#to understand how she thinks and why she’s still sane

[riicky-ye]

Furina headcanons:

• Can play piano, flute and violin.

• Ambidextrous, but the working hand is the left one.

• Fluent in Sumeru, Liyue, Snezjnaya and Mondstadt dialects to eavesdrop the foreign diplomats’ dialogues (paranoid behaviour). Her speaking skills are quite rusty though.

• Obsessed with good manners, a bit old-fashioned in that way. Always trying to show people her most poised and refined facade.

• Use ballet as a workout. Had a little dancing room in her suite in the Palais Mermonia to workout whenever she feels like it.

• More strong and agile than she looks.

• Knees hurt when the weather is too hot/cold or humid because she’s a dancer.

• Black is her favourite colour to dress in.

• Precise with time, annoyed by people who are tend to be late.

• Prefer her tea or coffee bitter to accentuate desserts’ sweetness.

• While being an archon, used to collect all sorts of things like plushies, cufflinks, stamps, wrist watches, hats, even insects or flowers in big leather albums. Left all these trinkets behind after moving out of the Palais Mermonia, except for a couple of her favourite toys and some jewelry.

• Can mimic other people’s voices and animals/birds sounds.

• Has an opinion about like everything in the world but often too polite to voice it straightforwardly.

• Very knowledgeable about a lot of topics, from art and literature to politics and from history to hydrology and a little bit of mechanics.

• Some of her literature works from archonhood time are published under a pseudonym.

• Sprinkles her plushies with sweet perfume so they smell good.

[beevean]

Your tags when reblogging Hectaly always kill me dead

What do you mean? I am perfectly normal about the silver haired pretty edgelord and his impossibly cute, totally not doomed by the story gf :')

sorry, it's just that when OP asked on Twitter for suggestions, I proposed either Hectaly or Belschine kissing, and then kind of forgot about it until I saw the post, and then I exploded on the spot because the fanart was even more lovely than I would have imagined <3

anyway the beloveds deserve the whole world ;A;

[sixxels]

play it back

fratboy!sukuna x fem reader

wc: 14k

!!disclaimer!! situationship, smut, p in v, mdni, angst! comfort. this is messy, so so messy but what fic of mine isn’t?

the first thing anyone ever smells when stepping into choso’s house is weed and watermelon vape. the second is tequila, the third is him. the one guy you really didn't want to see right now.

smokey, rich, him. sukuna.

you try to ignore it, the lights are dim and pink and pulsing. it’s not packed yet, but it will be. choso’s parties always fill up like bathtubs. slowly, hot.

you step through the threshold and into the thrum of it all. maki grabs your wrist the moment she spots you. “thank god,” she says, tugging you toward the living room. “i need someone sane to witness this mess.”

you barely manage a hello before she’s dragging you in, past the sliding kitchen door and down the short hall, until you see a group of all your friends sitting in a circle.

“truth or drink,” gojo booms, slamming his empty solo cup down on a wonky wooden frat table like he’s just cast a spell.

you roll your eyes. maki groans beside you.

“oh god, not again.”

“no, listen,” gojo says, serious. “this is character development. this is growth. this is—,”

“—an excuse to be nosy,” suguru cuts in.

“exactly!”

sukuna’s already here, of course he is. spread out like he owns the couch. one leg over the other, cigarette burning low between two tattooed fingers, eyes slouched half-lidded as if he’s barely awake. like he didn’t just watch you walk in.

and just like that, it begins.

choso pulls out the question cards he made last semester, a mix of drunk scribbles and genuinely soul-destroying prompts. shoko hands everyone a refill. yuki raises her eyebrows at you like, ‘buckle up, baby.’

you sit, shoulders tight, pretending not to care when the bottle lands on sukuna.

your chest pinches anyway.

“truth,” he says lazily, eyes half-lidded.

choso reads the card. “do you think you’ve ever been in love?”

the room hushes, tension vibrating like a tight string.

sukuna’s expression doesn’t change. he drags from his cigarette. smoke curls out the corner of his mouth.

“no.”

a few snickers. gojo coughs dramatically, little did you know he’s the only one who sukuna tells about your little… situation, so he was as uncertain as you were. he gave you a sympathetic look from across the circle.

“no offense,” maki mutters under her breath, “but i believe it.”

your stomach sinks. you don’t know why you expected anything different. maybe you didn’t.

you just hoped.

the bottle spins again. lands on you.

your throat goes dry, and maki grabs your hand under the table.

gojo perks up like a kid in church who just got told the sermon’s about sex.

“truth,” you say.

suguru plucks a card. “do you think the person you want wants you back?”

silence again.

you look down at your cup.

you think about sukuna’s mouth. the way he kissed you that night at the party like he was afraid he’d forget how. the way he didn’t call for two days after. the way he still texts you at 2am like you’re a convenience store.

your voice is soft. “i think maybe, like halfway?”

no one says anything for a moment.

even sukuna.

especially sukuna.

then yuki murmurs, “you deserve more than half-love, baby.”

you nod, but you don’t say anything.

what would be the point?

~

as the game dissolves into teasing and too-loud laughter, gojo throws himself dramatically across suguru’s lap and starts fake-crying like a soap opera housewife. “you never loved me!” he wails, half-choking on his drink, and suguru just hums and pets his hair like a tired husband with a golden retriever.

shoko steals the card deck. maki yells something about how is he crying without tears, and choso starts explaining the thc content in his gummy stash to a girl in a crocheted top who keeps giggling like she doesn’t understand a word.

the circle splinters. the warmth disperses. the night, like a bruise, begins to spread.

you lose sight of sukuna in the crowd.

the room gets louder. people you don’t know start filtering in. loud boys in snapbacks yelling about beer pong. girls in glitter boots clacking across the hardwood like they own the place. someone walks by with a bong shaped like pikachu and a glowstick necklace that makes your eyes hurt.

it’s not that you don’t want to be here. it’s that you suddenly feel like you’re watching it all through glass. like you’re not in the room anymore. just near it.

you slip away. quietly.

~

the kitchen is cooler than the rest of the house, the hum of the fridge a steady drone underneath the bass. you lean against the counter, press your palms into the tile. you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the silence makes your ears ring.

then,

“you gonna pretend i’m not here all night?”

you freeze.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

that voice always comes just after you start to forget it. low, lazy, soft with smoke and something sharp underneath.

sukuna.

you inhale slow, steady. then turn.

he’s leaning against the counter like it’s a throne. one hand braced on it. the other running through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the night. his eyes are heavy-lidded. glossy. the slow drawl in his voice tells you what you already know.

he’s high. probably drunk. maybe both.

he’s beautiful in that unbearable way he always is, like a nightmare you mistake for a dream.

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

he raises his eyebrows like that’s the joke. “didn’t even look at me,” he says, voice dipped in that honey-slick sarcasm. “kinda hurts.”

you let out a breathless laugh. cold. “didn’t know you could feel pain.”

he snorts, like he expected that. “guess you bring it out in me.”

the music from the living room pulses through the walls, muffled and rhythmic like a heartbeat you can’t trust.

you cross your arms. “you high?”

“little bit.”

you nod. “figures.”

he shrugs. “you looked good tonight.”

it’s casual. too casual. like it costs him nothing to say it. but the way his gaze flickers over you, slow, warm, like he’s memorizing you, that betrays him.

your stomach flips. you hate that it still reacts to him. that your body remembers every place he’s touched even when your brain is begging you to forget.

you steady your voice. “that why you ignored me?”

he blinks. “i didn’t ignore you.”

“you didn’t look at me,” you say, softer now. “not once.”

he tilts his head like a dog hearing a strange sound. “would that have made a difference?”

you swallow. “not to you, probably.”

and there it is, the flicker in his eyes.

brief. but real.

like he didn’t expect you to say that. like it hit somewhere he wasn’t ready for.

he pushes off the counter. takes a step forward. then another.

too close. always too close.

his voice drops low. “don’t do that.”

you meet his gaze. “do what?”

“don’t act like you don’t know i care.”

you laugh. it’s not kind. it sounds like heartbreak breaking in reverse. “do you?”

“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t.”

“you’re here,” you say slowly, “because you always come back when the buzz wears off. when you’re bored. when it’s dark and quiet and you remember i’m soft.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t deny it.

you go on, voice barely above a whisper. “you only show up when you want something. and i keep letting you.”

he stares at you. there’s a crack forming in his expression, small, hairline, but there, then he says it, just one word.

“yeah.”

no apology, no excuses, no fix, just that.

and somehow that hurts worse than all the lies he could’ve told.

you drop your gaze, chest tight.

the silence between you is thick with everything you’ve never said. everything he’ll never give you.

after another awkward silence you're interrupted by a voice.

