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keferon · 2 days ago

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My hands are shaky and my head is refusing to work properly! But! I made it!

The Blurr chapter for Mecha au >:D

Blurr's job is not to fight for humanity.

Blurr's job is to smile for the camera and take the applause of people who praise him for his bravery and sacrifice. Blurr's job is to sell his face, his voice and his skills to millions of viewers. He must impress investors, show off advanced technology and make a determined face saying that to save mankind he is ready for anything. And then get in a luxury car and drive off to some expensive place to burn a whole bunch of zeros out of his paycheck.

He's not someone who stays after work to help his coworkers. And he's not the one who spends his nights trying to save as many people as possible. He signs autographs, makes big statements, and promises people he'll protect them.

And people believe him.

And they love him.

Swerve is sick of this spectacle. Swerve is sick of this man.

Under the cut

————————————

Nobody likes Blurr.

Okay, if you think on a large scale, everyone loooves Blurr. His face is on every poster, his brand is in every possible store, his voice and is in every cool commercial. You literally can't exist without knowing who Blurr is, or at least seeing his face once. It's a “Luke I'm your father” level phenomenon. How massive a rock do you have to live under to miss something like that?

Everybody loves Blurr. You can go buy a t-shirt with his face on it. You can go listen to his interviews or purchase a tiny replica of his action figure. There are incredibly many ways a Blurr fan can blow a hole in their budget.

Swerve knows, because he's done it many times. And recently, it's stopped being something he's proud of. To be precise, it was exactly four days ago when Blurr first stepped into his office. Swerve had just finished his shift and was finishing his tea when his boss suddenly appeared in the doorway, with the best racer in the world right behind him.

The tea was instantly dropped, adrenaline was released, and the brain was turned off.

In that moment, Swerve thought that this is what it must look like. The moment when all your good karma comes together in one pile to reward you for all the times you dropped a sandwich butter side down or missed a deadline.

Both of which happened with annoying regularity. Swerve is unlucky. Sometimes things seem to fall through his hands.

It started out great.

Swindle, their boss, showed up in the office space one day looking simultaneously jubilant, nervous, and very inspired. Usually on such occasions, Swerve could almost see the dollar signs reflected in his boss's glasses.

“Attention everyone. We have an important guest arriving in an hour.”

Swindle expressively pushed his glasses down on his nose and looked around the room

“I promised him a tour and I expect you all to behave yourselves.”

He meticulously looks around the floor beneath his feet

“Send someone to clean up all the trash. This place is unbelievably filthy. The floors should be sparkling in twenty minutes! And, oh! Hey you, go buy some good drinks.”

Having finished inspecting the floor Swindle hurriedly runs off, probably to say the same thing to the neighboring department.

Swerve stretches his neck out curiously, listening in

“Is the president coming to see us?”

Walking by, Jazz shrugs

“When the president was coming Swindle said the floor was dirty and made him wear boot covers.”

It's not the president

Swindle gestures generously to the entire office at once and looks overall like a bird trying his best to primp up

“And here we have the engineering department offices. In the next building is the assembly plant, that's where the mechs are put on their feet so to speak. And this is where all the computing, design, and planning happens.”

Just over his shoulder stands and looks around at none other than

Oh, dear God.

Swerve's tea flies to the floor next to his thought processes.

He's seen Blurr countless times, but never in person. How can this guy look as good in person as he does in expensive retouched-until-squeaky-clean photos? Mystery.

Blurr's gaze slides lazily over the simple office setting and for those two seconds when it's directed at Swerve it feels like sheer madness. He tries to look normal. He's not sure he's succeeding, but he's making an effort.

Swindle waltzes through the office, heading for the next door

“Come on I'll show you the mech hangar.”

Blurr grins.

“A highlight of the show I suppose~”

His voice is like a needle bursting a ball of stunned silence. People begin to rise from their seats and scramble to say hello. Someone asks for an autograph, others ask for a bunch of selfies, a couple people in the corner hastily fix their hair, one of the employees just pulls out his phone and shamelessly starts filming.

Swindle looks at the this with an unchanging commercial smile, but his gaze promises all kinds of punishment.

Perhaps if it had been the president, the buffoonery would have been smaller.

______________

For the next few days, Blurr is the big news and the center of all discussion.

Officially? He's becoming one of the pilots in the Mecha program.

In fact? Swindle's greedy soul couldn't get enough of the idea that the Mech concept could be monetized.

The dust is blown off Blurr and his boots are licked. He doesn't go to general training, he doesn't participate in ordinary or overly dangerous missions. He's allowed everything and a little more. His job is to look pretty on camera, speak his lines, smile and wink. He's a walking advertisement and Swindle's incredibly powerful tool in negotiating with investors.

Swerve once saw him called to a negotiation in the middle of the night, and even sleep-deprived and exhausted after a full day of filming, Blurr had the strength to pull that charming expression on his face and flawlessly play along with Swindle wherever he needed to.

His mech was a work of art. And that's not even an exaggeration. Usually the main purpose of mechs is to be efficient and practical. Blurr's Mech was made separately and so many people worked on its design that it could have its own end credits. It's beautiful, sleek, shiny and show-offy. It's designed to be awe-inspiring, but not so decorated that it's ridiculous.

When Swerve looks at its specs, he almost feels sick. Maneuverability, mobility, everything is absolutely top-notch. But most importantly, speed.

The technology to accelerate Mechs to incredible speeds has been around for some time, but the average robot doesn't reach even half of the technically possible maximum. Because even the fastest machine can't outrun the human brain.

After a certain threshold, pilots are no longer capable of controlling their own Mech. Human reaction speed is simply not enough to maneuver without crashing into anything or losing their orientation in space. And. Well. Without losing consciousness.

This has led to Mech manufacturers sort of tacitly agreeing on a rough speed limit and tending to stick to it. Just to make the technology safer and more suitable for everyone.

Regardless. Everyone except Blurr apparently.

Because the numbers across from his Mech's speed specs are horrifying. Swerve looks at the blueprints and thinks it's either freaking awesome or absolute suicide. Maybe something in between. Can a human being have reflexes like that? What about this turning mechanism? The numbers tell him that these levels of g-force make a large percentage of pilots just pass out.

Is Blurr really going to pilot this death wagon??

To achieve that kind of speed and mobility, they'd have to cut off half the armor or make it very light. Which would almost be like inviting a dangerous injury.

But if the Mech is made primarily to flaunt rather than fight...well... it probably makes sense.

Swerve's inner fan is sliding down the wall.

Blurr is incredible. And what's even more incredible is that he's kind of sort of almost Swerve's coworker now.

It only takes him a couple days to realize.

Everyone loves Blurr.

But the one who loves Blurr the most is Blurr himself.

The rose-tinted glasses are breaking slowly but surely. On the first day, Sverve walks up on shaky legs to get introduced. He tells himself that this is definitely not an attempt to get an autograph. They're coworkers. He's just...uh...greeting a new employee.

Blurr looks slightly bored.

“You're from this department....uh.. What's its name, whatever.”

Swerve clutches his hands in front of him so he doesn't accidentally drop anything

“OH.Uh yeah. Swerve! Engineering Department. You were there on a tour the other day. I usually work in the assembly plant, making armor for Mechs, developing new alloys. But I design too! I, uh.

(Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. Don't talk about Blurr. He'll think you're a crazy fan. Don't talk about Blurr.)

Blurr starts to get sidetracked by his phone.

Swerve swallows awkwardly.

“I'm uh. I'm a big fan of yours. Sir.”

(Good job...)

Blurr chuckles softly and offers out his hand

“Well, nice to meet you.”

Sverve's hand is shaking like crazy, he hopes he isn't squeezing too hard. Working in the assembly has made his hands rough. Blurr's narrow, soft palm is almost sinking in his grip.

“ 'Nice to meet you, yes. Nice to meet you sir! If you, ah, if you have any problems or questions or uh, well. You know, if you need help with your Mech or upgrades or or.”

Blurr chuckles.

“I'll be counting on you~”

Swerve feels like his soul is about to break away from his body.

The next, day when they cross paths in the hallway Blurr waves to him.

“Hey you. Whatever your name is. Can you tell me how to get to Block D?

Swerve stops awkwardly.

“Ah. Of course! I'm Swerve sir. Come, I'll show you.”

Blurr smiles a beautiful, ad-libbed smile and follows him in

“Thank you darling.”

From this point on, the entire program gradually learns a simple but unpleasant truth.

Blurr is an asshole.

And nobody likes him.

He always has everyone at his beck and call. You rarely get to see him on his own. There's always someone swirling around him with a guilty or annoyed face. A sort of serve-get-show-explain designated poor guy.

Swindle treats Blurr like a precious antique vase.

Blurr treats people like his servants.

The whole world is in love with the glittering cover, the image polished to a squeak. Until recently, Swerve was doing the same thing. Now it feels more like an embarrassing crush.

Blurr still doesn't remember his name. He actually remembers at most three to four people by name, and calls everyone else “hey you” or “ darling”. After Swerve reintroduced himself to him for the fourth time he just sort of...stopped trying.

On the field, Blurr is incredible. No one can deny that. The tremendous speed of his Mech leaves all the other pilots in the dust. Whoever said human reflexes weren't fast enough? HA. When Swerve sees his reports and results, he gets dizzy.

The combination of such incredible speeds and light armor means Blurr simply can't miss. If he hesitates, if he falters. If he gets confused. The whole metal thing will smash him to smithereens.

And yet Blurr comes back untouched time after time.

Swerve's no longer inclined to think it's just because of his mad skills. He knows that Swindle is paying Blurr a lot of money for his cooperation. No one would let Blurr fight on the front lines, no. It would be too dangerous. He has to do just enough so that Swindle can record a commercial and in it call Blurr a badass pilot without adding small print to that statement.

Blurr's job is not to fight for humanity.

He's not someone who stays after work to help his coworkers. And he's not the one who spends his nights trying to save as many people as possible. But he is the first person every citizen would name if asked to say something about the Mech program. He signs autographs, makes big statements, and promises people he'll protect them.

And people believe him.

And they love him.

A month later, he still can't remember anyone's names and sometimes calls people by the colors of their clothes, laughing as if they should take it as a cute joke.

Swerve is sick of this spectacle. Swerve is sick of this man.

That's okay.

It's not like fanboying over Blurr is Swerve's only passion.

He gets upset.

Then he gets mad and rips down all the posters.

Then he has no time to be angry because Swindle wants to launch Mechs into outer space and damn it, Jazz flies off the planet and doesn't fucking come back. The engineering department stays up nights trying to figure out where he's gone, but they can't.

Unlike Blurr, everybody loved Jazz.

Unlike Blurr, Jazz deserved every ounce of that love.

The ground beneath his feet is starting to shake.

At first, all that happens is panic. Everyone starts making a confused noise, someone assumes an earthquake.

A voice on the speakers says that everyone needs to evacuate immediately, but no one hears it because huge mechanical tentacles start coming through the windows and the whole building starts shaking, creaking and crumbling.

Sverve has seen the monsters humanity has to fight many times. But never this close. And their size leaves him absolutely terrified. These things are huge, they take up all visible space. And what's most damning is that they can break down the walls around Swerve like a fucking cookie.

He's gonna die. Oh god he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die here under this stupid rubble or get eaten or turned into one of the ugly bloody stains on the wall. His heart is doing a million beats a minute and his eyes are starting to sting. He tries to get to the emergency exit, but the door is blocked by one of the huge toothy creatures that is actively trying to get in.

Next to him, Swindle is shouting to someone on his comm, trying to sound louder than the rumble of the collapsing building and the hungry aliens.

The floor tilts at a very disturbing angle and Swerve grabs one of the interior doorways to stay in place. A second later, he reaches out and pulls Swindle, who has already slowly begun to slip toward the monster's huge hungry maw, to the same doorway.

Swindle grabs onto the frame of the door and Swerve at the same time. His glasses are cracked and his usually neat expensive coat is all dust and debris.

“It was a trap.”

Swerve can't hear a word over the grinding of breaking structures.

“What?”

Swindle almost slips and falls, but Swerve grabs him by the scruff of his coat and puts him back on his feet. Working in an assembly shop gives a man strong arms and right now he's very grateful for it.

Swindle makes a second, louder attempt

“It was a trap!!! All available pilots are now on the other side of the country! I've called for backup, but who knows how fast they'll get here.”

A smooth, silky voice comes from a walkie-talkie strapped to his coat.

“Ouch Swindle. So little faith in my professional skills?”

Swindle rounds his eyes

“Blurr??! Where are you!”

Blurr's voice sounds...not quite as it usually does. It's missing the habitual lazy note. The one that makes him sound like the whole world owes him money.

“Give me another minute and the answer will be 'here'.”

The building shakes again. Swindle swears so eloquently that Swerve can't help but admire it.

Swerve can't stand Blurr's smug face, but when he spots the first glimpse of blue metal in the window, joy floods his brain.

He usually associates Blurr with dumb nicknames, dismissive treatment, and commercials.

Now he watches the sleek, fast Mech lunge fearlessly at the monsters surrounding the building and thinks that. Fuck this. He's an asshole, but if he buys Swerve enough time to evacuate, he'll bring him a thank you card or something later. Though it's unlikely Blurr will care about that of course.

Swindle continues to shout instructions over the walkie-talkie. Swerve basically drags him outside by. He jumps up probably a full meter when very near him one of the monsters falls to the ground.

Blurr's Mech stands proudly on top of the fresh corpse and looks...actually really bad. Swerve knows that this particular robot was not built for rough, open confrontation. Its armor is too thin. Designed for speed and agility, not strength. He assembled it himself, after all.

Many of the plates are crumpled. Some are torn off. His legs are intact, but one of the joints sparks funny.

Blurr quickly looks around and Swerve unwittingly follows his example. The whole place is on fire. Office buildings are in ruins and a huge column of black smoke rises above the assembly plant.

Blurr's Mech drops to the ground and gets down on one knee. The plates on its chest are pulled aside and Blurr sticks his head out of the cockpit while simultaneously opening the visor on his helmet.

“Everyone okay?”

Swindle clutches the walkie-talkie

“The office areas are empty, but there still could be people left on the lower floors of the assembly plant. But we have no access there!”

Blurr drums his fingers quickly on the metal plate

“Fire?”

Swindle shrugs his dusty shoulders

“Something exploded at the bottom of the building. It's a real smelter down there.

Even if we send a Mech, it won't last more than a minute before it overheats. Or make the building collapse.”

Blurr's gaze becomes focused. Sharp. Swerve has seen that look many times on tough front line fighters like Jazz. On Blurr, never.

“'That's enough time for me.”

Swindle waves his hands

“Are you crazy?”

Blurr slaps his palm against the armor of his Mech

“This baby is light. Lighter than anything you've got! If anyone can do it without dropping the building, it's me. They make Mechs in the assembly hall, it's got high ceilings right?”

Swerve wants to snap. He wants to throw his hands up angrily and yell something along the lines of “you were literally there!”

Who else is down there on those lower floors??? Tailgate? Maybe Wheeljack? If something exploded, Wheeljack was definitely there. And probably closest to the explosion.

Swindle curses furiously, but retreats and runs off to give orders to someone else.

“”Be a hero if you want, but I'm not going in there. For all I know there could be melting metal in there instead of a floor! It's just not reasonable.”

Swerve's brain stumbles over that statement. Why...Swindle is acting like he's being forced to climb into that building too...?

Blurr looks nervous.

“You know what. Fine. I got it. Hey, you--”

And there it is. The good old namelesness.

Blurr pays no attention to Swerve's frowning face, nor his hands shaking with fear

“ You're familiar with those buildings. You know who was there and where to find them right? I need you to walk me through.”

Swerve feels the urge to snap again and this time doesn't hold it back

“If you cared about something other than yourself, you'd know this damn building and the people who work in it too and !”

“I don't fucking remember!” Blurr interrupts him.

Swerve doesn't have time to put anything in after that. Though a sarcastic comment is begging to be made.

Blurr quickly takes off his helmet and wipes the sweat off his forehead.

“I don't remember okay! This isn't a fad or posing or whatever else you think of me. This is what an accident can do to you if you miss a turn! I can't remember shit, okay?! Do you need a medical report?!”

Swerve just...stands there with his mouth open and probably looks like an idiot.

Blurr nervously tucks back his disheveled hair. The longer he talks, the faster he does it.

“Now. I know you don't want to die in a pit of fire. But I need your help to save them. Don't do anything, just take the map. I promise I won't let you die.”

He sounds determined. And holds out his hand to Swerve, silently inviting him to climb up onto the Mech.

His face is stained in sticky dust, his hair is an absolute mess, and his narrow palm is covered in streaks of soot. It's as if he's been dragged face down a muddy road.

He's. Very Handsome, Swerve thinks.

He takes his hand.

Blurr helps him up, pushes him into the space next to the pilot's seat, and closes the cockpit.

“Been inside a working Mech ever?”

Swerve clenches his hands nervously on the back of the seat

“No.”

The lights of the consoles around him come to life as Blurr puts on his helmet. The space around him hums. It's a strange noise. At once unsettling and calm.

Mech feels alive, he thinks. Then corrects himself. Blurr is mind-linked to this Mech. This Mech can technically be considered alive in a sense.

Blurr moves one of the monitors toward him and opens the map.

“Just mark the path here. Don't touch anything else. And hold on tight. I won't be going too fast anyway, but it'll be shaky.”

Swerve swallows nervously.

“Understood.”

After that, everything turns into motion. Watching the Mech work while being inside is mesmerizing.

Blurr doesn't say much, concentrating on the controls. His hands aren't shaking anymore, Swerve notices. Not even a little.

He steers the machine forward confidently and smoothly, dodging falling debris and avoiding the biggest pockets of fire without panic or hesitation.

He's also strictly following the path Swerve is laying out for him.

The air filtration system is doing well so far. Swerve can feel the smell of burning and the heat slowly creeping up, but it's bearable for now. For now.

They find a man on the nearside of the emergency exit.

Two more people a floor below. A small group stuck in the elevator.

Wheeljack's on the doorstep of his lab.

Blurr pulls them all out. Picks up the first group of people and carries them outside, goes back into the fiery furnace, finds more survivors, pulls them out, goes back, searches, rescues, goes back, searches, rescues.

The heat is coming up. Swerve can feel it. The plates around him are getting hot. The air smells like burnt wires.

Blurr’s Mech wasn't designed for this kind of thing.

His Mech was made to flash for the camera and accelerate to impossible speeds. To deceive and confuse the enemy. Its armor is thin and cools easily in the air, which usually helps it avoid overheating.

This also means that this Mech heats up very quickly as well.

Now, with the air around him feeling like a red-hot frying pan, Swerve regrets not saying anything back then. He regrets that he didn't make any changes to the blueprint.

More and more warnings pop up on the screens. The map stopped working correctly some time ago and Swerve is forced to give directions verbally.

He nervously grips the back of the pilot seat with one hand and, without noticing, Blurr's shoulder with the other.

Blurr carries two more people outside and hands them to the rescuers. Then turns back to the building again and. OH FUCK. Right in front of him, a huge crack begins to creep along the structure. This thing is on the verge of collapse. The roof is already starting to fold down in a very bad way.

Swerve clenches his grip fearfully and hears Blurr hiss through his teeth.

Suddenly, the cockpit opens. The fresh air of the street feels like a cold sledgehammer blow after the heat and stuffiness of the lower levels.

Swerve is about to ask something, but doesn't have time because Blurr uses Mech's hand to gently but quickly pull him outside and set him on the ground.

“You were going to mark another spot.”

Swerve nods hurriedly.

“Tailgate is still there.”

Blurr wrinkles his face.

Swerve corrects himself and clarifies

“Bright blue uniform. Short. Considering all the places we've been, I think he's in the staff quarters. It's...”

He chews his fingers, trying to remember numbers and directions without a map

“...two floors down, left, another floor down and straight ahead.”

As he speaks Blurr bends over the side of the open cockpit and spits...blood on the ground. His nose is bleeding, Swerve realizes. That's not good. It's a clear sign of a malfunctioning neural connection. Or damage to his respiratory system? Possibly both.

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his worried look

“Two down, left down then. Shit. Wait. Two down, left then down, straight ahead yeah?”

Swerve nods.

Blurr keeps repeating these directions like a mantra. A very fast and creepy mantra.

His gaze roams strangely and his breaths sound hoarse. His teeth and chin are covered in blood and his face is streaked with soot.

Swerve understands. He's about to do another go.

