#so I’ll explain there whenever that post comes out

[thefandomenchantress]

General Thoughts About Eden's Garden

I have, at long last, finished chapter one of Eden's Garden. And I really liked it! While it wasn't perfect, I still really enjoyed playing it and am very glad I got to experience it. Since I wasn't around for the Another fangames, this is the first time I've been able to keep up with a project like this as it's coming out, and it's been really cool.

So, without further ado, let's get started! Project Eden's Garden spoilers below. :)

I'll start with my criticisms, since I don't have a lot of them. Honestly, my biggest complaint has to be the technical issues I faced while trying to play this game instead of watching it. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend making a game is easy by any means, so I don't really hold that against the game, even if it was frustrating.

Plus, I'm an idiot. I sat for like half an hour trying to figure out the Non-Stop debate controls and thinking my WASD thingy was malfunctioning and not letting me switch truth bullets, when there was only one truth bullet I was allowed to use at the time. I was just being stupid and not catching on when it only showed me one truth bullet in the corner, haha. The repeated crashing of my game, however, wasn't my fault. But I was able to get my hands on a work-in-progress low-spec version of the game that stopped most of the crashing and stuff! After that, most issues went away, except for after the trial ended and the after-trial dialog wouldn't pop up, leaving me on a black screen even after a restarted my computer and tried a few more times. But I'm not too unhappy about that, it's not like I was missing any riveting gameplay sections, haha. I could just watch the YouTube version of the execution and stuff.

Other than those technical difficulties on my end, there are only a few actual problems I had with the gameplay, haha. The first being that I am terrible at bullet hell-styled gameplay, apparently, and Argument Altercation kicked my ass in normal mode. I really wish there was a way to switch your difficulty on that, or maybe checkpoints, because after about thirty or more tries of not being able to get past stage three, I gave up and ended up just getting my hands on a save file from after the minigame. I may love videogames, but that does not mean I'm good at them, haha.

As for the actual writing, I don't have too many complaints...I suppose if I had to say something, though, it'd be that some of the characters felt like they didn't have enough to do this chapter. Ulysses is probably the main one I felt this applied to, even if I love him, he didn't give us too much this chapter, other than a lore drop during the pharmacy investigation (His limited screentime didn't stop me from growing attached to him, though haha). Other characters, despite getting a little more screentime, felt like they didn't really develop at all in the grand scheme of things. But I don't want to focus in on this too much, since it's only chapter one and most characters usually don't start having any big changes until a murder occurs. And the disproportional screentime may just be the writing style of Eden's Garden being that they focus on a certain group of characters each chapter, when they have the most relevance. Wenona, for example, feels like she's being set up to be a larger player down the line, even if she wasn't a super major character this chapter.

There was a lot more I liked about the chapter than disliked, though! All the characters really grew on me, for the most part. Well...Almost everyone. There is one character who I'm kinda meh on right now, since I'm not quite sure what they're going for yet. He's entertaining, I like him fine, but he's not quite on the same level as everyone else. And that character is:

Jett.

Honestly, I think the main reason I'm having trouble is just how he treats Toshiko.

Jett, why are you picking on a literal child??? What are you doing??? This wouldn't bother me if I knew an explanation for it that gives cool insight into his character, but as is I'm just kinda annoyed at him for it. Then again, I haven't bothered to experience any of his FTEs yet, so it's possible he gives some sort of explanation for his child-belittling ways there, haha.

The Mark and Jett thing was fine, I'm liking the set-up there. I think the only difference that makes me like the Jett and Mark stuff over the Jett and Toshiko stuff is that Damon actually calls Jett out for not respecting Mark's boundaries, meanwhile no one really reprimands him for belittling Toshiko because of her age. When he shares her blackmail, no one says "Hey, man, that wasn't very cool of you." They just shrug Toshiko's blackmail off and say no one should share anything else. Wolfgang even calls her blackmail a "joke". No wonder Toshiko is so desperate to be respected, everyone but Ingrid is so rude to her (I can forgive Grace, though, because the gremlin bit was the funniest thing in the prologue to me).

Of course, if they end up calling out his behavior towards her later, as well as everyone else's, I'll be happy and probably end up liking him more. His whole never taking off his helmet thing is pretty cool, I'm interested to see where that goes and to see any character development he has. And him and Cassidy's little friendship being established through gaming was fun.

...Writing all this out actually made me appreciate Jett a little more, since I don't think I would be able to say this much about some of the other characters...I mean if I felt something other than passive enjoyment maybe they’re doing something right…

Oh, right, there were other characters this chapter. Let's get onto them!

Damon was just as entertaining as last time, I'm excited to see what happens next with him. Him letting Diana defend herself made it seem like he was going to be more empathic to others and improve, but Eva betraying him might mean he starts trusting the others even less than before.

In daily life, Eva...Might've been my favorite. Don't get me wrong, Kai is still my favorite character overall, but I loved Eva in daily life so much. Her "Bweh..." and "Raaaage..." voicelines are some of my favorites in any fangan and I'm happy I experienced all her FTEs. I loved her in daily life, deadly life was...Still fine and good, the execution was super well-animated and cool. But her being the culprit did sort of undercut my enjoyment a little, since it sort of calls into question the truthfulness of certain aspects of her character that made me like her. Still really cool, though.

Kai was great. I'm going to make a post dedicated to him later, where I'm sure I'll ramble on and on for a while, so for now I'll keep it brief. He was just as funny as last time, surprisingly helpful in the class trial, his large amount of screentime was a pleasant surprise to me, I'm super excited to see if he'll be the new support, and his FTEs were really cool. I'm super hyped to ramble about everything concerning him later.

Ulysses, despite his limited screentime, managed to be pretty charming this time around. Him already telling backstory stuff to us makes me a little worried for if he'll die soon, but oh well. Him literally saying "um, actually" when he starts his objection was great. Toshiko calling him ugly in...the Prologue, I think(?), was blatantly incorrect because I really like his design. There's something about his color scheme that I enjoy, idk. Plus, owls are my favorite animal, so I was pretty much guaranteed to like his theming.

Diana being heavily suspected by the fanbase and then being suspected in-universe in the trial was cool, the whole "choose the culprit" minigame legitimately tricked me into thinking it was her for a hot minute...Until I remembered how much unused evidence we had, haha. Excited to see where she goes from here.

Wolfgang...Damn those sprites in the Diana flashback were cool. I should definitely check out his FTEs to get a little more context, but wow. While I'm not surprised he was the chapter one victim, I'm a little disappointed we'll never hear more from him.

Grace was great, her demeanor is kinda similar to another favorite character of mine, so I've become pretty endeared to her. I'm interested in seeing where the bunny symbolism goes, and how she'll react to Wolfgang being gone. She had no FTEs (her actually responding when I tried to enter her dorm (I was doing an experiment to see if I could enter anyone but Kai's and Damon's) jumpscared me haha), so I'm guessing she'll live a bit longer and receive some character development! Yay!

Wenona was fun, her attitude was as entertaining as ever. She's probably one of the characters I most want to go do the FTEs of, I'm interested to hear more about her.

Desmond and Eloise's friendship was fun, the scene where they try to get Grace to let them in Wolfgang's room was definitely the highlight of both their characters for me this chapter. Eloise standing up for herself during the confrontation and Desmond backing her up without hesitation was awesome. Can't wait to see their friendship expanded on (And Desmond being angsty during the closing argument was hilarious).

Toshiko and Jett already had most of my thoughts laid out above. Jett I've mostly finished describing, but I did like Ingrid and Toshiko's friendship this chapter. Toshiko's whole pretending-she's-totally-not-freaking-out-and-being-actively-traumatized thing was good, I liked how she was desperate to sound smart in the trials, it fits her character.

Mark was a little ruder than I thought he'd be going in, but I'm not complaining. While I don't think anything topped "Grace, call the fire brigade" this chapter, some things got pretty close, like his annoyed facial expression when you agree with him. Him not wanting to be acknowledged at all at the gaming tournament was interesting, I'm excited to see where they take his character.

Ingrid...Was fine. I'll be honest, I was a little disappointed at how my view of her failed to change at all this chapter. Even her blackmail was something we learned in the Prologue already. Still, I can appreciate her. Even if she didn't change much this chapter, I still like what she is right now. She's all-around pretty cool, and I like how she makes sure to defend Toshiko, unlike some characters I know. /j

(Her being called "reliable" made me immediately feel like she might not last long, though... :()

Jean is pretty interesting to me so far, Cassidy suggesting that he might just be posing as a 'pirate' was intriguing. Him saying there was an arcade on his ship made me think of a crack theory that he worked at a Chuckie Cheese type place, but instead of there being a strange mouse, you could hang around at his prop ship and take pictures with him and his "crewmates" (Co-workers or employees) in costume, with an arcade and snack bar nearby...His knowledge of machinery stuff is also cool. I should check out his FTEs.

Cassidy's whole gaming gimmick is cool, and I like her, but I think if I'm being honest, her fun design and awesome voice actor kinda carry her for me. I don't think she'd be one of my favorites to hear speak otherwise. Some of her voicelines are just hilarious by themselves, too, though ("I better zip up my fly, my genius is showing" was my favorite, like what the fuck that is so random and funny and she only uses it once). She's a character who I don't think I'd find nearly as funny if the vocal delivery wasn't as on point as it is, but seeing as it's totally awesome and on point I have nothing to complain about she’s really cool haha.

And those are all my general thoughts on each of the characters. Now onto a few individual moments I really liked!

I replayed the Prologue before playing through chapter 1, and something really cool I noticed was that when they're on the train, this happens after Cassidy says she smells something weird:

I thought it was really cool how they subtly foreshadowed his lack of a sense of smell like that! The devs really thought his character through from the beginning, I suppose.

But moving on to chapter 1, specifically the trial. One detail I really liked was this:

“Near the boiler room door, I discovered a thin piece of metal.”

“During the investigation, there was a strange smell permeating the boiler room. It took me a moment to notice, but when I did…”

Damon takes credit for both the scrap metal and the smell.

This happens very directly with the metal, where he says that he discovered it. While he does admit he didn't think the metal was important before, what he fails to do is give credit to Ulysses for pointing it out to him, since Damon didn't notice it until Ulysses did. And when Ulysses did notice it, Damon berated him for even writing it down. And yet now here he is, pretending that he took note of the piece of metal all by himself.

He also takes credit for finding the smell, albeit slightly less directly. But he still makes it sound like he noticed it by himself, when Jean was the one who had to directly point it out to him. And even then, Damon could only smell the generator at first, and Jean had to further explain what he meant. And Damon pretty much plagiarizes his description of the smell without crediting him, too. You’d think a debater would know how to cite their sources correctly, haha.

So long story short, Damon fails to mention that he got help investigating from both Ulysses and Jean. I find that interesting because even though Damon says he can only rely on himself right before this trial starts, he is actively ignoring that he is only able to steer the trial in the right direction at certain points because of the help he received from others. The game is both proving his point about him only relying on himself (+Eva this trial) wrong, while also letting the player further see his mindset. Pretty cool. (Though I’d honestly be kinda pissed if I was Ulysses haha).

I also really liked Eva this chapter. Legitimately the first chapter death I've been most sad about in any Fangan. Usually I see the fake-out support thing coming a mile away, since it's such a common thing in fangans, but they genuinely fooled me with Eva. I really got attached to her and I'm sad to see her go.

I still haven't really fully processed her character, but what I do know is that she's really cool and relatable and her voice actor is very talented. Her design is amazing. Her sense of humor is immaculate. Overall, amazing character I was devastated to see go.

One cool detail I noticed, in order to commemorate my love for her:

After avoiding Grace, which Damon theorizes was because she didn't want her talent mocked, she investigates the Dining Hall people. And yet, even though she mentions Jett and Mark being unhelpful, she says nothing about Kai.

This could be shrugged off by the fact Kai said something helpful about the footsteps when Damon approached, but since Kai says this info like he hasn't shared it with anyone else, I don't think that's the case. Instead, I think this confirms Damon's suspicion that she is avoiding those who mocked her real talent, since Kai is definitely a jerk about it to her face on at least two occasions. She legitimately just didn't speak with him. That really hits home just how uncomfortable Eva was with a lot of the people in the killing game.

(I'll talk more about this in the Kai post, but Eva not mentioning Kai when you enter the dining hall, and Desmond also not mentioning where he went before that, made me actually start worrying that we were gonna find a second body haha, that's why I noticed this).

Lastly, I'd just like to say:

Even Desmond and Eloise being like "dude no stfu" at Diana in this CG was hilarious and I love it.

[humanjarvis]

the world when you're with me

synopsis: you seek out sylus for comfort after realizing you were wrong about him.

tags: comfort, fluff, implied avoidant!reader learns to trust sylus, implied avoidant!reader clings to sylus, sylus takes care of reader from afar, sylus has mephisto and the twins follow reader but wbk pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mostly mc word count: 802

a/n: is this the peak of literature? no. did i need to write it after the day i had? yes. did i need to post it today? no, because i’m trying to stagger my posts more, but here we are. anyway 4k caleb pwp coming tomorrow 

For the first few weeks after you’d infiltrated the N109 Zone, you’d avoided Sylus Qin like the plague. 

After being scared out of your wits by the first version of him you'd met—the cold, unavailable criminal mastermind who’d forced you to shoot him within 5 minutes of knowing one other—you were unashamedly wary of working with him again. 

But Sylus’s intel was unrivaled. More and more often, you found yourself visiting the N109 Zone to meet with him, eventually not even bothering to book a place to stay. There was always a guest room at the Onychinus base prepped for your arrival.

As you spent more time with Sylus, he’d noticeably changed his approach to interacting with you. Rather than forcing you to resonate with him, he’d explained to you how his Evol worked, letting you aim his hands at some training dummies to test it out yourself. Instead of unceremoniously shutting you out when he was tired, he’d drag his robe-and-slippers-clad self to sit beside you on the sofa, answering your cautious questions by practically giving away all his secrets. 

His shift in attitude hadn't stopped there. Sylus had clearly been using that endearingly incorrigible crow to keep tabs on you, but for the strangest reasons. 

Whenever you had a bad day at work, some building-wide maintenance emergency would magically appear, forcing your team to cease operations for the rest of the day. He’d text you a couple hours after your early dismissal, saying he was in the city and inviting you on an evening joyride to clear your head.  

The day after you’d lugged a case of water up the stairs to your apartment, having to pause a couple times to catch your breath, you came home to see your fridge mysteriously stocked with groceries. The only traces left behind were the masked twin figures you spotted scurrying away from your window. 

When a new phone showed up at your doorstep one day—you never even told him you’d shattered your screen, you thought—you’d decided that Sylus wasn’t as bad as you’d once assumed. Not anywhere near as bad, in fact. He was thoughtful, generous, and helped you without taking credit or forcing you to ask for it. You’d never had that before.

Which is why, somehow, you find yourself standing in the doorway of his armory, studying him silently as he polishes an antique-looking gun.

When he notices you, Sylus looks up, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “Something wrong, kitten?” he drawls, subtly checking your body for injuries. 

Mind numb from your absolutely dreadful day, you stay silent while Sylus looks at you expectantly, his hands forgetting their earlier task. 

But for the next minute, you remain hovering in the doorway. You expect him to get annoyed—you almost want him to, so you have an excuse to go back to relying only on yourself—but all you see on Sylus’s face is patience.

When you start shuffling toward him, that patience mixes with a glimmer of anticipation that he visibly tries to suppress. You need him to be calm right now—an anchor, he thinks. If he loses his composure, if he startles you with his excitement at your approach, you might bolt at any moment. 

Sometime during his inner struggle, you reach him. Meekly, you stand before his chair, briefly opening your mouth before closing it. 

“What is it, sweetie?” he asks softly. “Tell me, and we can figure it out together. I’ll personally track down whoever seems to have stolen your words from you.”

At his offer, you break, collapsing into his lap. His large, warm hands immediately encircle your waist, and you bury your face into his neck, inhaling his leather and spice cologne. 

“Aw,” he coos in his baritone voice, rocking you slowly in his embrace. When he lifts your head an inch, you resist, letting out a soft whine. Gently, he guides your head back to his chest, his quickening heartbeat thumping in your ears and grounding you in the the moment. 

After several moments of silence, your deep, shuddering breaths the only interruptions, Sylus murmurs into your ear. “When I noticed you never ask for help, I was worried the world may not be treating as well as it should. You must be very tired, hmm?” he asks, rubbing his chin against your hair. 

Tightening your arms around him, you sit there for a while, his steady breaths seeming to mend a decades-long rift in your heart.

The next time Sylus tries to lift your head, you let him. He pulls your face from his neck so he can look into your eyes, hoping his gaze conveys his sincerity, before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. 

“You don’t need the world when you’re with me,” he promises. “I’ll treat you better than it ever could.”

[ccazimi]

You Are Also Like Me

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt. 3

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

“I want you to take my virginity.”

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

Annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

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

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

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

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

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

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

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

“What?! When?”

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

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

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

Reluctantly, you nod.

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

You tell her you’ll look into it.

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

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

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

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

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

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

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

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

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

Two more days pass, still no progress.

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

Instead, you take the long way around it.

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

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

“Can I stay here tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

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

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

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

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

“No? Then what is it like?”

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

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

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

“I’m not desperate.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

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

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

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

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

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

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

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

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

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

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

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

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

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

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

“Then stop wasting time.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s no more waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

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

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

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

Eager to see him again, all of him.

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

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

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

“Spread yourself.”

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

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

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

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

“Like this. Hold it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it occurs to you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s right, but still…

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

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

Were you? You don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to feel him completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It burns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

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

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

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

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

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

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

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

“More?”

You nod.

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

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

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

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

And then he stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

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

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

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

Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t care if they’re fake.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

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

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

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

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

And then stillness. Too much of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “So romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me go.”

“No.”

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

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

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

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

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

“Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

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

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

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

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

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

“Head down."

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

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

Uncertainty, maybe? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “So… I can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t come.

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

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not tonight.

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

At first, neither of you moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at least you hope.

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

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

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

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

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

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

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

Possessive yet soft.

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to eat.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, stop!”

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

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

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

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still no response, not even a shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

It's been a full week now.

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

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

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

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

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

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

“I didn’t want it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

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

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

Your date is forgettable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake up before him.

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

Not touching. Just…close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple days pass.

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

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

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

“You working today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It just feels like… missing.

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

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

“Then just let me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A single drop falls out.

He catches you trying not to look at him, clearly hoping to escape the reprimanding that’s about to come your way.

“Seriously? Can you just throw away the damn containers when they’re finished?”

You sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it next time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Okay what do you want me to do? Go back in time and throw the carton away? I just forgot.”

He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’d buy into it a bit more if he didn’t see how well you could really do things, when you weren’t talking to him. Weaponized incompetency - that’s what this is.

If you’re not acting like some poor woman’s kind of shitty boyfriend, you’re acting like a spoiled pet.

You stand in the doorway to his office, arms crossed over your chest. Sukuna is bent over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up at first, but you can feel his awareness of your presence, as always.

“I’m bored,” you announce, breaking the silence.

Sukuna barely glances up. “Do I look like your entertainment?”

“Not really,” you mutter, stepping closer. “But I’m here, so I thought you might want some company.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches until you can’t stand it any longer. You move behind his chair and sit down on his lap without asking. He freezes for a moment, but doesn’t push you off. His hands remain on the paperwork, not acknowledging the shift in your position.

You lean in slightly, eyes flicking to the paper in front of him. “What’s this? Planning to buy something else you don’t need?”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “I’m working.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight a little to grind—barely—against his thigh. “It must be hard to focus when you’re this uptight,” you say, deliberately lazy in your tone.

He glances at you sideways. “I’m not the one climbing into someone’s lap uninvited.”

“Don’t need an invitation. It’s my birthright as your only niece,” you reply with a half-smile.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t bother responding. Pen scratching against the page like he’s willing himself to ignore you.

You want his attention, maybe something more — to get a peek into his head. But you know him; he never gives anything away when asked outright. That’s fine, you’ll go for the side door instead.

After watching him for a moment you lean in a little, voice laced with provocation. “Let me guess—you think this is annoying. That I’m clingy and that you’d rather be alone.”

He pauses just for a second, but you catch it. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Push a bit further.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or maybe you’re just trying not to care too much. Wouldn’t want to make things messy, right?”

That’s when his pen stops moving. His jaw tightens, just enough to make you smirk.