“didn’t think i’d find you in here.” you both turn, yuki is standing in the doorway, hip cocked, drink in one hand, the other braced against the frame like she’s leaning into a scene she’s already seen too many times.

her gaze flickers between you and sukuna. calm. sharp.

“you good?” she asks you directly.

you nod. automatically.

she hums. doesn’t buy it.

she steps into the kitchen, slow and easy, like a tiger circling a campfire. her eyes settle on sukuna. “didn’t peg you for the type to haunt kitchens like a ghost with unfinished business.”

sukuna scoffs. “didn’t peg you for the type to care.”

“don’t,” yuki says, voice crisp, “mistake my presence for forgiveness.”

he doesn’t reply. but he holds her gaze.

she walks past him, pours herself another drink, doesn’t bother asking. then turns back to you.

“you want me to stay?”

it’s a soft question. one you feel all the way down.

you think about saying yes. about grabbing her hand and letting her drag you back to the circle, where maki will make you laugh and choso will roll his eyes and shoko will hand you something that tastes like pain and nostalgia.

but you don’t.

you shake your head.

yuki nods. doesn’t push. “come find me if he says anything stupid.”

then she leans in, kisses your temple, warm, steady, and says, low enough that only you hear:

“you don’t owe him anything. not even your silence.”

and just like that, she’s gone, and you’re left with him again.

sukuna is quiet now. the tension that always coils around him is looser, but not gone.

he watches you.

you watch the floor.

then you speak.

“i think i wanted you to fight for me.”

he closes his eyes for a beat. then opens them. “that’s not something i’m good at.”

you nod.

“i know.”

silence, heavy and final.

you brush past him. he doesn’t stop you.

doesn’t even move.

~

you leave before it gets too late. before you can talk yourself into staying. before sukuna can kiss you like a promise he’ll never keep.

choso finds you on your way out. he wraps you in a hug, tight and lingering.

“you okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you lie.

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t say so.

he just presses something into your hand. a shirt you must of left in his room, the one you left the last time sukuna ghosted you after 2am.

“text me when you’re home,” he says.

you nod.

you glance back once, just once, and see them through the window:

gojo dancing stupidly with a bottle of tequila. suguru with his phone flashlight on, filming it like it’s high art. maki yelling at shoko, who’s dumping popcorn in someone’s drink. yuki standing near the back…

~

the party ends slow. like the last drag of a cigarette, burnt out, bitter, and a little too quiet. music still thumps from inside choso’s place, muffled through the walls, but the energy has thinned out. people are either too drunk to notice or already stumbling home with the wrong shoes and the wrong names.

gojo’s the one who calls it. “yo, let’s dip,” he says, slinging an arm around sukuna’s shoulders like he always does, loose and lazy, like he owns the world and you’re lucky to be living in it. suguru’s behind them, silent and steady, hoodie pulled up and smelling like weed and sandalwood. they leave without saying goodbye to anyone. that’s kind of their thing.

outside, it’s humid. the kind of summer night that sticks to your skin and makes the air taste like sweat and smoke. sukuna’s already lighting another cigarette, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. he doesn’t offer one to gojo or suguru. he doesn’t need to. gojo’s got a vape in one pocket and a flask in the other, and suguru doesn’t need anything to look high. he just always does.

they don’t talk much on the walk back to the frat house. it’s not far. five blocks, maybe. quiet streets and broken streetlights. gojo’s whistling something off-beat. sukuna’s got his hands in his pockets. suguru hums low under his breath, something old and haunting.

when they get back, the house is dead. empty beer cans in the grass. some kid passed out on the porch. the usual. sukuna steps over him without blinking. gojo kicks the kid’s leg, laughs when he groans. suguru opens the front door and lets it creak.

they go upstairs, past the chaos of the main floor, past the girls’ hoodies still draped on the railing and the smell of stale liquor clinging to the carpet. third floor. the balcony. sukuna’s spot.

it’s dark out there. just a sliver of moonlight and the distant flicker of someone else’s backyard party. sukuna leans against the railing. suguru drops into the broken plastic lawn chair. gojo pulls out a blunt from somewhere deep in his jacket and waves it like a magic trick. “you’re welcome,” he says, sticking it between his teeth.

sukuna exhales slow. smoke curls up into the sky. “what, you want a medal?”

“nah. just a thank you and maybe a little kiss on the mouth.”

suguru snorts. sukuna rolls his eyes.

they pass the blunt in silence for a bit. the air’s thick with something that isn’t just weed. something quieter. heavier. the kind of shit that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel too loud even when no one’s talking.

gojo breaks it first.

“so.” he’s watching the street below like he’s waiting for someone to walk by. “you gonna talk about it or do we have to play twenty questions?”

sukuna doesn’t look at him. doesn’t have to. “talk about what?”

gojo tilts his head. his hair’s a mess, sweat sticking to his forehead. he’s still got glitter on his cheek from some girl that kissed him three hours ago. “you know what.”

sukuna flicks ash off the balcony. “nah. i don’t.”

“you and her.”

the silence tightens. suguru shifts, leans back. he’s not getting in the middle of this. he knows better.

sukuna takes another drag. his lips twitch, just barely. “there is no me and her.”

“bullshit.”

“seriously.”

“nah, that’s bullshit and you know it.”

sukuna finally looks at him. his eyes are sharp, red in the moonlight. not angry. just tired. “i don’t owe you an explanation.”

“you don’t,” gojo says, shrugging. “but you owe her something.”

sukuna doesn’t say anything.

gojo doesn’t press. not yet. he just lets it hang there, like smoke between them. like a threat.

after a minute, sukuna mutters, “she knew what it was.”

“did she?”

silence again.

gojo sighs. leans his elbows on the railing. “look, i’m not trying to play therapist or whatever. that’s shoko’s job. but you gotta know she’s not like the other girls that come to our parties.”

sukuna scoffs. “i know that.”

“do you?”

he doesn’t answer.

gojo watches him. he’s serious now. which is rare. his voice drops low. not angry. not mocking. just honest. “she’s sweet, man. like… good. not in that fake ‘pick me’ way. like… genuinely good. and you’ve got her looking at you like you’re the sun or some shit.”

sukuna exhales through his nose. “she doesn’t.”

“she does.”

“whatever.”

gojo’s smile fades. “you’re gonna break her.”

sukuna’s jaw tightens.

“you’re already breaking her,” gojo says softer this time. “and i don’t think you want to. i think that’s what’s messing you up.”

for a second, sukuna looks like he might say something. like he might throw the blunt off the balcony or snap gojo’s neck or punch the railing until it splinters.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he says, “i didn’t mean to.”

gojo blinks. a little surprised. but he doesn’t let it show.

“i didn’t plan for any of this,” sukuna says, voice low, rough. “she was just… there. and then she wasn’t just there. she was everywhere. all of a sudden.”

gojo nods.

“i don’t do feelings,” sukuna mutters, like it’s a confession. “i don’t do this.”

“yeah, no shit.”

sukuna glares at him. gojo raises his hands, grinning.

“look,” gojo says. “i get it. you don’t wanna hurt her. you’re scared. whatever. but stringing her along? pretending she’s just some random girl you fuck when she’s clearly not? that’s worse.”

“i know,” sukuna snaps. then softer, almost like he hates himself for it—“i know.”

they go quiet again.

suguru lights another joint.

gojo leans his head back and stares at the stars. they’re faint out here. hidden behind pollution and bad choices.

“you like her?” he asks, sukuna doesn’t answer right away.

“…yeah.”

“how much?”

“too much.”

gojo grins. “gross.”

sukuna rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“so what now?” gojo asks. “you gonna keep acting like a cold asshole? or maybe try something new, like honesty.”

“it’s not that easy.”

“yeah, it is. you just say what you feel. preferably with your mouth and not your dick.”

sukuna doesn’t laugh, but his lips twitch again. that almost-smile he gets when he’s trying not to admit he finds gojo funny.

gojo turns to him, cocky glint in his eye now. “look, i’m just saying, if you don’t treat her right…”

he pauses. lets it hang there.

“…i will.”

sukuna snorts. “shut the fuck up.”

“i’m serious.”

“you couldn’t handle her.”

gojo grins. “oh, i could. and you know it.”

they’re both smiling now. but underneath it, there’s something sharp. something real.

a warning.

sukuna finishes his cigarette. flicks it over the railing. watches the ember fade in the grass.

“i’m not gonna let her go,” he says finally. “but i don’t know how to keep her either.”

gojo looks at him. really looks. “figure it out. before someone else does.”

the stars above them don’t offer any answers. but maybe that’s okay.

they stay out there a little longer. talking about everything and nothing. until the night bleeds into morning and the city starts to yawn.

and somewhere, not too far away, you’re still thinking about him. still waiting.

and maybe now, maybe finally, he’s starting to realize what that means.