Two down, left, down, straight. Two down, left, down, straight. Two down, left, down, straight.

Alone. He's going, and he's going to fry himself alive in there for a stranger he doesn't even remember.

Swerve doesn't have time to say anything. What's he gonna say? Stop? But he wants to save Tailgate? Go on, I believe in you? But it's certain death.

Swerve rarely has nothing to say, but this time he can't find the right words.

Blurr wipes the blood with his sleeve, wrinkles his nose, and storms off, heading back into the flaming mess the plant has become.

Not twenty seconds later, the roof collapses, spewing a huge cloud of smoke, ash, and fire into the sky.

Swerve wrinkles his shirt nervously in his hands.

The walls are still in place, right? If the roof is gone but the walls are still standing it's... it's. It's.

Damn it. He's trying to remember the blueprints. It means the ejector will work. It means Blurr can still get out through the top. That--

Blurr's not getting out. As the small, bright blue escape pod appears above the falling walls of the building, Swerve feels his brain stop. Remember the blueprints, remember the damn blueprints. The Mech is light, the design is compact, the space in the pod is for only one person.

In the capsule lies an unconscious Tailgate.

Swindle grasps the radio

“Blurr? BLURR!”

Swerve looks at the smoke and ash and feels numb. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He has to know. He doesn't...

He feels weird. The same kind of weird as when objects fly seemingly through him. Everything just stops being real.

The thought comes out of nowhere. You don't have to obey the rules. You can see more. Just look.

He's not sure how or why he's doing it.

No one around him is paying much attention to him. Everyone's busy with survivors and damage assessment or just stunned by the chaos.

And him? He disappears.

And then he appears at the bottom. Under the rubble.

All around him is ugly, molten and red-hot chaos, but he doesn't care anymore. He feels like whatever is happening is about to end and he just has to be in time. Time for him to find out.

Blurr's Mech lies crushed by the fallen roof. Its cockpit is open. A gaping hole where his chest was, the place where the escape pod had undocked.

Wall debris has pinned him in a crooked, grotesque pose.

Blurr is here. His legs are wedged between crumpled metal plates inside the cockpit, leaving him hanging upside down. His suit is charred. Half of his face is destroyed. It looks like a horrible bloody and burned mess. It's ugly and gruesome.

Blurr opens his only working eye and gives Swerve a cloudy look.

“I must be seeing things...”

Swerve shrugs in daze. He knows he shouldn't be here.

Blurr spits up a mouthful of blood

“I'm sorry I hurt you uh...”

“Swerve.”

“Yes. Swerve. It's hard for me to remember things unless they're...akgh...hell... not in my face all the time.”

Swerve moves closer and frowns

“You know, that explains but doesn't excuse you.”

Blurr closes his eye and coughs. That sounds really bad.

“No...I guess not.”

He huffs off the blood again. The burned half of his face is oozing with it. The blood runs down his forehead, collecting in a small puddle on the floor.

“It was better than letting everyone know what's wrong with me. I can't even begin to think about the amount of messes I'd be dragged into.”

Swerve notes that the fire seems to be getting closer.

This whole bit of dialog is so unnatural. Who even talks about that kind of stuff before they die. On the other hand. Well. Character development?

“So you think it's better to have everyone assume you're a jerk than that you got your head screwed on?”

Blurr wrinkles his nose.

“ You're a very specific kind of ghost.”

Swerve shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away

“I needed to know. Before you die.”

“That's ...akghhh...ha....it's good to know. Can you tell me something Swerve? As..agh...

As a last wish?”

Swerve shrugs again. He stares at the dripping blood. At the ugly, bubbling burns. At the burst vessels in his eye and the paths of blood from his bleeding nose. He looks at the broken and scorched and dying bloody mess.

He looks at Blurr.

And he thinks, until today, he didn't really love Blurr. Not with the posters and figurines. Not with the disdain and dislike.

He loved an image. And hated an image.

He reaches out and tries to touch Blurr's hand, but goes through it.

“I'm sorry. But we're both not really here. And I have to go.”

He can feel the cold metal around him, which is strange because he's standing in the middle of smoking and burning ruins

“But if it makes you happy, I guess you're my favorite character after all.”

Blurr doesn't answer. Swerve isn't sure he even heard him.

The feeling of metal around him grows sharper.

Someone shines a flashlight in his face.

Swerve blinks stupidly and tries to move away.

The unknown Autobot medic standing over him smiles happily and puts the flashlight away

“Welcome back. You've been in a coma Primus knows how long.”

The other medic to the side frowns

“You have zero tact.”

Swerve blinks his optics puzzled, raises his servo and for a while just stares at it like some movie character. All around him is an Autobot medbay. Metal walls. Metal instruments. And him. Metal.

Yes. Seems so. That's the way he's always been. That's right.

“Doc, you won't believe what kind of weird dream I had.”

___________

Swerve feels like he's going crazy.

He's standing in the middle of a hallway on one of the Autobot ships, and he's staring. shamelessly.

There's Prowl standing at the end of the hallway. And on his shoulder is...

“ JAZZ????”

Both bot and human turn around abruptly at his scream. And both look equally puzzled.

Jazz waves his hand

“Do I know you?”

Swerve is definitely going crazy. It's Jazz. The same one. From his...dream??? But he's real and tangible??? Sitting on Prowl's shoulder, talking and breathing and being seen by everyone not only Swerve????

“You're...real...?”

Jazz raises his eyebrows

“I am. Yes. Really Mech, you sound very familiar.

But I can tell you for a fact that I have not been friends with any Cybertronians before...”

This can't be, this can't be, this isn't....

It was a dream. The spawn of his TV series-addled mind. A hallucination. It wasn't real. It wasn't, was it?

But Jazz is here. And he disappeared from Earth. And now he's here.

And.

What the..

Swerve blurts out something like “sorry-sorry-see-you-later-now-I've got to go” and runs off.

“HEY DOC????”

The autobot, already familiar to him, flinches

“Primus...Swerve? Is something wrong?”

Swerve realizes that everything is about to either make sense or lose it completely.

“Tell me...is it possible to project a holoform...like...very far away?”

The Doctor tilts his head.

“Depends on power consumption. If you channel all the energy available in a frame, you can go very far. But that would send you into a...coma...if you...tried...Swerve, is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

“Doc do you know where Earth is?”

“Wha...no?”

Swerve chuckles nervously and bites his knuckles.

“I don't either. But I think I've been there...”

#tf mecha universe #Blurr #Swindle #Swerve #Jazz #Tailgate #Wheeljack #maccadam #Prowl #Jazzprowl happens for like two seconds

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my-big-brain-ideas · 14 hours ago

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You are alone in the estate library, looking through records, when you hear a low, raspy -- at least for a cat -- meow behind you, before words in the same raspy tone.

"Yo bro" the cat says.

You look at the cat in utter shock, as you had not heard a cat speak before, before you scream like a little bitch because you am scared.

"Please shut up. Anyway way, since your parents are kinda dumb i didnt tell them about this youre like the next chosen one or whatever."

You aggressively start flailing your arms and legs the air, making a gmod collision sound every time you hit something.

"??? Ok basically you gotta settle an ancient familial rivalry. A family feud if you will."

You stopp aggressively flailing your body and reply to the cat, with musty-middle-schooler-mha-fan-cosplaying-deku type voice: "what? An ancient rivalry? family feud? Steve Harvey?"

Steve Harvey: "Steve harvey"

"But... Why do I have to do this!? It's so much responsibility !!!" You continue, a little dramatically like dude calm down

He responds: "yeah yeah I know it sucks. It's like being a nepo baby but instead of inheriting money you inherit problems. Which I mean does happen with nepotism but they get mental problems not blood-feud-kill-your-neighbor's-dog-avenge-your-dad's-dad's-dad's-dad's-dad's-grandfather problems."

"Wait what did you say about the dog--"

"We're getting there."

"Okay so basically your 5x great grandfather and his brother had a feud, and -- you know the neighbors? Yeah that's his brother's family. They've been trying to kill you secretly since you were a baby. So you have to get revenge on them."

"Basically you gotta kill the dog."

"But why do you care ?!" You say, voice filled with more MMSMHAFCD type voice.

"Because I've been alive 497 years, 3 months and 4 days too many and I can't die till I've dealt with this shit."

"But... I don't know if I can kill a dog... that seems like it's going too far....."

"Have you ever met that dog? Dogs a fucking dick. Dogs an asshole. You should hate that dog. That dog killed your 5x great grandmother."

"Oh damn fr??"

The two of you set off to kill the neighbors dog and promptly get arrested on counts of trespassing and animal cruelty. Cat gets studied. You go to jail. Dog fucking lives. No one wins.

Your grandparent passes and your parents inherit the palatial estate as well as the care for its cat. After going through several family records you realize the cat has been inherited throughout the generations. You try telling others but they forget. Now it keeps trying to be alone with you.

#shitpost #fanfic #???#idk i never reallt done this before #uhhhhhhhh #writing #fiction #writing fiction #🔥🔥✍️

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hamletthedane · 2 days ago

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I know I’m joking about how Wicked Part 2 is going to be insane compared to Part 1, but it actually is so interesting when viewed as separate second part of the story -

Because hear me out - imo, the end of Act 1 sets up where the lines in the sand are for the three key characters:

Elphaba chooses to follow her morals and reject the system, even to her own isolation and destruction. Her line is her dedication to “making good.”

Glinda, her foil, openly admits that she cannot turn down the allure of the system’s power and stability, even at the sacrifice of her morals and her closest friendship. Her line is her power and popularity.

Fiyero, further foiling Glinda, is the person who would have blindly said yes to Elphaba’s offer. He is completely, unquestioningly devoted to Elphaba - even to a fault - believing that she will always be good and choose the right thing (as she “doesn’t care what others think”).* His line is his unwavering loyalty to Elphaba.

*admittedly, this is less evident at the end of Act 1, but it’s made VERY clear within the first 5min of Act 2 so I’m counting it as an Act 1 arc

But then Act 2 forces them to respect the line they’ve decided to draw in increasingly devastating ways, and eventually forces them to violate their lines or have the lines destroy them:

Elphaba’s sacrifices turn her into a complete pariah, forcing her to lose everything she had and worked for in an instant. She fights every day for what she believes in, even though she sees it’s fruitless and only leading to the destruction of everything she loves. But Elphaba stands strong even against the Wizard’s temptation of leaving behind her failing cause. However, she’s finally pushed over her edge when one of the two people who still believed in her “goodness” dies for that belief. And it drives her to throw away every good intention and dive head-first into a pursuit of power and control. She must ultimately be influenced by Glinda to once again choose self-sacrifice for the greater good, giving up her power and dreams of normality in Oz. “Now it’s up to you, for both of us”

Glinda builds great political capital and becomes one of the most important, beloved characters in the nation. But nothing is real: she’s engaged to a man who clearly doesn’t love her, she’s openly decrying a woman who she clearly still loves herself, and the system she operates in troubles her even as she benefits from it. Elphaba again tempts her to leave, and Fiyero’s clear willingness to jump ship should be an even greater temptation, but she can’t leave it behind. Not until the very end of the story does she finally recreate the Ozdust dance: acting against her own self-interest to save Elphaba and take up the fire of her cause

Fiyero, to his credit, is the only person who cannot be pushed from his line. The very first chance he gets, he follows Elphaba blindly, despite hearing all these terrible things about her. Then he willingly sacrifices himself for her and her cause, and they torture him to (a fate worse than) death for it. And even when Elphaba really does go evil, he still believes that she will ultimately choose good. His loyalty to her is not well rewarded (see: fate worse than death), but he makes his sacrifice willingly. His belief destroyed him.

What I really like about the play’s story is that from all these different starting goals and motivations, every character is forced to give up everything that is dear to them - including their fundamental selves - by the end of the story. Yet, they all three still continue to overlap and influence each other in ways that lead them all to a choice of “making good” in the end. SO excited to see that played out on screen.

#wicked #Wicked meta #this was longer than intended but I had THOUGHTS and am currently bored in a deer blind #I’ll reread and edit later I’m sure this currently reads like shit

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alotofpockets · 2 days ago

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Finding comfort | Katie McCabe x Teen!Reader

Where you're always very timid, but open up to Katie

Woso masterlist | Words: 1k

-----

You had never been great at new environments. It always takes a long time before you are able to warm up to people you don’t know. So, being called up to Arsenal’s senior team and being surrounded by a whole new team definitely wasn’t an easy task.

The first few weeks had flown by, but you hadn’t really spoken to any of your teammates, besides giving short answers to their questions.No one seemed to mind that you were so timid, never pushing you.

Behind your back they had spoken about it, not in a bad way, more so that they were worried that you weren’t comfortable here. They tried in different ways to make you feel more included, hoping you would start opening up more, but despite their best efforts not much changed. However, your teammates were patient with you, and you were grateful that they weren’t pushing.

“Good morning, are you ready for training?” Kim said as she sat down besides you in the locker room. You smiled timidly and nodded. Your team captain smiled and quietly got ready besides you. Around you the room was buzzing with the chatter of the rest of your teammates.

Training today was a gym session. You enjoyed gym days because for the biggest part of it, you were working individually. While yes football was a team sport, so that part was very important, the individual work made you feel more comfortable with the new environment.

You started with biking, as that was usually the equipment that everyone liked the least, so you would have the space to yourself. After a few minutes of cycling, Katie walked up. “Hey Kid, mind if I join you?” In response you nod. She sits down on the bike beside you and starts cycling with you.

After a few minutes of silence, Katie turns her head your way with a serious expression. “I’ve got an important question for you.” You turn to her, worried about what she might ask. Katie McCabe wasn’t known for being serious, so this must be something big or important.

“Do you think cereal is a soup?” You look at her in disbelief, definitely not having expected that question at all. “That’s your important question?” Your lips curl up slightly. “Yes, I need to know where you stand on the matter.” She says just as seriously as she started.

This time your smile breaks out and you start laughing. Katie smiles proudly before she joins in on your laughter. “So,” She says when the laughter dies down. “Is it soup?” You shake your head. “Definitely not and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

Katie gasped, her face filled with shock. “Not soup? Unbelievable. I thought you had better judgement, Kid.” You felt the walls you had up crumble bit by bit every time she joked around.

The sound of your laughter caught the attention of a few of your teammates in the gym. They looked at the intersection between you and Katie with smiles on their faces. Who would have thought that Katie would’ve been the one to get you to open up more?

“I will let you off the hook this time. Everyone is allowed one wrong opinion, and you have just used yours.” You shake your head with a chuckle. “Good to know.”

The two of you continued chatting throughout your bike session. The team occasionally looks over, happy to see that you are feeling more at home. Wondering what kind of magic Katie used to get through to you.

“Do you maybe want to join me and toss the ball around?” Katie is quick to say yes, happy that you want to continue opening up to her. “Right behind you.” She says as she gets stopped by Leah on the way.

“I’ve never seen her like this. How did you get her to open up?” The blonde asks full of wonder. Katie shrugs, “I told you that I am funnier than the rest of you.” She walks off proudly, leaving Leah standing there dumbfounded.

You had picked out the weight that you wanted to use right as Katie walked up. “Alright, show me what you got, Kid.” She stood a few steps in front of you and got ready to catch the ball. You held it at chest height as you squatted down and in your movement up, you threw the ball her way. She did the same movement before tossing the ball your way again.

Just like on bikes, the two of you were chatting. It seemed like you were getting really comfortable with Katie, and there was just one thought on the older players' mind. “Why me?” She asked out loud before thinking.

“I eh, I mean you’re opening up to me and I was wondering what made you do so with me?” She threw the ball back your way. You catch it with ease and as you squat down you answer her question.

“You just made me feel safe.” You toss the ball back but Katie is so caught by surprise with your answer that it just falls to the ground in front of her. “I win.” You say with a proud smirk.

“Yeah yeah, well done, Kid.” Katie tries to shrug off the loss, but ultimately she’s feeling very good, because she had created a safe space for you without even realising it. Growing up with younger siblings had unintentionally prepared her for youngsters joining the team.

“I want a revance on this next training.” You shake her reached out hand. “Deal, but don’t be upset if I beat you again.” Laughter erupts in the room. Your cheeks turn a bright red when you realise everyone was looking at you.

Katie notices and puts her arm around your shoulder. “Get used to it Kid, that humour will get you far with these girls.”

-----

💗 If you enjoyed this fic, please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging! You can also supporting me by leaving a tip 💗

#katie mccabe #katie mccabe x reader #katie mccabe imagine #arsenal wfc #arsenal women #awfc #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal wfc imagine #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine

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secondbeatsongs · 3 days ago

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my second-to-least-favorite uncle: (complains about how expensive streaming services are)

me, trying to start shit at the family gathering: have you considered. piracy

my uncle: yeah! I learned how from this guy in a prison where I did volunteer work!

me: oh!

uncle: super cool guy! convicted for. well. stuff with kids, y'know? I think he probably did it, too.

me: D:

uncle: but I used to love downloading stuff! until my ISP sent me a letter about it

me: ...yeah, you gotta get a vpn

uncle: oh? huh. well, when it works, downloading is way better than streaming!

me: totally

uncle: when the daily wire came out with that great documentary about what it is to be a woman, I could watch it the same day it came out!

me: oh. god

#personal #in case anyone's wondering how my thanksgiving week has been so far #🙃

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adiosterror · 3 days ago

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OMG HEHE YEAH!!

double date with your moot and their f/o from the same source as yours send post

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letsbangts · 3 days ago

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thank you || jjk

⤷ summary: your appreciation for the man you married

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 1.4k

⟶ genre: fluff, married couple au, established relationship au

⟶ content: husband!jk, fratboy!jk briefly mentioned, sweetheart kook that could cause cavities

⟶ warnings: none just pure fluff

a/n: so this is inspired by you may want to marry my husband. hope you enjoy! :) as always hope you enjoy & let me know what you think!

masterlist

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

I have been married to the most extraordinary man for four years. I am planning on many more (a plan that has been in effect since our first date seven years ago and will continue to be). And for that, I feel I should express my gratitude.

Thank you.

Honestly, I do not know what I am thankful for, for everything, I guess? For him always being there, for him staying by my side. For loving and treating me exactly how I have always wanted a man to.

Now, you may wonder who this gentleman is, and I am so happy to tell you, Jeon Jungkook.

He was an easy man to fall in love with. I did it in one day.

Let us take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Seven years ago, a young lady struggling with dealing with college and her part-time job gets dragged out by her best friend (I guess I should be thanking her too) attends a year-end party at a frat house one late evening. About an hour later, she bumps into a boy who spills his drink on himself, though all he can do is say to her with the brightest smile: You okay there, Clumsy?

And when she looks up at his face, she realizes that this is no douche frat boy with beer on his shirt, but an unbelievably attractive high-spirited young man. She shyly replies: Yeah, I'm okay. That is when what was supposed to be quick party banter with a stranger turned into a night of great conversation and a polite walk home. That then turned into sweet exchanges of subtle flirtatious texts and small phone calls that had this young lady thinking: Uh-oh, there is something loveable about this person.

As the couple enjoyed many hangouts during the beginning of summer (by the end of the summer, I knew I wanted to marry him) amidst the ever-growing flirting, they finally acknowledged their immense attraction. Then the hangouts turn into dates when that lovely young man finally asks her out. That is when they would have officially kicked off their step from subtle flirting to very blatant obvious flirting—the beginning of a couple that would only continue their journey together.

So that was the start of us.

I am a bit biased, but I will create a list based on my experience of coexisting with him for about 2,556 days on the reasons I am thankful for him and thus love him. The following list of attributes is in no particular order because everything about him is so important to me.

Starting with the basics: His blindingly contagious smile, his gorgeous body filled with pure joy and positivity (and muscle), his adorable fluffy hair that falls over his forehead to match his striking brown eyes, and his effortlessly breathtaking passionate singing, of course.

He always knows how I am feeling and how to match his mood to whatever one I am in. He can read my face with just a simple glance. I have always appreciated how he adjusts his mood to fit my own. If I am in the dumps and his spirits are up, he brings them down to comfort me; even if he is down in the dumps, he lifts his spirits to keep a smile on my face. And for that:

Thank you.

If I could list just one of the things that made me fall in love with him from day one and still makes my heart flutter to this day, it would be his little acts that are natural for him, which shows how much of a gentleman he is. From always opening doors for me, making sure I walk on the inner side of the sidewalk, giving me his jacket to wear, or carrying me into the bed when I fall asleep on the couch. He may not know how much I appreciate the little things, but those little things always remind me I sincerely have the best man out there.