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my head,” he mutters, low and sharp.

There we go.

“Well, maybe you should share then,” you respond casually.

He leans back in his chair slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, and you feel your breathing quicken. Your pulse stutters—God, you’ve missed this. Missed him like this. Sukuna grins slowly, in that way that tells you he’s up to no good as his hand finds its way to the curve of your hip.

“You really wanna know what’s going on in my head?” He shifts beneath you, just enough for you to feel it—hard and rising under your weight.

“Guess I do,” you breathe, feigning calm.

“I’m thinking,” he says lowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “That the shipping clause in the new procurement contract’s gonna screw us if customs get nosy in Kobe again.“

You blink before your face settles into a scowl of irritation. “God you’re fucking insufferable,” you mutter, looking away.

“What, did you want me to say I was thinking about you?”

You give him a dry, biting, pointed look that makes him smirk even wider.

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

“…And how you still haven’t bought the milk you finished without telling me. Or taken out the goddamn trash.”

You turn away, trying not to let the dejection get to you. Sure maybe you’re horny but it was more than that too — you wanted him to want you like that again. To feel that he still desires you in the way you know he shouldn’t.

So you begin to get up with a sigh, when he pushes you back down abruptly before casually adding, “Oh and how I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock right now-” He grabs your hips, grinding your throbbing cunt right onto where his bulge is straining against his pants, “So I can fuck your throat till you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitching a little in surprise. Exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, considering how it makes him smirk.

“Is that the kind of thing you wanted to hear? Huh?” he teases.

Yes, it is, but you’re feeling a bit more bratty after the way he just messed with you.

So you purse your lips, trying once again to climb off him. “Nope. Not anymore at least. I think I’m gonna go take out the trash actually since you were so concerned about that—“

His gaze darkens and before you can even catch the movement he’s gripping your wrist. “Knees. Now.”

You shoot him a glare. “And give me one good reason I should do that after that shit you just pulled?”

Of course the thought of getting to feel his cock in your mouth for the first time is more than arousing, but your penchant for demand avoidance proves to be just as stubborn.

“Because you waltzed in here practically begging for my attention—and now you’ve got it,” he says smoothly, thumb brushing along your lower lip, hand cupping your jaw. “Interrupting me while I’m working…”

His eyes drag over your face. “Might as well make yourself useful. Help me burn off some of this stress...”

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. He watches you, waiting. When you still don’t move, his hand trails lower—fingers wrapping around your throat with deliberate pressure.

“Get on your knees.” His voice drops, grip tightening just slightly. “I won’t ask again.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on his. Then you move. He releases you as you shift, lifting yourself off his lap and lowering to the floor between his legs, gaze never breaking from his. Sukuna’s eyes follow you, widening his thighs a bit more so that you have better access to the bulge now at your face level.

And before he even has to ask, you’re reaching forward, unzipping his fly to expose the swell in his boxers. He exhales softly when you finally pull down the waistband, freeing his erect cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip.

You swallow again, this time louder, the sound exaggerated in the quiet between you. He hears it, clearly, and lets out a low, amused snort.

“Nothing to say now?”

You give him another half-assed scowl, before returning your attention to his dick. His skin is tan against the dark pink of his hair, a contrast that draws your eyes before anything else. And when your hand finally wraps around him, the weight of him is undeniable—solid, warm, real.

His cock is just as imposing as the rest of him. No wonder he acts like that.

“What do you want me to do?” you murmur, giving him an experimental pump of your fist, before bending forward to lick the pearlescent bead of pre gathered at his slit.

A little salty, maybe even sweet, ever so slightly.

Sukuna breathes a bit sharply at the touch, though his voice stays composed, condescending and arrogant as ever. “Suck it? Give me a blowjob? Want me to say it in another languag— ah, fuck,” he hisses when you deliberately stiffen the tip of your tongue, firmly prodding into his slit.

Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to probably feel uncomfortable. You lift away, stroking his length gently with a small satisfied smile.

“Was that good?” you ask innocently, knowing few things annoy him as much as your weaponized incompetency.

“Just open your mouth and let me fuck it since you can’t do it right yourself.”

You place one hand on his thigh, the other bringing his tip back to your lips to give it another kitten lick. “In a moment.”

You tease your tongue around his frenulum, sliding your tongue up and down with soft, almost curious licks. He lets you explore dick as you borderline inspect it, lifting his shaft to peer at the heavy balls sitting below before running your tongue along the seam with almost reverent carefulness. Sukuna’s breath deepens, as you feel his hand coming up to knot in your hair.

“What’s this all about? Never sucked a dick before or something?” he murmurs, though he stays patient, letting you go at your own pace.

“I have. Just not yours,” you mumble, as you bring your lips back up, rubbing it against his sensitive glans just to see what it feels like.

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

You’ve sucked dick before, yes, but never felt the need to get so familiar with another man’s intimate areas, to take your time like you’re trying to permanently imprint the memory of it in your brain. You find yourself wanting to memorize every vein you trace with your tongue, the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him in your mouth.

Perhaps you understand now why he was so adamant on wanting to see every inch of your own pussy. Not to mention no other man’s ever leaked as much precum as he is right now, oozing from his slit as you coat your lips with it in a slick sheen. Sukuna’s muscles are visibly tensed beneath you, you can tell he’s reaching his limit from the steady tightening of the hand gripping your roots. Good.

But you want to push him further, just a bit. So you look up at him as you collect spit in your mouth, before parting your lips to drip it obscenely over his tip. And then, you blow on the wettened skin, ever so gently.

A notch forms between his brows, jaw clenching as it does when he gets irritated. Suddenly your head is yanked back, scalp stinging from the harsh tug.

“Enough,” he growls. “Stick your tongue out like a good slut.”

You do as you’re told, and soon he’s taking his cock and rubbing it against the flat of your tongue as you gaze up at him.

“That’s it.” He slides cock off your tongue, and onto your face, slapping it against your cheek with a wet noise, your saliva sticking to you skin. “Now open up.”

You widen your jaw and take a deep inhale through your nose right before he slides his girth in, inch by inch, feeding it into your throat. Immediately your gag reflex kicks in as he goes deeper than you’d expected, sooner than you’d expected.

Sukuna only snickers meanly when he hears you choke a bit, your throat convulsing around his cock. “Too much?”

You narrow your watering eyes in defiance, inhaling again through your nose before remembering a trick you’d heard somewhere about squeezing one of your thumbs so you don’t gag.

So you ball your left fist around your thumb as hard as you can, and strangely enough, it works. With that you hollow your cheeks and push your head down until your nose reaches the coarse hairs on his pelvis, taking in how tight your throat feels around his cock sheathed fully inside.

He smiles as you still a bit, the grip in your hair loosening so that he can stroke it instead, as he murmurs pleasantly surprised, “Oh, good girl. You learn fast, huh?”

Before he can do it himself, you begin moving your head back before sliding back down again, feeling the velvety skin of his shaft brush along your tongue as you bob your head up and down. Slick, squelching noises fill the study, your throat making wet clicks as it moves around him. You can feel your saliva starting to drool out, dripping down his shaft, some smearing on your lips and chin.

It feels sloppy, even more when you hear him groan in pleasure as he grips your hair again, the noise sending an unbearable warmth down to your core while you try to focus on keeping your teeth out of the way and breathing through your nose.

“Mmh, just like that baby, your throat feels so fucking good,” he rasps.

His praise goes right to your head, feeling much better than it had any right to. It’s enough to make you push away the aching pain flaring in your jaw from holding it open, just to hear more of it, to show him how well you can please him. You unclench the fist you were squeezing to fondle his balls, caressing and massaging them delicately while you work your throat around him, rubbing your tongue along his length and letting more of your spit drip out and onto his cock as you swallow around it.

You know Sukuna. You know beyond a certain point of pleasure, his lust will morph into something worse, something vicious that likes to ruin.

And you know it's what compels him to abruptly grip your hair so tightly it stings, and thrust his hips so hard into your mouth with a guttural noise that you make a muffled squeak of surprise, losing your rhythm and feeling you gag reflex claw up your chest, trying to push him back out of your throat. He grins wickedly, cock only twitching in excitement when he feels you struggling to take him, only encouraging him to go harder, fuck your skull till tears are streaming down your face and spit froths at your lips and dribbles down. Strands of your hair stick to the mess, but he’s too busy bruising the back of your throat to care enough to peel them away.

“Hah, I think this is your birthright as my niece,” he sneers between pants, as you try and regain some semblance of control, fingers trying find some purchase on his thighs to steady you a bit. “Finally putting that fucking mouth of yours to proper use.”

You’d be annoyed normally, but in the hazy mess your mind is in right now, with nothing existing but the wet heat of your throat engulfing his cock, the musky scent of him and the stiff pain in your jaw, you’ve been reduced to a primal need to devote yourself to his pleasure. So you relax, and let him use your throat, gazing up at him through teary eyes, drinking the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, brows pulled together, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

Surrender.

Maybe he can sense the moment you finally do so because then his face is crumpling and you feel his hips stutter as he pulls back so his tip rests heavily on your tongue.

“Oh, fuck-“

Spurts of seed spread across your tongue as he fills your mouth, warm and viscous, as he fills your mouth. He finishes finally, pulling out his wet dick from your mouth with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t swallow; instead you keep his semen in your mouth for a bit, tasting it, feeling it, as he tucks himself back in. The texture is somewhere between saliva and diluted syrup, and under the saline taste there’s a strange sweetness — warm, earthy, almost like the smell of skin after sex. You chase it with your tongue, savoring the taste not because it’s objectively good, but because it’s his.

And then, an idea comes to mind.

Before Sukuna can react, you’re getting to your feet and climbing onto him. You tilt his jaw towards yours, muffling his surprised grunt as you abruptly kiss him, pushing your way through his lips, guiding the slick taste into his mouth with the tip of your tongue

You more than half expect him to push you away, but he catches you off guard when he kisses you back instead, deepening it and groaning softly as sucks the cum off your tongue, some of the white fluid leaking down the corners of your lips. When you no more is left, you pull away, breaking a thin strand of fluid connecting your wet lips.

You sit there for a moment, flustered and out of breath, before wiping your lips and face with your sleeve, scowling when he smirks at you completely unfazed.

“Was that supposed to be revenge? Because it kinda turned me on instead.”

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a fucking freak,” you comment dryly.

“Guess you got it from me.”

You glare at him again, pushing against his chest. “I’ve had enough of you.”

But Sukuna’s hand is trailing up your waist, coaxing you to stay there.

“Aw, and here I was thinking about rewarding you for your good work,” he purrs.

“Rewarding me?” you repeat, suspicious but a bit intrigued.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

Your brow furrows as you peek at the desk behind you, still covered in documents. “What?”

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

Sukuna sighs. “Just do it. And take off your pants.”

And for some reason you comply, getting off him to hastily swipe the papers to the side before shrugging your pants down your legs and sitting on the desk in front of him.

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want you to turn around. I’m gonna eat you out.”

Oh.

You’re certainly not going to fight against that. Sure he’s never eaten you out from the back before and the position makes you a bit nervous, but then you remember you only get him like this for a few more months and soon you’re climbing up all the way onto the desk.

You feel a bit more vulnerable like this with your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your ass presented to where you can’t see him.

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

You hear him moving and a warm palm squeezes one of your cheeks, kneading the pliant flesh before his second hand joins on the other side.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Just don’t try anything …weird.”

He doesn’t respond, but you think you catch a light laugh under his breath. Not a good sign, but you’re too far in now.

And then your panties are being pulled down your ass till right above your knees, and you can already feel how wet you are just in anticipation.

Sukuna doesn’t waste any time, and immediately his tongue is caressing at your damp folds, before slipping in and gliding through them till your clit. You moan softly as he begins lapping at your pussy, tingling heat building between your thighs as he licks you firmly, suckling on your clit in between.

Sukuna’s certainly talented at eating a woman out, you’ll give him that, because not even five minutes later you’re whimpering and shaking as the pressure in your clit builds till you cum on his tongue.

A few breathless moments and then you feel yourself loosening up again, coming down from your high, feeling much better now than a few minutes ago when you were sure he had some devious plans in mind.

“Shit, that was good,” you mumble as his tongue pulls away from your sopping cunt.

The relief you were basking in is ripped away when suddenly you feel him gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart.

Uncomfortable.

“I said no weird stuff—” Your words end in a squeak of surprise when you feel something warm and wet press against the tight rim of your asshole. Heat quickly rises to your face in indignation as you shift, trying to get away from the ironclad grip he has on your ass. “Oh my god, do not do that—”

A sharp slap to your ass shuts you up as you wince in pain instead. “You should really try new things, you know that? It’ll get you a lot farther in life.”

“Uncle!” you cry out in mortification when you feel his tongue back on your hole, prodding at it. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes,” his answer comes between small licks at your hole, making you flinch when he abruptly spits on it. “How else will you take my cock up here if you can’t even take my tongue?”

“What!?” You squirm, twisting your head to try and look at him. “No, no, that is definitely not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Why does it have to!? Is my pussy not good enough for you?” You can barely see him behind you from the way he’s holding your ass firmly in place, but that won’t stop you from trying, even if it makes your neck hurt a lot.

You hear him audibly sigh. “Do you always have to fucking argue with me?”

And then maybe as punishment, or just because he likes to torture you, he presses the tip of his tongue firmly enough against your puckered hole that it actually breaches through. You yelp at the odd, visceral sensation

He pulls it back out just to laugh at you. “If you can go three minutes without moving around or fucking bitching, I’ll let you go. How about that?”

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

Sukuna sighs, but he agrees, setting the time on his phone before putting it back on the desk. “Now shut the fuck up.”

It is still far from comfortable, this strange new sensation, and at first you’re still fighting to try and not squirm, especially when his tongue presses teasingly into your entrance again, before probing a little deeper. You’ve never done this before, not even with your own fingers, really.

His tongue feels delicate and invasive at once- even though he’s barely in deep, it’s somewhere untouched. Yet somewhere along the way you stop tensing and just let him play with your hole, and when his tongue pushes a bit more insistently against the tight ring of muscle, a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

Then his fingers are joining by pushing into your wet pussy, and the feeling of him massaging your walls as his tongue works diligently at your other hole is enough to make you moan and melt into the touch.

You hate it. That’s he always right. That he really, definitely, knows what he’s doing if he’s actually able to make you enjoy this despite the discomfort and your initial reluctance. And fuck, it feels good- dirty and sinful enough to make your arousal drip down his fingers and your hole clench around his tongue. But then the shrill ring of the alarm cuts through, startling you and yanking you before you can fall deeper into the haze. You don’t even realize you’re panting till he pulls away and you turn to look at him, feeling a bit conflicted.

“You can…keep going,” you mumble. “It felt kinda good.”

And to that, Sukuna looks at you with amusement as he licks his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? My dirty little niece actually likes getting her ass eaten,” he coos as you stare at him venomously.

“But,” Sukuna leans back into his chair, grinning lazily. “The timer rang, and I promised I wouldn’t go longer than that remember?”

Irritating, infuriating man.

But you did say that, so this one’s a bit fair, even if you always feel like he’s setting you up on purpose every single time. You don’t say anything, just huff and roll over to pull your panties back up before sitting and getting off his desk, putting your pants back on.

Sukuna stands and stretches with a low grunt. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Then I’ve got work to finish.”

You nod, shifting a little where you sit, and watch as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the quiet room for a moment, then cuts off. When he returns, drying his hands on a towel, his gaze flicks to you—still lingering where he left you.

He drops back into the chair, spreads his thighs, and pats one. “Come here. Sit.”

“Do you always have to talk to me like I’m a dog?” you mutter under your breath, though you quickly move to make yourself comfortable on his lap, resting your head against his chest as he gets back to work like you still can’t taste the faint astringent aftertaste of his cum in your mouth, or the dampness on the gusset of your panties.

Your relationship not only returns to what it used to be, but becomes something even more—evident from the fact that you now regularly sleep with him at night. Hours of tossing and turning trying to fall asleep turn into minutes as soon as you’re next to him. But with him next to you, the restless ache that builds in your body each night has nowhere to go—and you can’t exactly handle it the usual way with him lying inches away.

After a few nights, Sukuna can’t take it anymore. You crawl into his bed again, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and he lets you in without a word—again. You curl into him like you always do, seeking the warmth and safety he pretends not to offer. And as always, he runs his hand down your back, lets you rest your head against his chest, even pulls the blanket up over your shoulders without complaint. But then it starts- the shifting. The sighing. The squirming.

He can feel every frustrated twitch of your body, every little exhale like your skin is too tight to hold in whatever’s stirring inside. He cracks an eye open, jaw clenched. You’re on your back now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s personally offended you.

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

You glance over, sheepish. “Sorry… I just—can’t sleep.”

“No shit,” he says, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “And you’re making it my problem too.”

You try to apologize, genuinely feeling kind of bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is—“

Sukuna just sighs and then his hands are sliding to your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You don’t say anything. Words are never needed with him — he understands what you need, even before you do. How to offer you some relief. He notices how your breath hitches, thighs shifting as he slips his fingers under your top, skimming along your skin. He notices all the things you try to hide.

“What’re you…” Your voice trails off as his fingers dip lower, beneath the waistband of your pajamas.

“Shut up,” he murmurs gently, hands slipping fully into the waistband of your panties.

Lower and lower, till they brush against your slick folds.

“You really need me to do everything, huh?” he muses, his voice low and lazy. “Can’t even get yourself off like a big girl?”

“Sukuna,” you whisper, flustered now, but your legs shift again—nervous, needy.

“What?” he taunts gently, like he’s scolding a pet. “You want to toss and turn all night like a brat, or do you want to cum so hard you pass out?”

You glare at him, cheeks flushed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smirks, leaning down, mouth brushing just under your jaw as he deliberately dips a finger into the arousal collecting at your entrance, before puling it back out to smear your slick across your folds. “Yeah. And you’re wet for it.”

You let out a breathy sigh, just giving in, relaxing your body into his and letting him take over. One of his fingers slips inside you at first, and he presses it right against the spongey part of your wall. He can feel a throbbing under the sensitive, swollen flesh there, like your heart is literally beating in your cunt.

It makes blood flow to his own cock, but he ignores that for now.

He fingers you under the sheets, your juices spilling and dampening your panties, though you don’t really care. Soft, wet noises are audible from under the blankets, amidst your small whimpers and mewls, grinding into his hand for more.

Finally you cum with a small cry, and when Sukuna pulls his hand back out his fingers are covered in a glistening glaze. And just like he predicted, your body stays lax, satiated, no longer restless and squirming, and he can feel you starting to doze off against him.

But he’s Sukuna, so right before he lets you fall asleep he sticks his cum-coated fingers into your mouth abruptly. You make a muffled noise of surprise, and agitation.

“Clean them,” he says plainly. “You made a mess.”

You’re too drowsy to really fight back anyway so you lazily suck his fingers clean, tongue licking at the crevices in between , the taste of your own arousal coating your tongue before you swallow it down.

And when you decide you’re done, you pull his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, turning your head away in quiet defiance. He snorts under his breath, wiping the damp fingers on your cheek just to get a rise out of you.

You groan, muffled against the pillow. “Can you not?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, unbothered, like you’re the one making a scene.

You try to swat at him half-heartedly, but your arm's too heavy with sleep, and he easily catches your wrist, pinning it lazily to the mattress.

“Such a brat,” he mutters, voice low and warm near your ear.

You don’t bother answering, just sigh, turning your face into his chest instead, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you down. His hand lingers at your back, a quiet weight as you fall asleep and neither of you realize it's the first time you've addressed him by his name of your own accord.

There’s something about growing up with very little family. No buffer—no siblings to confide in, no cousins to rely on, no grandparents to balance things out. Every relationship carries extra weight.

In your case, it’s your parents. In an ideal world, this would’ve drawn you closer. A small, tight-knit family. But in reality, emotional absence from either parent creates a gaping void—whether you name it or not.

For you, it’s a paternal wound. One that only becomes glaringly obvious when Sukuna slips into your life, uninvited, into the role of a pseudo-guardian.

It isn’t some cliché Freudian desire to date your father; it’s something deeper. What draws you to Sukuna isn’t the simple need for a father figure—it’s how he fills a hollow space inside you. And the quiet resentment that he wasn’t there to do it sooner.

But there are downsides to filling a wound. You haven’t forgotten that moment—the horrible, embarrassing moment the morning after he took your virginity. When, raw and vulnerable, you snapped, calling him "your dad."