~

mondays economic class.

he’s sitting in the back again.

legs spread like the seat was made for him, hood up, sunglasses on even though they’re indoors and the windows are closed. he hasn’t looked at you once. not during roll call, not during the lecture, not even when the professor called on him to answer a question about marginal cost and he replied with a deadpan, “pass.”

you hate him.

you hate that you’re still thinking about him even as you type notes you’ll never read again.

you hate that you still notice the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s impatient with the whole world. you hate that you can’t forget what those hands feel like on your hips. you hate the weight of his gaze—when it’s on you, when it’s not. it doesn’t matter. he’s in your head either way.

you scroll back in your notes, realize you’ve written the same sentence three times.

you sigh. close your laptop. rest your chin in your hand and stare at the front of the class.

you didn’t even wear anything cute today. you’re in sweats. your hair’s a mess. you didn’t think he’d be here—he barely comes to econ unless he needs to cheat off someone’s midterm. so why does it feel like your heart’s pounding just because he’s breathing the same air?

you glance back, like you can help yourself.

he’s leaned back in his chair, chewing on the end of a pen. his eyes are behind his sunglasses but you know, you know, he’s watching you too.

god.

you hate that he gets to do this to you.

he fucked you once and now he gets to haunt your life like some ghost with a nicotine addiction and a fratboy attitude. it’s been months. and somehow, you’re still here. still hoping for more. still checking your phone for messages that don’t come.

you tell yourself you’re over it. you lie, the class ends. people start packing up. zippers and shuffling and half-asleep small talk.

you gather your things slow. give yourself a moment to breathe. you don’t want to walk past him. you don’t want to look like you’re trying. you don’t want to care, but you do.

you head for the door. keep your head down.

you almost make it.

but just as you step into the hallway, a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you sideways, into a side corridor no one uses, behind a column of lockers, where the lights flicker and the air smells like dust and old paper.

you already know who it is.

“sukuna,” you breathe, not quite surprised.

he looks at you like he’s bored. like this is a chore. like he didn’t just corner you like a secret. “hey.”

you try not to let your voice shake. “what do you want?”

he shrugs. leans a shoulder against the wall. everything about him is infuriatingly casual, like this is nothing. like you’re nothing. “you wanna come over?”

you blink. “…now?”

“yeah.”

he doesn’t elaborate.

you shift your weight, heart pounding. “why?”

his jaw flexes. “you know why.”

and yeah. you do.

you look up at him. his face is unreadable. dark eyes under his hood, mouth set in a line that’s too hard to call a smile. he looks tired. he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. he looks like the last time he touched you is still on his fingertips.

you shouldn’t.

you shouldn’t.

but god, he’s looking at you like he wants you again, and it’s been so long since he’s looked at you like anything at all. and you’re weak. and stupid. and still in love with a boy who never says your name unless he’s dragging it out of you in bed.

“…okay,” you whisper.

he nods like he expected you to say yes.

~

his room’s dark. always is. it smells like weed and cologne and something distinctly him. the sheets are still messy from the last time he was here, probably with someone else.

you don’t ask.

he doesn’t offer.

he locks the door behind you, tosses his hoodie to the floor, lights a cigarette and leans against his desk like he’s thinking. like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that won’t come out.

you stand awkwardly near the bed. your fingers twitch. you almost ask him what’s wrong. you almost ask him if he’s okay. you almost ask—

“you look tired,” he says instead, like it’s the only thing he knows how to offer you. you laugh, quiet. “yeah. i am.”

he stares at you. exhales smoke through his nose. walks over, slow, until he’s standing in front of you, close enough that you can smell the nicotine and aftershave and the faint scent of whatever cheap shampoo he uses.

he reaches out. brushes your cheek with the back of his hand. something in your chest pulls tight.

“you’re still sweet,” he mutters. “even now.”

you swallow hard. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he doesn’t answer.

inside his head, he’s screaming.

'tell her you think about her all the time.

tell her you can’t stop dreaming about her mouth.

tell her it’s been eating you alive that you made her feel disposable.

tell her you miss her. tell her you’re sorry. tell her—'

“take your shirt off,” he says instead.

and you do.

of course you do.

because that’s what you do when it comes to sukuna. you say yes even when you mean no. you give him pieces of yourself like they’re nothing, just hoping one day he’ll realize how much they cost you.

he kisses you like he’s angry. hands rough. mouth hungry. he kisses you like he’s trying to say all the things he’s too much of a coward to say out loud.

you let him.

you let him use your body as a place to bury his feelings.

you let yourself pretend it means something.

he fucks you like he’s punishing himself.

like he’s trying to carve you into his skin, leave a mark deeper than anything words could say.

your back hits the mattress and he’s on you in a breath, mouth everywhere, hands urgent, grip bruising. his rings drag down your ribs, your hips, your thighs, leaving fire in their wake. his teeth scrape your collarbone. he bites your neck, your shoulder, your chest, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

you moan for him. soft. breathy. helpless.

and god, the way he reacts, like your sounds are gasoline. like they’re unraveling whatever threadbare control he’s got left.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “fuck, baby. you don’t even know what you do to me.”

you want to ask what that means.

but then he’s pushing inside you — rough, deep, unforgiving — and the question dies on your tongue.

you gasp. arch. dig your nails into his shoulders.

he groans like he’s in pain. like being inside you is the only thing that makes him feel human.

“always so tight for me,” he mutters against your mouth. “like your body fucking knows who it belongs to.”

you shouldn’t let him say things like that. not when you both know it’s not real. not when you know he’ll go cold again once the high fades.

but you nod anyway. whisper, “yes.”

because in this moment, in this darkness, you do belong to him.

he fucks you slow at first. deliberate. deep enough to make your toes curl. he presses his forehead to yours. watches your face. watches the way you fall apart just for him.

“look at you,” he breathes. “so fucking pretty like this.”

his hand wraps around your throat, just enough to make your breath hitch. not enough to hurt. just enough to say mine.

he kisses you again, messy, possessive, desperate, like he’s trying to crawl inside you. like he’s trying to make you forget any name that isn’t his.

and you let him, you always let him.

his pace gets rougher. harder. the headboard slams the wall and you don’t care. you’re shaking. sweating. whispering his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“sukuna—” you gasp. “i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby?” he pants, fucking you through it. “you gonna come for me? make a mess all over my cock?”

you nod. cry out. your body tenses, then shatters.

you fall apart beneath him, and when you do — when you come with your whole heart in it — something in his face breaks.

his rhythm stutters. his jaw clenches. his breath catches like he’s never seen anything more devastating than you loving him out loud without saying a word.

he finishes with a groan. deep. guttural. like it hurts him.

and maybe it does.

because when he pulls out, he doesn’t speak.

he just collapses beside you. chest heaving. jaw clenched.

and you both lie there in the dark, skin slick, hearts racing, silence choking, pretending it didn’t mean everything.

afterward, he doesn’t say much. he smokes while you lay on your side, back to him, eyes fixed on the crack in the wall.

he wants to reach out. wants to trace his fingers down your spine. wants to ask if you’re okay. wants to say i’m sorry i don’t know how to love you right.

but all he says is:

“you can sleep here if you want.”

you don’t answer.

you fall asleep anyway.

he stays awake long after you’ve started dreaming.

'fuck.'

~

the door creaks when you open it.

you wince, glancing back at sukuna’s bed. he’s asleep, sprawled on his stomach, breathing deep. the sheets are tangled around his waist. his hand is stretched toward where you were laying minutes ago.

you leave anyway.

your sweater is inside-out and you don’t bother fixing it. you don’t look in a mirror. you don’t even grab your shoes. the floorboards are cold, but you move quiet. like a secret. like a ghost.

you’ve done this before.

the house is quiet. mostly. there’s a low hum from the fridge and the drip of the bathroom sink down the hall. you turn the corner into the kitchen, eyes blurry, mind fogged, and stop short when you see… gojo?

gojo satoru. shirtless. sleep-mussed. drinking orange juice straight from the bottle.

he freezes. you freeze.

“…uh,” he says, mid-sip.

“…hi,” you whisper, not really sure why.

he lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “i wasn’t expecting company.”

“i wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake.”

he looks at you then. really looks, eyes narrowing.

taking in the state of you, your hoodie, half-zipped. your hair, messy. your bare feet. the too-quiet look in your eyes.

“…he do something?” he asks, voice low, unusually serious.

you blink. “no. no, i just—”

but the words don’t come. you shake your head instead. try to smile. it doesn’t stick.

gojo doesn’t push. he just sets the orange juice down and hops up on the counter, like he’s settling in for something. “you want tea? or whiskey? or, like… both?”

you laugh, soft. “just water’s fine.”

he nods. gets up. finds a glass. fills it. hands it to you without meeting your eyes.

you sip slowly. the silence stretches.

“…you’re not gonna ask?” you murmur.

“not yet,” he says, sitting back down.