Silently suffering with the things I put him through that he may not want to do. Sitting through the cliché chick flicks, trailing behind me in the store as I look at three different tops that he says all look great on me but always end up picking the one he can tell I want more, or even giving up his personal space and all feeling in his right arm because he knows I sleep much better entangled with him.

That brings me to something he may not know that I know about him. He holds in a lot more than he leads on. The song he tells me he is struggling to perfect but tells me it is only a little bit of writer's block. Yet I can see in his eyes that it stresses him much more than he says. Yet he is always quick to change topics with a:

How could you have gotten prettier while I was gone?

So tell me about your day. Did anything interesting happen today?

If I did not know him so well, I could have easily missed these things, but I have come to learn about the kind of person he is. He is the type of person who always puts others before himself. He leads himself to take on the role of making sure others around him are okay. He already knows he does not have to hide his worries from me, but Jungkook still always tries to keep the minor worries to himself because he believes they are things I will excessively stress over on his behalf. (and he is right, I would, what can I say I love the guy)

We have come to know each other so well over the years, huh?

When looking for a dreamy, last-minute adventure, he is my man. He always comes with me on random just-cause trips, be it a road trip to the countryside for a break from the city or a train ride to the sea to walk by the shore.

Thank you.

If it is still unclear, here is the kind of man Jeon Jungkook is: He surprised me on my first day at my new job with flowers because he knew how nervous I was. He is a man who is always up early and goes out to surprise me every Sunday morning by putting a different kind of flower on my nightstand with a love note. A man that comes out from the minimart or gas station and says: Hold out your hand. And, voilà, a plastic ring he got from a gumball machine (had that been his proposal, my answer would have been yes).

I am sure you understand what I am trying to say by now, and he already knows how crazy I am about him. Wait! Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I will never get tired of looking at his handsome face.

If I am making him sound like a prince and our relationship sounds like a fairy tale, that is not too far off. I consider his proposal one for the books: Ever since you stumbled into my life, quite literally. I have never been able to picture being without you. Will you marry me, Clumsy?

Jungkook, I was serious about what I told you in our vows:

I always want more time with you, Jungkook. I want more time with the guy who takes me to get ice cream in the winter. I want more time sipping beer in bed with my drinking buddy. Although I desire our time together to be endless, we cannot live forever. But as long as I am alive, as long as I am a person on this planet, I will continue to follow you wherever the road takes us. So let us walk it together, alright?

Your dependability and loyalty are the qualities that show you are the most extraordinary husband, the most extraordinary man, and will be the most remarkable father one day. I know you will lead our future family into a lifetime of happiness because that is where you have been leading mine for seven years. I know you will continue to do so.

I will wrap this up because I can go on and on about how you are the most genuine, non-self-oriented gift I could have received. So, thank you for being you. I hope for the day that I get to tell our children about the kind of man their father is, the man Jeon Jungkook is, and about the love story I am honoured to be a part of.

(P.S. That day I mentioned will be coming in approximately nine months!)

With all my love, Clumsy xo

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yamumsyadadd · 11 hours ago

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the shadow of alexia

At 4 years old my entire life changed. One day my dad was at home and the next he wasn’t. Things changed after that. Everyone was sad, lots of people visited too. Sometimes I got new toys when they came over.

Alba was a scary teenager but Alexia. Alexia was my best friend and I was hers. She would take me to kindergarten and pick me up, she never missed a soccer game or ballet recital, she was always there. So was her special friend Jenni. Jenni was great, when I was little she used to let me colour in her tattoos, Everytime she got a new one, she’s get me new pens to colour on her.

As time went on, Alba and Alexia started moving out. Alexia moved in with Jenni and started getting busy with football, Alba still lived with Mami but was busy with her friends and modelling. Mami did the best she could. She was getting older and more tired, she didn’t miss a game or my last ballet recital, she didn’t miss the disappointment in my eyes when Alexia or Alba didn’t turn up. They were busy, I understand.

It went from seeing them a couple times a week, to once a week, to once a month. I learnt pretty quickly the only way to get Alexia’s attention was to either play football or to fuck up. Lucky for me I was good at both. School was boring, it was too easy, I understood it all faster than anyone else. The first time I skipped school, I was 14. No one noticed and no one cared. From there on out it became a routine. At least once a week I’d skip school and hang out with the others.

I personally never did anything too rowdy, just tagged along to enjoy the vibes. The first time I got caught skipping school was by Virginia. She promised me she wouldn’t tell Alexia or Mami and she kept that promise. The next time was by Alba, she lost her shit. Yelling at me about how irresponsible I was being and how much trouble I would get in. The second last time I got caught was by Jenni, I hadn’t seen her in a while, I was mad at her because of that so when she tried to give me a lecture I yelled at her.

“Y/n, you can’t be doing this shit. If Alexia found out she would lose it at you! What would happen if the police got you? What would you do then?”

“Why do you care Jenni? Huh? You left, you haven’t been around. You fucked off to Paris and didn’t even say goodbye. Tell Alexia, I don’t care, at least then she would talk to me.”

“Y/n, did Ale not talk to you about this?” Her voice was incredibly soft. That was something I missed about her, the way she spoke, the softness that was hidden from most people.

“She doesn’t talk to me at all. She doesn’t give a fuck about me.”

“Bebeita, we broke up. Thats why I left. we ended things and to be able to heal I had to leave. I am so sorry, she promised she would talk to you about it. I wanted to say goodbye to you myself but Alexia said it would be a bad idea.”

From there things spiralled. I didn’t want to talk to Alexia, I didn’t want to see her. I stopped going to her games with Mami, I would sneak out when I knew she was coming over. No longer did I look up to her, I hated her. I wanted nothing to do with her.

The day I quit football, I felt free. No longer having to play to get my oldest sisters attention, I didn’t care for that anymore. I had more time to hang out with my friends, to be a normal fucking teenager.

It took a week, it was quicker then I thought to be honest, but once Alexia found out, all hell broke loose.

“Where the hell is she!” Alexia stormed through the house. Surprising Eli.

“Who Alexia?”

“The Idiota. Your mija?” Alexia huffed. Eli was surprised by the way Alexia was acting.

“In her room with her friend.” Before Eli could say anything else, Alexia was off. Swinging open the door and disturbing the peace between you and your girlfriend.

“You, get out.”

“No Alexia. You don’t get to tell her to get out.” I got defensive fast. There’s no way she gets to come here and tell her she needs to leave.

“GET OUT NOW!” Alexia’s ‘captain’ voice was something that always got people moving.

“You don’t get to come here and act like you run the place. News flash alexia, you don’t fucking live here!”

“¡Dios mío! What is happening! Why did Isabella leave crying?” Mami looked pissed. More so at alexia than me.

“Alexia kicked her out. For no reason other than the fact that no one else is allowed to be happy but her.”

“Tell her what you did!” When I was younger, the look she was giving me would’ve scared me, but now it did nothing.

“I didn’t do anything alexia. Whatever your minions are telling you isn’t true. But hey, you wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” I tried to push past her, but she grabbed my wrist stopping me from moving.

“Mami she quit football. She fucking quit. After everything I’ve done for her she throws it back in my face!” Rolling her eyes and scoffing at me.

“Let her go now. I am aware she quit Alexia. She was only doing it for you.” Mami was mad, very mad. Alexia had come and disturbed the peace, making Isabella cry and screaming the house down.

“Grab me like that again I’ll drop you on your ass. I don’t give a fuck that you are la Reina.” The words came out like venom.

Everything is always about Alexia. I joined football to get close to her, I didn’t mean to get as far as I did, I honestly didn’t think I’d get past the academy. Being called up into the Barca B squad was cool. I enjoy the fitness side of it but genuinely couldn’t care less about actually playing.

The same day I quit, was the same day I got called up for the senior team. It sent me into a bit of a spiral. Mapi found me in the corner of the physios room with my sketchbook, crying.

“Oh nena! What’s wrong? Do you want me to get Ale?”

“No! Not ale! Don’t tell her please!”

“Okay no Ale but can you tell me what’s got you so worked up?”

“I got asked to join the senior team and I don’t want to. I only started playing so Alexia would be nice to me and talk to me. I don’t even like this stupid game! I just want to draw but that’ll never be good enough for her.”

After that, Mapi and I would get coffee in the mornings, I would show her my new drawings and tell her my ideas. She paid me to draw a photo of her and Ingrid. I knew she could draw herself but it was nice to have her in my corner. Mapi was talking more about to me Alexia, saying how good my drawings were and how much happier I seemed not having to play, she seemed to miss the confusion written all over Alexia’s face.

•———————————————————————•

Mami had a trip coming up, I knew about this, but what I didn’t know what she was going to make me stay with alexia. Isabella and I came home after the movies to find Mami, Alexia, Alba and some other chick sitting at the table. I mumbled a quick hello before trying to drag Isabella upstairs.

“Don’t be so rude. Actually say hello.” Alexia spoke angrily.

Scoffing I turned around “bite me Alexia.”

“¡Dios mío! Isabella Mi vida, it’s time for you to go home. You can wait upstairs for your Mami.”

“Mami no. That’s not fair. She doesn’t get to come in here and start bossing everyone around!”

“It’s okay amor, I should go home anyway. We have that biology exam anyway.”

“Now that your little friend is gone, sit down.”

“No.”

“SIT DOWN.”

“Ale, Cálmate.” The mysterious brunette says as she places her arm on alexia’s.

Fuck all this shit honestly. Turning as fast as I could I ran upstairs, knowing Alexia would follow quickly. I was right. I was barely able to push my dresser against the door before she tried to open it. I was not going to sit at that table and play happy families.

After an hour of listening to Alexia curse, she finally gave up. It was peaceful until Alba climbed through my bedroom window.

“Still got it.”

“Alba what the hell!”

“Hermana, I don’t know what happened between you and Ale, but if it’s the same thing that happened between me and you then you need to talk to her. She’s worried about you and scared. She doesn’t want to lose you.”

“She only cares now that she thinks her precious imagine is going to get hurt.”

“If you talk to her now, while Olga is here, it’ll be easier. She calms Alexia down and makes her think more rationally.”

“Who the fuck is Olga?” Was that the mysterious brunette in the dining room?

“What do you mean? She’s alexia’s girlfriend? You’ve met her before?”

“No I haven’t. I didn’t know she had a girlfriend.”

“Yes you met her a dinner a few months ago? She comes to Ales games and on Fridays when we have dinner!”

“I wasn’t invited to that dinner, I don’t go to Alexia’s games and I certainly don’t go to Friday dinners!” The angry tears started. Alexia was my hero, my bestfriend, the person I wanted to be and now I’ve been pushed aside. I know nothing about her and she equally knows nothing about me.

Alba pulled me in tight, letting me cry on her. It was weird doing it with her, she used to be the reason I cried and not the one to comfort me. But here we are, things change I guess.

“Mami really needs to talk with you so we need to go downstairs.” Begrudgingly I let alba pull me down the stairs. It was obvious to everyone that I had been crying, mami’s face softening when she saw me, Alexia’s face frowning in confusion.

“You wanted to talk so please do it quickly. I want to go to bed.” I tried to speak as respectfully as I could to Mami, it wasn’t her fault.

“Mija, I’ll be away for a month, you know this si?” I nodded my head before she continued, “you’re too young to stay here for a month alone so you’re going to stay with Alexia and Olga. You can still see your friends and will go to school, but they will look after you.”

“Mami no! I can look after myself!”

“You’re 16 chica. You’re not an adult like you think you are.” Alexia scoffed from the other side of the table.

“So what? You’re shipping me off to stay with Alexia, who won’t even been there half the time and a stranger? That’s safer? Some person that I’ve never met and sure as shit don’t trust!”

“Stop being such a Perra! You have met Olga, plenty of times! She comes to all the games she can, and to dinners all the time.”

“Ale stop” Alba knew what was coming and tried to stop it but it was too late.

“Dios mío, your head is so far up your own arse isn’t it? I haven’t been to a single game in over 8 months, I don’t get invited to you stupid little Friday night dinners and I have never met your girlfriend! Up until an hour ago I didn’t even know you had a fucking girlfriend Alexia. Everything is always about you. You and your stupid football or your stupid knee. I bet you right now you couldn’t tell me anything about what I’ve done in the last year, can you?”

“I know you quit football because you’re being a brat.”

Her answer honestly made me chuckle “Okay Alexia, anything else?”

Silence. She couldn’t tell you a single thing.

“Yeah that’s what I thought. You know nothing about me and that’s how it’s going to stay. I dont trust you, I don’t like you and I sure as shit don’t love you. You’re not my Hermana.” With hot tears falling down my face, I stormed back upstairs. I text Isabella asking if I could stay over and once she replied with a yes, I was gone. Out the window like Alba had come in an hour earlier. I texted Mami to let her know, I wasn’t that horrible to make her worry.

“Mami, you can’t let her talk to people like that! She’s incredibly disrespectful!”

Alba rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Are you serious? That girl used to hang off you. She looked up to you. It was always you alexia and now she wants nothing to do with you. You don’t invite her places, you don’t care about her. I noticed ages ago she was pulling away and I fixed it. Did you know she has a girlfriend? Or that she’s taking senior classes because she’s the smartest there? Or the fact that people are paying her to make them art or buying the pieces she already has. She quit football because she hates it. She hates it because of you. You ruined it for her. Mami, I will stay here with her while you’re gone. It’ll be better that way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drop her off at Isabella’s.”

“No! It’s a school night! She cannot be going out!” It seems everything that was just said to Alexia, went in one ear and out the other.

“Alexia stop it now. She is allowed to stay at her girlfriend’s house, she has an exam at 1pm. Maybe you need to listen to what people are saying to you. I am going to bed, I suggest you all do the same, at your own houses.”

“Why does no one listen to me!” Alexia was annoyed, overwhelmed and tired. It had drained a lot of her energy being here tonight.

“Ale, I’m going to say this one time, you need to listen to what everyone has told you tonight, really listen, because you aren’t. You need to fix things with her but you need to sort your shit out first.” Olga had stayed silent most of the night, listening to everything that was said knowing her girlfriend wouldn’t. You were right, you had never met each other. What Olga didn’t realise was that it was Alexia’s fault, not yours. She put it down to being a moody teenager who was too cool to hang out with her sisters, oh how wrong she was.

•———————————————————————•

Two days before Mami was meant to go away, Alba rang saying she couldn’t stay over. She had gotten a modelling gig in Madrid and needed to go, that left Alexia and Olga. It would be the longest month of my life. Mami promised nothing would change just because I was staying here, she was wrong. Alexia was a bitch.

The first few days were fine, alexia would drop me off at school and I’d make my way home after, I generally spend it was Isabella because Alexia wouldn’t let her come over. We go into the city centre, get coffee and do our homework then catch the bus home. We did this even when Mami was here so it wasn’t anything new but when Alexia found out she hit the roof.

“You cannot be going into the city by yourself! Are you thick in the head?”

“Jesus Christ alexia! I’m not alone. Isabella is with me. Mami lets me do it so I’m going to keep doing it.”

“Is Isabella the reason you’re skipping school too?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I scoffed, storming off the guest bedroom and slamming the door so hard it made Olga jump.

By the third day of me being there, Alexia had turned up to pick me up herself. I tried to completely ignore her but Isabella had other ideas.

“Your sister is death staring me right now.”

“No amor, not you but me. Oh fuck here we go, she’s coming over here.”

“Get in the car y/n.”

“No. I told you yesterday that I’m allowed to do this. You’re not the boss of me.”

“Bebeita, it’s fine. I’ve got chores to do for papa anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She kissed my cheek and then walked away, leaving me no choice but to get in Alexia’s car.

The car ride was hell. Alexia was pissed, her hands constantly gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckle turned white. Neither of us spoke. To be honest, I didn’t know where we were going until we turned up at the training ground.

“Why are we here?”

“We have training. Get out.”

“No alexia. I quit. What part of that don’t you understand.”

“Get out now, or I will drag you out.”

Knowing she would literally drag me out, I had to wait it out. She’d turn her back eventually and I could leg it. I’m faster than her and more willing to jump fences.

The time came sooner than I thought, after entering the change rooms, she threw a set of clothes into my chest and walked off to the bathrooms. This was my chance and I wasn’t going to waste it.

Throwing the clothes into her cubby, I legged it out the door. Running past Mapi, Ingrid and Ona who all had confused looked on their faces. As soon as I got out, I kept running, knowing i had to get a head start. I wasn’t really sure where I was going, I knew I couldn’t go back to Alexia’s, Olga would be there. I couldn’t go home because that’s the first place she’d go, I couldn’t go to Albas because she drag me back by my ear. There was only one place to go.

Can Cuyás Golf Culb was the best place to hide. Sure someone might see me, but it’s easy enough to pretend to be lost.

The first thing Alexia noticed when she came out was the lack of you. Then the clothes she had given you, thrown back into her cubby.

“Have you seen y/n?” She asked as she turned to the girls in the locker room.

“She ran past us like 5 minutes ago?” Ona spoke up.

“Did she say anything?”

“No she was in a bit of a hurry Ale.” Mapi rolled her eyes at her best friend.

“Fuck sake.” Alexia exited the locker room, walking through the facility to try and find you. Slight panic kicked in when she wasn’t able too. Deciding to call Alba first, knowing you’d been closer to her the past few months.

“Hola Ale, to what do I owe this pleasure?” The sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“Have you seen y/n?”

“No why? What happened?” Panic arising in Alba.

“I picked her up from school and bought her to training. Gave her clothes to change into and I went to the toilet and came back and she was gone. She fucking ran off.”

“Why the hell would you try and make her train Alexia! She quit. She doesn’t want to play anymore!” Alba quickly became anger with the oldest Putellas.

“She is too good to throw it all away! She’s being a stupid child about all of this!” Quickly becoming defensive, not enjoying the way Alba is talking to her.

“You’re unbelievable. I haven’t seen her, I will try and find her. Don’t you worry, put your football above her like you always do.”

“Alba-“ she hung up before alexia could get another word in. There was one person left that Alexia had to call.

“Hola amor, why aren’t you training?” Olga’s sweet voice sounded through the phone.

“I’ve lost y/n. Can you please let me know if she comes home and if she does then don’t let her out of your sight.”

“What do you mean you’ve lost her Ale?”

“I bought her to training and she ran away while I was in the bathroom.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, Alexia already knew by the silence on the other end that Olga was trying to not yell at her.

“Alexia-“

“No I know okay. I already got an ear full from Alba. I have to go but I’ll call you later okay. I love you.” Slowly it started to creep in the fact that she had fucked up and caused you to run away. Training dragged on for Alexia, hoping that you had been found or made contact with Alba or even Olga.

Meanwhile, after hiding at the golf course for an hour, i decided to head to Isabella’s house. Knocking on the door, Isabella answered, still buttoning up her shirt. Eyes wide when she realised I was at her door.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” She closed the door slightly, so I could no longer see into the loungeroom.

“I ran away from Alexia. I was hoping we could hang out like normal?”

“Now’s not really a good time. I have someone here.” Isabella spoke quietly, not wanting to allude to the fact that the person inside wasn’t just a friend.

“Baby come back, we weren’t finished.” A guys voice yelled out.

“It’s not what you think y/n!”

“I think that guy wants your attention. I’m guessing that’s the reason you’re half dressed. Enjoy your time with him, we are done.” Tears welling in my eyes.

“I’m sorry y/n!”

“Go fuck your self Isabella.” sadness turned into anger real quick.

Isabella was my first girlfriend, my first kiss, the first person I had sex with and she goes and fucks a guy? While we are together? This is literally the last thing I wanted to deal with.

Unsure on what to do, or who to call I found my way to the beach. My throat and eyes hurt from crying so much. The pain in my chest was getting worse. Pulling out my phone, ignoring all the messages and calls, I rang the one person who would calm me.

“Hey Calabaza? What’s up?” Jenni’s voice rang through my ears. Unable to form a coherent sentence, only sobs coming out of my mouth.

“Hold on Bebé” I could hear her moving around, the voices of her teammates getting quieter, “talk to me. What happened?”

“I ran away. I ran away from Alexia and I went to Isabella’s house and she-she was cheating on me. With a guy. A fucking dude. She broke my heart Jenni. It hurts so much.”

“Oh babé. Where is Ale now? Where are you?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably at training. I’m at the beach where Papa used to take us. She’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Can you tell me why you ran away from her?” The way Jenni spoke so sweetly was something I missed dearly.