Neither of you ever brought it up again. And maybe that’s for the best, because the implication was too real. Because while the sense of protection from him draws you in, it also comes with expectations you never asked for. Sometimes, when Sukuna acts like he cares, it feels like a leash—an invisible tether you never wanted, but can’t escape.

You don’t look too closely at it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t dig into why it feels this way, because deep down, you know that if you did, you’d start trying to excuse it. And that feels worse.

So you let it haunt you quietly instead. You let it settle in your bones, a constant undercurrent of discomfort that you’ve learned to live with. And you don’t question it.

Not even when, one evening, in the middle of one of your usual bickering sessions, Sukuna announces—out of nowhere—that he’s taking you on a date. Especially since, according to him, your last one was pathetic.

You’re pretty sure it’s just his way of proving a point, another game to pass the time.

But still.

Your stomach flips. That giddiness bubbles up, childish and bright, almost shameful in its intensity—not because you crave male attention, not just because someone chose you.

But because he did. Because it’s Sukuna, and everything he represents.

The one person who never had to care, who didn’t owe you anything—but still chose you, regardless. And even if his gesture is wrapped in sarcasm and ego, it feels surprisingly pure. Like something tender buried beneath something cruel.

It disarms you.

Especially when he adds, almost carelessly, that you’ll need a new dress, proper heels, maybe even a little makeup.

“If I’m doing this,” he says, “I’m doing it right.”

Of course, you try to laugh off the part about him buying you things. You’ve been trained to never take from others, to never be the one who gets lavished with attention, and you don’t know how to accept it anymore. Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe you’ve never known how to let yourself be spoiled.

Sukuna, however, just gives you that look—a sharp, unamused stare—and tells you to shut up.

So you do. You nod, face flushed, trying to hide the way your chest tightens. Not just from excitement, but from something heavier, something sharper. The ache of being cared for in a way you were never shown how to care for yourself. Something dangerously close to wanting—no, needing—to be wanted in a way you never learned how to ask for.

Sukuna means it when he says if you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.

Which is how you end up at the store that weekend, standing in front of an employee assigning you a changing room. You hold out the dresses draped over your arm—four of them—for her to count.

“Ooh, those are great choices. What’s the occasion?” she asks, smiling.

And then Sukuna appears behind you like some large, intimidating shadow, and you swear you can see her recalibrating behind that smile—trying to figure out if he’s your dad or an older boyfriend. She definitely lands on the worse conclusion when he smirks and rests a hand on your shoulder.

“She has a date tomorrow night,” he says.

You force a small smile, shifting under his touch, laughing nervously. “Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” she replies—now clearly convinced he’s your father. "You can take that big stall at the end,” she adds with a knowing look.

You blink, eyebrows knitting as you glance between Sukuna and the girl. “Oh, he’s not co—”

“Thank you,” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, steering you away before you can finish your sentence.

The second you're out of earshot, you twist out of his grip, shoving the door to the stall open. “There is absolutely no need for you to come in with me. Just stay out here. I’ll show you each one when I try them on.”

Sukuna tilts his chin toward the bench inside the stall. “See that? That’s for uncles supervising their bratty nieces. Tradition.”

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

“Oh my god—shut up.” You glance around, mortified. “Don’t say shit like that. People’ll get the wrong idea.”

“More like the right idea. Hope they all know you suck your uncle’s—”

You slap him before he can finish, cheeks blazing, and yank him inside by the wrist as he laughs.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

The door clicks shut behind you. You hang the dresses up one by one, studiously ignoring him as you grab the first one off the rack. Sukuna sprawls on the bench like he owns the place—and you. Legs wide, arms folded, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You peel off your top, then pause at your waistband. “Can you, like…close your eyes?”

He opens his mouth—no doubt ready to say something disgusting—so you cut him off before he can get the words out.

“Ugh, never mind. Forget it,” you mutter, yanking your pants off anyway.

Now you’re hyper-aware of the mirrors. Of the lighting. Of the man sitting behind you who doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Can you not ogle me like some creep?”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches, then slowly palms himself through his jeans.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?”

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up. You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands. Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him. His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier. He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him. Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic. Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate. And then you see the store sign. Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips. “No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in. A red lace set that’s mostly straps. A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts. Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks. “You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything. Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even. But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you. This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want. Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes. Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by. Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded and polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory. The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller.  The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn't. Instead he sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should. You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look. A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts. You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears. You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on. Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts. Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting. Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him. He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered. You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real. Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs. A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever. That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural. Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him. Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart. You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop. Because in this moment, he makes you forget. Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

[h0useslut]

i’ll miss borrowin’ yours books to read the notes in the margin ꪆৎ

pairing : spencer reid (post prison) x fem!reader

w/c : 2k

genre : ANGST. with a happy ending i’m no sadist

warnings : mentions of emotional distress

summary : spencer reid came back a different man— quiet, closed off, like the parts of him you loved were locked away. but you never stopped waiting. never stopped reading the dog-eared pages and the ink he left behind. and when he finally lets you in, it’s soft, slow and everything he thought he didn’t deserve.

a/n : i had another fic in mind, ended up writing this at 3am… will post the one i had in mind eventually!

It’s been a month and three days since the day Spencer got out of prison— and somehow, it settles like dust in your chest.

Light, but impossible to ignore.

You hadn’t been dating long when he was framed—meeting him in a grief group a few years ago, followed by a run-in at a bookstore.

He handed you a copy of your favourite book, Jane Eyre with notes and commentary: half analysis, half personal tangents.

For a person so awfully shy and awkward with women, he found himself confident enough to say,

“I think you’ll like this”

You fell for him there, in the ink. Spending countless nights reading the books he’d given you, or grabbing one from his home library and shyly asking him if you could borrow it. Hoping to understand his mind. His view on many aspects of life.

You’d never felt so happy. He was there, and suddenly a part of your life was a little brighter than others.

Until he wasn’t there.

His letters stopped— not because he didn’t want to write, but because they wouldn’t let him. Until you had to hear about his bruises, or how you couldn’t visit him anymore.

This left you wondering whether the parts that made him annotate books were still intact—still there for you.

Now it’s been a month. He’s home.

But not entirely.

You catch glimpses of him— when his fingers hover over your books, not quite touching them. When he involuntarily flinches at your touch, whispering hushed apologies. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want to be like this with you.

You started re-reading the Jane Eyre copy he gave you the night you realised Spencer was gone.

It was still on your nightstand, paperback having grown rusty and worn out from how many times you’d picked it up.

He pretended he didn’t see it whenever he was at your place.

Tonight though, he doesn’t pretend.

You’re in the kitchen humming, making dinner for the both of you. Something warm, easy. You thought he was sleeping.

You were proven wrong as he stood in the hallway, a book in his hands. Not just any book— Jane Eyre.

Turning the stove off, you approach him. You didn’t mean for that to happen— For him to hold the book with shaky hands and be unable to meet your gaze.

Dinner is surely long forgotten by now.

“You know, I—“ You started, but the lump in your throat felt heavy. Spencer was still not looking at you.

“I just— I started reading it after you…”

Silence fell upon you. He looked at you, finally. The hurt and amusement in his eyes could almost make you cry— or wrap your arms around him.

God, you wanted to do that for so long.

“You kept it” He spoke, voice barely above a whisper. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say anything at all.

You nod, your lip caught between your teeth. It’s hard for you to explain why— And he should know. He’s a damn profiler for god's sake.

He knows you. He knows that you probably read the book over and over again because it reminded you of him. But it wasn’t just that.

That part he doesn’t know.

You sit in silence that night. Not entirely uncomfortable, and that’s just because you’d managed to get a smile from him. Even if it was wobbly and almost tearful.

A few days later, he’s shut you out again.

Not in the obvious way— he still comes over and spends time with you. He still kisses your forehead goodnight—But there’s a distance. A distance that wasn’t there before.

You noticed he doesn’t touch the book anymore— or you for that matter. He doesn’t touch you unless you initiate it.

You noticed he doesn’t touch the book anymore— or you for that matter. He doesn’t touch you unless you initiate it.

You want him to yell— to say anything. You hate this silence— this chill that has settled upon the both of you.

It gets harder when he cancels your plans.

You always invited him over. You knew his home didn’t feel safe for him anymore, and he shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone.

It’s hard for you to understand why he keeps pulling away, especially when he needs someone right now. You wonder if it’s you— if you’re not right for him. If your presence doesn’t bring him comfort.

The thought makes your eyes sting with tears.

You’d shut down that night as well.

Lying on the bed, the copy of Jane Eyre in your hold, blankly staring at it. It’s a hard night. And you don’t feel like holding it in.

Spencer leaves calls, but your phone is on silent. He feels like an ass for pushing you away— canceling your plans.

The silence from your side makes it only worse. He can tell that something is wrong.

It’s like he doesn’t even know himself anymore. He doesn’t understand why he keeps pushing you away— why he has you at arm's length when in reality, you’re his favourite person.

It’s never been you. You were never the problem. But the closer you get, the more he retreats. It’s like he doesn’t want you to see the broken parts of him, the ones that are beyond repair.

Spencer knows you deserve someone better, someone who doesn’t flinch every time they feel vulnerable.

He hates how prison has changed him. How he put up these walls around him and drove you away.

So Spencer sits on his couch, phone in his hands as he struggles with the thought of calling you again. He feels like he doesn’t deserve your voice right now. Not after tonight, or the night before.

He wishes he could tell you that prison didn’t just steal time from him—it stole pieces. Pieces he doesn’t know how to get back. Pieces you used to fit into so easily.

You were probably one of the few people— if not the only person who made him feel seen without judgment. And now, he’s terrified you’d seen too much.

Spencer Reid hopes that another person he cherishes so much hasn’t given up on him yet.

You’re still in bed when you hear the knock on your door— soft, hesitant. Barely there. At first, you think you must’ve imagined it, but it comes again. Three gentle taps.

Spencer.

You move slowly, heart thudding against your chest as you don’t know whether you should feel hope or fear.

Spencer’s already standing there when you open the door. His shoulders are tense, his jaw sharp and expression hard. He prepared for the worst.

Not this.

The sight he was met with— made his face fall entirely. You looked absolutely spent.

Eyes red, rimmed with tears. Your hair was in a messy braid, loose pyjamas on you. You looked as if you’d spent the entire evening in bed.

Which you did.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The look in his eyes is something you hadn’t seen in a while— But you’re sure you’re imagining it. Especially after all those days spent of him pushing you away.

Until he speaks.

“Sweetheart, can you look at me? Come on, baby”

You’re terrified to meet his gaze. You’re so sure for a moment you’re hallucinating. You must be.

He tries to reach for you— grab your wrists. But he’s truly horrified when it’s you who flinches. You’re the one to take a step back— stumbling away from him.

His breath catches, hands falling limply to his sides like he’s just being struck.

“I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—“ He attempts, but the words crash and tangle on his tongue, useless.

He takes another step closer to you.

“Angel—“ He calls gently, the pet name making your eyes tear up again. You hadn’t heard him using those sweet names in such a long time.

You’re still silent.

“You flinched” He says again, voice low.

Bottom lip trembling, you couldn’t meet his gaze yet. You hadn’t meant to flinch— you hated that you flinched. You felt as if you shouldn’t be the one to break down.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me” He speaks softly. “Not ever, not you”

There’s a pause so thick, you could fall right into it. But he stays still now. He doesn’t dare touch you again, even if his whole body aches to.

“I’m not— I’m not afraid of you”, you whisper finally— wiping your tears frantically.

“I’m afraid I’ve already lost you”

It comes out broken. You wanted to curse yourself for falling apart.

In three quick strides, you’re pressed against his chest. One of his hands goes to your head, stroking your hair. The other is on your waist, pulling you tighter as your muffled cries fill the room.

You’d hugged him when he got out— hugged him a few times after that as well. But now, it was different. The feeling of his arms was something you were so sure you’d lost— Something you weren’t used to anymore.

But here he was, holding you.

“No, angel— you haven’t lost me. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry” He whispered, over and over again.

Your cries only intensify, to the point where your knees almost give up. Spencer holds you up, guiding you to the touch where he pulls you in his lap.

“Shh, I’m here” He soothes, peppering kisses on your temple.

“Do you know why—” You started, but the sob in your throat caught you off.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just cradles you closer to him, kissing your forehead again. He decided by then that he’d never let you go again. He didn’t want you to be like this because of him.

“I kept borrowing your books and re-reading Jane Eyre because—“ You paused, taking another shuddering inhale.

“Because reading the notes in the margin made me believe I could understand you”

Your words physically hit him. His grip on you tightens, firm— not painful in any way. He’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you close.

“I never wanted you to feel like you had to read between the lines”, he murmurs— voice rough.

“It was the closest I could come to reading your mind” You continue, the trembling of your lips not being unnoticed.

“Oh, sweetheart” He coos, guiding your head to rest on the crook of his neck again.

He doesn’t realise when— or how, but you’d fallen asleep on him after crying.

It’s the first night you lie tangled up in each other's limbs— The first night he doesn’t wake up plagued by his nightmares.

Small steps.

The next morning, he wakes up before you. He gets your favourite coffee and tries to cook you breakfast but fails miserably so. For someone with an eidetic memory, he sure as hell made you wake up by the smell of burnt toast.

“Spence?” You croak out, padding down the hallway toward the kitchen. You’re tired— events from last night hanging on you heavier than they should.

“Hey, baby,” He says softly, pulling you in for a hug. He hates how you tense at first. He hates himself for causing this to you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, and murmured, “Sorry for the smoke alarm symphony”

You chuckle amidst your sleepiness, arms locking behind his middle. “It’s okay, you tried. That’s what matters”

Spencer feels as if something clicks back into place. There, in the soft morning light— with you in his arms again.

He reads to you for the most of the day— Jane Eyre. The book that brought him to you.

And this time, he’s not reading to escape— he’s reading to stay.

[luveline]

helloooo, how are you? i’ve been rewatching criminal minds and i finally got to the post-prison part, so i’m really missing shy!r and post prison spencer <33 if you’re felling up to writing something for them again, i would love to see it!! maybe when they kiss for the first time or something else (completely up to you, i would love anything that you write hahah) but if you’re not really feeling it at the moment, please don’t worry about it, it’s so understandable 🩷 have the best day!!

ty for your request I love first kisses <3

Spencer takes you for a walk and explains a couple of courting rituals. shy fem!reader, 1.5k

Profiling is still very hard, but seven months into your new job at the BAU, you’ve become proficient in Spencer Reid. You can tell when he’s eager to work, when he’s down about something, when he’s feeling good. He holds himself differently on his good days, he takes care to coil his hair and wears a clean pair of shoes. 

In the bullpen, he’s sitting at his desk beside yours, craned over a desk covered in loose papers, books, and files. You attempt to hide your approach, lest he startle. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

“Good morning.” Can’t hide anything. He’s been an agent for ninety percent of his adult life. “What are you doing?” 

“Just reading.” 

You sit at your desk, clearing a space for your bag among your own mess of files and books. Your monitor turns on with a nudge of the mouse. Your screen is filled swiftly by notifications and Outlook, then the FBI messaging system, and then the ‘filing cabinet’ Garcia built to help you understand the insanity that is the BAU online system. It submerges you every morning regardless. 

“What are you reading about?” you ask. Your emails can’t wait, but you don’t want to read them, so you won’t for another ten minutes. 

He stumbles over a breath. 

“Spencer?” 

“It’s courtship rituals.” 

You regret asking. Whenever you and Spencer talk about feelings, or love, or romance, you end up hot as a kettle on a stovetop, steam billowing from your ears. You choked on a mouthful of lukewarm tea a few days ago when he’d mentioned America's developing hook-up culture. 

He doesn’t tell you any more, which is unlike him. Spencer Reid loves to talk, or loves to share what he’s learned. You looked it up —it’s called info-dumping, and it’s usually because the person telling you is so deeply fascinated by the topic they’re investigating that they can’t contain it. It’s a common symptom of ADHD, or autism, or both. Spencer’s done it since the day you met, which is nice. You feel like he trusts you. 

And so you’re wondering now if you’ve done something to make him think he can’t do it today. Or maybe he’s not feeling well. 

You prop your face in his hand and watch him. 

He doesn’t look upset, only focused. 

You hate quiet. You love not talking, but gaps of silence have you overthinking things. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you’ve finally pissed him off. 

It’s scary because he’s amazingly kind. Overwhelmingly nice. He’s lovely and good looking but it’s his heart that shocks you every time, how he’s looked after you, defended you.

“Spencer, are you okay?” you ask. 

He blinks to attention. “What?” 

“You’re not talking.” 

He grins. “I’m thinking.” 

His smile when he looks like he’s about to laugh is everything. 

“Don’t think too much,” you say as you play with a button on your coat. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?” 

“Don’t think too much because you think about things you don’t need to,” he amends. “You worry about everything.” 

“Well, so do you.” 

“Exactly. I’ll worry enough for you, too.” Spencer gives you a smile you don’t understand. “Will you come to the archive with me? I want to talk to you about something.” 

“Spencer…” He just acknowledged that you worry about everything. 

“Sorry,” he laughs. “Something with no pressure. I’ll explain it as we walk.” 

You shed your coat and walk together out of the BAU offices down a long hallway. You take the elevator down to the ground level, spring air in the hallways, early morning sunshine lapping at your shoes where it’s settled golden against the marble floor. Spencer professes that it’s nothing to worry about again, but he doesn’t elaborate, and your heart begins to pulse too quickly. 

You can’t look at him. 

“I’ve been reading about these courtship rituals and… looking at which ones are the best. There are thousands of them, but contemporary courting isn’t easy. It confuses me. With my last, my only girlfriend, we wrote each other letters. But I wanted this time to be different, because– because love is different?” He grimaces. 

“Love is different,” you agree. You’re not sure who he means, your chest panging in two different beats. Is he… talking about you? “It’s different every time.” 

“I was looking for the more subtle rituals. I kept thinking I’d find the right one, and that I’d know it when I saw it, but I can’t find anything suitable and I might need your help. Um, if you even want to help me.” 

“Of course I do.” 

Spencer slows just outside of the archive’s door. “Everything I read about feels like it would just embarrass you. I picture buying you flowers and I feel like you’d just– just explode.” He says it with affection and apology alike. “I wrote you a poem. Emily told me not to give it to you, though.” 

“You wrote me a poem?” 

“I made you a love spoon, too, but I can’t whittle, and it looks terrible. I even cut my hand, and if you rejected me you’d have to give the spoon back and I think that would make it worse.” 

You turn completely still. The last thing you expected that morning was for Spencer to confess. And he is confessing, a small smile on his face, patience, nervousness, close enough to feel the heat of him beside you. You short circuit in an attempt to compute the magnitude of it; Spencer wants to court you, and you can’t handle it. 

Your exhale shudders out of you. Goosebumps attack your arms. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “are you okay?” 

“Spencer, I don’t think you could ever find a way to tell me that wouldn’t make me feel like this.” 

“How do you feel?” 

“How am I supposed to feel?” 

Spencer’s smile fades a touch. “I don’t know. You can feel how you want to feel, it isn’t up to me. But I have feelings for you. I thought you knew.” 

It’s like knowing that the lottery numbers were chosen specifically to match your ticket. The thing he’s talking about doesn’t make sense. 

“Are you kidding around?” you ask. 

“What? No.” He holds your wrist gently. “Of course not.” 

You swallow a lump and try not to overreact, though you’re already doing that. This is a good thing, it is, but he’s him and you’re you and every time he touches you it’s like fireworks are bursting warm and tingly over your skin. You smile at his chest, cheeks dimpling from how wide it stretches. 

“You don’t have to court me, um. Not in any way like that. I’m just like every other girl, you know? I like flowers. I,” —your cheek lists down toward your shoulder bashfully— “probably would feel a little embarrassed, but I like flowers. I can get you flowers.” 

Spencer really laughs. “You want to get me flowers?” 

“Maybe?” 

He laughs again. His eyes lock onto you and his open hand closes on the opposite arm, putting you face to face. “It was my idea,” he says, playfully argumentative. 

“Okay.” 

“You want to hear the poem?” he asks, quietening again. 

You nod slowly. “N’I wanna see the spoon.” 

“Can I please kiss you?” He takes a breath, like he’s been running. “I know this isn’t the right place, but I didn’t expect to want it this badly.” 