“trying to be cool.”

you glance at him. “you’re not very good at that.”

he grins, a little sheepish. “yeah, i know.”

another beat. you lean against the fridge. hugging yourself. “he didn’t kick me out. i just… didn’t wanna stay.”

“because?”

you swallow.

“because it hurts.”

that gets his attention.

his smile fades. his whole posture shifts, shoulders tense, jaw tight, hands curling around the edge of the counter. he looks like he wants to say something sharp, but reins it in.

instead, he says, quiet: “he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

you look at him. “what does that mean?”

gojo shrugs, but it’s a lie. “it means you’re not like the other girls. you’re not easy to forget. and sukuna…” he sighs. runs a hand through his hair. “sukuna likes things he can throw away. he doesn’t know what to do with something real.”

you stare at your water. “i don’t even think he likes me.”

“he does,” gojo says immediately. then catches himself. “i mean—he feels something. he wouldn’t keep you around if he didn’t. that guy doesn’t even keep leftovers.”

you almost smile.

gojo swings his legs a little, like a kid. “look, i’m not… i’m not good at this. feelings. girl stuff. crying. whatever.” he gestures vaguely at you. “but i know you’re too good for this. you’ve got this… i don’t know. softness.”

you raise a brow. “softness?”

“yeah. like. you care about people. even when they don’t deserve it.” he scratches the back of his neck. “it’s rare. makes you a good person. but it also makes you a really easy target for people like him.”

you’re quiet.

“i’m not saying sukuna’s evil or anything,” gojo adds. “he’s just… scared.”

“of what?”

“of being known. of letting anyone close. of you seeing all the ways he’s already fucked up and leaving him for it.”

“…i wouldn’t.”

“i know that,” gojo says. “you know that. he doesn’t. he grew up thinking love was a weakness. that closeness meant pain.”

you stare at the floor.

“he uses sex to avoid feelings. you use it to get closer. that’s never gonna work,” he says gently.

and it hits you like a slap.

you sit down at the little kitchen table. press your palms into your eyes. “why does it feel like i’m always the one getting hurt?”

gojo’s smile is sad. “because you’re the one who feels the most.”

silence again. this time thicker.

gojo watches you. watches the way you hunch your shoulders. the way you’re trying not to cry. the way your fingers tremble around your water glass.

inside, he’s fuming.

because he likes you. not romantically. not like that. but in the way a big brother likes his little sister’s best friend. in the way a guy who’s been in the game too long recognizes something rare and soft and good,and wants to keep it that way.

he remembers the first time he saw you. walking into their party with maki, eyes wide, sweater too big. he remembers thinking: she doesn’t belong here.

and now you’re sitting in their shitty kitchen in the dark, heart bruised, eyes tired, wearing his best friend’s hoodie and nothing else.

and he feels like he failed you.

“hey,” he says, softer now. “can i tell you something?”

you nod.

“if you ever decide you’re done… like, really done. if you ever stop waiting for him to grow up… i hope you find someone who deserves you.”

your voice is quiet. “you think he never will?”

gojo shrugs. “i think he might. i just don’t know if it’ll be soon enough.”

you bite your lip. look away.

he hesitates. then grins—teasing, but there’s something pointed underneath it.

“…and if he doesn’t figure it out?”

you glance back at him.

he winks.

“maybe i will.”

you laugh—really laugh—for the first time that night.

“shut up.”

“i’m just saying. i’m tall as fuck. hot. emotionally available.”

“you’re not emotionally available.”

“okay, but i pretend really well.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it now.

gojo stands. ruffles your hair. “come crash in my room. i’ll take the floor. you can take the bed. no weirdness, just… company.”

you hesitate.

but you’re so tired. and gojo’s safe. and you can’t go back upstairs.

“…okay.”

“cool,” he says, and grabs his juice on the way out. “also. if you hear any weird noises in the walls? that’s just nanami. he lives in the vents.”

you blink. “what—?”

“long story,” gojo says, already walking away. “come on.”

you follow him down the hall.

and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel so alone.

~

meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, sukuna was closer than you’d thought.

he hears her laugh before he hears her voice.

soft. almost shy. tired in a way that isn’t about sleep.

sukuna leans against the wall at the end of the hallway, just out of sight. cigarette burning slow between his fingers. his hoodie half-zipped, throat dry.

he hadn’t meant to get up.

but he always wakes when she leaves. like his body knows. like something inside him panics when the bed goes cold.

so he got up. quiet. just to see.

and now he’s standing in the dark, eavesdropping like a fucking coward while she sits in the kitchen and talks to gojo.

he can hear her voice low and sad, cracking around the edges. can hear gojo trying to make her laugh, trying to make it okay.

he listens anyway.

even when it hurts.

“why does it feel like i’m always the one getting hurt?”

“because you’re the one who feels the most.”

sukuna exhales smoke, slow. clenches his jaw.

he knows gojo’s not hitting on her. not really. he knows it’s not like that.

but it doesn’t matter.

what matters is that she’s downstairs spilling her heart out to someone else. that she didn’t wake him. that she didn’t stay.

that she left.

and that gojo was the one who made her laugh.

“he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“he uses sex to avoid feelings. you use it to get closer. that’s never gonna work.”

he scoffs. quiet. bitter.

like hell gojo knows him. like hell anyone does.

they don’t know what it’s like to have something good and be too fucked-up to hold it. to want softness and flinch every time it touches you. to love someone in silence because saying it out loud would make it real.

they don’t know what it’s like to want to be better but still ruin everything you touch.

they don’t know him.

he flicks ash to the floor. keeps his back to the wall.

he should be angry. should storm in. tell gojo to back off. tell her to come back upstairs. tell her—

tell her what?

that he felt something? that he missed her the second she slipped out of bed? that he hates the way she makes him feel like there’s still a heart in his chest worth breaking?

no. instead, he presses the cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag and walks silently back upstairs. because it’s easier to leave than admit you care.

it’s easier to pretend you didn’t hear it.

it’s easier to be the villain than try to be anything else.the bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

the bed is cold.

he doesn’t sleep.

~

~

“wait, wait, so you’re telling me you failed your chem midterm because you got too high and thought the beaker was flirting with you?”

choso shrugs, dragging a fry through a sad puddle of ketchup. “not flirting. just… vibing.”

you snort into your drink, shoulders shaking. “you vibed with a glass container and flunked stoichiometry?”

“the beaker started it.”

the table erupts with laughter. maki bangs her fist against the wood. “you’re such a freak.”

“hey,” choso says, mouth full, totally unbothered. “i passed the retake. c’s get degrees.”

you’re sitting at a picnic table behind the campus dining hall, where the sun cuts through gaps in the tree canopy and everyone’s pretending it’s not a monday. someone smuggled beers in gojo’s oversized backpack (probably him), and there’s music playing low from geto’s speaker, something beachy and stupid and perfect for pretending your life isn’t a mess.

it’s the full crew today. rare. loud.

gojo’s got on sunglasses even though you’re in the shade, and he keeps pulling dumb faces behind them. shoko’s halfway asleep with her feet in suguru’s lap. maki is chain-eating sweet potato fries while ruthlessly cyberbullying nanami for being too good at Wordle. yuki’s got a cherry lollipop between her teeth and is quizzing you about your classes, occasionally pausing to threaten to beat up your econ professor for “crimes against women.”

and sukuna—

sits at the far end of the mat, leaning back on his hands, shoulders tense, smoking slowly. saying nothing.

i mean, at least he came?

you haven’t spoken to him since you slipped out of his bed this morning. since you wandered barefoot into the kitchen and laughed with gojo until you felt human again.

now you’re sitting between gojo and choso, sipping lemonade like you’re not thinking about it. like you’re not wondering if he notices. if he cares. (he does. not that he’ll say it.)

“so,” gojo says, nudging your elbow. “have you seen that econ TA since the last midterm? the one with the man bun?”

you groan. “don’t remind me.” maki perks up. “what did you do?”

you bury your face in your hands. “i thought he was just some guy in the hallway and told him his fly was down.”

gojo cackles. “was it?”

“unfortunately, yes.”

yuki whistles. “bold of him to teach supply and demand with his dick out.”

“stop—”

“i won’t,” yuki says, pointing her lollipop at you like a mic. “queen behavior. you saw something, you said something. brave.”

“heroic,” maki adds.

“horny,” suguru mutters.

“you would know,” shoko mumbles, eyes still closed.

the table descends into delighted chaos again, voices overlapping, laughter sharp and bright. you lean into choso’s shoulder, still grinning, cheeks warm. this — this moment — feels like breathing after being underwater. like coming up for air.

you feel normal. safe.

but you don’t miss the way sukuna’s jaw ticks as he stubs out his cigarette. or the way he keeps glancing at you from beneath his lashes, pink hair falling in his eyes, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding something in.

something that’s starting to crack.

from the corner of your eye you catch suguru leaning towards sukuna.