“She got me from school and took me to the training grounds. She was trying to make me train but when she went to the bathroom I ran away. I don’t want to train, I don’t want to play. I hate the game and I hate her. She doesn’t listen or care about me!” I could feel myself getting upset again.

“Okay okay, just breathe. You’re okay. I’m not going to tell her where you are but I need to tell someone. Albs has messaged me and so has Olga. You can pick who I tell.”

Pondering the options, Alba would tell Alexia but she’d also be just as angry and upset. Olga would tell Alexia but she’d be calmer and softer, that was what I needed at this moment.

“Olga. But tell her not to bring Alexia.”

“Okay bebé.” After a few moments she spoke up again, “she’s on the way. She promised no Alexia. Do you want to stay on the line with me until she comes?”

“Yes please. Can you tell me about Mexico?” Sniffling and wiping my face, I got up, walking towards the road to wait for Olga. After 25 minutes, Olga pulled up. A sad smile and worry on her face, she put an arm around me.

“Is Olga there now?” Jenni asked.

“Yeah she is. Uh thanks Jenni. Sorry for disturbing you.” Embarrassed about haven taken her time.

“No bebé, you don’t need to thank me or apologise. We are hermanas no matter what okay. You call me tomorrow when you’re feeling better. I love you.” with that she hung up. Reality slowing sinking it.

“Let’s get you home yeah? Are you hungry?” Olga smiled sadly at me.

“No thanks. Just tired.” I mumbled out.

The drive back to Alexia’s was quiet. When we pulled up, Alexia’s car wasn’t there, meaning she wasn’t home. That was good. Very good.

“She’s at Albas house. I told her you had messaged me but that I didn’t know where you were yet. It’s a small lie, but I’m sure it’s worth it.”

“Alexia hates lying.” I said lowly. Thinking back to all those times as a small girl that she yelled at me for lying.

“I know Pequeño. Do you want to tell me what happened today?”

“Everyday Isabella and I go into the city and have coffee and do our homework, but today Alexia came to school and got me. She drove us to the training grounds and said I had to train. But I-i quit. I don’t want to play anymore, I don’t enjoy it and only did it for Alexia but it was never enough. Nothing I do is ever enough for her.” Olga grabbed my hand, giving it a squeeze for me to continue.

“I went to Isabella’s house and she had someone there. A guy, a guy that she was fucking. She was cheating on me for god knows how long. I thought everything was good with us. She was my first girlfriend and my first kiss. I lost my fucking virginity to her and she goes and fucks someone else? It just hurts. So much. Everything is hurting so much.”

“Oh pequeño. Come here.” Olga held me tight, my tears slowly soaking her shirt.

“Why doesn’t she love me like she loves Alba? I don’t understand.”

“Alexia?”

“Mhm. Nothing I do is good enough. I just want her to care about me more. Why can’t she?” It broke Olga’s heart hearing me say that. She didn’t know what was happening but she knew Alexia needed to fix it and fast.

After slowly showering, I thanked Olga and excused myself to bed. I didn’t think I had any tears left to cry but after crying for a while, I managed to pass out.

•———————————————————————•

After you went to your room, Olga texted Alexia, telling her she was here and safe. Alba and Alexia both rushed back to her home. Angry and worried at you, ready to both give you an ear full.

“Where is she Olga?” Alexia came in loudly.

“Keep your voice down. Both of you.” Olga was very firm.

“No she’s in trouble. She doesn’t get off lightly, we have been so worried about her.” Alexia sooke back angrily, usually she’d listen to her girlfriend but this had sent her into a rage.

“Really Ale? You’ve been worried? So worried you couldn’t train right? That you spent all night calling her friends or going to her favourite spots to try and find her?” Olga had had enough.

“Amor that’s not fair.”

“No you know what’s not fair? The fact that neither of you have been listening to her. She doesn’t want to play, she did it for you Ale. She wanted to make you proud of her. She hated playing but you wouldn’t know that. She loves to draw, and she’s really really good at it. She showed me all her work.”

Olga walked to the couch, extremely disappointed with the two women standing in front of her.

“Her girlfriend cheated on her. She found out this afternoon. She rang Jenni and Jenni messaged me. That’s how I found her. She was at the beach, heartbroken. Then when we got home, she asked why you didn’t love her Ale. She thinks you don’t care about her. That girl may have broke her heart tonight, but you broke her heart first Alexia. You’ll need to live with the fact that you were her first heartbreak.” Olga was exhausted. Neither Alexia Or Alba said anything. Both sitting in opposite ends of the lounge room, tears silently falling.

Olga excused herself to bed, leaving the older two in the lounge room to mull on their thoughts. She promised herself after your heartbreaking confession that she would have your back through this. Whatever tomorrow held, you would face it together.

#fcb femení #alexia x reader #woso fanfics #mapi león #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso community #ingrid engen #barca femeni #jenni hermoso #alexia putellas fanfic #jenni hermoso x alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #mapi leon x reader #alexia putellas x olga rios #fc barcelona femeni #alexia putellas

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muirmarie · 3 days ago

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mccoy and spock get together towards the end of the five year mission, and spock is very, "obviously the doctor is aware that vulcans do not have casual relationships and almost always mate for life" and mccoy is, of course, "getting that damn vulcan to open up is like pulling teeth, how am i supposed to know how he feels about me" and this causes new and exciting problems when they're trying to sort out what they're DOING after the end of the five year mission

and mccoy is trying to subtly figure out if spock has any interest in being stationed together, and spock is, of course, the doctor is my mate, of course we will stay together, and mccoy gets offered this really exciting opportunity at a cutting edge research station that's still hands on enough with patients that it's perfect for him, and he kind of tosses it out there one evening to spock, hoping to get something from the bastard, and instead spock just skims through and stone face is like "in my opinion you should accept, it is precisely the opportunity you've been looking for" and mccoy sits there after spock leaves, like okay!!! i guess we're breaking up?? is this not even enough of a relationship for him to consider it a break up??? i may have to kill him. no jury would convict me. what! is! he! thinking!, and spock goes back to his quarters and immediately sends them a message like "i would like to apply for a position as well :)"

and mccoy still won't fucjing SAY what he MEANS because he doesn't want to be left vulnerable now that he's convinced himself that spock simply Doesn't Care Enough, and every time he at least tries to get like, some meaningful goodbye moments???? spock keeps blowing him off??? meanwhile spock is like "it is rewarding to know that the doctor wants to spend time with me, but i know he will miss our friends, and as his mate it is important for me to make sure he spends enough time with his friends before we all leave the ship", and then when mccoy says he's going to go visit joanna before he starts his new assignment, spock's like =/ wish he invited me along but I will respect his wishes and says he's going to go to vulcan between assignments, and then it's over! they're saying goodbye! and spock! just! leaves! and mccoy is just. absolutely furious and trying So Hard to Not Care but also!!! so!!!! furious!!!!

so anyway imagine his surprise when he arrives at the research facility for his new assignment three weeks later, and they're like "doctor mccoy!! so nice to meet you! your husband arrived two days ago, and he took it upon himself to set up your shared quarters and your office to your liking, but let us know if you need anything else, we're so thrilled to have you on board!"

and mccoy is just.

"i'm sorry. what did you just say?"

and spock comes walking out like everything is normal, and gives him the little vulcan finger kiss, and turns to the welcome party and says, "husband is a simplification of a vulcan term - we have not performed the human marriage rites, but he is my mate"

anyway yeah mccoy probably tries to strangle him.

they make a great first impression.

#star trek #star trek the original series #st:tos #spones #leonard mccoy #spock #tos writing ref

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dwobbitfromtheshire · 3 days ago

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Part One

Eddie walked through the door of Robin's bedroom cautiously.

"I don't know why I assumed that you'd be taking me to your house when you said that you're taking me home," Eddie said. "Silly me."

"I did tell you that house was my parents' house," Steve said, following him in.

"So, why aren't we there?" He asked.

"Because the bios are in town," Robin said.

"Bios?" Eddie asked.

"My biological parents," Steve replied.

"Yeah, I was wondering about them. I was starting to think they don't exist," Eddie said.

"They basically don't," Robin said and pointed to a pile of pillows by the window. "Especially in Steve's life."

"That sucks," Eddie said as he plopped onto the pillows with Robin and Steve.

"Their loss. Our gain," Robin grinned.

Melissa Buckley popped her head through the door. Eddie had met her at the door. She was very mellow and sweet. She didn't even give him the stink eye when he walked in. Instead, she hugged him and welcomed him right into her home.

"Oh, does anyone need any snacks?" Melissa asked.

"Oh, no, we're good, Mombie, thank you," Robin said.

"Oh, Steve, your room is still all set up, but I'm afraid Snuffles has been occupying it lately," she replied.

"Thanks, Mombie," Steve said.

"Are you alright with us being in here?" Eddie asked.

"Of course, I am," she laughed.

"Oh, she now knows all about me being a lesbian," Robin said.

"You're -"

"I don't know why she was so worried. She knows we're all about the love," Melissa said. "And the fact that in the early days of our marriages, we branched out with other people."

"You never said it was men and women, mother!" Robin exclaimed, rolling her eyes and smiling.

"Oh, your uncle should know, Eddie," Melissa said. "He was one of my lovers."

"What?!" Eddie shrieked.

"Oh, and he was excellent, too," Melisss sighed. "Really good with his hands - "

"Gah!" Eddie yelped and plugged his ears with his fingers. "Lalalalalala! I'm not listening!"

"You're scarring, Eddie, mombie," Robin said.

"Oh, I'll let you three to it, then," Melissa said and closed the door behind her.

"Okay, what the hell?" Eddie asked. "You know, I was okay with assuming that my uncle was basically a monk."

"How prude of you, Eddie," Robin cooed.

"You're a lesbian?" Eddie asked.

"Hm, I thought you knew," Robin said.

"Nope!" Eddie exclaimed.

"So, you don't know about either one of us?" Steve asked.

"You're a lesbian, too?" Eddie grinned.

"No, bisexual," Steve scoffed.

"Pardon?" He asked.

"I like men and women," Steve said, and then he turned to Robin. "I was pretty sure that he knew."

"Maybe the woman at the bar was wrong about flagging," Robin replied.

"I don't know. She seemed to know what she was talking about," Steve replied. "And I thought for sure that Eddie was flirting with me."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" Eddie asked. "By the way, I'm cool with it all. . ."

"There's no way. . .no one calls someone "big boy" like that, and they're not flirting," Robin said.

"Maybe it's one of those situations," Steve whispered. "We should probably stop talking about it."

"Oh, hey, since it's your first time here, you get to pick the music," Robin said, pointing to her cassettes.

"Ooh, don't mind if I do," Eddie said and pulled the box closer to him. "Ooh. You got Bob Dylan. My mom was a fan."

"She had great tastes," Robin said and smiled when Eddie popped it in.

"Okay, what next?" Eddie asked.

Steve grinned and moved to his feet. He slowly began to untie Eddie's shoes before moving just as slowly to take them off. He kept the same pace when he took his socks off, keeping eye contact with Eddie.

"Seriously?" Robin sighed.

"What are you guys going to do to me?" Eddie asked, swallowing.

Robin rolled her eyes and pulled out a box.

"Pick a color, dingus," Robin said.

"Oh! You're painting my toenails," Eddie said.

"Well, you said that you wanted to know what we did when it's just the two of us," Robin said.

"Okay, can I do red and black?" Eddie asked.

"Of course," Steve said and began work on Eddie's feet.

"So, you two consider yourself like brother and sister?" Eddie asked as he took a magazine from Robin.

"Oh, no, that would ruin the plan," Robin said.

"We're basically platonic fiancées," Steve said.

"Well, almost fiancées," Robin said. "We're going to slowly manipulate Steve’s dad into giving us money for a wedding. We're going to take the money and give it to a worthy cause. We might just end up getting married for the hell of it, platonically, of course, but it's going to be the cheapest wedding ever. His dad would hate it."

"Mombie was against the plan at first," Steve said.

"And then she met his parents," Robin said. "Both of my parents are on board."

"As well as Claudia and Sue," Steve said.

"They meet up to discuss it, but they mostly just drink sangrias," Robin said. "And talk about. . .well, I don't know what they talk about."

"Jesus, are your parents really that bad?" Eddie asked as he flipped through the magazine.

"Yes," Steve and Robin said.

"Well, if you need any help, I'm your man," Eddie said, flashing his dimples.

"You know what would make your doe eyes pop?" Robin asked. "Eyeliner."

Eddie looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before shrugging.

"Alright."

"Yes!" Robin exclaimed and began to apply it.

"This magazine is really informative. Hey, Steve, do you mind me asking how you knew you were bisexual?" Eddie asked.

Robin had to stop applying the eyeliner because she suddenly started shaking with giggles.

"I don't mind it all - Robin, stop laughing!" Steve yelled and then sighed. "Well, apparently, it's just not very straight to practice kissing and practice having sex with a guy friend."

"Okay, well, I get the sex thing, but practice kissing with friends. . .doesn't everyone do that?" Eddie asked.

"No, and also like it? Also, no," Steve said.

"Oh, well. . ." Eddie said and looked away, thoughtfully, blushing, then he grinned. "Hell, I think I might be like you after all, big boy."

"One of us, one of us, one of us!" Robin and Steve chanted.

"You guys are freaks, I love it," Eddie laughed.

"Oh, Edward, you have no idea," Robin said.

"Should we?" Steve asked.

"Oh, I think we should," Robin said. "Eddie, do you want to be initiated into our coven?"

"Coven?" Eddie asked.

"We're wiccans," Steve grinned.

"Yeah, sure, why the fuck not?" Eddie laughed.

"Ooh! I get to try out my spell!" Robin exclaimed, clapping her hands. "And your potions and runes, Steven!"

The next thing, Eddie knew he was kneeling in the middle of Robin's room, surrounded by candles and very shirtless. Robin and Steve were both wearing black robes. Steve was kneeling in front of Eddie, painting runes on Eddie's chest and arms.

"We're kind of just making this shit up as we go along," Steve told Eddie.

"Obviously, that's clearly a dick you just painted," Eddie said, and Steve giggled.

The door opened, and Robert Buckley entered the room. Robin, Steve, and Eddie stared at him. He stared back. He set a fire extinguisher on Robin's desk.

"I thought I smelled smoke," Robert said. "Have fun."

"Thanks, Daddy," Robin and Steve said.

Just before he closed the door, Snuffles the orange tabby slipped onto the room.

"What's a Wiccan initiation without a cat?" Eddie asked with a grin.

Steve pulled out his potion. He pulled Eddie's hair back into a bun and started dabbing the potion behind his ears and on his throat. It smelled like heaven. He paused and glanced at Eddie's lips. Steve grinned before putting the potion on his own lips. Eddie stared at him in confusion. Steve cupped his face and kissed him, spreading the potion onto Eddie's lips. It also tasted like heaven. Steve tasted like heaven. Eddie let out a noise of disappointment as Steve pulled back.

"Woah! Head rush. Was that you or the potion?" Eddie asked. "What is that stuff?"

"You have to be a higher level to unlock that information," Steve said.

"Damn."

"That was completely unnecessary," Robin said and then grinned. "I can't wait until we're platonically married so I can call Eddie a whore for sleeping with my husband. It's going to be so dramatic."

Steve stood next to Robin as she opened her notebook, and they took each other's hands. Together, they started chanting in Latin. And when it was done, Steve happily wiped off the runes off Eddie's chest before presenting him with a temporary robe with promises of taking him out to pick out his own. In the meantime, Eddie was wearing Steve’s pink bathrobe. The three of them sat on Robin's window sill, hanging their feet outside. Robin and Steve sat on either side of Eddie.

"Do you think there are a lot more people like us out there in Hawkins?" Eddie asked.

"Definitely," Steve and Robin said, looking at him.

Eddie laid his head on Steve’s shoulder and intertwined their fingers. There came a sudden breeze, whipping through their hair. They smiled. They definitely felt magic in the air.

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emphistic · 19 hours ago

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𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ♱

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. preacher’s daughter x atheist trope, historical AU - 1930s, conflict of religion, childhood friends to lovers, making out in the back of an empty church, forbidden love, eventual smut [MDNI], fem!Reader, lovesick!Sukuna, outdoor sêx, loss of vírginity, fíngering, overstímulatiön, örgasm denial, degrâdation kink, choking kink

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 15.4k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. hated every second of writing this. but, whatever, another historical au has been written ☑ anywho, here it is, and here you are, angel @antizenin // read on ao3, dividers by @/saradika

“She looked like a religious icon, like somebody you’d sacrifice yourself for.”

You remember the day you met him like yesterday—well, how could you not? He stood out like a sinner in a church full of preachers.

The first time you saw him was at a funeral, but, don’t start feeling bad, the funeral was for some old lady living down the street whom you hardly knew. He sat in the farthest pew to the left in the front corner, and, with his height, you could’ve mistaken him for someone who had already reached puberty, but, nay, he was only a year your senior.

Even with the canorous singing of the choir in the background, and the words of your father droning on in the distance, the only thing you could seemingly focus on was the color pink. His hair, the boy’s hair—it was pink!

You had noticed the boy’s unnatural hair color while you were walking down the aisle for the Eucharist, and you happened to catch notice of him from your peripheral vision. Now, if you were just a little bit less behaved, you would’ve made a dash for it right then and there, and went over to inspect the boy’s hair, but no, your father had taught you better than most children your age, and you waited until the end of Service before you made an attempt at befriending the boy.

Mass had dragged on for what felt like longer than usual, and you hoped, with great enthusiasm, that if you waited outside the doors of the church for the boy to appear, you would only be subjected to waiting for five minutes. But boy, oh boy, were you wrong.

You were the first one to exit the church, and as attendees walked out after you, you had no choice but to stand awkwardly to the side, with your back leaning against the doors, and your hands interlocked behind your back, as you bid them all farewell. It was . . . unpleasant, and rather boring, if you did say so yourself, but it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve spent nearly half an hour doing that afternoon. After all, you were sort of a celebrity in the small town of Bromwell.

Your mother was a well-known, and viable midwife, while, on the other hand, your father—he was. . . Your father was the preacher of the only church in Bromwell. The town was small in size, but not in population, no. Most of the populace consisted of devout Christians, but the religion had begun to lose followers when there weren’t any places of worship for a myriad of leagues. Your father took it upon himself to establish a church, and from then until now—well, you get the picture.

Of present time—in the year 1933 anno Domini, and of the small town you know as Bromwell, there wasn’t much diversity between your neighbors. Bromwell was bland, boring; everyone’s the same, everything’s the same. As a matter of fact, since birth, everyone, including you, was taught the one true principle; “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” It was short, it was concise, and you knew, or, well, you believed it to be the truth of the world.

If Bromwell was bigger, and as populated as a city, there would, perhaps, be a billboard near the sheriff’s building, with the motto of the town written on it in a big, bold font.

Anyway, by now, you must certainly get the picture, right?

Bromwell, Alabama. Far from any life other than the ones living in it. Dusty roads, humid summers, and dry winters. Not a pleasant place to live in, especially in times such as the Dust Bowl. It made waiting outside of the church a great pain. For seemingly four hours you stood outside—so many people exited in the duration, that, you even got to see your father as he left, but when he invited you to come on home with him, you coughed up some lame excuse, and he, after tipping his hat, walked off with your mother by his side.

Sighing, and clearly exhausted from standing around for so long, you were just about to call after your father, and take him up on his invitation, when, as if by the mercy of God, you heard a voice behind you, and the sound of doors slamming shut right afterwards.

“What the hell is a girl like you still doing here? Service ended a while ago, or, do people here just not know how to tell the time?”

Okay, that . . . that is not how you expected the pink-haired boy to sound. As you turned around to meet his eyes, your heart dropped to your feet. What the?—He was even taller in person! But, fortunately, his hair was the same as when you first saw him. Pink and rosy and uncombed. His eyes were unnatural, too, a mix, or some other sort, of a reddish brown color.

He walked outside alone, no guardian or parent in sight, no older sibling or relative. He was dressed rather nicely—not like a wealthy gentleman, but, rather, like he was living well-off—but, either way, it was nothing like the usual apparel of most residents here in Bromwell. You concluded that he was, without a doubt, not from here (which would also explain why this was your first meeting with him, you noted).

“Why would you say that?” you whisper-shouted, after looking around your surroundings in case anyone heard.

“Say what?”

“The H word. We’re right outside of a church, dummy; aren’t you afraid of God smiting you where you stand?”

“We’re outside, not inside; God won’t persecute me.”