“I don’t think there’s a wrong place…” 

“So I can?” he asks, lifting a hand to your cheek, to hold you with care. 

You nod into his approach, find yourself kissed and held tightly in a split-second of warmth and warm smells. His nose touches yours in a kiss of their own, his lips part lightly before pressing in again. Two kisses lend to a third, but then he pulls away to look at you. As quickly as it started, it’s over. 

“You're overheating already,” he says, thumb rubbing a sweet path under your cheek. 

You don’t know what to say. He ducks his head just that little bit to make sure you’re okay. Understanding flows between you both. His hand falls behind your back to pull you in for a hug. 

“I’ve never been the confident one in any of my relationships,” he admits. 

“I usually am.” 

Your deadpan lights him up. His hug turns strong armed, and he walks you back, giggling, arms a comforting vice around you. “You can be the shy one this time,” he says, seemingly unaware of how his using the word ‘relationship’ has thrown you for another loop. 

You’re hot as a furnace all morning. Spencer makes excuses for you, but Emily’s amazing at her job. 

“Jesus, Spence, you didn’t read her the poem? I told you it was too much.” 

[eyelessfaces]

just in case

poe dameron x reader

summary: while fiddling with bb–8's memory, you stumble onto an audio message– poe's prerecorded goodbyes.

based on @ivystoryweaver's headcanon on this post! thank you for allowing me to write something about it!

warnings: angst, mentions of death and war

tags: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, kissing, poe being an absolute sap

word count: 2.6k

masterlist | taglist | ao3

updates blog: @eyelessupdates

He can’t help the fond smile growing over his face at the sight of you, deeply focused on the repair project in front of you before his knuckles hit against the doorframe a couple times, catching your attention. 

Your gaze meets Poe’s as he steps into your workshop, your expression of concentration quickly giving way to an easy smile when you see him, closely followed by BB–8. 

Poe greets you with a kiss, his hand lingering at your side when he pulls away. 

“What’s bringing you here, handsome?” you ask, shifting to put away the tool you still have in hand. “Hey Beebs,” you smile as you glance down at the droid that greets you back. 

Poe gazes down at his droid, his look shifting back at you. “Could you take a look at him whenever you got the time?” he asks, a small, defeated sigh escaping his mouth. 

“What’s up?” you question, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow at him. It hadn’t been that long since you last checked up on the droid.

“I think there’s something up with his memory, he’s been acting a little forgetful lately” Poe explains; you can see the concern in his eyes, can hear the worry in his voice.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” Poe nods, pinching his lips into a quiet smile as he looks down at the droid. “Hey, you don’t have to worry'' you reassure him, resting a hand over his arm. “It’s nothing too serious usually. Nothing I can’t fix.” He nods again, knowing he can trust you with this, knowing you're as good at this as he is at flying. 

“I’ll take care of him as soon as I’m done with that” you point back to the mess of scavenged parts resting over your workbench.

“Thank you sweetheart,” he says, cupping the back of your head and leaning in to leave a quick kiss on your forehead. “I’d stay with you and tell you about my day, but I have my last meeting of the day in about less than five minutes.” he shrugs, starting to walk backwards to exit the room.

“Sure, don’t worry.” you smile. “Come over when you’re done” 

As promised, the minute you’re done repairing the project you were working on, you lower your workbench to BB-8’s level, letting him roll onto the surface before you adjust it to your level so you can examine him. 

“Hey buddy. memory issues huh?” you coo, grabbing your tools, gathering everything you need to check up on him. He responds with upset beeps, his upper part sagging in defeat. 

“That's okay. Happens to the best of us,” you reassure him, setting to work on diagnosing the problem. “So since it seems to be a memory issue, I’m gonna have to look through your data” you explain, opening his access panels. 

It doesn’t take long for you to identify the issue: a few corrupted memory files. It’s a relief to see it's nothing severe, just a bit of corrupted data that needs to be cleaned and restructured. “Hah, found the problem,” you say, beginning the delicate process of correcting the corrupted files. “Looks like some of your memory files got a bit jumbled. Should be fine once we get that sorted out, there shouldn’t be any problem.” you explain. “You know, Poe always gets so worried about you.” you say, trying to keep the droid calm as your fingers work through the wires and circuits. BB–8 emits a series of grateful beeps, and you smile, focusing back on the task at hand. 

As you work on fixing him, BB–8 chirps curiously, his dome turning to watch you. You explain each step in simple terms, trying to distract him and make it the least stressful possible for him. “I’m working through your memory module. Some of these files are corrupted, so I’m cleaning them up and re-organizing everything. Just like tidying up a messy room.”

BB-8 responds with a relieved series of beeps, and you chuckle. “Yeah, I know it’s not fun for you to have me mess with your memory stuff, but I’ll have you be back to your old self in no time.” 

As you carefully rework BB–8’s memory files, you fumble slightly with a delicate wire, causing a brief short circuit – the droid jerks and beeps erratically before suddenly playing a vocal message. You reach to stop it, assuming it’s a manufactured error message you’ve triggered, but you freeze when you recognize Poe’s voice. “Hey baby,” Poe’s voice crackles through BB–8’s speakers, startling you. You frown, confused, ready to stop the audio message. “If you’re hearing this, it’s probably because something happened and I’m not around anymore.” Your heart properly skips a beat. “I’m sorry I’m leaving you like this,” he sighs softly. “Damn it’s weird talking like this when I’m still here,” he chuckles. You step back, driven by morbid curiosity, firmly intending to listen to the rest of it. 

“But you know, with everything that’s been happening lately and that’s gonna happen, you never know what’s next.” 

He sounds tired. You bite down onto your lip, a soft frown forming over your face and your gaze lost as the recording continues. “I could die in two weeks or in twenty years from the moment I’m recording this, so it’s pretty strange. I just… I love you so much. I wanted you to hear it from me one last time.” 

Your lips curl into a weak smile, tears welling up in your eyes. It’s stupid. He’s still here. It’s just a recording in case he dies.

But somehow, you can’t help it. Not with the prospect that you could listen to it again one day, in the context it was intended to be listened to.

“You’ve always been supportive of my bullshit, no matter what, and you were always there for me no matter how stupid I got, so it’s only fair I thank you one last time. I really hope we got to enjoy our time together” 

You pause the audio message, running your hand over your face, sighing deeply. You want to stop there and not listen to the entirety of it, on one hand because you aren't even supposed to hear it or know of its existence in the first place, and most of all because you’re not sure you can handle it – but your curiosity gets the best of you, and you let it go on.

“It’s stupid that I want to cry, because I’m still here” he chuckles. “You know, I’m recording this because I couldn’t sleep.” he declares. You can hear the soft strain in his voice, you can imagine him and his tired eyes, his hair slightly mussed from tossing and turning like he always does when he’s restless.

He sighs deeply before he speaks again. “I uh… Today’s mission went awful. I could have died and I didn’t even tell you” his voice drops with the weight of his words, he pauses for a second, and the knot inside your throat tightens.  

“You’re sleeping in the next room. You know, you looked so peaceful when I got out of bed that I didn't want to bother you by kissing your forehead, but I did it anyway because I remembered I might not be able to do it forever”

You can’t help it, it’s over for you. Tears roll down your cheeks on their own, the back of your hand suppressing your sniffles and the soft laugh you huff out at his way of always saying things that will get you.

BB-8’s upper part shifts, and he emits a soft, sympathetic whirr, trying to console you.

“I’ve left this message with BB-8 because I know he’s always with you if he’s not with me. Take care of him for me, will you? And take care of yourself. You’re stronger than you know, and you’ll get through this. I love you. So much. More than you know. Which is why I’m gonna cut the recording and get back to bed to hold you tight while I can” 

Your heart tightens inside your chest. You slowly shake your head, tears forced out of you when your eyes fall shut.

“Alright, okay, bye sweetheart. I love you.” 

The recording cuts, ending with a click, leaving you in a stunned silence. BB turns to you, beeping sadly, and you give him a weak smile before wiping the tears over your cheeks with the tips of your fingers. 

You huff out a heavy breath, one that you didn’t even realize was smothering your chest, and force yourself to finish taking care of BB–8 despite everything. 

You’re still sobbing when Poe comes in again. 

He finds you, full on tearing up, not even hiding it – which he finds strange, because you usually turn around and pretend to look for something to quickly dry your tears, and proceed to poorly try to deny you’ve been crying just to avoid worrying him. 

And the context he’s facing quickly leads him to assume something is wrong with BB-8, something you couldn’t manage to fix and now blame yourself for – BB–8 is quick to deny with appalled beeps, so Poe really doesn’t have any idea what he’s dealing with. 

When you pull him near and hug him tight, gripping his hair, longing to be as close to him as possible, he’s still as confused, but he’s swift to take action and hold you even tighter.

His embrace is warm, comforting, his touch delicate as his hand appeasingly rubs over your shoulder, and you progressively manage to calm down and quiet your sobs. “What’s going on babe” he quietly asks, trying to not pounce on you. His fingers carefully lift your chin up, taking care of clearing the tears from your face, his eyes searching yours intensely as he waits for your answer.

You sigh softly, your breath still ragged from sobbing. “I was working on Beebs and I found your…” you pause, realizing you’re not even sure what to call it. You're not even sure you want to say it out loud, to say it's a goodbye message. “I found your recording– I didn't mean to, it just–”

“Oh,” his face drops in saddened surprise, immediately understanding what you’re talking about. “Oh baby” he sighs, shaking his head as he pulls you back into his arms. You weren't supposed to know about this, even less hear it fully, not until he died, that is. “I didn’t want to scare or worry you. I’m sorry you had to hear that– it was just… a precaution.” he murmurs as you cling to him, the remnants of your tears dampening his shirt.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice weak and muffled against his chest. “I just– It was hard to hear. I don’t want to think about losing you”

“I don’t want to think about leaving you either,” he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face again. His thumb brushes away the last of your tears when you look at him, his gaze over you filled with a mix of sorrow and unwavering love that you manage to feel just by looking into his dark, warm eyes. “But I need you to know how much you mean to me, no matter what happens”

“Poe,” you scoff-whine. “I know. You’re pretty transparent about it already” you grin. 

When he’s not saying it explicitly, he always has a hand on you, always at least leaves a kiss over your cheek or forehead when he’s not full-on kissing you, and always makes sure to bring you back those jogan fruit cakes you like from Coruscant when he has to go there, and just the way he looks at you has you aware that he loves you, so he really doesn’t need to do that much, but he’s Poe Dameron, so it’s a prerogative.

“I happen to be a very romantic man” he jokes, smiling when he sees you chuckle and shake your head the way you do when he pulls stupid lines. “I just wanted you to hear it from me one last time sweetheart.”

“You and your dramatic flair” you tease lightly, gripping onto his jacket as you let out a soft groan. “You couldn’t just leave a normal message, could you?”

“You know, subtlety isn’t my strong suit” he grins, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But seriously, I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. It was meant for dramatic times, not when I was about to ask you if you wanted to get dinner off base like now.”

You snort up a laugh, your arms wrapping around his neck. “You do owe me dinner after that.” 

“I know, right?” he scoffs, an amused smile over his face. “And it means I get to spend more of my alive time with you, so–” he teases, his fingers gently rubbing your back. “Stop that, it’s not funny” you frown, playfully hitting his chest with the back of your hand. “–Plenty of time to remind you that I love you” his hand squeezes yours gently.

You pull him closer, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that is both tender and intense, slow at first but deepening when the fear, the relief, the overwhelming love you feel for him step at the front of your mind. His hand moves from your hip to cup your face, his thumb caressing the skin of your cheeks rough from the tears.

When you break apart, your foreheads are still linked, his fingers gently tracing your face, your breaths mingling. “I’m joking about this, but I promise I’ll do my best for you to not have to listen to this recording again anytime soon.” 

“Mh, hope ‘anytime soon’ means a few decades at least”

“I promise. I love you too much to leave you like this. And I know I’ll look sexy when my hair turns gray” he adds with a playful smile.

You laugh, the sound breaking the lingering tension and bringing a sense of normalcy back. “Oh, definitely” you grin, raking your fingers through his curls. “Most handsome silver fox in the galaxy.” 

Poe smiles, kissing you again, softly. You can very clearly feel BB–8’s presence when you pull away, his needy beeps attesting of his need for attention.

“Yeah, alright buddy” you sigh, turning back to the droid to finish up his repair.

“So he’s okay?” Poe asks, approaching the workbench. 

“He’s all fine, good as new” you smile. “Hey, try running a diagnostic”

The droid runs his internal check, beeping happily once he’s done and everything seems to be alright.

“See?” you turn to Poe. “All good.” you grin at him, glad to have something concrete to smile about after that emotional rollercoaster you went through.  

“Thank you, really. I knew you’d fix him up” Poe declares, smiling as he watches BB roll off the workbench and onto the floor, navigating around your feet. “And I was serious about that dinner, by the way,” he says, watching you putting away your tools and tidying up your workbench. “We could both use a break.”

“Yeah,” you agree, scoffing. 

Poe’s hand finds yours as you turn the light off and leave the workshop, your fingers tangling as you walk through the corridors of the base, finding your way out. 

“Hey,” Poe calls, pulling you closer as you walk. You hum, looking at him, noticing the slight hint of worry in his eyes. “You really think I’d look hot with gray hair?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Absolutely baby”

A content smile grows over his face, and he nods. “Cool.”

—

any and every comment/reblog is greatly appreciated!!

star wars taglist:

@lockleysgrl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @anightshift

@whatthefishh @dameronshandholder @campingwiththecharmings @mintgreen24 @spider-starry

@jakecockley @cocodiem @spxctorsslxt @friedwings @luxisluxurious

@stvnnie @dowbastan @il0vebeingdelulu @hammerhead96 @pigeonmama

[achromatophoric]

Divina: Yoko! What the actual shit?!

Yoko: Babe, it’s not what it looks like!

Divina: Oh really? Cause it looks AND sounds like you’re listening to a recording your best friend blowing out her girlfriend’s back.

Indeed, the vampire sits on her bed with her laptop open and playing what can only be Wednesday’s seemingly indecipherable cries of ecstasy.

Yoko: 😬

Divina: 😠

Divina: *icily* Well?

Yoko: *blurts out* COOKIES! I think. Maybe brownies?

Divina:

Divina: What?

Yoko: Shit. Look, babe, lemme explain. Addams isn’t moaning.

Laptop: *filthy moan*

Divina: 😒

Yoko: *winces* Okay, she IS moaning, but she isn’t just moaning. If you listen carefully—THERE!

Laptop: *gibberish*

Divina: 🤨

Divina: So Wednesday doesn’t make sense when she’s getting railed. Bravo, Enid. Not helping your case, though.

Yoko: I thought the same! But she’s actually speaking in Old Latin—at least this time she is.

Divina: What?

Yoko: Oh, last time it was Sumerian. And the time before that—

Divina: No, I mean what, as in what the fuck?

Yoko: Right. Uh. So long story short, I’ve been recording their erm… their sessions—

Divina: 😡

Yoko: —so I could translate what Wednesday was saying! See? Totally not pervy.

Divina: 😐

Divina: 😤

Divina: *through gritted teeth* Yoko, I swear by the Seven Seas, I am about five seconds from—

Yoko: Recipes! Babe, she’s reciting fucking RECIPES.

Divina: 🤨

Divina: Recipes for what? Disasters?

Yoko: Nope. Recipes for the most mind blowing, absurdly tasty-as-fuck pastries that will ever bless your mouth.

Divina: *incredulous stare*

Divina: You’re telling me that Wednesday Arsenic-is-a-Seasoning Addams recites entire goddamn recipes in dead languages—

Divina: —recipes for ludicrously delicious baked goods, whenever Enid bangs the grumpy out of her?

Yoko: *hopeful* Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.

Divina: 🤦

Yoko: Babe? Do you need an ibuprofen? That vein is—

Divina: Give me a cookie.

Yoko: Er, what?

Divina: *holds out a hand* Or a brownie. Muffin. Whatever the fuck you made from one of these supposed recipes. If one isn’t in my hand in ten seconds…

Yoko: 😲

Yoko: *scrambles to her desk, rummages, and return with something*

Yoko: Here! Try this! Made this one yesterday.

Divina: *takes the…* Churro. This is just a churro.

Yoko: Trust, babe. I promise you, it’ll all make sense. Just try it.

Divina: *eyes the churro*

Divina: *takes a bite*

Divina: *chews*

Yoko: So whatcha think?

Divina:

Divina: *filthy moan*

Yoko: *relieved fist pump*

Divina: Holy… Holy fucking shit. I think my tongue just came. What the actual fucking fuck?

Yoko: So am I off the hook?

Divina: Off the hook? Babe, imma need more like this, stat. Does she do this every time?

Yoko: Just about. Toughest part is the actual translating.

Divina: I’ll get Bianca’s help.

Yoko: You think she’d be interested?

Divina: Are you kidding me? She once kneecapped me at swim camp over the last cupcake.

Yoko: Yikes. Okay, so wanna help me translate the rest of this one?

Divina: Sure. Do I just try writing the phonetics for this part?

Laptop: *slurred post-orgasm gibberish*

Yoko: *quickly stops the recording* Oh fuck no. NEVER the shit after she comes.

Divina: Why is that? Are those recipes not-so-great?

Yoko: Less recipe, more ritual. I only tried one and that summoned The Bone Gorger.

Divina: 🫢

Divina: How… how’d you get rid of them?

Yoko: Churro.

Divina:

Divina: *wipes away drool* Yeah, that checks out.

[povbarnes]

Sunshine.

Pairing: Post!CW!Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky has a nightmare, you help him forget.

Word Count: +4K

Warnings: +18, Slight angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Non-graphic description of violence, Bucky Barnes is miserable poor thing, Reader is utterly in love, but so is Bucky, Bucky calls reader Sunshine and Sunny because of her solar powers, Smut, Dry humping, that becomes not-so-dry after a while, Maybe improper use of the metal arm?, i’m not sure, No use of Y/N, Imk if i missed or forgot anything!

A/N: okay. here’s the thing. school’s been CRAZY and i couldn’t write anything for a loonnngg time, so this has been sitting in my drafts for ages. i genuinely love this one guys, and i would really like to explore Bucky and Sunshine’s (that’s you) relationship more, but for now, this is a one shot. if you guys like reading it as much as i loved writing it, i’ll probably write so much more for these two. oh and btw, MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN! send away! okayyy i’ll leave you to it now, enjoy <3

It is still pitch black outside when Bucky wakes up, panting from a nightmare that takes a good minute for him to snap out of, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His eyes search around the room for something, anything that can cause danger other than himself, but finds nothing except your sleeping form peacefully laying by his side. Sight of you alone is enough to steady his racing heart a bit.

A deep exhale leaves his parted lips, and his eyes linger on the warm glow that surrounds your body, illuminating the dark room. “I’m like a bedside lamp,” you said once, giggling without knowing you were breathing life into him with every little laugh you let out.

He tries to let the warmth and light radiating from you to calm his mind, strip away the fears that his nightmares brought onto the surface, again.

The energy surrounding your body is still striking to him, amazes him each and every time. The way you actually glow even more so in the dark and give off a warmth that Bucky won’t even try explaining to himself, making you seem like an otherworldly being in his eyes even when he knows there are people, gods, with extraordinary abilities walking around the earth every day. Even with the feeling of the metal and the power that came with the serum just existing in his body. He still can’t believe you are real.

When you first told him your powers were related to solar energy, his initial thought was that you were able to absorb energy while the sun was up. He hadn’t learnt just how wrong he was until you started sleeping over at his room. No, you weren’t absorbing energy, you were basically that damn star personified. His little sunshine.

He looks at your sleeping figure, and he can be a selfish man when it comes to you, but not selfish enough to wake you up when you look as peaceful as you do in this moment. He will just get a glass of water and try to force himself back into the world of nightmares that he has to visit every night.

But you stir just as he starts to get up, your eyes blinking open, your glow faltering when you see him awake and leaving. He hates seeing it happen.

What he loves, is that your glow has a mind of its own, that it intensifies when you are happy or excited, it helps him in keeping you that way, always happy, always content.

He hates it when he sees it falter, lose its shine whenever you are feeling confused, upset or defeated. And he hates it more when he causes it, even if it’s for a moment.

“Buck?” Your voice is laced with sleep, and he quickly takes the one leg he took off the bed back. “Did you have a nightmare?”

He hates that this is now your reality too.