“you good?” he asks, looking down the mat.

sukuna doesn’t answer.

he lights another cigarette instead.

“you’ve had, like, four of those already,” shoko says, dry. “gonna give yourself cancer and a bigger attitude.”

gojo snorts. maki snickers.

sukuna exhales smoke toward the trees. “you want me to light one for you too, doc?”

shoko raises a brow. “i only diagnose, baby. not treat.”

the group titters again, but sukuna isn’t smiling. his gaze flicks across the mat — past gojo’s shit-eating grin, past maki’s teasing smirk, past you.

his voice comes out flat. “then shut the fuck up.”

the laughter stutters. dies.

you glance at him, startled.

shoko just blinks. “you always get this bitchy when your vape dies?”

“maybe he’s cranky ’cause someone didn’t say good morning,” gojo mutters, too quiet for most to hear — but sukuna hears it. you hear it.

your stomach drops.

sukuna stiffens, slow and cold. “the fuck did you just say?”

gojo shrugs, casual. “just saying. might’ve helped. sunshine and rainbows. breakfast in bed. a little serotonin.”

“don’t start.”

“not starting anything,” gojo says, smile sharp. “just making conversation.”

“then maybe shut your mouth.”

“jesus christ,” maki says under her breath. “chill.”

“no, really,” sukuna snaps, eyes narrowed. “why are you talking, satoru? you want her to climb into yourbed next time?”

the table freezes.

you flinch.

gojo’s grin falters, just a second — then returns, brittle and bright. “damn. someone’s projecting.”

“fuck off.”

“no, seriously. you get all bent out of shape the second she talks to someone else—”

“shut up.”

your voice cuts through the noise.

everyone turns to you. eyes wide.

you’re trembling.

“just—stop it,” you say, softer now. “you’re talking about me like i’m not sitting right here.”

silence.

sukuna looks at you like you’ve slapped him. maybe you have. metaphorically. emotionally. whatever. he goes still, face unreadable, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

you swallow. “if you’ve got something to say to me, say it. don’t take it out on everyone else.”

no response.

just a quiet, dangerous inhale. smoke curling from his lips.

you shake your head and scoff. the silence stretches — too long.

awkward. loaded. sharp as glass.

until choso clears his throat. “well,” he says, a little too loud, clapping his hands together like he’s brushing off the tension. “that was fun. but also maybe we all need to get blackout drunk and pretend none of this ever happened.”

maki snorts. “best idea you’ve ever had.”

“i’m serious,” choso says, pulling out his phone. “i was gonna wait, but whatever. we’re throwing a rager this weekend. big one. everyone’s invited. bring whoever, just don’t break my fucking windows this time.”

gojo perks up immediately. “you mean like… priject x kind of rager?”

“like ‘campus cops get called and ignore it because they’re scared’ kind of rager,” choso says, grinning.

“fuck yes,” yuki says, leaning back on her elbows. “i haven’t blacked out and woken up next to someone emotionally unavailable in weeks.”

“i thought you were seeing someone,” shoko says.

“i am,” yuki shrugs. “he’s just out of town.”

everyone laughs. it breaks the tension. just a little.

suguru raises a brow. “you sure your house can handle it?”

choso grins. “nope. but that’s the fun.”

“i’m in,” gojo says immediately. “i’ll bring ket, just got some for free off this blonde sorority girl i boned-.”

“gojo shut the fuck up,” maki says.

“aww,” gojo replies, smug.

you force a smile. nod. “yeah. sounds fun.”

choso glances at you, gently bumping your knee under the table.

you bump him back.

even sukuna mutters something that sounds vaguely like “whatever.” which, from him, is practically an rsvp.

everyone starts packing up. wrappers and half-empty cups, chattering and laughing as they get to their feet. the afternoon sun is mellow now, casting soft gold over everything. it should feel easy. warm.

but when you glance over at sukuna, he’s already standing. already walking away.

you step toward him, hesitant. “hey—”

he doesn’t stop.

doesn’t even look at you.

just shrugs. “don’t.”

your mouth opens. closes. something twists in your chest.

“i just… i thought maybe we could talk,” you say, softer now. quieter. just for him.

he slows. barely. the wind tugs at the hem of his hoodie. he looks over his shoulder, eyes cold and unreadable.

“what’s there to talk about?” he says.

it’s cold. effortless. the kind of line someone drops when they’re already halfway out the door.

you stand there, hands loosely curled at your sides, trying not to look as stupid as you feel. “sukuna…”

he finally looks at you.

and it’s worse than him not looking at all.

his expression is blank. not cruel, just tired. unreadable. like you’re just another thing he has to deal with. like this — whatever this is — doesn’t live under his skin the way it lives under yours.

“i don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters.

“i don’t want you to say anything,” you say quietly. “i want you to be honest.”

he scoffs. looks away, runs a hand through his hair. you catch the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers twitch like he wants a cigarette but doesn’t light one.

you step closer, not touching him. just enough so you’re in his space. maybe trying to remind him that this matters. that you matter.

“you look at me like i mean something,” you whisper. “and then you act like i don’t. like i’m a problem you never meant to have.”

his mouth twitches. but he says nothing.

“we sleep together,” you go on. voice soft, cracking at the edges. “and i know it doesn't mean nothing. not for me. not the way you look at me. not the way you touch me.”

his shoulders tense.

“you’re not like this with everyone,” you say. “you’re not cold like this unless you’re trying to hide something.”

“don’t start,” he mutters.

“start what?” you say, heart racing. “caring? because i do. and i know you do, too. even if you won’t say it. even if it scares you.”

that hits something. he flinches like the words sting.

and then — nothing. a breath. a long silence.

“you don’t know me,” he says.

it’s quiet. vicious. said without heat, but it lands like a slap.

your throat tightens. “i think i do.”

“you don’t,” he snaps, louder now. “you don’t know anything about me. you think you do because i fuck around with you every now and then — and that was a mistake.”

you flinch. physically step back.

his eyes dart away, jaw locked. you see the panic in the way he won’t meet your gaze. like he hates himself even as he says it.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, barely above a whisper. “i just wanted you.” he says nothing. just stands there, staring at the grass, at the sky, anywhere but you.

you swallow. blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “i’ll stop. if that’s what you want. just… tell me.”

for a second, you think he might. you think he might give in. say something real, but then he looks at you, and it’s gone.

the softness. the almost, he shrugs. “do what you want." and with that, he turns and walks away.

you don’t stop him, don’t cry, you just stand there in the sunlight, hands trembling, heart cracking, watching him disappear like he always does.

~

the screen door slams behind him hard enough to shake the frame.

sukuna storms into the kitchen, kicks a chair out of his way, and yanks open the fridge with the kind of force that screams unresolved issues. there’s nothing in there but a half-empty bottle of orange gatorade and someone’s leftover pasta.

he grabs a beer instead. cracks it open without looking. downs half of it in one go.

“yo,” gojo calls from the living room. “there he is. you get lost or something?”

“yeah,” geto adds, laid out across the couch with his phone in his hand. “thought you died or ran off with some groupie.”

sukuna doesn’t answer. just slams the fridge shut and leans against the counter, eyes dark.

gojo appears in the doorway a second later. grinning, barefoot, stupidly beautiful in that careless, smug way that always makes sukuna want to punch him. “what, the picnic get a little too emotional for you?”

“fuck off.”

gojo raises a brow. “whoa. easy, killer.”

geto looks up from his phone. “damn. he’s brooding. who pissed in your cheerios?”

sukuna glares. “both of you need to shut the fuck up.”

gojo snorts. “jesus. what crawled up your ass?”

“i said shut the fuck up,” sukuna snaps, voice sharp and ugly. “don’t make me say it again.”

gojo tilts his head. his grin fades just slightly. “what’s your problem, man?”

“you’re my fucking problem,” sukuna spits.

geto whistles low under his breath. “okay.”

gojo blinks. “me?”

“yeah, you. always looking at her. always acting like you give a shit.”

“maybe i do,” gojo says, folding his arms.

sukuna shoves off the counter. closes the distance fast. “then why don’t you fuck her?”

geto sits up.

gojo’s smile drops.

sukuna’s breathing hard. eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “you want her so bad, right? always hovering. always asking about her. if you’re so worried, go fuck her.”

gojo’s mouth twitches. not a smile this time. something colder. “you think this is about fucking?”

“you want her,” sukuna growls. “don’t pretend you don’t.”

“of course i fucking want her,” gojo snaps, stepping in close. their chests almost touch. “you think i’m blind? you think anyone’s blind? she’s the best fucking thing to walk into our lives, and you treat her like trash.”

sukuna shoves him.

gojo stumbles back half a step, then laughs. “hit a nerve?”

