forest… then you’ll take it down with you. A last-ditch effort. Decay the area. Be the final pillar standing between them and their pursuers. But that’s if you can control it a second time the way the King of Curses dragged it from you.

“Back there.” An elderly woman steps forward, her face folded in distress, swathes of clothing soaked in blood, though it’s unclear if it’s hers or someone else’s. “Our men are still fighting.” She trails a trembling finger toward the village at your back, her voice tight with urgency. “Help them instead.”

Swallowing, you glance toward the treeline, then back to where she points toward the madness.

You hesitate.

The woman takes another step as if to urge you, her expression pleading despite the exhaustion weighing down her frame.

They’ll make it. They have to.

You exhale sharply, then pull the cloth back over your nose.

“Keep going!” you press, squeezing your thighs into Ayana. “I’ll help the others.” 

Get in. Get out.

Simple.

Nodding once to the staggering group, you urge your mare on, who streams forward, and you’re gone.

Fires still burn down the center of the village, their glow licking at the shifting ground. Bodies move in a tide, crashing and breaking over one another. Mounds of figures. Hills and dips of them. Still, you carve into the onslaught, right into the heart of the struggle, where ruined homes smoulder and the assault continues to bleed.

Under the fabric pressed across your face, the stench seeps in. You gag. Filth, blood, sweat, the shit and urine of frightened people all mingling together with the flames that sting your senses.

But you take it in.

The villagers wield whatever they could cobble together—crude spears, small blades—desperately trying to hold their ground. But it's a fight they're bound to lose.

Scanning the battlefield, you’ve never been in something like this before, never faced this kind of violence, and you’re unsure where to go first. There’s movement everywhere. Too many screams of grief and agony, overlapping with bodies dropping, open bones flashing, limbs mutilated, blood pouring to the earth.

It’s hell—a gaping pit of it. And you’re standing at the precipice.

That recklessness and stubborn bravery you felt earlier evaporate. And all you can do is watch.

Until you hear it.

A louder, broken cry rises, cutting above the crush. A girl’s scream. Visceral and raw, and dripping with terror.

Head snapping toward it, you shove your insecurities down your throat and move.

Veering left, you push Ayana forward. She’s already moving as fast as she can, but she’s starting to lag, her sides heaving, coat slick with sweat and grit. You won’t get there in time, not like this.

Leaning over your mare’s neck, you scan the shifting mass, peering above heads and weapons—then you see her. The girl. She’s young. A man in armour leathers nearly triple her size, drags her close to a half-fallen hut.

You need to get there.  

Now.  

“Oi!”  

Throwing yourself off Ayana, your feet slam into the dirt. Yanking off your covering, you give her a sharp smack to the hind. She whinnies, lurching forward, tearing away toward cover.

You run.

Shoving through the thickest of fighting, into grunting men, slipping between gaps, squeezing past sweaty bodies, you force your way through whatever space you can find.

“Leave her alone!”

The warrior doesn’t stop. His grip tightens. He yanks her close, dragging at her arm, jerking her off balance. Between glimpses of his broad, moving figure, you see her face.

Days later, you’ll still remember this moment, exactly how it felt when you saw her tear-streaked cheeks, her wide, bright, terrified eyes.

Sickness lumps in your belly. You know what’s about to happen and the thought alone drives you faster, legs burning, steps hammering into the earth.

I can make it.

You run for her.

“Stop it!” Your voice rises as you tear free from one cluster, just as two men crash across your path. You dart around them, weaving through the chaos—dodging people, dodging weapons, dodging a spasm of energy that erupts from nowhere.

Still, the man doesn’t stop, he continues. You can hear her sobs now, can see him crash a fist across her face, bloodying it.

“Don’t touch her!” you scream, barely paces away—when his right arm suddenly shoots sideways.  

He lets her go. And she falls.  

The girl crumples. Boneless. 

You freeze, heart stumbling. Take another step.

Too late.  

It’s only when you get close enough that you see the kaiken in his hand. The fine arc he carved through her delicate throat.

Your gaze drops.

There, in the dirt, her body arches violently, mouth agape, opening and closing around air that won’t come—because that slit spills too much red across her skin, choking each attempt.  

Your mouth trembles. And helpless, all you can do is watch.

Watch until finally, she goes still.

I’m sorry. 

So damn still.

I’m so sorry.

The man, his back still facing you, grunts in satisfaction. But you don’t hear him. You don’t acknowledge him. You just stare at the girl—perhaps only just reaching her twelfth year. Probably never seen anything beyond this village. Never to see anything more than this. Be anything more than this.

Fodder.

Something to be used and discarded, buried with the rest of this place.

And didn’t you know how that felt.

A cold, hard rage falls over you, a cleaving storm and sea of emotions.

You raise your eyes to him, and you use it.

Use the same anger that burned through you last night. Use the emotions that twisted inside when you saw the child, arrows jutting from their small body. Use the knowledge, the hate, the bitter understanding that the capital would unleash such cruelty on its own people just to destroy a monster they so desperately want to punish. Use every ounce of self-loathing you’ve let rot within, every lost dream, every life cut short, every sightless stare. Even the memory of that tiny life you took too soon, before it ever had the chance to open its eyes to the world to begin with.

Your hands lift.

That discolouration shudders down your forearms, spreading like fine cracks through fragile, broken glass. Energy throbs within—you try to wrangle it, breathe through it, control it. But even the small pieces of advice Sukuna gave you, to focus on breath, drains the moment the man turns, lifting the small scales of his leathers to inspect them briefly before wiping the blood-slicked dagger across his uwa-obi. Then, he looks at you with greedy eyes and smiles.

Smiles.

He even spits out a laugh as if the thought of you fighting him is some tremendous joke. As if you are nothing more than a farce.

But being underestimated has its advantages. And if you die, you’ll die dragging him down with you.

“Stupid thing,” he huffs around his teeth, nudging his head toward the girl, and your eyes shoot down to her lifeless body. “You want to end up like that, do you?” 

At his words, your throat closes—your failure staring right back at you.

Deep in the pit of your stomach, a seed grows, and a wicked flower takes root.

A pause.

You lift your head.

An animal, when cornered, will not hesitate to attack.

You don’t feel your body as your mind is lost to outrage, and you lunge. Screaming.

In seconds, you're on him, fingers darting for his weapon hand, the only part of him not covered.

“Ugly little scab,” he hisses, barreling forward, an enormous, living wall of muscle and cloth. “I’ll put you in your fucking place!”

His elbow slams into your jaw.

The ground tips beneath you.

Your ears ring, head snapping sideways, the impact setting off a pulse that throbs like a second heartbeat.

Groaning, you stumble back, the taste of iron pooling in your mouth. Blinking against the pain, you lift your head, expressionless. He makes no move for his weapon. Instead, his fingers curl inward as if enjoying the thought of breaking you apart with his bare hands.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

When you move again, you’re faster—unhindered by armour. Light on your feet, you reach him, your grip hooking around his wrist before sliding lower, tracing over his exposed fingers.

An intimate touch. Like holding hands.

His eyes snap downward, sneering at the gesture—then, confusion flickers across his face. Before he can react, he collapses into the dirt where he belongs.

You step back, watching him crumple, writhing pathetically in on himself.

Bending, you peel open his hand before his body deteriorates and the weapon is lost to his flesh.

“Thank you,” you say flatly, savouring his heaving breaths and wide eyes, watching as putrefaction spreads, splitting his skin like dry, cracked earth.

“I admire when big men like you make mistakes.”

Reaching into his spasming palm, you pluck the dagger free.

“And besides—” You straighten, giving him a humourless smile just as the pressure in his stomach swells, bloating like a pustule.

“Guess even a stupid thing like me can handle a small blade.”

Stepping away, you ignore the putrid implosion, revelling in his demise for a single heartbeat and turn, ready to launch yourself at the next assailant when—

Your entire world flips sideways.

The battlefield tilts. Sounds dim.

You topple weightless to the ground, the impact crashing into your chest.

You gasp, unable to breathe.

Looking up, you reorient yourself only to realize someone has tackled you from behind, the blood-slick terrain lying parallel to your eyes.

Rolling over, you peer up just as the assailant's foot slams into your ribs.

Agony screams its way through your torso. Breath punches past your lungs. You cough violently, clutching the retrieved blade tightly in your palm.

He attacks again, this time with a wakizashi raised.

Shit.

Move!

You fling yourself across slick, slipping through filth, heat, and corpses.

Clang!

Barely dodging the downward swing and low whine of the weapon, you scramble back, a rush of air hissing past your ear.

“Don’t kill her!”

What?

Your head snaps to the voice issuing the command. The order throws you off guard, but through the crowds you can’t find the source.

Head whipping back, and before the attacker advances, you dive forward on your stomach, stabbing blindly. The blade sinks into his shin, scraping bone. He shrieks. You push quickly to your knees, then feet, balancing on your toes to lay your fingertips on his exposed neck.

It’s enough.

On contact, you’re moving to the next opponent rapidly closing the distance and ducking under the blunt end of a polearm swinging for your chest.

He misses. You peel away.

But it doesn’t matter who comes at you after. Whether you’re bashed across the face, your movements turn slow and sluggish, whether you’re overpowered by someone larger than you, if you’re kneed in the stomach, screamed at, spat on, cut, stabbed, bludgeoned.

That’s fine.

You keep fighting.

Sinking low, you dodge the rebounding weapon. It slices past, wind brushing your cheek as you drop, diving for an ankle.

Touch—

Then you’re up again, and exhausted, you keep going.

Dodge.

Your hands grasp for any bit of skin.

Stab.

Stabbing to incapacitate.

Then touch—they die.

Over and over, again and again.

Dodge. Stab. Touch. Die.

Across the center of the village, clambering over bodies and shallow pits of fire you move. It’s not elegant nor is it graceful, but the mindless rhythm is carving its way into you.

Dodge. Stab. Touch. Die.

At this point, you don’t even know your own name, let alone what you’re doing. All you’re dimly aware of is the next fucking bastard hurtling at you then—

Dodge. Stab. Touch. Die.

Often not in that order. Sometimes, you’re beaten to the upper hand, and some part of your body pays the price.

Still.

Bruised, broken, reshaped. Madness takes over.

Now, you’re screaming, eyes glazed, barely registering your surroundings—the dwindling attackers, the villagers fighting beside you. But then, you’re panting, and it doesn’t take long to notice a group of men breaking away, surrounding you in a tight barricade.

Six. Seven. Ten. Fifteen of them.

Tension winds into your belly in thick, pulsing waves.

A snake pit.

Breaths heaving, you cock your head, surveying the circle closing in. They know, and you know that you’re cornered. So, there’s only one way out of this.

Gaze flicking downward, you search across the ground until you spot a little patch of green. Your eyes snap back up, meeting the faces encircling you. The men are quiet, and silence deepens—then shatters all at once.

“Take her!”

The shout is nearly swallowed by the flames eating the morning air. But you hear it. Again, not kill her. Not end her. Take her.  

As in, capture?

When they advance, they move as one, surging forward, eyes alight with a wild intensity to bring you down. 

But you don’t move. You wait. And you count. 

Three.  

Let them come.

Two.  

Let them get closer. 

One.  

Only when they’re just out of reach do you toss the blade aside and drop, graceless, to the ground—one knee slamming hard. Someone shouts a warning, but your palms are already hitting the grass, fingers pressing into sharp, tiny blades, massaging in deep.

You breathe, hoping this will work a second time.

Please let this work a second time.

Then release.  

The rot spreads.  

Snaking out in choppy directions, it clambers away from you, the stain spreading and reaching onto feet and up legs, eating its way through to touch skin.  

The first few fall, the decay crawling over them, hungry, expanding in messy tendrils. Flesh blackens, stiffens, and flakes apart in fatty layers. Some collapse instantly, their legs rotting to brittle husks. Others stagger, bodies twisting as the sickness chews through them piece by raw piece.

But it’s inconsistent.

Sluggish in places. Fast in others.

It leaps between targets, missing some entirely, leaving patches of untouched ground even as others dissolve into the dirt. Your breath turns shallow. Last night, it felt controlled, this time, it writhes as something undisciplined.

Then it slows, and it stops.

And one of them slips through.

Shit.

A man on the outer edge barely escapes the rot, his leg dangling—half-consumed, eaten up to the thigh—yet he’s still moving. His face tightens with fury, spittle flying from his lips as he staggers toward you, dragging the ruined limb behind.

His blade swings up.

You lurch back, scrambling to stand, but somehow he’s faster. He swings—not to cut, but to strike.

Take her.

The flat of his katana whips against your collarbone, the shock rattling through to the marrow and roots of your teeth.

Pain erupts as he steps in, aiming to wrestle you down as his hand snatches at your wrist, grip tight and bruising. He wrenches you toward him. Too tired, you reel, sucking in a breath, but before he can force you to the ground, a polearm ruptures through his abdomen, making him choke on a wet scream.

You freeze, peering up just as one of the surviving villagers steps into view, gripping the weapon. With a sharp thrust of his leg, he kicks the body free, letting it slump to the ground.

Right.

You push to your feet, legs wobbly, body awash in sweat. 

You’d forgotten about the others—too caught in what seemed like crazed bloodlust, teetering on the pinnacle of something you’d never quite felt before.

Swallowing, you scan them. A handful remain, panting, recovering, their garments stiff with gore, the ground at your feet crowded with Heian-kyō and Zen’in corpses.

“Thank you,” you rasp to the spearman. He steps back with a gentle nod, the staff of his weapon resting on the ground.

“There’s more.” You gesture over your shoulder before turning. “Others. They’re all converging at—” Ragged breaths seize your lungs. “At the edge of the forest. I’ll take you there.”

You hesitate just long enough to ensure they follow, then step away.

But you barely take another step before the low thunk of wet flesh hits your ears, followed by a gurgling cry.

You turn.

“No, no, no.” You catch the man who had just protected you by the edges of his garment. He was only walking paces behind; now an arrow sits lodged in his throat, the trembling shaft and tip sticking out the back of his neck.

