#the sins weigh heavy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hiraethwrote · 4 months ago

Text

I'LL MAKE YOU MISS ME

♬ ₊˚. insp: i'll make you miss me - artemas

✧ pairing: ryomen sukuna x f!reader ✧ summary: if asked, both of you would probably just describe your relatioship as purely physical, seeing as he sleeps with anything that moves. but after one of your drunken nights together, things get heated and there might be something more hidden under the surface of your relation ✧ cw: [MDNI] non-curse au, college au, modern!sukuna, angst, arguing, situationship?, fwb kinda deal, cursing, suggestive content, talk and descriptions of sex, partying and drinking, toxic behavior, name calling, gaslighing, heavy denial, mention of weed, satoru cameo, slut shaming, reader is smaller than sukuna, one tiny 'go die' joke, no use of y/n ✧ word count: 11.4k (hehe)

It was always just supposed to be a fling. A string of meaningless hookups at best. He was after all, known around campus as the guy who went from one girl to the next only to get his dick wet.

All the teasing you’d endured, endless STD jokes from your friends and taunting about how you were just another one of his conquests. You’d only laughed it all off and told them “but that dick is worth it though,” with a playful glint in your eyes.

It was only meant to be fun. So why were you now standing in front of him with tear stained cheeks, chest rising and sinking as you tried to calm your breathing at nearly four a.m. in the morning?

Feeling so exposed wearing nothing but one of your oversized t-shirts and panties that you’d rushed to put on once the atmosphere had turned hostile, arms hugging tightly around yourself while he stared at you with an angry scowl, not mirroring an ounce of the hurt you were feeling.

You regretted ever opening your mouth to ask such an innocent question that had weighed down on your mind for the past two months; “so what’s the deal?”

Whatever it was that was going on between the two of you, it had all slowly shifted into a strange and alien territory. Like so many nights before, you and Sukuna had left yet another house party to head back to your dorm where he fucked you silly — like he always did. But that time he didn’t get dressed and leave the second it was over. No, he fell asleep… beside you… in your bed… one hand draped over your stomach. After that, he stayed the night after almost every sinful night spent together, though he was always gone by the time you woke up.

Though you thought it somewhat strange, that in itself wasn’t enough for you to wonder where it was you stood with him. It wasn’t until he stood outside your door on a random Wednesday, a bag of popcorn in one hand and a bottle of soda in the other, that it hit you just how absurd this whole thing had turned. He was so pissed off when he showed up for the surprise visit, something clearly bothering him, but god forbid he told you — you suspected something so mundane as a bad grade on his last exam or something.

Without much explanation, he just made his way into your dorm and got comfortable on your bed, where you eventually ended up just watching a movie with the bowl of snacks between you. And once the end credits started rolling, there was a noticeable lightness in him. He indulged in some small (and unusual) chatter before he said his goodbyes and left. He didn’t even stay for a quick fuck.

After that you started to notice that some of his stuff was scattered about your private space. One of his hoodies, a textbook he had barely cracked open, his phone charger permanently plugged in by your bed.

But it was the casual conversations that took place after sex that really had your gears churning about what the hell was actually going on. Secret words shared at the dead of night, introducing you to a side of Sukuna you had no idea even existed, though neither of you ever brought up said conversations the next time you saw each other.

This wasn’t what you expected from someone who was notorious for not maintaining any relationship with a girl besides getting in their pants — leading you to eventually be unable to hold your tongue.

And his entire body instantly froze up beside you when the question quietly slipped past your lips. Jumping out of the bed, he fell back to the tough exterior as he hurriedly put his clothes back on, all while he bombarded you with cruel comments, causing the tears to well up in your eyes momentarily.

“Save the tears, okay? It’s fucking pathetic,” he groaned as he pulled the jacket over his shoulders.

Just as the next sob was about to escape, you stopped yourself, feeling so humiliated. “I just wanted to know what’s going on-“

“Nothing,” he interrupted with a raised voice, causing you to flinch. “It’s just sex. God, you girls always get so clingy.”

“So you don’t think it’s weird for you to leave your stuff here?” You said carefully.

“God forbid a guy leaves a fucking charger without it meaning anything,” he took an intimidating step closer, and though you didn’t shrink in his presence, you became aware of the natural size difference between the two of you, especially when he presented himself so dominant. “It’s here cause it’s convenient, seeing as how willing you are to spread your legs at the tiniest drop of attention.”

So much for stifling your tears, when he brought them back so quickly with meaner words than he had ever thrown your way before.

His head fell backwards with a loud groan. “More god damn tears,” you barely heard him whisper.

And to think you’d covered for him. He had never asked you to, but every time your friends had come over to study in your dorm, you had instinctively hid any signs that he’d ever been there at all, because you just had a feeling he wanted whatever was happening between you to be a secret.

What was worse, was how it was never you who initiated any of your evenings together. It was always Sukuna who approached you at parties when he’d had enough drinking for one night, throwing a possessive arm over your shoulders. It was always him who sent you oh-so-chivalrous texts in the middle of the night, asking if you were up.

Every previous encounter soared through your mind, added on top of his merciless words, and something in you snapped.

“Fine!” You spat, followed by a loud sob. The sudden shift in your entire body didn’t go unnoticed by him, as you spotted the slight quirk in his eyebrow once you raised your voice. “Then get the fuck out.”

“What?” He asked in confusion, more of a hypothetical question in sheer shock.

“You heard me,” you said as you grabbed his hoodie from the floor, taking him by surprise when you threw it in his direction. “And take your clothes. And your charger, and your fucking books,” it escalated, hurling his textbook for his head. He barely flinched as you missed his face by an inch, crashing into the door with a bang. You grabbed one of the many packets of cigarettes he’d left throughout his time here. “And these.” The packet opened once it collided with his chest, scattering the cigarettes all over the floor. “Smoke them all up and I might not have to see your face again!”

A shallow scoff left him as he flashed you a taunting smirk which stung more than it should have. “You’re absolutely insane.” Just mere minutes ago he’d traced secret streaks along your bare skin, so gentle one could never have believed it was him the touch belonged to. He’d would definitely not admit to that now.

You stomped over to him, placing two firm hands on his chest and started to shove him towards the door. “Get out, Sukuna!” Your shove did little to make his feet move, but luckily he had willingly started to step back. “Get out!” You shouted again. “Get out. Get the fuck out!”

His hand twisted open the door knob, and he opened his mouth one last time. “Crazy slut,” he managed to say under his breath before he just slipped out the door.

You took one step out after him, still more on your heart. “And that moment when you find yourself missing me, bet your ass I’m not answering,” you shouted after him down the hall, only for him to flip you the finger over his shoulder before he turned the corner. All the feelings still consuming you, you slammed the door shut with all the force left in your body, not caring about the noise complaints you knew you would be receiving tomorrow.

Suddenly, your dorm felt a lot bigger, abandoned almost. The silence that filled the air was nothing but uncomfortable. And you knew it wasn’t over.

You could avoid Sukuna as much as you wanted, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop all the shit talk he would spread around campus. Soon enough you’d probably be known as the loosest bitch in a ten miles radius.

And still, what bothered you the most was just how hurt you were. Not a single atom in your body wanted to admit it, but a small part of you wanted him to just come back into the dorm and fill the void he had created by his gut wrenching departure.

“You can ask him, seeing as he’s your boyfriend,” your friend snickered, bringing you back to the conversation you had zoned out of long ago.

“Huh?”

“Sukuna,” your other friend said as they shared a slightly worrying look.

The grunt of disgust that expelled out of you had them raise their eyebrows in surprise. “What about him?”

“He is our most reliable source for weed. Thought you could get him to bring a stash to the party this weekend.” The frown pinching your eyebrows had been chronic the entire conversation.

“Not fucking happening.”

Uncomfortable silence fell over the three of you. It didn’t take a genius to see something had gone down between you and Sukuna, because you had never showed any signs of pure hatred towards the guy whenever he was playfully mentioned around you — but now you were acting as if he was just as insignificant as the dirt on your shoe. Neither of them had the guts to ask either, especially as the tension in your body grew tighter when all of you spotted him walk into the library with one of his friends.

As quickly as you’d spotted him, you shifted your head back to your computer, doing your very best to ignore him.

You hated the effect he had on you, having humiliated and insulted you beyond belief, and yet you were the one fighting to keep your eyes off of him. He probably wasn’t even aware that you were sitting anywhere near him at all.

Why did he have this power over you? What was it about him that had you pulled in so badly? There had been nothing of value in your relation that was worth clinging onto, had there?

No, there couldn’t be. You could go out tonight and find someone just as hot and just as cruel as him to rock your world for one night if you wanted to. So why were you still hung up on a certain pink haired idiot who had a different type of hate in is eyes? A guy who didn’t even care that you were secretly miserable after the fallout.

Or so you thought.

Sukuna didn’t understand it, but he had himself instantly searching for your familiar figure whenever he entered a room. Of course he was aware that you were sitting in the library as well, eyes shifting between your laptop screen, your textbook and your notes. He tried, to the best of his ability, to not glance in your direction, not wanting to give his friend anything to hassle him about.

What also surprised him, was how much he wished he’d catch you staring in his direction. But he was only left disappointed, an unfamiliar sting filling his body when you never spared him a single sliver of attention.

“So you’re going this weekend, right?”

“Hmm?” Sukuna asked, managing to snap his eyes to his friend before he noticed him staring in your direction. “Yeah, of course. You know me,” his cocky tone quickly finding its way back to his voice, accompanied by a smirk to match.

He kept his smirk plastered on display, even when his friend squinted slightly at him. “You alright there?” The faintest, reactive twitch occurred under Sukuna’s left eye at the friendly concern, but he thought he’d been lucky enough that his friend didn’t notice.

God, he hated you, he thought.

Never had his friends ever asked him if he was doing alright, simply because he never gave them a reason to. Sukuna wasn’t the type to confront his feelings, let alone talk to anyone about anything. So if something was bothering him, he always put on a carefree face, like nothing in the world could ever faze him.

And then you came along, with your sharp tongue and crude lips that served him exactly the things he deserved to hear, never holding back.

You had been like a breath of fresh air, catching him completely by surprise. Yeah, at first he had approached you solely for sex, having caught his eye across the room at some drunken house party some time back, looking so incredibly sexy he just knew he was going to end the night between your legs one way or another. With time, when you turned out to be a lot tougher then you looked, he found himself lured in until eventually he felt an unfamiliar sense of comfort — he never admitted that though, not to himself or anyone else.

It wasn’t just the fact that you retaliated with snappy comebacks when they were called for, but it was more importantly the empathy you had in your eyes whenever you looked at him. He wasn’t used to being looked at like that. He couldn’t really remember doing anything worthy of such a compassionate gesture, but it just seemed like it came naturally to you.

That had grown to become what he appreciated the most by your company, which was why he tended to seek it so often.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugged casually, turning his eyes back to his laptop, pretending to work.

“I don’t know, just seem off, somehow.”

“Might have something to do with university riding my ass,” he groaned as his head fell back, sneaking a quick glimpse towards you, disappointed when he yet again wasn’t met with your eyes.

But it was all probably just a temporary quarrel. It wasn’t like you hadn’t fought before (though it had never ended as badly as it did that night), and every time he ended up back in your bed.

Saturday, two weeks since you had physically rushed him out of your dorm, he reached out.

You had gone with your friends to a house party the following weekend, and had an awful time. It seemed like no matter how much you drank, you never even started to feel tipsy. Then you had overheard a rumour in passing, of a girl who was looking for her friend who had supposedly disappeared with a certain brooding guy with pink hair, which had her a little concerned. After that there was no saving your mood.

You didn’t want to give him the power to cause this reaction in you, so this weekend you’d decided to just stay inside, telling your friends you weren’t feeling too good. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, binging a silly sitcom while you devoured some chips.

And just as the clock passed two a.m., about the time Sukuna usually decided he’s had enough of whatever party he was at, your phone dinged with a text message from him.

Sukuna (IGNORE): hey, you down?

Your eyes instantly rolled aggressively far back into your head at the shameless attempt of reaching out. This was exactly what you expected if you ever were to hear from him again; a cheeky little text in the middle of the night to see if you would give yourself up so willingly to him.

Who could blame him? It wasn’t like you hadn’t opened the door for him every time he came rushing over. But this time was going to be different, locking your phone without answering and tossing it beside you again.

After ten minutes, another ding chimed.

Sukuna (IGNORE): cmon pretty, you and me

Again you ignored it, your slowly growing agitation having you chew the inside of your cheek.

Ding!

Sukuna (IGNORE): really gonna ignore me?

Sukuna (IGNORE): this is ridiculous

Sukuna (IGNORE): you’re a real piece of work, yk that right?

Then he went radio silent, and you started to picture him, wondering if he was secretly losing his mind by the lack of response he was receiving — you hoped he was.

You could only begin to imagine the amount of alcohol he had needed to consume in order to get down from his high horse just to send the first text. But then when he continued to send them, bordering on a pathetic behaviour, you wondered what the hell had gotten into him. If his friends knew how he was acting so desperately in the private messages of a girl he was supposedly “only screwing”, they would lose their shit — was Sukuna finally pussy whipped?

But it was probably delusional of you to think that was the case, when it was a lot more likely he simply couldn’t find any girls at the party that he hadn’t fucked already or didn’t interest him, and he was just so certain you were ready to welcome him with open legs arms. You were after all, according to him, a crazy slut.

After 45 minutes, an involuntary sigh escaped you when your phone dinged another time, his name lighting up the screen.

Sukuna (IGNORE): come open up

“Unbelievable,” you muttered to yourself, the last text making you get up from your comfortable seat on your bed, but not to open up the door to the building. No, you headed for your window which had a perfect view of the entrance to the building. And sure enough, three floors down, standing right outside the locked door, stood the familiar figure of Sukuna, gaze already angled towards your window.

“Open the fucking door,” you could make out his muffled shout through the window. Slightly stumbling in place, he cupped his hands around his mouth to shout again. “It’s freezing like hell out here!”

There was a small urge burning inside you to do as he asked, to give into the desire and let him in. Not for sex though, but for his presence. It was embarrassing to admit, but you’d grown somewhat used to falling asleep next to him, his body warming you under the shared covers, your fingers following the lines of his tattoos while he left a trail of tingles on your skin with a modest touch.

And the secret conversations you both let disappear into oblivion, where you had been introduced to the rare sound of his low chuckle, which wasn’t so hard to pull from him as one might think.

His muffled, intoxicated yelling continued when he held your stare, only for you to block it by abruptly pulling your blinds down to shield him out.

The next weekend rolled around, and Sukuna was attending yet another party in a desperate attempt to rid you from his mind, especially after the show that took place just one week ago.

Never had there ever been an individual to have such an impact on him. It seemed like forever since he had made the mistake of pursuing you for a few moments of pleasure, which you had certainly provided. What he couldn’t have possibly predicted, was how you had managed to creep under his skin and create a deeper connection that had him coming back time and time again — still refusing to believe that connection was a reality.

And now you had him acting like a pathetic fool, showing up outside your window in his drunken state after littering your inbox with texts that had him absolutely mortified the next morning when he woke up and saw what he had done.

At least you’d done him the decency of not running your mouth about his little drunken tantrum. It wasn’t like he deserved it, and deep down he knew that too. But he was more hung up on the fact that this whole ordeal needed to end, because he’d never hear the end of it if his friends learned that he, of all people, was acting up because of a girl.

But not tonight either, would he catch a break from you tormenting his mind, as he was unable to keep his alluring glances from flicking in your direction whenever he spotted you through the thick crowd of drunken people.

You seemed to be so wrapped up in your own evening, downing drink after drink while laughing with your friends, looking blissfully unaware that he was even in the same house as you.

He knew he needed a form of distraction, anything to help take his mind off of you, because it was starting to get to a point where even he couldn’t deny how extremely pathetic he was behaving.

That’s when his eyes managed to shift to the individual laughing at your side, someone he recognised you had sat with in the library on several occasions. Her smile mirrored yours as she playfully leaned her head on your shoulder while her tipsy laugh overcame her — she looked good, absolutely striking, though not as gorgeous as you.

With a glint in her eyes, Sukuna could tell she definitely had a wild side to her that would be down for anything that could take his mind away from you. So the second she split from your side to get another drink, he slowly made his way over to her.

When she became aware of his looming presence behind her, he was met with furrowed eyebrows as his name fell from her lips in confusion. But it didn’t take much effort from him to soften her expression into a somewhat adventurous one. He just did what he did best and girls seemed to fall at his feet, it didn’t matter what reputation he had. And when he sensually brought his hand up to cup her jaw, he could feel how she shuddered against his touch ever so slightly.

Contrary to popular belief, Sukuna hadn’t been with anyone since you. He had definitely tried, but something unspeakable inside him stopped him every time. And he firmly believed that was part of the reason he hadn’t been able to move on. So tonight was the night he broke his voluntary dry period — and it seemed he was going to be successful.

But as much as he was trying to keep his attention on the girl he couldn’t remember the name of, his subconscious still drifted towards the idea of you, if you were aware of his advances on your friend.

Lucky for you, the alcohol running through your bloodstream had all your attention focused on your immediate surroundings — until your friend came tapping on your shoulder twenty minutes later, pulling you close to her so you would hear her clearly.

“Would you mind if I slept with Sukuna?”

“What?”

Barely any sound made its way past your tongue, definitely swallowed into the vacuum of loud music and talk of the party. Pure shock was written all over your face at her out of pocket question.

“Well, I know the two of you had this arrangement. But that’s over, right?” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle the excited grin that was threatening to overtake her entire face.

Maybe it was partly because of the intoxicating liquid in your system, but you had trouble wrapping your head around what was actually happening right now. Was she actually asking for your permission to sleep with Sukuna? Some friend she had was… then again, you knew what kind of influence he had on girls — of course he was having her surrender to him.

While swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, your eyes searched for him, breath hitching when you found his eyes already locked on you. This was the first time in a long time the two of you had made direct eye contact, and it nearly felt fragile.

A glimpse of the Sukuna you’d come to get to know in between the privacy of your bedsheets was who you were met with, and a weird sense of longing filled you — had you missed him?

From what you observed, you could easily think he felt the same, his Adam’s apple bopping nervously as he swallowed, holding your gaze tenderly. For a moment, it was just the two of you in the room. There was nearly a physical pull between where he stood and yourself, as the look you shared started to convey hundreds of unmentioned things.

But Sukuna caught himself before falling too deep, the melancholy you felt evaporating immediately when his cocky grin returned to his face before putting his cup to his lips again, and the familiar fury filled your body instead.

“Definitely over,” you muttered, eyes returning to your friend who lit up at your statement.

“So you won’t hate me?” Her hands gripped your forearm, shaking weakly in excitement.

“No.” The small lie danced in the atmosphere, and she did not catch it at all, spewing a string of cute ‘thank you’s before hurrying back over to Sukuna, who still had his eyes on you as she glued herself to him once again.

There were a lot of foul things you wanted to scream at him, letting all your frustration out on him again — even after these lonely weeks, were you had cursed yourself for even thinking of missing him, he was still the same asshole with no consideration for your feelings whatsoever. Everything was just a game to him to get high of his power trip, and you had just fallen into his trap like so many girls before you.

You averted your gaze first, trying your best to have your presence return to the party — you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of spoiling yet another one of your nights. You buried yourself further into the crowd, eventually ending up in the kitchen.

With a deep breath, you poured yourself another drink, only for your annoyance to return once someone so carelessly bumped into you, your beer spilling over your hand. “Watch where you’re-“

“Oh sorry- well hello,” the tone of the stranger changed once his eyes landed on you, feeling your brows soften as quickly as they had creased once you got a look at his magnificent, blue eyes.

“Hi,” you breathed, your tone matching his delight to some degree.

Whoever this guy was, he was painfully gorgeous with striking features which were incomparable to anything you’d ever seen before. And right now, he was eying you with lustful intent, something you did not mind at all. Maybe this was exactly what you needed tonight.

“Lucky I am to crash into a pretty thing like you,” he nearly purred into your ear, hand finding your waist in a possessive grip to pull you closer to hear him better, his white wisps of hair slightly tickling your cheek.

Your own, delicate hand slid up his chest before snaking around his neck to pull him even closer. “Can’t stay too upset about it.” His hot breath brushed your face when he pulled away again, the intoxicating smell of his cologne filling your senses.

“What’s your name?”

The scoff that met you when you told him your name caught you by surprise. What he said next, however, was worse.

“You’re Sukuna’s plaything, aren’t you?”

Pushing yourself off him again to see if there was any signs that this guy was just making a stupid joke, but there was nothing.

A million questions tumbled through your mind — was that what you were known as around campus? Was it Sukuna himself who’d honoured you with the title? What exactly did ‘plaything’ entail? Would this ruin your chance for any potential matches because that was all you would ever be perceived as?

“Is that what he’s telling people?”

The small chuckle from the guy only deepened your frown. “No, no, he doesn’t really talk about you at all.”

“Then how do you know about Sukuna and I?”

“Just because he doesn’t mention you, your escapades aren’t exactly secret.” You wanted to punch something — you wanted to punch him, send a right hook right into Sukuna’s jaw, the image of him floating around in your head. “People just know to stay away from you.” A huff of genuine and true disbelief slipped out of you, pinching your eyes shut as the alcohol did wonders to escalate your frustration with the speed of light. “And he has this look.”

“A look?” You sighed, narrowing your eyebrows as you met his gaze again, suddenly aware that his hand was still on your waist, showing no indication that he had any plans of letting go despite the evident tension in your frame.

He licked his lips, amusement painting his face as his eyes flicked towards your lips. “He clearly doesn’t like it when someone else shows an interest.”

To think you’d given Sukuna the time of day, daring to lure you in with faint insights to a vulnerable side that you had been charmed by, only for it to disappear into nothingness, never to be mentioned again. Then, he had the audacity to throw the most vulgar insults right to your face, as if you weren’t standing right in front of him, bawling your eyes out — and now you were being told that he still acted as if he had a form of ownership over you.

“Asshole,” you mumbled mostly to yourself. “Well,” turning your full attention to him again. “So, are you like his friend or something?” He laughed instantly.

“Nah, not even close.” He began to lean closer, feeling his satisfied grin on his lips as they gently brushed against yours.

With the sensation of feeling someone else’s lips against yours after all those weeks, you let out a breath of relief, the tension slowly seeping out of your body when the stranger still held onto you with a gentle longing.

His lips were soft, moving in a smooth rhythm with your own, causing a small whimper to escape you. He broke away, the chuckle chiming in your ears again.

“Over a little kiss?” He teased, hand still on your cheek while his thumb traveled across your cheekbone.

“Shut up,” you giggled, stretching up on your toes to kiss him again, this time with more hunger, fingers carefully tugging at his shirt. He happily indulged in the action, as his tongue swifly ran along your bottom lip before parting them — only to be abruptly jerked away just as things were about to get good, as you were finally reunited with a tingling you’d so dearly missed.

Both of you stared towards the source of the disruption, a strong and veiny hand placed on his shoulder. You shouldn’t be too surprised to see it was Sukuna who had interrupted your heated session, but that didn’t stop you from staring daggers at him, with the right corner of his mouth forced into a smile.