You rolled your eyes. “God won’t persecute you, but I sure will. My papa built this church for all of Bromwell, y’know.”

“You call this a church? Looks like a shack to me.”

“Hey! There’s not much to work with here in the country. He worked hard to gather supplies and planks and all of that.”

“Pfft—Yeah, right. All of that junk, you mean.”

“What—What the hell is your problem, you . . . you jerk?”

“I thought you said not to say that word, squirt.”

You bit your tongue. “Why don’t you just shut up.”

“‘m not the type to take orders from little girls like you,” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest, “but okay.”

“. . .”

“Say something, dimwit,” you began, caving in. “You’re boring me.”

“I didn’t know I was your personal jester.”

You stuttered for words.

Questioning whether that was your first time hearing sarcasm, the boy laughed at your hesitance. It was almost sinister-sounding. “You’re kinda funny for a squirt, you know; I like that, you’re not like all the other wimps I’ve met so far. Hey, how about you be an upstanding citizen of Bromwell for once and ask me for my name or something? Do country folk not have manners?”

Still stuttering, you gave him your name, and offered a hand to shake, but it was declined.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m not touching that hand,” was the boy’s curt reply, after he introduced himself as Sukuna. “Not ever.”

“Why not?”

“Do I have to explain everything to you?” he scoffed, leaning down to your level, and getting all up in your face. “Your grimy little hand will give me cooties.”

The eight-year-old-you had never heard that word one day of your life, and a confused expression soon made its way onto your face.

Sukuna audibly facepalmed, and groaned into his hand. “C’mon, don’t tell me I have to explain what cooties are, too.”

That was it.

That was how you befriended Sukuna, though, he only accepted begrudgingly. It was more like an agreed companionship than friendship, honestly. Sukuna taught you more than any other mediocre teacher could have, and was, at least in the beginning, like the brother you had never had.

Sukuna was from the city, and, with his highly contrasting experiences and different walk of life, he had seen more and heard more than you (A/N: no offense to my country folk readers lmao). Sukuna explained slang—that was a big part of what he did as a sort of “mentor” to you. He also talked about the different types of weather he got, the views he saw from various points, the feeling of man-made pools and entertainment from television.

“TVs are for the rich,” Sukuna explained one time; “but my grandfather used to work under this nice man who occasionally let me sit in his living room and watch basically whatever I wanted, while he and my grandfather talked or something.”

“What did you watch?” you asked.

“. . .None of your business,” he said, blushing, “nothing that you should be watching, anyway.”

“‘Kuna, I don’t know if schooling is much different in the city than in the country, but we’re only a year apart.”

“A year is a big difference in knowledge.”

Sukuna wasn’t a particularly nice boy to you, but he was the closest you ever got to having a real friend, so you learned to take his jokes and banter with a grain of salt.

At school, you were a pretty sociable person, but your friends . . . well, weren’t really friends. They liked sitting with you during Service because it ensured them the best spots in the best pews, but that was it. They never ate lunch with you, never played with you during recess, and talked to you as if you were a mere stranger to them. They didn’t even think of you as a friend, honestly.

But Sukuna . . . Sukuna did.

While he may never have played silly games with you at lunch-recess, because he explained he was “too old to act like a silly, little child,” he still sat down on the innumerable blades of grass or dusty patches of dirt with you, and just . . . talked. You two talked a whole lot.

Sometimes, Sukuna would lie on his back, with shade from the tree above your figures granting him freedom, and he would toss an apple to and fro. The first time he did it, you were beyond confused, and brushed it off as “city-people behavior.” But, when he gave the apple to you after recess ended, and said, “Tossing it back and forth makes it taste sweeter,” that’s when you realized he was probably going to be your best friend for life.

Most people preferred to steer clear from you; they deemed you a goody two-shoes because of your father’s occupation as a preacher of faith, and didn’t bother listening to words that you actually said, but, rather, judged you merely on what was proclaimed by your father on Sundays. It was a common idea among your peers that you were some prim and proper “teacher’s pet,” or, well, in your case: “preacher’s pet.”

“What makes them think that?” asked Sukuna, one afternoon.

The two of you were outside at recess, squatting near a small pond; Sukuna was teaching you how to catch frogs—a hobby he had picked up the last summer he spent in the city, and also a hobby he hoped he could turn into a tradition with you.

“I . . . don’t know. I’ve spent almost half of my life with them as my classmates and neighbors, and I still don’t know,” you frowned, struggling to get a hold on a particularly slippery frog. “Do you . . . think I did something wrong?”

Sukuna chose not to respond, his eyebrows knitting together, creating an unreadable, conflicted expression on his face, as his grip around the neck of an innocent frog tightened to an extreme extent.

The silence dragged on for several minutes, only the croaking sounds of the frogs interrupting the calm, and your occasional grumbles of frustration at failure to capture said frogs.

Finally, shaking his head, as if escaping a trance, Sukuna didn’t say anything more as he finally released his unforgiving grip on the frog in his grasp, and threw it into your hands, to which you caught the amphibian with an elated squeal.

This marked the day everything changed.

During school, out on the playground, while walking on the dusty roads, even during Service—Sukuna had silently sworn to God that if anything or anyone were to hurt you ever again, he would be there.

He didn’t like to say it, and you knew that, but you had gradually learned over time that Sukuna wasn’t used to people being there for him, but maybe, just maybe, thought Sukuna, if he were there for you, you wouldn’t end up going down the same path as him.

And when Sukuna had his mind on something, he wouldn’t yield for anyone. But, worry not, Sukuna couldn’t care less about the black eyes he got from beating up kids who talked down on you. He knew you would never let him do it if he told you his plans beforehand, and he wasn’t exactly keen on having you see him do that, either, so he never got into too much trouble when you were by.

Sukuna saw his reflection in your eyes that day you told him the other kids didn’t like you much, and he had never wanted anything more than to get rid of the Fifth Commandment.

There were, however, other alternatives to violence (A/N: shocking, right?), and Sukuna took up the habit of hanging out with you more often. Well, actually, “habit” doesn’t quite cut it; at first, it was like a hobby—a sort of pastime to get his mind off of homicidal activities, then it was like something built into his everyday schedule, and then . . . and then it was life.

Throughout his nine years of living, Sukuna had never enjoyed many sports, movies, or books, but everything seemed to change when you came into the picture. You—a rowdy, willful, and unexpectedly and unintentionally funny little girl, whose father was the town of Bromwell’s preacher. You wanted to be his friend? You wanted to sit next to him during school? No; no, that couldn’t be, thought Sukuna, every time he laid awake at night.

But, with beginning friendships, always comes the “getting to know each other” stage, and that was perhaps the most enjoyable two weeks Sukuna had ever spent with someone other than just himself or with his grandfather.

“Do you have a favorite color?” you asked, one day.

The two of you were walking home from school together (another tradition you two created), and Sukuna would’ve answered, had you not cut him off immediately before he had any opportunity to.

“Wait, no, let me guess.” You paused your walking, put a hand on your hip, and rubbed your chin in thought. “Hmm, I would guess pink, but it’s literally the color you see every time you look in the mirror, and, if I were you, I would grow sick and tired of it.”

Sukuna shook his head in laughter, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You read into things too much.”

“Psychological tactic to get me farther from the right answer? Yeah, I think so.”

“Proved my point exactly, squirt.” Sukuna looked at you with a gaze neither you nor even Sukuna could comprehend as eight and nine year olds. There was a weird beating in his chest when he realized you were already looking at him, and he laughed again to mask his fragility.

You disregarded his words, and continued on. “Red? No. . . Blue—actually, purple? Wait, is it. . . Green! Yes, it has to be. It’s green, isn’t it?”

With all the hope you had in your body, you had greatly hoped that you were correct, but by the time you had guessed the color purple, Sukuna had already forgotten what his favorite color was, and what he said next was not his proudest moment now that he looked back at it as a man.

“Do you . . . like green?” he asked, redirecting the question to you. His eyes darted from corner to corner, avoiding eye contact as he tried to give off a nonchalant demeanor.

“Why wouldn’t I? I like all colors, y’know—maybe it’s just me, but I feel like if I liked one color too much, the others would get sad, and that’s why . . . that’s why. . .” You faltered, before beginning anew. “Anyway, yeah, I like green, but only when pickles aren’t a part of the equation. And, they’re not a part of the equation, . . right? You can promise me that much.”

Oh, but Sukuna could promise you much more. So much more.

“Sure. Yeah, no pickles.”

You looked at Sukuna with a reassured look after his declaration, and then, before you began walking again, you looked at him with a different look. A weird look—as if his presence disturbed you.

“Are you going to answer my question?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I just did.”

“No, silly, the other one. Is it green? Is your favorite color green?”

“I like green, yeah.”

That was how it went with Sukuna. No straight answers. Never, nada.

Even while you two ate lunch together side by side, while you two reenacted and geeked out over your favorite book scenes and movie scenes, while you two played a game of taking turns to crawl into a tire and have the other push them down the dusty, dusty roads—It was a racing game, (only occasionally, actually,) where you two would compete on who would make it to the designated end of the track first. You and Sukuna had neither the time, nor the care, honestly, to make authentic prizes, so the winner usually just had bragging rights for the rest of the day (or until the winner’s streak was broken).

You laugh about it now that you’re older, but you vaguely remember how, one time, you had rolled your ankle while going down a hill in a tire, and Sukuna had looked at you with an expression so full of sympathy and guilt that you actually couldn’t recognize him at first. It was nothing like Sukuna, and he even offered to let you punch him in the face as a strange form of compensation. But you laughed, simply choosing to walk it off.

Of course, like the stubborn mule he was, Sukuna didn’t let it end there, and he wouldn’t stop harassing you and forcing you to punch him until you finally put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eye, saying, with as much humor as an eight year old could muster, “If you are so sorry, you can go and confess the sin you committed today: hurting a girl.”

With this, you hadn’t originally intended for Sukuna to go to Confession; you were merely joking, using sarcasm, as Sukuna had called it before, or so you remembered. But Sukuna, having not realized this, looked at you with great surprise, and almost reeled backwards, tripping over his untied shoelaces.

“You want me to . . . confess?” Although Sukuna tried to appear composed as he repeated your suggestion, you could clearly tell he was either horrified or extremely uneasy. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stared at you as if you were asking him to throw himself off a bridge.

“Well, yeah,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; you wanted to keep the joke going as long as possible, for you thought Sukuna would be somewhat proud of you for finally having tricked him at something, and you couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized he had been bested. “Confess—I want you to confess.”

“Is that . . . absolutely, totally, really necessary?”

You grinned. “It’s absolutely, totally, really necessary for me to find out what ridiculous act of penance my dad will give you.”

When Sukuna realized you were joking the entire time, he audibly let out a breath of relief, and tried to casually laugh it off afterwards in order to cover up his clearly worried expression from before. But, Sukuna didn’t high-five you for succeeding in playing him, he didn’t laugh at your cleverness and how long you lasted character, he didn’t acknowledge anything regarding your prank, for that matter, at all.

Maybe you didn’t notice it at first due to how young you were at that time. But nowadays, you don’t joke about anything like that. Though, you did have many opportunities soon after that incident.

It wasn’t the last time Sukuna behaved strangely under the topic of a church-related subject, and it wasn’t the last time you mentioned a church-related subject either.

Children, the age of eight years, are usually at the stage of receiving their First Communion, or, at least, that was the way it went here in Bromwell. You had received the Eucharist a few weeks before you met Sukuna, so there was no need for you both to converse about it. Sukuna, on the other hand, was a twelvemonth older than you, and was expected to have already received his First Communion before moving to Bromwell.

He said it was the truth, you heard it was the truth, but you had never seen this supposed “truth.”

It wasn’t like you watched and observed your friends as they went up for the body of Christ, and made note of who was sat the whole time, but . . . you and Sukuna weren’t just friends—you two were best friends, and you thought, or, at least, you heard from Sukuna, that it was normal for best friends to be able to notice when their best friends were ill, or feeling down, or acting unlike themselves.

So, was it really strange for you to realize that Sukuna never actually received the body of Christ?

In some instances, he was stuck in the bathroom during the time, sometimes he was tying his shoelaces (but it would be an awfully long time spent tying one’s shoelaces), and sometimes, he was just nowhere to be found—even if you nearly cracked your neck turning around the whole church to find him. It was almost like he was a ghost, who disappeared and vanished.

A malevolent phantom, even.

But, the Eucharist wasn’t the only thing. Sukuna rarely said prayers aloud. He mumbled them, actually, and most of the time, you couldn’t even tell if he was mumbling or not. Sukuna always had his head down, and his eyes casted to the floor during prayer. There were rare occasions, though, where he would be looking up, but that was only if he was standing outside. Never inside, no.

In all honesty, this was quite the strange observation to make. Noticing your friend rarely prays aloud? Realizing his absence when others go to receive the Body and Blood?

At first, you didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, didn’t want to bring it up, even, but . . . at eight years old, you were so new to the world, and the world was so new to you. And, you just couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you on one Wednesday afternoon.

School was out, you and Sukuna were outside and drawing in the dirt with sticks in his front lawn, and the sun was shining on your face, drying and hardening the bits of mud on your cheeks, hands, and elbows. There was a warmness about you, and a radiant gleam in your eyes—it scared the living daylights out of Sukuna, and he rarely held eye contact for longer than needed. The boy had been much more cautious around you lately, and you didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, to further get his attention as you simultaneously poked at him with a nearby stick. “Sukuna.”

He grunted, as if to give a sign that he heard you. (Or, maybe, he just wanted you to stop poking him.)

“Sukuna, I think you’re really weird.”

“. . .”

“Okay,” you paused, raising your hands in defense, “I’m sure that’s not surprising, since, like, everyone thinks you’re weird,” you laughed; “but I just wanted to point it out, because I noticed . . . something.”

“Okay. . ?” Sukuna raised a brow, never once pausing in his artwork—he was drawing a peacock, an animal you had never seen while living in Bromwell, and an animal he had apparently seen on television once, in the city. He briefly mentioned it earlier, and, due to your pestering and questioning regarding the animal, also wanted to show you what it looked like.

You took in a deep breath, and spat out what you supposedly noticed, and needed to say. “You never come up for Communion.”

Sukuna stopped like a deer caught in headlights (a phrase that Sukuna taught you; at school, it was labeled a figurative expression: a simile), and looked—not at you—but at his hands. He looked at his dirty, scarred hands, wiith an emotion on his face that you could not recognize.

“. . .”

You took his silence as a sign to continue, or, well, you interpreted it as one, but it might’ve just been your talkative nature speaking.

“Why is that? Have you not received your First Communion? I won’t tell anyone, swear.” You held out your pinky in the possibility that he would make you solemnly swear. “Won’t even make fun of you.”

But Sukuna didn’t take your pinky, didn’t even glance at it. He only spoke after a long moment’s pause, when he realized there was no escape. “It’s . . . not that. I received it—my First Communion. Got it when I was your age, actually. But, ah, you probably guessed that already.”

“So, why don’t you receive Communion anymore?”

“Geez, squirt, you sure ask a lot.” Sukuna laughed, and scratched the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding a stick.

You grinned, the heaviness in your chest seeming to alleviate. “I can’t help it, I’m a curious person, you know—”

Sukuna cut you off as he moved closer to the spot where you currently sat on the dirt. He began to work, scratching and scraping at a new drawing. Only this time, it wasn’t a male peafowl. Wasn’t even a bird or an animal. It was a woman. Sukuna responded to your still unanswered question by drawing a woman.

Now, you knew Sukuna was an artist, but this was just. . .

“Sukuna, she’s. . . She’s beautiful. But, who is she?” you asked. “Is she someone you know? An old crush from the city?”

Sukuna almost laughed. “That would . . . be incestuous.”

You scrunched your nose, your face wrinkling in the process. “What does that word mean?”

“Just . . . shut up, okay? For a few minutes at least.”

You nodded, with some reluctance.

“My mother—this is my mother,” Sukuna began, when he was done with the drawing. “When I was just around your age, fresh out of the first grade, and living a pretty . . . decent childhood in the city, my mother. . . She was,” he hesitated, “diagnosed with a cancer I don’t even want to waste my breath naming. It doesn’t deserve to be recognized for mortality.” He scoffed, continuing.

“My father was never present in my life, and I had neither a brother nor a sister. My mother worked a total of three jobs to feed us both and take care of my grandfather. Do you know what that’s like? No; no, you don’t. But that’s of no importance, really.

“I don’t know much about my father. My mother never liked speaking about him, and Grandpa only ever mentioned his name if he wanted to berate my mother for choosing such a man. Nevertheless, I still wished he would’ve been there when my mother fell ill. I tried calling him—multiple times, actually, but it only ever went to voicemail, and I never had the courage to speak into the void. I was afraid. Shy. I didn’t think there was anyone who would listen.”

You noticed his sudden pause, the dimness of his eyes, and you wanted to at least lighten the subject. “But, there was someone—who could’ve listened.”

Sukuna finally looked at you. “God? Is that who you’re referring to? You mean to tell me God could’ve listened? You are just,” he sucked in a breath, “so hilarious. God could’ve listened? Well, guess what, kid, he didn’t. Could’ve, but didn’t.

“I prayed three times a day, and more times than I could count on both hands in the evening, in the night, while I laid in bed, while I dreamed up a fantasy where stupid, stupid illnesses didn’t exist. I prayed like a madman. Do you hear that? A madman. Probably made it to God’s list of ‘Most Devout Followers,’ too, with the amount of Amens I muttered each week.

“So many prayers. So many prayers. But did that stop cancer? Did that prevent her passing? Did that aid in her recovery? God—fucking—damnit, do you realize? it didn’t. She’s gone. Six feet under. Flowers bloom from her grave, and yet no one’s there to water them.”

You didn’t have the resolve to point out a nine year old just cursed in front of you. You didn’t notice, anyway. “Sukuna—”

“Are you going to tell me it was God’s will? Are you going to tell me God loves me all the same? Even though He took my mother away? The woman who gave me life? Breath? No. Maybe God loves me, but He doesn’t know how to love me. Doesn’t know how I want to be loved. Loves me in a way I don’t understand. . . God loves me, so I’ve been told; but I want Him to stop.”

Sukuna doesn’t know how much you cried that night.

The both of you parted soon after he told you about his life before Bromwell; the silence became overwhelming, no more drawings were engraved onto the dirt, and the sticks were left scattered on the ground. There, really, was no other choice.

You went home that evening, and asked your father about God. About religion. About death. You wondered why people were left to die, why there was suffering and oppression in the world. Was it truly all in God’s will? If He created everyone in His image, did He create everyone to die, too? Why were we to perish? to finish? to end? You thought He loved you—wanted the best for you.

And, from what you understood, Sukuna thought that, too. Or, well, he used to. Sukuna used to be just like you. Prayed every day and every night, went to Service on Sundays, and came up for Communion like any other devotee. But, that was when he believed, that was when he had faith; that was when he had reason to have faith. That was then, and now is now. Sukuna gave up on his religion, and his religion abandoned him. His move from the city to the country was based on convenience, but what is convenience in a world based on faith? Belief in the invisible?

Your father didn’t have much to say, and to answer you with. He honestly wasn’t expecting to have this conversation with you so soon, and at such a young age. But, what did he have to say, made you even more lost. Just as lost, as someone you believed you knew.

The proclamation of Genesis 3:19: “By the sweat of your face you will eat bread, till you return to the ground, because from it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Death was an interesting topic for you, from that moment until now. Since your birth you had been taught the one true principle: “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” But, after Sukuna opened your eyes a little further, and introduced death in a way you hadn’t acknowledged before, you didn’t know if there was one true principle at all. How were you to live by the words of a god you could neither see nor hear nor feel, and how was that very god going to grant you the will to live, if you were to perish in the end?

You had never once doubted the existence of God. You had been born into your religion, and you didn’t question whether you would have your funeral in a church or not. But . . . as you look at your rosary while you kneel at the side of your bed before you sleep, hanging your head in prayer and whispering words of invocation, you cannot help but remember his face. His face while he talked about his mother. His face while he talked about his father. His face while he talked about his grandfather.

Did you look like that when you spoke to God? Did you carry a burden so heavy, so you could lift it up to your Creator—in the end? The one who would rid you of your sorrows, your griefs, your troubles? But, how was that to be done? When the Creator gave you those in the beginning?

You knew how.

Death.

But, was that really the end?