With his strength falling away, he staggers closer, mouth opening and closing as blood streams across his chin. Your brow furrows, he goes limp, head lolling onto your shoulder.

As your knees bend, dipping with his weight, you try to ease him off gently, but there’s a loud cry. Somebody shouts.

A sound follows. Whistling, from above.

You look up.

The sky shudders, as if a thousand, tiny wings are beating at once.

Feathers. Bamboo shafts.

Arrows.

A wall of them.

They arc overhead, blotting out the smoke—falling faster than air should be able to carry them. And they’re all aimed at the remaining survivors.

At that moment, you can’t breathe.

Or move.

For long, foolish seconds, you can only stare.

Panic in every corner of your being.

And that’s when everyone around you starts to run.

Someone crashes into you, sending you and the dying man sprawling forward. The ground rushes up, and you slam into it, the body following.

Left and right. Feet suddenly pound, running while the earth trembles and clatters with the hail of arrows. Panicked villagers surge to outrun the onslaught, and that’s when the first body topples onto you.

It starts small.

And it only gets worse.

Muscles burning, you fight to your stomach and try to drag yourself free, but more weight collapses on top. A glance over your shoulder reveals someone struck down, lying across your back. Dead weight.

Then, another one joins.

And another.

And another.

That’s when you realize—

They’re being picked off, one by one, and falling into a growing pile that is slowly burying you.

Urgency crashes over you.

Get up, get up, get up!

You struggle forward, but the crush of them, the panic of those still running, only fuels the desperate need to get away.

And you can’t blame them. They’re so close to surviving this.

Were.

A groan tears from your chest, the weight, the sheer mass of limbs and torsos pressing in. It thickens and suffocates until you are no longer just yourself but a mound of dead flesh, an organism swallowing the earth.

You curl in, shielding your face.

Crack, as more weight slams into the heap. The light begins to dim, like the sun is setting.

Cold understanding climbs through you.

This is it. Buried alive.

You consider screaming for help. But who would hear you under here? Anyone?

Inside your head, a voice laughs. Laughs at the woman who caused this. Allowed this. Helped put these people in the line of fire, turning this place into what it is. And now, she’s trapped beneath it.

Funny.

Crack!

Eyes squeezed shut, you listen as the sound of arrows striking flesh pulls down more bodies. Cries surround you. Then go silent. Somewhere at the top of the pile, someone is begging. For what, you’re not sure, only that it’s a faint, trembling please.

Fingers raw and digging into the dirt, you claw toward the last, faint sliver of light threading through the tangled mess of cloth and cooling skin.

But another corpse drops, sealing it shut.

You still.

Gone is the flicker of fire on the other side. Gone are your stilted movements. Your escape.

It’s all gone.

So dark. 

* * * * *

Silk and light and warmth. Open air and softly pressing bodies. Shifting robes and summer on the wind.

Comfort.

You stand in the middle of the market, your mother holding your smaller hand in one and Yuna’s in the other.

Around you, the world is a riot of different senses—stalls lined with bolts of dyed fabric, hues bright in the hot sun; baskets of fat persimmons and plums piled high beside earthenware jars of thick pickled roots. Your tongue coats itself with saliva at the thought of their stickiness.

From somewhere deeper within the market, an instrument twangs, the rich sound met by the brighter clatter of a drum. Above it all, a singer’s voice floats, laughter peeling away from a gathered crowd watching a performer twirl a fan between skillful fingers.

Your eyes sit wide open, taking it all in, and eagerly you move through it.

“Whose turn is it to decide what we bring home?” your mother asks, squeezing your hand gently in hers.

At five years old, you’ve come to treasure these monthly outings—a simple ritual where you or Yuna get to pick a small delight to bring back to the Kasai compound. This time, it’s your turn. And your sights are set on sticky rice cakes wrapped in fragrant leaves or thin wafers dipped in sweet syrup.

“Me,” you announce proudly, flashing her a beaming smile. “It’s my turn.”

Above, your mother’s lip curves, and she winks, making your cheeks puff up before laughter breaks free.

“To the vendor with the sweets, then!” she declares, swinging you forward—then repeating the motion with Yuna, who lands with a giggle.

Back and forth you go, propelled by her hands, making a spectacle when really the three of you should be practicing the artistry of decorum.

But your father isn’t here.

So what use are manners and politeness when it’s just the three of you? No commands to follow today. No strict rules. No yelling.

Weaving your way through the narrow stalls, their vibrant colours blur past until your mother gently guides you both toward a section where the air is soaked with the scent of sweetness. Too short to see above the crowd and over the cloth-draped stall in front, you glance at your mother instead.

“Are we here?” you whisper, voice quiet as you look up. “I’m pretty sure I smell it.”

“Me too,” Yuna nods in agreement.

Your mother slips her hands from yours, crouching low, her elegant kimono rippling at her sides as she meets your gaze.

You always believed she was some kind of goddess. That feeling never went away.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right,” she says, tapping a finger lightly to the top of your nose. You scrunch it up immediately, earning another small smile. “We’ve arrived.”

“We’ve arrived!” you and your sister chime together.

Grinning, your mother rises to her full height.

“I’ll be a moment.” She nods toward the vendor. “Why don’t the two of you look around and see if there’s anything new.”

Turning, she considers the selection above, head tilting thoughtfully as she studies the offerings. 

Yuna shifts beside you, and you feel her lean in.

“So,” she says, eyes bright. “Are you going to eat yours right away like last time?”

You look at her, thinking—but deep down, you already know the answer.

“It’s too good not to have right away. All that tasty, yummy stuff.” You end your declaration with a confident nod.

Yuna smiles.

Eyes wandering past her, they land on a basket filled with trinkets. Among them rests a small glass bead—like a seed, the kind kept hidden away in a pouch.

“You know what that says about you, right?” she comments, and your eyes pull back as she steps closer.

“That I enjoy eating sweets?”

“No.” She shakes her head, eyes falling to where your gaze was. “That you’re impulsive.”

Impulsive.

The word feels too big, something far beyond just sweets.

“What does that mean?” you ask quietly.

Yuna huffs, but it’s not out of exasperation.

“You always eat it right away. Like you’re afraid it’ll disappear.”

You blink at her.

“Is that bad?”

She tilts her head, staring at you like she’s discovering something new.

“Not always.” There’s a pause, a consideration. “But sometimes, it means you don’t stop to think. You just… take.”

Your gaze dances back to the bead.

“And that’s… bad?”

From the corner of your eye, her smile widens.

“Not if you take the right thing.”

She sidles closer, the tips of her toes peeking out from beneath her kimono to brush against the stall.

“I dare you to take it,” she whispers, raising a finger to point at the delicate gem you’ve been eyeing. Light catches in it—soft, smooth surface refracting into a thousand shifting colours.

You frown down at Yuna’s hand.

“I’m not so sure,” you mutter.

Her smile rises, and her cheeks swell.

“It’s not stealing if no one notices,” she offers with a shrug.  

Your gaze flickers caught between—bead, finger, face.

“But what if I get caught?” 

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hand moves, reaching out, fingers circling lightly around yours, warm and steady. She leans in, eyes shining.

“Don’t worry.” Her voice is soft but certain, like she’s declaring a truth you should already know. “I won’t let anything happen to you.

And then, right here, inside your head, you believe her.

Gods, do you.

Yuna has never been afraid of anything. Not the dark, not the stories of cursed spirits waiting in the woods, not even the screaming voice of your father when he was displeased. You’ve always admired that about her—the way she moves through the world like she already owns it.

And right now, she’s sure of this.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a traitorous itch you’ve felt lately. 

Tossing a quick glance at your mother, you see she’s still speaking with the vendor.

“Okay…”

Yuna exhales beside you, releasing her gentle grip.

Your eyes dart back to the bead glimmering under the market sun. It’s delicate, harmless.

I can do this.

Tapping a step forward, compelled, and the noise of the market dulls. Quiets. Only the soft vibrations of the bodies around you remain.

Tingles prickle into your face as your hand lifts.

Above the stall, a shadow moves.

You freeze and hesitate.

“It’s simple,” Yuna urges in a whisper.

The vendor shifts, reaching for something just behind the counter.

Pulse hammering at your ears, you push forward, eyes locked on the little, glinting gem.

She won’t let anything happen to me.

You smile.

Up, and your hand opens, fingers curving, brushing against the cool surface.

“There you go,” Yuna breathes. “Simple.”

You lift it free.

And it’s yours.

* * * * *

Sudden weight is dragged off you.

Light spills through.

You can breathe—suck in a breath. Deep, ragged, gasping. Smoke clogs your throat, burning on the way down. Dirty lungfuls, but still—air. Fucking air.

Squinting against the sudden glare through the gap in the pile of bodies, you look up. From where you lie, curled inward, a face looks down at you. A face with a smirk attached to it. A man’s face. Black hair. Dark grey eyes.

No.

“Look what I’ve found.”

Kaito Zen’in’s smile widens before his hands plunge into the tangle of corpses and wrench you free.

Body aching, you’re dragged out by the forearms, your feet stumbling over the villagers you tried—and failed—to save. Your gaze lingers on their faces until you’re steered away, pulled forward through the village, where the ground stretches ahead, muddy and exposed. No grass, nothing alive.

Kaito doesn’t release you until a ring of men closes in, encasing you. There are too many—more coming, more than before. A mix of Heian-kyō and Zen’in, all watching you like you’re missing something.

And something does feel wrong.

To your left, at the edge of the crowd, a horse’s loud whine hits your ears. Ayana. Through the bodies, you can see her light coat, the way she jerks and pulls against the reins, wild-eyed and skittish, fighting against a man’s grip.

Your lip twitches.

Resisting the urge to push through the group to get to her, you force your attention back to Kaito.

“What is this?” Meeting his stare, you roll your shoulders, trying to force life back into them after being crushed. “Need this many men to kill one woman and a village of innocents?”

That smirk of his stretches into an indulgent grin.

“No,” he says with a careless shrug. “We have no intention of killing you.”

So you say.

Eyes sweeping to the katana at his side, you notice his fingers hovering near the handle and the strange hum of energy rolling off it, something you hadn’t picked up on in your previous encounters.

“Then why are you here?” Your focus turns back to him. “If not for that?”

Zen’in doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a few steps forward, stares, then circles once before stopping in front of you. Tall. Muscular. Strong. Flawless. He’s built like a man you’d dearly love to punch in the face.

“You made quite the mess today,” he says, lifting a brow, ignoring your question as he gestures past the wall of onlookers—toward what can only be the rot and decay, the bodies you mutilated to get here. “Can’t say the men were thrilled about it. Like a little storm all on your own, one of pestilence and disease .”

He spits the last words out like they’re poison, and you fight back the dry laugh climbing up your throat.

“It was impressive,” he adds, idly tracing a fingertip along the weapon’s tsuba, caressing it like a lover. “A little sloppy, but still—impressive. Though—” He pauses, tilting his head. “I’d expect nothing less from the woman who stands at Ryomen Sukuna’s side.”

Teeth finding their way to the inside of your cheek, you bite down. It’s barely been hours since you separated, and already you feel pathetic. Just hearing his name presses a fresh wave of emotions through you. Raw ones. Painful ones. Yearning ones… Ones you wouldn’t mind letting go of. 

“I don’t stand at anyone’s side,” you mutter.

“Oh?” Zen’in lifts his head, giving you a haughty look. “What’s it been—two months? And already, there are marital issues? Did he not satisfy you enough? Or—” his gaze drags over you, slow and lecherous, “—was it the other way around?”

Scattered laughter breaks from the line of men, blasting past their throats.

Your lip curls. His grin grows.

“Are you speaking from experience?” you muse flatly.

“No,” he quips, “I have a son.”

As if that alone proves his worth. As if that alone proves anything.

“I wasn’t looking for you, you know,” Kaito continues, exhaling sharply as he smooths the front panels of his dark blue kimono, like this entire interaction has suddenly become an inconvenience. 

“Thought you’d be south, tucked away at his shrine. Yet here you stand—at the heart of all this.” He gestures lazily, hands spreading wide, presenting the carnage around you.

Behind, the fire crackles, its heat pressing in close. Sweat beads at your nape, sliding down to soak into your already-drenched garments, while a gritty breeze slouches through, stirring the smoke and pushing it into your lungs.

“Seems you have a way of finding trouble,” Zen’in smirks, but his eyes have changed, hardening above the curve of his mouth.

“And yet, it was you who came looking for me.”

At least, you assume they’re looking for you—or, at the very least, they want you for something. You’ve torn through both Heian-kyō and Zen’in forces, yet neither side has made any real effort to take you down.

“Ah, well.” Zen’in pauses. “Orders, you understand.”

And there it is. Orders.

“Whose orders?” You try to smile, try to defuse the growing unease making space in your gut. “I refuse to believe anyone would want me for anything.”

Stepping closer, his expression shifts, draining of all feeling.

You tense.

Something doesn’t feel right.

“The new head of the Kasai clan,” he says.

Few things could unsettle you after today's horrors, yet that—that gives you pause.

Do not trust the next head of the Kasai clan. Trust no one. Trust yourself.

Your father’s written words stumble through your head.

Eyes flicking discreetly over the crowd, your foot shifts back.

“You're lying.” You step away from Zen'in. “My clan is gone.”

“You think so, do you?” he drawls, before he turns, murmuring something to the nearby men, words you can’t hear, ones not meant for you.

He’s wrong. He’s lying. He has to be lying.

“No.” He prowls back. “The Kasai clan’s new leader was very particular about this request.”

Trust no one.

You don’t want to ask.

Trust yourself.

You shouldn’t ask.

Remember.

But your mouth forms the word anyway.

Remember your mother.

“Who?”

He merely smiles—a twitching, almost sad, belittling one.

“Your sister,” he says. “And now, you are wanted for crimes against the Kasai clan.”

World gone quiet. The bodies around you spinning. The only thing you hear in that sentence is sister.

Your sister.

My sister.