“Gojo! Figured this is the situation I’d find you,” Sukuna said, purposely keeping his eyes away from you.

The stranger, now suddenly titled with the name Gojo, stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek, just as unamused as you were. “Always such a pleasure.”

“Didn’t know you two were friends,” the way the last word left him was drenched in disgust, his hand moving from Gojo’s shoulder to stuff them both in the pockets of his pants.

“Just leave, Sukuna,” you interjected, but he ignored you completely.

“We just met.” Gojo was so lighthearted in his speech, suddenly presenting himself entirely unbothered by Sukuna’s appearance.

“Looked rather friendly from where I stood.”

“Careful Sukuna, one might start to think you’re jealous.” One could hear the smirk in his voice, while Sukuna’s jaw clenched at his small but effective jab.

That’s when he finally turned his head to look at you, meeting your hard scowl. His expression matched yours, every muscle in his face that could be tightened was.

Heart raising, breath quickening, Gojo’s hand still tight on your waist, eyes staring into Sukuna’s — so many factors fuelling the fire in your body, slowly having you shifting your weight from one foot to another in a nervous haze.

“Could I get two words with you?” His demeanour was still showing no signs of compassion, which made it hard to believe the hint of softness you thought you heard in his voice was real.

“Not interested.”

“Don’t be like that,” Sukuna groaned cruelly, any evidence of softness gone.

“Like what, exactly?” You challenged, daring him to call you the words that you knew were resting on his mind.

His anger grew stronger, pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathed your name — a shiver shot through your body, the way his rough speech carried your name still had you weak.

“Listen, you heard her. Just leave,” Gojo said calmly, though the taunt was still heard. You didn’t know if he did it because he had some personal vendetta against Sukuna, or if this was how he was and he just couldn’t help it. Either way, it caused Sukuna to snap at him.

“Why don’t you stay the fuck out of it?”

The white haired guy at your side seemed to fight back a laugh as he stared down Sukuna, not at all intimidated. Nonetheless, his hand disappeared from its spot at your curve, turning your head towards him at the loss of his tender and surprisingly comfortable grip.

Was Sukuna really going to take this away from you as well? Ruin yet another evening you had desperately clung onto in hopes it would provide a good time, something you had wished for ever since you stood in a puddle of your own tears three weeks ago?

“You know, Sukuna,” Gojo trailed off confidently, “with a tongue as sharp as yours, one day one of these pretty girls will slap you across the face and I’ll be in the front row, enjoying the show.” Before Sukuna had time to fire any kind of snarky comeback, Gojo had already turned to face you. “I don’t think tonight’s the night, sweetheart. But I’m sure I’ll see you around.” His charming smile lingered as a bitter goodbye before he turned on his heel to rejoin the party as if nothing had happened at all, utterly unfazed by his little confrontation with Sukuna.

You let your disappointed gaze follow Gojo as he disappeared into the crowd, any request to get him to stay dying before they reached past your lips.

Facing Sukuna again, his shoulders were high but seemed more at peace now that the two of you were left alone, though surrounded by drunk students in every corner — but they didn’t concern you at all.

You were focusing all your willpower not to fulfil Gojo’s prophecy already, knowing it would lose all its power if you folded to the aggression already.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you nearly spat in his face, desperate to get as far away from him as possible. There was not an ounce of worry to spare any of his feelings anymore, as you let your shoulder crash into him when you attempted to escape from his vicinity.

It was probably naive to believe he’d let you go that easily, head falling back in frustration before he grabbed your wrist. The action of his clutch circling your wrist probably looked a lot worse than it was, as his grip was surprisingly more tender than you expected it to be.

But you instantly pulled your hand to yourself before you had much time to reflect over the fact. “Don’t touch me! I told you to stay away from me.”

You continued to bully your way through the crowd, Sukuna following the narrow path you created while trying to get your attention. It wasn’t until you stepped into the less crowded front lawn that you stopped dead in your tracks, spinning around to meet him with fire in your eyes.

“Isn’t my friend waiting for you inside? Shame to let her wait for so long.” Every word was venomous, earning you a mean scoff.

“Like I care.”

“Certainly seemed like you cared very much about her not half an hour ago,” you said, crossing your arms angrily over your chest.

He couldn’t help the self satisfied grin that was planted on his face by your poorly hidden jealousy. “So much for being ‘definitely over’, as you put it so nicely.”

“Spare me!” You growled, taking a step closer as he had you filled to the rim with agitation. “At least I didn’t let my jealousy get the best of me and interrupt your little make out session!”

Of course he’d ignore your call out of his jealousy, latching onto how you basically confessed you had in fact felt a sting at the scene he’d displayed so graciously a few feet from you earlier that night.

“Knew it got a rise out of you-“

“The audacity you have to tease me about this, after you so rudely interrupted Gojo and I!” Your voice had gotten significantly louder, having the people closest to you peak a curious ear — this was, after all, Sukuna engaging in a shouting match with a girl for everyone to witness.

“Were you going to sleep with him?” The innocent question he asked nearly had you feel sympathy. His hands were removed from his pockets, tense at his side.

“Maybe I was, and so what?” He seemed a little taken aback by how in-your-face you stayed when he had let his true feelings shine through in his words. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business!”

“But Gojo? Come on,” he scoffed.

“Sukuna,” calling his name interrupted how his antsy gaze traveled your surroundings, drawing them directly towards you. “You are truly embarrassing yourself by acting this way!”

“Excuse me?” Towering over you, he took offence to your statement despite knowing damn well it was true.

“You want me to recall the events? Because I most certainly will! Maybe call over your friends and they can hear all about how you showed up outside my window, drunk out of your mind, begging me to let you in!”

Being a half decent human being, you felt a small twinge of guilt, especially when you saw how his eyes frantically roamed your face while his limps grew tense.

“But I’m the jealous one, for not wanting to see you and my so-called friend macking on each other!” He’d never heard your tone so full of pure sarcasm, and it had him nearly speechless. He wanted to defend himself, which he’d never had any problem with before. “Go back to her! Another name to add to your list! I can only imagine how much it’s grown since we last talked!”

He liked his lips in frustration before opening his mouth. “I haven’t slept with anyone since that night!”

“Please,” you scoffed with an aggressive roll of the eyes. “Like I’m supposed to believe that!”

“I’m not fucking lying,” his voice raised, matching yours.

A deep sigh left your lungs. “Fine, you’re not lying! How noble of you! I’m proud, I must say. Finally managed to keep it in your pants for three whole weeks.”

“I think you’re being a tad bit unreasonable here!” He said with a low voice, carefully leaning closer in an attempt to save what privacy the conversation might have left.

“Want a gold star for not catching chlamydia yet? A pat on the back?” You taunted, taking another step closer, ignoring his unfair sentence as you restrained your arms across your chest not to pound weak fists against his chest.

God, yet again he had the tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. After everything, you should have been able to distance yourself from him. When he had you this fragile, you gave him power you wished he didn’t have over you — you were scared he fed off of it.

But there was a storm raging inside him as well, struggling to contain all the intense feelings that were burning inside him, actively fighting the urge to physically reach out for you.

Previously, he’d had no issue strangling that tiny voice in the back of his mind that told him to surrender to his gentle side, despite it always being audible when he was around you.

But the time spent separated from you had intensified that voice, now yelling at him to let his fingers dry your tears, to kiss your puffy, red cheeks, pull your smaller frame into his embrace to comfort you — all actions that were highly unnatural to him, yet he so badly wanted to feel your trembling cries calm against his body.

“What is it that you want from me?” You pleaded, stifling the sniffles.

“I want-“ your glossy eyes interrogated him, threatening him to spill the confession he was too scared to put into actual words. “Let’s just head back to your place.” The wide eyed stare you gave him made him realise just how badly he had phrased it. He simply wanted to go back to your dorm, which had such a comfortable atmosphere, and you could continue the conversation under four eyes.

You huffed in disbelief. “When I thought you couldn’t sink any fucking lower. You think so little of me that you’d think I’d actually want to sleep with you?”

“Shit,” he groaned quietly while you were still talking, panic starting to take over him. “That’s not what I meant.” Every word came out rushed, like he was trying to save his own skin more than anything.

“You’re disgust me! Do you have no tact?!”

Your arms tightened even more around yourself in a failed effort to contain your low sobs. He still managed to disappoint you, despite the fact that you had learned it was best to have zero expectations of him.

“Give me some slack, I’m trying here!” He said desperately, the frustration he tried to suppress seeping through the huge cracks he had created in his own image. It earned him another taunting laugh.

“Slack? Really? After you called me a slut, a whore, crazy, and clingy, I’m supposed to give you some slack?!” You exclaimed, the tears wetting your cheeks.

He dared let some of his urges steer his body closer to you, but his hand stopped an inch before it made contact with your bare arm, feeling your warmth radiating against his hovering palm.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t back away. You just held his gaze, challenging him to cross the line and actually let his hand touch you, as if it would help him plead his case — but you never even felt a single graze of his skin against you.

Letting your eyes flitter over his shoulder, you spotted a generous audience of his friends in the window having turned their attention towards your confrontation as it had quickly increased in volume.

“Damn,” you breathed in faux disappointment. “Your friends are watching. But don’t worry, you haven’t blown your perfect reputation of being a coldhearted piece of shit.”

Waiting for another second, you gave him one last chance to just give in, pretending that if he actually touched your arm, he would be able to prove something to you.

But you knew you needed more. You wanted him to confess the things his eyes exposed, in spite of how closed off his entire demeanour was. You knew your suspicions couldn't be completely made up from the depths of your mind, that he must have done something to, at the very least, plant the seed for the thoughts that had rummaged your mind.

Staring into his eyes, you remembered all those nights shared in secret, and how pathetic you felt for missing them — yearning for them.

“I didn’t want this,” he burst out, eyebrows narrowing to enhance his anger, though he did not manage to let go of the softness in his eyes. “You’re a real pain in my neck. Fuck, if I could erase you from my memory, you bet your sweet ass I would!”

You could not form any coherent thoughts about where he could possibly go with this speech, only sensing he was going to spill yet another string of dumb and meaningless words that showed no reflection over the situation whatsoever.

“You’re a plague. A god damn sickness, and I cannot get rid of you!”

“Nice one, Sukuna. I’ll add that to the list of all the horrible things you’ve called me.”

“Don’t try to twist my words, you know what I’m trying to say!”

Placing a pointy finger at the centre of his chest, he felt the pressure of your dig but kept his eyes locked on your sad face. “They say it!”

“What?”

“Stop beating around the bush, and say what’s on your mind. Go on,” you challenged, his chest heaving violently as he tried to remain calm to some degree. “You know exactly what I’m getting at. There’s a reason you reacted the way you did that night, and there’s a reason you could not stand to see me with Gojo. So say it — loud and clear!”

He leaned in even further, feeling his hot and angry breath brush against your nose. His mouth opened, every confession resting at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say it, to tell you what you wanted to hear, but his mouth closed as quickly as it had opened.

Déjà Vu overcame you when you placed the palms of your hands against his chest and used all your strength to increase the distance between you.

“You’re a fucking coward!” A loud sob fell from your lips when he once again spoke your name, nearly causing your jelly knees to collapse under you. “Go back in there! Enjoy your evening! Get your dick sucked, I don’t care as long as I don’t have to look at your face!” You gestured towards the house behind him.

Without another word, your cries continued as you turned your back to him and started to walk away, blocking out how he called your name.

For what felt like hours, Sukuna stood in that exact same spot and watched as your figure slowly disappeared down the dark street. There was not a single calm cell in his body, so wrapped up in his pointless train of thought he didn’t even notice he’d been approached by one of his friends until he placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Sukuna-“

“Get your fucking hand off me,” Sukuna growled, instantly shrugging off the gesture that had been one of genuine consideration.

His feet started to carry him down the street in the opposite direction you had, blatantly ignoring his friend’s attempt in catching his attention — a lot like you had with him.

His spiralling mind made no sense, all the thoughts blending into one deafening noise where he couldn’t make out a single thing — except the one clear image of you that stuck out. And his only worry was that he had no clue when or if he’d ever see you again.

It’s been a long time coming, but Sukuna’s attitude has finally come to bite him in the ass.

This time around, he hadn’t been as fortune to have the option to let his dramatics disappear into the back of his mind, as there had been a row of nosy audience who’d witnessed the entire thing play out right outside that crowded party.

Rumours spread like wildfire, and of course everyone and their mother had an opinion on the matter. If Sukuna didn’t know any better, he would think he was back in high school by the way people were talking about him. When he entered a room filled with peers from his faculty, both his and your name followed him like a shadow.

Just a few days after the party, he’d picked up on someone indulging in cheap gossip when he passed their table. “That’s that Sukuna guy, from the party right off campus!” The guy said in a poorly concealed whisper.

“That’s the guy? She really went for him?” The other guy me responded.

Their not-so-secret conversation was abruptly cut short when Sukuna slapped a strong hand on the back of the first guy who talked. “Ever heard about keeping your nose out of other people’s shit?” It sounded close to a threat, straining out through gritted teeth.

That was not the first nor the last time Sukuna overheard someone talk about the incident, most people vouching in your favour — obviously.

Even his friends seemed to lean in your direction. They never said it straight out, but they made it clear enough every time they even dared to give their two cents about the situation.

One evening, despite feeling more in the mood to just walk around town and mope, they convinced him to join the gang for a beers and pizza. It took only an hour before they cracked and brought you up. “Why didn’t you tell us you were dating?”

Sukuna had instantly shot him a death glare, his leg slowly starting to bounce. “The fuck are you talking about?” A small snicker traveled the group.

“Come on, man. You and whatever her name is. I thought the two of you were only fucking.”

“We were only fucking,” he confirmed, instantly bringing the glass bottle to his lips for a big swig.

“Your little lover’s quarrel last Saturday says otherwise.” Sukuna’s agitation only escalated by their annoying teasing, which had him completely ignore their underlying concern for him, visible to anyone but him in the looks they all shared — the teasing was just the only way they saw it possible to approach this topic.

“Funny,” he deadpanned.

“If you wanna talk about it-“ their attempt of companionship was quickly shut down when he quickly got on his feet.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he groaned, and stormed out of the apartment without another word. He wasn’t going to sit there and endure their lame comments, concealing how they just wanted him to confront his issues regrading you.

Walking down the dark street, he lit himself a cigarette and pulled out his phone, shame not being able to stop the bad habit he had developed of relentlessly stalking your socials.

It was absolutely pointless, because you hadn’t posted anything new since before you threw him out. If anything, he just felt even more pathetic as he found himself just looking at your old posts.

He realised how many of your small details he had picked up, like how your eyes creased when you smiled or how you tended to hide your face when you were genuinely laughing — all traits he found himself missing, and cursing himself for not fully letting himself enjoy when he experienced it first hand.

But it wasn’t just online you had gone awol. Sukuna had started to think you might have dropped out because you were nowhere to be seen. You didn’t even tag along with your crowd, your usual seat always left empty.

The reason for that chair staying unoccupied for the most part, was because you had taken extensive steps in order remain a stranger. You thought that not having to see his face, even if it was for just a split second in passing, the whole thing would eventually just blow over until it didn’t cause you any pain.

Easier said than done.

Much like Sukuna, you were more than aware that everyone knew. As much as you tried to reach within yourself for some zen in order to turn the other cheek, you couldn’t stop how people paid you a pitying gaze whenever they talked to you.

It didn’t help the process of trying to heal from the pain that had set root in you so deeply. Had you known how badly being entangled with him would end, you would probably have thought twice about accepting his advances.

And somehow, despite it all, every word, every touch and every confrontation, you missed him.

It wasn’t until you experienced the absence of his presence, you realised how much value you had put into the part he had come to play in your life. Somewhere along the journey, you had both nurtured your relation without even knowing it, to the point where it had started to mean something — and that was why it wouldn’t stop agonising you.

However, this was Ryomen Sukuna we were talking about. It was a waste of time to hope he could ever reach that level of reflection. He had already caved once. Chances he’d do it again were slim to none, enjoying his view from his high horse too much to sacrifice it for some girl he’d replace eventually.

No, staying out of his way until you managed to demote him to nothing but a cautionary tale was the way to go.

“How the hell did you get into the building?” The question came out a lot sharper than intended, but the shock of having Sukuna standing in your doorway, sporting his famous frown, shaped your tone.

“Your neighbour’s is kind of a pussy,” was the only explanation he gave you, which could mean anything.

Your breathing became uneasy, not having seen his face in person for nearly three weeks. Same tufts of messy hair, his tattoos peaking up out of his shirt and up his neck, hands stuffed in his pockets like always.

“Not interested,” you mumbled, rushing to close the door in his face. But a loud thud interrupted the action, Sukuna having smoothly placed his foot between the crack.

“Let’s just have a civil conversation,” he insisted.

With a frustrated sigh, you creaked the door open again, resting your hand on your hip. “Five minutes.”

“Seriously,” he huffed. “You’re really going to be difficult right now?” You simply raised your eyebrows at his familiar, cold tone.

“You’re the one showing up unannounced.”

He cleared his throat, the sound of your voice reminding him why he had actually come to see you. “Sorry,” he forced out, and you could actually hear how he put a hint of honesty into it. “But I think five minutes isn’t going to be enough for all we have to talk about.”

“You’re just assuming I’m willing to talk,” you pointed out.

There was a small spark inside, screaming for you to just surrender to him. Let him take the stage and explain whatever he had on his chest so you wouldn’t have to have another lonely night. All the fantasies of him reaching out had kept you company, and maybe you had manifested him into standing in front of you right now.

That didn’t change the fact that it would be nothing but unfair to yourself to give in to the first sprinkle of reunion.

You watched him physically restrain the reactive groan in his throat. “I would like to apologise for my behaviour,” he spoke slowly, almost as if he was reading it up from a script. You couldn’t stop how it caused you to sigh again, impatiently knitting your arms in front of you to see if he was going anywhere with this. “Can I please come in?”

Slowly your muscles started to grow fidgety while his eyes bore into you, his voice carrying in an uncharacteristic, delicate tune. After a moment of silence, weighing your options, you slowly nodded your head yes and stepped aside to let him inside.

“You rearranged,” was the first thing he said when he entered, eyes roaming your room, none of your furniture sat in the place they used to be. But what actually caught his eye was how he couldn’t spot any of his tokens hidden away in the corners anymore.

He turned around to face you when he heard another sigh from you. “If you’re gonna talk, then talk.”

“I should never have called you those things, and I apologise.” The way the words came out of his mouth told you he must to have practiced exactly what to say, reciting word for word.

“Thank you,” you said coldly.

“And I’m sorry for how I treated you at the party.”

He hated how quiet you were, simply having your eyes travel his face as he was waltzing way out of his own comfort zone. He knew you could tell, evident in every joint of his body that he was about to beg you to put him out of his misery.

“Fuck, stop looking at me like that,” he grumbled, having to turn his head to break your intense and investigative stare. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

You scoffed, not entirely surprised he would somehow end up loading some responsibility on your shoulders even though he was the one who had put you both in this situation. “Sukuna, you called me a sickness!”

“Yes, I did, because you are!” He snapped, flaming eyes back on you in a heartbeat, catching you off guard. “You have grown stuck in my head, and I can’t get you off my damn mind no matter how fucking hard I try!”

“But that’s not my fault!” You responded sternly, wanting to keep from screaming.

“I know, but it’s not like I planned for this to happen. I just wanted to have fun with you for one fucking night, and then I thought a second night wouldn’t hurt. Clearly it did, because I-“ he let out a frustrated sigh as he ran his hand through his hair. “Fucking hell,” he breathed quietly.

He began to reminisce about the evening he had decided to go home with you a second time. That wasn’t his MO, usually. Once he’d had his way with a girl, he went on to pretend they didn’t exist.

You hadn’t done anything in particular the first time around to make him pursue you again. He was simply bored and no one else caught his eyes — he also knew you could provide one hell of a night.

It didn’t take a lot of convincing on his part, quickly heading back to your dorm again after he had approached you.

He had you moaning his name and clawing at his back, practically begging for more. And once he was done, he didn’t wait to get up and get dressed.

And in the pitch, black darkness of your room, he had stumbled over what he thought was your backpack, face planting straight for the floor. There was a moment of utter silence as he scrambled back on his feet before he heard the most melodic sound of your laughter.

“Did you just fall?”

He was so thankful it was dark so you weren’t able to see the embarrassment lightly flush his cheeks.

“Shut up,” he mumbled as he twisted the doorknob.

He still heard your small giggle seep through the crack as he exited — and that was exactly what had lured him in. His subconscious didn’t need anything more than that sweet sound to be hypnotised. He didn’t even have any control over it, as it brought him right back to you for many more nights.

“Because you what?” You challenged, bringing him back to the moment by capturing his eyes, forcing him to keep them on you.

“I don’t know,” a low grumble, feeling how he wanted so badly to peer his eyes off you, looking anywhere but your face.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” you huffed. “After calling me a crazy slut, you lost that privilege. So whatever it was you came here to tell me, say it with your god damn chest.”

He licked his teeth in frustration, so conflicted in how to feel about that sharp tongue of yours. Normally Sukuna would not accept the type of attitude you served him from anyone. But whenever it was you who matched his energy, he always felt himself drawn further in — despite also finding it extremely insufferable.

“The reason I hit on your friend wasn’t necessarily to make you jealous-“

“How big of you,” you cut him off, and it was his turn to scoff.

“Let me finish,” slightly raising his voice. While your frown remained, you sealed your lips shut to keep any further snarky outbursts from interrupting him. “It was yet another desperate attempt to get you out of my head. She just looked like she would be down for it. And then I saw you with Gojo. Fuck, it made me sick!”

The disgust was clear as day, soaking every word as they came out. Whatever his relation to Gojo was prior to that night, it became clear that seeing him with you triggered him to lose any restraints of decency he might have possessed that evening.

“It pissed me off, and I couldn’t just watch.”

“You could have gone home-”

“Like hell I could!” Before you even had the chance to finish your sentence, he protested. With slow steps, he started to approach you, filling your body with anticipation.

Still missing his touch as much as you had the entire time apart, it took immense self control not to give into the desire to feel the firmness of his body again.

His glare bore deep into you, causing realisation to finally set in — feelings you had smothered and never put into words, finally gaining a solid presence in your mind.

“You’re mine. You always have been.”

Instinctively your lungs caught a sharp breath, taking in every detail of his face as his loaded confession slowly sunk in.

Confused — so far past comprehension of what you were feeling. Was this what you’d wanted?

As much as you’d complained about how he acted as he was entitled to you whenever he snaked his dominant arms around your body, his possessiveness had never been something to turn you away. These were the actions that had planted the seed to your every growing relation, sucked in by how he always made you feel desired — but also safe.

His grip on you had never been hard or unpleasant, despite how it might have appeared to every other person outside the two of you. And when his body was pressed up against you as you fell asleep, you knew that night would be a lot more peaceful, just his energy grounding you in a sense of security.

Yet, that feeling shattered that night.