There was always Heaven, as well. The place where you shall reside once you meet your finish. The place where you shall live with your god, in eternal life. But, could it be, that you would see—see others that had gone and passed, just like you. . ? Would you see his mother? Would you see him? Would you see those eyes? Those eyes that held such emotion one could not possibly comprehend?

Children don’t understand much, Sukuna was right. A year was a large difference in knowledge. But, you could only hope that Sukuna didn’t know how much you cried that night. For him, for his mother, for his grief, for everyone who had lost a life—whether it was theirs and their own, or it was a loved one’s.

You didn’t have a conclusion or a thesis; you didn’t have a hypothesis in the first place. But, from this night on to the next, you soon began to think, that when the stars eventually burned, when the world flipped on its side, when the seas came out dry, maybe then—maybe then you would know, instead of believe, maybe then you would know, that there really was a god out there . . . a god who hated you.

For, you remember his face from that evening like it was yesterday, and you feared you would never forget—more or less, you feared the eventual day that face would soon be your own.

***

You didn’t utter a single question regarding any aspects or traditions or customs of religion for the next decade. You didn’t mention Christmas, didn’t talk about prayer, didn’t bring up the Gospel. And you rarely, if ever, spoke about your father to Sukuna. This was, however, all within your will; you chose to respect Sukuna’s wellbeing, and you decided to remain as neutral as ever when you two were together.

The first time you saw Sukuna, after the week where he confessed his past to you, was awkward. The room you two were in was stuffy, and humid, and you felt as if you couldn’t speak. Words didn’t leave your throat, and Sukuna’s eyes never met yours. He sat as far away from you as possible, and you wondered if he hated you, but then you wondered how that could ever be. You never spoke ill of Sukuna, especially not to his face, and you never did anything he was uncomfortable with or detested.

The only thing Sukuna held against you was your father, a preacher. A preacher of the very religion Sukuna swore he could never take up again.

It wasn’t your fault he converted, so why was he avoiding you? Why was he punishing you?

When you were eight years old, you feared no one but God. And that showed, because, when you stalked up to Sukuna—wearing old, scruffed overalls and muddy boots—you didn’t cower before him, didn’t get on your knees and ask him to be your friend again. Instead, you did what no one else ever did or dreamed of: you slapped him.

“What is your problem?” you asked, watching as Sukuna barely flinched from the assault.

“My problem?” he laughed. “You’re the one who slapped me.”

Honestly, Sukuna would have never spoken to you again after his confession, had you not approached him first. He didn’t know whether you befriended him solely for him, or for any sayings from the Bible. But, it was nice: knowing that you were his friend despite conflict of religion. He had been avoiding you lest you bring up the topic of “Atheism, Sukuna, and God” up to your father. For, well, Sukuna wasn’t exactly keen on that man knowing any of his business, and obtaining the knowledge from his daughter, no less, who asked everything from an innocent heart.

On the other hand, needless to say, you were glad Sukuna wasn’t the least bit affected by the happenings of last week. Maybe he frowned and sighed when speaking about his deceased mother, but that didn’t last, or, well, it didn’t seem like it. Sukuna—the Sukuna you knew—was back. And he was as cunning, witty, and snarky, as ever. Perhaps his confession brought the two of you closer.

Sukuna was never afraid of bringing up anything to you again (not like he ever was, he just didn’t feel the need), and you—the same. But, if there ever was a case, you two had mutually and unanimously created a tradition of engraving your confessions in the dirt: drawing with sticks what you could never even dare to whisper. Your bond was stronger than ever, and, as the years passed by, the two of you soon grew inseparable.

So inseparable, in fact, that . . . by the age of thirteen, you had even developed a little, silly crush on the pink-haired boy. Well, actually, back then, he was a boy, but that was then, and now is now. Sukuna wasn’t a little boy anymore, and you weren’t just a little girl anymore. The two of you were a little grown, a bit older: teenagers—thirteen and fourteen. You didn’t know exactly when it first began, but, when you started laughing at jokes that Sukuna said (even when they weren’t funny) just because he said them, and when you started to toss around all your apples as if it were a reflex, and when you started to become a little less independent, that’s when you knew.

You were the eldest daughter to the town’s preacher. Your parents weren’t often home, and you learned, in the process, to fend for yourself most of the time. You were cheeky, said jokes that sometimes cut too deep, and were used to doing things yourself. But, when Sukuna came into the story, most things changed. You were both the eldest childs, and you were both the only childs. What’s worse, was how stubborn you both were—Little Miss “I Can Do It Myself” and Mister “Sit Down.”

Sukuna taught you to relax, while also simultaneously kicking things up a notch. Yeah, he was clearly a bad example, but he was also a great best friend. He let you rely on him more than you relied on anyone during the whole span of your life, and you two were often named as partners in crime. Devious, mischievous, and troublesome. You kept Sukuna on his toes, and didn’t leave him up to too much bad, while he, on the other hand, let you experience letting go of expectations and rules.

From the second grade all the way to the ninth, you and Sukuna developed countless inside jokes, party tricks, stories, and so much more.

Sukuna climbed through your window when you weren’t allowed to leave the house, and stayed and talked with you until you were. He looked at you like you hung the moon and stars, he laughed with you like you changed the course of speed and time, and he talked about you to his grandfather like you were the love of his life—and you were! A year was a big difference in knowledge, but, funny enough, neither of you knew how much hanging out with each other would change things.

The fifth grade was when the two of you first held hands.

Sukuna had told you a story about how he supposedly heard a coyote in the middle of the night, and when you called him a chicken for not going outside to check, he forced the both of you to sneak out, late at night, to face the alleged coyotes. You two were both young, and the atmosphere was already eerie enough that, when you heard even the faintest sound of wind snapping and a rocking chair rocking, you subconsciously took Sukuna by the hand and made a dash for it.

(Neither of you speak about that night—and whether that’s out of embarrassment for being scared of a coyote, or embarrassment of holding hands, no one knows.)

The eighth grade was when the two of you had your first date.

And, yes, I know, thirteen year olds are a bit young for that thing, but your and Sukuna’s date wasn’t exactly planned, per se. You were trying to make an excuse in order to get out of watching your mother help one of her patients give birth (which is a very gruesome sight, according to Sukuna), and Sukuna, who was standing beside you whilst you argued with your mother, decided to silently interrupt you and take his leave. But you, perhaps out of spite, grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back in the house, and told your mother that you two were both just leaving, and that watching a birthing process was not part of the schedule.

The two of you awkwardly, and with a significant amount of tension in the air, took each other by the arm and walked to . . . absolutely nowhere. You two walked out of the house sweating, because your mother was watching you like a hawk from the window, and you just followed wherever Sukuna walked, but then, you realized that, Sukuna was just following wherever you were walking. So the two of you walked in circles for approximately half of an hour, before you both decided to take a detour towards a nearby river, and splash around.

(You came home with soaking wet clothes that day, and your mother immediately exclaimed, with the assumption that you and Sukuna were not just swimming, “I knew I should have shown you the horrors of pregnancy,” which left you scarred—for life, possibly, because you never got a chance to explain yourself.)

The eleventh grade was when the two of you kissed for the first time.

The calendar marked the day of Christmas, and the town of Bromwell was as festive as it could get. Your neighbors hung up tinsel and other various drapings on their porches, the smell of gingerbread and candy cane wafted through the air, and the excessive number of candles in the church were all lit up. Service had just ended, and you were walking down the empty streets—everyone and their mother was probably already inside, enjoying the Christmas spirit. But, if you had to be honest, you were beginning to get a bit worried; you hadn’t seen Sukuna all day, and, well, you knew Christmas was always a delicate subject for him, but he usually showed up every once in a while on the sacred holiday.

You remembered the year before this one; you and Sukuna had hung out at your house, while your parents did whatever it was that they did at other friends’ and families’ houses. You insisted, begged, actually, for your parents to let the two of you spend the holiday together. And, as they knew you to be quite the responsible daughter, they complied with your request.

You and Sukuna spent the day decorating gingerbread houses, sipping eggnog, and baking several various treats. Until the evening, where you two spent the rest of your time huddled up together on the sofa, sleepily murmuring stories and giggling to yourselves, before snores began to erupt, and your parents found you and Sukuna cuddled up together in the morning.

All in all, Sukuna didn’t care for the birth of Bromwell’s savior, but he enjoyed the winter season and what it had to bring. Although he never showed up for mass on this day, he still frequented your house, or his own house, where you two spent the evening enveloped in holiday cheer. But, today was different.

Sukuna hadn’t shown up at all: didn’t knock on your window early in the morning to wake you up, didn’t surprise you with baked goods (courtesy of his grandfather’s knack for baking), didn’t even throw snowballs at you when you were most vulnerable (taking out the trash). You felt a sense of loneliness; Bromwell was quiet without him, and, apparently, so was his own house. The Itadori residence was completely empty, save for the Grandfather, so, wherever Sukuna was, it wasn’t anywhere here.

Coming up fruitless after your search, you were about to head home—maybe spend some time with your own family, when, by your surprise, you passed by the church, which was still open, and still lit up. This was . . . a surprise, to say the least; your father usually packed everything up and locked the building when everyone finished heading out, but, maybe, even for just this night, that wasn’t so.

Each step you took upon entering the church echoed. The dimmed candle-lighting, paired with the quiet atmosphere and empty setting, created an eerie feeling, almost opposite of what Christmas embodied. You didn’t like it, hated it, actually; the stillness of the night never failed to give you the heebie-jeebies, and you felt that intensely on this very night.

You shrugged your shoulders, shifted your scarf around your neck, and attempted to tell yourself that your father probably just forgot to turn off the lights, and that you were going to do the honors in his stead before sprinting back home, but you changed your mind as soon as your eyes made their way to the back of the church, and you drank in the appearance of none other than Sukuna himself, as he sat in the very last row of pews.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing here?” You could feel a smile etch onto your face, as you began to make your way through the church, weaving through rows and rows of pews before you found yourself taking a seat right beside Sukuna. His arm wrapped around the back of the bench, and pulled you closer to him.

“Not excited to see me? What, don’t tell me you’ve turned your back on me, as well.” Sukuna appeared composed and cool, but his body radiated warmth, which you dreadfully lacked. “Most of Bromwell’s figured me out already, started whispering my name right next to Satan’s—calling me a son of a bitch, an atheist, a scoundrel. Is the preacher’s lovely little daughter doing that, too?”

“Hey, don’t joke around like that, especially not on Christmas. Where’s your holiday cheer?” You used your thumb to stretch out the corner of Sukuna’s mouth, revealing his canines as you forced him to muster a lame excuse for a smile. “You are such a Scrooge, you know, always wearing this same exact scowl. Your face is just so mad all the time.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, dragging your face closer to his. “You don’t like this face? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Maybe. Why? Gonna do something about that?” Your eyes peered into his, and his into yours; and you swore he could see through your soul right then and there. Maybe he really was Satan, after all, you joked.

Sukuna laughed, before saying, with a mocking tone, “Maybe. But it depends, you might not like what I’ll do.”

“There really isn’t much worse you could do besides meet me in the back of an empty church.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s not like you would know, anyway. You don’t follow any of the Commandments; you don’t know what’s bad or good for me, at all.”

“Are you implying I don’t know what anything means?”

“Mm, yeah.” You leaned closer to Sukuna, your noses nearly touching.

“That’s kind of harsh coming from the preacher’s daughter,” Sukuna joked; “but, hey, I don’t have to be religious to know what this means.”

Sukuna pulled out a mistletoe from God knows where, and dangled it above your head like a child taunting its opponent. Bits of snow dusted off the branches, landing on the tops of your heads, but neither of you cared much, at least not in the moment; the most Sukuna did was push a strand of loose hair out of your face, but he did nothing more except meet your gaze.

Your heart was pounding, but you had had a few cups of apple cider earlier, and your stomach felt warm while the tip of your nose glowed; you felt as if ready to even take on Mount Everest, so, if you haven’t gotten the picture yet: you weren’t nervous for anything. Well, maybe save for the possibility that your father or literally anyone else could walk in on the two of you.

“I . . . change my mind,” you whispered, speaking languidly as you leaned in ever so slightly; “there is worse we could do besides meet in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“And, that is?”

“We could . . .” Your eyes roamed Sukuna’s face as you spoke, and you admired the occasional freckle you discovered in your way. “We could kiss in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“‘Kiss?’” Sukuna repeated, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you. “That’s all you’ve got?”

When you woke up this morning, you didn’t expect to end the Christmas day making out with your childhood best friend, Sukuna, in the back of an empty church, but, fate doesn’t wait for just anyone’s opinions, and you couldn’t help yourself when Sukuna looked at you the way he did. You couldn’t help yourself when you tangled your hands in his hair, and met his lips with yours—the sweet taste of eggnog on your tongue following soon after.

Mistakes weren’t made that night, but you went to your monthly Confession the next morning anyway.

You and Sukuna didn’t start dating until . . . well, actually, you two never actually started dating—in a sense, at least. There was never a candle-lit dinner, where it was just the two of you, speaking in low voices over a furnished table in the dark. There was no question such as Will you be my girlfriend? or, even, Will you be my boyfriend? but, that was okay. It was clear enough how you two felt about each other, and, even if it wasn’t, the amount of kisses Sukuna gave you whether you two were alone or surrounded, and the amount of nights you two spent laying on stacks of hay in his grandfather’s barn, whispering sweet-nothings to each other, ought to have said enough about your relationship.

Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and you were always too embarrassed to bring up the fact your relationship wasn’t official, like, at all. But, most of your neighbors knew that their preacher’s daughter was dating the county’s atheist by the time you got into the twelfth grade, and that there was nothing they could do about that except for subtly look down upon you both, and convince themselves your relationship wasn’t serious enough to make it to marriage.

Your father never spoke ill about Sukuna; and, as far as you knew, he always saw the pink-haired delinquent (an affectionate nickname) as a bright boy: a respectful young man, who looked at his daughter like a goddess incarnate, despite whatever religion he partook in. As for how your mother felt about your boyfriend: she thought that as long as she wasn’t going to have to deliver your baby any time soon, she couldn’t have cared less.

But, it’s not like you actually cared about how anyone felt about Sukuna. What mattered most was how you felt about him—I mean, he was your boyfriend, after all. And, how you felt about Sukuna was . . . beyond definable. He was Sukuna, you were you, and that’s all you knew. Well, that’s all you knew in this moment, as you sat under the light of the moon—cascading through windows of Sukuna’s barn—as the two of you huddled up together, sharing kisses and purposely interrupting each other as you spoke with a volume just above a whisper.

The horses were asleep, (you and Sukuna had gone riding earlier in the day), but you were neither tired nor cold, even in this winter weather. You often found yourself feeling warm, your heart racing in your chest, whenever you were with Sukuna, and the heat which always rose to your cheeks did a good job at showing it.

“You make me hate myself,” Sukuna whispered, leaning his back against the sleeping friesian behind him, while his arm slithered around your waist, subtly pulling you closer to him every once in a while.

You laughed, wondering if he was just sleep-talking at this point. His voice was rough, and cold, but his skin was warm, and he didn’t wait for an answer from you before continuing.

“Do you know how stupid you make me feel? God, it’s like. . . You’re like an angel that has descended upon this wretched earth, and guess what, I’m the fool who’s fallen in love with you. This whole town’s praying for my downfall, you know that, angel?—for Satan to finally drag my ass back down to the depths of Hell, but. . .”

“Would you go?”

“. . .Where?”

“Would you go with him?”

“No.” Sukuna shook his head, laughing like a drunkard. “No, not even God could pull me away from you.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t let Him.”

“How do you know you’ll succeed?”

“Because I don’t believe in anything besides the fact that you are the closest I’ll ever get to Heaven. You are an angel that has been bestowed upon my black heart, you are every dark thought—every demonic idea—that has ever plagued my mind. You may taste like paradise, but even God knows you are a religion for only the lowest lovesick fools to have ever roamed this godforsaken planet.”

You turned around in Sukuna’s hold, looping your arms around his neck, and pulling him closer to you. “Would that make you religious, then? A devout follower?”

“For you? Always.”

That conversation was a fortnight ago. You’ve officially entered your twenties now, and everyone knows a new decade means a new chapter, especially for first-time lovers like you. It doesn’t feel any different, though; you’re older, but nothing’s changed. At least, you didn’t think so. Turning twenty meant you had been dating Sukuna for three years, and, well, in Bromwell, there was only one thing to be expected. Marriage; a topic that’s being brought up more frequently at your dinner table, whether you liked it or not.

You were an adult now. You’ve been an adult, actually, but eighteen and nineteen year olds were never as relevant as twenty year olds.

In full honesty, and full confidence, you didn’t care much for seeing yourself in a white gown and white veil. Being married is a title, it’s an expectation, it’s a milestone. It’s not . . . it’s not kismet. Being married meant you had a ring on your finger. But, when you compared it to simply being boyfriend-girlfriend, you didn’t see much of a difference. Now, you don’t mean to be ‘woke’ or prejudiced, you just didn’t feel much significance in the holy sacrament of matrimony.

Not that you would ever say that aloud, though. . . Especially when you’re eating dinner with your very old fashioned parents who have very old fashioned ideals.

“How is—How is Sukuna, by the way?” began your father, as he cut into a smoked pork shoulder.

“He’s how he’s always been, sir.” You offered a small smile, placing your cutlery back down. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I am simply a curious man,” he laughed. “But, I must say, I feel quite sympathetic towards him.”

“. . .May I remind you that his mother died years ago, father—”

“My child, I am not talking about that.” His tone cut cold, and deep, like an icicle, and you suddenly noticed the strangeness of the air which surrounded the dinner table; this was no simple conversation.

Your eyes wandered your father’s face from across the table for any hint to what on earth he was going on about, but he evaded all eye contact. Your mother, on the other hand, remained silent, excluded from the conversation whether it was by her own will or not; she sat beside your father like a statue—beautiful, but with no exact purpose.

“Pardon?”

Your father cleared his throat. “Sukuna does know what is to come, correct?”

“Father, even I do not know what you are talking about; never mind him.”

“You are my only daughter, you hear? You are my eldest child, my only child. I founded the one, single church of Bromwell, and you take after me. How will this county react when they hear you are to be wed off to an atheist?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You are twenty years old. You are going to be married. Tomorrow, next week, next year. It will happen. My point isn’t that I’m going to rush you, that is hardly my job.”

You blinked. “Then, . . what is your job?”

Your father laughed. “You do not mean you are going to marry Sukuna, are you?”

“How is that relevant?”

“I let you talk with Sukuna, I let you hang around that fellow, I let you eat with that man in my own house. Several times, actually. But, regardless, that was all when you were young. I remember my first relationships, you know; they weren’t as serious as I would’ve liked to hope. But, you do know . . . I am not letting you anywhere near that man if he has a ring in his pocket.”

“Father, blessings from the in-laws before asking a woman’s hand in marriage are hardly relevant nowadays.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“I’m . . . sorry?”

“I always assumed you were in love with him because you were young, and everything was so new to you. But, don’t tell me you intend to stay with him for longer than you need to. Sukuna Ryomen Itadori is . . . an atheist. He’s turned his back on our religion. He’s abandoned our god. His eyes skip over our scripture.”

“. . .Why is that, sir? Why does he keep quiet when others are in prayer? Why does he close his eyes when we, instead, look above to the heavens? Because he has no reason to, don’t you see? Would you consider him a sinner even if he had never, once in his life, ever heard God’s name? You wouldn’t, because you would proclaim the Word of the Lord to him, anyway.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Do I, now?” you asked. “I may believe in what I call my God, and Sukuna may believe in what he knows to be his truth. We all come from different walks of life, father; and you can’t change that. There is nothing wrong with what Sukuna’s chosen for himself, and your fragility and selfishness won’t ever change that. I can marry whomever I please. I can give my hand to anyone who I deem worthy of it. You are my father; you gave me life, but you do not choose my outcomes.”

“I do not choose your outcomes, you say? Well, you make me laugh quite a bit, don’t you, because I already have.”

“. . .You have?”

“That’s what I just said. I’ve chosen your outcome, your future, your fate. He has a name, too, would you like to hear it?”

You stood up from the table so quickly your chair nearly fell over, scraping against the floor with a rather harsh sound. “I am not marrying someone I hardly know.”

“Even if it is God’s will?” your father asked, mocking you. “You are young, you’ll understand sooner or later.”

“Who do you take me for? I am entirely confident when I say I could never love a man I’ve neither seen nor heard.”

“My child, you ought to learn before you speak; joining in matrimony is not always done out of love.”