“Yes, baby,” he says, his hand finding your hair and running it through it slowly. Warmth fills his body immediately, and he can’t help the small smile forming on his face.

There’s no point in hiding anything from you as you can always tell, but he wants to. He wants to hide his past from you, his dreams, the person he was. He doesn’t want you near it, near any of it. Not his memories, not his nightmares, not the violence that seems to follow him wherever he goes. “Go back to sleep, I will too.”

“No,” you murmur, shaking your head slightly. You are getting up in an instant, sitting on the bed with your legs crossed. “I know you won’t be able to.”

Bucky wants to kick himself.

“Sunny, sweetheart, go back to sleep.” He knows you won’t.

You sigh, looking into his eyes for a couple of seconds before moving to place yourself on his lap, his hands automatically falling to your waist.

He is lightened by your glow, everything but the two of you swallowed by complete darkness. “What was it this time?”

He knew the question was coming, you asked it every time. And every time, he tells you he doesn’t remember. Usually, it’s a lie. A lie that you allow.

But tonight, he is so tired, so worn out by his own subconsciousness, a part of himself still feeling like he’s in the goddamn dream. Like he’s about to look into your lightless eyes any second.

The reminder sends a shiver up his spine, and he considers what to do as he looks into your warm eyes. With those same eyes’ ice cold versions playing in the back of his head, he decides he doesn’t have the energy to lie to you. At least not tonight.

“James?” You push, gently, and his head drops to your sternum, forehead resting there as he sighs. “I saw you.”

He feels you nod even though he can’t see it, and hears how your heart starts beating just a bit faster. You are probably surprised he even decided to tell you about it. “How did you see me?”

His face scrunches up, arms wrapping around you, trying to convince himself that that was a dream, and this is real. That you, are real.

“He got you,” he says, not specifying who. He doesn’t want any of their names lurking in your mind. He hates himself enough already that he’s even telling you about this. “He used you to get to me.”

You don’t say anything and he’s grateful for it, or maybe not. Because he isn’t sure if he could continue talking if you interrupted him right now, and he isn’t sure he knows which of the two options he wants to go through with.

“I was trying to get to you, and-“ His breath hitches, your arms immediately wrapping around his neck, holding him close to your pounding heart.

He tries to let the sound ground him to reality. To you.

“I was trying to save you, I- I swear. But suddenly, you were the one I was chasing.” He can feel how you clench your teeth, but you keep quiet.

“You ran like hell,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. A short, humorless laugh leaves his lips. He says the next words like it is the most ridiculous thing he ever had to say. “From me.”

Would you ever run from him like that? Would he ever give you a reason to? The thought so sickening to him that he needs to take a second to recollect himself.

“But you weren’t fast enough.” He pauses again, his heart squeezing in his chest as if it doesn’t want to keep on beating. He considers if he can physically go through this again to tell you the whole thing.

You are still silent, but he can sense you are expecting him to continue, so he does.

“I can still feel it around your neck,” he lets out, chocking around the words, forcing a deep breath through his nose. “The look in your eyes, the way you squirmed and pushed to get away from me.”

Your arms get tighter around his neck, pulling him impossibly close, contrary to how you tried to push him away from you in his dream.

He inhales your warm scent, you are everywhere, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. If he could stay like this forever, he fucking would, without moving even a single muscle.

“It was just a dream, baby,” you murmur after maybe a minute or two of processing his words, one of your hands moving to stroke his hair. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

You pull back to look at him, and he is met with your furrowed brows when your eyes find his. The way you pout at him almost makes him smile at your adorable face before it is replaced with the images of that same face looking up at him in horror and disappointment, the split second of ease he felt disappearing just as quickly as it appeared.

He tries to look away, but your fingers immediately find his chin to bring him back to you. “I do know it.”

“James,” you whisper cautiously when he doesn’t answer. He watches as your eyelids flutter for a split second before you take a shaky breath. “You could never hurt me.”

His head falls back down on your chest, breathing in your scent while trying to get rid of the images from his nightmare invading his head.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice gruff and laced with desperation. “You know that’s not true.”

He wants you to run. He wants you to get as far away from him as you can before he somehow gets you hurt. Because he knows it’s inevitable, he knows he ruins everything he touches, but he is too damn weak and selfish to let you go. So he needs you to go and never look back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you’re here, on his lap, hugging him like your life depends on it, running your fingers through his hair, occasionally scratching his scalp and making his eyes roll.

He doesn’t deserve you, but you are here and so goddamn stubborn, and he can’t seem to give you up.

A selfish, selfish man.

You take a deep breath, taking his head in your hands and moving so he’d look at you.

“Let me see?”

He frowns, his head tilting a little. “What?”

“Your hand,” you clarify. “I wanna see.”

Bucky’s heart sinks to his stomach. “Sunshine, what—“

“Please?”

You had never asked anything about his arm before, and he’s suddenly aware how he never talked about any of his bad and ugly with you. How he always just swiped it under the rug inside his head because it terrified him, and you were as graceful as you’ve always been to never ask. He knows you know, hell, the whole goddamn world knows, but maybe he liked pretending for a while. And you allowed it. Maybe you felt it was too early to ask or maybe you thought he would shatter in the palm of your hand if you did but you never asked, and it just crosses his mind that you might’ve not felt as comfortable around him as he thought you have. The thought shocks through him, leaving him startled, staring at you for a long moment.

He’s sure you can see how taken aback he is, yet you patiently wait for him to comply, not pushing him. At least not with your words.

He wants to say no, to be done with this subject before it even starts, but he never seems to be able to when you look at him as you do in this moment, all wide eyes and pouty lips, basically pulling his strings with the tips of your fingers. He knows it’s not about seeing the metal, but feeling it, and asking about it. Acknowledging it. Acknowledging what it represents, the things he went through. The things he did.

He doesn’t know how long he just stares at your face before he finds himself raising his arm between your bodies. “Move back a little for me, baby.”

You slide yourself down his legs, and his arm raises slowly between your bodies, your light making the silver shine, the look on your face shifting from anticipation to something Bucky dares to think looks almost like awe.

You move an inch closer which makes him stiffen immediately, but you don’t take your eyes off of his arm for even a second before you are reaching out to him, a hesitant hand slowly approaching him.

As soon as Bucky realizes you intend to touch him, he flinches so hard that your glow falters, looking up at him with eyes filled with worry. The room is swallowed by complete darkness for a moment before the light forms around your body again, and your face is back in his vision.

His voice is strained when he speaks. “What are you doing?”

Your answer comes in a hushed tone, and it’s not nearly enough convincing. “It’s okay, Bucky. You won’t hurt me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ —

Your heart is beating as if it wants to break open your ribcage and hug the man sitting under you. You wonder if he hears it.

You reach for the metal in front of you again, this time more determined than before. He lets you, although he looks like he wants to throw you off of him and run without looking back once.

You have never pushed him like this, always cautious of his scars and vulnerabilities, but he deserves so much more than he gives himself credit for and you are past your limit of letting him drown in his enormous pool of self-hatred. He should know. He should know how much you appreciate every single part of him. And he should believe it.

You look up into his ocean blue eyes you love so much just when your index finger is about to make contact with the metal, shining in all its glory.

He’s hesitant, you can see, but you keep your stare into his eyes, waiting desperately for his permission once again.

When he gives you a barely there nod after a good couple of seconds, you can’t help the soft smile appearing on your face.

He inhales sharply when you gently press your finger to one of his knuckles, making you look back up at him.

“Please be careful,” he pleads, making your heart clench in your chest. You don’t know why he asks you to be careful, what he’s afraid of. It’s not like his arm has a mind of its own. Maybe he is afraid it does, you can’t tell. Your smile widens just a little regardless, and you nod. “I will. I promise.”

You let yourself feel his hand for a moment, reveling in the feeling it gives you, not quite describable, not quite unfamiliar either. You’ve felt it before, sure, on your skin, squeezing your hips when he was buried in you, or caressing your leg when he let himself feel it for just a second before pulling away. But you’ve never held it before. He always keeps you on his other side, away from the arm, away from danger.

As you trace your finger on the metal, you are so focused on the reflection of your glow on his arm that it catches you off guard when he shivers beneath you, muttering a low curse under his breath.

Your voice is barely above a whisper when glance up from his hand. “What?”

He slightly shakes his head, looking as surprised as you are. His brows knit together as he gulps. “Nothing, I—“

He can’t finish his sentence when you move your finger again and his head tilts back just a little, leaving you stunned as you watch him clench his teeth.

Your voice is excited to say the least when you speak. “Can you feel that?”

He nods, looking at you with hooded eyes. A glossy sheen is covering his forehead, tiny droplets of sweat forming almost immediately.

For a second, you just stare at each other. Silence grows, as well as your excitement. “Do you… do you like it?”

He doesn’t answer for at least a minute, making you wait in anticipation. But you are patient with him, almost afraid that you’ll scare him off.

You get your answer when your finger involuntarily twitches after keeping it so still. His eyes flutter shut, and his voice is barely a whisper when he answers your question. “Fuck, yes sweetheart. Yeah, I do.”

You stare at his hand in marvel. “What does it feel like?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, breathless. “Not the same as you touch my other hand,” he pauses, watches you move your fingers on towards his wrist. “Sensitive,” he murmurs then. “But different, I don’t know. I can’t describe it. It just- it never felt like this before.”

You nod, your fingers not stopping their movements for one second. In no time, Bucky is panting underneath you.

Your mind is going thousands of miles per hour, countless very impure scenarios running through every inch of your brain when he murmurs, almost to himself, “You’re so warm.”

Maybe it feels different because of your powers, maybe it’s different because it’s you, you don’t know. But if you can make him feel good in any way that you can, you will take that chance, without a single doubt.

“Buck,” you say with your heart in your throat after your hips involuntarily twitches against him and he gasps, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He looks disheveled.

“Hm?”

“Do you think…” You pause, trying to decide whether or not this is a good idea. But the doubt leaves as soon as it appeared when you see the state he is in. Still, it all comes out in a rush, your cheeks turning a shade of pink. “Do you think you can… uh, you know? Just from this?”

You don’t think there has ever been a moment you have seen Bucky this dumbfounded before.

It doesn’t last long, though. The look on his face is quickly swapped with something different, something darker as you give him a tentative grind, the bulge in his briefs pressing so deliciously against your clothed core. “Sunny, do you know what you-“

“No,” you cut him off, a chuckle escaping you. “I really don’t.”

Your heart is racing, making you feel dizzy and disoriented but your focus never shifts from the man in front of you.

“I don’t know,” he answers your original question after what feels like an eternity. “I don’t know- maybe.”

Well, fuck me.

You have to remind yourself over and over again to stay calm, that this is about him and not you, as you continue moving your palm along his arm; only this time, pressing harder. Both your fingers and your hips.

You start rocking against him gently, and it’s almost like you can feel every nerve in your body waking up. Your one hand continues to move up and down on his metal arm, the other finding home in his hair. Your fingers tangle in the long strands, pulling just enough to make his already uneven breath stutter.

“You never really touch me with your metal hand,” you breathe out, his eyes, now dark blue, staring into yours with an intensity that can knock you out of your mind if you are not careful. “You don’t even hold my hand.”

“Doll,” he starts, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say, firm but still gentle, and press your hips just a little harder, making him hiss. “Do you think I can’t tell?”

“I need you to know, Bucky,” you continue when he doesn’t say anything. “I love you. Not just the good bits. All of you.”

He opens his mouth to say something when his eyes flutter and roll back, hips suddenly lifting up. “F-fuck, baby, you’re killing me.”

You smile, and an incoherent sound leaves his parted lips. Next thing you know, he’s pulling his arm from your hold, wrapping both of them around your waist in a way that makes your breath hitch. He is pressing to you so good, your hips barely needing to move to send pleasure waves through your body.

His voice is shaking when he whispers into your neck. “Closer.”

You don’t think you can get any closer than this.

His hands, both of them, find your hips, guiding you, making you move as he pleases and you are suddenly standing on that edge, ready to jump.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

BuckyBuckyBuckyBucky

“You feel me?” He asks you, and you almost laugh. Can you feel him? He is everywhere, all your senses conquered by him.

His lips brush that sweet spot on your neck every time he speaks, his breath tickling your skin, making you frantic in your movement, pressing into him more, your underwear basically nonexistent with the way it’s soaked through.

You nod.

“Yeah, you do. You feel what you do to me?”

Another nod.

Because you do. And he has to as well. It’s not just you, it’s him too. Every time he makes you come, every time he makes you breathe out his name into the darkness of the night, every time he takes your hand or wraps his arm around you, every time he so much as looks at your way, he undoes you. Then puts your pieces back together.

He has to know it. Feel it. So you ask him. “And do you feel what you do to me?”

He groans, lifting his head to look at you. “Yes.”

You nod, breathless, “Good. You better.”

A chuckle leaves his lips, and it makes you smile, like it always does. His hands are firmer around your hips, moving you on him as he likes, making your stomach clench and your breath stutter. “James,” you breathe. “Are you gonna come for me?”

His eyes squeeze shut, hands around your hips get impossibly tighter, although you know he isn’t even using the quarter of his strength. His voice is trembling when he manages an answer. “Fuck, doll. Yes. Yes, I am.”

His pull on you becomes more frantic, urgent, and you know he’s teetering on the edge right behind you.

Bucky’s jaw goes slack as he watches you fall apart with a silent cry, eyes never leaving your face until he pins you to him with a harsh pull, and lifts his hips before his head finds a home back in your neck, letting out a breathy moan.

You can feel the mess you both made, and maybe it should gross you out, but it doesn’t. Nothing about him does.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, his face buried in your neck, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers caressing his damp hair. But it takes a while for both of you to come down the high, breaths slowing down eventually.

Eventually, you find your voice again. “Are you okay?”

He huffs, and wraps his arms tighter around your waist if that’s even possible. “Yeah, baby. Are you?”

“Mhm.”

Another beat of silence passes.

“Do you wanna shower?” You ask, and he is so quick with his answer that it makes you bite back a laugh.

“Absolutely.”

You smirk, standing up and holding out your hand to him. “You are washing my hair.”

“When have I not?” He says, a small smile that makes your heart clench in your chest forming on his face. It’s all that matters. After everything he went through, everything they made him go through, you just want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy.

“And we can order food after?” You ask, looking over your shoulder to him, batting your eyelashes in a way that makes him look at you a bit longer than he usually does before the side of his mouth ticks up.

“Absolutely.”

You stop just outside the bathroom door, turning towards him, reaching for his other hand, the metal hand. “And you know I love you?”

He pauses. Pauses enough to make you sigh, drop his hands to hold his face between your palms. “I love everything about you. I will always love everything about you. Nothing you can say can change that. Got it?”

You watch as his jaw clenches, feel it inside your palms. You watch as his eyes look just a little more shiny than they should. “I will never hurt you, I swear.”

“I already told you. You could never hurt me, James,” you repeat, smiling at him as your fingers caressing the soft skin under his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers eventually, like he doesn’t trust his voice to not waver otherwise. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You shake your head before pressing a light kiss to his lips. “You just exist. And you are you. That’s enough, James.”

He is enough.

He is everything.

And maybe one day, you can make him believe it.

likes, reblogs and comments fuel me, love you all!

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

[steddieas-shegoes]

you and all of your new perspective

for @steddiesongfics using 'new perspective' by noah kahan

also on ao3

rated m | 3,513 words | no cw | tags: rock star eddie munson, good uncle wayne munson, mutual pining, yearning, post-vecna, love confessions, idiots in love, first kiss, implied sexual content, getting together

🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻

He’s looking down at the letter and wondering how the hell he’s supposed to be normal about Eddie visiting him.

In Hawkins.

Where Eddie swore he’d never come back to the moment he got his ticket out of here.

“Starin’ at it ain’t gonna make him not come,” Wayne says from across the counter. “Surprised he didn’t call ya to tell ya.”

“He…he left a few messages,” Steve explains, setting the letter down and resting his face in his hands. “I just figured he wouldn’t come if I didn’t call him back.”

Wayne raises a brow, gives him a look that Steve’s perfectly familiar with by now. Four years of weekly dinners with a man that’s well aware of your feelings for his nephew leads to some knowing looks and light teasing.

“Only reason he’d ever step foot in this town again is for you and you know that,” Wayne says as he opens another beer. He has three every Friday night, but no longer indulges during the week. Ain’t so young anymore, son, and I gotta stay active to keep up with all your chores, he’d told Steve when he asked. Steve thinks the doctor told him to take it easier. “I don’t think he even told the kids.”

“Don’t see why he would. They’re all over. He’s probably seen them on tour.”

Steve tries not to sound bitter. He woke up in his own bed or whatever the saying is. He can’t blame Eddie for doing exactly what he said he would, following his dreams, getting the hell out of Hawkins the moment he could. The kids did the same, but at least they visited.

“Well, they’ve been houndin’ him to come visit you.”

Steve lifts his head. “They what?”

“They just worry ‘bout ya,” Wayne shrugs. “So do I.”

“I went on a date last week! Robin visited two months ago! I see you every Friday!” Steve stands and starts pacing. “I’m gonna go visit Dustin at school in a month. And Will has his freshman exhibition that we’re all trying to meet up at. It’s not like I’m lonely.”

“Son, I think the only person lonelier than you is Eddie,” Wayne gives him that sad smile he gives whenever they talk about Steve’s social life. It’s like he knows it’s pitiful, and he knows Steve knows it’s pitiful, and he’s making sure Steve knows that he knows. “And he’s stubborn as a mule, but he cares too much about ya to let you suffer.”

“Who said anything about suffering?”

“It’s implied by the way the kids talk about you.”

“How’s that?”

“The word hermit has been used a bunch,” Wayne explains. “Now, I’m gonna finish this beer and you’re gonna stop workin’ yourself up over something that’s still days away.”

Steve rushes over to his calendar, holding up the letter, then checking the calendar.

“He’s gonna be here in three days!” Steve yells. “I can’t be ready by then!”

“What the hell do you need to be ready for? It’s just Eddie,” Wayne is smirking again and Steve’s tired of his teasing, but he’s not gonna say anything because it doesn’t do any good to draw more attention to it. “He ain’t expecting a welcome committee. Maybe a balloon or somethin’; You know he likes the show of it all.”

Steve groans.

He does know. Eddie loves dramatics, that’s what makes him such a good performer on stage. That’s what makes him a great DM.

That’s what made Steve fall in love with him.

“I don’t even know where to get balloons,” Steve says, resting his forehead against the wall.

“The new Wal-Mart should have some,” Wayne pats his shoulder. “We watchin’ the game or standing around havin’ a crisis in your kitchen?”

Steve breathes in. He breathes out.

“I’ll have a crisis tomorrow, I guess.”

“That’s my boy!”

++++

The crisis does come the next day, but this time Wayne isn’t there to make it worse or better. He considers calling Robin, but he knows she’ll just tell him to use his good cologne and try not to be weird. He even thinks about calling Dustin, but immediately shuts that down when he remembers that Dustin is the one who called him a hermit to Eddie’s face.

He finds balloons at the store, and adds streamers to the cart on a whim. He’s sure Eddie will love it. Eddie loves that kind of shit.

He also grabs a pie crust and apples because he remembers Eddie saying how much he loves apple pie with vanilla ice cream one time nearly five years ago.

Okay, maybe it’ll be weird that he remembered that.

He goes to put the apples back when Joyce bumps into him as she’s reaching for a bunch of bananas.

“Sorry honey!” She throws her hands out to catch him, even though she’s the one who almost falls. “I wasn’t paying attention. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, how’re you?” Steve gives her a small smile, trying not to show how panicked he is.

“Sweetie, you look stressed. Is something wrong?”

“No! No, just preparing for a guest,” Steve says, unsure if Eddie’s told anyone else in Hawkins he would be visiting and not wanting to ruin any surprises if he intended on doing that.

He doesn’t even know how long Eddie’s staying; He didn’t say in his letter or voicemails. Wayne hasn’t mentioned it either, which means he probably knows exactly how long he’s staying.

“Oh, is Eddie staying with you?” She asks, brows furrowing. “I assumed he was staying with Wayne. I helped him find an apple pie recipe for his visit.”

Steve looks down at the ingredients in the cart, the evidence of what he’s going to make even more obvious now. Joyce’s gaze follows his and she bites back a knowing smile.

“Ah.”

“Ah?” He asks.