“don’t talk like you know anything,” sukuna says, low and mean.

gojo’s face twists. “i know enough. i know she looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. and you look at her like she’s a mistake.”

“shut up.”

“you’re not scared to lose her,” gojo says. “you’re scared you already have, and you’re too much of a coward to fix it.”

sukuna grabs his shirt. fists it in both hands. “say one more word.”

“you wanna hit me?” gojo challenges. “go ahead. but it won’t make her stop crying about you. it won’t make her stop waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass.”

“fuck you.”

“you already said that,” gojo says, eyes gleaming. “try something new.”

sukuna shoves him hard. gojo crashes back against the wall, laughing like he’s enjoying this. like the fight is foreplay.

geto sighs loudly from the couch. “jesus christ. this is the most homoerotic thing i’ve seen all week.”

“shut up, suguru,” both of them snap at once.

geto just sips from a water bottle and settles in like he’s watching an hbo original.

gojo wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. there’s no blood, but it feels close. he’s breathing hard now, too. “you think you’re the only one who could’ve had her?”

sukuna freezes.

gojo steps forward, lower now. his voice a little quieter, sharper. “you think i couldn’t have kissed her that night in the kitchen? when she looked at me like she wanted to fall apart? you think i haven’t had the chance to touch her? to fuck her?”

something ugly twists in sukuna’s gut. his jaw ticks. “then why didn’t you?”

gojo stares him down.

“because she’s in love with you, you fucking idiot,” he says. “and i’m not the type to take advantage of a girl crying over someone else.”

that hits like a punch.

sukuna reels back, lips parted. chest rising and falling too fast. his heart feels like it’s trying to escape.

gojo’s voice is quieter now. lower. almost sad. “she’s too wrapped up in you to see the way you treat her isn’t normal. but i see it. geto sees it. everyone sees it.”

sukuna says nothing.

gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “you don’t deserve her.”

geto stands up, finally. claps a hand on sukuna’s shoulder. “you okay, man?”

sukuna jerks away.

he can’t be in this room anymore.

he storms past them both, heading upstairs without another word.

he slams the door behind him and doesn’t bother locking it.

the room’s a mess, it always is, clothes on the floor, textbooks on the desk collecting dust, ashtray full from three nights ago. he kicks a chair out of the way and collapses into the couch shoved against the wall.

his fingers are shaking when he rolls the joint. it’s not even a clean roll, he’s too pissed for precision, but he lights it anyway. inhales like it’ll kill the thoughts if he burns them fast enough.

it doesn’t.

smoke curls out of his mouth in lazy spirals, and he stares at the ceiling like it might have answers. but all it has is water stains and a crack in the corner that keeps getting bigger. he exhales. slow. watches it fade.

and thinks about you.

fuck.

he should’ve kissed you at the picnic. when you looked at him like that. like he meant something. like you were hurt, but still reaching for him. he should’ve fucking said something. instead, he walked off like a coward. let you stand there in front of everyone, soft and wide-eyed and trying, and all he did was shrug you off. like you didn’t matter.

he ashes the joint into a beer can. stares at the ember. lets his thoughts get loud. why does he do that? why does he push you away like you’re nothing, only to think about you constantly when you’re gone?

you looked so pretty today. he noticed — even though he pretended not to. he always notices. the way your voice goes quiet when you talk to choso, like he’s the only one who really sees you. the way you laugh at gojo’s stupid jokes, but your eyes flick to sukuna like you’re hoping he’ll laugh too. like you’re hoping he’ll give you something.

and he doesn’t.

because he’s fucking scared.

scared that if he lets himself want you out loud, he won’t be able to stop. scared that you’ll look at him the way his father looked at his mother — like love was a leash and a punishment all in one.

scared he’ll ruin you.

because that’s what he does, right?

he ruins things.

gets high. gets laid. ghosts the ones who stay too long. pushes until they leave so he doesn’t have to watch them choose to. you haven’t left yet. and that’s what makes it worse. you stay. even when he hurts you. even when he’s cold. even when he’s drunk at a party and pretends he doesn’t see you standing across the room in a dress that makes his chest ache.

god.

he remembers how you looked that night. the one at choso’s. on the couch, tequila on your tongue, heart in your eyes.

you touched him like you meant it. like he wasn’t just another party boy with a lighter in his back pocket and no soul in his stare, you touched him like he was yours.

he exhales. coughs a little. blinks the sting from his eyes, he can still feel your fingers in his hair, he’s never had that. not really. not the kind of want that runs deep. the kind that leaves bruises you ask for.

but you gave it to him, and he didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.

so he threw it back at you. let it rot. let it sit between you like a loaded gun and dared you to pull the trigger, but you didn’t. you just looked at him today, so sad, like you knew he’d break your heart and you were still hoping he wouldn’t.

like you loved him.

and maybe that’s the part that scares him the most. that you do.

he tips his head back against the wall. closes his eyes, takes another hit, and thinks about what it would be like if he were someone else.

someone better, someone whole, someone who could say it back,vsomeone who could hold you in public. let you fall asleep in his bed and mean it when he said stay.

but he’s not.

he’s just him.

all rough edges and bad decisions. full of want and fear and ugly things he doesn’t know how to name, and you — you’re everything soft. everything gentle. everything he doesn’t deserve, but fuck, he wants you anyway. more than he’s ever wanted anything.

he ashes the joint again and stares at the wall. and for the first time in a long time,

he feels like crying.

~

you’re sitting cross-legged on yuki’s bedroom floor, eyeliner in one hand and heartbreak in the other.

“i just feel stupid,” you mutter, carefully lining your waterline in the mirror she propped against the bed. “like… i know he's a dick yuki but it still hurts.”

the girl in question is sprawled out on her stomach, applying highlighter with the kind of nonchalant ease that makes her look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine. “you’re not stupid,” she says, voice soft, “you’re just in love with a boy who’s emotionally fucked up and terrified of intimacy.”

you snort.

“i’m serious,” she adds, rolling onto her side to face you. “sukuna is the human version of a locked file. password protected. probably booby-trapped. and yet here you are, trying to romance him with your full heart and soft eyes.”

“it’s like i’m trying to love a brick wall.”

“a hot brick wall. with great arms.”

you laugh despite yourself. “and a great dick... wait, hey! don’t gas him up.”

yuki grins. “i’m just saying. if you’re gonna have your heartbroken by anyone, at least it’s by someone with good bone structure.”

you finish your eyeliner, lips pressed tight. “you think he feels anything for me?”

yuki pauses. looks at you. “i think he feels a lot. i think that’s the problem.”

you don’t respond. just sit in the quiet buzz of your own nerves as she helps you fix your hair.

by the time you both finally leave, it’s past eleven, and the party’s already in full swing.

or, more accurately, it’s a fucking riot.

cars lined down the block. bass shaking the pavement. the frat house looks like it’s about to combust, people hanging off the porch railing, lights flickering through the upstairs windows, the whole front yard packed with bodies and booze and cigarette smoke.

you’re barely through the door when you get bumped into, hard.

“jesus,” yuki mutters, grabbing your wrist so you don’t get pulled away. “this is worse than i thought.”

inside, it’s chaos.

liquor spilled on hardwood. sweaty bodies pressed together. someone already passed out on the stairs with sharpie all over their face. strobe lights flash in the living room, where people are dancing like they’ve never heard the word tomorrow.

it smells like weed, beer, and cologne — heavy and dizzying.

you spot gojo first, shirt half-unbuttoned, pouring tequila directly into someone’s mouth on the kitchen counter. he’s laughing so hard he nearly drops the bottle.

maki’s by the fridge with shoko, both leaning against the door like it’s the only thing keeping them upright. shoko looks bored. maki looks hammered — but still effortlessly hot in a cropped corset and leather pants.

and sukuna —

god.

he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, head tipped back, a blunt in his fingers and a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor.

he’s wearing that stupid silver chain and a black tee stretched across his chest like it’s painted on. eyes half-lidded. hair tousled. cheeks a little flushed.

he looks fucked up.

high as a kite. drunk as hell. somewhere between earth and oblivion.

and he still manages to look right at you like he owns you.

you blink. look away.

“there you are,” choso says, suddenly at your side. he pulls you into a one-armed hug, his voice low in your ear. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“sorry,” you breathe, grateful to see him. “yuki took forever curling her hair.”

“hey,” yuki says behind you, flipping him off.

he just grins and hands you a red solo cup. “you okay?” he leans in a little, lowering his voice. “looks like it’s hitting you.”

you nod, hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like a lifeline. “it’s just… packed. i forgot how insane these parties get.”

“yeah,” he says, glancing around. “they started pregaming at like eight. gojo took three shots of fireball in a row and tried to backflip off the couch. shoko had to stop him. it was a whole thing.”

you glance toward the living room where the couch looks like it’s been through a war. “jesus.”