Your eyes flickered to your mother, who was as still as she was before, and you almost dropped down on your knees to beg forgiveness for any wrong you had ever done towards her. But you didn’t, you didn’t kneel, didn’t fall. Instead, you took a step towards the door.

“You are a child of God. And may I remind you, that no daughter of mine shall marry a nonbeliever. You walk out of that door right now, and you best believe you can call yourself an estranged child.”

When you moved to take another step, you turned around just in time to miss staying in line of aim of the empty beer bottle your father threw. It crashed behind you—shattering, falling to the floor—and left just the tiniest dent on the wall it hit. So tiny, in fact, that you wouldn’t have noticed it had it not been of impact in the very spot your head just was, milliseconds before.

You did not wait another moment to leave that house, and ran out as fast as you could, while your father, enraged, sat and mulled in his anger.

As you crushed leaves and twigs beneath your feet in your distress and hurry, you muttered prayers to God like a madman, wiped your tears with your sleeves every few seconds, and asked for your mother’s forgiveness as if you had just disgraced her lineage. But, you didn’t; instead, you ended a line of sorrow, misery, humiliation; you left because you wanted something anew, you wanted. . . You wanted Sukuna.

You don’t know how long you ran for, or in what direction you ran, even, but your legs ached, and you soon found yourself at a river bank, in the middle of nowhere—you couldn’t spot any houses or signs of life for leagues. The water was muddy, dirty, brown, and you could hardly see your reflection in it; still, you could just barely make out your disheveled state: your messy hair, tear-stained cheeks, trembling lips. You looked like a mess, and you were one. Metaphorically and literally. You looked nothing like a preacher’s daughter, but, it didn’t matter, you weren’t a preacher’s daughter anymore; you weren’t anyone’s daughter, in fact . . . only God’s.

When Sukuna told you about his family, about the death in his family, you questioned God and His ways. But you eventually went back to how you were before—a devout follower. Now that you’re older, you understand the picture more clearly. It’s not God you question and doubt, it’s His people. Men choose gods so that they have someone to blame, to use as reasoning, to make themselves feel less alone in this vast universe. It’s been done for years. Religion is man-made; immortal beings do not bleed; and belief is truly, utterly voluntary. You could believe in God, while hating His people, and the scripture would all be the same.

Nevertheless, you hated it. All of it. Why was your father like this? Why was everyone like this? Why did no one understand? What was so hard to comprehend?

You did not hesitate when you ripped off one of the several necklaces you wore around your neck, dropping it into the river bed, and watching as it traveled elsewhere. Anywhere—but here, you prayed, as you sat down on the dead grass to do nothing but sob.

You were wrong. So wrong. Your father didn’t want anything to do with Sukuna; what’s worse, he took you as the person to date someone for fun. Your father assumed you were mindlessly dating Sukuna. Was that all he thought of you? Did he even consider you his daughter?—His daughter, who he forbade from dating outside of religion?

All your life, you had been nothing but who you were supposed to be. Charitable, smart, generous, charming. Now, you couldn’t even recognize yourself anymore.

Maybe you were hallucinating, too, because hours had passed since you ran out of your house, and now, as you sat on the river bank and stared at your reflection, you could make out another faint reflection besides yours. A figure, walking from a distance. Then, a face. A reflection of a man. A reflection of . . . Sukuna.

He looked like he had been walking all around town for you, and there was sweat on his forehead to show for that. Sukuna called your name as he approached, seemingly unbeknownst of the fact you were practically bawling your eyes out, and began to ask you something stupid, but then he stopped as soon as he was close enough to sit down beside you, switched the subject, and asked, with earnest, “Your necklace. Your necklace, where is it?”

“I’m . . . wearing a necklace right now, Sukuna.” You wiped the remaining tears flowing from your eyes on your sleeves, which blew and billowed in the wind. Thankfully, you were always skilled at masking emotion, and Sukuna didn’t seem to have noticed your weeping prior to his arrival.

Sukuna looked at the pearls you had strung around your neck with not so much as even a full glance. “No, not that one. Where’s your . . . where’s the other one?” Sukuna turned his head in all four directions, and looked as if he were searching for something rather important.

“What other one?”

Sukuna licked his lips, using searching as an excuse for avoiding your eyes. “The . . . cross. Or, if it is called the crucifix instead, I am not sure.”

Your mouth opened, lips parted ever so slightly, but you couldn’t breathe. “. . .No; no, you’re right. It’s a cross. A crucifix has the image of Jesus on it.”

Sukuna looked at you now that your eyes were casted downward, and scanned your face with wonder. You were so angelic even when you were miles from home, shivering in the cold, crying your eyes out (yes, Sukuna could tell you were crying earlier; he was an attentive man, after all). Sukuna never felt confident enough to do half of the things he wanted to do whenever you were looking at him. Your eyes scared him, deeply—reminded him of too many people he would rather leave in the dust.

And, if that wasn’t enough, Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and most definitely did not know how to comfort anyone (especially when he had no context). But, at least, he didn’t care much for any of that “What happened?” bullshit. What happened was your business, not his, but how you felt, on the other hand, . . was a different story.

Anyway, Sukuna didn’t say anything until he was sure you were okay; it was a whisper—of the words: “I love you.”

It was quiet, so subtle; you wondered if Sukuna even meant for you to hear it, but, nevertheless, you met his eyes with glassy ones—red, dimmed, distant—and asked, with the little strength you had left, “Why are you telling me that?”

“Just in case . . . you hadn’t heard those words in a long time.”

Your lips trembled, and you could feel the waterworks beginning again as you moved to sit on Sukuna’s lap, burying your face into his neck as his arms enveloped you at the drop of a hat with warmth, stability, and, you couldn’t quite put your finger on the last one, which was . . . peace. Come to think of it, you had never felt peace in such a long time. But it wasn’t the usual tranquility you felt, it wasn’t any of that, at all. It was just, simply, Sukuna. You were feeling Sukuna.

Which was, actually, quite ironic, if you did say yourself. All these years spent together, Sukuna always called you his angel, his blessing, his God-given miracle. He said you changed him for the better, you turned his life around, showed him a brightness and happiness he had never seen once in his whole life. But, maybe it was really the opposite. Maybe Sukuna was the one who saved you. The only man who could ever truly understand you: Sukuna—your first, and your last love.

“You make me feel so stupid,” you murmured, between sniffles, once you began to run out of tears.

“With my high intellect?” Sukuna joked. “Yeah, don’t worry, lots of people feel the same way.”

You sat upright, giving a playful shove at Sukuna’s chest. “You are such a bastard.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

You laughed, because you struggled to do anything else. “I can’t believe you’ve seen me cry now. This is incredible blackmail,” you grumbled.

“. . .I know.”

“Let’s just . . . forget this ever happened, okay? I’m fine now. I—I’m okay. You’re here, and . . . you’re here.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to say anything else?” you began, mindlessly playing with the fabric of Sukuna’s collar. “You’ve been saying the same thing over and over again like some giant oaf.”

“I know.”

“Hey! You . . . Sukuna!”

Sukuna threw his head back, laughing like a child, and you tackled him to the ground (with little to no malicious intent), which ended up with you straddling his hips.

“I’m . . .” You hesitated, brushing stray hairs out of Sukuna’s eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that—all of that, actually.”

“You’re sorry?”

“. . .”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, and sat upright, pulling you closer to him in the process. “You don’t ever need to tell me why you were crying for me to know you were clearly the victim in whatever the hell ever happens, you know. I’ve . . . been with you long enough to know that. The people of Bromwell suck, and your father’s a piece of shit; the reason you had to wait so long for me the first time we met, was because I was stuck in Confession with him, by the way. Such a nosy little—”

“Okay, okay, that’s . . . I get it.” As much as you appreciated the sentiment, you weren’t one to be ‘fond’ of hearing your father be slandered, or anyone, for that matter. “Thank you, really. I . . . don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re with me right now, angel. What are you gonna do with that? What are you going to do with me?”

You grinned. “I don’t know off the top of my head.”

Sukuna looked at you with longing, his eyes piercing through your soul—watching your every move—as you placed one hand at the side of his neck, and one on his cheek, drawing both of your faces closer and closer, till you couldn’t differentiate where his breath ended and where yours started.

“Any suggestions?” you asked, smiling.

“Many.”

Without missing a beat, Sukuna closed the space between the both of you, placing a soft kiss against your lips and pulling back, as if to test the waters, before knocking the wind out of your throat and smashing his lips back against yours. The two of you moved in sync, your bodies molding against each other as if two pieces of a puzzle, and, at that very moment, you abandoned any sense of control, chastity, and purity. Sukuna overtook all of your senses and virtues; but, honestly, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Sukuna’s hands moved to your hips, kneading the flesh there and keeping a grip so tight you were sure it would end up purple and blue the next morning.

“Does this suggestion suit your royal highness?” Sukuna teased, between kisses.

“Mm, it will do . . . for now, I suppose.”

With Sukuna, you had never gone past kissing. Never ventured, never planned, but . . . you couldn’t say you never thought about making it to third base. And, with the way Sukuna’s hands wandered and subtly slipped just under your skirt, you could guess he thought something relatively similar.

Sukuna’s hands roamed your thighs from beneath your skirt, his fingers lighting a path of electricity, which shocked you in their way; and you found your breath getting caught in your throat. He touched you as if he were a madman, feeling Heaven for the last and first time—like you could disappear at any given moment, and he was savoring every second spent with you.

“You’re . . . impatient, today.”

Sukuna laughed. “Scared? Don’t worry, I always dip my hands in Holy Water before I even think about touching you.”

You placed a kiss on the side of Sukuna’s mouth, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up, you make it sound as if you’re . . . worshipping me or something.”

“I am.”

“You . . . what?”

Sukuna looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, whilst his hands never paused for a second while trailing up your legs, near your core, up your spine, and back down to where they originally started. His touch was soft, gentle, as if cautious of destroying you, erasing any trace of the angel God had given him. His fingers—usually rough, and cold—were instead warm, and lit a fire somewhere inside of you.

From your position above Sukuna, you sucked in a breath. You had to give it to him; for a man so frequently called Satan incarnate, his eyes were so temptingly full of yearning. But his voice was mocking, full of tease and banter, and you could no longer decide if this was truly your reality.

“Your throat is so raw from praying to a God who does not listen.”

“Is this your attempt at seducing me to apostasy?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be the one to hear your prayers, instead. Your wants, your needs, your desires; allow me, my darling angel, to satiate you better than any man or deity can.”

You did not know what had become of you, when you pulled Sukuna by the collar, and met his lips with yours. A wave of bliss overwhelmed you, and your head soon became full of nothing but the name of the man whose tongue explored every interstice and crevice of your mouth, your neck, your clavicle. His hands roamed your skin, his mouth crashed against yours, and your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer than you thought possible.

Your hips rocked forwards and backwards, as the sound of moans and mewls made their way past your lips. You had never entertained the idea of giving yourself to anyone prior to marriage, but maybe—maybe you could make an exception for someone like Sukuna.

There was no banter, no talk, no mumbling or murmuring for any longer. Only frantic, desperate movements as Sukuna clumsily unbuckled his belt, and shoved your panties to the side; for, neither of you could wait a second more. With your mouths still pressed against one another’s, Sukuna’s fingers made their way to the wetness between your legs, and slipped past your entrance, curling and twisting, applying pressure to where you needed him most.

It was so unbearable. And so, utterly, hot. Since when was the evening ever this hot? You two were in the middle of nowhere, outside past ten o’clock; the sky was painted a dark shade of indigo, crickets and birds sounded in their domain, and you and Sukuna? You two were whispering to each other, running your hands over each other’s bodies; you writhed and wriggled as Sukuna’s fingers never paused in their assault, and you couldn’t help the pornographic cries which left your throat.

It was unbearable.

You had never felt pleasure so intense like this. Your head spun, you clawed at Sukuna’s back, your body arched, and you whimpered and moaned like your life depended on it. You could not draw a line between pleasure and pain, and, you wondered . . . was this what sinning felt like? So good, but, at the same time, so bad?

You didn’t come undone on Sukuna’s fingers until what seemed like hours had passed by—hours of him toying with your clit: drawing you to the edge and back over again, never once allowing your release, entering depths deep within with just his fingers alone. It drove you to madness, and when you finally came, you came hard. Heavy breathing, panting, whimpering. You were a mess—an angel caught in the grasps of a devil.

“Regretful?” Sukuna teased, petting your hair as you rested your figure against his shoulder.

Breathless, you replied, saying, “Should I be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Sukuna didn’t let you go until the sun came up. And, even then, he wasn’t truly satisfied; but you were exhausted by then, your legs barely held you up, and you had probably also forgotten your own name, so Sukuna took pity on you. The two of you had gone at it like rabbits; Sukuna showed you what it really meant to be locked out of Heaven for years, and how it felt to experience it for the first time since.

What’s funny, was that you and Sukuna had the same amount of experience, and yet, you felt as if Sukuna touched you like you weren’t even close to being his first. He trailed searing hot kisses down your shoulder blades, groped at your chest and ass with carnal desire, and after easing you with his fingers, fucked you with his cock like he had every intention to get you with child.

Your throat was raw, dry, scratchy, from all the sounds that Sukuna elicited from you. His thrusts were hard, and reached so deep within you, that you could’ve been convinced he was hitting your womb.

With your back flush against his chest, Sukuna wrapped a hand around your throat while you leaned your head back against his shoulder as Sukuna fucked his cock into you. He was merciless; thick and long. And you couldn’t count how many times your eyes rolled back into your head even if you tried. You were overwhelmed by how utterly full you felt, combined with Sukuna’s breath fanning your ear every once in a while, as he leaned down to whisper filthy language in your ear.

It was nothing like you had ever felt before, but it was everything you ever dreamed of. It was dirty—what the two of you were doing. But it felt so, so good.

God may have made you in His image: to look, to sound, to taste like Heaven—so others may be tempted to seek paradise, as well, but as He looks down upon his creation, under the dark sky, hidden beneath the clouds, He knows you are nothing but sin. And, if that wasn’t enough, so did Sukuna.

***

Sukuna was no more afraid of shotguns than he was of God.

You learned that the week you decided to come home after living with Sukuna for some time away from your father. You were moved by the deeply troubling feeling of missing the sound of your mother’s voice, and you had almost even forgotten the feeling of her hands touching your hair. A mother’s love was . . . you couldn’t quite define it, but you knew: to have none, was to be none.

When you knocked on the door of your home, you did not regret, for even a second, the declined opportunity of bringing Sukuna along with you. You told him you would be alright going by yourself, and if you weren’t, how were you to face God on the day of judgement?—You started alone, you could end alone. On the third knock, the birch door opened, and you did not see your mother’s face; in lieu, you saw his face.

He was not happy to see you.

Without a moment’s waste, and with your fist still raised mid-air to give another knock, you were taken by the arm, and into the house.

“Do you not listen?”

“. . .Do you speak of my returning? Father, I am your daughter, and no matter how much you resent me, I will still be made of half your DNA.”

“I believe I made myself crystal clear when I told you no daughter of mine will dally with an atheist.”

“But—”

Your father’s grip tightened around your wrist. “You are twenty years of age. Twenty! And this is what you do?”

“Come again?”

“You think I have no idea what you have been up to? I am your father, young lady. I would be a damn fool if I did not know that my own daughter was living with Sukuna Ryomen. Under his roof, eating his food, sleeping in his bed?”

“I had no choice—”

“No choice? Marrying a much better man is definitely still a choice you can make.”

Your father dragged you to the entrance of your bedroom; his strength outmatched yours, even as you tugged your wrist back, and grounded the balls of your feet to keep from moving.

“Father, what are you—! You’re hurting me . . . stop! Don’t—”

“I expected so much from you, and you have done nothing but disappoint me.” Your father finally let go of your wrist, releasing you once you entered your room with a thud as you hit the floor, after losing balance. “You gave yourself to that devil, and now, not even God can look you in the eye anymore.”

The door was slammed shut, locks you did not remember installing were put into place, and you were alone. Inside your bedroom, with nothing but yourself and your prayers. The window had been boarded up prior to your return, which gave you the impression your father had been waiting and planning in order to lock you up, or, in other words, keep you from sinning any more.

You did not hear from anyone for days, and neither your father nor your mother brought any rations or bits of food. It was so, so cold in there. Barely any light seeped through the wood boards nailed on your window, and you couldn’t even hear the singing of the birds. It was as if . . . everyone had, simply, left you.

You slept most of the time, because you had no source of entertainment. You rested your head against the wall while sitting on the floor, and tried to pray for any change of mind from your father, (because God knows where your mother was during this whole ordeal), but it only made you feel more ashamed of yourself—seeing as you did not have a rosary in your hands, or a crucifix, or a cross. You had thrown yours into the river, remember?

Maybe God frowned upon you for losing your virginity with such haste, and before joining in matrimony, no less, but, surely, you did not deserve this punishment, right? Staying with a man who did not believe in your God . . . didn’t harm anyone. Your father had no right to persecute for something such as this; this should’ve been left up to the will of God for any judgement.

In truth, you did not know how you managed to survive so long in such isolation. You slept, but you did not dream. And you could not eat, for you had no food. No sunlight, no water, no air. You felt as if you were suffocating, as if the walls of your bedroom were closing in on you day by day. But, maybe that was just a trick of your eyes—decievement; produced by having not been outside for so long.

On the third day, you heard it.

The sound of a shotgun. The cries of birds as they scattered through the air. The screams of distressed neighbors and residents of Bromwell as they gathered together.

It was dark outside; you could tell, for no sunlight seeped through cracks of the boards and panels on your window. You were sitting just beneath the sill, and when you heard the crisp, almost deafening, sound of a shotgun being fired, you scrambled from your spot on the ground, and cursed to yourself when you realized you could see nothing outside but darkness.

The gun was fired near the front of your house, and you almost wondered who the shooter was, but when you figured this could soon be your end, you thought nothing could be worse than being locked up in your own bedroom for a false truth.

Was it your father?—Who fired? Or was he who was fired at? you wondered.

You did not wonder for long, however, because only a second later, your door was kicked open, and lo and behold: Sukuna. Holding a shotgun over his shoulder, panting—as if he had just run a lap, or several—and beckoning for you to follow him. He took you by the hand and hurriedly led you out of your bedroom and out of your godforsaken house using the back entrance. You asked a plethora of questions as you went, but Sukuna didn’t answer any of them until you two were crouched behind and under a large tree a few miles away from your house.

Sukuna told you to be quiet, to steady your breathing, and to remain out of sight; but that just freaked you out more.

“Are you going to tell me what on earth is going on here? How did you even know where I was? And what—what is the shotgun for?”

Sukuna let out a dry laugh. “You haven’t changed at all; still ask a shit ton of questions, huh.”

“Explain, or I’ll strangle you.” You repeated yourself.

“The preacher’s daughter is so kinky, who knew?” Sukuna teased. “But, alright, I’ll bite.

“I realized something was the matter when you didn’t return home that night you left. I was hoping you just really missed your mother, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But, now, I kind of regret that.

“Days passed, but I didn’t bother walking up to the door and asking your father where the hell you were, because I knew he would just give me some bullshit to keep me away, so I instead went over to the side of your house, like, you know, how I always do when I sneak in through your window and whatnot?

“When I went to the side of the house, your window was boarded up. And that’s when I knew something was clearly wrong. Obviously couldn’t ask you about it, and also didn’t want to get within three feet of your father, so I took matters into my own hands—”

You cut Sukuna off, asking, “What about the shotgun?”

“I fired it—at the sky. (No one was hurt, if you’re wondering, but I wish someone was.) Anyway: figured it was dark enough for no one to notice me in the act, so I fired it, and then my plan was in action. All your nosy neighbors went to the front of your house to see what was going on, and so did your father. He went outside, too. I took that as an opportunity to run to the back of your house before anyone could spot me, and break in through the backdoor, and then, y’know. We’re here now.”

“You broke into my house to rescue me? Chivalry may not be dead, after all.” You laughed.

Sukuna rolled his eyes; this clearly was not a joking matter. “Your turn. Explain. Why were you locked in your bedroom like Rapunzel or some shit? And why were the windows boarded up?”

You scooted over to sit closer to Sukuna, and sucked in a breath before explaining—explaining everything. Your father and his deranged behavior and actions, your isolation, your lack of food and drink, your loneliness, your longing for your mother and . . . and Sukuna. You whispered that last bit, in hopes that Sukuna wouldn’t hear how ‘pathetic’ you were, but he did, and he didn’t even joke or tease you about it. He . . . missed you, too.