“I’m yours?” Your voice came out weak, tears you were beyond tired of drying, once more welling up along your waterline. “But you can’t be mine, is that it?”

“What?” His tone was a mixture of utter bewilderment and frustration.

“Do you know what your problem is, Sukuna?” A quiet sniffle before you spoke again. “You’re selfish. Too proud to acknowledge anything real.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Do I need to remind you that I didn’t demand anything other than some slight clarification? I had every right to question what the hell was going on, because there were… unspoken things developed and you just-“ you stopped talking when you had to let out a shaky breath, letting the tears roll calmly down your cheeks.

Something he had learned since getting to know you, was just how much he disliked seeing you cry. What was worse, was how he was the one who so easily brought them to the surface.

Would it be wrong to reach out, let his rough hands dry them away?

Against his better judgement, he lifted his hand to graze your soft cheeks — only for you to instantly swat his hand away.

“No, you don’t get to do that!” You snapped, your sorrow painting every word. “You think you can march in here and just acknowledge some responsibility and think that’s good enough? You want to go back to spending your nights here while stringing me along?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he couldn’t help but let his voice raise to match yours, his message grasping on desperation.

“Then what is it you’re saying?” You pleaded, hands gesturing in front of you with built up despair. “What do you want? A relationship?” Once the word was out there, a taunting chuckle followed. “That’s not you.”

“Maybe it can be!”

Your hands curled into fists, all your emotions spilling into your fingers digging into your palms, hoping the action would wake you up, because there was no way Sukuna was actually standing in front of you saying he was considering a relationship.

“You piece of shit,” your voice cracked. “That’s not fucking funny.”

“Give me some credit, I’m not saying it to be funny!”

“Right-“ you were once again cut off by a violent sob. He knew he couldn’t blame you for being reluctant. He hadn’t done anything to deserve your understanding nature, but he still felt his anger being nurtured when it seemed he was getting nowhere, despite blotting himself unlike he’d never done before.

“Look, I-“ why was this so hard? He knew what he wanted to say, but all the words knotted themself before he had the chance to put them out into the world. “It has felt wrong. These past few weeks, not sleeping here, not being able to let people know who you really belonged to, in general not having you around has not felt right.”

Choking back your sadness, you were in awe at how vulnerable he was being, never in a million years had you ever thought you’d see the sight.

“I never regret anything, because like you said, I’m selfish. I usually don’t give a shit, except about you.” He finished his speech, a long breath of relief sunk his shoulders, some serenity starting to fill his body even though he wasn’t sure he had secured himself any future involvement with you — at least he had taken the opportunity to unload his shoulders.

For what felt like an eternity, you both let the silence settle, just looking at each other. The atmosphere was filled with every confession of the evening, while your eye contact seemed to convey the things that were yet to be revealed.

But the longer it took for you to respond, the more uneasy Sukuna became. He might have made a mistake by exposing himself, willingly giving you all the power-

“You’re really fucking stupid, you know that right?” He tilted his head, surprised to hear your tone had calmed down, the tiniest peak at the corner of your swollen lips.

“That thought has crossed my mind a few times lately,” he dared dip his toe in the changed energy, playing along with the bounce in your voice he had wished to hear again for so long.

You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, shaking your head like it would help sorting all your thoughts. The silence returned, and though it was more comfortable than before, the atmosphere had turned a little awkward. Overly aware of your own body, how puffy your face was from once again bawling out in front of him, slowly shifting your weight from one foot to another.

“Do I dare ask what the deal is now?”

He snorted instantly at your little question. “Funny,” he smirked. You only quirked an eyebrow as your nose crinkled with another quiet sniffle. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Think you kind of owe me,” you shrugged.

He picked up on the courages hint of playfulness, satisfaction returning to him as he was reunited with the silly banter he wouldn’t take for granted again. “You’re kind of a brat, you know that right?”

A tiny giggle played on your lips. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I did miss you.”

“Me too,” you whispered to his soft confession, a lot of the pent up stress from all those weeks beginning to finally drain out of you. “Sukuna?”

“Mhmm?”

“Will you stay here tonight?”

The familiar smug grin came to show. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

tags @sad-darksoul

a/n it's finally here. it's done. it's over... and i'm actually a little proud. like i kinda like it ngl... i just hope it doesn't flop bc it took me sooo long to write holy shit. but it's not hovering over me anymore so enjoy — so excited to see how it’s recived, bc i’m going to bed bc i got work in less than seven hours

likes, comments and reblogs is much appreciated

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fear-is-truth · 3 months ago

Text

❝ 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐕𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒. ❞

— charlie mayhew x f!reader

summary: you’re a college student who haven’t confessed in ages. tags: mature content・mdni・blasphemy・unprotected p in v・fem!reader・not proofread

♱ a/n◞ english is not my first language

it’s been far too long since you last stepped into the confessional. guilt weighs heavily on your soul, gnawing at the edges of your conscience like a relentless rat. father charlie mayhew sits in the adjoining room, just beyond the closed door. you feel like a convict marching to the gallows or a witch being led to the stake. the air is thick with the scent of incense and remorse as you push open the wooden door and step inside, taking a deep breath,

“forgive me, father, for i have sinned.”

“how long has it been since your last confession?” you pause, fingers twisting in your lap. seven months? eight?

“…too long.” you finally settle for that answer. he hums softly in response, encouraging you to elaborate further.

“i’ve been… neglecting my prayers,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out like a spew of vomit. “i’ve been lazy with my duties, with my work.” a flashback to your half-finished papers, ignored for days, weeks. the familiar frustration and self-loathing settle in again.

“sloth,” the priest says softly, but not unkindly. you nod, even though he can’t see you. “and… wrath,” you continue. “jealousy, really. i’ve been… envious of others. their success, their accomplishments, while i’ve just been… stagnant.” there’s a faint rustling from the other side of the partition. “envy can eat away at the soul,” he says quickly. “but it’s the admission that brings healing.”

“and lust,” the word slips past your lips like a dirty secret. “mastur- sorry, i mean. self pleasuring. and there were… party hook-ups. frat boys. things i shouldn’t have done, things i knew were wrong.” you can feel father charlie’s attention on you, even though you can’t see him. he pauses, and you hear the soft rustle of cloth and creak of wood again. “lust,” he repeats in a gravelly, conspiratorial tone. “is a sin we are all vulnerable to.”

“even you, father?” the question slips out before you can think better of it. the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating like a poisonous fog.

there’s a soft sigh, and you hear the faint rustling of fabric again. “oh yes,” he admits, but he doesn’t sound as ashamed as you’ve imagined a priest should be. there almost seems to be an air of self congratulation.

“especially that.”

your fingers curl tighter around the edges of your skirt. a single beat of silence. then—

“sins like these require penance. penance,” he repeats, slowly, savouring the word on his tongue, “is meant to cleanse the soul. to discipline the flesh.” another rustle of cloth—and you wonder what the hell he’s doing behind the wooden barrier.

“are you prepared to accept the form of penance i offer you?” the way he phrases it, like a double entendre you can’t quite place your finger on.

and yet, something possesses you to reply:

“yes, father.”

“good. now step out here.”

your heart pounds as you obey, stepping out of your side of the confessional. when you turn to face him, your breath catches in your throat.

father charlie is not dressed as a priest should be. gone is the cassock, the traditional garb of a man of the cloth. instead, he’s wearing a white translucent smock, the fabric so sheer you can see the hard planes of his chest, every muscle defined. his tan skin gleams in the low light, and your eyes drift downward, catching the black leather chaps and, beneath them, a jockstrap that leaves little to the imagination.

you simply can’t tear your eyes away from him.

the cocky bastard must be fully aware of his effect on you, the way his eyes gleam as he takes another step toward you, the leather of his chaps creaking softly in the quiet room. the smirk on his lips deepens, and he raises a hand, resting it lightly on your shoulder.

“recite the act of contrition.”

your throat tightens, pulse quickening at the contact. he’s standing so close now that the scent of incense and something distinctly masculine fills your senses, clouding your thoughts. taking a shaky breath, you start, voice trembling slightly,

“o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended you…”

his fingers graze your arm now, trailing lightly down to your wrist, but you don’t stop. you can’t. his presence demands obedience.

“…and i detest all my sins because of your just punishments,” you continue. he hums softly, a sound of approval, thumb rubbing slow circles against the inside of your wrist.

“…but most of all, because they offend you, my god,” you falter for a moment as his hand moves down, skimming the curve of your hip, lingering at your waist, “who are all-good and deserving of all my love. i firmly resolve,” you choke out, forcing yourself to finish the prayer, “with the help of your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.”

a pause, thick with ominous tension. you look up at him, unsure of what comes next, warm, honeyed lust dripping through your loins betraying the pious words you’ve just spoken. fingers still at your waist, he leans in.

“beautifully done, beautiful.

the priest whispers, and there’s something unexpected in his voice. emotion. when you look back up at him, there are tears in his eyes, like the words had truly moved him. for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something, maybe pull back, remind you both of your places.

but then his hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling gently at the nape of your neck, and before you can catch your breath, he’s guiding you with firm, practiced ease into the tight space of the confessional’s compartment. his grip is strong, sure, as his hands settle on your waist, pulling you flush against him. your back hits the wooden wall with a soft thud, the creak of old wood reverberating through the silence, amplifying the intimacy between you.

he leans in closer, his body pressing into yours, the booth feeling impossibly small now. his lips find yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, soft at first, then deepening with intention. his tongue slips past your parted lips, exploring the inside of your mouth, grazing your teeth before sweeping across your hard palate in a way that makes you shiver.

a moan escapes you when you feel his erection rubs against your thigh.

•••

god, you’re going straight to hell.

you moan in unison as he pushes the tip inside you in one, smooth motion. pleasure riddled with agony shoots up from your aching quim to your entire body, the sheer girth of him straining at your velvety walls; filling you up in a way that nobody else has ever done before.

“mghmm— oh fuck… you feel so good,”

charlie grains into your shoulder as he bottoms out, features twisting in sordid rapture when you clench around him involuntarily. your insides are so sensitive and raw that you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock pulsating against your walls as you struggle to accommodate him. he pauses, giving you a second to recover before rearing back his hips slowly, almost pulling out but then to slam back into you completely. the wooden wall of the confessional box creaks, but all you can focus on is the tip of his cockhead kissing— no, fucking your cervix. stretching your cunt in a way so sinfully good that you’re certain that even though you’ve booked a one-way ticket to the second circle of hell, it’s fucking worth it.

it’s not long before the hot coil finally snaps, and squeezing your eyes shut, you dig your fingernails into his shoulder, leaving crescent indents as your orgasm crashes over you.

waves of white-hot pleasure ripple through your veins, and you throw head back to scream out his name. through your post-orgasm haze, you watch as charlie continues to pound into you. a raw moan rips from his throat, accompanied by a final, deep thrust. burying himself to the hilt, he comes inside of you, thick, hot spurts of come filling your womb as a string of indiscernible curses tumble past his lips.

he doesn’t pull out immediately, his cock twitching with residual spams as he continues to thrust his hips lazily, grinding his seed inside you as deep as it can go.

father charlie pulls back slightly, chest still heaving as he gazes at you with that same smug, satisfied smile. he brushes a thumb over your swollen bottom lip, his touch lingering, almost tender.

“well,” he muses, “i think that’ll do for your penance… for now.” his eyes gleam with something darker, something that promises this isn’t over. “though, if you feel the need to… atone further, you know where to find me.”

“same time next week?” you nod in response, eyelids fluttering shut as he threads his fingers through your hair, before pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

m.list

#𝐅.𝐈.𝐓 #charlie mayhew #father charlie mayhew #Charlie mayhew x reader #charlie mayhew x y/n #grotesquerie #charlie mayhew smut #Nicholas Chavez #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #Nicholas chavez smut #Nicholas chavez imagine #Nicholas chavez x y/n

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r3starttt · 28 days ago

Text

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT

PAIRING: Act 1. Caitlyn Kiramman x Reader

SUMMARY: Address me with respect, or keep your mouth shut. You're just one of her toys.

CW: Mean Cait. Slapping. Oral. Fingering. Spitting. Cum eating.

TAGLIST: @Kaimythically @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @kiki5gigi @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @rob1nbuckl3ys @femininologies @dinakisser @viajeros--sin--destino @GodessAgrona @patronagrona

The body armor that once weighed on your chest now rested on the seat beside you. The vest's sturdy stood out against the soft fabric of the seat—a strange contrast, like the life you lived and the one you longed for.

The rest of your enforcer uniform clung to you, a reminder of duty yet unfinished.

That day, Caitlyn—ever the composed commander—had begun to offer quiet gratitude for your unwavering support.

You, along with Vi, had stood as her pillars, the only ones to truly understand her relentless pursuit—not for justice, but for an end to the cruel theater of war.

Your edge had always been the things left unsaid: the secret resolve you gleaned from stolen glances and murmured words between Caitlyn and the flame-haired recently announced as enforcer. A silent agreement lingered—Jinx had to fall, no matter the cost. Yet Caitlyn’s resolve was tempered by her steadfast refusal to risk innocent lives.

You’d stayed behind that day, waiting to close the chapter for her, to ensure the mission was marked as complete, and to witness her return to a world where the war was finally over.

But the war wasn’t over.

When Caitlyn returned, it was with a storm at her heels. Her uniform hit the floor with an uncharacteristic force, and the soft light of the room betrayed the scratches on her face and the glassy sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. Words felt unnecessary; they always had between the two of you.

Your place wasn’t to pry but to steady her.

As her anger and exhaustion hung heavy in the air, you reached for her. With practiced tenderness, you cleaned the cuts on her face, folded her discarded uniform, and whispered a quiet apology—not for yourself, but for the weight she carried.

Maybe it was in the way your gaze softened when it met hers, or the steadiness of your touch where others faltered, but in those moments, something shifted.

Now, months later, the quiet crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room, its red glow painting your skin in gentle warmth. You sat with your legs crossed, wrapped in a cocoon of tranquility, the stillness of the Kiramman house a sharp contrast to the chaos that had once consumed you both.

Yet there were nights—nights when the weight became too much—when Caitlyn would seek you out.

On those nights, she would find you, her command unspoken but clear. Her bed became your world, the green sheets wrapping around you like ivy as her lips left marks on your skin—marks meant for no one else. Her hands traced the edges of your being with a reverence that bordered on desperate. Only her name left your lips, whispered like a prayer.

She never asked you to stay outright, but you had made yourself at home in her world, entwined in her life. You followed her, among the enforcers who now joked that you were just another one of her loyal dogs.

Caitlyn never denied it, not anymore. But it was in the quiet hours, when the rest of the world faded away, that she sought you—she didn’t need to speak her desires aloud; they were etched in every glance, every movement.

And you stayed because you knew you were needed, because she had carved a place for you in her life without words.

But distance crept in, inevitable and suffocating. It didn’t take long for the whispers to prove true—there was no room in her world for many. Caitlyn had always been honest in her way, thanking you with a sincerity that almost hurt, reminding you that your unwavering devotion, your strength, your unyielding support, was a rare gift she’d craved all her life. She wanted someone who didn’t just desire her but believed in her, who stood firm at her side without faltering. And yet, as much as she needed you, she resented it.

Caitlyn couldn’t control you, not as easily as she wanted. It frustrated her. She loved the way your hands felt against her skin, the way your fingers brushed her cheek as she confided in you, the sound of your voice filling the lonely silence of her room. But she didn’t love you—not fully, not in the way you hoped. You were a balm to her restlessness, a constant she could lean on when the world pushed too hard, but never enough to tether her.

You’d learned how to navigate her moods, how to bend without breaking. Like now, slipping into her office before she arrived, knowing she’d storm in after another grueling encounter with Ambessa—a woman who saw her as nothing more than a pawn to mold and exploit.

You knew how to disarm her. Hands resting on her shoulders, soft words murmured close enough to be mistaken for affection. Kisses trailing down the curve of her neck, slow and deliberate, as you whispered what she wanted to hear. It worked every time. Your hands found their way to her uniform, fingers deftly untying it, sliding beneath to stroke her skin. A touch on her stomach, a gentle caress, until she let her head fall back against your shoulder, surrendering once again.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe this could be something real—something more than the empty transactions of power and need. But Caitlyn tore that hope from you as swiftly as it bloomed. Her hand shot out, closing around your wrist like a shackle, firm and unyielding.

“Enough,” she said, her voice a blade cutting through the fragile warmth you’d dared to nurture. The command carried no affection, only the sharp edge of authority. She stepped back, retreating out of your reach, leaving you hollow. Stunned, you stayed frozen as her words shaped the air between you into walls you couldn’t scale.

She had trained you well, hadn’t she? To obey without question, to absorb the sharpness of her words without flinching.

You’d mastered it: nodding, listening, falling in line. But this time, you couldn’t help the silent plea that escaped your gaze as you looked at her, your heart hanging on the edge of one unspoken question: Why?

Her posture stiffened, her body a fortress against you, and though her face betrayed no anger, what you saw there was worse—something colder, crueler. Her boots struck the floor in a rhythm that mocked the silence between you, an unyielding percussion that quickened the ache in your chest.

“Do you really think I don’t- see through you?” she hissed, her voice low but serrated, each word an incision that bled you dry.

You opened your mouth, desperate to explain, to justify, to reach her. “I thought you wanted me to help—”

She didn’t let you finish. With an almost lazy disdain, she perched on the armrest of the chair you’d just been resting in, claiming the space as her own, as if to erase your presence from it entirely. “Is that what you think this is? Help?” Her eyes locked onto yours, her gaze unrelenting and merciless. “You think you’re different, but you’re not.”

The words landed like a physical blow, robbing you of air. Your chest tightened, but no anger rose to meet her cruelty—only the dull, familiar ache of resignation.

"Caitlyn,” you whispered, but Caitlyn was quick to silence you with a hand raised in command.

“Stop,” she said, her voice softening, but only to the point of condescension. “You don’t get to make this about you. You knew what this was. What this is.”

You wanted to fight, to push back, but the weight of her words was suffocating, a reminder of your place beneath her. “You’re useful,” she continued, her tone almost clinical now. “But don’t mistake that for being necessary.”

Her cruelty was a scalpel, carving away any illusions you’d held onto. And still, you couldn’t muster defiance. Your head bowed, your gaze falling to the floor as her power washed over you, cold and relentless. You should have walked away. You should have demanded more. But instead, you let her words seep into your bones, leaving you hollow and malleable.

“I should’ve been focusing on the job,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair, undoing her bun with a frustrated tug. “You were just a distraction.”

The admission sliced through you, but instead of anger, you felt a strange, masochistic sense of purpose ignite. She was pushing you away, yes—but even in her rejection, she gave you a role to play, a way to exist in her world. And you were too far gone to reject it.

“If that’s all I am,” you murmured, stepping closer, your voice trembling but resolute, “then let me be it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in her eyes—something human. Regret? Guilt? But it was gone too quickly to grasp.

She reached for you, her hand pulling you close with the same commanding force that had always bound you to her. Grasping at your hair with painful force, one you ached for.

Her touch burned, not with warmth but with possession, and you let yourself fall into her. You would let her define you, break you, shape you, because belonging to her—even like this—was the only place you felt whole.

Her voice dropped to a whisper as her breath brushed your ear. “You’re exactly what you let yourself be,” she said, her tone both damning and tender, sealing your fate. "But you need this, don’t you?”

Her lips brushed against yours—soft, fleeting, a cruel promise of something more—you realized you would always let her pull you back in. Even if it destroyed you.

"Get on your knees." It was your last chance, one you weren't doubting on using even if it meant getting kicked out the second she was satisfied.

The floor coldness- It's stiffness and fancy pattern, digging into your skin. You looked up at her just to meet her eyes, entirely locked on yours.

Something about the way she felt beneath your hands, even with her uniform still on- half of it, at least. You wanted to prove your worth.

You'd stay here for hours If that's what she needed, if that's what she wanted.

Her hands came to cup at your cheeks, holding your head in place. The tip of your fingers fidgeted with her belt, forcing it open before you slid her uniform pants down, taking her underwear too with a desperate whimper.

"What're you staring at?" Her hand comes closer to your chin again, leaning her pelvis towards you. Yet your absence of words maddened her.

Beneath her eyes- you, on your knees for her. With those shiny orbs and long lashes, the drool on your lips- yet, unable to do anything. "Cait..." You were just as pathetic as any other woman she's ever dragged into her room.

Her hand pressed agasint your cheek, smacking at it. "Address me with respect." The couple of muffled moans- whines, were quickly shushed by her. “And keep your mouth shut, understand?,” tears threatened to fall from your eyes before you pressed a gentle kiss over her clit.

Her head tilted back Inmediatelly, holding yours in place.

You sticked out your tongue, lapping at her folds while your nose brushed her clit.

Caitlyn could be mean, she couldn't care less about you, she could hurt you and manipulate you, but even so she was as pathetic as you were for her. Wet just by the mere thought of having you at her mercy, opening her legs for you to sink in between her thighs and slurp with obscenety at her pussy.

"Good girl" her tone comes quiet but firm, mockingly even. Shes got her lips slightly parted, her teeth peeking enough for you to catch a glimpse of how they sink on the flesh of her bottom lip.

She's still mad at you and it shows with how much she's digging her nails into your scalp. How tight she's got you between her legs.

You begin bobbing your head on your own. Her clutch on your hair firmly enough to lead you, as she always does. Your fingers tease on her hole, making small circles around her arousal while your tongue threatens to fill her inside.

You feel your lips growing wetter, a mix of the drool that will soon run down your chin and her juices. Her skin tender with each caress, each kiss on her clit or between her wet folds, her hole clenching at the emptiness, aching for your fingers to ease the ache. But you don't do anything until the burning of her nails digging on your wrist catch you off guard.

Only there your eyes open again, your saliva connecting your lips to her clit as you pull back enough to look up at her. "Do it right or leave."

Her fingers pulled your hair, forcing your head back. The furrow on her eyebrows gently faded into a mocking laugh at your aroused face, and eventually curved eyebrows. "What are you waiting for? mhm?"

Her hips adjusted forward, legs wide open for you to see and touch yet not savor any soon.

You thrusted your fingers with ease, growing wet at the obscene sound that came with it, at how her smile grew just enough to give you the satisfaction- you got the job done as she wanted.

The back of your head burned at the strength with which she held you in place. Forcing you to stare up at her, admire her blue strands of hair cascading on each side of her face, drool at the sight of her nipples beneath her messy blouse. You needed to touch, to put her breasts on your mouth and kiss each piece of skin you could, savour her whole and leave marks on her skin even if it meant her words hurting you lately.

"Please?" the whispers tone was ignored by her selfish pleasure. Only looking back at you with curved eyebrows and her pretty lips opened, whining at how good your fingers felt inside her. Caitlyn was practically riding on them at this point, only giving you the pleasure of looking at her like this, a desperate mess.

It wast only when you felt her tightening around your fingers. Only when your wrist got wet enough- her grasp on your hair forced you close to her pussy again. "Clean it." her breathless command was obeyed in a matter of seconds, with your tongue all over her wet, slurping and kissing and lapping and savoring everything of her while your fingers thrusts slowed down.