“you wanna go to the backyard?” he offers. “it’s still loud but it’s not, like, madhouseloud.”

“maybe in a sec,” you say. “i need to… settle.”

his gaze softens. “you saw him?”

you nod, eyes flicking again to sukuna, who’s now leaning forward to light his blunt. you can see the way his jaw clenches when he exhales. how his eyes sweep the room like he’s looking for a reason to get in a fight.

“he’s already gone,” you murmur. “i don’t even know if he knows i’m here.”

choso’s quiet for a second. then, gently: “he knows.”

you look at him.

“you look like that,” he says, giving your outfit a subtle once-over. “there’s no way he hasn’t noticed.”

you smile a little. sad. “yeah, but it’s not like he’ll do anything about it.”

choso shrugs. “maybe not. but it’s still driving him crazy. you showing up like this. looking like that. it’s the closest thing to revenge you’ll get without breaking something.”

you sip your drink. “what if i don’t want revenge?”

“then that makes you a better person than most of us.”

you lean against his shoulder. “thanks for always looking out for me.”

“someone’s gotta,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the room. “and god knows it’s not gonna be him.”

~

he sees you before you see him.

you always show up late. always soft around the edges. always looking like heartbreak dressed in something tight.

and tonight—

tonight you look unreal.

you’re holding choso’s arm like the party might swallow you whole. he’s leaning in close to talk to you. protective. always too fucking close.

sukuna takes a slow drag of his blunt and exhales through his nose.

it’s like trying to smoke the jealousy out of his chest. like maybe if he gets high enough, he’ll stop caring that your hand is still on choso’s hoodie, like it belongs there.

he doesn’t.

he watches the way your eyes sweep the room. how your mouth twitches when you spot him. that quick flicker of emotion—surprise, disappointment, something soft and sharp all at once—and then you look away.

that’s what fucking kills him.

you used to look at him like he was everything.

now you barely hold his gaze.

he wants to blame you. wants to pretend this whole ache is something external, something happening to him. but it’s not. it’s him. it’s all him. his mess. his coldness. his fucking cowardice.

his fingers twitch.

you’re laughing now. some guy just handed you a drink. not choso — someone else. taller. probably some econ prick you sit next to in lecture. he’s leaning into your space like he’s earned it, and you’re letting him.

you’re fucking letting him.

sukuna watches from the couch like a phantom. bottle of jack between his boots. blunt burning slow between his fingers. high out of his goddamn mind but still crystal fucking clear on one thing:

he’s going to kill that guy, or kiss you until you forget he exists.

maybe both.

maybe he won’t do anything. maybe he’ll just rot here, on this shitty leather couch that smells like weed and sweat and spilled seltzer, and keep watching you talk to some nobody like you didn’t fall apart in his arms three weeks ago.

he should look away, he can’t.

you smile at something the guy says. tip your head back, eyes soft, lashes fluttering. sukuna’s throat goes tight.

he remembers the sound you make when you laugh for real. how it tastes against his mouth. how you cling to him like you’re afraid he’s going to disappear.

but he already did.

he disappeared the second you looked at him like he meant something.

and now he’s just here. watching you be wanted by everyone who isn’t him. letting his own silence fuck up the only good thing that’s ever looked at him like he’s worth something.

you take a sip of your drink. the guy touches your arm.

sukuna sees red.

he sits up straighter. crushes the end of the blunt into an empty red solo cup and grabs the bottle of whiskey off the floor.

if he’s going to watch you flirt with someone else, he’s not going to do it sober.

not tonight.

not when you look this good.

not when you’re glowing in the middle of a crowd, and he’s the one who turned you into a ghost.

he downs the rest of the whiskey like it’s water. doesn’t even flinch.

liquid courage or liquid idiocy — at this point, what’s the difference?

you’re still across the room, still talking to the same guy, still pretending you don’t feel his eyes on your back like a second skin.

fine.

you wanna ignore him?

then he’ll make sure you can’t.

“yo,” he slurs, pushing off the couch. “gojo. shotgun?”

gojo, already halfway through a white claw, perks up instantly. “now we’re talking. someone get the funnel.” like the two weren't arguing a day ago, crazy what alcohol does to you.

someone cheers. music blares. lights pulse.

sukuna doesn’t look at you — not yet. but he knows you’re watching now. he can feel it, that slow drag of your attention pulling back toward him like gravity. like instinct, because he’s being loud. reckless. stupid. because this is what he does best: burn bridges and light himself on fire just to feel warm.

someone brings the beer bong over and sukuna barely waits for it to fill before dropping to one knee, taking the nozzle in his mouth with that cocky little smirk that means he’s about to do something he knows he’ll regret. gojo claps him on the back. “you’re so fucking dumb, man.”

“jealous?” sukuna sneers, head tilting, eyes flicking over to you — finally.

and yeah. you’re watching. your expression is unreadable. somewhere between worry and frustration and that familiar ache he’s seen too many times in your eyes. good.

maybe now you’ll remember.

he downs the beer like it’s nothing. wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flashes a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "another,” he says.

“dude,” geto mutters, shaking his head. “chill.” but sukuna’s not listening, he’s already halfway to the kitchen, already demanding shots, already making a fucking scene, and he doesn’t stop.

not until he sees you moving toward him. slow, uncertain. choso trailing after you, clearly annoyed. clearly ready to drag sukuna outside and beat his ass if he doesn’t knock it off.

but sukuna just grins wider, sloppier. his eyes lock onto yours like you’re the only person in the world that matters.

and in his fucked-up little head, you are.

“look who finally noticed me,” he drawls, voice syrupy and bitter all at once. “what, couldn’t hear me being a complete disaster over the sound of you flirting?”

you stop a few feet away from him. choso lingers close, protective, but quiet. “what are you doing?” you ask, soft. wounded.

it hits him in the chest like a punch.

he hates that tone.

he hates that he made you use it.

“partying,” he shrugs, gesturing around. “that’s what we do, right?” you stare at him. your lip trembles.

fuck.

fuck. this isn’t working.

he wanted your attention, not your disappointment, he wanted your eyes on him — not like this. you glance at the crowd — the people watching, whispering, smirking.

"come outside,” you murmur. “please.”

and for a second, he wants to. for a second, he thinks he might follow you anywhere. but instead, he laughs. harsh. cruel. drunk.

"why? so you can lecture me? tell me to get my shit together?”

your eyes glisten like they always do when you’re trying not to cry.

"i just want to make sure you're okay..." you shyly murmur. you look so small right now. not physically, no, you’ve always filled a room just by breathing, but emotionally. fragile in that heartbreaking way he hates himself for craving. like you’re bracing yourself for him to break you again.

and that’s the moment it hits him.

his high? gone. like a match snuffed out under cold rain.

he stares at you.

'fuck.'

he doesn’t know what he expected. maybe for you to scream at him, finally give him the reaction he’s been provoking all night like a sadistic asshole. or maybe to just turn your back, disappear into the crowd with some guy who’ll actually treat you right.

but this?

you’re just… sad.

sad and soft and waiting. hoping.

it guts him.

he runs a hand down his face and mutters something under his breath, like a half-formed curse or maybe your name—he’s not even sure anymore—and then sighs. “come on,” he says, voice low. rough. “let’s get outta here.”

you blink at him, confused. “what?”

“outside. fresh air. you look like you hate it here.”

he doesn’t wait for your answer. just slips through the crowd, trusting you’ll follow. and you do.

out back, it’s quieter. still messy. kids lighting joints, someone making out against a fence, music thumping faint in the distance. but it’s better. open.

he lights a cigarette, takes one drag, then flicks it away like it’s poison. because it kind of is. his throat feels tight. tighter than it has in weeks.

you cross your arms, biting your lip. “are you gonna say anything or—?”

“i’m sorry.”

it’s like a gunshot in the silence.

you freeze. blink. “…what?” he turns to you, finally really looking at you, and god, it fucking hurts.

you’re standing there in this little dress that hugs you in all the places he’s dreamed about touching with reverence instead of recklessness. hair mussed from the heat, lips parted, looking at him like you still see something good under all this rot.

“i’m sorry,” he repeats, slower. quieter. “for being a dick. for tonight. for every night.” you don’t say anything. not yet. just watch him, wide-eyed, while he runs both hands through his hair, pacing like he’s going to combust.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he mutters. “feelings. talking. whatever the fuck this is between us.”

“sukuna—”

“no, let me finish,” he snaps, then softens when he sees you flinch. “sorry. again. just… let me talk.”

you nod, and he breathes.

"you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel anything real. and that scares the shit outta me. i’m not good at this. i fuck up. i push people away because it’s easier to ruin shit than risk needing it.” he looks at you like he wants to fall apart but doesn’t know how.