“You know, if there really is a god out there, He’ll have to beg for my forgiveness before I even think of thanking him, but . . . fuck.” Sukuna avoided your eyes. “Do you know how desperate I was?—That I went and prayed to a god I don’t even believe in?”

“What do you mean? Why did you—?”

“I hadn’t seen you in three days. Three days too long. Why would I not worry? Why would I not resolve to begging God?”

“You were worried?” You giggled. “Awh, Sukuna, baby, you’re adorable.” You cupped Sukuna’s face in your hands, and watched as that familiar scowl of his appeared. You missed that grumpy face.

“. . .I don’t know why you missed me those three days, angel. Thought you were smarter than that.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? How could I not—?”

“How could you not? No. How could you? How could you love a man like me? I’m. . .” Sukuna turned away from you, your hands dropped from his face. “I’m nothing like you. You shouldn’t. . . I’m not a good influence on someone as pure-hearted as you. Hell, you make me wonder if the heavens above are really real, or, if Paradise is just . . . just you.”

“Sukuna, what are you going on about? We’ve been together for ages: as classmates, as friends, as a couple, as—as. . .” You paused. “Why are you—?”

“Do you not get it? These hands—these hands that cradle your face and tilt it upwards to lay kisses upon your skin are—”

You forced Sukuna to look at you. “But they cradled me, yes?”

Sukuna did not answer you, instead: he narrowed his eyes. “They are soaked in unfathomable amounts of wrongdoing, push away the Word of your God, and avoid nearing the Body of your savior.”

“But you have not killed, you have not murdered, you have not stolen, you have not. . . I do not see any blood stains visible.”

“You cannot see sin.”

You blinked, furrowing your brows. “The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. Guilt will not purify anyone.”

“. . .Who is it you speak for?” Sukuna asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Who is it I do not?”

Sukuna looked at you with intent, then he looked behind you—at your house, and then met your eyes once more, before tangling his hands in your hair and bringing you to meet him in a kiss full of yearning, longing, and want. You two had not embraced, not even touched in days. It went without saying that your body ached for Sukuna, your heart beat for Sukuna, and your soul rejoiced for Sukuna.

Sukuna was a bastard. A cold-blooded bastard. He was not kind, he was not generous, he was not truthful. He did not care for the Bible, did not read the Gospel, and couldn’t give a shit about the Holy Trinity. But, he loved you. Loved you like a dog who had never known anyone else. Loved you like he would die for you, lay his head at your feet for you, and bend his knees before you. Loved you like he would be a martyr for you. Loved you like you were his beacon of light, his goddess, his . . . Saving Grace.

He did not believe in the Lord, he did not believe in the invisible, but he believed in the way you ripped out his heart, kissed it in his name, and dyed your lips red with his blood. A kiss may be the beginning of cannibalism, but Sukuna knew it was you who was for him since the beginning of Time.

When you two pulled back to catch your breaths, Sukuna held you close to him as he leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and whispered in your ear—his voice languid, and gradual, “I do not believe in any god or any goddess. I do not care for any mythical creature or any other of that sort. The only faith I have is in us. The only force I believe in is you and me. And that’s what all my prayers will ever be about.”

Sukuna was a bastard, but you couldn’t have wanted anyone more.

#feedback is much appreciated<3 #sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #sukuna smut

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vampireistic · 1 day ago

Text

failed replaced!MC AU

ཐི synopsis: diavolo has sent down a brand new human exchange student! one that, unfortunately, seems to be very keen on stealing all the limelight for themselves…with such pathetic results it’s almost endearing.

ཐི feat. demon bros

ཐི warnings: mentions of blood/injury, second person

ཐི a/n: yanked this idea from @squeakyducky ! ٩( ᐛ )و named the human exchange student “notus” after the greek god of the south wind because in the comic the MC is called “zephyr” after the god of the west wind (not directly in opposition of one another in mythology but i through it would be fitting). + also this is kinda long…(;_;)

You weren’t upset about having a new human exchange student, no-one really was, but just the gut feeling that Diavolo was going to throw you in as their guide was really starting to irk you (having to deal with several argumentative debate-lords thirsty for your attention doesn’t give you much energy to deal with newbies).

Who knew though? Maybe this was exactly what you needed; a break from all the fantasy in the world for a touch of realism. A touch of home.

However, soon as that portal twinkled to reveal a rather attractive human figure bursting with confidence, your latent arcane abilities smelled trouble. But then again, you were rarely right about first glance opinions on people, maybe this was just another instance?

Ok, well, when you tried going up to introduce yourself you were met with a glare so maybe you weren’t so wrong after all. Benefit of the doubt, you repeat to yourself. You remember being particularly snappy to people within your first arrival - it’s natural instinct! I mean the brother’s also threatened to eat you on the first day here, perhaps they’re just naturally standoffish.

“This is Notus, our newest human exchange student! Please be sure to give them a warm welcome.” Diavolo’s voice boomed across the council hall, eyes gleaming with excitement. Like the first time, the brothers introduce themselves one by one, each a little more on edge than the last - maybe they felt that weird energy too?

Whatever, you pushed those thoughts aside for the time being and took on the role as the newest babysitter for a human that seemed to have a much unnecessary distance while walking next to you.

──────────────────────

It started off fine:

Occasional misplacement of your items; an untied shoelace that makes you trip (with Mammon getting a heart attack as he pulls you up by your wrist); messing up an elixir you were sure that you measured correctly; and opening your bag to find your homework gone.

Childish antics that you tried your best to push blame onto either your own forgetfulness or a misplaced prank that was meant to mess with Lucifer. But somehow, it got so much worse - and that little demonic human decided to finally take fault of their pranks by flaunting it off with pride.

“Oh, MC?” Notus caught your attention with a double tap on your shoulder. “Did you enjoy the nature reserve?” Mammon tilted his head to the side, confusion scrunching his face as he looked over at you.

“It was really lame, Thirteen would’ve done better.” Of course you were not referring to an actual excursion, no, you mean the wild animals that had magically found themselves a snuggly home in your bed as well as the plethora of Devildom-specific deadly mushrooms and herbs that replaced your old plant pots.

“Hah? What are you two yappin’ about?” Mammon huffed, clearly annoyed that he wasn’t part of this big secret that you two seemed to share. Notus smugly cuddled up to him, arms wrapping around his bicep a little too tight. “Oh it’s nothing! Just a little…gift, I got MC as a thank you for being such a great guide!”

“Oi! How come I never got anythin’ from ya when I had to babysit?” His brows furrow as he clearly attempts to, rather nicely, shrug off the unwanted attention. This is the first time you’ve seen Mammon look so visibly uncomfortable - clearly oblivious to such a fact, Notus continued snuggling themselves closer, trailing their fingers up and down Mammon’s arm.

Of course, you ended up telling all of this Lucifer, to which he implemented a special spell on your lock so no sneaky human that’s barely acquainted with magic could unlock, with the reassurance that if these “pranks” and unwanted behaviours escalate, it would be taken to Lord Diavolo directly.

──────────────────────

Mammon was an obvious first victim for this weird power trip of a game - he’s as kind as a lamb and just the teeniest bit dumb (lovingly so, you reassure him) - but somehow the antics got more assertive and the targets much more hazardous. Satan. Honestly at this point, all you could feel was pity as you sat in the living room, nose buried in a book that Solomon had instructed you to study.

Notus had lived alongside you for a little over two weeks now, and while those small pranks continued, this is the first time you’ve seen them take on an “opponent” that would be way too much to chew. Sliding onto the couch with a careless saunter, Notus cozied themselves up into a cushion right near Satan’s arm, their breath basically ghosting over his neck. His face twitched.

“What?” Satan scowled, a face you haven’t seen in a while crunching his usually stoic expression to a frown.

“Sataan, can you please help me study? I’m struggling in Seductive Speechcraft and need a bit of…” their hand awkwardly inches closer to his hair, “guidance.”

“Go find a book or ask your lecturer.” He aids somewhat clamly, before that mask slips off momentarily to threaten them: “Don’t bother me, you’ll regret it.”

Well, that ended quicker than you expected. Guess even the ever so bold exchange student cowers at the icy glare from the Avatar of Wrath? You can’t help but giggle from where you sat, to which Notus immediately looks up for, facing twisted in an ugly scowl.

──────────────────────

After the failure that didn’t even really begin that was the day before, Notus went for someone much more gullible and easy to please. The favourite orange-haired glutton. Offering him a massive, drool-worthy sponge cake from the human world that they swear, “MC asked me to deliver!” He wasted no time in scarfing down the citric frosting soon as that familiar melodic sound of your name hit his ears.

Beelzebub isn’t known to be someone who’s reluctant to not eat things - unless it’s Mammon’s or Solomon’s sacrilegious cooking - but in this case he wished he could control himself when it came to things that look and smelt promising. Because soon as that icing coated his tongue, his belly grumbled with a heinous rage. Not one born from hunger, no, but rather nausea. Thankfully, Beel’s a big dude who can handle pretty much anything, so it’s not like whatever poison or foul-tasting potion that was slipped between the buttercream did him any damage (apart from ruining his mood), but nonetheless, he felt horrible and got a lengthy scolding from Belphie to boot.

He doesn’t blame you, you might’ve just messed up somewhere and that’s ok! Beel sets the rest of the cake aside with a little warning label that it made him feel ill and if it did him, it could probably kill anyone else, before scurrying off to find an actual bite to eat. Guilt did gnaw at him for a while because, normally, he’s easily able to eat anything you make since you make it with so much love! But Beel can also recognise foul play when he sees it and also comfortably assess that the icing used wasn’t mixed in the way you do it.

──────────────────────

These little instances stopped for a while, which made you foolishly believe that perhaps they learnt their lesson and decided to turn in for the better. Notus manages to surprise you once again - instead of targeting the brothers, the attention comes back to you. The original plan was; conjure up a curse on your pillow that forces you to have perpetual nightmares, which henceforth makes you irritable and hopefully slip up in front of the brothers, preferably make you so grouchy that you say something irredeemable.

What factor Notus failed to account for is the fact the brothers also LOVE your room, and a person who specifically loves stealing shit from you is Belphegor, who so unfortunately kidnapped that one pillow ridden with a curse while stumbling into your room with a drowsy head.

The House of Lamentation isn’t known for being quiet, so the bickering downstairs over breakfast overwhelmed the space per usual, but soon as those thumps of heavy footsteps echoed down the flight of stairs connected to the twin’s room - the house went eerily silent. An overly irritated Belphie ghosts into the room with darker eyebags than normal, his face hauntingly pale with a vein popping from his forehead, body limply dragging itself.

Notus felt the hairs on the back of their neck stand up as Belphie saunters behind them, looming over like an owl would a mouse before growling: “Do you always ruin the things you touch, or is this a hobby?” Belphie may be the youngest and therefore the weakest, but when it comes to anything dream and curse related, he will know exactly who’s behind it. And if you hadn’t taught him the slightest bit of mercy, he was sure Notus’ skin would serve Asmodeus as a nice handbag.

──────────────────────

Speaking of the jewel Asmodeus, Notus’ technique was much more…social sabotage based. Spreading a vile rumor around RAD that you made a disparaging comment about Asmodeus’ character was a sure fire way to get some sort of hate train going. Rumours spread fast around RAD, especially when concerning one of the Devildom’s most infamous partygoers, after all - and the drama was sure to escalate when the oddly beloved MC was involved. Notus devilishly giggled to themselves, before knocking on Asmodeus’ room, hands clasped together in faux prayer.

The door swings open to reveal Asmo adorned with silver jewellery that coiled together like moonlight kissed webs, earrings curling into shiny heart shaped crystals that he seemed to still be putting in. With a raise of a brow he smiled politely: “Yes, hon?”

“I saw the awful things MC said about you! I’m so sorry…you must be going through so much pain,” Notus sniffles, that drama class they took back in Year 9 really paying off for once. “If it’s any consolation I think you’re amazing…I mean even all your jewellery know looks like it was practically designed with your image in mind, it’s so glorious!”

Guess they took Satan’s advice after all.

Asmo is kind. Somewhat - ish…But not when it comes to people that use cheap tricks against his beloveds. Sure, the flattery was great, but appreciation is always better when it’s genuine and sincere, specifically your praise was something his vain heart sought afer. “Aw dear,” Asmodeus cooed, hands cupping Notus’ face gently, an act that makes them smile a little unnervingly. “If you knew me at all you’d know I designed these, quite recently in fact.”

Shit.

Notus felt their face heat up in embarrassment, hands suddenly clammy with sweat. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t feel so great to be caught in a scorpion’s tail. “Sweetie,” he laughs, patting Notus’s shoulder with mock sympathy. “You could never turn me against MC. They’re real, and you’re just…trying too hard, aren’t you?”

The grip on Notus’ face suddenly tightens, that orange hue in Asmodeus’ eyes tinting a more saturated shade. “Feel free to say whatever you wish about me, but utter another word about my MC, and I’ll drain your marrow and leave your bones bare of sinews.”

A not so nice reminder that bloodlust is still a form of lust.

That backfired spectacularly. Instead of you getting bombarded with hate and being shred apart in anything you posted, it was the newest exchange student that was the prime highlight of what desperation and pathetic self-esteem looked like. Comments ranged from anything like:

“Lord…this is just embarrassing for them lol”

“thanks for the tutorial on social suicide <3”

“an attempt was made…but it should’ve been with a rope.”

Much to you and the brother’s greatest dismay, the forum that was freely spouting random comments about the situation was gradually shut down under Diavolo’s leadership. He did find it the teeniest bit funny though…

──────────────────────

In naming pathetic self-esteem, a particular water dweller comes to mind: Leviathan. He was going to be a tricky one to lure (said in a hopeful manner as if the others weren’t total failures). Not particularly because he’s the third oldest, making his raw power single-handedly capable of wiping Notus away from existence. No, it was the depressing fact that he’s a recluse that seethes to himself whenever you giggle at a joke someone other than him has made.

Although, they did manage to misuse his social awkwardness to their advantage - by acting shy and nervous as they sweetly ask if they can also join the gaming session with you and him. Levi chose a multiplayer dungeon crawler, the kind where cooperation is key — and where you certainly have excelled before. Notus, however, had other plans.

Small, inconsequential mistakes didn’t bother Levi too much…you and him were good enough for the time being, but by level, these “mistakes” of theirs just spiralled uncontrollably. Taking up important loot meant for you, and even using rare healing potions on themselves at the wrong time, leaving your character on the brink of death.

“Oh no!” Notus gasped, hand to their mouth. “I didn’t mean to—uh, sorry, Levi! I guess I’m just not used to such a complicated game.” They glanced slyly at you, a smug grin creeping onto their face.

Levi frowned, his tail twitching with irritation. “It’s not that complicated,” he muttered. “You just...have to listen.” You don’t even remember when he switched into his demon form, but you can somewhat presume it was around the second the first whine gasped from their lips.

Despite their blunders, Notus managed to turn the situation into a chance for attention, constantly praising Levi in exaggerated tones. “Wow, Levi, you’re so good at this game! I mean, you basically carried us, right?” They laughed, shooting another smug glance your way. “MC must feel so lucky to have someone like you showing them the ropes.”

 Levi blinked, looking between Notus and you. His face flushed, but not in the usual embarrassed way—it was frustration. “What are you even talking about?” he snapped. “MC doesn’t need me to ‘carry’ them. They’re actually good at this!”

Notus tried to backtrack, laughing nervously. “Oh, sure, sure! I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”

“Just stop.” Levi's voice was uncharacteristically firm. His eyes darted to you, softening. “MC doesn’t need someone like you pointing out their skills. They’ve already proven themselves. Unlike, uh, certain people who don’t even know how to play.”

The match ended shortly after, with Levi muttering about how “toxic noobs ruin games.” He didn’t invite Notus back for another session.

──────────────────────

Lucifer’s patience had worn thinner than a threadbare string. The complaints from his brothers about Notus's antics had escalated from minor annoyances to full-blown disruptions of their routines. Asmodeus couldn’t walk down the hallway without Notus latching on to him, Leviathan’s game nights had been interrupted by bizarre "accidental" server crashes, and even Belphegor muttered in frustration about charms slipping into his blankets to make him "dream of Notus."

Through it all, you have endured the worst of it — every petty prank, sabotage attempt, and unwelcome spell aimed at undermining your place in the Devildom. You’ve handled it with your usual grace, brushing off bruised egos and minor inconveniences with an easy smile. But this time, Notus had gone too far.

Self efficacy is quite the funny theory - the more you believe in yourself, the more likely you are to succeed. The more successes you have, the better your confidence. So how come even without that, Notus seemed to be as determined as ever to ruin your mood?

The prank seemed harmless at first—a minor tripwire spell meant to tangle your legs and leave you stumbling in embarrassment. But Notus, in their reckless desperation to make you look bad, underestimated the strength of the curse. When the trap activated, you didn’t just trip - you were violently flung forward, crashing into a jagged edge of a chair (there’s too many of them in the House of Lamentation as you just got to personally establish).

The sound of breaking wood reverberated through the house. You hit the floor hard, crimson spilling from a deep gash on your arm where wood had pierced skin. Placing your fingertips on the gush of blood pooling around the scratches, your hands webbed with red iron.

Lucifer arrived almost immediately, his presence a storm brewing in the hall. His brothers, frozen in stunned silence, stood back as he knelt to examine you. His gloved hands trembled faintly as he carefully removed the shards and inspected the various wounds that differentiated in size and depth.

Notus tried to deflect, stammering about how it was just a joke gone wrong, their confidence cracking under Lucifer’s piercing glare. “I-I didn’t mean for it to—MC is just so dramatic, they—”

“Silence.”

Lucifer’s single word was sharper than a blade, and the room fell into an oppressive silence. His wings, usually tucked away, unfurled slightly — a stark warning of the fury he struggled to contain. He rose to his full height, towering over Notus, his face a mask of cold fury.

“You’ve been a disruption from the moment you arrived, but this? This is beyond forgiveness.”

──────────────────────

Notus didn’t learn their lesson, of course. Their jealousy burned too brightly to let them stop. But this time, you’ve sincerely had had enough, and with Thirteen’s help, you concocted a poetic dose of karmic justice mingled with a touch of the classics.

Diavolo was long informed of the incident involving you previously, and further filled in on all the previous attempts of ruining both your reputation and relationship with your family. A little meeting in the RAD council room was in due order - one which all of the affected were invited for a silly show.

Lucifer stood impatiently next to a stone-faced Diavolo. You would find it slightly threatening if you didn’t know what was going to happen in just a few moments. Thirteen sat next to you, swinging back and forth on a chair as she grinned at you with every wavering gaze at one another.

And like moth to a flame, blazing with both frustration and smugness, Notus strolled on in. Well, I say stroll - I mean struggle with opening the door before they accidentally put too much pressure on the handle, leading to the doors gushing open with a far swing, and the buckets utop the bar to drop down like catharsis.

A greedy sorcerer from sorcerer’s society that just so happened to notice you when you came in one day with a few of the brother’s and Solomon the Wise himself - Notus couldn’t bare the idea that a little thing like you could swoop in and charm them so easily.

Now covered in a disgusting, webbed display of pig’s blood and some sticky consistency of water mixed with honey, Notus simply stands there, allowing defeat to settle in while the crescendo of giggles cuts deep into their pride.

“Alright alright, I’ve got enough of a laugh out of this,” you clap your hands, whispering an incantation that forces a gush of water to rain down upon them, washing away the weird concoction that coated their skin.

“Aw what, that’s no fun lol.” Leviathan pouts in the background.

“Whaaat!! What a bore…” Mammon grumbled to himself, looking away from the sopping wet dog once his eyes accidentally caught theirs.

“MC…” Notus sniffled pitifully, looking up at you through tear-stained lashes.

“Yes yes, I know,” you sigh, hands on your hips as you try your best to articulate your reasoning for this baseless morality. “This isn’t forgiveness or anything, the stuff you’ve done warrants actual apologies but hey, I’ve had a few of the demons in here attempt to kill me before,” Belphegor coincidentally looks away, “a few jabs at my reputation with failing results was honestly a little funny.”

Notus’ eyes glimmer with shiny stars and fat blobs of tears as they murmured a very simple:

“Fmnf…I love you.”

“…”

“Huh?”

#also kept exchange student GN bc…it feels weird to make them either or lol #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #omswd #obey me nb #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #satan x reader #asmodeus x reader #asmo x reader #beelzebub x reader #beel x reader #belphie x reader #belphegor x reader #obey me x reader #obey me x you

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