“Uh huh,” she says, nodding. “I would make sure to get the green apples. He likes sour more than sweet when there’s ice cream.”

Steve looks over at the green apples and back at the red apples he was planning on buying. Joyce winks at him before she grabs the bananas and starts to walk away.

“Enjoy the visit!”

Steve doesn’t respond.

He grabs six green apples and shoves them in a plastic produce bag.

He’ll make the damn apple pie and Eddie will love it. Steve will pretend the apple pie isn’t filled with the love he can barely contain for the man, and maybe Eddie will enjoy it and leave as if he never came.

Maybe Steve can make it through this visit with dignity.

****

Eddie shows up at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Technically, it’s 3:03, but Steve wasn’t watching the clock or anything. That would be ridiculous.

He looks just like he always did, just like Steve expected. He’s smiling, and playing with the ends of his curls. Steve is never gonna make it through this visit with dignity.

“Stevie!” Eddie rushes in for a hug, and it should be more awkward than it is. Eddie didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms with Steve. They really only spoke a handful of times over the last few years, and most of those were forced by Wayne or Dustin. But it’s like he never left, like he’s been hugging Steve every day for years.

Steve soaks it up, falls into it and doesn’t care how it looks. If Eddie has a problem with it, he doesn’t say so. He holds Steve tighter, his breath warm against his neck.

Eventually, Steve invites him inside and it does start to feel awkward.

Eddie’s a rock star now, and despite how normal he looks, he’s different. He’s here to see Steve, but is he here out of guilt that it took him this long to visit or because he actually wants to?

Steve talks about work, and his dinners with Wayne, and spends more time than he should explaining Robin’s degree program even though he knows Robin already talked to Eddie when she got accepted. He goes on and on about what everyone else is up to because his life is pretty boring in comparison and he doesn’t want to bore Eddie away.

“Sounds like everyone’s doing good, but I already knew that,” Eddie eventually says when Steve’s rambled for much longer than he planned. “How are you?”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Steve says. “Kinda boring around here, honestly. How’s the tour been?”

Eddie laughs and Steve tries not to let it hurt. He doesn’t think he means it in the way Steve’s taking it and that’s a Steve problem, not an Eddie problem.

“I called you 37 times,” Eddie says instead of answering him. “Every city we had a show. The first few I figured you were just busy or asleep. I didn’t think about time zones. But then I started to realize you were avoiding me.”

He isn’t mad, or at least he doesn’t look mad, but Steve feels like he needs to apologize anyway.

“Yeah, sorry. After a while, it kinda…”

“Seemed worse to call since it was so long?” Eddie asks, small smile falling from his face when Steve nods. “It’s never a bad thing to hear from friends, though. You could’ve called the bus phone anytime. Left a message. We got an answering machine because Gareth’s mom always calls when we’re on stage.”

“Right. Good to know,” Steve says. Which, it is good to know, but he doesn’t plan on calling unless there’s an emergency. He can’t look as desperate as he feels and if he calls once, he’ll call twice, and then a hundred times. “What city was your favorite so far?”

Eddie tilts his head, looks him over for a moment before responding. “I liked Boston. All the kids were front row. Except El, she somehow got backstage. Still not sure how. Missed you, though.”

Steve feels his face heat up at the words. Eddie always said things in a flirty way, even though he doesn’t really mean it that way. Steve can’t let himself think that he means it that way.

“It’s a pretty big trip, so. I couldn’t miss work.”

It’s a shit excuse because he absolutely could miss work. It’s a grocery store in a small town, and he doesn’t care that much about it.

“They couldn’t find someone to cover a couple days for you?” Eddie sounds hurt now, and Steve can’t let him think that he’s the problem.

“I didn’t ask. I-” Steve has to be brave now. Wayne’s voice is in his head telling him to just tell Eddie why he’s been so distant, why he hasn’t been the one to reach out. “I was scared to go.”

This seems to throw Eddie off balance. His eyes squint and forehead wrinkles adorably as he tries to do mental gymnastics to find out why Steve of all people would be scared to visit him. Steve is known for throwing himself in the line of fire, being the first one to step in when everyone else is scared. Too bad this type of courage is different.

“Are you scared of flying? I didn’t know, maybe we could have figured out a hired car.”

“No, I don’t mind flying,” Steve admits.

“Then…why were you scared?”

“Because if I let you in, you’ll see how much I miss you and if you see how much I miss you, you’ll see how much I love you. And then you’d never wanna have me around and it would be just like everyone else I love who leaves because I’m not enough to keep them around,” Steve lays his head back against the couch. The Wayne voice in his head is suspiciously quiet.

So is Eddie.

Steve isn’t going to talk anymore; He’s said enough.

Eddie’s hand covers Steve’s. It’s warm and surprisingly soft, and bigger than Steve’s. He never realized that before, not even when he held his hand while he was in the hospital after Vecna or when he watched him play guitar for hours while he was trying to gain his confidence back.

“People don’t leave because you aren’t enough, Steve. They leave because the world is big and they want to be a part of it. Everyone wants you to do that, too,” Eddie says softly, carefully. “I think most of the kids hoped you’d leave Hawkins once they did. Dustin thought you’d come on tour with me.”

“Why would he think that?” Steve doesn’t remember ever having a conversation with Dustin that would make him think that, but his memory isn’t the best.

Eddie’s lips curl up into a smile and he leans forward.

“You know you’re incredibly obvious, right?” Eddie whispers even though they’re alone and there’s no need to be quiet. “You’ve always been easy to read.”

“What does that mean? Read what?”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve and it’s been right there with Eddie written across it since I was in the hospital, sweetheart.” Eddie points to Steve’s arm. He looks down as if he would be able to see the heart Eddie’s talking about. “You’re an open book.”

The timer in the kitchen goes off and Steve jumps up. He rushes to the oven, grateful for the distraction.

“Is that apple pie?” Eddie asks from a few feet away. Steve really should’ve known he would follow him.

“Yes, it’s gotta be perfect.”

“You made apple pie for me?”

Eddie’s right behind him now, and when he turns, there’s no space between them at all. Steve smells the airport on him, the rental car, the cologne he’s worn since Steve bought it for him before he left Hawkins.

He looks up and sees the years that have passed in smile lines on Eddie’s face, in a single gray hair that Eddie’s probably keeping because it makes him look cool. Steve hasn’t found any gray hairs yet, but he’s only 25. Eddie always said Wayne went completely gray by 30, so his genetics wouldn’t be as kind to him. Steve kinda hopes he’s right. Eddie would be beautiful with gray curls.

“Just like I said: heart on your sleeve,” Eddie whispers, leaning in until his lips are just barely brushing against Steve’s.

He’s waiting for Steve, to see if he’ll finally give in after years of near-silence, after whatever flirty and semi-codependent friendship they had before Eddie left to be a rock star.

Steve’s spent enough time waiting, and he thinks Eddie probably has, too.

His lips press against Eddie’s, sure of their movements despite the anxiety crawling through his chest and the unfamiliar taste of him on his tongue.

It’s full of hunger even though it only lasts a few seconds. Steve’s wanted this, wanted him, for so long, he puts everything he has into this moment. If it’s all he gets, he wants it to be perfect.

“You’re kissing me like you’re sending me off to war,” Eddie says when they’ve caught their breath.

“Feels like I am,” Steve admits, corner of his mouth turning up in a sad smile. “At least a little.”

“I think the odds of me dying on stage are probably extremely slim,” Eddie laughs. Steve doesn’t laugh with him. “Steve? What’s wrong?”

Steve pulls himself away, ignoring the way his chest aches at the separation. He’ll have to get used to that when Eddie leaves.

“You have a whole new life. You’re a rock star, Ed. I can’t force my feelings on you now.”

“Who said you forced anything on me?”

“I made you apple pie!” Steve exclaims, pulling away so he can breathe again. Having Eddie in his space alters his brain chemistry, maybe his DNA. “I bought all your favorite things so I could try to convince you I’m worth staying for, even though I can’t compare to going on a world tour with your band. I cleaned out the guest room and made sure I put your favorite shampoo in the shower as if you would even notice that. As if it would be enough to keep you around.”

Eddie steps closer, but Steve steps back.

“Your life is different now. It’s good. I wouldn’t add anything to it, and I don’t know why I even tried to make it seem like I would.”

Eddie steps closer, and there’s nowhere for Steve to go. He’s boxed in against the counter, and Eddie’s face is red with anger. He’s not scared– he could never be scared of Eddie– but he does swallow around a lump in his throat and try to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

“My life is different now, you’re right about that. My life doesn’t even feel like mine most days. I belong to fans, and the guys, and the record label. But you know what does feel like mine?” Eddie leans in close enough that his breath is hot against Steve’s face. “How much I love you. How much I have always loved you. You’ve always felt like mine, Steve.”

It’s a hell of a confession, and definitely not what Steve expected from this visit.

The Wayne voice in his head decides to speak again. Except this time, it’s something he’s said to Steve in person before.

He’s surrounded by people, but he seems pretty lonely. Kinda like he still needs a certain someone.

Steve’s brows crinkle as he thinks about the words Wayne said after a phone call with Eddie during the first part of his first tour nearly two years ago. The words were accompanied by a look that Steve has since come to recognize as his sad puppy look.

The same one Eddie’s giving him now.

Steve can’t help it; He laughs.

“You and Wayne could bottle that look and sell it to people who need someone to feel bad for ‘em,” Steve says. He cups Eddie’s cheek in his palm, rubs his thumb against the angry red that turns into a flushed pink. “I don’t know how you could love me-”

“Steve-”

“But!” Steve interrupts. “I know you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it. And you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have taken the time to come back here at all, let alone stay with me. I won’t understand it, but I’ll believe it.”

“That was easier than Wayne said it would be,” Eddie’s smile grows slowly, lighting up his face and the room.

“He’s been buttering me up for years,” Steve shrugs.

“Doing all the hard work, more like,” Eddie leans forward, rests his forehead against Steve’s. “He must’ve been sick of hearing me yearn for your love.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know, you could have come back sooner. You didn’t have to wait until I was convinced I’d be alone forever.”

“And you could have called me to let me know I could visit sooner.” Eddie pokes the tip of his nose with his finger, smirking as he leans away to look back at the apple pie on the oven. “Especially if I could’ve been having apple pie on every break.”

“It might not even be good,” Steve says as he wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist.

“Is there vanilla ice cream?” Eddie pecks his lips.

“Mhm,” Steve kisses his cheek. “And you can have some if you promise to sit down and tell me everything about the band.”

“You wanna waste time hearing about Gareth drooling over every woman who looks his way? We could be making love on the couch.”

Steve raises a brow. “We won’t be making love anywhere but my bed. And it won’t be until we’ve talked more.”

“Fiiiine,” Eddie rolls his eyes, but grabs for the pie cutter on the counter. “Cut me a piece of pie and I’ll do my best to resist taking all your clothes off.”

“I never said you couldn’t do that,” Steve grabs the pie cutter.

“So I can take your clothes off?”

“Shirt only. And after pie…we’ll talk.”

“I thought after pie we’d be done talking.”

“How long are you staying?” Steve asks as he puts the slice of pie onto the plate and hands it to Eddie.

“Four days.”

Steve tilts his head side to side, considering what he can accomplish in four days.

In any other situation, he might be worried about how quickly he throws off his shirt. In any other situation, he would probably insist on talking to Robin before throwing his heart on the plate next to the scoop of ice cream Eddie just put next to his steaming slice of pie. In any other situation, he would take things slow and get to know rock star Eddie who left Hawkins to be someone.

But he’s finding that he’s okay with speed-running things.

He’s got a new perspective on Eddie’s visit, and maybe a new perspective on what their future will look like.

Steve drops his pants. Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Eat your pie. We’ll talk while we make love on the couch.”

[luvmanifesting]

More information about my world!

(sorryyy for spam post 😓 im just really excited)

yk how earth has a sound around the planet right? and so does the other planets and whatever well for my planet it’ll have like a soft beat around it! (maybe a soft fairy-ish sound idk how to explain it)

my planet is the 4th planet from the sun

magic exists heavily in that world but its controlled magic

time does not exist in regards to my post here where i said everyone is immortal

SOME animals can talk (cats, dogs, foxes, sea lions, penguins, bears, elephants and wolves and bunnies)

ocean animals are friendly to humans (that is unless you disturb them or try to kill them)

the species that exist in this world are called “Liminoids” (get it..? “limi” as in like “limitless?” no? just me?☹️)

yes cars and planes exist but they run solely on like magic energy so it doesn’t ruin the planet

zoo’s will not exist in this world every animal lives in healthy environment thats immune to damage

even though i said time doesn’t exist this planet will traditionally celebrate something similar to new years but instead of like “yayy 365 days has passed!!” no we’ll be celebrating the life this planet has given us and we’ll all do something good to the planet as thankfulness. the fireworks will be used from magic!

the planet is free from any type of universal damage

everyone in this world is born with an element but that element won’t activate until the age of 16 (immortality again, people can still age by numbers but their body will not change. they will still look like a person in their 20s people can select their age here whenever they turn 18)

foods here will not make people overweight or obese (you can gain muscle)

instead of regular hair colors people in this world are born with various colors or 1 color

(im still thinking about it) maybe i’ll add like a special machine to where the people in this planet would maybe like to travel to earth! (they would be given procedures to keep their identity safe)

every country is ran by a healthy, stable SMART and fair monarch. (people still have freedom and equality its just to maintain world order)

cheating isn’t allowed in this planet, if found out; a persons partner is given 2 options. 1 remove this persons immorality and sentence them to death or 2 forever punishment

theres a big dome where certain countries come to entertain other countries with cool events

alsooo if you guys wanna shift to test it out then you can! you’re only given 7 hours though. you’ll be granted a little watch that has a timer. and you can only visit this place 4 times! please be respectful there though. its still in progress! here are some pictures to what the planet looks like from being on it! (some are AI though)

i’m still working on what the PLANET itself would look like :p

[ghostgirl-22]

so i actually need pt 2 to the older patrick younger art fic right NOW.. jk but it was amazing

Y’all. Y’ALL. I heard you. And though I don’t really love writing sequels… I’ll do anything for you honestly <33

Original.

It’s a mess and way too long which is prbly to be expected by now. Idk. Sometimes you just have to get out of your head and post 😭

18+ NSFW

CW: AGE GAP 10-11 years, power dynamics, teacher/student vibes, first time vibes, AND mild daddy!kink whoopsie! How did that happen? Obviously if any of these things make you uncomfortable don’t read. I don’t take it personally. I’ll explain myself a bit. Art in my imagination here didn’t get constantly shown up by Patrick and because Patrick wasn’t there Art got the attention Patrick got for his skills so he’s a little more arrogant (still a little insecure because that’s his core) and still messy. Patrick had the Tashi injury which makes him a little less arrogant (brought down a notch but still overcompensates and actively self sabotages because that’s his core) and still messy.

——

Art is still keyed up the next morning. His roommate, Devon, is bragging about hooking up with a senior. Art is trying to pay attention but all he can think about is how he got on his knees and gave messy head to Patrick, Coach Zweig, his 31 year old ridiculously hot tennis coach. And how Patrick practically promised to fuck him if he was a really good boy all week. He’s sitting on his hands trying not to go crazy.

“What did you get up to?” Devon finally asks him. Picking up his towel and getting ready to shower.

“Can you keep a secret?” Art asks.

That makes him sit back down. “Yeah of course.”

Art tells him about Patrick, most of it anyway, watching his eyes widen. He’s not on the tennis team but he’s heard enough about Coach Zweig from Art that he can’t help giggling.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“Holy shit. And I thought I was doing something with that senior. Wow. This would only happen to you.”

Art isn’t sure what he means by that but he’s suddenly asking a million questions. Art tells him some things, embellishing and withholding various details. The closest Art ever came to actually fucking a boy was when he used to sneak in Devon’s bed whenever he got horny at night. They were so close to fucking when Art made him stop. so he made Art promise to stop leading him on. And now they’re proper roommates with boundaries and everything. Though sometimes Art thinks if he asked for it Devon would still fuck him.

Devon thinks it’s hot, the whole Patrick thing. Thinks Patrick wants to make Art his kept boy. “Well I mean… he’s old and everyone says he’s loaded, right? He can give you whatever you want.” Devon says.

“Please, he wouldn’t even give me his phone number.” Art says dismissively. “And I don’t need to be kept I just need his dick.”

Devon chews his bottom lip looking Art over and Art wonders if he crossed a boundary. He’s so fucking messy with them.

“Lucky him,” Devon says dryly, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you should milk it. You’re young and beautiful and blonde and he’s your coach so it’s like.. it’s kind of illicit. He could get you a nice place off campus… be your sugar daddy. Girls do it all the time.”

“I think he’d kill me if I ever called him that,” Art laughs, making up his mind to definitely call him that at some point.

Devon agrees to come out with him next weekend but he still has to wait the whole fucking week. It feels like torture.

They have practice everyday and a game on Friday. Which means Patrick’s in those short shorts running them around the court every single day. Art can’t keep his mind off of him. Just wants his attention so bad, everyday he’s doing everything he can just to get Patrick to look in his direction. But Patrick’s got an epic poker face. He’s so fucking cool and calm and collected. So good at acting like nothing happened. Like everything is the same and they never did what they did.

There's one difference. Instead of having the assistant coach do it… he’ll bring Art to the side and personally correct him when he thinks Art could play better. Show him how to position himself, swing the racket, follow through. Big hands, rough hands, gripping Art's waist to turn his body, his wrist to direct his swing. The same hands that effortlessly lifted off his lap the other night.

“Can’t be all talk and no action sweetheart,” Patrick says lightly, as he’s standing behind him. God. It’s actually stupid how sexy he is. Art’s never thought this much about being penetrated, ever. He makes sure to arch his back just a little more than he usually does. Patrick presses a hand to the small of his back.

Art fingers the grip of his racket. “I don’t think I was all talk.”

Patrick chuckles, low and soft. “Stop it. Focus. Bring that energy here,” he says, “all that confidence right here and no one will rattle you.”

“Like this?” Art demonstrates. He makes a mess of it just so that Patrick will touch him again. It takes a minute before Patrick catches on.

“I think you get it,” he says dryly.

“Please show me one more time. I just wanna be a good boy for you,” Art says lightly. It makes Patrick swallow… his gaze falls helplessly over Arts body and then he looks away smirking.

“Are you having fun?” He says, leaning in close, eyes all crinkly with amusement.

Art wants to kiss him. “Mmhm,” he hums, pressing his lips together. “Though sometimes it still feels like my mouth is so full of you I could just… choke.”

“Yeah… right…” Patrick rolls his eyes, still smiling and then he takes a deep breath and drags his hand over his beard. “Hm…What’s today?”

“Wednesday,” Art says.

“And my plans for the weekend are still up in the air,” he says, patting Art on the shoulder as he takes his racket and turns to face the team. “Five laps around the court, everybody, let’s gooo!” He says loudly, blowing his whistle. “Fucking hustle!”

There’s an audible groan and the sounds of rackets dropping as everyone stops what they’re doing and starts running. “Go join them. And if you keep it up it’ll be sprints next.” Patrick says softly.

Art grins, as much as he hates running and he’s sure his teammates will assume he’s responsible for this bit of conditioning, it was still totally fucking worth it.

He probably should’ve focused more but he wins on Friday in spite of himself. Tennis is such a mental game and while he’s generally confident and loves the attention that comes with playing as number one on the center stage, he’s not consistent. That’s what Patrick always says at least. There are opponents that leave him feeling less sure of himself and then he tends to get in his head imagining he’s somehow inadequate or deficient.

One of those players is a French recruit from UCLA, Jensen Bordeaux. Art starts out strong. Crushes it in the first set. But when Bordeaux fights back in the second and he falls apart a little. It’s a bad habit. He wins another game but it’s not enough. He ends up nearly going into a third set.

“Remember what I said,” Patrick takes him to the side between points. “Stop acting like you can’t finish him off. You can have whatever you want right?”

Art gazes at him and bites his lip. “Mmhm.” He nods.

“Good. You know what you want. Just take it. Okay?”

“Yeah okay,” Art says breathlessly.

“Good boy,” Patrick says, rubbing his shoulders, a little smirk on his lips. “Try not to… you know… choke.”

Art feels heated from the inside out. He goes back on the court except he’s not thinking about the game. Instead he’s so anxious for the promise of tomorrow night that all this begins to feel like a mere obstacle to that. He makes easy work of it, winning the tiebreaker and shifting it so that Stanford goes home the winning team.