Yuna. The one constant in your life.

“That’s not possible.”

Not probable.

“Hm, I think it is.” 

“Then… this is a mistake.” You need to move. Pace. Your foot creeps back again.

Kaito’s grey eyes dart away, landing on the men who stand all too eager and poised. Every muscle in your body tightens at that look.

“You lazy bastards can move now.”

He glances back at you. Another smirk, a delighted one. His fingers wander to his katana, grip there he nudges his chin.

Your heart kicks faster.

“Take her,” he says flatly, then steps away.

Your heart drops. The horde moves.

All of them.

Loud and quick and arriving within seconds, they come with their hands.

Hands on you. Hands everywhere. Hands all over you.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you snarl just as someone jostles, then barrels into you from behind, sending you sprawling forward.

You thrash, but down here—on your knees, where the crowd towers over you—they’re too tall to see past, just like that day at the market. And for the briefest moment, you wonder what ever happened to that little glass bead? That harmless dare? But the thought crawls away as the swarm presses in, shoving you lower.

Your chest hits the mud. Your hands slam into the ground, fingernails scraping against cracked dirt as your lungs heave with the force. Someone wrenches your arms back until your shoulders strain, fire searing in their sockets.

“This is a mistake!” you rasp, cheek pressed against the cold. “My sister wouldn’t want this!”

She wouldn’t want this.

She wouldn’t do this.

She wouldn’t.

She—

The ground shifts as someone plants their feet on either side of you, they straddle your back, all their weight pressing down.

Ayana screams. You can’t see her, but you can hear her.

“Please!” You don’t mean to fucking beg, but it’s all you can think to say as more pressure crowds in, pinning you.

“Daughter of Lord Kasai.” A man from the capital steps forward. "You stand accused of conspiracy and treason for instigating a coup."

“What?” Your brow creases, crumpling down, eyes stinging with a sense of betrayal.

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening.

You go to open your mouth to protest, but a piece of fabric, sweat-stained and salt-bitten, is pushed into your teeth. It’s tied there, the grip adjusted, and then there’s a pull. Your spine comes up into a painful arch. You try to scream, but the cloth strangles the cry. You try to crawl away, to twist, to fight—but your body shudders under the heavy weight.

And then something hums through the air. Sings like molten metal.

You still. Nostrils flaring, breaths hot and shallow around the gag. 

The men part, shifting back—as if whatever is coming, they don’t want to touch.

“Thus,” the man continues, “you shall be condemned as such.”

Lifting your head, you catch his gaze sliding right—to another figure stepping forward, hands gripping a long, narrow piece of metal that warps the air around it, heat curling in its wake.

裏切り

Traitor. Betrayer.

Your lungs won’t open. You can’t breathe. Terror, icy-toothed and razor sharp, it bleeds into every sense as the branding iron swims into view—its tip swollen and breathing fire.

A tear slides down your nose.

“Don’t do this!” Around the cloth comes the muffled demand. At the corners of your eyes, they sting.

“Open her palm.”

The suggestion comes from somewhere, and your right arm is wrenched back, fingers pried open, forced apart.

And you feel it. The heat of the blistering metal drawing closer and closer.

Panic ignites through the dark place you sink into. Toes digging into the dirt, you thrash. Push. Fight.

Useless.

She wouldn’t do this.

She wouldn’t.

She can’t.

Unseen prodding fingers. Energy moving around your neck. You barely notice the heavy disturbance in pressure brushing against you, until every hair along your spine lifts. And it’s gentle. Soothing. Behind the gag, your breath catches, eyes snapping to the left.

But you’re not ready for gentleness.

Some shameful part of you wants to look away, wanting to flinch at being handled like this, at being put in such a vulnerable position. So similar to last night. And yet, not.

Because a sick, twisted part of you knows—

He wouldn’t do this to you.

But that shame moves away, drowned out by the veritable fury pouring off the King of Curses in mouthfuls.

Before you, everything narrows. Somehow, the crowd has moved—legs have shifted, bodies have parted. He approaches like a fallen deity of death. Dark kimono slung low at his hips, blood drooling off him, that great trishula clinging to his back like a fifth limb. The iron still hovers, blistering hot at your back, and you fight against it, but your eyes stay locked on Sukuna, his on yours. His, nowhere else.

But behind him, a streak of something.

A smear of midnight blue tears through the smoke.

Your eyes strain.

Zen’in Kaito.

Unmistakable, even from here.

And he’s fast. Unnaturally so. Despite his katana being drawn and every line of his body swollen with motion, he doesn’t slow—not even when aiming straight for Sukuna’s head.

“Sukuna!” Your scream buries itself in the gag.

Zen’in’s weapon comes up.

The four-armed demon stops. Studies you. Moves.

Upper left hand shooting behind his back, fingers gripping the spear, he rips it free from his obi and turns. Fast.

Metal clashes. The impact thunders.

A burst of air throws back your hair as the shockwave washes over everything, extinguishing fires, tossing debris, rumbling the earth.

The two men break apart.

They surge together.

There’s a second violent sting when their weapons collide, recoil, then grind in a bone-rattling scrape.

Snarling, Sukuna’s massive body lurches. Zen’in is forced back, startled, off-balance, his feet skidding across the ground. His head swivels toward the men.

“Get her the fuck out of here!” he barks, levelling his katana to attack.

Useless on the ground, you can only look up. Around you, chaos erupts. Feet slam into the ground, orders fly. The seam that split the crowd earlier is stitched back up, blocking your view of Sukuna, but you can hear him fighting.

Tangled in combat with Kaito, the King of Curses snaps his head over his shoulder, his lower right hand swinging toward you.

Flick, and a rush sweeps over your head.

There’s a slash.

Hot liquid bursts across your spine, thick splatters spilling as the weight pinning you down disappears.

You move. Lifting yourself, you push to your knees, eyes locking on the freshly severed head and body beside you.

Another ripple distorts the air. You can’t see past the dirt and movement, but you hear Ayana rear back—then bolt.

Turning, you eye the man holding the branding iron straightening before you.

Gripping the gag in your mouth, you rip it free, drop it to the ground and spit.

You glare at him.

“I suppose you’re first,” you mutter.

You don’t give him time to prepare. You lunge for him.

But he’s not standing still, either.

Eyes following his movements, you avoid the burning metal as it’s swung toward you. Heat hissing, it hurtles downward.

The edge of your kimono sizzles as the iron catches it.

Shit.

Jerking back, you reset your stance, stepping away, and he comes with you.

The metal arcs.

This time the air around it hums loudly with the force.

Feinting, your feet take you left and right before rushing in. His arm lifts to block, but your fingers find his wrist.

It’s over.

With a single touch, you sever yourself from him.

The iron slips from his grasp and he collapses, knees buckling, folding inward.

Heart in your ears, you watch the way he crumples, scratching at his garment as if he could peel away his skin and scrape out the decay eating him alive. But this… this isn’t nearly as satisfying as watching the death of the brute who killed that young girl.

That had felt like something else entirely. Hunger. Hungry.

Hungry—to see him rot, to watch him wither and die. Hungry in your brain to witness more and—

“Are you injured?” A deep voice grinds out from behind.

Sukuna.

Tipping your head back, you catch his profile—his broad back to you, two left eyes peeking over his shoulder. You hadn’t noticed when he got so close.

“No. Just some bruising,” you mumble, peering past those red slits, noting that Zen’in is gone—but the others remain. “Surprisingly.”

You turn back to the man at your feet, now only a smearing pulp laced with bits of fabric. The branding iron meant for you lies nestled within the rotten entrails, its heat bubbling and sizzling the nearby flesh.

Behind you, the King of Curses massive frame expands, shoulders rolling as he takes a breath.

“Good,” he rumbles.

There’s a pause.

Slowly, though still encircled by twenty or thirty men, your heart begins to steady. And there’s only one reason for that.

You calm.

Inhale.

You can breathe again.

“Lord Sukuna.” Exhale. “Thank y—”

A sharp yank on your shoulder and Sukuna forces you to turn.

“Why the fuck are you here?” he growls, prowling close to hover over you. “I told you to leave. Not travel east.”

Lifting your chin, your eye twitches. You lack both the strength and the will to argue. Yet…

“You say that as if I ever listened to you,” you hiss, rising onto your toes.

“Tch.” His noise of disgust has you cocking your head. “Stubborn, vexing woman. I should have tied you to that damn beast of yours.” Then his lower eyes slide, falling to your lips. Staring. His upper pair follows. “Or put that mouth to better use, anything to shut it up.”

Your eyes trail away, scanning the men, seeking a distraction. Because the longer you look at him, the more distant important things become, like lies, betrayal, hurt or the fact that he sought to fucking kill you not too long ago.

Fortunately, the movement around you pulls your heads apart.

“Well,” you mumble as you both stand back to back. “You didn’t.”

Pressed against Sukuna’s wall of a body, warmth bleeds through your kimono. Slowly, you both move in sync, stepping in a slow circle, sizing up the assailants closing in.

“They intend to take me,” you observe, meeting the gaze of every gawking eye.

They wait.

You keep moving.

“I know,” Sukuna growls angrily.

You lift your hands. The discolouration at your fingertips shudders only slightly, barely hanging on to your energy. It feels exhausted.

“What about Zen’in?” Your arms drop. “Did you kill him?”

A pause at your back.

“He’s slinking around somewhere,” Sukuna mutters. “There’s stronger ones waiting nearby. These are just mindless pests here to bleed and waste my time.”

Mindless? Your eyes flicker to them as they close in, and your feet pull apart, stance widening.

“I know you. You could end this in a breath. So why are you holding back?”

Sukuna says nothing, but a prickle at your neck tells you he’s looking at you. You tip your head.

“Taking something immediately?” He flashes a grin and then turns away. “Tell me, where’s the enjoyment in that?”

Head moving back, you’re drained—so much so that you barely register the first attacker rushing in before he’s even on you, dragging up his weapon, purposeful in the way he holds it. Sneering, you lunge for the exposed skin of his neck, arm outstretched, fingers splayed—half praying, half hoping you’ll make it out of here or at least live long enough to witness the death of every last one of these fucking bastards.

Pulling yourself into striking distance, you’re almost—

Flick!

A tattooed wrist swings past your face.

Blood sprays, misting the air a ruddy pink. The man’s body cleaves into two wet pieces and collapses, lifeless. Dark red eats into the dirt. The first body of what you know will be many.

Sauntering next to you, Sukuna rolls his four shoulders loose, a cocky grin on his face.

“Do try to keep up,” he purrs, stabbing the trishula into the ground before diving in—grabbing bodies, dragging them toward him. Four arms make quick work of slaughter, snapping bones while slicing through flesh with a single swipe.

You exhale. Force yourself to move before hesitation becomes a mistake.

Then, suddenly—you’re in it, flinging yourself into the fray.

Sweeping over, under, and through the assailants—sidestepping, pivoting—circling Sukuna’s warpath, keeping your distance, unsure when or if you’ll be caught in his unseen slashes.

You hope not. He seems lost in the throes of war, moving fluidly, almost like a dance. But with his sheer bulk and extra limbs, it’s less a dance and more the embodiment of a storm gathering. Violent. Yet steady. Always steady.

Step—his arms tense, pinning wide open and reaching for his prey, muscles straining, shoulders bunching. Release.

Step.

Release. 

Distracted by the force that seems to draw everything toward him, you almost miss the sharp end of a spear thrust. But you dodge—in, then out—sinking to one knee. Though, more distracting is the exhaustion of your energy.

Sukuna slips past the wielder’s guard, flicks his wrist, and their weapon hand punches cleanly from their arm, leaving an opening.

You take it, and they collapse.

Gliding back mid-motion, your kimono shuddering around you, and passing another man you take him down.

Sukuna turns toward you, arching his slitted brow.

“What?”

You blink at him.

“Nothing,” he drawls lazily, smirking as he steps past another attacker. His fingers twitch—their body follows, separating the folds of their skin. He looks back at you. “Didn’t take you for the killing type. Interesting to finally see you move.”

Another rushes into your path, and you spin away, hand grazing their exposed wrist. A breath later, they’re on the ground, trying to scratch away the decay festering inside them.

Sukuna hums, watching.  

“Then again.” He steps over a fresh corpse, “maybe I was wrong.”  

A notch pulls at your brow, but there’s no time to argue. More bodies press in. You reach, touch, and they fall.

When you glance back, Sukuna’s still looking.  

“Stop staring at me,” you snap, shaking debris from your hand.  

His grin widens. And you know he’s enjoying this.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Another flick—another body halves before hitting the dirt.  

Teeth gritting, you pivot, stepping into deeper carnage.  

Bodies crash around you, one after another, but your lungs burn. Your limbs drag. Overexertion has its limits, and it’s pulling you in fast.

Keep going...

Keep—

You stumble, take a step. But a beat later, you end up on your hands and knees, panting, holding your hands in front of you. The tips of your fingers now appear bare, that bruising colour gone.

Damn it. Sometimes, you hated not knowing how to wield this.

Tabi sandals squelch into the damp, blood-soaked earth as they enter your vision.

“Hmph.”

Sukuna’s disapproving stare burns into you, but you don’t look up, keep your eyes downcast, refusing to meet it. He lingers for a moment before sinking to his haunches.

“Here,” he grumbles, pushing a hand to your abdomen. “Breathe from here. Move the energy—” his fingers glide up your torso, over your neck, to your throat, then brush along your chin before pulling away, “—through your body.”

For so long, you’ve despised what lies dormant, so the thought of willingly bringing it out makes you hesitate.

“Observe it.” His voice turns calm as you inhale, feeling the air slip through your nose and exhaling to follow its path outward. Your awareness settles. You center yourself on the faint, skittering energy shivering at your core.

Resonance hums at your fingertips, a heady vibration crawling over your skin. When the vein-like tendrils return, snaking outward, you don’t shy away.

You touch it—grasp and pull.

It belongs to you anyway.