Caitlyn loved your devotion, loved seeing your face covered in her wet, your fingers swallowed by her, how you opened your mouth for her to spit on your tongue and how you swallowed it all. She adored the gagging when her fingers dove too deep into your mouth, loved that drool that connected your tongue to her lips or your tongue to her pussy whenever you got to eager.

But you could never be enough for her.

And so, after all these months of helping her, working for her, making her cum and being her toy. You realized you've fallen for it just like everyone else.

Next time she got stressed and her body was aching with all the tension gathered in the last week, it wasn't you on her office but Officer Nolan, sitting on the same desk she'd got you leg wide open for the first time.

#A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( arcane )#𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ arcane ❫#( 𝕽 𝜊S.mut )#caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn kiramman smut #caitlyn smut #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn league of legends #caitlyn lol #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x you #arcane season 2 #arcane smut #arcane x reader

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the-kr8tor · 26 days ago

Text

Ink and Bedrock

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.9k

Synopsis: You're tasked to record what happened to Piltover over three years ago. A determined scholar who's willing to get the story of war and warn people about its horrors no matter how much it takes. And Ekko's side is what you need to accomplish the behemoth task. What happens when free flowing ink meets an unmovable bedrock?

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Noxian! Reader, Historian! Reader, Reader has nicknames, spoilers for s2, set 3 years after s2, CW blood and death mention, CW food mentions, CW injury, arcane characters apperance, part 1 of 2 (or 3), slowburn.

Buy me a ☕?

Navigation

A/N: Special thanks to @pleaktale ❤️

Part 1 >>> Part 2

Your suitcase weighs heavy in your hand as you step off the blimp for the first time. The breeze kisses your cheeks as if it's greeting you in glee. Your eyes slowly scan up the building, breath stuck in your throat at how the hex tower shines in the sun, its gold inlays melds perfectly with its white columns, making it look like you've stepped into a heavenly place. It could truly be a heavenly place in a few years. After the war ravaged Piltover and its people, it took them some time to recover from the pain it caused. Pain that your own people had a hand in causing. You could only hope that the people here accept you just as well as the wind does.

Shoes clicking against the steel floor, you can still see glimpses of the fight that occurred through the marks it left. Shattered concrete still waits in every corner to be patched up. Burn marks in different odd shapes are left etched on the pavement and metal floors like a grim reminder of the past.

As you head further outside, it gets brighter, the breeze seems to carry laughter. The sun bathes the trees in its light, still breathing through it all.

You can see hope in every person's face as you walk past, but you can sense their grief through those eyes, sadness dotted along their worry lines as they go about their day. Hope is driving them to rebuild, to concur that grief embedded in their bones. You hope that they reach their goals so they could live again, not just surviving from day to day while seeing those seared ashen walls in the shape of war.

You don't notice your knuckles shaking while gripping your suitcase. Eyes downcast, you fix your hold on the leather strap, nails leaving indents on your trembling palms. Walking through Piltover's streets has your mind making up visions of unnecessary bloodshed hidden in-between its concrete crevices. All the weapons drawn and pointed at each other, souls lost in what could've been something preventable. Yet, as you walk on the same blood soaked streets, you see all the residents rebuilding what was lost. It's only been three years since the conflict, but you can see that they've made progress in the land of progress.

The buildings are looking much better than what you saw in the reports. The hex tower is being rebuilt with a different purpose this time. The place no longer hums with remnants of the arcane.

People smile and walk to coffee shops with their loved ones, chatting and living in the moment despite what happened in the very place they sit upon. You admire them from afar, guilt trying to snake its way inside your chest, threatening to close around your heart.

You'll atone for the sins, one step at a time. Even if they drive you away, even if they curse and spit at you, you'll endure because they have endured so much more.

You promised Mel and your professor that you'll bring the truth to your fellow noxians and perhaps to the rest of Runeterra. And you intend to keep that promise.

Heart thudding in your chest, you finally make it to the Kiramman estate. The large gates open for you automatically, footsteps growing heavy with every step you take.

A guard watches you with his narrowed gaze, eyes scanning your crimson clothes and the fire in your determined eyes. With apprehension, he opens the door with a creak. As you enter and leave the cold Piltover streets, the air gets heavy as you go deeper into the mansion with a uniformed woman guiding you towards what you surmise as the office. The large double doors loom over you, shadow casting over your form.

She knocks, and you hear a commanding voice from the inside.

—

Caitlyn Kiramman, you've heard stories about her from the younger Medarda, stories of bravery and anguish laced within her decisions. You don't blame her for siding with Ambessa, she was cunning and ambitious, everything that the young and unwilling Kiramman head needed to shutter her grief close to her chest and use it as a fuel to keep herself warm in her time of grief. You suppose that's what the woman next to her is doing as she reads the letter you've given Caitlyn over her shoulder. You can see in her dark eyes that she's still atoning for her past sins.

You sit still on the plush seat, hands placed on your lap to show that you're not feeling nervous about you being here. Meanwhile in your head you're practically running laps around the room to stave off your anxiety. You find the two of them intimidating, Caitlyn sits on the same chair her ancestors have used. A seat built on years of leadership and hardwork, it's daunting to say the least, you suppose you admire her bearing that. The pink haired woman next to her has perched herself on the armchair, eyes reading the letter of recommendation written by Mel Medarda herself. A letter explaining why you're here, and what exactly your purpose of being in the same place her mother declared war and tried to conquer just over three years ago.

Your eyes roam the expansive room, its walls are in deep chestnut, all lined with her house colours, and dozens of oil paintings with her ancestors’ portraits looking down on you with their authoritative gaze. Scanning the bookshelves, your eyes pause at the pink haired woman who's already watching you with her apprehensive stare, your own eyes meeting with hers.

“Vi, right?” You ask, trying incredibly hard to stabilize your words. “Mel told me about you.”

She raises a brow, “I'm surprised she even remembers me.”

You shrug, “she seems to always know about everyone.”

“What's your relationship with her?” Caitlyn finally speaks, lithe hands folding the letter neatly.

“A friend, I guess?” You smile nervously. “Well, barely, an acquaintance more like.” They look at you, eyes swimming with even more questions. So you give them the answer. “My professor knows her. I don't know exactly how, but they seem to be close. She recommended me to Mel when she was looking for someone like me.”

“A historian? A journalist?” Vi glances briefly at Caitlyn, arm leaning over the back of her chair casually.

“Exactly, a bit of both actually.” you nod, “I—”

“You just finished your studies, what's your business being Mel Medarda’s ambassador?” Caitlyn asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed towards you. Well, she gets the job done being that blunt.

“I'm not her ambassador, technically.” You squeeze your hands together briefly before letting go, a nervous tick of yours. “I'm just here to record and write everything that happened that day.”

“Why?” She pokes and prods.

“The letter—”

“I know what the letter says, I want to know what you think.”

“I understand your apprehension. I really do.” Your eyes swim with silent empathy. “My job is to tell people, my people, exactly what happened here. The situation over there is… isn't good. I'm here so that they know what the arcane is capable of, what Ambessa did, and the cost of that war.” You lean forward, elbows perched on your knees, “I'm here so that they don't make the same mistake again, so that history doesn't repeat itself.”

Caitlyn tips her head at you, lips pursed into a thin line. While Vi stares heavily at the letter on the table with the Medarda wax seal stamped on it.

“I've seen the effects of it, war. I've never experienced it or lived through it but I've seen what it leaves in its wake, and it's all disaster, death and—” you squeeze your hands into tight fists before letting the pressure go. “Noxus has been entrenched in war for thousands of years. If my work here could prevent just a few years of war then it'll be worth it. Noxians— Runeterra needs to see what war is capable of, what it leaves on the people they've ravaged.” You exhale, “it's not much, but someone has to try. Even if it's just a small step toward peace.”

“This isn't the first time you've done something like this?” Vi asks in a solemn tone.

“Unfortunately,” you utter, voice trembling. “but this is the first time I'm doing this alone. My professor has gotten too old to travel.”

“Mel has said in her letter that you have a spark. Talented, have a way with words. And determined, never settling for a no nonsense answer.” Caitlyn taps the piece of paper in front of her.

You smile, “I'd like to think so too.”

“I don't think that was a compliment, Spark.” Vi’s lips curl into a smirk. “She just called you annoying.” Caitlyn furrows her brows, side eyeing her partner.

You mirror her smile. “Well, I'll take it as a compliment.”

Caitlyn clears her throat, index rubbing along where her eye patch sits over eye. She seems…tired, like she has been working longer than she has lived. “I'll get you settled at an apartment here, then I'll tell the council about you. If they approve, then you can start your research.”

“Thank you.” You sigh, relieved that your journey wasn't in vain. “Can I interview you two then?”

Vi blinks, “us?”

“Preferably alone, if you're comfortable with that. Just like you said, Ms. Kiramman, I don't take no nonsense answers.” You smile genuinely at them. “You two are just as important in the story. It wouldn't be complete without your personal accounts.”

Caitlyn stands up, and you immediately think you've fucked up. You're already counting down your days. “If the council votes yes, then you can interview us, and everyone you want to talk to.” She reaches for you, and you quickly stand up to meet her halfway with a shake of her stretched hand.

“I won't disappoint you or Piltover. I'll write your history as truthfully as I can.”

She nods, releasing your hand.

“Don't forget Zaun.” Vi says, standing up and giving you your letter back.

“I'm allowed there?” You take the letter, tucking it inside your coat pocket.

“Of course,” she scoffs, head gesturing towards the large window that overlooks the bridge connecting Zaun and Piltover. “It's open, kid, just cross the bridge.”

You can't help but think that she's egging you on, trying to rile you up by your fear of the undercity. It would work if you were actually afraid of it. Truth be told, you're excited to see what Zaun has in store for you.

“I'll keep that in mind.” Your smile tells them just that.

—

You feel like a piece of meat being scrutinized by the whole council. Their eyes hold unsung words as they stare at you in their important chairs. But you're not backing down, not when you’ve come so far. The spotlight above you shines brightly, making it harder to see the council members’ faces. You didn't expect to stand before them, practically dragged by an enforcer by your ear. If you did expect it, you might've prepared a speech or something. Now you're just standing there awkwardly under the harsh light.

“She's Noxian.” The one with platinum blond hair says, ringed fingers tapping on Mel's letter that they've passed around. “People might not be comfortable with her running around. For all we know she could be a spy.”

You scrunch your face, mouth clamped shut to prevent a nasty word from escaping.

“That's why she should be running around,” Caitlyn defends you. She sits on the head of the circular table, blue hair shining under the light. “The people need to not be afraid of them any longer. Are you afraid, councilor?”

The blond sucks in her teeth, annoyed.

“Caitlyn's right, it'll be good in the long run. If what the letter has stated is true, then we might be able to establish trade routes with Noxus in the future.” The councilor with a golden mask hiding half of their face says, voice gentle and soft amidst the previous arguing. “Mend the relationship between our two countries.” A handful of them nod in agreement.

“Say,” someone with short hair and strong features says, “does it work? Telling them about the shit they've done?”

“Yes,” you stand up straighter. “My professor has been recording these histories for a couple hundred years or so. Whenever her writing has reached the people it has helped. Little by little the histories have opened our eyes to the cruelty of war. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't worked.” They listen to you intently. “I'm the direct evidence of that.”

She shifts in her seat, dark eyes swirling with thoughts, and a metal arm glimmering under the light. “Are you from a noble house just like Medarda?”

“No, I'm just like everyone else in Noxus. Our research and expenses have been sponsored by a noble house though. That's the only connection I have with the nobles of Noxus.” You swallow thickly, “only just recently I've found myself acquainted with Mel Medarda.”

“You've mentioned your professor and his unusually long lifespan, and due to that, he has gathered what…” A stout council member flips through a book, you guess he has done his research about you. “Approximately 271 first hand accounts of Noxus’ cruelty?”

“It's 283,” you say with a steely gaze. “And she isn't like everyone else. She has chosen to use her long lifespan to help, to enhance her knowledge, not gather riches for her own benefit.”

“Do you intend to do the same?” Caitlyn asks, voice calm and reserved.

“Yes,” you close your hands into fists, this time you don't release the pressure. “I won't be able to live as long as her, but I can try to achieve something close to what she has done.”

“You remind me of someone.” Caitlyn's muffled words were so quiet you thought you heard wrong. Before you could simmer on what she has said, she clears her throat. “We can monitor her progress by meeting up with her every week until she has finished her work. Make sure that she's writing the whole truth.” They nod at her words. “All in favour of her staying and doing her research?”

The air grows heavy, stifling as they ponder what Caitlyn relayed to them. For a minute or so, you thought you were about to go empty handed.

The woman with the metal arm raises her hand in favour. Then more follow, until only two of the council members remain.

“That settles it then.” Caitlyn nods at you, and you feel like a fish bone stuck in your throat has been finally pulled out. “You may interview anyone who is willing. Don't make us regret this decision.”

You inhale deeply, you feel the world is sitting atop your shoulders now. “I won't.”

—

Violet and Caitlyn receive you in a much brighter mood than before. The office is filled with sunlight as it spreads across the expansive room, the curtains are furled, and the weather has cleared up since you got into Piltover. The air smells like bergamot and a hint of something sweet. A sweetness that is revealed when a plate of sugar cookies is placed on the table in front of you, accompanied by a cup of steaming tea.

You've been interviewing them for more than three hours now, hence why they've brought out the snacks and drinks that are slowly getting colder as it lays there untouched. With every question they answer, the scene of war gets clearer and clearer in your head. And as you go further and further into the conversation, their expression changes from sadness to anger. You take care of your wording from then on, make sure that you show tact in front of their war torn faces.

“What happened up there?” You ask after they both recall their side of the story. “While Violet was fighting with…” you pause as Vi exhales shakily. Clearing your throat, you don't poke and prod at her side anymore. She's still living through the pain of what happened, they all are. Caitlyn seems to think the same thing. “I'm sorry.”

“How about we continue that part for next time?” She squeezes Vi’s hand affectionately. “As for what happened up in the hextower with Viktor and Jace, we don't know the whole story. We just know that Ekko was the one who ended it.” You write the name atop your notebook for reference, the tip of your gilded pen tapping along it.

“He hasn't talked to us about it.” Vi adds after a bated breath. “Or to me after….Jinx.” Her brows pinch together in hurt. “I still have no idea how he got her to help us. All I know is that he did everything he could to end it. For that we’re grateful for him, even if he doesn't want us to be.”

“Jinx,” you repeat the stranger's name softly. Mind locking his and her name together. “Was Ekko close with your sister?”

She chuckles, eyes turned towards the smoke rising from her cup. “Once, when we were kids.”

Cait leans closer towards her, thumb brushing gently atop her calloused knuckles. “You don't have to tell it now if you don't want to, Vi.”

“I'm sorry about your sister.” You gently shut your notebook close. “I don't want to push you into recalling a memory that still aches.”

“You can tell that she's gone by that? I must look fucking sad right now then.” Vi half jokes, nudging Cait’s shoulder with her own, a subtle way of saying that she's alright.

You smile gently, “I know the look, I've seen it a hundred times before. But it doesn't feel any easier every time I see it. I really am sorry.”

Vi sighs, and Cait squeezes her once more. “You're right, let's do this some other time.” She stands up abruptly, pacing towards the open window, basking in the warmth of the Piltover sun. Your lips are already forming apologies, “and don't say sorry again.” She looks over her shoulder as Caitlyn follows right behind her. “You're just doing your job. Don't worry, I'm not gonna lunge at you for asking about it.”

You nod, standing up. “When you're ready, I'm just here. Thank you for your time.”

They both nod as Caitlyn's hands rub along Vi’s arms. Before you could leave, Caitlyn calls after you. Her heels clicking against the marble floors as she walks over to you. “Wait here.” You do as you're told. She turns around towards the coffee table to grab a handful of cookies, placing it over an open napkin and then folding it neatly. “You should talk to Sevika, she's a council member representing Zaun. She could help with their side of the story.” She reaches for your hand when you only stare at her, opening your palm for you and giving you the wrapped cookies. “Figured you haven't eaten yet.”

“Thank you, Caitlyn.” You smile sweetly at her, hand now heavy with the cookies.

“Sevika talks to Ekko almost everyday ever since they've become partners in restoring Zaun. You'll have a better chance at having a minute with him through her.”

“Where is she in Zaun?”

“Are you afraid now?” She raises a thin brow, eyes shining under the sunlight.

“Not even a little.” You smile, “I just heard that it's easy to get lost in the lanes.”

Cait nods, “She's near the harbour.”

“Thank you,” you turn to open the door but before you do, you look back at them. “and thank you for the hospitality.”

—

You walk through Zaun with purpose. The lanes look much better than what you've seen through reports. The streets are no longer dark and bleak, there are street lamps in every corner, and the shops look like they're thriving just as well as their Piltover counterparts. There are green overgrowths, flowers and grass peeking from concrete cracks and vines growing and slithering atop metal walls.

You've only been in Piltover for a week, and you've spent most of it talking to willing council members and citizens. They all convey the same thing you've seen before in people who have suffered tremendous trauma. The hurt is embedded in their eyes, grief in their bones. But you also see the same thing in their tone just like what you've seen countless times before— hope, it's laced in their way of talking, weaved through their movements as they go about their day to day operations. You can see that they're looking forward to tomorrow, even when the past still knocks on their doors. You see them answer the knocking, but never letting it enter and fester in their home.

You see the same thing in Zaun, they've suffered as much as Piltover had, even more before the war. The walls still bear the violence it once carried, the air still shifts with heaviness and voices lost in the very streets you're walking on. The place buzzes with life, Zaunites rebuilding their home, people carry on, life carries on.

As you go further and further into the heart of the undercity, you see the same face on the walls, blue hair flowing in the breeze, shining eyes staring down at you through her steely gaze. Every corner you see a semblance of the mysterious girl, blue and pink trailing behind her, people rallying alongside her. They all bear the same hope, some weave anger akin to a woman scorned through the graffiti, some etch her face with sorrow and loss. But it's all the same face, same eyes, same hair. You think you already know who she is.

You make it to the center of Zaun where a hefty statue stands. It's a sculpture of a man with an air of authority around him. Curious, you read the plaque next to his feet, reading his name— Vander. You recognize his name from what Violet has told you. Looking up at him, you see through his bronze eyes, if only he could talk, all the stories he would tell.

His statue has blue flowers placed at his feet in respect to him. There’s a banging sound right behind it, getting your attention. Peeking behind the statue, you see what looks like a bar being rebuilt upon the ashes of what it used to be. With one last look at Vander, you continue towards your destination.

Walking along the harbour brings you peace, the water lapping at the coast. You hug your coat tighter around your torso, cold breeze seeping through the fabric as the air flutters your lashes.

You make it to Sevika's place without a hitch. She surprisingly waits for you right outside her door, expression flat as she stands on the steps.

“Finally made it.” She wears a brown poncho over a white shirt, silky hair falling over her face. “Vi told me you were coming.” She answers your silent question when she sees your confused expression. “Come.” Before you could get a word in, she's already heading inside.

—

Your eyes as usual roam around your surroundings, ever curious at what kind of person you're about to talk to. Her office is smaller compared to the Kiramman estate, but it doesn't lack personality. The work table in front of you is solid oak, papers and metal parts litter over it right next to a heavy looking arm with colourful doodles all over it. The walls are concrete, a honeycomb brown painted over it. The circular windows are fully open, overlooking the harbour below. It lets in a cool sea breeze while the sun has fully set in the horizon. The quiet hum of the lights and radiator tamps down any left over anxiety you have.

Right behind Sevika's chair lies an aquarium filled with colourful fish and rocks placed on the aquarium floor. It gurgles and lets out air from time to time, it's faint blue light bathing your form. The potted plants dotted along the room dance in the breeze, its rustling sound reminds you of the tree back home swaying in the wind.

From what you've heard about her, she seems like a woman of few words, someone who prefers to use her fist instead of talking. But based on what you've heard from her so far after talking to her for two hours, she seems far from what she used to be. You look at her and you see a council member, a pillar of Zaun. A lot can happen in three years.

Your eyes glance back towards the metal arm, its shark-like feature has you curious at how it even works. Index reaching towards it, chair creaking from under you, your curiosity makes you touch the cold metal, its pink and blue paint rough against the pad of your finger.

The door creaks open as Sevika enters, light flooding inside the room and you immediately flinch back into your seat. “You're sitting in the dark, kid.” She flicks the light switch beside her, warm yellow light flooding in.

You look over the backrest of the chair to see her properly and not a reflection of her on the aquarium glass. “I didn't know where the light switch was.” She didn't seem to notice what you were just doing.

“You could've asked.” Her heavy footsteps thump on the creaky floorboards.

“Don't worry, I'm not afraid of the dark—” the clang of a metallic plate placed in front of you makes you jump in your seat. You stare at her, wide-eyed.

She chuckles lowly, sitting down on her seat with a tired grunt. Gesturing towards a plate of salted biscuits, and small sandwiches, she meets with your eyes confidently. “Sorry for the lack of spread. I didn't expect for us to take this long.” She takes the same heavy arm from the table, grabbing a bottle and oiling the hinges with care.

“It's fine, thank you.” You grab a biscuit, all the while eyeing the craftsmanship of the metallic arm. Sevika notices your stare.

“What, never seen one of these before?”

“No, I've seen prosthetics before. It's just— this one is unique looking.” You say while chewing, finding the biscuit pleasantly salty. The sandwich looks enticing from where you're sitting.

She chuckles wryly. “A fancy way of saying it looks fucked up. I rarely use it these days, I use this one instead” she lifts up the simpler looking metal arm she currently has on. “I just like to…take care of it. Make sure it doesn't rust.”

You smile, “it means a lot to you, I get it.” Your thumb brushes along your beloved pen. “It looks well made, did you build it yourself?”

“It was a gift.” She hums in reply, now wiping a cloth around the arm. “Where were we?”

“We're at the part where I told you that we should rest.” You say with a teasing smile.

“We're done resting, kid.” She scoffs.

“And just like what I've told you before you took off, you don't need to rush it. We can take our time.”

“I want to get this over with.” Sevika leans on the table, eyes narrowed at you. “Where were we, kid?” She says with extra emphasis.

“Let's see…” You lean on the table yourself, mirroring her look but with a smug smirk while pretending to flip through the pages of your notebook. “We were at the part where your ass was being handed to you.”

If you talked to her like that three years ago, your ass would be the one being handed to you. But now, Sevika laughs loudly, moving away as she sits back on her chair.

She grabs a biscuit, using it to point at you before taking a bite. “You’ve got balls. You would've thrived here a few years ago, eh?”

“Maybe, we'll never know.” You shrug. “Now, are you sure you want to continue?”

“I've got a busy schedule, of fucking course I want to continue.”

“Okay, I just needed to make sure you're alright.”

Her eyes dart towards the arm, frowning briefly before looking back at you. She puts it down with a slight clang against the table. “I'm fine,” she sighs, and you nod in understanding, clicking your pen as you ready to scribble down her words. “After I got nabbed by one of those creepy puppets, there was just darkness with bits of light. Like a… like stars.” You write her exact words.