Everyone on the team goes out to a frat party to celebrate and Art is so drunk and horny by the end of the night. He stumbles into his dorm at 1 am, falls drunkenly into bed and starts touching himself. Fingers in his mouth imagining it’s the heavy weight and thickness of Patrick’s cock. Imagining Patrick’s large hands in his hair, imagining the soft, easily amused tone of his voice as he murmurs. “Good boy.” Makes him come so fast and hard he passes out.

He’s a mess in the morning. In more ways than one. They don’t have practice after game days so he sleeps off his hangover and the day flies by. He takes a long hot shower before he gets ready to go. Anxiety and anticipation competing for space in his brain and body. Devon loans him clothes that are so much tighter than anything he wears regularly. “Trust me, he’s gonna be all over you in this.”

They get there at the same time as last week but Patrick doesn’t come right away. Art’s waiting and waiting and waiting for Patrick to show up at the gay bar. Devon is at a table, a new boy on his lap and they’re making out. Art is half tipsy, swinging his legs on a barstool while this guy from the baseball team stands between his thighs asking him everything about tennis like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. And that’s when Patrick finally arrives. He spots Art across the bar and smirks. Art gets up right away, making excuses to the now frowning baseball player about seeing him around on campus.

“That was fast,” Patrick smirks, as Art sidles up next to him.

“Well I didn’t know you’d take so long to come,” Art says, moving closer. “Is that an old person thing?”

”Mm, you…” Patrick chuckles, tapping his credit card on the bar. He’s got such a great smile. God. Art is so far gone. This is tragic.

“Can you buy me a drink?” Art asks in his ear.

“No fucking way,” Patrick says, amused.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, how many drinks have you had tonight?”

Art holds up 3 fingers.

“Is that how many fingers I’m gonna have to put in before I can… nevermind…” Patrick says.

Art grins. Warmth spreading throughout his body. “It’s really big,” Art whispers. “Maybe you need four?”

“God…” Patrick laughs, incredulous. “I shouldn’t even fucking be here.” He sighs, as the bartender approaches them. He orders a whiskey and because it’s two for one he gives in and lets Art pick something. He orders rum and coke.

Art feels giddy as he sips on it.

“So used to getting whatever you ask for,” Patrick says, looking him over, teasing a finger into one of his belt loops. “Twenty years old. God. You make me fucking crazy.” He whispers in Art’s ear.

Art can’t help grinning.

Patrick makes him wait while he talks to people his own age. Acting all wholesome. “Oh he’s just one of my players, I’m gonna make sure he gets home safe.” He even gives Art the key so he can wait in his jeep. Art’s hard as soon as he gets in it. Listens to music too loud and ponders touching himself.

He’s kissing on Patrick right away when he finally gets in the car. He’s been so eager all week. “Mm…” Patrick pulls back, tangling his fingers into Art’s hair. “Fuck… gimme a minute to get you home, okay?” he says and he turns on the engine and puts the music back at a sensible volume.

“Is it far?” Art asks.

Patrick huffs a laugh. “Take a deep breath.”

It doesn't help. Everything smells like him. Art puts a hand on Patrick’s thigh, his skin is so heated. He remembers how warm Patrick’s cock felt in his mouth and then his mouth starts watering.

“Is Tashi there?” Art sighs.

“What do you fucking think?”

Art leans close, just breathing him in. Resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder. ”She’s so pretty.” He hums.

“I know.”

“You’re so pretty.”

Patrick chuckles, a low vibration Art can feel from his throat that makes him shiver. “And you're so tipsy. And so fucking young.”

“But you like it.” Art says softly, rubbing Patrick’s thigh. Skin so warm he’s like a furnace. Already hard enough that Art can feel it.

”And I know I’m gonna regret it.”

Their house is actually huge. On the nicer side of Palo Alto. It’s one of the ones with a pool and a tennis court and a crazy nice view of the city. Art doesn’t know any of this until later because as soon as they're inside he’s trying to get his tongue in Patrick’s mouth. Patrick walks him back towards the living room where there’s a huge leather sofa. Art climbs onto his lap as soon as he sits down. Patrick is touching him everywhere, fingers tangled into his hair. Hands under his shirt, rubbing him, teasing him. Art is just trying his best to feel him, lick into his mouth and taste him. All while grinding against his prominent bulge. Grabbing at his zipper trying to get it out.

“Can you fuck me?” Art begs against his lips.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes against his lips, he’s gripping Art’s waist tightly. Slowing him down. He sighs like he’s trying to pull himself together. “Mmkay. God. Stand up a minute. I need to get a condom and some lube.”

Art gets up reluctantly, nervous energy making him bounce on his toes like he’s waiting on a serve. Patrick smirks, “Relax… I’ll be back in a minute.” He pats Art’s shoulder as he gets up and disappears into another room. It doesn’t matter whether Art sits or stands, he’s anxious. He looks around the lavish room, fancy furniture, paintings that look expensive. Massive kitchen like the kind you see in movies. Patrick comes back and he’s all loose, t-shirt wrinkled, hair messy, eyes soft. He’s probably done this a million times. He’s got a condom between his fingers which he hands to Art.

“You wanna put it on me?”

”Mmhm,” Art says. He’s also carrying a little bottle of lube. Art’s trying to rip the packet open but his hands are all shaky. Especially when Patrick lifts his t-shirt off, he’s so solid, strong biceps, chest hair that gets darker condensed down the line of his stomach to where his jeans are unbuttoned. Art wants to lick it.

“Okay,” Patrick settles on the sofa, kicking off his shoes. “Give me that, you pretty little virgin and take those clothes off.”

Art hands him the condom a little embarrassed, and starts undoing his jeans. Kicks off his shoes and peels off his shirt so he’s only in boxers. Patrick bites open the packet and eases his jeans down and his cock out. Art takes shallow breaths watching him roll the condom on. It’s so big the condom is a magnum size and it fits snug. He’s heard horror stories about first times, even read a few on Reddit and he’s starting to feel a little panicked.

”Look at you.” Patrick says softly, eyes dragging slowly down Arts body. He pulls Art onto his thighs, god he has thick muscular thighs, Art can’t help wiggling. Patrick’s got him close so their cocks line up, and his palm is covered in lube and he’s gripping them both at the same time. It feels so fucking good Art thinks he might come too fast. He’s moaning, eyes squeezed shut when Patrick stops. Art opens his eyes to see Patrick wetting his fingers with more lube and slips a thick calloused finger back along Art’s entrance. Art feels himself seizing up as Patrick presses slowly inside.

“Take deep breaths,” Patrick whispers. Advice Art tries to follow but it just feels so crazy. He eases another finger in and Art tenses even more.

“Mm if your so fucking tight, I can’t fuck you sweetheart.”

“Does it hurt?” Art whispers.

Patrick takes a breath. “Yeah a little at first… but I think I can make it feel a little…uh better…”

Art shivers, his body suddenly overrun by pleasure as Patrick’s teasing his fingertips deep inside him. Art can hear himself moaning voice suddenly pitched so high he barely recognizes it. “Please… please… “he begs. “Please fuck me… fuck me… fuck me daddy.” Art gasps, losing himself as he’s riding the sensation.

“Fuck… what did you call me?” Patrick whispers.

Art bites his lip, his body heating up immediately with embarrassment. “Mm sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… I meant like sugar…” He says softly as Patrick slowly pulls his fingertips out. Art is breathless. Patrick doesn’t look mad but his expression has gone heady.

“Fuck… I can be daddy if you need it,” Patrick breathes. “Come…sit on daddy’s dick. Holy shit. What are you doing to me?”

Art swallows, his stomach doing flip flops for the way Patrick says it. He sits up on his knees, he can feel Patrick lining up. It actually feels like a lot. Like way too much. Impossible to take. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and watering feeling the insane stretch as he sinks so fucking slowly down on it.

“Oh god,” he keeps whispering over and over like a prayer.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes. His hands gripping Art’s waist.

He’s anxious moving slowly, gripping tightly, it’s too much, he’s too full. And Patrick starts to adjust him while gently rubbing his tummy. “Relax… lets try this angle,” Patrick whispers. Fucking into him in a way that he starts hitting that pleasure spot deep inside with even more intensity. “Good… good boy…that’s right…breathe… breathe… keep breathing… fuck…” Patrick coaches. And then slowly as it happens Art is moaning, bouncing on his lap just to feel it hit over and over and over and over again.

“I wanna… mmm I like it so much. wanna do it all the time,” Art moans nonsensically as he’s riding, not sure what’s happening, just that he’s seeing stars. “I wanna fuck you all the time. All the fucking time. wanna fuck you at school… during practice. In your bed. Wanna be your boy toy. Play with your big dick. Fuck me, oh fuck… fuck me daddy, daddy please. It feels so fucking good.”

“Jesus,” Patrick groans he barely grips Art’s cock and he’s coming loudly, spurts of it covering Patrick’s chest and his own. He can feel Patrick still pressing up into him, it suddenly feels like way too much. Every movement making him shake with how sensitive it feels and then Patrick stills, swearing over and over, gripping Art’s body tight and burying himself deep. Low gravelly sounds against Art’s ear.

”Fuck,” Patrick gasps, breathlessly. “Oh… god. You’re so… fuck I’m so screwed.”

“Mm,” Art collapses against his chest, running his fingers down Patricks soft chest hair all painted with his jizz. His knees are all sweaty and sticking to the leather but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to be close. Patrick is gently rubbing his lower back and it feels amazing. Art can feel him softening and slowly slipping out of him, he thinks he might fall asleep like this.

“You okay?” Patrick asks.

”Mmhm,” Art says.

“You sure?”

”Yeah. Can we do it again?”

“God,” Patrick laughs. “I need at least five minutes and I need you to get up cause I gotta piss.”

“No,” Art whines, unhappy about anything that means he won’t be warmed by Patrick's body heat even for a second. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders.

Patrick chuckles. “I can’t go anywhere?”

“No,” Art says. “You’re my pillow.”

“Guess I fucked your virgin ass good,” Patrick says.

“For an old guy,” Art says softly, smiling against Patrick’s throat.

“For your daddy, you little freak…” Patrick says gently, squeezing his ass. “Come on, get up or we’re gonna have a bigger mess to clean up.”

Art groans and unwraps his arms. “Can I come?”

“To piss?” Patrick raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Art nods.

Patrick smirks and rolls his eyes before gently curling his fingers into Arts hair. “Yeah sure, come on.”

Art kisses him and he sighs into Arts mouth. “I need a fucking cigarette too.”

“Can I stay over?” Art asks against his lips.

“Mm…” he ponders and sighs. “Fuck it I don’t know why I bother pretending to set boundaries with you…” he says, helping Art to his shaky feet. “Tashi will be home tomorrow afternoon. So you know… better not sleep too late.”

Art grins at him. “Does she know about me?”

“Does she know that after I finally got a good job as a tennis coach at my old school that I’m this close to losing it because I can’t help fucking my barely legal 20 year old star player? No actually. She doesn’t know.” He says dryly.

Art laughs. “I wouldn’t tell. But I mean imagine if I slept with you both. I’d learn so much about tennis.“

Patrick snorts, “This kinda talk is gonna make me take you home tonight actually…”

“Mm too late. You let me call you daddy,” Art grins. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

[slytherinsimp12]

Hi do you take some mature Fic requests? I'm sorry I tried finding your info about requesting but I couldn't find any. If you would be lovely if you could write a remus x reader fic. Reader is a slytherin. Enemies to lover one. Thank you sm ! I love the way your write.

Heyy! Sorry I didn’t have any guidelines uploaded before, but you can find them now as my pinned post. Thank you for requesting <3. Tried my best, hope you like it xx

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Pairing: Remus Lupin x fem!reader

Summary: You hated him. With every bone in your body, you despised Remus Lupin. He was always silently competing with you in all your classes. Whenever he got a grade higher than you, he would find a subtle way to rub it in your face. On top of it all, his friend group, the ‘marauders’- they called themselves, were revolted by you and your house. You were a slytherin after all, it was wired in their heads to hate you. But, Remus was the worst of them all. At least the others had the curtesy to laugh in your face after a ‘prank’, but Remus. Oh, Remus, would just stand in a corner and penetrate you with his cold gaze. For 7 years, you and your friends had been the butt of their cruel jokes. It all changed one day, when you both got stuck in detention together after an unreasonably cruel prank orchestrated by his friends.

Warnings: NSFW!mdi! P in v , fingering, orgasm denial and language.

(Let me know if I’ve missed any.)

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. The Charms classroom buzzed with quiet energy, desks scarred by years of spellwork, shelves lined with humming, glowing artifacts. At the front, Professor Flitwick stood atop a stack of books behind the podium.

“Before I announce the highest scorer of last week’s exam, I want you all to take this student as inspiration, and push yourselves to do better. Remus Lupin, secured a perfect grade, coming first once again!” The tiny professor beamed.

Wonderful. This is just what you needed, Lupin beating you in yet another class. You were seriously considering jumping off the astronomy tower at this point. It was fine at first, you were able to beat him in most classes till 5th year, but 6th year - something changed. Remus changed.

He looked different, his shoulders were broader, his hair longer and messier- cascading like dominoes on his face, he had more scars than before, but you didn’t care enough about him to question it. He even seemed more confident, dare you say more outgoing? He was probably going through late puberty, you could not let his new persona get to you. It was Lupin after all, you loathed him.

After the class ended, you made your way out, a sour look plaster across your face. A cold arm brushed against yours, you looked up and your eyes met Remus’ eyes, he held his test paper up, grinning at you.

“Oh fuck off , Loony Lupin.” You spat, pushing past him.

“Oi, Y/n, you playing quidditch today?” He questioned.

“Why should I tell you? So you and your thick headed lot can pull another one on me?” You rolled your eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes then!” His voice called after you as you walked away.

The day went by quickly, you made your way to the quidditch field after classes, to join the rest of Slytherin team.

“Y/n!” Your best friend’s called, hugging you from behind.

“We have the field booked for the entire evening today!” She explained.

Halfway through practice, twenty feet in the air, you noticed something odd. Your team captain seemed to be loosing control of his broom. Followed by the chasers and then the beaters, they all suddenly started wobbling and spinning uncontrollably on their brooms. You knew immediately who was behind this. Looking down, you saw James Potter, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew laughing hysterically. But Remus, Oh Remus, was just standing in a corner, his gaze not shifting from your direction. Right on cue, your broom started to act funny, your efforts to gain any control of it failed and all of a sudden, you were free falling.

“Arresto Momentum!” A familiar voice shouted.

The speed you were once falling with reduced miraculously, causing you to land safely on the ground. You stood up, mustering all the strength from your body, and charged to the imbeciles responsible for this.

“YOU ABSOLUTE ARSES! I’M GONNA HEX YOU INTO NEXT WEEK!” You shouted at them, reaching for your wand.

“Oh relax Y/l/n, it’s all good fun.” Sirius said.

“Good fun? The rest of the Slytherins are hanging on mid air for their bloody lives!” You countered.

“Don’t be so dramatic-“ James started, but you cut him off.

“Please. If I had your need for attention, I'd hex myself just to get sympathy. At least my personality doesn't rely on harassing innocent people to be interesting." You pointed your wand towards the three of them.

“Y/n, calm down.” Remus’ voice came from behind you. You snapped your head in his direction.

“You shut up. Don’t act like you’re any better than your pathetic little friends!” You spat.

A tinge of anger spread across his face as he reached for his wand.

“What is going on here!!?? Put your wands away right this instant!” A shrill voice demanded.

“Professor Mcgonagall! I was just-“ You tried to explain, but she didn’t care to listen.

With one flick of her wand, the Slytherin team landed safely, but furiously on the ground.

“Save it Ms.Y/l/n. Detention. For you as well Mr.Lupin.” She said, walking away.

You made your way to detention in the trophy room the next day. The air smelt like metal polish, Remus sat with a polishing cloth and a few plaques in his hand, rubbing them vigorously.

“You are not permitted to use magic to finish this task. I will be back in an hour.” Mcgonagall said as she walked out of the room.

You took a seat at the opposite end of the room, as far away as possible, from the brown haired boy. You picked up an old trophy and begin scrubbing furiously.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“No. I think it’s detention. What’s funny about that?” Remus said, not looking up.

“You know you guys could have really hurt someone today! You obviously don’t give a shit though. If whoever performed the ‘arresto momentum’ spell did it a few seconds later, I could have died-“

You were yelling, but you got cut off my him.

“I was the one who performed the spell.” He said, through gritted teeth.

What? Was he telling the truth? Why would he do that? No. It’s still not okay.

“That’s cold comfort! You could have stopped them, but you didn’t! That says enough about you.” You spat.

He was no longer sitting in the corner, he was marching in your direction.

“I don’t need you of all people to be judging my character.” He was angry now. Anger you never saw on him before.

“Why? Did I lie? I’m telling the truth, aren’t I? You act like you’re above all of it. But you’re just as cruel as your friends when it suits you. Godric, I hate you and your lot.”

You kept going. It was almost like word vomit. You could see he was getting really provoked now. He didn’t say anything, just kept walking closer to you. You were standing against the desk now, your fingers gripping it, so you didn’t fall backwards. He was extremely close to you now. The warmth of his breath grazed your skin. Merlin’s tits, when did he get so beautiful? Every logical part of you was telling you to push him away, but something deep inside made you do something you never thought you would.

You grabbed his collar, breathless from arguing, and pulled him into a kiss. Remus didn’t hesitate, he gave in before your lips even brushed. His hands gripped your ass and lifted you upwards, sitting you down on the table. His kiss grew sharp and urgent, slightly biting your lips in between breaths.

“Look at you, can’t think of any snide remarks now?” He said, looking you in the eye, a wide grin plastered across his face.

“Oh shut it Lupin, you know you want it more than I do.” You replied.

He took that as a challenge, his hand moving up your leg, finding your soaked underwear.

“You’re so wet for someone you claim to hate, dove.” He cooed.

His fingers glided over your pussy, your warm slick coating them. You whimpered

as he hit your sensitive clit, legs twitching in response. The taste of iron coated your tongue, biting down as a pathetic effort to try and keep quiet. You felt a familiar knot in your stomach about to be released.

“I didn’t finish-“ You mumbled, as he pulled his digits out.

“D’you think I’d let you cum so easily, love? No. You’re gonna feel every inch of me before I let you cum. I’m going to fuck the hatred you have for me out of you.”

He kissed you again, unbuttoning his shirt. His body was covered in huge scars. The largest one was a violent gash against his abdomen. You trace your palms against the marks, gingerly placing kisses along them. His hands found your jumper, ripping it into half and throwing it across the room.

“Hey! That was my favourite jumper!” You exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ve got plenty more you can borrow.” He replied, cooly.

He looked at you, waiting for approval, before pushing his pulsing cock into you.

You wanted to scream at the size of his member. He moved with a steady speed, your vision was going blurry as he continued to speed up. Feeling your high building up again, he held back his own, wanting to finally release together, he lifted a hand off of your ass, circling steadily over your little button to push you over the edge.

White coated your vision as you came all over Remus’ cock. He pulled himself out, hovering above you.

“Still hate me, dove?” He grinned.

“Just a little.” You rolled your eyes.

He leaned in and pulled you into another quick kiss before helping you get dressed again. You looked at the sad remains of your favourite jumper as Remus gave you a spare one from his bag. It smelt like chocolate with a hint of smoke. It smelt…comforting.

Godric’s balls, y/n. What have you gotten yourself into?

[setmeatopthepyre]

fish

fish! oops 600 words of what can ail thee, knight-at-arms? set some time after this.

[read on Ao3] or below

-

At mid-morning Tommy leads them into town. Buck is keeping an eye out for a bathhouse when something far more enticing catches his eye - the market. He had not realized it was market day, but the prospect of shopping for more than the most basic of wares fills him with delight.

“See if they have honey,” he instructs Tommy as they hitch their horses to a post. “I have a promise of cryspels to fulfill.”

Tommy’s smile is a bemused one. “There is no need, Evan. Save your coin.”

“A promise is a promise,” Buck says, as sternly as he can when he feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards whenever Tommy so much as deems to glance at him. He cranes his neck, attempts to get his bearings amongst the market-going crowd, a few of which glance their way with curiosity. “Where do you think the fishmonger is? There is a recipe I have been meaning to try.”