Swallowing, you dip your chin as your eyes trace his face. Sukuna’s mouth twitches. Centering a lower hand on your back, his others guide you up and under his arms. You move seamlessly—behind him, beside him—finishing off the attackers on the other side.

And just for a moment, a tiny fraction of a second, the two of you move in perfect balance.

Sukuna strikes, stuns, and severs while you weave between opponents, gliding through the path he carves, brushing fingertips against flesh.

And so quickly, so disconcertingly easy, you catch yourself enjoying this.

And you know he’s giving you these kills—that he can end it all in seconds. But he seems to be revelling in it, too. Watching from a distance as you slip in and out, winding through the carnage like a snake. Slower, likely than what he was probably used to, but still. You catch the corner of his mouth refusing to fall, and feel his gaze, like it was last night all over again.

But after so much time in this place, you come back to yourself, nearly forgetting the revelations.

Once everything quiets and standing amongst the packed bodies at your feet—all the gurgling flesh and sinew—you lift your gaze to the forest’s edge. Under the rough autumn canopy, a retinue of warriors linger, sitting in wait. Zen’in Kaito is among them, his fingers captured around the hilt of his katana.

This is your chance to slip away.

Not far, yet safely distanced, Ayana’s snowmelt coat gleams, untouched. Huffing in relief, you glance toward the King of Curses. His eyes find yours from where he stands across the battlefield, and for the second time, you turn away from him and leave.

There’s only one place you need to go—where your sister is. Because right now, you want answers. Was she in Heian-kyō? Or elsewhere? An uneasy feeling flutters in your stomach. Fear stealing its place in the spaces of uncertainty and unanswered questions.

The most glaring—why? Why do this?

Yuna never once expressed interest in leading your clan. Never. Her intentions were always to be free of it.

Freedom. Choices.

A mirroring of your own.

Passing through the burning remains of a hut, you’ve only just stepped beyond its flickering shadow when a surge of heat rushes up behind you.

Heavy feet. Agile body.  

You pivot, but there’s no time.

Hands push into you, driving you back until you stumble, your shoulders sinking into rough wood and your exhausted body pinned.  

The breath folds in your lungs. Red eyes catch yours.

Instinct bounds up your spine, your right hand shooting up—only for Sukuna to catch your wrist with his upper left hand, fingers clamping tight. His lower arms brace against your hips, holding you flush under the weight of him. At the line of your throat, his upper right hand hovers, two fingers nudging gently into your pulse.

A standoff. Sort of. You’re too drained to even think about fighting—least of all him.

Lifting your chin, you arch an eyebrow.

“This feels familiar,” you say softly, fingers flicking, just close enough to hover above his skin. “I thought we’d be done with this.”

Saying nothing, a muscle pulses in his jaw. For a long moment, neither of you move. The firelight shifts against his disfigured mask, catching on the grooves and ruts filled with soot and blood. His fingers remain at your throat, but there’s no killing intent behind them.

Because he won’t.

You know he can’t.

Because—

Exhaling sharply through his nose, his two fingers pull back, before his upper right arm falls away. Your hand relaxes in his grasp a heartbeat later.

“Going somewhere?” He holds your wrist, releasing his upper left hand but keeping the lower pair banded around your hips.

Your eyes trail downward, following the planes of his naked torso to the hold, the way his arms brace you against the burning structure at your back.

He’s covered in blood—and who knows what else—but as you stare, a rush of selfish needs stack one on top of the other. A need to unburden yourself after everything witnessed here today. The death under your hands; the death by your hands; the death by others. There’s a small, insignificant part of you that wants to step closer, slot yourself between the cage of his four arms, and rest your forehead there for comfort. Because somehow, he has become both your solace and your greatest anguish.

Stupid.

Grieving your failures is something you can do alone. And alone is how you feel right now.

You pull your eyes away from Sukuna. Then—he lets you go, stepping back so the cold takes the empty space of his body. Folding his upper pair of arms across his chest, he waits.

“I want answers,” you state, moving around him and walking toward Ayana, who has since trotted closer.

Mud, dirt, and char slide past your vision as you leave Ryomen Sukuna for the third time, his stare boring into your back. You swallow against it.

“If you’re running to your sister, you’re wholly unprepared for what’s coming.”

Your feet stop on their own. Down at the blood and dirt streaked hem of your hakama, you blink. For a moment, it’s as if the ground isn’t there at all.

“You know something.” You turn sharply, brow furrowing as you stalk back to him. “If you do, say it. Tell me. Because from my understanding my sister, the newly appointed head of the Kasai clan, has implicated me.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. He only stares, contemplative.

Frustrated with his lack of response, you clench your teeth and turn away.

“Head back south.”

The words slam into your back. You whirl around.

“What?”

“Ride to the shrine.” His voice is eerily calm, as if this is a perfectly reasonable request after everything that happened in the dark, late hours of dawn.

You step toward him, mouth parting, a barb resting on the tip of your tongue ready to be hurled at him.

“I’ll prepare you for what’s coming. And in time, I’ll offer you the truth. If you're willing to hear it.”

Your mouth presses shut.

Truth? What truth? It’s so far gone from your sight—and his—you’re skeptical of anything he says.

The scoff that punches past your lips makes his mouth curve into a sneer.

“You’ve kept secrets from me this whole time, torn apart the north, shattered everything in your path just to claim what you want.” Among other atrocities. “I’m exhausted, Sukuna. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Do you have any idea what just happened back there?” You stab a finger toward the village. “All I want is to sleep—for hours, days, months, years. To shut my eyes and think of nothing. Not you. Not anything. Nothing else. Ever.”

For whatever reason, his mouth parts from a sneer to a grin.

Hell.

Again, you turn. And again, you walk.

“You’re not safe.”

“And you think I’m any safer when I’m with you?”

Somehow, you’re back in his reach, snarling up at him. And you’re not even sure what kind of safety you mean—safety from danger or from that hollow space inside your chest.

“I won’t say it again.” Sukuna forces the words out as if it pains him. “You either take my offer, or you don—”  

“You fight me. Then fuck me,” you hiss, taking a step closer, your voice turning venomous. “Then—” He lifts his chin and looks down at you. “—you tell me to leave before sunrise. And I do.”  

His nostrils flare as you take another step so the fabric of his kimono, slung low at his hips, brushes against yours.  

“You save me, then fight with me. And now, all of a sudden, you want me to come back?”  

Heat gathers along your spine with the anger.  

“Do you even hear how pathetic you sound right no—”  

“You asked to be released from our union,” he snarls, grabbing the front panel of your kimono and bending until his face is level with yours.  

“I gave you what you wanted. So, don’t start whining about feeling rejected or confused when I’m not talking about human emotions.”

A sharp breath pushes through your nose as his four intimidating eyes sweep your face.

“What’s pulling us together now goes far beyond that.” He releases you abruptly, letting you stumble back on your heels.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” you spit, gathering yourself.

“If being an asshole keeps you from making another stupid mistake, then so be it.”

Silence settles between you.

You both stand there, quiet, but the fire crackles loudly.

Slowly, your anger drains into a simmer, and you huff, dragging a hand across your face, smearing soot and the sharp scent of copper.

“If this were to happen,” you mutter, disbelieving you’re even considering this. “I wouldn’t be returning as your wife.”

He blinks once.

“You never were,” he says, tilting his head. “It was only ever a title.”

There's a pause.

“Lies. Fabrications. Deceit. Names for things that never existed,” he adds lowly. “You were my property. That’s all it ever was.”

The unexpected amount of sharp emotions that moves through you forces your gaze away.

“I see...”

Property.

Sukuna steps closer, pushing two fingers under your chin and lifting it.

“But now…” he begins, jaw solid. “You can return… and leave and live as something else entirely. ”

Looking at him, you try to discern what he gains from this.

Anything? Everything? Nothing at all?

Quietly, you inhale.

“Prepare me?”

The King of Curses’ four eyes wander to your hands.

Ah. You flex them, curving them inward.

Do you need to be made stronger?

The thought seems foolish, a little arrogant. Because deep down, you’ve already decided—Yuna will listen to me. She’s your sister. If she did this, if she really did this, there has to be a reason. And when you find her, all of this will unravel. It will make sense.

Won’t it?

But another voice begs, What if you’re wrong?

Another one reminds you, You just had a branding iron held against you.

And the last screams, Today, you should have been stronger. You should have saved that girl.

You exhale sharply, shoving the guilt deep, burying it with the rest.

“It won’t take long.” Sukuna taps an impatient finger at the curve of your jaw. 

A decision waits, a choice. One you can only hope won’t curse you forever. 

“How long?”

“That depends on you, little snake,” he smirks, brushing his fingers away from your chin.

Grow stronger. Find Yuna. Uncover the truth.

Because surely, this is all just a misunderstanding.

Staring up at him, this beast before you, you give only a single nod.

“Good,” he hums, letting his gaze linger, as if marking a point of your decision. “I’ll remain here. Go.”

“Fine.” You pull away, striding toward Ayana and swinging into the saddle. Settled, you take the reins and ride alongside him.

“But just so you’re aware, this decision, my decision, erases nothing about what you’ve done to me.”

Above the King of Curses’ broad nose, a crease forms.

“That will never change.”

Nudging your mare, you turn her in a slow arc, pointing in a single direction.

Moving along the line of the first burning houses, you catch Sukuna from the edge of your vision. He follows at a distance, tracking you, keeping watch. Anyone who peels away advancing in your vicinity is instantly cut down.

Your chest gives a pull.

“Hopefully, this isn’t a mistake,” you murmur, picking up speed into a weightless gallop.

With your eyes on the King of Curses, you watch as he reaches for the spear at his back, his upper hands retrieving the formidable weapon before turning to face the broken village. Dragging yourself from his massive figure, you shift in the saddle, every part of your body aching as you begin the ride back the way you came.

Back south. Back to the shrine. And you tell yourself, it isn’t back to him.

[velnica]

Lighter (Nourval/Guydelot) 🔥

"Give me some of that light, would you?" Guydelot grabbed Nourval's arm none too gently.

Nourval continued taking a drag on his cigarette, seemingly unpertrubed. "Hmph, has anyone ever told you 'no' before?"

"Why, are you gonna be the first?"

"No."

[itsalwaysdark]

ive gotta stop starting so many posts with 'also' like they r not continuations of conversations or whathaveyou generally

[illegiblehandwriting1]

fuck it *switches ch17 and ch18*

[sttoru]

outlaw!toji who initially kidnapped you for money, to rob you from your valuable belongings, eventually forms a strange attachment to you. he can’t help but feel a faint twinge of guilt for robbing a pretty and delicate little thing like you.

so, he decides to let you return to your beloved family in town. though he does not let you go completely.

every now and then when toji is passing by the town you reside in - avoiding sheriffs and other people whom could possibly recognise him from the wanted posters plastered on every wall - he looks for you.

of course, you freak out the first time he sneaked up on you. however slowly yet surely, you let your guard down. the outlaw didn’t harm you in any way after all.

“how ‘re ya doin’, princess?” toji would always greet you with that signature, cocky smirk of his, leaning against a nearby wall with his arms crossed over his chiseled chest or his hands on his worn gun belt.

sometimes you reply quickly, but on other occasions you indulge him and continue the conversation. it’s often at night that he visits you, so you have less of a chance to get caught together.

you don’t know when or how toji found out where your family’s house is. he simply started showing up at your balcony once in a while, just to catch up. after a couple times, you even let him in.

those nightly visits swiftly turned into something more intimate. it feels so wrong yet so right. a dangerous criminal who’s killed hundreds, who had even kidnapped you one day, being invited into your bed— how scandalous.

though you can’t help it. his callused yet warm hands that touch your skin, his burly body that presses you into the mattress just right, his slightly chapped lips that nip at your flesh and leave marks. . . you don’t regret a thing.

especially when you’re both catching your breath after an intense encounter. toji’s muscular body, filled with countless of scars, blankets yours easily. his arms cradle you to his bare chest afterwards and all you can do is relax against him.

“i think i really hit the jackpot with ya, aye? may not have robbed ya of yer stuff that day, but i got ma prize money one way or ‘nother,” the rugged outlaw grins as he lights up a cigar and holds it between his lips.

you can’t even tell him off for smoking in your room. toji’s fingers massage your scalp so good to the point you’re putty in his hands. the scent of tobacco is also comforting. it’s one you associate with him, because he always smells like it. it’s always a combination of tobacco, nature, horses and gunpowder.

toji knows that he has to leave before anyone comes checking in on you, but he can’t leave you when you look so adorable, clinging onto him like a lifeline.

every time he visits, it’s the same exciting story.

when toji is in a more sentimental mood, he takes you out on a ride. he settles you on the back of his horse, speeding off into the sunset, letting you enjoy the view outside of town.

the beautiful freedom that comes with the life of an outlaw. the freedom of seeing nature in all its glory. you get to experience it all.

at times, when you’re out and about, he takes his chance and teaches you how to handle a gun. toji knows you’ve been spoiled rotten by your parents growing up, so you probably haven’t touched a gun a day in your life. that’s where he comes in.

“oi, watch out. yer gonna blow my fuckin’ face off, girl,” toji grunts with a faint chuckle as he notices your clumsy hand gestures while holding his revolver. it’s endearing, truly. he doesn’t yet understand why it warms his heart to see you try and shoot at the targets he set up.

what the outlaw loves more than that, is when you’re both resting against a large oak tree, with his head on your lap. especially after he gets back from a long and successful heist in a far away town.

toji often lets his cowboy hat cover his face while he naps and uses your thighs as the perfect, plush pillow. the gentle breeze only adds to the perfect moment.

when you take his stetson and put it on your head instead in a innocent gesture, he lazily opens one eye and raises a brow in amusement.

“oh? that yer way of telling me y’ want a ride?” toji teases before pinching your cheek. he loves seeing that flustered expression on your face when you’re once again reminded of the cowboy hat rule he taught you the other day.

toji never misses the opportunity, however. he sits up and leans back against the tree trunk, patting his thick thighs which he spreads lightly.