“You felt like you were floating, but were still restrained in real life.” You recall the same feeling the other people you've talked to relayed.

“Yeah, exactly that.” Her eyes swim with thoughts. “Then, I was back— just like that.” She snaps her fingers together.

“Like you woke up from a dream?”

She shuts her eyes close for a second before opening it again. “I heard the last echo of an explosion, when I looked up at the hex tower, it was already gone.” Taking another bite, she continues. “I guess that was Ekko’s work.”

There it is again, that recurring name. “I keep hearing about him.” Your pen subconsciously circles around his name.

“The boy savior, they call him.” She slumps down on her seat, evidence of her fatigue etched under her dark eyes. “And we still don't know how he fucking did it.”

You pinch your brows together in questioning. “You don't know either?”

“Fuck no, we might work together to help Zaunites, but he still hates my guts.” She blinks at you, lips pursing together. “Maybe you can get him to talk. I'm as curious as everyone else, we never know, the kid might have some secret weapon on him.”

“Who is he really? Violet says he's an old childhood friend. The others don't know much about him either, all I know is that he saved everyone at the last minute.”

“I think it's best that you ask him yourself, kid. Ain't that your job?”

You sigh, closing your notebook. “You're right, where is he usually?”

“Firelights hideout. It used to be a secret but they opened it to everyone who needed it after the war.” She crosses her leg over the other.

“Fireflies?”

“Firelights.” She corrects. “He's the leader, has been since the very beginning.” Her eyes go towards your closed notebook. “Hey, we're not done here yet, kid!”

You stand up, tilting your head at her teasingly. “I know, you told me to find Ekko so I'm going to go find him.”

“Well, not right now!”

You're already at the door. “I'll come back, don't worry! Y’know it's best to tell your story after some rest, it helps in better recollection.” You're not lying, she did seem tired. And you're in too deep to not go and find him now before the day officially ends.

She glares at you, mouth slightly agape. “I'm going to hit you.” She's starting to stand up when you sprint away.

“Thank you for the hospitality, councilor Sevika!”

—

Zaun is fully alive at night. The streets are filled with people laughing and hanging out with their loved ones. Which means there's plenty of people to ask where the firelights hideout is. Good thing that some of them were drunk enough to not ask you questions, the downside is that they're too drunk to give you coherent directions. So you're stuck in the middle of the undercity looking lost, but with the help of some people who haven't had a drink yet, you manage to find the entrance after an hour of walking around. All the while you try to ignore the looming presence following right behind you ever since you left Sevika's. Whoever it is, they don't seem to want to hurt you, so you pretend to not sense them until they decide to reveal themselves, or fight you. Whichever comes first.

Your feet ache and your stomach grumbles, but the sight of the huge gingko tree with its lively leaves swaying in the night wind makes it all worth it. A smile slowly spreads across your cheeks, the air is fresher down here, wind fluttering your lashes, sending goosebumps to spread across your arms.

The twinkling fairy lights make you chuckle to yourself, children run amok, giggling while their parents try to call them back home. The place is beautiful in its own way. You can see the large walls enclosed around the commune with circular vents dotted around it, a remnant of its past secrecy.

“You can come out now.” You say in a confident tone. Looking over your shoulder, you see his outline, the person who has been following your entire journey to the hideout. “I was lost and you didn't even bother helping me.”

“I heard you were looking for me.”

The mysterious man comes out of the shadow, the dark parting for him like theatre curtains.

Draped in a large puffy coat, steely brown eyes glaring at you through the white face paint. His whole demeanor screams ‘leader.’ White hair shining in the moonlight, twists tied in a bun while a few strands drape over his face. The blue metallic charms wrapped around his hair clinks together whenever he moves. The hoverboard hums in his hand, the faint green light illuminating his face as it flickers in and out. Adding to the intimidating air he's trying to convey.

You have to admit it, he looks strikingly handsome, albeit intimidating and tough. But you like tough, and intimidating is just another word for overawe, but you're not easily impressed. His daunting shell is an obstacle for you to crack open and take a peek inside. You're curious what his genius mind thinks, out of all the things they've all told you, nothing else has gotten you beyond excited than the man standing before you. His side is the final piece of the puzzle, the pièce de résistance you need.

You smile at him, a genuine one, not the same polite smile you give when you're interviewing someone. “It's nice to finally put a face to the name.” Hand reaching out to him in greeting, he just looks at your stretched hand, eyes darting all over your form suspiciously. You're suddenly conscious of your posture and how you wear your clothes.

“You're noxian.”

“What, too obvious?” You gesture around your crimson clad self. Outfit tailored to suit you and your profession.

His gaze narrows, eyes turning to slits as his mouth turns into a scowl. “Are you spying on us?”

“No,” you furrow your brows, hand retracting back to your side, the sound of your leather messenger bag thumps against your hand.

A tad disappointed. “didn't Sevika tell you about me? Or Vi?”

He flicks his aprehensive eyes from your head to your shoes, knuckles tightening around the hammer he carries. “Guess you weren't important enough.”

“I guess that's why you were following me, huh?” You say sarcastically. If I wasn't that important, why follow me? Is what you wanted to say, but you're playing it cool, lest you lose what precious time you have with him. You need to get his story.

He scoffs, hand still holding his weapon, resting it atop his shoulder. “You were asking too many questions. You could've been robbed or killed.” A breeze passes by between you, rustling the leaves above and slicing the tension.

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity and the cat.” His frown deepens, teeth grindingly frustrated. You sigh, swallowing down your sass. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” You tell him your name as nicely as you can. You've come far from brawling with fellow noxians at the bar, if only your mentor could see you now. “I'm a noxian historian, Mel Medarda tasked me to record and write what happened here three years ago so that—” he's already walking away from you. “—hey!”

“Save me your sales pitch.” Ekko puts the board on his back and hooks the hammer on his belt in one fluid motion as he walks further into the commune.

“Sales—! I'm not trying to sell you anything.” You follow behind whilst people walk past you, all staring at the interaction you're having with their leader. The place is lively despite the moon gazing down upon them. The place smells faintly of freshly cut grass and mint. “I just want to talk to you.”

“We're talking now.” He says all without looking over his shoulder.

“Wait! Can you at least listen to what I have to say? Just give me a minute.” You try to follow even when he expertly dodges around people and buildings. He's trying to lose you in the hubbub of the hideout. “Ekko, please!” As you round a corner, you see him retreating up to the tree, hoverboard humming from under him as he dashes upwards. “Oh come on, man!”

He looks down at you with a faint smirk, brow raised as he watches you kick a lone can in frustration. Stepping down from his board, he enters his tree house, making sure that you hear the slam of his door.

“So you're not going to talk to me?!” You yell up, palms cupping the sides of your mouth. The firelights look at you with a mix of annoyance and confusion. “Ekko!”

“Go away!” His voice is carried by the wind, he doesn't even poke his head out of the window to talk to you clearly.

You stomp your foot on the dusty ground. “Fine! Thank you for talking to me!” You sarcastically say, almost sticking out your tongue out at him childishly. Sighing, you compose yourself, trying to smile and kindly wave at the passers by. “Hello, sorry.” Walking back to where you came from, you mutter a curse under your breath.

You can't exactly blame him for not talking, you are a stranger to him. If he doesn't want to speak to an old childhood friend and comrade then he definitely won't talk to you. Your tired feet carry you out, but the smell of something savoury takes you away. Looking towards the source, you see a small food stand nearby, its fire blazing and its fried food calling for you.

“Maybe just a bite.” You're already walking towards it with purpose, coin pouch already out of your pocket as you find your seat.

—

The moon rises high above you as you've finally eaten your fill and left the commune with less coins in your pocket, and your feet aching. At least you've talked and interviewed a few people along the way. The trip wasn't all wasted, but you can't help but feel like you're missing out on Ekko.

As you enter an alleyway leading out into Vander's statue, you hear footsteps echoing behind you.

“Did you change your mind—!?” A bullet whizzes by your head, dodging it at the last minute as it leaves a dark streak where it almost hit you right in between your eyes. “Hey!”

Three people come out of the shadow, they're all in different builds, one lanky and holding the pistol that's still smoking. While right next to him is all muscle, fists at the ready. The last person to show themselves is much younger, a smaller boy who couldn't be older than seventeen. His lips tremble slightly, but his eyes are determined as he raises a knife towards you.

“A tourist enters a dark alleyway only to be met by a gang of ruffians.” You click your tongue, “How cliché.” Taking off your messenger bag, and dropping it at your feet, you take your golden pen from your pocket. “My professor wouldn't give you a passing grade.”

“Shut it, girly!” The one with the gun shrieks, pulling the hammer down, ready to shoot again. “Give us the bag or I'll shoot you right between your eyes.”

You suck in your teeth, egging them on. “Nope, not a chance, I've got all my writing in there.”

“I'll count to ten then I'll send my men after you!”

You tilt your head, thumb brushing along the side of your pen. “What men? All I see is a brute who probably blocks with his face and the other looks like he's about to piss himself.” Hand raising in front of you, you point at them with the end of your pen. A familiar mechanical humming seems to get closer and closer towards the alley, you ignore the sound. “And one coward who can't even shoot for shit. I've seen better aim from talking goats—!”

“Shut up!” A shot rings out, the scene unfolds in slow motion. Muzzle flash and gunpowder flying about into the air as you twist and click your pen.

“Shit, look out!” Ekko's voice pierces the night air, but the sound of your pen clicking and whirring into place as it stretches silences the thudding in your heart.

His hand reaches for you, hovering above on his board as he desperately tries to get you away. Just as his fingers close around the collar of your coat, your gilded pen turns into a sharp rapier. The bullet collides with the tip of the sword, effectively slicing it down the middle and shattering it into pieces.

Metal shards bounces off, one scratching your cheek while sparks were flying about as Ekko couldn't stop his momentum. Eyes wide in shock, hand still holding onto you, he brings you down with him. The two of you slam against the side of the building in a harsh thump. Collapsing on each other, head hitting his own.

Your shoulder hits the brick wall, while Ekko slinks down right next to you, tumbling down on his hoverboard. “Ekko?!” You've come face to face with the boy savior himself. He heaves in place, hand still holding onto your back. “You idiot! I had it!”

“Me?! You're the one flaunting your money all over Zaun!”

You gasp, clutching your imaginary pearls. “Flaunting?! I—”

“Grab her!” Great, you've forgotten about the would-be thieves.

“Stay here!” Ekko tries to stand up but his board landed on his leg awkwardly, weighing him down. “Damn it.”

“No, you stay here!” Scrambling up, you poke at his chest, right in the middle of the bright pink ‘X’

“Get the sword! It looks like it's made of gold!” The shooter instructs, his idiot twosome striding quickly towards you.

“Oh you can take my fucking money but you can't take my fucking pen!” You ready your stance, one hand gripping the sword.

“Wait!” Ekko finally gets up, now able to push the heavy board out from above him. “Don't—!”

They rush towards you, instead of thrusting your sword into their intestines, you take the blunt approach by slapping them with the sides of the sword that isn't as sharp. The whipping sound rings in your ears, followed by their pained and shocked groans.

“Ow! What the—?!” The younger goon grasps at his reddening cheek, pain blooming where you slapped him with the rapier.

“Didn't your mother teach you manners?” With one side swipe, you keep landing harsh slaps all over the bigger goon. He yelps, touching where you just hit him. They can't even get close to you as you keep smacking them whenever they get near. Their hips, legs, cheek, and butt are no longer safe from your walloping.

Your grin is unmistakable, clearly having fun at…whatever it is you're doing.

Meanwhile, Ekko looks at you with a raised brow, mouth slightly agape at the ridiculousness happening in front of him. Completely gawking at the scene. They tried to kill you and take your things, so why are you playing with them like they're children? One even has a knife for fucks sake.

“Enough!” The shooter yells from the other side of the alleyway. His hand shakes whilst both of his henchmen sink down to their knees when you hit a particular spot in between their legs. “Stop playing around!”

Ekko steps right next to you, glaring at the man while his hand grabs his hammer from his belt. “What do you think you're doing, hm?” His jaw tightens, “I thought I finally got into that thick head of yours.” You can see why he's considered as the leader. He bears it well.

You pant in place, watching as the air around you turns parlous as Ekko stands his ground. You flick your eyes at the two men crawling by your feet, still incapacitated, skin turning into a red angry hue.

“Let us have this one, man!” He gestures wildly with his gun, despite the threat of it accidentally going off, you and Ekko don't even flinch. He notices, eyes glancing briefly at you. “She's noxian anyway!”

Your brows furrow in anger, hand tightening around the handle of your sword. The younger you would've lunged immediately, but you let Ekko handle his people, you can see that's what he's trying to silently convey to you based on how he's standing slightly in front of you. Ready to shield you if need be. Or ready to hold you back if you do decide to pounce.

“You've got a decent job all lined up, and a kid waiting for you back home.” His tone doesn't waver. “The three of you have people waiting back home and yet you decide to hit a noxian who knows how to fight!”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” You mutter under your breath, fixing your hold on your rapier.

He heard your mumbling, glaring at you for half a second before returning his attention back towards the trio. “Go home.”

“But—”

“Go before I sic this noxian on you.”

You fake a lunge at them, effectively making them run with their tails tucked in between their legs. As they scramble off, you smile at their retreating backs, leaving you and Ekko in the dust. Adrenaline still flows in your veins, bouncing on the balls of your feet from the rush of it all.

“You showed them— oof!” Your bag is suddenly shoved in your chest.

“Go. Home.” He points at you, finger poking at the leather of your bag.

“Hey! I'm not a zaunite so you can't tell me what to do.” You put your bag over your shoulder, hand still enclosed around the hilt of your sword, its golden sheen shining in the dim streetlights. “Come on, we make a pretty good team together, right?”

He kicks his hoverboard, and it whirrs into life, green light bouncing around the alleyway. “What were you doing?” Looking over his shoulder, he sees the cut on your cheek.

“What?” You scrunch your nose, still bouncing on your feet. Following his gaze, you touch at the ache blooming on your face, feeling the warm blood oozing out of it. “Oh, it's fine, just a cut.” He twists around to face you fully, arms crossed over his chest. You realize that you can use the time to question him. “What do you mean by your question exactly?”

He inhales, eyes flitting between your face and the sword. “You have a fancy sword and you don't even know how to use it.”

“Trust me, I know how to use it.” Lifting it up, you let the gold inlays glimmer in the light. Its swirling patterns catch his curious brown eyes. “I just— I promised myself a long time ago that I won't draw blood unless absolutely necessary.” Thumb tracing the button, you twist your hand and click it. The sword retracts back into a pen within a second. “Do you think I'll travel alone defenseless?” He narrows his eyes further, slowly calming down. “The question is, what are you doing here, Ekko? Were you worried about little ol' me?” Your eyes shine with mischief.

“You're never letting this whole interview thing go, huh?” He jumps backwards onto his hoverboard, arms still crossed on his chest. His brown eyes swim with something you can't decipher.

“As much as I want to respect your decision, I need your side of history. You're the missing piece, Ekko.” You shrug, smiling. “And unfortunately I can't leave without that missing piece.”

His lips purse into frustration, eyes darting along the wall sitting behind you. “Damn it.” Without another word, he flies off into the night, leaving streaks of green in his wake.

“Wait!” Your eyes follow him but you remain in place. “Why does he keep doing that?” Chuckling, you look at what he was staring at, finding the same blue haired girl painted on the walls. “If only you could talk, my job would be way easier.”

—

“Tell her to leave Zaun alone.” Ekko's commanding voice rises above the Kiramman office. His fists thump against the desk, sending papers and pens to topple over.

Caitlyn sighs in her chair while Vi settles to lean against the bookshelf behind Cait. Sevika pinches the bridge of her nose, standing near the windows as her previous words were ignored by Ekko.

“We can't just bar her from Zaun, Ekko.” Caitlyn answers back. “She has a job to do, a job that the council would want her to finish.”

“What for?” He huffs, “it already happened, people died, we almost lost but we didn't, end of story.”

“Because of your help, Ekko.” Vi finally speaks after what felt like hours of back and forth. “Which, none of us knows what you did to win it for all of us. She needs the whole story so that it works. So that people know what the arcane is capable of, so that it doesn't happen again.”

“I did it for Zaun.”

“I talked to her,” Sevika says from her spot. “If I could do that, kid, then you can.”

“You can't force me.” Ekko straightens up.

“We're not—” Caitlyn starts.

“Ekko,” Vi inhales sharply, hand playing with a metallic trinket shaped like a monkey, its surface singed, paint chipping away. “This could bring peace. We all know what's stirring in Noxus, if shit hits the fan again— I…I can't do that again.”

Ekko can't get his eyes off of Vi’s hands wrapped around the seemingly odd thing.

“We can ally with the other nations if need be.” Caitlyn grasps Vi’s hand briefly before rubbing her temples, “what happened here was a warning.” Her voice wavers. “If we can warn the people of Runeterra with it, we could save millions of lives.”

“Are you sure you can talk about this with her here?” Ekko gestures towards you sitting quietly in your chair.

You blink, pausing from blowing at your steaming cup of tea. “Is it rude to blow at your tea?”

“She signed a confidentiality agreement. You can always retract statements so she doesn't write it down. She just needs to write what happened, nothing else.”

“You'll be nice to Ekko, right, Spark?” Vi gently smiles at you.

“As long as the boy savior here is nice to me.”

Ekko groans, surrendering. “Let's get this over with.”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

Please consider reblogging if you liked it! Please tell me what you think ❤️

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saintobio · 10 months ago

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LONG LIVE THE VILLAINESS !

amidst the tale of sweetest love and bitterest revenge, the fallen empress is cast back ten years into the past to correct her sins and avoid eternal damnation, even at the price of betraying her once husband, the very cause of her downfall.

♱ pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader

♱ genre. enemies-to-lovers, period piece, medieval au

♱ tags. ooc, regression, crown prince!gojo, noble lady!reader, politics, classism, clan wars, religion (catholicism), misogyny, violence, war, rebellion, suggestive, smut, gore, double life, explicit language, more to be added

♱ notes. this fic draws heavy inspirations from the webnovel ‘sister, i am the queen in this life’ and manhwa of the same name. it’s basically a fanfic of that series bc i am obsessed with it :’D

♱ status. on-going (slow updates)

♱ SECOND TIMELINE TO AS YOU LIKE IT ♱

PROLOGUE.

ACT I. THE LADY

ACT II. THE CROWN PRINCE

ACT III. THE KNIGHT

ACT IV. THE STAR CROSSED LOVERS

ACT V. THE BLESSED

ACT VI. THE SIN

ACT VII. THE REVELATION

ACT VIII. THE ENEMY

ACT IX. THE LOVER

ACT X. THE EMPRESS

EPILOGUE.

PROLOGUE

Like plunging beneath the surface of water and then, abruptly, breaking through to the air above—your body jolted as if awakening in a new world altogether. You drew in a long breath, your eyes fluttering open to reveal the ceiling, both familiar yet unfamiliar in its greeting. Swiftly, you surveyed your surroundings, noting with growing recognition the confines of your old room within the De Roma estate. The estate!

You were not in the palace of Caelum, but in the estate of House De Roma. A surge of realization flooded through you as you dashed towards the nearest mirror, confronting your reflection with wide, startled eyes.

No... could it be... that you have returned to your body, ten years prior?!

In the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was not that of the notorious wife of the tyrant Emperor Satoru, but of a 20-year-old maiden, the eldest daughter of Duke de Roma, with fuller cheeks and a more youthful appearance. You could not shake the feeling of disbelief, wondering if this was all just a dream, so you reached out to touch your arms and felt the flesh beneath your fingers, trying to convince yourself that this was an unexpected reality.

Oh, you were back. You found yourself returned to your former self, a decade younger, but now armed with the knowledge of your past life's actions and their consequences. Alongside this newfound understanding, the gift of clairvoyance had also been bestowed upon you.

And for what? Why had the heavens above returned you to your body? Was it for revenge, a second chance, or perhaps punishment?

Suddenly, a loud, deafening sound pierced your ears, and a blinding white light enveloped your vision. Your body became as still as a statue, and it felt as though your soul was transported to a fourth dimension where divine intervention seemed a lot more plausible to exist.

As your soul hovered in the liminal space between life and death, you found yourself standing before a figure cloaked in billowing robes, her presence commanding and her gaze piercing. This figure was Fortuna, the ancient Caelan goddess of fortune and fate, her visage austere and unforgiving.

“Are you aware of the sins that stain your soul?”

“Have you felt the weight of your transgressions, the consequences of your actions that have wrought suffering upon your people and brought ruin to your empire?”

Her voice echoed through the realm with the divine judgment that weighed upon your conscience, while her gaze penetrated to the core of your being and demanded honesty and accountability in the face of your past misdeeds.

“Will you atone for your sins?”

“Will you seize this opportunity for redemption, or will you squander it in self-pity and remorse?”

As you stood in the presence of the ancient goddess, grappling with the heaviness of your sins and the daunting task ahead, a brilliant light had all of a sudden illuminated the space around you. From the heart of this radiant glow emerged the figure of Archangel Raphael, his presence heralded by a chorus of angelical voices and the stirring of celestial winds.

Clad in robes that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of celestial light, Archangel Raphael's presence commanded attention, his wings unfurled behind him in a display of resolute authority. If Goddess Fortuna was intimidating, the archangel was fearsome all the more. His gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over you with a gravity that left no room for evasion or deceit.

“Empress of Caelum,” he spoke, his tone firm and unyielding, and his voice carrying a billion years of heavenly existence, “You stand accused of grievous sins, crimes that have shaken the very foundations of your empire and brought suffering upon your people.”

There was no trace of softness in Archangel Raphael's demeanor, no room for mercy in the face of wrongdoing. His presence was a testament to the uncompromising nature of divine justice, his strictness a reflection of the solemn duty entrusted to him as an Archangel of the Almighty. This, no doubt, was the face of a true and formidable executor of justice.

And you, the subject, had angered the divine beings that guarded the Caelan Empire, so much so that God himself sent the goddess of the land and one of his archangels to mitigate your rightful punishment.

“By the decree of the Almighty, you are granted a second chance to amend your sins and redeem your soul. You shall return to the mortal realm, to live your life anew and correct the sins that have stained your soul.”

“Should you fail to rectify your past transgressions, should you stray from the path of righteousness and succumb once more to the temptations of darkness, know that the consequences shall be severe and eternal.”

“For those who squander the gift of divine mercy shall be cast into the deepest depths of hell, where they shall endure a punishment of unending torment and suffering.”

In the presence of Archangel Raphael and Goddess Fortuna’s equally stern gazes, you were keenly aware of the magnitude of your transgressions and the severity of the judgment that awaited you. But even as you trembled beneath the weight of their scrutiny, you knew that their presence also offered you the opportunity for redemption, with your only task to prove yourself worthy of divine mercy.