“You will find no fishmonger here,” Tommy says. His mouth has lost its delightful curve and has straightened into a thin line. He sets off towards the nearest stalls.

Buck frowns and follows him into the throng. “How come? Did you not say this is where two rivers meet?”

“The lord of these lands forbids it,” Tommy says plainly in that way he has that Buck is beginning to suspect is supposed to bely the fact that he has many thoughts on the matter.

“Forbids what? Fish?”

“Fishing. The rivers are his. If commoners want fish, they will have it from the sea.”

Buck glances around, immediately feels foolish, as if waves of briny tide would suddenly burst forth from the market square. “But- the sea is nowhere near here.”

The other knight’s voice is flat. “I believe that may be the point.”

It is past noon when Tommy finds him again. Buck is bartering over use of the piemaker’s oven, the woman’s price a ridiculous one when he asks no labor nor ingredients from her. He is beginning to suspect she may take offense to his insisting on making his own and is about to explain when Tommy beckons him over and both fight and apology are drained from him in an instant. He concedes to the piemaker’s price and then begs her pardon to meet Tommy, his feet carrying him the paces without a conscious thought.

“Hey,” he says, boyishly breathless.

“Hey,” Tommy says, blue eyes sparkling like the azure sea so far from here. “I got you something.” He gestures for Buck to come closer and Buck can not help the way his heart beats faster at the simple proximity as he steps in, their backs an effective wall to any on-lookers.

“For- for me?”

“No, for the other handsome knight I have been spending my days with.”

“Where is he? I’ll fight the bastard,” Buck quips, earning him a brilliant grin. Any other jokes die in his throat when he sees what it is Tommy has been carrying, bundled up in cloth. It is a trout, big enough to feed them both with plenty to spare and fresher than any he has ever seen at markets before.

“How-?” he starts, opens his mouth again, closes it. “Tommy, what-“

The other knight’s eyes sparkle with amusement at his obvious floundering for words.

“I-I thought you said there was no fishmonger,” Buck finally manages.

“I spoke the truth.”

“And you said the lord had forbidden fishing.”

“This is also true.”

“But how-- Tommy, did you steal this?”

“Surely you do not think so lowly of me.”

“We-- you-- Surely a knight must follow the rule of law.”

Tommy gives him an easy smile, wraps up the trout again, and Buck is momentarily caught by the breadth of his hands as he does so.

“I told you, Evan,” Tommy says, nudging him playfully. “I am no knight.”

-

-> send me a prompt and make me write <-

[meazalykov]

its more than a game

lena oberdorf x bayern!reader

part one here - part two here - part three (requested)

summary: you have to explain your relationship to the other team you're apart of

a/n: quickly wrote this last night so sorry for any mistakes!

the new year has come and gone, and with it, a sense of freedom and joy you haven’t felt in so long. 

you and lena are together now—a couple, something you still find yourself getting used to, but in the best possible way. ever since christmas, it feels like you’ve been given permission to love fully, without holding back, and lena, for her part, has become your biggest fan, cheering you on from the sidelines during training and matches as she continues to recover from her acl injury. 

life feels... right for once, and you’re leaning into that happiness more each day.

a week after the season resumes, lena’s back to posting her usual tiktok videos, little glimpses into her life as she rehabilitates her knee and follows bayern around. one day, she records clips at training—joking around with the girls, rookie playfully doing tricks in her backyard, and then the next clip shows you. 

in the video, you're doing dumbbell step ups on the benches, your focus intense as you lift effortlessly.

“and here’s my favorite person doing some easy dumbbell step ups,” lena’s voice says in the background, teasing and proud. 

“which i’m jealous of because i can’t do that for... obvious reasons.” the screen fills with a playful wink from lena, clearly referring to her acl injury. 

she watches you with adoration in her eyes, and it’s so casual, so natural, that you don’t think much of it—until later.

a few hours after she posts the video, your phone blows up with notifications. most of the bayern girls are commenting, teasing lena and cooing at how cute she is. especially with tuva saying that being a wingwoman worked. 

they all know now, and they’ve been nothing but supportive, joking that it was inevitable that you two would end up together. 

however, it’s your national teammates' group chat that catches your attention.

“hey, y/n,” one of your national teammates, sophia, texts.

“hi, yes!?” you respond.

“lena oberdorf’s tiktok came on my for you page, you are in it. what’s going on there?” sophia says.

“what tiktok?” naomi texts. 

sophia sends the link into the groupchat.

it takes about a minute before the next person texts.

“yeah, you two seem... close. since when?” emily questions.

you stare at the messages, your heart skipping a beat. you don’t want to explain everything over the phone, not like this. you quickly type back, keeping it vague. 

“we’ve just been getting along really well recently.” 

a couple of the girls reply with skeptical emojis, and you know they’re not buying it, but after a few playful jabs and questions, they let it go. for now.

when the end of the month arrives, you have to pack up and leave lena for a few weeks to join your national team for friendlies against australia. you hate leaving her, especially since you’ve gotten so used to spending every day together, but she’s supportive, grinning as she wraps you in a tight hug before you go.

“go kick some ass, okay?” she whispers in your ear, patting your lower back before you leave for the airport, her breath warm on your neck. 

“i’ll be here when you get back. and we’ll make up for lost time.”

“promise?” you murmur, hugging her even tighter.

“always,” lena says softly, and with one last kiss, you head out the door.

during the camp, you and lena text constantly, squeezing in messages and video calls whenever you can. 

you send her pictures from training, she sends you updates on her rehab and cute videos of rookie, and each time your phone lights up with a message from her, you find yourself smiling like an idiot. 

one day, you’re sitting in the locker room, scrolling through your phone with a huge grin on your face, when emily nudges you, peering over your shoulder. 

“okay, spill,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “who’s got you smiling like that?”

you hesitate, but there’s no point hiding it anymore. “it’s... lena,” you admit, still smiling. “she’s... my girlfriend.”

the room goes quiet, and you look around to see varying reactions—trinity, mallory, sam, and emily fox have their mouths open in surprise, emily sams, sophia and naomi are beaming happily, and tierna and crystal exchange knowing looks. 

you can see the questions forming behind their eyes, and it doesn’t take long for them to start asking.

“wait, like... lena lena? the same lena who you—”

“—yeah, the one who made you so mad at the world cup?”

you laugh nervously, holding your hands up to stop the barrage of questions. “yeah, yeah, that lena. and... i know it sounds crazy, but... she’s changed. and so have i. we worked through all of that, and i actually... i really like her. a lot. it wasn’t easy, but... we found our way to this, and it’s... it’s good. really good.”

ashley, who was there for the infamous world cup outburst, shakes her head in disbelief but with a grin on her face. “so... what happened? how did it go from... all that to... this?”

you shrug, still smiling as you think about the months leading up to this moment. “i mean... a lot happened. we started spending more time together at bayern, and... i saw a different side of her. she wasn’t the person i thought she was. i guess we both... let our guards down, y’know? i finally saw her as someone other than a rival, and... she saw me as more than just the person to beat.”

“and now she’s making videos of you doing dumbbell steps,” lindsey jokes, and the room erupts in laughter.

the friendlies against australia go well—your national team wins both matches, and you score a goal in each. throughout the games and celebrations, lena is always on your mind. you keep texting, sending voice messages late at night when you can’t sleep, laughing at each other’s dumb jokes. 

being apart is hard, but it only makes you more excited to see her again.

when you finally get back to germany, lena is waiting for you at the bayern training facility, leaning casually against the wall with that familiar smile on her face. 

she wraps you up in her arms the second you step through the door, and it feels like coming home. after weeks apart, being in her arms is everything you needed.

you’re back to training almost immediately, and the first thing lena suggests is some light running on the treadmill. 

“all the girls need to get a bit of cardio in,” she says with a shrug, a playful glint in her eyes.

you go along with it, not thinking much of it as you step onto the treadmill next to her. but then, as you start jogging, lena steps onto the treadmill beside you—and you nearly fall off yours in shock.

“what are you doing?” you say, panic rising in your voice. 

“lena, you know you can’t run yet—you’re going to mess up your knee!”

but lena just laughs, picking up the pace to a slow jog, looking completely unbothered. “that’s the thing,” she says, grinning widely as she matches your running speed. 

“i can run. i got cleared last week.”

your eyes widen as the realization hits, and you come to an abrupt stop, hopping off the treadmill and grabbing her arm to make her stop too. 

“are you serious?” you ask, your voice breaking into an excited laugh as you look at her, trying to figure out if she’s joking.

“dead serious,” lena says, her face lighting up with pure joy as she stops beside you. 

“i can run again, y/n. i’m getting back.”

you don’t think; you just act, pulling her into the tightest hug you can manage, burying your face in her neck as the happiness rushes through you. 

“oh my god, lena, that’s... that’s amazing,” you say, holding her close, feeling like your heart might burst from how proud you are of her.

“surprise,” she whispers, laughing softly against your ear as she wraps her arms around you. and you hold her even tighter, knowing that this is only the beginning.

masterlist

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Murky Morrows Make Many

Second to final (I think) episode of mer!König. This one is sadly rather edited down, as the full version including the smut is available on my KoFi HERE. If you want the smut, please feel free to take a look and try it out!

Either way, it's mating season, and Lil Octo and König decide it's time to go.

Tws: oviposition, tentacle dick, some slight noncon, lust, fluff (all in KoFi Version)

Wordcount: 1.7K (3.3K in full version)

Art from This Post

Rest of the Story Below the Cut

Murky Morrows Make Many

You woke up to König nudging you awake.

“Come on, it’s time to go.”

He helped pull you up and dragged you out of the nest into the open waters. His tentacles wrapped around you and pulled you close to his chest as he swam faster and faster. The waters rushed by you as König swam up and up and up until the waters felt warmer.

“König, where are we going?” you finally asked.

“It’s mating season,” he replied, “it’s time to join the others.”

“You don’t need to carry me, you know.”

“I don’t need to,” König agreed, “but you’re too slow.”

“I’m not slow!” you huffed.

“Not for your size. For me it feels terrible.”

With a huff you curled into his chest and sulked.

As you climbed up the water column, you could hear the distant sound of chatter growing louder as you swam.

You looked up, and in the darkest gloom you could see a cloud of lights steadily coming closer. Bright flashes of blue, red and green lit up the dark in an underwater fireworks display. When you got closer, you could make out shadows in the gloom as they crossed in front of each other.

“It always looks so beautiful,” König murmured as he carried you closer.

“It’s just loud,” you grumbled, “and annoying.”

König hummed, “It is loud. I’ll give you that.”

The lights grew brighter the closer you swam towards them. Soon, you were completely surrounded by the them, encapsulated by bioluminescence swirling through the deep sea. Around you balls of light flashed as bright stripes undulated in the dark. The sound of merfolk chatting and singing was coming at you from all angles. The world revolved in a carousel of colours and shapes and rhythm like ribbons trailing through the sky. The world was illuminated by a crowd of faceless figures swimming all around you.

For a brief moment, you just had to sit back and admire the beauty all around you. There was so much to take in all at once. It could’ve been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. It was just beautiful. The world had opened up before you in a burst of colour and sound.

From behind you heard a familiar humming reverberating through your chest. Hands reached up around the back of his thick neck and fingers wove together. Together you danced in the light of those around you.

“They always look so beautiful,” König whispered into your ear between bars.

Nodding, you looked up to admire the constellations swimming around you.

Whenever mating season came, you wondered if you wanted to be like them. Your kind, flapjack octopus merfolk, were born unable to change the colour or texture of your skin. There was no way you could light up the dark. You were a black void in a sky full of stars.

“I wish I was like them,” you muttered to yourself.

“Like them?”

“Able to change my skin,” you explained, “I can’t make any lights like them.”

“You can’t?” König wondered, “I… Huh. You can’t change colours at all?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I’ve tried, but I just can’t. It’s not possible for me.”

“Is that so,” König murmured as he rocked with you.

The two of you danced your waltz together, two voids in the space between others. All you had to find each other was the music that came from your throats, reverberating through both of your bodies as you sang in tandem. You were twin lighthouses guiding each other to your piers in the lightning storm raging around you. 

“Little octo?” you heard König whisper into your ear.

“I’m here,” you whispered back.

“Are you jealous of the others?”

You thought for a moment.

“No,” you finally said, “I’m not jealous. Are you?”

“Why would I be jealous?” he asked.

You shimmied in his arms awkwardly, “I mean, I just thought you couldn’t do that either.”

“I can change my skin,” König replied quietly, “would you like me to show you?”

You quietly pulled away and turned to look at him completely.

“Show me,” you urged him, “if I can’t do it, can you make enough light for both of us?”

König chuckled.

“I can do that and more,” he promised, and on cue he changed before your very eyes.

It started at the tips of his arms, blue balls of light glowing on each tendril floating in the night. Behind, the clubs of his tentacles lit up in the same warm blue glow. You watched the colours crawl up his body, his natural mottling turning into a beautiful map of light painted across his body. As the lights drew up his body, they changed from patchwork galaxies to neat stripes and distinct markings along his upper torso. Spirals crawled across his arms and down to his fingers. The light traced under his jaw, and from his eyes a blue glow shone out in twin spires of light.

“You look beautiful,” König muttered.

“I look beautiful?” you blinked in a stupor, “König look at you! You’re-I-you’re incredible. I’ve never seen anything like this!”

König trilled proudly.

You ran a hand over his skin and felt the ridges where the lights glowed. Ridges and grooves rippled over his body along with the ever-changing display of lights. The sheer complexity of the patterns made your mind spin. His patterns were completely mesmerising. Something about how they flickered and changed had your eyes transfixed.

“I love it,” you muttered as you traced along a vanishing spiral.

“Good,” König said, “because it’s all for you.”

A smile crept across your face as you flushed. He was right, he was doing it all for you. The thought had you thinking there were eels in your core. There was something so sweet and touching about König doing all this just for you, and you alone. He could have done this for any other, probably had before, but this time it was just for you. It would always be just for you.

König’s eyes widened as you took his lower arms in your hands. Tracing along the skin, you flipped one over to toy with the suckers underneath. The sharp protrusions of chiton nipped at the tips of your fingerprints.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, bemused by how you looked.

“So much,” you said with a soft smile.

He took your hands and drew you back to his chest. You were bathed in the blue glow of his chest as he slowly danced with you, singing into your ear and crooning soft praises as you moved with him.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said as he twirled you, “I can’t believe I’ve ever lived without you.”

A soft purr came from deep in your chest as he petted your sides. He looked enthralled by you.

As he moved, you couldn’t help but notice that he was getting handsy with you. He was winding his arms with yours, brushing his hands along your sides and then rubbing your shoulders. König pushed more water through his gills as he twirled you in his arms once more.

“You okay?” you asked as you danced to his song.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, “are you alright?”

“More than fine,” you crooned trailed your hands along his forearms.

“Are you sure?”

With a sigh, you pulled him down and kissed him through the mask. He floundered briefly, then wrapped one upper arm around your waist and used the other to pull his mask up enough to kiss you.

Stubble rubbed across the soft skin of your cheeks. Your hands wrapped under his mask and through his hair as you deepened the kiss. His eyes slit shut and he moaned quietly.

His touch was all encompassing now. 

You nodded. Slowly, you lowered yourself down and wrapped his arm around your face. He hissed quietly and traced the line of your jaw tenderly.

“You’re making it hard to be soft,” he grumbled.

You ignored him, simply letting your hands wander over his limbs and curl them around your body. 

You weren’t oblivious to what you were doing. In fact, you were completely aware of how he would pick up on these signs. Touching him, holding him, kissing the insides of his suckers and sucking on the ends of his arms. By the way his eyes widened, he was picking up your hints perfectly well.

“Already?” he panted as you wound his lower arms around you.

“Aren’t you ready?” you asked as you wove your lower arms around his.

König hesitated for a moment. Just as you were about to pull back, his arms curled around yours and pulled you closer. He pulled you flush against his chest and hooked his chin over your shoulder. You felt him cup your chest and squeeze gently.

KoFi

König looked down and gently palmed himself back into his sheathe.

“You did so well,” König drew you into his upper arms to cradle you.

You felt exhausted. It was unlike anything you’d experienced before. No mer had ever mated with you like that before. Most mating seasons had you go through multiple mates to try and find satisfaction, but König had drained you in one session. In one day König had fucked you better than any other mer had in a week. Your eyes fell into slits as König rubbed your back soothingly.

“You’re not ready to go home yet, are you?” König laughed.

You let out a soft whine and tucked your face into his chest, the feeling of his eggs still heavy in your body.

König sighed and petted your head with a tentacle. He looked around at the other twined together around you. When he looked back down at you, he couldn’t help but think he was the luckiest mer in the ocean.

“Let’s go home,” he kissed your forehead and slowly dropped down into the water, “we can go another round when we get back.”

"Another?” you groaned.

“I need to keep the eggs fertilized,” König replied, “don’t want my little broodmare losing our clutch, right?”

You nodded sleepily.

“Hm, looks like you’re too tired,” König hummed, “let’s get you home.”

With that, he dropped down into the water and back towards your home together.

Konig Dump

Konig Alternate Universes

Mer!Konig Page

KoFi for full version

[faux-ecrivain]

Yan babysitter

(Fourth official post)

(This one is a bit shorter than my other posts)

“Don’t worry I’ll take good care of them!” He placates your parents as they leave, waving them off and slamming the door shut when your parents have gone far enough.

He turns to you, with a rather fierce glare and shoos you off to your room. 

Yan babysitter that wants nothing to do with you, that only took the job because he needs the money. 

Yan babysitter who thinks you’re too old for a babysitter, but he doesn’t care, your parents are rich and that’s all he needs to know.

Yan babysitter who did not anticipate you to be such an irresponsible nuisance. (What’s with the weird cultists that keep knocking on the door and where’s that strange whispering coming from??)

Yan babysitter who quickly discovers that maybe this job was more than he bargained for, maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive of his job.

Yan babysitter who, somehow, ended up trapped in another dimension and is trying to escape. (Turns out cultists don’t take too kindly to the door being slammed in their face)

Yan babysitter who is sure he’s going to die here in this strange dimension.

Yan Babysitter who regrets ever taking this job and swears that if he ever gets out he’s never coming to this house again.

Yan babysitter who faces the horrors of this other dimension, each monster warping his mind and easing him into insanity.

Yan babysitter who’s so close to escaping, but then he gets trapped by some weird otherworldly creature.

Yan babysitter whose life flashes before his eyes as the creature nears.

He closes his eyes and can only hope that this won’t be dragged out, he can feel the creature approach, and he can do nothing but curl up into a ball and beg for mercy.

However, death doesn’t come, no, just when the creature unhinged its jaw and prepares to (quite literally) devour Yan babysitter, he’s saved.

Yan babysitter who’s stunned whenever you rescue him and when he tries to express his gratitude you dismiss his gratitude. (This happened a lot, you tell him, you even suggest that it was your parents intention to sacrifice him.)

Yan babysitter, who from then on, is absolutely obsessed with you (he treats you like a deity, swearing that he’ll serve you forever.)

You brush him off, as you are used to saving irresponsible babysitters from the jaws of doom, then your try to ignore his constant rambling about you being a deity. (Because you aren’t, you’re just a normal person with magic powers) Yet, no matter how much you ignore him his ramblings don’t (Maybe you should’ve left him in that other dimension)

He takes your indifference as a sign of shyness, his mind warped by the brief time he spent in that other dimension. (Seriously, he’s going to need major therapy when he leaves this house) He decides to dedicate his life to protecting you or at the very least repay you for saving his life.

Which then leads to him following you around, intervening in everything you do and then isolating you from those he deems a threat. (Mostly your friends)

Somehow, in less than two weeks, he has threatened half of your neighborhood and caused almost all your friends to go missing. 

At this point, it occurs to you that maybe Yan babysitter is a danger to your lifestyle and you should probably get rid of him. Which marks the beginning of your attempts to erase him from existence, however this doesn’t sway him, and he somehow believes that the person targeting him is actually aiming for you.

So, now, you’ve got an overprotective babysitter watching your every move and probably hiding in your walls. (Maybe you should have let him rot in the other dimension, less trouble and you wouldn’t have had to explain to your parents why the demon in your basement is still hungry)

Yan babysitter who promises to always protect you and to be by your side forever. (He’s such a nuisance)

(Sorry for the short post, I was somewhat distracted by the tv when I was writing this.)

(Regardless, enjoy this post and feel free to comment)