“hop on f’ me then, pretty. show me how good of a cowgirl y’ are, yeah?”

well, briefly said, it’s never a dull moment with outlaw!toji.

[steddiealltheway]

Steve's not really sure when it became a thing.

Maybe it was while Eddie was in the hospital recovering from his injuries, and the kids had forced Steve onto the visiting schedule. Maybe it was after Eddie got out of the hospital, and the kids insisted they continue to honor the schedule. Maybe it had nothing to do with the schedule and everything to do with the fact that Steve and Eddie had become... friends.

This is also a big maybe in Steve's head because he's pretty sure Eddie just hangs out with him from time to time because he's allowed to drink and smoke around or with him - and he's found that Eddie doesn't like to be alone for extended periods of time.

Steve can't blame him. But with his parents' seemingly permanent absence, he's kind of grown used to it whenever the kids and Robin are forced to go back to school.

But right now, Steve is grateful that Eddie has continued their "thing" in which he shows up at Steve's house at 9pm every Thursday - the same time as one of Steve's assigned "Eddie shifts" - with a six-pack in hand.

Only, this week, Eddie shows up with two bottles of wine.

Steve raises his eyebrows at him as he lets him into the house, shutting the door quickly to keep the cold air out.

"I just thought you'd like to change it up today," Eddie comments nonchalantly as he heads to the living room. Steve wonders for a moment if he knows the secret he's been keeping from everyone, but he figures he doesn't especially when he blabs on, "So, what movie are you blessing me with this week?"

Steve rolls his eyes as he goes to grab the tape and put it in the VCR, but he hesitates for a moment, straightening up to point at Eddie. "You will absolutely tell no one about this, got it? Also, I'm expecting a phone call, but you're not allowed to listen in on it."

"Got it. Scout's honor," Eddie replies with a wink and a salute.

"You were not a boy scout," Steve huffs as he decides to bite the bullet and put the tape in.

Eddie frowns and puts a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Steve. How could you say that?"

"Because I was a boy scout, and we would've been in the same troop."

Once Steve sits on the couch, Eddie leans in and nudges his shoulder. "What I wouldn't give to go back in time and meet a young Steve Harrington. I could've corrupted you sooner."

"I'm afraid Dustin beat you to the corrupting. He's the one who made me watch Star Wars."

"I can always corrupt you in other ways, Steve," Eddie comments, obnoxiously batting his eyelashes.

Steve laughs, used to the blatant flirting during the trailers at this point. "Is that why you brought the wine? To set the mood?"

"Something like that," Eddie says with a soft smile before switching back to his dramatics. "But I'll have you know, I'm a gentleman. Plus, I would like you to remember the first time I blow your mind."

"Blow my mind?" Steve asks, reaching over to grab the bottles. "How would you do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Eddie says with a wink before uncapping his wine.

Steve glances at his own bottle for a moment, distracted. "It's a screw top."

"It's cheap," Eddie explains. He raises his bottle and tilts it Steve's way. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Steve answers, screwing off the top and taking a swig. Tastes like wine. And it also tastes like... a bad idea.

"So, what movie are we watching that has you so defensive?" Eddie asks, throwing his arm along the back of the couch.

To that, Steve takes a longer drink. "One of my mom's favorite movies. We used to watch it together whenever my dad went out of town for his business trips. But then my mom started getting more suspicious of him staying at the office late, and then she started to go on those business trips with him. Which now seem to... never end." Steve sighs and settles back onto the couch a bit more, head resting right on Eddie's hand. He quickly gets the hint and starts gently playing with his hair.

Steve's not sure when that became a thing either.

After another sip of wine, Steve finally confesses, "It's The Sound of Music."

A few expressions pass over Eddie's face before he quietly says, "That was one of my mom's favorites, too."

The two of them share a similar look of understanding and painful longing for a time they'll neither get back. They both drink at the same time as the opening notes of "The Sound of Music" ring out.

As the movie plays, the two of them drift closer - as they always do - and Steve notices that he's slowly but surely getting a bit wine-drunk. Which is what Robin calls the "worst type of drunk Steve." Maybe he should've taken her up on her offer to stay the full day.

As the last scene plays, Steve finds himself glancing toward the phone more than the screen.

"You okay?" Eddie asks gently, the hand in his hair moving to cup his face.

Steve can feel the way the wine flushes his cheeks and sits heavy on his stomach when he asks, "When do you realize your parents have given up on you?"

Eddie swallows heavily before grabbing Steve's nearly empty bottle and putting it on the coffee table. He sits back and fully turns to him. "For me, I fully realized a month after I stayed with Wayne. I still hadn't unpacked the cardboard box my things were in, hoping that maybe since my dad had dropped me off my mom would pick me up. But I hadn't seen her in years." He looks back at the TV where the end credits are rolling. "She left promising me she would come back and make a better life for the two of us eventually. I thought with my dad out of the picture, she'd be back. But as soon as I unpacked that box, I gave up on the idea."

Steve shifts closer and grabs Eddie's hand. "I'm sorry."

Eddie looks at him and tilts his head down so he's looking him right in the eye. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, too. And..." he hesitates for a moment before resting his forehead against Steve's and whispering, "Happy birthday."

Steve's eyes close tightly. It's the words he had been waiting for all day but in hopes that they'd be coming out the mouths of at least one of his parents. Preferably his mom.

There's pressure behind his eyes, and Steve reaches out to squeeze Eddie's hand gently, warning him in his own way that he might fall apart. But Eddie stays where he is.

"This is the first year they haven't called," Steve whispers, feeling one tear fall down his face. "I know they're assholes but... I didn't think they'd be this much of an asshole. God," he breathes out, breaking away from Eddie to lean back against the couch, hands covering his face as more tears fall.

A familiar arm drapes itself around Steve's shoulders tugging gently until he winds up with his head buried in Eddie's neck.

They sit there for a while, Eddie holding him and running a soothing hand through his hair that reminds Steve of the first time Eddie had opened up to him about the nightmares that never went away, and they had ended up in a similar but swapped position.

Maybe that's when this became a thing.

It's a while before Steve speaks up to ask, "Hey, how do you even know when my birthday is? The last person I told was probably Tommy Hagan in the eighth grade. And Robin, of course, but I swore her to secrecy."

"Oh god," Eddie says in a way that makes Steve pull back to look at him fully. Eddie's head lulls to the side as he looks at him with an adorably embarrassed and caught expression. "So... don't hate me for this, but this happened a few years ago. And... do I really have to tell you?"

"It's my birthday, you have to tell me," Steve replies.

Eddie huffs, ever so dramatically, and grabs Steve's hands before confessing, "So, I stole your wallet a few times."

Steve can't help but laugh at the absurd confession. "When?"

"It was back in your sophomore year probably. We had some horrible science class together, and you sat right in front of me, and well... My friends and I made this hypothesis, very scientific, that some rich kids, including you, wouldn't notice if a dollar or two went missing from their wallets." Steve snorts, and Eddie smiles. "And you had this horrible habit of leaving the front pocket of your backpack open so..."

"Occasionally you would steal anywhere from one to five dollars from my wallet? And one time you managed to swipe ten," Steve fills in for him, vividly remembering something he hadn't thought about in years.

Eddie's eyes widen. "So, my hypothesis was wrong."

"No, you're just less subtle than you think you are."

There's a moment where Eddie just stares at him incredulously. "You're telling me, you let me steal from you? And you didn't beat me up for it?"

Steve shrugs, thinking about the first time it had happened, and he had truly considered it, but he realized. "I knew you needed it more than I did. But that's not what we're talking about. How did this lead you to finding out about my birthday?"

"It was on your driver's license, and I ended up memorizing it in case you had a big party that I could sell at. But then it just... stuck." Eddie looks down at their hands for a moment before he looks up and states, "And we're not about to breeze past this. I must've stolen at least thirty dollars from you!" He lets go of one of Steve's hands to grab his wallet off the coffee table. "For your birthday, let me pay you back."

Steve laughs and shakes his head. "You are not giving me thirty dollars for my birthday. And don't fight me on this, or I'll end up telling Dustin you gave me money without hesitation."

Eddie frowns at him and reluctantly puts his wallet back down. He leans over to Steve and cups his face as he plants a kiss onto his forehead. "You're never who I think you are, Steve Harrington."

"Is that a good thing?" Steve asks as his eyes glance down at his lips.

"A very good thing. It means I'll never give up on you," Eddie says with a teasing lilt but Steve knows that he means it.

"Same to you."

Eddie's teasing smile falters as he looks at Steve. One of his thumbs swipes at a remaining tear trail.

Steve's heart beats a little harder and he can't stop staring at Eddie's lips. He wonders when that became a thing.

"There's one thing you could do for me for my birthday," Steve breaths out.

"And what's that?" Eddie asks quietly.

Steve doesn't answer him, he just leans in slowly, closing his eyes when his nose brushes against Eddie's. But then he feels Eddie gently pull away.

"Earlier, I said I wanted you to remember when I blow your mind, Steve."

Steve's eyes flutter open. "I'm not that far gone."

Eddie sighs and mumbles, "I can't believe I'm doing this," and raises his voice to say, "I'll kiss you when I can't smell wine on your breath, deal?"

"Deal," Steve says, holding out his hand.

Eddie laughs as he shakes it, then grabs it to pull them both up.

"Bedtime?" Steve asks. Eddie nods, turning off the TV before leading the way to the kitchen to get two glasses of water before heading to Steve's room.

Steve knows exactly when that became a thing - the second time Eddie was over at his house, and he had a nightmare in the guest room. Steve now insists that he sleeps with him anytime he's over.

When they get into bed on their by-now-established sides, Steve can't help but say, "I think this is the best birthday I've had in a long time." He sighs and reaches out to grab Eddie's hand laying between them. "Maybe next year I'll tell everyone."

"Or we can make up a fake birthday for you that happens to fall sometime next week, and next year we'll pretend that everyone remembered the wrong date."

Steve laughs and squeezes Eddie's hand. "Or next week, I can take you on a date."

"Shh," Eddie quickly shushes him, "This definitely means it's time for you to go to bed."

"I can't wait for you to blow my mind in the morning," Steve says instead of trying and failing to fight Eddie on the fact that he's more coherent than he thinks he is. Besides, the faster he falls asleep, the sooner tomorrow will come.

"Goodnight, Steve," Eddie says, slightly amused.

"Goodnight, Eds."

Much to Eddie's surprise, he wakes up to Steve asking for a kiss. And he very much blows his mind.

[grugruel]

Your daddy know 'bout this?

(Don't be fooled, there's no daddy kink!)

Pairings: dbf!cowboy!bucky x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A few days short of your 21st birthday, you decide to celebrate with your friend at the local bar. Unbeknownst to you, a close friend of your dad's is there.

When he sees you with beer in hand and in the lap of another man, things get heated. Somehow, you end up in his shirt, at his house.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: pinv sex, passionate sex, forbidden realationship, violence, blood, underaged drinking, slight angst, cum eating, I love yous', mentions of masturation, tension, arguments, slight jealousy and protectiveness, pet names (girl, woman, ma'am, princess, sweetheart)

AN: not yet proofread, might be rough around the edges! Enjoy girlies🥹🫶

It was his one free night in a long time, and his buds pulled him along for a drink. He had no real objections, for he was in a good mood and it'd get even better once he had a drink in him.

The group of men emerged from the damp, rainy night and dove into the smoke tainted air and usual bustle of the local dive. They ordered their drinks and made their way to the back where the booths were, a jumble of familiar faces greeting them on their way. Until-

Bucky saw a face he ought not to see in a place like this. "Excuse me a moment, fellas. I got somethin' to take care of."

Their group turned to him, confused. "Wha-" and looked in the direction he was already headed. "Well shit, good thing her daddy ain't come with us." The group shared a few nervous glances, then shrugged and chuckled. "Wouldn't want to be one of those boys right now."

-

"Well . . . " a voice chuckled loudly.

She could see the source approaching their table from her peripheral, his form vaguely illuminated by soft lamp light through the gloom. " . . . Aint this a sight?"

She knew that voice, she could hear the telltale grin that shaped it.

Catching onto the change in energy, the giggles and boisterous laughter of their small group died down. Tense glances exchanged between them, all eventually landing on the intruder, all except her own.

Commotion continued sounding around them, their table the only to emit an unusually low amount of noise. "Anyone wanna tell me whats goin' on here?" The voice asked.

Swallowing, she realised she'd been intently staring into a cadleflame. She belived that maybe she'd have a chance at going unnoticed if she sat still enough.

"I asked you a question, doll."

She winced. That was his nickname for her. Fuck. She tore her gaze from the candle, snapping it to her friend across the table and gave her a sidelong glance that meant 'trouble' to which her friend nodded in agreement.

The low light that made the place cosy just moments before now only existed to muddle her thoughts. But, it could work in her favour. She carefully pushed her drink behind her elbow, hoping it wasn't too late to hide, and her friend followed her lead.

She turned toward the man, a cheap grin plaster on her face. "Hey . . . Buck," she spoke slowly, as if it'd somehow make him more agreeable.

"Hey there, princess," he grinned. Hat on his head. "Wanna explain this to me?" Pointing lazily to their gathering.

She shrugged, attempting to act nonchalant. Because admitting your wrong would confirm it's wrong. "Nothin special, we were just leavin', in fact."

A scoff blew past her ear. "The hell we are." The lap she sat on stiffened beneath her, tapping his feet–once, twice–in a show of impatience, and rocking her body in the process. The man then whispered in her ear. "Who is this guy anyway?"

She inclined her head, nervous eyes avoiding the big cowboy that stood imposing at the end of their table, and murmured a quiet reply over her shoulder. "No one. . . in particular." A lie, of course. "Let's just go."

The cowboy chuckled. "You're not leavin' with him, you're leavin' with me." That drawl could make the most steeled stumaches jittery with butterflies. Her friend must've felt it too by they way she squirmed in her seat.

She had to screw her eyes shut in a moment of contemplation. Why'd he have to be here tonight? Why'd they have to go to a bar he frequented?