Indeed, it was by your very hands that hundreds and thousands of Christian souls shed their blood. Innocent lives, both young and old, were cruelly taken at your command. The citizens of Caelum who fell sick from the spread of the plague. The esteemed Caelan advisors of your husband’s primogenitors, skinned alive and speared in pikes by the Tiber River. The wrongly accused maid who suffered the indignity of serving your husband, paraded unclothed through the streets and subjected to the brutality of the pear of anguish. The gallant and dignified knight, tortured mentally and physically in the atrocious dungeon. Now, you find yourself thrust back into the horrors of your former life ten years hence. A life of a noble lady who ought not to be blinded by her destructive love for the empire’s crown prince.

Yet, could you truly navigate this life without ascending to the position as his empress?

As you tried to commune with the divine beings afore you, a haze in your vision transported you away from the heavenly space, realizing that you were already drawn back into the reality of your chamber, inhabiting the youthful frame of a twenty-year-old daughter of a duke. You found yourself too astonished to move, too shaken to speak, and too afraid to take any action in this new lease of life blessed upon you. At that very moment, your state of reverie was disrupted at the arrival of your maid, who entered your chamber in a humble servant garb.

Milena. The maid whose life was cut short by your hand in your past existence due to petty thievery. “My lady,” she spoke with a hint of respect and urgency, unaware of the ill-fate you had given her in your past life, “A visitor has arrived at the gates and requests an audience with you. Shall I show them in?”

Too soon? Need it truly be so soon to engage with the people from your past life immediately after awakening to your old, yet younger body? Gazing upon your maid through the mirror, you asked, “Who is that intruder you speak of?”

She bowed her head, her stance shifting into one of apologetic deference. The way she firmly stood by your door was a message to you that the intruder was not someone you could easily reject the presence of.

“The visitor is His Highness, Crown Prince Satoru.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

#series: lltv #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk royal au #slow updates bc sy is prio #i will not write this in archaic english anymore ITS HARD AF #but i had to put this out there so i can remind myself to write it *sobs*#might just write this on the side

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simonbrain · 2 months ago

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nothing made sense before you. it was like a fog permanently rested over simon—a dark, heavy cloud that weighed on his shoulders, constantly soaking him in his sins and grief. the cavity in his chest worsened the older he got, darkness spreading all over his heart until his ribs were nothing more than an empty cage, and he got better at ignoring the aching pain and the need to become someone meaningful. he fully accepted that he would die on the field and be forgotten, that he would become a fleeting thought, and the riley name would finally—properly—perish with him.

well, now that he thinks about it, he can't help but feel eternally grateful for you. how could he have lived like that?

the new life he leads now is nothing like what he was used to. he sits on the couch with a beer in his hand, the other resting on his full belly as a football match drones on in the back. pictures hang on the walls with your bright smile in each one. your scent sticks to everything in the house, especially on simon's shirts, and your plants and flowers sit on top of the shelves and table. the smell of toffee wafts into the living room, each wave making his nose perk up and water pool in his mouth even though he's certain he can't stuff anymore food down.

he's staring at you. he's watching the way you move around the kitchen—how there's not a lick of tension or stress in your body as you go about making the sauce for the sticky toffee pudding. your shoulders are relaxed, and you sway a little, humming one of your favourite songs as you stir the pot. you curse quietly when you accidentally burn yourself, and when you peek behind you to see if simon saw that—he did—you flash a bashful smile and return your attention back to the stove.

simon thinks you look so angelic like this. it's like you were crafted by the big man upstairs specifically for him, because he doesn't think he's ever felt so comfortable around someone in his life. he always feels so weak in your presence, his chest torn open for you to see him in his entirety, and he doesn't hate it. he doesn't hate being seen—not anymore. not if it's you casting your soft gaze upon him.

how can he thank you? how can he make it up to you for dragging him out of that hole he could never seem to claw his way out of? how can he ever explain how you cleared a way for him through the fog, how you soaked up the pain that kept pummelling down on his shoulders and transformed it into something misty and gentle, how you filled his chest with your everlasting joy until he finally felt his heart sing for the first time in years?

it will never be enough. he will never be able to repay you enough for the love and devotion you've shown him over the years, for the everlasting patience you had while he was still in the military, for the gentleness you've taught him through your own words and actions.

he's not a good man, and he doesn't deserve good things. but you've blessed him with your love and your tenderness, and he will never stop trying to make it up to you. he will love you fiercely and proudly; he'll flaunt the ring on his finger and carry a piece of your heart with him whenever he goes. he'll spend the rest of his life and the lives after that loving you.

when you bring him a plate of pudding paired with vanilla ice cream, he looks up at you with glazed heart-shaped eyes and brings you in for a sweet little kiss. you smile into it and return the love you feel radiating from him tenfold.

#i will never get sick of writing this trope <3 #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #rainwrites 𐙚

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ceilidho · 9 months ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 7)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

You watch him like a hawk after that.

Not because anything’s changed. In fact, nothing’s changed. Seeing him drag a man by the collar of his shirt, the look in his eyes punishing and severe, has only confirmed the essential imbalance in your relationship. You don’t suffer the same fate as that man being dragged from the bar not because of mercy or leniency or forgiveness, but because the truth hasn’t yet come out. You’re safe because the truth is still hidden, a fact that could change at the drop of a hat.

The thought makes you wary. You watch John in the days after with a scrutiny that borders on the paranoid. Does he already know? Has he left you stewing in ignorance all this time while waiting for the proper authorities to arrive? When he looks at you, does he see the blood on your hands? Does he know that he’s looking at a murderer? Does he know that your sins weigh on you like heavy stones dragging you down into the earth?

Every time the porch steps creak, your heart turns to stone and betrayal rushes up your throat like acid, and it burns.

Then the door opens and John walks in. His face lights up when his eyes fall on you. “Hi darlin’.”

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath and slump into his embrace.

You’re waiting for it to happen. Even when he pulls you into his chest at night, a big arm settled around your waist and his palm spread wide over your belly, you tense and wait for the truth to come out. But all he does is sigh and fall asleep, tucking you closer into his chest. You stare at the wall until the grooves between the wooden boards start to expand, the darkness encompassing every inch of the wall before bleeding down to the floorboards and up to the ceiling. Then you wake up and it’s the next day.

The truth is imminent. It shines its light on the darkened path before it and stalks forward. You cower in the shadows waiting for it to find you, hopeful that it won’t. Sure that it will.

There’s never a good moment to pack your bags and leave, and the longer you stay—as the days turn into a week since you first disembarked from the train and wandered into a town soaked in russet and red—the harder it seems to get a moment of peace. Though John wasn’t exaggerating when he said that a sheriff’s job never stops, you hadn’t thought that it would involve so much.

Between chores and John and the townsfolk, you can’t get a moment to yourself. The closest you come to it is when Kate leaves you to your thoughts while she helps the customers. Even then, she still comes by every now and again to offer you a tea or brandy ball to suck on.

You resent the idea that you need to be babysat, but he isn’t exactly wrong either. You’re not too stubborn to admit that. Under Kate’s watchful eye, you aren’t scurrying off anywhere. Instead, you help out around the shop where you can, offering to stock the shelves and sweep the floors. On occasion, you even get on your hands and knees in front of the shop to pull up the weeds, but that draws more attention than you’re comfortable with. They simply aren’t as concerned with weeds out here.

Most of your time is spent loitering around town waiting for John to take you home. Sometimes you join him for the day, trailing along after him when he goes out to collect the taxes or you accompany him when he has to attend trials and hearings in the court house, where you sit quietly in the public gallery and watch in rapt attention as the magistrate conducts the court proceedings, but there are days where that’s simply not possible.

“You’re gonna spend the day with Laswell, alright?” John tells you, pinching your chin to tilt your head up.

He loves that little gesture, you’ve realized. Loves to touch you and guide you with a hand on your back or chin or arm, a hand brushing down the side of your waist to pull you in, gripping you by the nape of your neck just to hold. Even now, in broad daylight and in front of the window to the general store where anyone could look out and see the two of you, he keeps his thumb there, reluctant to let you go. The thought makes your neck go hot.

“When will you be back?” you ask.

“Later this afternoon—before dusk, so don’t go worrying about heading home without me. I have to see to something a few towns over.”

“Oh…what do they need you for?”

John frowns. “You’ve got an awful lot of questions today.”

“Never mind. Have a safe trip.” You don’t know why his reluctance to tell you anything frustrates you so, especially when he has good reason to, but even you can hear the way your voice grows petulant.

His thumb squeezes against your chin, holding your head in place when you try to turn away. “I’m overseeing a hanging. Couple of men were found guilty of murder.” He studies you so intensely that he can practically see in your eyes the way your stomach turns at that. “See, I thought that might upset you. This is why I didn’t wanna tell you, darlin’.”

“It’s fine,” you say, swallowing. “I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, brushing his thumb up your chin until it tugs at your bottom lip, watching the way it snaps back into place when he releases it.

He makes every moment feel like a last goodbye and a homecoming. You almost can’t meet his eyes under the intensity of his stare, but you also can’t look away. Not with how he looks at you like some precious thing.

You expect it before it happens, but when he dips his head to plant a soft kiss on your lips, you go breathless for a moment. His beard is bristly against your skin, just south of coarse. The kiss turns into another, even more tender than the first. You resent the way you lean forward when he pulls away, chasing after him.

“You be good for Miss Kate, okay?” he says, waiting for your reassurance.

“I will,” you rasp, mortified at how easily he unravels you and how plainly you let it show. John grins when he hears the tremble in your voice.

Then he leaves, riding off towards where the horizon dips below the visible and you watch until he disappears completely, falling away with it. Kate beckons you inside after that, and it’s just hot enough out that you gather up the skirt of your dress and follow after her, climbing up the steps to the general store.

Kate is a tough nut to crack. She’s kind and never rebuffs your questions when you make conversation, but she also isn’t exactly forthcoming with personal information. She seems more than happy to let the conversation lapse into silence. When there isn’t a customer to serve, she’ll take out a leather-bound notebook and write, going so deep into her own thoughts that you sometimes need to call her name a couple times before she’ll respond.

“Kate,” you say again, waiting for her to finally blink and look up, which she does with only the faintest glimmer of impatience in her eyes. “Care to join me on a walk? I need to stretch my legs and…well, I don’t know my way around just yet.”

She snaps her book shut, winding a bit of string around it before placing it back beneath the counter. “There’s a restaurant on the other side of town if you care for a bite as well. I could do with something to eat.”

It’s not as much of a walk as you might have expected. You learn along the way that Kate has lived in town for several years, taking the shop over from her predecessor, a former employer prone to drinking and prone to expiring from that very same vice. She speaks of him with familiarity and affection for the dead, but none of the longing and misery that you’ve come to expect from someone grieving a loss.

“You came far just to find a husband,” she remarks when the two of you are seated at a windowside booth in the restaurant. She spreads a cloth over her lap and you follow her lead.

You bite your lip. “I’ve heard good things about the frontier.”

Kate looks amused by that. “Now who’s been lying to you?”

You laugh, half genuine and half to keep the atmosphere light. You don’t tell her that no one lied to you about going out west because no one had said those words to you in the first place. There hadn’t been enough time for a conversation after the event, only enough time to unlock the study door and wash your hands of the blood in the sink downstairs before fleeing the manor with only your purse and cardigan, the feather duster still lying on the floor upstairs. You hadn’t even bothered going home.

There’s no telling what your aunt and uncle must have thought. You try not to think about that because there’s no going back now. You had the luxury of a single cry on the train as it chugged away from the station and the day slipped into night, but nothing more than that and nothing since.

You tuck into your food when the waitress comes back with your meal.

“John said you were a schoolteacher before this?” Kate says, pulling you back into the conversation.

It makes you nervous to lie too much about a subject you hardly know, so you smile and nod instead of responding.

“You must be quite the polymath,” she continues, eyes downcast, not allowing you a good read on her. “Arithmetic, writing, history—goodness knows the skills one needs nowadays with the leaps and bounds in education. Thank goodness for the Common School reformers, giving women the opportunity to develop young minds.”

“Yes,” you croak, then clear your throat. “I certainly did my best to…educate the children.”

Comical, given that you’d dropped out of school at the age of fourteen to work in a factory sewing buttons onto shirts.

“And was the profession enjoyable? I know John mentioned you were keener on starting a family than continuing on as an instructor, but was it an informative experience?”

“Oh yes, it was. I enjoyed it. Immensely.”

“It must have been nice to work in a profession with such little turmoil.”

“I couldn’t have asked for better,” you agree, your smile tight now, wavering only a bit at the corners.

Kate stares at you for a beat too long. It makes your stomach hurt and you fight against the urge to wilt under her stare. You can’t imagine you’ve said something wrong with how little you’ve said, but her stare makes your skin crawl.

Finally, she smiles, the skin around her eyes creasing. “Well, that’s just lovely to hear.”

You put the conversation out of your mind on the walk back, sure that you must have imagined the flicker in her eyes.

John comes back earlier than you expected. You swear your heart jolts in your chest when you hear the sound of a horse whinnying outside the shop out of nowhere and a man’s low, rough voice responding back, soothing it. You hear the sound of dismount, boots hitting the ground hard, and then come up the steps, each step making the spurs on the back of his boots rattle.

When he opens the door, his eyebrows jump up at the sight of you already there waiting. Your eagerness should embarrass you, and it does, but there’s not much you can do about it, and there’s even less you can do about the way you melt when he says, “There you are, darlin’. Time to go home.”

Precious is the world where home has come to mean something tender and soft, even as much as you’ve pushed against it. You still hold fast against the notion, steeling yourself when John helps you up onto Buttercup and follows suit, riding home at almost a gallop. You hear his laughter on the wind when you yelp and nearly slide off, his arm around you the only thing holding you in place.

“It’d be easier to ride if I had pants,” you complain when you dismount, hands pressed to his shoulders when he helps you down. “How do women even ride sidesaddle on their own?”

“Plenty of women do, darlin’. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“We can get you pants if you need them so badly,” John says, looking up to the sky like Lord help me suffer this woman. “But that means I’ll be teaching you how to ride Buttercup on your own. Think you can handle that?”

You balk at the thought. “…Let me think about it.”

He snorts. “You do that.”

He leaves you to your thoughts when he takes the horses out to the paddock for a bit.

You sit out on the porch and watch the sunset while the horses run around the pen, soaking in the last hour of daylight. Overhead, clouds as big as mountains pass, heavy like an oil painting. Off in the distance, you can see thick clouds blotting out the sky entirely, the belly of them split open and letting out a downpour of biblical proportions. You only grow a bit nervous when you notice the wall of rain moving closer to your house with the wind, inching forward more every minute.

It’s not long before John notices it too. He whistles for the horses and waits until they trot back over to the gate, fixing the lead to their mantles again and leading them one by one back into the stable. A light drizzle begins to pour. It churns up the dust and dirt when it hits the ground, scenting the air with the fragrant smell of earth.

You head over to the stable as John brings in the last horse, hovering by the door while you watch him run his hand down Buttercup’s muzzle, whispering softly to her. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t acknowledge it, his attention focused solely on her.

It gives you a chance to admire him from the back. Thick thighs in indigo jeans that seem almost painted on. Shirt tucked into his jeans, stretched taut at the shoulders; dark droplets of rain drying already. The dusting of hair on the back of his neck. You can see the fine lines on his forehead and in the corner of his eye from the side angle and it reminds you again that he’s older and more weathered than you, settled into his age rather than floundering in it.

“It’s raining,” you say, just to have something to say. You shrink under his gaze when he turns towards you, faint amusement in his eyes.

“I noticed.”

You cringe at that, aware that he knows. He’s the one that brought the horses in after all. There’s just something in you that feels compelled to open your mouth when he’s around. An impulse that makes you cheep like a bird.

“Looks like a bad one,” you mutter instead of shutting your mouth, instead of hightailing it back to the house and shutting all the windows to keep the rain from coming in. Useless girl.

“Probably rain all night,” John says, squinting out at the sky through the open door. It’s darker now, a storm brewing.

“Is there…is there anything we have to do? To get ready?” You don’t know why you say we like this is a partnership, but it comes unbidden and you know if he told you to hurry back and take in the porch chairs, you would.

“Nothing to worry about. I’ll close up the stables and seal the windows—storm probably won’t hit for another hour or two. After dinner, we’ll turn in early.”

With a final stroke down Buttercup’s jaw, he steps away and moves towards you. You feel rooted in place again at his approach; the thought of taking a step back never even occurs to you. When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate to reel you in by your hips, drawing you into a deep, wet kiss that he breaks only when you whimper into his mouth.

“You feelin’ better about being out here?” he asks, low and intimately. “Looked like you had a good time with Laswell.”

“She’s nice,” you say, deflecting from the other question.

John hums his agreement, readjusting his hold on your waist until every inch of him is pressed against you. Your breasts are flattened to his chest, belly pressed to his; every hard inch of him, solid as an oak.

“C’mon, honey, talk to me,” he murmurs. “Have I been treating you right? You still have any reservations about marrying me?”

“Bit late for reservations, isn’t it?”

He clucks his tongue. “‘Course it ain’t. Won’t change anything, but I still wanna know.”

It’s hard not to consider the possibility of being honest with him for a change when his gaze borders on the devout. No one in the history of time has ever looked at you like this, like you hung up the moon and stars. The thought chokes you up. In all the years of your life, has one other person looked at you and asked if everything was to your liking? John’s love borders on reverence, straddles the narrow divide between the telluric and the celestial, the earthly and the divine.

It’s dizzying. And you’re not built for subterfuge. Not built to lie to the one man that, despite everything, despite taking you from your former life by force, has offered you a new one on a silver platter.

You wet your lips, conscious of how dry your mouth suddenly is. John’s eyes follow the glide of your tongue over your lip.

And then you lie. “None whatsoever. I’m happy here.”

Maybe it’s a half-lie. After he shuts the stable doors and barricades them to keep the doors from swinging open in the midst of the storm, you wind up back on the porch watching the dark clouds up in the sky slowly approach, John at your back this time.

John tilts your head up into another kiss. You don’t know when you made the conscious decision to let him think you amenable to this relationship, but you cling to that thought desperately when his tongue licks into your mouth velvety smooth.

The roof extends out over the porch, keeping the two of you dry, but you can hear the sound of raindrops pelting the slate shingles.

“You’ll see, honey,” he says against your lips, the words rumbling through you, buzzing under your skin and making it tingle. “‘M gonna make you so happy. Never gonna even think of leaving me.”

The words dissolve on your tongue. Swallowed down dry. With his arm hooked around your waist and hand tilting your head up, there’s no way you could think of anything else except wanting more.

It’s hard to talk when he has you up against the railing, your dress pulled up and his fingers spreading apart your lower lips. It’s not the first time he’s touched you there, but it’s the longest he has, at least without the barrier of your underwear. His fingers spread your labia delicately, middle finger running up the wet seam. He hums into the back of your head while he does and presses a kiss into your hair.

“Always so soft and wet here, darlin’,” John murmurs, stroking his fingers up your inner lips and petting the sensitive nub at the apex of your sex. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been aching for it? Been waiting for you to give me the word.”

Waiting, he says, while tucking a finger into your sex, curling it up into you and chuckling under his breath when your hands clamp tighter on the railing and your back arches. Just a single finger feels like more than you can handle. John has thick fingers; thick fingers with calluses that you can feel on the delicate flesh between your legs. It plugs you up tight, more so when your core clenches involuntarily around his finger. His chuckle descends into a groan, then a sigh.

He pulls his finger out against the squeeze of your internal muscles, ignoring the way you whisper, “No, please” under your breath.

You only stop pleading for more when he swirls his finger around your pearl again, lavishing it with attention. “Aching? I’m not—”

“You are, darlin’,” he breathes, and now you feel him pull you from the railing, stepping back to take a seat on the porch swing. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you across it instead of with your back to his chest like he did in the bath the other day.

“Anyone could come by—” you hiss, fluffing the skirt of your dress out around your thighs when he tries to push it back up to get his hands back on your nethers.

“You tense up when you’re nervous, honey,” John cuts you off, forcing his hand back up your dress until he pushes his finger back into your quim, delighted to find it hotter and wetter, practically dripping onto his lap. “See, there you go. Just relax. I’ll make you feel good, darlin’. We’ll take care of that nasty ache.”

You pant through each pulse of his finger. You don’t even think about looking up to meet his eyes, not when he stares down at you with obvious adoration and devotion, the emotion splayed across his face. He looks entranced at the sight of you coming apart on his fingers, a flush high on his cheeks.

“No one’s gonna come by. Not this far out. ‘Sides, they know to keep their distance. Newlyweds need their space, right, darlin’?”

Supposing he’s right and no one comes out this way. Isn’t it still unseemly to do this out in the open? So far from your marriage bed? John seems incapable of relegating his affections to that space, unconcerned with propriety or modesty. You wonder with a spark of fear if he’d even budge if someone were to come trotting up the walkway on horseback or if he’d just wave them off and send them on their way. You don’t think he’s the kind of man to want an audience, thank the Lord, but he seems entirely unphased by even the idea of being intruded upon.

You melt when he shushes your worries, feeling you tense against him, and sinks his fingers in deeper, now another. Don’t fret, he murmurs against your temple, sighing softly. I’ve got you, honey. Ain’t going nowhere.

You aren’t, are you, you think wildly. The land around here goes on forever and the train whistles by only twice a week if you’re lucky. Then townsfolk know you by face and a false name, but that would be enough for them to grow concerned if they were to spot you heading for the train with your suitcases packed, and with John or one of his deputies always in town, there’s little chance you’d be able to board without one of them interfering.

Still though, it’s better than the alternative. For over a week now you’ve been on high alert, waiting for an arrest warrant to be slipped onto John’s desk with your likeness drawn on it, and for him to come collect you stone-faced and furious. It could still come.

He keeps you tucked into his arms and nestled close, shushing you when you hiccup and pinch your lips together to keep quiet. He lets you have that, unphased by the way you try to hide it, only tutting when you try to fight it, curling his fingers up inside you and rubbing a spot inside of you that makes it hard to breathe.

“I could just take it, but you’re gonna give it to me, darlin’,” John says.

And you do. Messily, noisily. Burying your face in his neck and sobbing it out, humiliation wrung out of you, squeezing out every drop. He smells like musk and old sweat, amber warm. Liquid gold. You press your nose into the skin of his neck and draw in a breath so deep that you go lightheaded.

John keeps his fingers tucked in you until you stop shaking, talking you through it even though you hardly hear a word. How could you over the rush in your head, the blood in your ears? When you open your eyes and look around, the sky is swollen and dark, the wall of rain

“C’mon, honey,” he says, pulling his fingers out and placing his hand low on your belly. “Let’s go inside.”

You sit across from him at dinner, eating under candlelight. The weight of his gaze for once isn’t stifling.

The rain only starts in earnest when he’s pulled the quilt over the two of you and pulled you into his arms. The rain pelting the windowpane dulls to a low roar when you turn over and snuggle deeper into John’s chest, pulling the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, the grass will be greener than the day before. You can feel it in your bones.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price x you #john price x reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #john price

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vxnuslogy · 1 month ago

Text

— what does it mean to be a star?

pairing: sunday x gn!reader

premise: sunday has stayed with you and the stellaron hunters for a few years. your lives has been filled with many adventures, both good and bad. but like any other story crafted by elio, they must come to an end eventually.