She looked back at her friend with panic in her eyes. Boy, were they in for it. She could think of nothing else then to simply ask nicely, hoping it'd appeal. "Please, just go."

He smirked, putting a hand on his hips and showing a stern but playful disposition. "Your daddy know 'bout this?" He tipped his hat in their direction.

She pinned him with her eyes, narrowing them with independent annoyance. "Im my own woman, B-"

'What's it to you?' The guy beneath cut her off.

Bucky switched his attention to the guy, and she could feel him shrink a little under Bucky's gaze. "Hell, no need for that tone! I was just sittin' with my buds over there." He pointed to the group of men Buck came with, no doubt to put some pressure on the poor guy. From the looks of it, they'd been listening in on our conversation, and now waved to her, idly laughing at the situation, ready to jump in at any moment.

She shyly waved back, a tight smile on her lips.

"See, I just saw your little group havin' a grand ol' time over here and wanted to join you," Bucky laughed. "And when I noticed that fine woman in your lap, I thought I'd have a chat with her." He disguised it well, but she could hear the anger beneath his humoured exterior.

"You two know each other?" The guy asked, I'll at ease.

"Well enough." Bucky took a moment to look her over, a scan for any harm. But his eyes stuck on the short skirt and thin shirt. If possible, he looked even more bothered. "Wouldn't you say, sweetheart?" He glanced at her, and she could see the danger that lurked in his eyes. It began to dawn on her more and more how knee deep in trouble she was.

She cleared her throat, a nervous blush creeping up her cheeks. "Mhm," she hummed. It felt like he could see through her.

The guy's hand slunk to the bare skin of her thigh, attempting to mark his territory when seamingly he'd decided his dislike of the situation. "Huh, what's with the hat anyway, you some kind of sheriff?" He asked. But cut Bucky off as he was about to answer. "Either way," he waved his hand dismissively. "She's fine where she is. She can make her own decisions." And just like that, he'd successfully stolen the point she'd been trying to make.

She shook her head. Stupid, stupid boy.

Bucky's face hardened, any sign of humour gone from him. "I assure you, I dont need a sheriff's badge to take her home, It's within my right." He braced his hand against the table, leaning closer to them.

Her uterus roiled at that. 'take her home'

"Now, get that hand off of her, boy." He snarled, annoyance and authority resounding in his voice, promising a solution to the mans cocky demeanor. "She ain't yours to touch."

"Why?" The guy asked. "She yours?" His hand slid higher, squeezing her thigh, challenging the much broader man.

She exhaled, releasing a frustrated hum in early defeat, he'd doomed them both.

The cowboys jaw tensed. Silently, but undoubtedly steaming, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and pushed them above his elbows. The veins on his forearms pop from strain, knuckles turning white from his fists clenching. "Fella. . ." He began, calming his composure, then pointed two loose fingers at the girl in the mans lap. "Had she been mine, you'd be on the floor already. Now, that girl, ain't of drinkin' age, neither is she to be touched by a slimy bastard like yourself."

Fuck, so he did see the drink. She shook her head again, warning him. "Bucky. . ." A very bad attempt at dissuading him from doing whatever he was about to do. She could almosy feel the guy beneath her sink into the booth they were sitting in. Perhaps he had some sense after all.

Her friend grabbed her arm, loosely yanking on it as her anxious eyes flickered between the men in conflict. She herself sitting in the lap of the guy's friend, who was preparing to step in if necessary. "We should go before this gets ugly," her friend whispered.

"Respectfully, ma'am, she ain't going nowhere without me." The cowboy opposed, directing his attention to her friend.

No, no, no no. . . Dread filled her, he'd drive her straight home to her parents.

Bucky's eyes fell back on the guy, now shrunken and small under his gaze. "So. . . Stand up, 'n leave, boy," he spoke with the authority of a sheriff but stood with the confidence of an outlaw. "There's no need for altercations, I was enjoyin' my night. N' I don't wish that to change-"

"I'll call on the bouncer," the guy shot out, his face probably as pale as his overly white and fragile shirt, pointing to a man behind the cowboy. Her eyes followed the steps down from the seating area, and through the dimly lit dive where a big man stood posted by the door. The guy beneath her then glanced at his friend across from them, both extending curt nods to one another.

She wanted to wretch, he was acting a coward and standing up to Bucky with the threat of enlisting two other men to his side. She sighed loudly, making a point for him to hear as she eyed her friend. "Well, I sure know how to pick em'." And her friend, inspite of the commotion they found themselves in, covered her mouth in snicker.

Bucky narrowed his eyes in a second of silent fury, then answered with a laugh, not missing a beat. "You mean that bouncer?" He asked and turned around, calling a greeting to the bouncer, who in turn tipped his hat with a smile. The type of gesture that indicated a longstanding friendship. "We're well aquainted," Bucky grinned. "But im sure he'd love to sort this situation out."

If they had any sense at all, the two men would leave with what little dignity they had left and realise that they were already outnumbered inspite of being 2 to 2.

"Leave, girls," the guy easily dismissed them.

She gave him a pointed look, flashed her eyebrows, and jerked her head to the side in a 'you had it coming' motion, and then grabbed her friend's hand.

"Asshole," she sighed and steered them out of the booth, taking the cider in her other hand. Silly as she was, she thought she could simply leave, perhaps just slip by Bucky. But no, his strong hand grabbed her bicep as she passed by, and set his blues deep into her own. "Wait by the truck, I'll drive ya' home." He said, looking between the two girls.

"Fine . . . " She sighed.

"N' dont even think of running, cause I'll catch ya'," he warned, and she rolled her eyes inspite of the burning that settled in her core.

She tried to yank herself free, but he didn't let go. "What? You wanna hear a 'yes sir'?" She dared the words, teasing, as nervousity built in her gut.

His eyes searched hers, a slow grin spreading over his lips as he leaned closer, bending down to whisper in hear ear. "Dont get cocky with me, girl." And his hand began sliding downward, making her shiver, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

She swallowed, that tone, the hat? God. Her uterus purred, and in a sudden surge on confidence, she answered. "No, sir."

He grabbed the glass bottle from her hand and grinned, taking a sip. "Good, girl. Now go." And pointed to the door.

Would it be wrong to say she started salivating? His words, together with his lips making contact with the same surface she had? There was something about it, something that made her . . . Pulse.

Bucky whistled and his friend–the bouncer–came bounding up the steps, him along with the group of dad's and bucky's friends only a few steps behind.

The bouncer tipped his hat to her and her friend in passing, a smirk on his lips. Nice to know there was still some gentlemen in the world.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was quite handsome too.

"Dont even think 'bout it," Bucky warned.

She rolled her eyes, and then they were finally on their way out, meeting Bucky's group of friends on the way, all nodding and greeting her. "Tell your daddy we missed him tonight." One said, and they all chuckled.

The girls hurried off, giggling. But anxiety lingered in the depths of her chest. Those men were rogue witnesses in all of this.

As she held the door open, voices raised behind them. She could see the crowd turning to look in Buckys direction, anf she herself followed their gazes. And found them just in time to see Bucky's knuckles collide with the jaw of the guy she'd spent her night on, sending him sprawling.

-

Plunging into the deep night, the cold swept over them. "He's hot, ain't he?"

She didn't want to answer, or simply didn't want to admit it and just gave her friend a look of understanding.

"God, I was ready to pounce on him the second he called me ma'am."

The girl understood that too.

-

After about ten minutes wait, Bucky emerged from the bar. Unscathed, apart form bloody knuckles and dark cloud around his head. Before even saying a thing, he'd already removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I only got one of them. Apologies, ma'am," he told her friend and opened the truck door for them both. "The truck'll warm you up."

"Thats ok, thank you," her friend answered, and the girls shared a knowing look. Their thoughts connecting in fiendish collectivity.

"Alright, get in. We'd better get goin'."

-

The ride was relatively quiet. We knew better than to anger him further. Anxiety was growing within her, though, she didnt wanna know what would happen when her friend was let off.

"Text me ok? I'll se ya' later." Her friend said, eyeing Bucky. She leaned her head through the open window of the truck. "But- let me know how that goes," she whispered. "And good luck." She raised her eyebrows with a smirk on her lips.

The girl rolled her yes. "Sure will." And with one last wave, they were off.

-

When there were only the two of them, they could say whatever they wanted with confidence. But so far, there'd only been a few sighs and breaths of shared irritation. Neither of them were particularly pleased with the situation.

But she wanted to be the first to speak. "I'll be 21 in a few days, Buck."

"Doesn't mean you have good judgement."

She bristled. "I'm not a little girl anymore!"

" 'Course not, I can tell by the way you dress. That what a grown woman look like to you?" He nodded to her body, barely covered apart from his thick jacket over her torso.

She pulled it closer around herself. "Like what exactly? What do I look like to you? A slut, a hooker?" Her face stung from embaressment. She felt like a child again, being berated for something she wasn't able to puzzle together by herself.

He clicked his tongue, jerking his head to the side. His patience was running thin. "Dont twist my words, doll. I'm callin you careless."

"That dont matter comin' from you, you're not my daddy." She knew the comment would get a rise out of him, because she knew he'd ment no ill intent, and she knew he cared for her. But she was mad, and so was he.

"No, n' you should thank fucking god he wasn't there to bust you. I was the better option, I can promise you that."

She exhaled a frustrated breath, turning her attention toward the windshield. Watching droplets of water paving their way over the condensation covered glass. "You weren't the only one to bust me, though, were you?" She spoke lowly, feeling like a coward for even asking. "The boys gonna say something?"

He gripped the steering wheel harder, his roughed up knuckles tearing. "I told em' I'd take care of it." It must've stung, but he took no notice. Other things pestered his mind.

Worry mixed in with all other emotions as her gaze drifted to his hands, and her mind immidetly moved into recovery mode. "So what's that mean, you gonna tattle on me now?"

He looked over at her, brows furrowed right beneath the rim of his hat. He couldnt begin to understand her. "That all you care about?"

"Right now? Well, yeah. I dont want a scolding."

"All grown and still daddy's little girl, worried about his opinions."

"And if I say yes, what then, girl?

"I dunno, m' gonna have to convince you not to."

"Like you convinced that guy to buy you beer, huh? What'd you do, flirt with him? Give him a handjob, suck him off? What did I miss before catching you?"

Her mouth hung open in disbelief. "You fucking asshole!" She shook from anger, she never expected words like that to be thrown at her. Especially not by him. But she'd get him back, there was no reason behind her actions now. "Maybe I would've, I even bet it would've worked if I'd asked you. Right? You would've just loved having your friends pretty daughter gettin' you off, huh!" She half shouted the last sentence, her chest heaving with effort and fury.

"That's enough." His tone was unforgiving, shooting a sense of reality back into her.

"I'll shut up if you answer the god damned question Buck, would it have worked?"

But Bucky didn't answer, his jaw clenched and unclenched, biting back his words. If she thought the silence had been bad before? It was deafening now.

After calming down again, her words hit her like a freight train. She always had a friend in Buck, but now she wasn't sure. The words that'd been thrown back and forth had set them off balance, their entire relationship was on unsteady ground. Something had been rewritten in the rules between them.

There'd always been attraction, but that wasn't something they ever spoke of. They'd always been close, good friends even. But now, something had changed. And it made her feel sick. She'd had an ally in him, but now, she wasn't so certain.

After a long whole of shutting her mouth out of stubbornness, the fate of her father finding out was worse, so she broke. "Please don't bring me home, Buck. Dad'll throw a fit." She tried to smile, to soften her voice. But it felt wrong.

After a moments uncertainty on her part, and strained breathing on his, he spoke. "Im not makin' the detour, you can sleep at mine, that was always the plan anyway." He admitted, sounding utterly tired.

And now she felt extremely guilty, eyes studying him as he gripped the steering wheel harder. Her gaze drifted over his body, his face, his hands. Stopping on the roughed up and bloody knuckles. He'd beaten that guy for her. Out of jealousy, or simply because he was protective?

She turned away, her chest feeling hollow and followed the birches and sprucetress as they flashed by the truck. Their colors and textures blending together as they met the dark consistent sky above them.

Bucky's house was dark, he only lit a few tablelamps when they arrived. It was better that way, she recognized herself here, within the gloom and the safety of his home. It was second to her own.

"I'll get your something more comfortable," he said, his eyes avoiding her clothes, her body as a whole and disappeared into his bedroom.

Was it because he thought they didn't fit her, or the opposite? Had he been mad at himself for being attracted to her?

She nodded slowly, calling out to him, "we should do something about that hand of yours."

"It's fine, I'm fine." He said, re-emerging, meeting her eyes. "Here," he handed here a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, most likely too big for her. "I'll take the couch, n' you can take my bed."

She nodded again, and headed into the bathroom.

Buckys t-shirt was longer on her than the skirt she'd worn, so she opted out of the shorts. Luckily findig a roll of gauze in the bathroom cabinet.

She emerged from the bathroom, a pair of panties and the oversized t-shirt the only things on her body. "You want something to-" Bucky paused as she rounded the corner, and suddenly she herself stopped short–caught off guard.

Bucky stared at her, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost the second he looked up. Bucky cleared his throat, and with the weight of a 15 year long friendship on his shoulders, his eyes stayed glued to hers.

Inwardly, she smiled and hoped the lowly lit livingroom couldn't reveal the blush on her cheeks. "Found some gauze," she held the roll up, indirectly asking for permission to bandage him.

He opened his mouth to decline, she could even see his head begin to shake in dismissal.

But she cut in before he had the chance. "Just let me help, you can be mad and still let me help."

His eyes hardened, but hesitantly, he nodded all the same. "Im fine, doll."

She raised her brows with skepticism and made her way toward him, the fabric of buckys shirt doing its best at showcasing her breats.

Bucky clenched his fist in an attempt to control himself, he winced, the wounds on his knuckles re-opening.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "Sure seems fine to me." And placed herself infront of him. From his position on the couch, he had to look up at her. At that, a flicker of heat blazed in her core. Oh, those eyes. His big, pleading eyes, all sad and hurt. Did he want her gone or want her in some other way?