– warnings: slight angst if you squint, implications of committing suicide, not proofread that much.

– author’s note: one final (?) stellaron hunter!sunday fic before he gets released. ive missed writing for this man. art credits to 冒火锅海台 on Weibo for the art. | 1.9k words.

— tags: @ryescapades @mitsvriii @https-sourlimes @dazaisms ; if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know by sending an ask off anon or filling out the forms in my pinned !!!

“what do you think makes a star, a star?”

elio asked you that question decades ago. and only now have you arrived at one final answer. out of curiosity, you asked each hunter the same question over the years that have passed, each of them giving one answer that didn’t quite match the rest.

“to be the top player of course!” silver wolf exclaimed, her tone in a matter of fact manner as she didn’t even look up from her console. you only shook your head in amusement, jotting her answer down in a new journal your boss had given you as a present.

“a star you ask,” kafka tilted her head curiously at you. eyes freed from her usual contacts and makeup followed your movement as you stirred the coffee in your cup. “well, a star for me would be something that captures the attention of others without much effort. stars often piqued your interest, didn’t they?” you only smiled in response and nodded. you made a mental note to write it down later before you went to bed.

firefly took a little longer than the last two to answer. you patiently waited, spooning pieces of cake to your lips as the girl in front of you was deep in thought. “a guide. even in your darkest moment, a star will shine as a guide for you to follow so you don’t stray from your path.” she answered in a whisper. eyes wistful as she played with the dessert on her plate.

“a star,” blade’s gruff voice cut through the night like a knife. a few bottles of local xianzhou wine separating you two as you sat on the roof overlooking the stars above. you hadn’t expected blade of all people to humor your questions, but here you were, grateful in his presence. “it means to burn. so brightly you are unrecognizable, to others and yourself.”

“you have a sad answer,” you mutter, taking a sip of the wine from the small cup as the man huffs.

“time takes a heavy toll for both you and i,” the wind sways his hair in a deathly dance. he brings his cup to his lips and drinks in one go. you don’t mention how you can barely finish a cup with how strong the drink was—blade could not feel the pain of it in his throat, and he never will. “you’ve already burned through the remains of your past self. it won’t be long before you look in the mirror and be unable to recognize your reflection.”

you frown at his response. “you’re pessimistic.”

“and you’re hypocritical.”

you have no rebuttal to his accusation, after all, at the very core of your character, the word “hypocrite” hangs like a thorny crown.

“tell me, starcatcher,” red eyes reflected the conflict you’ve been massing deep within the columns of your bones. they crash onto your being like how the oceans do to the shores—unrelenting and loud. “are you that afraid of losing another that you love them as if tomorrow they’ll die?”

you fled the roof that night. unable to face your hopelessness head on after a fresh wound of death lingers by your heart. another attempt, another reminder of the welling darkness that swells from the tip of your fingers and slowly corrupts your entire body. it drowns you and you can’t help but fear that time is clutching your shoulder, weighing you down to the ocean floor as it laughs at your predicament.

“so it’s decided then.”

but that’s no longer the case. no, not anymore. it's been decades since then, and you’ve changed.

elio sits by his office chair, typewriter moved to the side as he personally penned the final bits of your songbird’s script. you were elio’s editor and proofreader. you don’t exactly remember when it started but when you were still an unwilling understudy—an actor who refused to acknowledge the stage—he would trap you in his office and force you to read over his script to make sure there were no errors.

a small and sad smile tugged at your lips as you read the pages of inked fate. “this is for the best.”

“the best, yes,” elio ceases his writing. compiling the papers into one bulk and staring right at you. “but it's not the ending you wanted.”

you shook your head, “my preferred ending isn’t relevant to how the story ends. it’s not my story to tell.”

“yes, but it's a story you’re meant to read,” there was pity in his eyes. your heart felt too heavy with realization to even feel offended by such a look. “you have the right to feel dissatisfied.”

“thank you, elio, truly,” you only gave destiny’s slave one final smile before standing. you quietly made your way to the door, forcing your steps to sound quiet and lacking sadness. but you can’t do that, you never will. building up walls will only prove to be a waste of effort. not when elio knows every brick by heart.

with a heavy sigh, you linger by the office door before making your way to your workshop. memories from years ago flood your mind as the halls fill your senses. photos from vacation, missions, and simple outings hang by the walls while certain trinkets and relics from bygone travels litter the many desks and drawers. time did take a heavy toll just like blade said. kafka’s skin started to wrinkle a bit, silver wolf started growing taller, firefly grew paler and paler, and blade looked more like death with every breath he took.

time was a painful thing to remember—it’s not infinite. and even if it was, it's never always kind to everyone. and you? you are worse than time and death itself. you were the inevitable–finality.

“good morning, [name].”

a voice from behind greets you like a new sunrise–a reminder that a new day is here. you couldn’t help the smile that tugged on your lips. seeing sunday in blade’s shirt hang over his body like a blanket, firefly’s hair ties on his wrists and a spare console from silver wolf in one hand brings you so much joy.

“sunday, good morning!” you sounded breathless. tucking both hands behind your back to hide your shaking as he joined you on your way to the workshop he’s made as his makeshift nest.

sunday smiles—filled with all the hope you’ve craved and lost. it stings your heart like a needle but you don’t show it. you’re first to look away, like all the other times in his presence, unable to face the way his wings flutter and smile twitch in concern.

when you reach the workshop, you flicker the lights on and sunday makes himself at home. sitting by the windowsill as you sat down by your table. scattered fabrics for sunday’s final mission lay in your hands, and you’d be damned if you messed up now. even with a heavy heart, you willed your hands to work, all the while ignoring the concerned stare of the angel sunbathing by the window.

the two of you spend the first few hours of morning in each other’s quiet presence before your tongue itches to ask him a question. “sunday,” you call his name and you curse the flutter in your chest when he immediately looks at you. he noticed his overly quick response and covered half of his face with a fist, pretending to hide a cough instead of his coloring cheeks.

“yes?” he asks, attention solely on you as you pin the needle back on the cushion and smooth out any creases.

“what does it mean to be a star?”

he blinked owlishly at your question. a soft hum escaped his lips as his fingers tapped on the rim of his cup in contemplation. “is there…” he tests the waters—seeing if it's too hot or too cold. “any particular occasion for you to ask me a question?”

you shake your head in amusement when his more formal tone slips out. “no, not at all. just a little tradition is all.”

“well, then,” the words die out on his tongue. every once in a while, sunday would peer at you like a lost child but you’d only nod encouragingly. “a star means to be remembered.” he looked out the window, watching the clouds pass by in a blur. “even if they aren’t always there, you know they exist.”

sometimes you wonder if it's possible for sunday to look at himself through the lens of your eyes. he was beautiful like the praise of idrila, happiness like aha’s laughter, and the curiosity for adventure like akivili. sunday wasn’t just a star, he was the entire universe. and he remained blissfully unaware of it.

“[name], is everything all right?”

you’re snapped out of your daze when you feel his hand on your cheek. lost in the replays of sunday’s image in your mind, you didn’t notice the stray tears that had betrayed your image of an unbothered editor.

“please, don’t cry,” he whispers, pressing your foreheads together. his thumb gently wiping away the tears that escaped your eyes. you can’t help but chuckle. sunday truly was like a sponge when it comes to others’ habits.

“what hurts you so?”

“what makes you think i’m hurt?” quite frankly, you were hurt. so incredibly hurt by his eventual departure but your heart knows his stay was only temporary. but that didn’t mean you never hoped.

hoped. over the course of a few years, sunday had succeeded in the mission the other hunters failed at. he made you hope again.

“kafka is cooking everyone’s breakfast. it’ll surely brighten up your mood.” he states taking your hand in his and tugging you in the direction of the dining room and kitchen. sunday maneuvered through the headquarters with such ease your ribs began to clamp on your heart again.

this was his home, his respite. but only for a short time.

when the two of you enter the room, you notice his frown. the emotions of everyone were palpable—it felt suffocating. your eyes met blade and you just smiled. one deep breath in and you snapped back into your joyous self. bringing temporary light to the room.

even as you ate and chatted, there were undertones of sadness. sunday nudged your side and quietly asked you, “are you quite sure everything is alright? everyone seems sad today.”

you look at them one by one. kafka’s eyes are slowly being accompanied by eye bags and wrinkles, silver wolf is nearing blade’s shoulder, firefly looks paler, and blade’s hand shakes as he holds his chopsticks. you look at sunday’s eyes, and smile. even he was a victim of time with the way his hair grew longer and face filled with more life.

“they’re just worried,” you look away first like always. meeting blade’s gaze halfway and smiling to yourself when you see him huff in denial. “your next mission is here.”

what does it mean to be a star? elio asked you that question a long, long time ago. and you only found the answer in the form of an angel with wings behind his ears and eyes that shined like the sun. the star you’ve grown to love burns brighter than the sun but still requires rest when night falls.

to be a star means to be remembered, even in the face of departure. you remain bright and unforgotten. left in the care of a conductor and an express you’ve once loved.

to be a star means to face the inevitable that sunday was meant for greater things than being just a fugitive venturing the universe.

#sunday x reader #honkai star rail x reader #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail headcanons #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail sunday #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #hsr headcanons #hsr x you #hsr sunday #sunday x you #sunday imagines #sunday headcanons #( 🂡 ) – royal flush of stories .ᐟ

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illyrianbitch · 4 months ago

Text

Of Our Own Devices — Part Four

For @erisweekofficial Day 4: Traditions

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: The Autumn Equinox Ball is a tradition of royalty, an event to symbolize the growth, prosperity, and power of the court. This year, Eris has set his sights on having you at his side.

Warnings: yearning tbh

Word Count: 3.5k

Part Three | Part Five

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

"No."

Eris grimaced at the door shut in his face, the sharp sound echoing through the quiet night. The heavy oak door, adorned with intricate carvings, gleamed under the porch faelights.

He took a deep breath, grip tightening on the box in his hands— it was large enough to require both of his palms and weighed heavy in his hold. Not because of its contents, no, but because of the importance it held to him now, in this moment.

He knew you were still there, lingering behind the door. He hadn't heard your footsteps to prove otherwise.

And he knew you. You were curious, and despite how much you loathed him—something he assumed was quite a lot at this point—your curiosity would be biting at you, begging you to understand why he’d come.

After all these years, you'd want to know why he was here, at your door.

"Y/n," Eris said tightly. “It’s considered bad taste to slam doors in the faces of court royalty.”

He heard a scoff from the other side of the door. The sound tugged at his lips, almost coaxing a smile. His words had hit their intended mark, indeed. It was oddly comforting, in a way he couldn’t fully grasp, to know he still knew how to get under your skin.

The door clicked as a lock was undone, but it only opened a crack. Through the narrow gap, the warm light from inside casted a halo around your silhouette. An angry eye glared at him.

"Go away," you sneered. "It's in bad taste to harass females who don't wish to speak to you."

Eris didn't have a chance to open his mouth before the door was shut on him once more. He let out another deep, frustrated breath.

"You're going to ruin your door, Vixen."

Silence.

He shifted his weight on his feet. He hadn’t seen you since before the second war on Hybern—since that night in his cabin following Feyre and Lucien’s trespassing. Maybe the time hadn’t been long enough. Perhaps it would take centuries to regain your trust, if he had ever held it in the first place.

But Eris didn’t have that long. He needed to make this work now.

"Y/n," he tried again. "Please let me in."

More silence.

He was nearly ready to walk away, to accept this as one of his rare defeats, when he heard the click of the lock again. The door creaked open wider, revealing you standing just inside. Your anger was still evident, still rippling off you in waves, but there was something else in your gaze—curiosity.

And he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

He'd almost forgotten how beautiful you were.

The years, which had been rough on him, seemed to have only made you more breathtaking. Perhaps it was the distance, or maybe it was what he’d seen in the war, but Eris had found a newfound appreciation for the beauty in life.

All of it paled in comparison to you.

It was a shame—a sin, even—to have you hidden away from the eyes of the central Autumn Court, from the vibrant life that might have appreciated your beauty. It felt wrong to deprive the world of such glory, of the ability to witness you. But then, he thought, he was grateful for it. There was no other scent in the house, no jewelry on your hands, no glow of a bond. It was just you, here, and he was thankful for that.

You stepped aside. "Well?" You said, tone clipped. "Come inside before I change my mind.”

Eris didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped over the threshold, his heart pounding as he crossed into the warmth and light of your home.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“No.”

Eris almost rolled his eyes, the word feeling like a brick wall he was constantly battling against.

“Is that the only word in your vocabulary?”

Something flashed in your eyes.

"Maybe,” you said. “I guess I’m too ordinary to have the vocabulary of someone as well-regarded as a High Lord’s heir.”

Eris flinched— he didn't bother hiding it, though he knew he should've. Instead, he quickly collected himself, straightening his posture further, adopting a cold, unamused face.

You were always one to hold grudges, always one to remember the details. It was why you'd bonded with Lucien, someone equally as observant.

Lucien had gotten that habit from Eris, whether he'd realized it or not.

Ordinary. It was one of the last things he’d called you, a comment that had haunted him more persistently than other nightmares. The memory of his father’s cruel hand, the sight of wounded siblings—all of it seemed to merge with the sting of that word, with the memory of your palm against his cheek.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a moment to look around, absorbing the space around him. It was alive with the essence of you—every detail, every personal touch. He walked over to a table near the entrance and placed the box down, his fingers lingering on its edges for a moment. His gaze wandered to the art on the walls, running a finger along their frames.

You cleared your throat from behind him. Eris turned, finding you standing with your arms crossed, jaw tight and rigid. You looked like someone who had allowed a wild animal to prowl around their home, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

For a moment, he was at a loss.

There was no sinister agenda here, no political gain, no deep analysis needed for his next move. But he still needed to tread carefully. He hated that he had to. There was too much to say and not enough at all. Small talk would be useless. You wouldn’t entertain it anyway. He was treading a thin line.

You nodded towards the box. “What is it?”

Eris, casually fixing his sleeves, replied, “A gift.”

“A gift?” you echoed, a bitter laugh escaping you. “I don’t want your gifts.”

He stared at you for a moment, taking in your features, your stance.

“Come to the Autumn Equinox ball with me.”

You blinked. A smile broke across your face— it lacked any genuine warmth, any kindness. It was pure disbelief, pure anger even. Another bitter, humorless laugh escaped you as you ran your hands along your face. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Eris didn’t react, didn't so much as move a muscle. It only seemed to anger you further.

“Where do you hold all of your audacity? Is there a specific pocket in those tailored jackets?”

In another situation, he might have laughed at the comment. It was funny, truly, it was. But this wasn’t that moment. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow, unphased. “The ball is—”

“I know when it is,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “I also know who it’s reserved for. And I’m not going.”

Your hands curled into fists and Eris’s eyes tracked the movement. His steady gaze returned to your face as he repeated, “Come to the ball, Y/n.”

Had your jaw been any tighter, you might have shattered your teeth from the sheer force of clenching them.

"Did you lose your hearing in this war?" You sneered. "I said no."

Usually, in any other circumstance, Eris would have respected your wishes, recognized the discomfort in your stance, and taken his leave. He would have understood, would have taken the clear signals that you wanted him gone. But tonight was different. He couldn’t afford to walk away, not when he needed you there, not when he needed a chance, a moment. His resolve hardened, his gaze unwavering as he faced you. He knew he had to press further, even if it meant pushing past your boundaries. With a determined breath, he pulled out the only card he had left:

“Consider this calling in my favor.”

The world went quiet for a moment, absent of your breath as you processed his words. He watched as you blinked once, as your gaze took him in, then watched as you blinked again. A small crease appeared between your brows.

"You're calling a centuries old bargain for some ball?"

Eris scanned your face, allowed his gaze to linger on your lips, to drift to your eyes. Then, he smiled.

"Seems so."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The Autumn Equinox ball was a spectacle of opulence and splendor.

It stood as one of the premier events in the Autumn Court, the kind of affair that young females, newly recognized as adults, fantasized about attending alongside someone of high standing, someone deserving of an invitation. You had only heard whispers of it, never coming close enough to the court’s grand celebrations when Beron hosted such festivities.

Despite his appreciation for the grander, more beautiful things in life, Lucien never attended such events. You always thought it was a waste. Lucien was immaculate in his presentation, in the way he dressed and carried himself. You used to long to see him dressed for a ball, waiting for you, asking you to stand by his side.

But you weren’t a family of title. These events were reserved for royalty and high-ranking court members. Beron extended invitations to other courts as well, but it was never out of friendliness. It was a display of power, a way to showcase the flourishing of his court.

But now you were here, surrounded by the Autumn Court's elite.

And you'd never felt so out of place.

The grand ballroom shimmered as you entered, the soft glow of faelight casting a warm light over the crowd, the chatter of conversation blending with the gentle strains of a string quartet.

You looked around, hands clenched at your sides, gripping the fabric of your gown as if it were an anchor. You avoided the eyes of those around you, afraid that their looks would make you feel smaller than you already did, that you'd hold their gaze wrong, prove to them that you didn't belong.

Within seconds of scanning the sea of elegantly dressed guests, you found Eris’s amber eyes.

The rest of the world seemed to blur as that fire met yours.

He made his way toward you, cutting through the crowd with the same grace and authority he commanded in all things, regal like a blade through silk. His attire was impeccable: a deep, rich burgundy jacket adorned with intricate golden embroidery that caught the light with every movement, fitted trousers, and polished shoes that gleamed like liquid shadow. His outfit was completed with a pair of exquisite gold cufflinks and a matching set of earrings, each studded with garnets that mirrored the fiery tones of the autumn leaves.

Eris paused, running an attentive eye down your figure. A small beat of silence passed, as if he was deciding how to approach the night, contemplating what to say.

“Dance with me,” he finally said, extending a hand toward you.

You hesitated, glancing down at the gown that hugged your form. “I—I don’t know how.”

Your answer didn't seem to phase him.

“Dance with me,” he repeated, his voice carrying a note of insistence. “I will show you how.”

You hesitated. It would be so easy to refuse, to walk away and leave this entire farce behind. But something in his tone, something in the atmosphere of the ball, made it clear that this was not just another game.

Fighting it was no use. This could be your last night around the eldest Vanserra. If you truly wished to never see him again, he would probably respect that. He had always been a male of his word when he wanted to be.

But as you looked around the beautiful ballroom, draped in the soft glow of countless lights, you felt the weight of the opportunity slipping through your fingers. You would never be in such a lavish dress again, never witness such finery. Take advantage of it, your mind whispered, pretend for a night that you are more than ordinary.

With a resigned sigh, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to lead you to the center of the ballroom. His touch was more gentle than you would have thought, though the palms of his hands are calloused. You felt an urge to compare him to something divine, to admire how he was finely polished like a beautiful, stone statue. Something of greatness, something worthy of being praised.

You did your best to keep your breathing steady as his hand wrapped around your waist, tried not to fully inhale his scent as his head dipped down when he spoke.

“Is the dress to your liking?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. To say it was to your liking was an understatement.

The box Eris had left was unassuming, its exterior plain and nondescript. But when you opened it, you were greeted by the most breathtaking gown you’d ever seen. It was a rich, burnished amber, catching the light with every movement. The fabric shimmered like fallen leaves in the dusk, and the intricate embroidery, reminiscent of autumn’s delicate patterns, wove around the bodice and down the skirt. It was as if the essence of the season itself had been captured and spun into the fabric.

It felt entirely too beautiful to be worn by the likes of you.

You glanced at Eris. Up close, you could see every freckle that decorated his nose and cheeks, could count them if you truly wanted to, each dot pronounced against the pale skin.

“Yes,” you replied curtly, struggling to keep your voice steady. You turned your gaze away quickly, not wanting to stare at him longer. "What poor seamstress did you have to threaten to have it made on such short notice?”

"None," he replied. "Do you truly think so low of me?"

"Yes."

Against your better judgment, you found yourself glancing back at him anyways, your eyes meeting his as he studied you. Eris’s gaze flickered, his expression briefly faltering before that well-practiced charm returned. He laughed, and the sound carried a note of sincerity, a rough edge that hinted it hadn’t been used recently.

“Well, no matter. You look beautiful in it.” His hand moved against the small of your back. "You look beautiful."

Your stomach flipped, a feeling so embarrassingly strong that your cheeks began to burn. You were supposed to be angry at him— you were angry at him.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” you retorted, though a small smile tugged at your lips. The gentle movement of the dance seemed to ease some of your tension, some of that anger that had settled in your bones. Either that, or the warmth that radiated from Eris's hand. You'd never been this close to him, never felt his skin against yours. It resonated somewhere deep inside you, brought warmth to places you weren't aware were cold.

“Distance isn’t what I seek tonight,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

For a moment, you faltered. He noticed, of course—he always noticed. His hand tightened on your waist, guiding you back into the rhythm. His eyes were trained on you, but there was something different in them tonight. A weight. A silence behind the usual arrogance.

“What are you seeking?”

His lips quirked into a smile, not the biting, sarcastic one you were used to, but something softer. “Time to think.”

You frowned, a crease deepening between your brows. “At a ball?”

“Yes.”

"Liar," you muttered, but there was no venom in your voice.

Eris hummed softly, a thoughtful sound, but offered no immediate response. Instead, he guided you through a graceful turn, the fabric of your dress swirling around you.

There it was again—that strange softness. He wasn’t needling you like usual, wasn’t pushing for a reaction. It made your stomach tighten with suspicion. His grip on your waist felt protective now, and as you stared at him, you realized that the usual front he presented—the one of the cruel prince, the sharp-tongued heir—was slipping.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight," you murmured, "Did you finally run out of clever quips, or are you saving them for another unfortunate soul?”

You wanted to provoke the usual sharp retort from him, something to break the coil in your stomach, to bring a sense of cold familiarity. You wanted the mask back, wanted the bitter, sharp Eris. The one you knew, the one you could hate. But he didn’t bite. Instead, he glanced around the room, taking in the grand ballroom and its glittering guests.

You followed his gaze, watched as it settled, momentarily, on a corner far across the room. On the Night Court's contingent. They were one of the few courts in attendance tonight. Rhysand stood in all his glory, a beacon of effortless power, and beside him, two females. One was shorter but radiated undeniable authority, and the other— the other you recognized instantly. The High Lady. Feyre Archeron.

Cursebreaker.

Their eyes seemed to lock onto you, and a shiver ran down your spine. You couldn’t breathe for a moment, an unsettling sensation settling over you. Instinctively, you turned to Eris, but he had yet to look back.

When his gaze did return to you, there was something unreadable in it, something that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. “Do you believe in second chances?”

"What?" You blinked, instinctively pulling back, but Eris’s hands caught you, pulling you back in with a natural, effortless motion.

“Second chances,” he repeated, his tone as calm as ever. "Do you believe in them?"

He spun you again gently. For a moment, you felt a flash of disorientation as you twirled, your feet struggling to keep up with the rhythm of the dance. Thoughts were pounding against your head, all equally heavy, equally damning. Your chest felt tight with an emotion you couldn't quite describe— not now, not here.

"I'm not sure."

Eris didn’t offer another word. Instead, he studied your face, his gaze tracing over your features like he was memorizing you.