She kneeled, settling between his thighs and grabbed his hand. "You don't got to be so stubborn all the time. . . Just wanna help you." She wrapped his hand carefully, enjoying every second of his corse skin over hers. Once done, he tried flexing his hand, and winced again. He still hurt, that much was clear, but was too proud to admit it. "Want me to kiss it better?" She joked, hoping it would lighten the mood. But he did that thing again, where he said nothing, and instead clenched his jaw, as if holding back a yes. So she took her chance.

Keeping their eyes locked, she brought his wrapped knuckles to her lips, and kissed them through the bandage once, then moving further up to kiss the softer skin of the back of his hand. Again, his eyes were pleading, and he moved the hand to cup her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. She took it as encouragement and kissed his palm, his wrist, his forearm. She stood up on her knees, kissing his bicep and reached for his shirt to pull him closer. She cupped his face and brought him inches from her own, nuzzling her nose against his.

Finally, when her lips reached for his, he pulled away. "Stop, stop," he nudged his forehead against hers. "We can't," he moved his lips away, cheek to cheek, he kissed the soft spot in front of her ear. "We can't."

"Cant, or wont?" She asked dully.

Those pleading eyes were back, begging her not to make him answer that question. She nodded absentmindedly, pulled into her thoughts. She stood up and moved away from him, his hand sliding down her arm and locking around her wrist, stopping her. "Dont leave."

"I'm comin' back."

After a few minutes of bustling in the kitchen, she returned to him. Sidling up next to him on the couch, her curled up legs lulling into his lap as she handed him a whiskey glass, then cradled her own. He whispered a thank you, looking into her eyes, and she whispered a you're welcome, looking into his. Then they sat like that for a while, quiet, unmoving. Bucky's hands finding their home on her legs, glas in one hand and her knee in the other. Somehow, this wasn't crossing a line for them, this was their normal, this was something not even her family questioned, this was them.

"Im sorry, doll." he said finally. "I never meant to imply-"

"It's ok, Buck." He opened his mouth to speak again, but she stopped him. "Really, It's fine. I'd rather not dwell on it."

Another moments silence passed between them, it was uncomfortable, but the unsaid lingered in the air like a thick wall between them, and hung over them with the threat of smothering. "We need to talk about us."

"I didn't like the way he was touchin' you," he said, choosing the topic before she had a chance at it. If he had to approach them, he would do it indirectly. "It didn't look like you were enjoyin' it."

Her eyebrows raised, "You would've punched him even if I were enjoying it." She commented sourley.

He squeezed her knee, gently rubbing circles into the skin beside. "He acted like he owned you," He turned his unscathed hand upside down, brushing his knuckles up and down her sensitive skin.

It all went straight to her head, veins throbbed with heat she didn't know she could feel. All brought out by a single touch of his hand.

But she wouldn't let off. "And what do you 'spouse beating him for it is?"

He stayed silent, his hand turned again, this time to grab her soft flesh, squeezing it with purpose. Much like the guy had done, but this felt different. This felt good, real good.

She swallowed, closing her eyes to focus on the words she needed to say. "What made you think you had the right? If not that I already belonged to–" she stopped, and their eyes met in a quick glance.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "I was only protectin' you." He defended, but it didn't quite sound like he believed the words himself. Nor did she. But if he wasn't ready to see it as it was, she wouldn't pressure him.

Instead, she laid her head on his shoulder. "It shouldn't be this hard."

He shook his head, the words seemingly struck a cord within him. For he sat insilence, pondering, a long while. "I would've said no, you know. And it would've killed me." She looked at him strangely, forgetting what he was referring to for a moment. "I would've said yes, if you hadn't felt forced to it, like it was a last resort to keep your secret."

Oh. . . "Had I wanted it, you'd said yes?" She stared unbelieving into the dark space infront of them.

"Nothin' could stand in my way." He slid his hand further up her thigh, fingers exploring the skin just beneath the hem of his/her shirt.

She sat up straight to look at him properly, she couldn't tell if he was serious. "You want me?"

"More than anything," his voice was breathless, barely a whisper. His index and long finger reaching further up, exploring more than he'd ever dared. "Cant even explain how many times I imagined you gettin' me off after you said it. How much I hated the thought, the sight of you with that guy, his hands all on you."

A pang of need shot through her. She put her whiskey down, and braced her hands against his chest. "But why tell me now, whats changed? Whats changed in this last hour?" His fingers rubbed the skin of her hips beneath her panties, sending shivers running over her body, shivers she'd only previously dreamed he'd be the cause of.

"You're right, it shouldn't be this hard. I'm makin' it too hard." His hand slid to her waist, still invisible to him, but no longer untouchable. Magnetically, they were pulled together, faces inching closer and closer to oneanother.

"And what about daddy?" It was becoming hard to focus, she wouldn't stop him for the world. Bow, they were close enough to feel the dampness of their breaths.

His hand continued exploring farthur up, fingertips finally reaching the soft, plush flesh below her breast. "Your daddy ain't here, is he?"

She began shaking her head in disbelief, lips brushing against eachother. "Dont promise something if you can't follow through."

His hand stopped, "I can, please," he begged, waiting for her go-ahead. "I can. . ."

His words vibrated against her skin, electrifying her body. "Fuck," she moaned, he's right there. Right, there, infront of her, for her. "Then do, please do, Buck."

And just like that, both hands were beneath her shirt, pulling her into his lips and squeezing her breasts.

Breathless moans filled the silent air, they tore at eachother greedily. Pulling and pushing eachothers bodies, fighting to get Bucky free of his clothes.

Snaking one arm behind her back, he guided her down onto cushions and placed himself above her. Still clothed by jeans, he rolled his hips against her core, grinding the rough fabric against her barely clothed clit. This, is what she had been craving. The exact static friction, the heat and movement between their bodies producing all the pleasure she needed. She moaned heavily, beacause still, she wanted more. Pulling her legs up and her panties off, she wordlessly signaled for him to do the rest.

With a groan, Bucky dove into her neck, kissing and sucking, all the while he unzipped his jeans and pulled them off together with his boxers. No time was wasted, he lined his member up with her core within a second, prodding and teasing at the opening. "Please, please, please." She sounded desperate, but fuck, she was. And feeling it was worse then sounding it.

"Yes ma'am." He said, and thrusted into her. A gasp escaped them in unisome. With the arm still around her waist, he pulled her into his hips, his body straining as he delved deeper inside her than she thought possible.

"Yes. . ." She whined. "More."

He kissed his way up her throat, their hips freed and collided into eachother with steady, strong thrusts, pushing her deeper into the cushions with every rut. Nothing could compare, he was unparalleled. Bucky, despite what he was already achieving, kissed his way up her neck, unfaltering in his duty.

Her hands found his face, cupping it and bringing him back to her, and their lips met again. "Taste so sweet," he murmured, sinking his tongue into her. The salt of her skin mixing with her saliva. "Want all of you."

She smiled against him. "Harder."

He did as ordered, keeping his pace and adding pressure. "Yeah," he moaned. "Being so good for me, girl." And pulled her deeper onto his member. Her breaths grew rapid and shallow, fingers clawing at his back as she had nowhere to go, all pleasure directed straight into her. "Close, so fucking close," she cried.

"Good," he chuckled breathely against her skin, and that was a she needed. Her back arched in euphoria, and stars stung her eyelids, speckling the darkness. "Good job, sweetheart. Just breathe," he continued thrusting into her, softly, easing her through the orgasm. "Good girl. Well done. . ." He whispered, kissing her jaw. The stars began fading and she regained her senses, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Beautiful, girl." He moaned, still rutting into her, chasing his own high while wiping the tears from her face. Her body began tingling, on the vege of breaking down.

"Dont know how much more I can take, Buck." She kissed his cheek, focusing on the skill of his lips.

"Almost there, almost. . ." he moaned, increasing his pace. The slickness of her core created a sickening sound together with the slapping of their skin. It was heavenly, but she could feel the pressure building within her again.

"Mmmh, m' gonna cum again, please buck, dont stop."

He didn't, he continued, intent on coming together with her. He bit into her lip, causing her to yelp and yield the hold on his face and licked a trail down her chest and breast, then taking it into his mouth. Sucking and slurping in an insane rythm with the slapping. "Yes, yes! Fuck, Bucky." she called out, and Bucky pulled out of her.

Coming only a second after, his seed spilling over her abdomen. "I love you, I love you." He moaned with faltering breaths, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of her, kissing every part of skin that he could reach.

Holy shit? "I love you too." She smiled lazily, drunk off of her two consequent orgasms. Laying her hand on her stumache, she felt his sticky substance coat her fingers.

His eyebrows knit together in guilt. "Sorry 'bout that sweetheart, I'll get a towel-"

She grabbed his bicep and shook her head, locking her eyes onto his as she brought the fingers to her lips and licked them off, popping them in her mouth to suck them clean.

Bucky stared, unable to form words.

"Cat got your tongue, cowboy?" She asked, a coy smile on her glistenting lips.

"Fuck," he awed breathlessly. "I just love you." He whispered, lowering himself onto her once again, this time striking his tongue into her core.

-

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Picture this: Dragons using their caves to age cheese. Dragon Cheesemakers!!

The dragon coiled his enormous body, completely blocking the entrance of the tunnel that lead to the caves.

“No,” he snarled, smoke pluming from his nose.

The cheesemonger pinched the bridge of her own nose. “Look, I explained this to you at the start,” she tried once more. “I make cheese.”

“Yes,” the agreed, nodding his scaly head.

“Then I bring the cheese here.”

“Yes.”

“Then you store all the cheese in your cave, keeping it at the perfect temperature and humidity.”

“Yes.” He sounded particularly proud of this part.

“And then when the cheese has ripened,” she concluded. “I come to pick the cheese up again.”

A thunderous scowl clouded his maw. “No.”

“But that’s how it works!” she cried in exasperation. “I make the cheese, you store the cheese, I sell the cheese, I make more cheese!” She peered up at him. “You do realise I cannot bring you new cheese until I have sold this cheese.”

The dragon considered this for a moment. “Ah, but what if—” he began. “What if you go and make more cheese. And bring me the cheese. And I put it in my cave, with the rest of the hoard. And then I keep it there forever.”

“No,” she said flatly.

It was remarkable how much a dragon could look like it had just swallowed a lemon.

“You can’t keep cheese forever,” she insisted. “It will spoil and go bad!”

“You said it would get better and better!” the dragon roared indignantly. “And I take good care of them! With the air flow and the humidity and the temperature!”

“And that is great,” she said, trying to smile through her frustration. “But when a cheese is ripe, it’s ripe! Then you should not be kept anymore, it should be eaten.”

The dragon scraped it’s formidable claws against the stony ground and sulked.

“Look…” The cheese mongering business did not tend to require a lot of sweet-talking, but she was making an effort. “I’m sure the cheeses that aged in your cave are the best cheeses people have ever tasted. When they find out how delicious they are they will want us to make loads more. Maybe several caves’ worth!”

The reptilian eyes stared at her with disgruntled, reluctant interest. “Several caves?”

“If we’re lucky! And I could make so much cheese that I could bring you new cheese as soon as I pick up the aged cheese. Your cave would never even be empty!”

This seemed to strike a chord. The dragon lifted his head a little.

“And that would really be much better for the rest of your hoard,” she continued with fresh inspiration. “Because if you leave cheese too long, it might go bad and spoil the cheeses next to it too!”

A nervous ripple went through the beast’s scaly body, but he clearly was not convinced just yet. “But what sort of a hoard is it if I have to give it away,” he complained.

“Well! Cheese is not just any old hoard! It’s a developing creation! And you will have a hoard that is constantly developing too. Constantly changing, but, if we do this right, never shrinking.”

The dragon looked at her solemnly, wavering with uncertainty. Perhaps she shouldn’t hold it against the poor thing, it must be a difficult concept to wrap his head around.

“And I will tell you what,” she said encouragingly. “If business is good, I can start investing in some really good crumbly cheeses. You can keep those in your cave for five whole years!”

“That is quite a long time for humans, is it not?” he said, sounding a little more cheerful.

“Very long. Especially when it comes to cheese. Cheeses that have been aged that long are very expensive.”

In retrospect, she should perhaps have led with that. Gourmand or not, a dragon was still a dragon after all. A glittering, toothy grin appeared on her recalcitrant business partner’s shout and he moved just enough for her to move past him into the mountain.

“Tell me more about this expensive cheese that crumbles.”

She hid a smirk. “If you help me carry some of the current ones out, it would be my pleasure.”

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐲 | 𝐞.𝐦.

Pairing Eddie Munson x Fem Reader [friends -> lovers]

Summary: You and Eddie ditch the party of the semester to fall into something you both know is meant to be [fluff, 3k]

A/N This is just fun, fluff, and feels. Felt like a vibe while I was writing it. This fic is part 1 of 3.

The music vibrates through the floor so intensely that Eddie can feel it in his bones. Even in the sunroom where he and a few others have settled. The small space gives sight to the backyard, where people mingle as they smoke, illuminated by string lights combating the night’s darkness. Those inside the house with him chatter, sing, and toss their heads back in carefree laughter, feet shuffling against the hardwood as they dance.

The entire scene buzzes with the kind of life only Steve Harrington’s place could ignite on a Friday night. One of these days, he swore he was going to loosen up and allow himself to get swept up in it too. 

For now, he watches. Eyes flitting to various faces, but always returning to you. If you weren’t smiling, you were talking, and the way your lips formed around your words was just as beautiful. The two of you spoke briefly when he first arrived, and he could still feel the delighted hug you’d given him over the fact that he decided to come. He wondered what he’d have to do to make it go away, but good thing he didn’t mind the feeling. It was a reminder of how much he wished your nearness could be all his forever.

Longing was a peculiar thing. Selfish in its occupation of his entire being. 