“Our ancestors,” he began, “Used to believe this time of year marked change. The Autumn Equinox. A point when things are supposed to shift, make way for something new.”

You raised a brow at him. “Is that what this ball represents? Growth?”

Eris’s lips curled into the faintest smile. “In theory,” he said, "Our Court is one of endless change, after all. Decay and rebirth.”

You eyed him closely. There was something about the way he spoke tonight, something too pensive, too reflective. He was rarely like this—rarely this vulnerable, even in his cryptic way.

"Why did you ask me here?”

You fought to keep your voice steady, to keep it level despite the way his touch made your skin tingle.

He continued to guide you in a slow, measured dance. You hadn't even thought about your skills, hadn't been granted a moment to overthink your movements. The ballroom around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you in a world of elegant isolation. With a practiced twirl, he spun you, and you found yourself dipping into a graceful arch.

“I owe you an apology, Vixen,” he said softly. He brought you back into his arms. Your head swirled with the motion, with his face so close to yours. Your bodies were touching now, nearer than you had been when the dance begun. The proximity intensified the warmth of his touch, making it difficult to breathe.

“Many, in fact," Eris amended. His hand tightened around yours, and you could feel the solid weight of his words as if they were pressing into your very bones.

“I know you may hate me,” he continued, his voice low, almost a whisper, a confession of sorts. To you. To himself. “But I do care for you. There is something about you. It unnerves me and entices me all the same.”

You were at a loss for words, completely unaware of the song’s ending or the shifting crowd around you. As you came to a halt, Eris’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were nervous.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could fully grasp their weight. His eyes now glowed with something else, flickered with something that felt like hope. You swallowed, forcing yourself to continue, “I wish I did. It would be easier. It would make more sense. But I don’t hate you.”

Eris looked down, a sense of vulnerability, of thoughtfulness, passed through his face. It was almost bashful, and the sight of it was so foreign, so out of character, that it made your chest tighten. He lifted his gaze to meet yours, and as he released your hand, he took a step back and bowed. “Then I ask for you to hold onto that.”

A frown tugged at your lips. “Why?" You took a step forward towards him, now eager to close the gap, to have his warmth near you again. "What are you up to?”

But Eris simply looked at you, tilting his head with a fleeting smile that vanished almost instantly as he straightened up.

“Enjoy the rest of the ball, Y/n. But make sure to leave before the feast. You won’t enjoy it.”

He adjusted his clothes with a delicate hand, his face hardening into a mask of cold indifference. With a final glance, he turned and walked toward the far corner of the room, to where the Night Court’s presence lingered like an encroaching dusk.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: idk guys something about having someone who just sees straight through eris and despite knowing they have every reason to hate him, they still try to dig deeper and dont accept him at surface level... it gets me.

almost as if...she just has some innate sense... some connection...that pushes her to him...over and over.....hmm. strange.

thanks for reading <3

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@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

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oceandolores · 5 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | series

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦."

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 1

masterlist of the series!

next | chapter 2

The Texas sun had a way of casting long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. In small town near Austin, the heat clung to everything, wrapping the town in a sweltering embrace that seemed to slow time itself. You, a preacher's daughter on the cusp of graduation, trapped in the rigid confines of a life dictated by faith and fear.

Your father, Reverend Gibson, was a towering figure in the community, his voice booming from the pulpit every Sunday, filling the church with sermons about sin and salvation. To the congregation, he was a man of God, a beacon of righteousness. But within the walls of your home, he was a tyrant. His heavy hand and harsh words left marks not just on your skin, but deep within your soul. Your mother, ever the obedient wife, offered what little comfort she could, but her love was a quiet, subdued thing, overshadowed by her fear of defying your father.

The Millers lived just a few houses down, their home a testament to both prosperity and tragedy. Joel Miller was your father’s best friend from high school, a bond forged in the fires of youth but strained by the paths they had chosen. While your father found his calling in the church, Joel built a successful construction business with his younger brother, Tommy.

Joel and Tommy not live far from each other, while your house is just one house away from Joel, Tommy is a few houses down from Joel's.

The Miller brothers were well-known and respected in the community, their work evident in the many buildings that dotted the town.

Joel’s life had been forever altered by a single, devastating moment. He had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, an accident where he had been behind the wheel. The guilt of their deaths weighed heavily on him, a burden he carried in the lines of his face and the shadows in his eyes.

Since that tragic day, he had distanced himself from the church, finding solace instead in his work and in raising his adopted daughter, Ellie. Joel has adopted Ellie when she was only 10 years old with the help of Tommy.

At 16, Ellie was a spirited girl, one of your juniors at school. She attended church every Sunday with her uncle Tommy, her presence a reminder of the Millers’ lingering faith.

Tommy, married to Maria, had recently welcomed a baby boy into their family. The joy of new life was a stark contrast to the sorrow that had marked Joel’s existence. The Millers were a close-knit family, their bonds of loyalty and love a stark contrast to the fractured and tense environment of your own home.

You had known the Millers your entire life, their presence a constant thread in the fabric of your existence. Yet, as you stood on the brink of adulthood, your interactions with them took on a new significance. Your father’s sermons about the dangers of straying from the path of righteousness echoed in your mind, but so did your longing for something more, something real and tangible.

It was just another Sunday, and you were helping your dad with the after-service fellowship. The congregation mingled in the church hall, sharing coffee and pastries, their voices a low hum of conversation and laughter. You moved through the crowd with a tray of refreshments, offering smiles and polite nods, your mind elsewhere.

The Sunday service had been like any other, filled with hymns, prayers, and your father’s booming voice delivering his sermon. Today, he had spoken about temptation and the perils of straying from God’s path, his words heavy with the weight of his own fervent belief. As always, you felt the eyes of the congregation on you, the preacher’s daughter, the living example of his teachings.

You couldn’t help but glance towards the back of the room, where Tommy and Ellie stood, their presence a rare but welcome sight. Joel, as expected, was absent, his appearances in church growing increasingly sporadic since the accident.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Joel Miller. It had been years since the tragedy that had claimed his wife and daughter, leaving an indelible mark on him, transforming a once regular churchgoer into a haunted, reclusive figure.

You didn't really know or remember Joel's wife and daughter. Sarah Miller had been much older than you, and she passed away when you were only five. The memories you had of them were hazy at best, a blur of faces and voices that you couldn’t quite place.

Ellie caught your eye and waved, her smile bright and genuine. You waved back, feeling a pang of longing for the carefree spirit she embodied. She was one of the few people in your life who treated you like a normal person, not just the preacher’s daughter.

After the service, as the crowd began to thin, you found yourself gravitating towards Tommy and Ellie. Tommy, ever the warm and approachable figure, greeted you with a smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I’m good, Tommy. How’s Maria and the baby?”

Tommy’s face lit up with pride. “They’re great. Little Luke’s growing like a weed. Maria’s over the moon, of course.”

Ellie nudged you playfully. “You should come over and meet him sometime. He’s the cutest.”

You laughed softly. “I’d love that.”

Tommy’s expression grew more serious as he glanced around the room. “How’s your dad doing with all the church activities? Keeping busy?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, he’s always got something going on. Keeps him out of trouble, I guess.”

Tommy chuckled. “Good to hear. Your family always looks so put together. It’s impressive, really.”

You shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “We just try to do our best.”

As you continued chatting, the weight on your shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. Ellie shared stories about school, her infectious laughter bringing a smile to your face.

“So, any plans after graduation?” Ellie asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You hesitated, the uncertainty of your future looming large. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about college, but it’s complicated.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious again. “You should follow your dreams, kid. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

You nodded, grateful for their support. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tommy.”

As you chatted with Tommy and Ellie, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing around, you caught your father’s stern gaze from across the room. His eyes were a silent warning, a reminder of your place and the expectations that came with it.

Excusing yourself, you slipped out of the church hall, needing a moment of solitude. Your dad won't notice you are gone a little, your job has been taken by your mom.

The Texas heat hit you as soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel parking lot. You decided to walk, the streets feeling empty because everyone was still in church. As you walked aimlessly, your mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

You found yourself drawn towards the lake behind the church and the town, a place far enough to avoid everyone. The lake and the surrounding forest were comforting, a sanctuary from the oppressive atmosphere of your home.

Looking around to ensure you were alone, you carefully pulled out your cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. Your parents never knew you were quite a smoker, especially your father. If he ever found out, the repercussions would be severe, his wrath swift and unrelenting. The thought of his anger made you shudder.

You decided to sit by the old fallen tree near the lake. It was very quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. You loved to come here every chance you got, a hidden escape from the prying eyes and harsh judgments of your daily life. As you exhaled a cloud of smoke, you heard a rustling sound in the underbrush.

Startled, you quickly put out your cigarette and looked up. Emerging from the trees was Joel, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze. "Joel?" you stammered, hoping he hadn’t noticed the cigarette.

He looked at you, then at the still-smoking cigarette butt near your feet. His expression was unreadable, but you felt a wave of fear. What if he told your father?

Joel approached, his steps slow and deliberate. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "I… I just needed some air."

Joel’s eyes flicked to the cigarette again. "That why you’re hiding out here? To smoke?"

You bit your lip, the truth hanging heavily between you. "Please don’t tell my dad," you whispered, the desperation clear in your voice.

Joel sighed, his expression softening slightly. "Your secret’s safe with me," he said finally, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relief flooded through you, and you nodded gratefully. "Thank you,"

As you stood up, brushing off the dirt and bits of wood that had stained your dress, you noticed Joel's gaze lingering on the rifle in his hand and the heavy boots caked with mud.

"You didn’t come to church today," you said, your curiosity overcoming your apprehension. You had noticed his absence with the frequency that had become almost routine over the years.

He glanced at you, the stern lines of his face softening slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy,” he replied, his tone clipped and noncommittal.

You took in the sight of him, his rugged appearance a stark contrast to the tidy, polished look of the other churchgoers. The rifle and the muddy boots seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that was far removed from the neat rows of pews and the polished wooden floors of the church.

“You know, Father always says that you used to come every Sunday,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He misses you at church. Everyone does.”

Joel’s expression hardened again, the hint of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said tersely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People change.”

You wanted to press further, to understand what had driven him away, but you knew better than to push too hard. Joel was a man of few words, his emotional landscape a guarded territory. You had seen it in the way he interacted with Ellie, the way he kept his distance, the way he seemed to be perpetually battling some invisible storm.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, your concern slipping through despite your efforts to remain detached.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and unspoken. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "Just trying to get by, same as anyone," he said gruffly. “Out here, it’s a little easier to do that.”

You nodded, accepting his answer even if it left many questions unanswered. The silence between you stretched, filled only with the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.

Joel shifted, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s quite a trek from town. This place isn’t exactly safe, you know.” His tone was a mixture of concern and curiosity, revealing a sliver of his protective nature.

You sighed, glancing around the lake and forest. “I needed a break. Just... needed to be away from everything for a bit. It’s peaceful here." You looked at Joel, your eyes subtly asking if it was okay to continue smoking.

Joel noticed your look but chose not to comment immediately. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. You took that as an invitation and sat down under a large tree near the lake, patting the grass beside you.

“Feel free to join me if you want,” you offered, your voice light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Joel hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to you. His presence was a grounding force, even if he wasn’t the most expressive. He glanced at the cigarette pack you had placed on the grass between you.

“Want one?” you offered, extending the pack towards him.

Joel shook his head with a faint, rueful smile. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not sure it’s right to be smoking in front of you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge me for it.”

Joel chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to that. I’ve had my share of bad habits.”

You nodded, accepting his refusal. “How are you, Joel? I don’t see you much,” you said, your curiosity evident. It was true; Joel had been increasingly distant from the people in your town, retreating into a shell of his own making.

He met your gaze briefly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his features. “Just... getting by. Working hard, dealing with stuff. Not much else to it.”

There was a weariness in his voice that spoke of battles fought silently and wounds healed only with time. It was clear that the years had not been kind to Joel, even if he tried to mask it behind a facade of rugged determination.

You sensed that pushing further wouldn’t get you anywhere. Joel was not one to open up easily, and you could see that the topic of his feelings was closed off. You decided to shift the conversation, sensing that it was best to focus on something lighter.

"How’s school?” he asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more personal but still restrained. “Almost done, right?”

You nodded, a smile touching your lips despite the lingering tension. “Yeah, I’m just a few months away from graduating. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joel replied, giving a slight nod. “High school’s a big deal. A lot changes after that.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you as you sat on the grass. “It is. It feels like the end of one chapter and the start of another.” You took a deep drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you in the still air. Exhaling slowly, you continued, “I just want to get out of here.”

Joel’s gaze, always direct, fixed on you. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the weight of your words to settle between you. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the rifle, his hands still coated in the grime of the day’s work. “Yeah?” he finally said, his tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Where do you want to go?”

You looked out over the lake, its calm surface reflecting the last rays of the sun. “Anywhere but here,” you said with a sigh. “I want to leave this town, start fresh somewhere new. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time.”

Joel watched you silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes getting out can seem like the only way to find something better,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t always as simple as it sounds.”

You took another drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as you exhaled. “I know it’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “But it feels like I’m suffocating here. I just need... something different. Something real.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not unkind but keenly observant. There was a protective instinct in him that had always been there, even when you were much younger. He sensed there was more to your words than just a desire to leave town. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy that your family projected wasn’t lost on him, though he had never delved into the specifics of your home life.

“You know,” Joel began, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone, “sometimes people want to leave for reasons that go beyond what they’re willing to say. It’s one thing to want a new place, but it’s another to be running from something.”

You stiffened slightly, the cigarette now nothing more than a stub between your fingers. You were careful not to let your emotions betray you. “It’s not just about running away,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about finding a place where I can breathe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze steady. “And you think you’ll find that out there?”

“I hope so,” you said. “I just need to get out and find out for myself. It’s been hard to see beyond this place.”

Joel shifted his weight, leaning on his rifle. His rugged face, often set in lines of stoicism, now bore a hint of concern. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of folks runnin’ away from what they don’t want to face. Sometimes they find what they’re lookin’ for, sometimes they don’t. But it’s dangerous out there for someone who’s not ready.”

You looked at him, sensing the genuine concern behind his words. “I’m ready,” you said softly. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Joel studied you for a moment longer, his fatherly instincts kicking in. He could see the innocence in your eyes, the quiet strength that belied your troubled soul. He had been a father before, and he knew what it was like to want to protect someone from the harsh realities of the world.

But then, with a shift in his demeanor, Joel decided it wasn’t his business to involve himself further. He cared for you, that much was clear, but he also knew his boundaries. His expression hardened slightly, a testament to his tendency to keep people at a distance.

“Look,” he said gruffly, his Southern accent thickening his words, “it’s not my place to get too involved in this. You’re gonna have to handle things your way.” His tone was direct, carrying the weight of a man who had learned to let his actions speak louder than his words.

Despite the coldness in his voice, there was a flicker of tenderness in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the protective instincts that lingered beneath his guarded exterior. Joel operated in a morally gray area, making decisions that were often difficult and controversial, and he understood the complexities of navigating a world where right and wrong were not always clear.

He wanted to help, but his experience had taught him that sometimes the best way to show care was to step back and allow others to find their own way.

“You know,” Joel said, shifting the topic slightly, “Ellie talks about you sometimes. Says you’re smart, and she admires you for stickin’ it out. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she looks up to you. So, if there’s ever a time you need someone to talk to, or if you just need a friend, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be the best at this whole ‘talkin’’ thing, but I’m here if you need me.”

You appreciated his attempt to offer support, even if it came in a roundabout way. “Thanks, Joel. It’s nice to know that someone cares,” you said, smiling as you put out the cigarette.

Joel watched you with a mixture of concern and curiosity, as if weighing whether to press further. You could see that he was struggling with how much to say, his usual reserve at odds with the genuine warmth he was trying to convey.

“Well,” you said, glancing at the fading light, “I should head back to the church before Dad notices I’m gone.”

Joel shifted his stance, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s a long walk, and it’s gettin’ dark.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt for declining his offer. “I appreciate it, Joel, but I don’t want to trouble you. I can manage the walk.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he gave a firm nod. “It ain’t no trouble. It’s just a ride. Besides, I’d rather make sure you get back safely.”

His insistence made you feel slightly uncomfortable, but you also recognized his sincerity. Raised to be polite and considerate, you found it difficult to refuse when someone was being genuinely helpful.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly, “if you insist. Thank you.”

Joel nodded, his face softening a bit as he walked over to his truck. The vehicle was old but reliable, with a rugged appearance that matched Joel’s own. He opened the passenger side door for you, gesturing for you to get in.

As you climbed into the truck, Joel got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The interior was a mix of practical and worn, with a faint smell of leather and earth. Joel drove with a steady, practiced hand, the truck rumbling over the uneven terrain as he navigated the path back to town.

The silence in the truck was comfortable, with only the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of the trees breaking it. You stared out the window, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the landscape. You could feel the weight of the day’s conversations settling in, and the quiet offered a moment of reflection.

After a few minutes, the truck rolled into town, the familiar sights coming into view. Joel slowed as he approached the church, where you could see the remaining congregants beginning to disperse.

Joel pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "We're here."

"Thank you once again, Joel. It’s good catching up with you," you said, giving him a grateful smile. Just as you were about to step out of the truck, you spotted your father from a distance. A sinking feeling washed over you as you realized he had seen you.

“Oh no,” you muttered, catching Joel’s eye. He turned to see your father walking towards the truck, a determined look on his face.

Joel, ever the gentleman, exited the truck as well. You followed suit, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your father, who had been conversing with some church members, excused himself and made his way towards you and Joel.

“Evening, Reverend,” Joel greeted, extending a hand.

“Evening, Joel,” your father said with his usual charming demeanor, shaking Joel’s hand firmly. “It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Joel’s expression was polite but reserved. “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” your father replied smoothly. “You know, we’ve missed you at church. It would be good to see you back.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, his discomfort barely masked. “Maybe sometime.”

As your father turned his attention to you, his smile faltered slightly. “And where have you been, young lady? You were supposed to help with the service.”

You flinched at the stern tone, feeling his grip tighten around your arm as he spoke. “I was just taking a walk, Dad. Joel gave me a ride back.”

Your father’s grip was rough and unyielding, his fingers digging into your arm with a strength that was both painful and controlling. Joel noticed, his gaze briefly flicking to your father’s hand before returning to his face.

“Is that right?” your father said, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval. “Well, I hope you weren’t gone too long. We have responsibilities.”

"Yes, I'm sorry, father." You said smile a little to hide the pain he's causing you.

Joel cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from the tension. “I’m just making sure she gets back safe."

“Of course,” your father said, releasing your arm but maintaining a veneer of politeness. “We have a dinner invitation from Tommy and Maria next Saturday. I trust you’ll be joining us?”

Joel looked momentarily surprised. “Well, I'm supposed I am,"

Your father’s smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes, they extended the invitation to our family. It will be good to catch up.”

Joel nodded, his expression neutral. “I’ll have to check with Ellie, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

“Excellent,” your father said, still maintaining his charming facade. “It’ll be good for everyone to reconnect.”

As the conversation continued, Joel’s discomfort grew. He noticed the strain in your father’s demeanor and the way he seemed to be masking a more sinister undertone behind his polite words. Joel had been out of the social loop for a while, but he was perceptive enough to sense when something was off, even if he chose not to probe further.

“Well,” Joel said, his tone shifting to one of finality, “I better be on my way. Got some things to take care of. It was good seeing you again, Reverend. And you too,” he added, offering you a brief, reassuring smile.

You gave him a grateful nod, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Thank you, Joel."

Joel, giving one last nod before turning to leave. As he walked away, you could feel the weight of the evening’s encounters settling heavily on your shoulders. The brief respite you’d found in Joel’s company had been overshadowed by the return of your father’s control and the unsettling realization that your escape from this small town and its complexities might be more challenging than you had hoped.

After the Sunday service, you returned home with a heavy heart. The warmth of the day had turned cold, and the familiar feeling of dread settled over you as you approached the house. Inside, the tension was palpable, and the moment you walked through the door, you knew there would be consequences for your absence during the service.

Your father’s voice was stern and unforgiving as he called you into the living room. “You’ve abandoned your duties. Do you have any idea what that means?”

You tried to explain, but his anger cut you off. “I was just trying to get some fresh air, Dad. I didn’t mean—”

Before you could finish, he was on you, grabbing your arm with a grip that left no room for argument. He dragged you to the center of the room, his face a mask of fury. “You’ve abandoned your duty. It’s about respect and responsibility. You know how important this is.”

“No, please, Dad, don’t. I’m so sorry. I will not do it again,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

The fear in your voice only seemed to fuel his anger. He disappeared into the hallway, returning with his belt in hand. The leather looked menacing, and your heart raced as you saw it.

“Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” you continued to beg. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I’ll make it right. Just please—”

Your father’s face was a mask of cold determination. “Take off your dress and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice steely. “You needs to be taught a lesson.”

You could barely keep your composure as you undressed, your body shaking with fear and dread. The scars on your back from a previous punishment throbbed with anticipation. When you were finally positioned with your back to him, every nerve in your body was on edge.

The first crack of the belt was sharp and painfully immediate. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a searing pain that made you flinch. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you sobbed, your voice breaking with each cry of pain.

You could feel the belt cutting into your already tender skin, the sensation of bleeding mixing with the agony of the blows. Each strike felt like a betrayal of your trust, a reminder of the harsh world you were trapped in.

Your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale and tear-streaked. She wanted to intervene, but fear held her back. She could only watch helplessly as you were punished, her own sobs mingling with your cries of pain.

In a desperate attempt to mask the sounds of the abuse from the neighbors, she turned the gospel music up loud, hoping the noise would cover your screams and your father’s harsh words.

The music blared in the background, a twisted contrast to the suffering in the room. It felt like a cruel mockery, the joyous hymns clashing with the reality of your punishment. Your mother’s tears fell silently as she stood by, unable to offer more than the muted comfort of her presence.

As the beating continued, your strength waned. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless reminder of the control your father exerted over every aspect of your life. You could only endure, hoping for it to end soon, each moment stretching out painfully as you clung to the hope that this would be the last of such torment.

When he finally stopped, you were left huddled on the floor, your body aching and your spirit broken. Your father’s anger subsided, leaving him with a cold, resolute expression. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of empathy. “Disobedience won’t be tolerated.”

Your mother rushed to your side as soon as your father left the room, her hands trembling, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with sorrow and helplessness.

You looked at her through blurred vision, your own tears mingling with hers. “I—It's okay, mama." you said weakly, your voice strained and shaky. “It’s my fault."

She helped you put your dress back on, her fingers brushing gently over the raw marks on your skin, causing you to wince. Each movement was a reminder of the pain you were enduring.

As you slowly gathered your strength, your mother helped you to a nearby chair, her hands still shaking. She sat beside you, her presence a small but comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. The music from the kitchen blared on, a cruel backdrop to the quiet moments of shared sorrow between mother and daughter.

In the midst of the pain and turmoil, there was a flicker of hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way out of the darkness. For now, though, you could only cling to the small comforts and the hope that things might one day be different.

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