As Eddie takes another small sip from his drink, something fruity spiked with vodka, The Hair himself saunters up in front of him in a pair of slacks and a Polo sweater. Though rather polished for the occasion, it manages to look fitting on him. His cheeks are a little flushed and the metalhead raises a curious brow as his friend stares down at him with a smirk. 

Rebel Yell starts pulsing through the stereo as Steve offers him a hand off the couch. They end up weaving their way out back. The fall air is cool, but not all of summer’s warmth has vanished. A few people wave and greet them as they head towards a pair of chaise lounge chairs. Billy Idol’s voice is muffled as it continues thrumming from inside. Grooving bodies are visible through the windows as the party carries on. 

Steve pulls out a fancy metal cigarette case before they sit, flipping it open with a soft click. Eddie can’t help but snort as he relaxes into the chair. 

Steve’s brows furrow as he slips out a joint and begins lighting it. “What?” 

Eddie nods to the case in Steve’s lap. “Rich people shit.” 

Steve takes the first couple puffs before passing the joint to Eddie. “Jealous?” 

A smile cracks Eddie's face before he takes a drag. The answer is no, he isn’t. Once upon a time, jealousy was all he burned with, even though he was Hawkin’s poster child for no fucks given and had every reason to be grateful he wasn’t worse off. Grateful for Wayne, that he wasn’t in the pen with his deadbeat father, for finally finding solid friends. He had more than he could ask for, and it took growing up to see it. 

Eddie tips his head back and blows smoke up into the night before giving Steve his turn. What he can’t see is that your eyes have fallen on him from inside the house, sparkling and curious as Robin grins by your side. 

“So did I save you back there or what?” Steve asks as he ashes the joint onto the ground. “Looked like you were zoning in and out, man.” There’s genuine curiosity in his gaze though his tone is playful. 

Growing up with parents like his, Steve had gotten good at reading people. They vacationed a lot, but still managed to walk around with arc reactors in their chests whenever they were home. Bound to detonate in the wake of the most trivial inconveniences. Sometimes he wished he could shut everyone and their feelings out, but he wouldn’t quite be himself then. 

Eddie runs his ringed fingers through his hair. “Just a bit overwhelmed.” 

Steve takes a thoughtful look around. “These kinda things can be a lot.” 

Not even half the faces outside belong to close friends. There was a magic to it, nevertheless. For a few hours, everyone could throw their worries to the wind as Hawkins, Indiana began to feel less like a nowhere town and more like the top of the world. Lord knows Steve didn’t mind the distraction. 

“Not my scene,” Eddie settles on saying. The joint has found its way back into his hand. 

“Everyone’s got their escape,” Steve says. “You’re just too evolved for this one.” 

Eddie snorts. “Shut up.” 

“Yet here you are in the flesh,” Steve continues, thinking as Eddie smokes. “You should tell her how you feel.” 

Eddie coughs, lowering the joint from between his lips. “Dude. Fuck.” 

Steve bites back a smirk as Eddie recovers, extending his hand for the joint. Eddie refuses, taking another drag out of spite, for himself or Steve he isn’t sure. A distant swell of giggles makes multiple heads turn towards the back door, where you and Robin file outside. There’s an immediate flutter in Eddie's gut as he takes you in, your skirt flowing at your thighs. It takes him a second to realize you two are headed their way. 

By the time you make it over, Eddie has straightened up. Meanwhile Steve remains unphased. “Ladies,” Steve greets.  

Robin wrinkles her glittery nose at him. “Why weren’t we invited out here?” 

Chuckling, he makes room for her on his chair and she plops down beside him. “‘Cause you hate the way weed makes you feel like you’re going insane.” He leans into her with each word until she pushes him away with a helpless laugh.

“It’s the principle,” she counters. 

Eddie motions for you to join him and you smile as you take a seat beside him, bumping your shoulder against his in a gentle hello. When he offers you the joint, you shake your head. Steve reaches for it yet again, but Eddie pretends not to notice, taking another drag. A small smile pulls at your lips. 

“Actually, I think I will take a hit.” Eddie doesn’t hesitate passing it to you. 

Rather than indulging, you hand it to Steve, who laughs in victory. Eddie shakes his head, feigning betrayal in a way that earns a laugh out of you. It’s a sweet, melodic sound. He tries to ignore the way your thigh feels pressed against his, but it’s in vain. Even the vanilla notes of your perfume manage to cloud his mind in the softest way. No matter where he was, if you were near, he would always be painfully aware of your presence. 

It was your invitation that had driven him to this party in the first place. Although Steve’s invite came first, your insistence made him change his mind and say yes. Sweaty bodies and blaring music wasn’t your ideal scene either, but you gave in from time to time and looked good doing so. Earlier that night, Eddie almost hadn’t made it through Dancing In the Dark as you and Robin swayed and jumped around like you were alone in your room. There was something about the freeness of the way you moved that made it hard to look away. 

“Munson’s been meaning to tell you something,” Steve announces, looking straight at you.

Eddie’s heart drops into his stomach as he glares at Steve. Robin glances between the two of them, brows furrowed as amusement plays on her lips. You hug your arms as a cool breeze rolls through, but you’re more interested in what Eddie has to say than escaping the chill. In meeting your gaze, however, he silently begs you not to entertain the claim. It only piques your curiosity all the more. 

“Are you gonna spill or what?” Robin prompts.

“There’s nothing to spill,” Eddie insists, looking down to twist his skull ring. 

Reaching over into his lap, you gingerly take his hand into yours to slip off that very ring. He doesn’t pull away or argue, just watches as a helplessly warm feeling melts down his ribcage. His lips twitch upwards when you put it on your thumb because it’s the only finger big enough. It’s warm from being against his own skin for so long. Robin and Steve share a brief, knowing look.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” There’s hope woven within the lilt of your voice. Eddie chuckles, and you commit the breathy sound to memory as if you’ll need it one day more than you do now. 

Robin slaps her hands against her knees. “Well, it’s getting kinda chilly out here so I’m gonna head back inside,” she says, rubbing her arms as she stands. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” you tease. 

“I’ll stick to something tame like snooping around in Harrington’s room,” she says as she turns to leave. Steve rolls his eyes.

A comfortable silence settles between the three of you. However, his brows eventually pinch together as he reconsiders Robin’s words. Taking one last drag, he passes the joint back to Eddie.   

“She was joking, Steve,” you assure him, chuckling. 

“No she wasn’t,” he worries as he stands to jog back into the house. Eddie snickers. 

With a soft sigh, you lean back onto your hands, looking towards the sky as silence falls again. There are a few clouds visible in the light of the crescent moon, but the stars are everywhere. Like tiny shining freckles peppered against the face of the night. Part of you wonders if he’ll talk now. 

“What if the stars have been watching us back our entire lives?” you murmur. 

Eddie’s brows pinch together as he looks over at you, chest rattling with a startled laugh. “That’s something to think about.” His eyes are a bit glossier now. “Don’t think I’d mind if that were true.” 

You tilt your head, a smile budding on your face. “You wouldn’t mind billions of little eyes observing your day-to-day life?” you ask. “That’s a pretty big audience.” 

A grin eases across his face, half playful, half cocky. “I’m a pretty interesting guy.”

You lift a teasing shoulder, feigning indifference. “You’re alright.” 

Eddie laughs, but a weighted look flickers in his eyes as he studies you, catching the fondness you hadn’t tried all that hard to hide. Even with the pleasant buzz beneath his skin and somewhat of a looser mind, he can see it clearly. 

“Hey,” you speak up again. There’s a new softness to your voice, something mischievous dancing around the edges. “Wanna get outta here?” 

Eddie blinks like he can’t quite believe you’ve asked, but finds himself saying yes anyways.

••• 

Sitting in the passenger seat in his van, you realize you didn’t think much further than this. The air smells like him in all the best ways. Pinewood and faint cigarette smoke. As the engine rumbles to life, you shift in your seat and peek over at him, your confidence a distant memory. The radio bursts to life as well, but he quickly reaches out to turn it down. You bite back a smile at the fact that his skull ring is missing from his finger because it’s on yours. Eddie settles in with a sigh, turning to you. 

“So,” he says, eyes sparkling and a little red under the glow of the street lights. 

There’s an intensity to the warmth of his gaze. It drives you to hide your face in your hands. Which does nothing to make him disappear, if the way he exhales a chuckle is any indicator. “Stop looking at me, I didn’t think this far ahead.” There’s no real distress in your voice, only giddiness mixed with nerves. 

“Now I feel like an idiot,” you whine. 

“Well, you’re not.” He sounds more sincere than the moment calls for. “And I don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop looking at you, so I guess we’re both in a pickle.” 

“A pickle?” You snort, lowering your hands to meet his gaze. More laughter escapes you. Maybe it’s your body's way of not having to address the implication of his words. 

There’s a flutter in his gut as he watches you. It’s like old times, back when you were freshmen who stayed up too late laughing over the most ridiculous things. Except now, you were more than the girl who sat beside him in Biology because you thought it was cool he had a tattoo. You’d grown into a friend, perhaps even more. As composure finds its way back to you, that truth weighs heavy in the small distance between you.  

Eddie clears his throat. “We could hang at mine for a bit. Wayne’s at work.” When you don’t say anything, he bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s up to you.”  

“Sorry, yeah, that sounds good,” you breathe. 

Eddie gears the van into drive, only to put it back in park with a heavy exhale. You blink when angles himself to look at you, opening his mouth a few times before speaking. 

“There is something I need to tell you,” he admits. “No way in hell did I ever think we’d be friends, but you’re the raddest person I’ve ever met.” A lump forms in your throat as his words wash over you. “And you’re so pretty that sometimes I wonder how every guy in the world isn’t giving you whatever you want all the time.” 

You can hear your heart in your ears as you say, “Maybe that’s ‘cause there’s only one guy I want in the world.” 

•••

A small sound of surprise rises up your throat when Eddie backs you against his bedroom door. His apology is hushed against your lips as he continues kissing you, hands gentle where they grip at your waist, feeling along your sides. You’re warm all over as if you’re laid out before the sun, arms hooked around his neck. It hadn’t occurred to him how much he wanted to kiss you until you looked at his alarm clock and realized that it’d probably be best if he drove you home. It was well past midnight. Time had escaped you as you talked and laughed. 

When he does pull away, he studies your face like he’s looking for something. A few seconds pass, and he still doesn’t know what for. Perhaps your smile as it shyly appears. You move your hands to cup his face, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks. You’ve never been close enough to notice he has the faintest freckles over the bridge of his nose. It almost feels like you’re getting a glimpse at sacred markings you’re not supposed to see. 

Eddie remembers to breathe when you peck his lips again, running your fingers through his hair. His breath is startled out of him, more like. It’s a wonder his knees haven’t buckled beneath him. He wants to kiss you again to see if that’ll finally knock him back down to earth, but instead he exhales the softest sigh over your lips, squeezing your hips to confirm you’re real. He’s not expecting the sense of guilt that creeps up on him. 

Your brows pinch together. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I just… I haven’t taken you on a date or bought you flowers.” He swallows. “I swear you’re worth all that, swear I’m gonna.” 

You gently scratch his scalp. “That’s nothing to worry yourself over.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “Don’t want you to feel like I’m just trying to come onto you,” he says. “I like you a lot—”  

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve been wanting to kiss you forever too.” Your voice sounds braver than you feel. 

A smile breaks across his face as he rests his forehead against yours. “Well, that’s maddening news.” 

Humming, you kiss him again, delicately running your tongue along his lips so he shivers. “Where are we gonna go?” you breathe, clarifying when he makes a soft, confused sound, “For our first date.” With the way you continue kissing him, he assumes you don’t really want an answer, that you’re trying to drive him crazy on purpose. 

His mind changes when you gently push his chest so he knows to pull away. He listens immediately, eyes dazed. 

“Maybe the arcade,” you supply, toying with the hem of his shirt. “Or a picnic by the lake.” Your hands slip under his shirt, gracing the skin of his lower stomach, your touch sending a rush of heat through him faster than any high ever could. 

You’re not trying to be suggestive, it’s more exploratory. A shared thrill in finally being able to touch him how you’ve wanted for so long. Eddie’s hands remain at your waist, grounding him even as he feels his resolve starting to slip. 

As much as he wants to indulge a step further, maybe even several, he holds himself back. It might be old-fashioned, but he wants to do this right, do a bit of course correction. He can almost hear Uncle Wayne’s voice from those lazy afternoons of his younger years, talking about life and how to treat a lady. 

“Next Friday,” he says, staring into your eyes intently. “It’ll be nice. I’ll surprise you,” he promises, taking your hands in his, relishing their softness, their warmth. His skull ring is still on your thumb. 

“Really?” Your smile is unabashed. 

He nods, a grin creeping onto his face. “It’s a date.” 

-

Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think. 

Turn on notifications for @taleseverlasting so you don’t miss the next one.

NEXT PART (18+)

MORE

[demonlorddiva]

Dad things the Obey me! brothers do

ive been thinking of this one for a while and i think its so funny

Lucifer

If your watching a reality tv show in the living room, he will comment on how those shows are "Fake" and "trashy" but will continue to watch it and comment on whats going on

he doesnt sit down either, cause hes "not watching" he will just stand there

Mammon

will have you hold the light while hes fixing his car

will get mad cause your not pointing it in the right direction

Curses real loud while fixing things

Levi

DAD JOKES DAD JOKES

Laughs at every single one he makes

Satan

grunts while standing up or sitting down

falls asleep on the recliner after reading for 2 seconds

Asmo

doesnt remember any of your friends names

even tho hes met them and KNOWS who they are

Beel

does the thing when hes driving and you have snacks by reaching his hand out behind him

stands by the grill the entire bbq to talk about the brisket hes smoking

Belphegor

When theres a huge storm or hurricane, he goes outside on the front porch and watches

even tho we were TOLD to go in the basement

he will be down in a minute, calm down!

[cyberstabbing]

so dizzy and so out of it and once again my life in spiraling out of control due to my own laziness and procrastination