“but you? you’re different. you look at me like i’m not some piece of shit frat guy with a lighter and a nicotine addiction and a god complex. and it makes me wanna be better. not just for you—fuck that, that’s too easy—but for me. because for the first time in my life, i care.”

you take a shaky breath. “then why do you keep hurting me?” his voice cracks. “because i’m a coward.” and that’s the truth of it. plain and ugly. he moves closer. slow. tentative.

“i didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, voice hoarse. “but i did. so fucking hard. and every time you smiled at me, i felt like i couldn’t breathe. and i told myself i didn’t care. i slept with other girls. i ignored your texts. i acted like you were nothing. but you weren’t. you aren’t. you’re everything.”

you look up at him, eyes shimmering. “then why—”

“because i didn’t think i deserved you.”

his hands hover near your arms, like he wants to touch you but is afraid he’ll taint you. “you’re so fucking good. you care. you love so deep it’s terrifying. and i’m… i’m not that guy. i drink too much, i sleep around, i lie to myself. but with you… i don’t wanna lie anymore.”

and then finally—finally—he touches you. hands gentle on your waist like you’re porcelain. like he’s holding something sacred.

“i love you,” he says, and it breaks something in his chest to say it out loud.

your lips part in a quiet gasp.

“i don’t know how to love right. but i know it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you stare at him, tears falling now. not sad—just overwhelmed. and when you whisper, “i love you too,” it’s like something inside him clicks into place.

he pulls you into him.

not like the rough, fast, dirty hookups from before. not like the careless nights or the sneaky touches at parties. this is different. this is soft. reverent.

he holds your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “i’m gonna fuck up,” he says. “i know it. but i’ll try. for you. i’ll try.” you nod, leaning into him.

“you don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper. “you just have to be real.” and for the first time in his life, he is.

he kisses you like you’re the last good thing in the world. slow and deep and aching. his hands trembling just a little as he holds you closer, because he knows what this means.

this isn’t just a kiss, this is a promise.

and when you finally pull back, breathless, foreheads pressed together under the stars and the hum of a party you’ve both forgotten, he exhales something that feels like peace.

~

this feels like peace, neither of you says it, but it’s obvious in the way you walk side by side through the humid night, your pinkie brushing his. in the way the music fades behind you. in the way he doesn’t light another cigarette, even though his fingers twitch for it. "you wanna crash at mine?” you ask quietly, like you’re afraid the magic might snap if you speak too loud.

sukuna shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “sure. your bed’s comfier anyway.”

you nudge him with your elbow. “you’ve never slept in it.” he smirks, boyish. “yeah, but i’ve imagined it. mostly with you naked.”

“gross,” you say, laughing despite yourself, cheeks warm. he catches that. stores it. your laugh. the tilt of your head. the way you look at him like you’re still trying to believe this version of him is real. your dorm is quiet when you slip in. your roommate’s gone for the weekend, and everything smells faintly like you, warm shampoo, vanilla lotion, the fruity candle you always forget to blow out.

he toes off his shoes, watches as you dig through your drawer for a t-shirt. you toss it at him. oversized. soft. “wear this.” “you want me in your clothes now?” he raises a brow. “kind of possessive of you.”

“shut up and change.” he obeys. mostly because you’re watching him with this amused little smile, biting your lip like you’re trying not to. he peels off his hoodie and shirt, and you don’t look away—not this time. you just stare. like you’ve got a right to, and maybe you do.

you crawl into bed first, and he follows, letting the blankets swallow you both whole. your body finds his like it always does—like instinct. his arm wraps around you, snug. grounding. for a while, you just lie there. tangled up. listening to the faint buzz of a streetlamp outside and your twin heartbeats slowing in sync. "so,” you murmur into the quiet, “you ever gonna tell me what your first impression of me was?” he exhales a half-laugh. “you mean besides thinking you were way too sweet to be within a ten-foot radius of someone like me?”

“yes.”

he stretches, arm still looped behind your back. “alright. first time i saw you, i thought, ‘she looks way too cute for a party like this.’” you blink. “that’s it?”

“that’s everything.”

you smile against his chest. “i thought you were a douchebag.”

“accurate.”

“but also hot.” he snorts. “can’t blame you.” you reach up to flick his earring. “modest, too.”

“deadly combo.”

he goes quiet then, thumb brushing the curve of your hip beneath the blankets. his body is warm. relaxed. but his eyes are open, staring at the ceiling like there’s still something heavy on his chest. “you okay?” you ask, soft.

he doesn’t answer right away. just pulls you closer, tucks your head under his chin. your breath ghosts over his collarbone. “yeah,” he says eventually. “just thinking.”

and he is.

his thoughts spiral and drift, but they always land back on you. on how you smell like sleep and sweetness. on how your leg’s thrown over his like it belongs there. on how your fingers trace lazy patterns against his side, like your body’s memorizing him in real-time. he looks down at you. your lashes are fluttering now. not quite asleep yet, but close.

you don’t even know what you do to him. how you make him want to stay in one place, when he’s always been the type to run. how you make him feel clean, even when he’s covered in smoke and guilt and sharp edges. how he’d burn down his whole world just to keep yours bright. he doesn’t know how to say it, not out loud. not yet.

but he’ll show you, in the way he lets you hold him, in the way he watches you sleep like you’re the moon and the ocean and the sky all at once, in the way he lets his walls fall, brick by brick, as he lies beside you in your too-small bed and thinks 'god, i fucking love you.'

he’s not sure when it happened. maybe it was that first party, when you looked at him like you knew better but stayed anyway. maybe it was every little moment since. the after-class coffees, the way you talk to choso, the time you kissed him in the rain and told him he was worth more than he believed.

but he knows this:

he’s yours now, in the way that matters. not in words. not in labels. not in frat boy bravado. but in the stillness. in the way his heartbeat slows when you touch him. in the way he doesn’t feel high tonight—just whole.

"you awake?” he murmurs.

you hum against him. “barely.” he presses a kiss to your temple.

“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like a secret. and maybe you don’t hear it. maybe you’re already dreaming.

but he means it.

god, he means it.

and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to wake up alone. he wants mornings with you. bad coffee and cold feet and sleepy smiles. he wants all of it. you and your stupid candle and your oversized t-shirts and your too-big heart. so he kisses your forehead again. lets your scent bury into his skin.

and as you finally drift off in his arms, sukuna closes his eyes and lets himself want something real.

something like this.

something like love.

~

extraaa

frat rats and others ig

yuki 🪩: chat what the fuck am i looking at

yuki 🪩: [photo attached]

yuki 🪩: LMAO THEYRE NOT EVEN NAKED WTH

maki 🥋: HUHHHHH

maki 🥋: omg they are so like... calm looking.

shoko 🩹: bro no way

shoko 🩹: sukuna looking content that's some voodoo shit

choso 🍃: i literally watched him almost rock some guys shit for talking to her last night now he's sleeping with a fucking smile on his face wth bruh give me a break

geto 🍷: free y/n bro

choso🍃: su man I'm glad it finally happened lowk

gojo 🧿: alright fuckers, i’m taking full credit here

gojo 🧿: this whole meltdown-to-makeup saga? that’s me pulling strings like a puppet master

gojo 🧿: if i hadn’t pissed him off just right, this whole tender bullshit never would of happened

shoko 🩹: you mean emotionally blackmailing him until he cracked? real noble, gojo

gojo 🧿: hey, desperate times call for desperate measures

gojo 🧿: plus, someone had to wake him up :(

maki 🥋: you’re the worst kind of manipulative and it’s honestly impressive

gojo 🧿: proud of my work here, thank you very much

gojo 🧿: i deserve an award for making sukuna less of a complete dickface

yuki 🪩:you're getting your ass beat when he wakes up and sees that bro

choso 🍃: lol watching him fail to keep his shit together all this time was tragic but so funny icl

gojo 🧿: nah but let’s not act like he didn’t look a little too happy to be clinging onto her in that pic

gojo 🧿: mf was in REM sleep dreaming about her saying “i’m proud of you”

choso 🍃: he’s gonna wake up and act like he didn’t say all that emotional shit too

choso 🍃: “idk what you’re talking about” ass boy

geto 🍷: someone record his gaslight attempt when she brings it up later

geto 🍷: “that wasn’t me babe, that was the tequila talking”

shoko 🩹: tequila didn’t make you cry into her neck and whisper “don’t leave” king

maki 🥋: he’s gonna delete himself from the chat when he sees this convo

gojo 🧿: and yet i’ll still be the villain somehow

gojo 🧿: just know none of this would’ve happened without my psychological warfare

yuki 🪩: congratulations on being the most chaotic matchmaker known to man

gojo 🧿: i’ll be taking referrals now

gojo 🧿: hit me up if your situationship needs emotional waterboarding

shoko 🩹: Jesus Christ

choso 🍃: y’all think he’s gonna be normal now or…?

geto 🍷: define normal

maki 🥋: if he stops growling every time someone breathes near her, i’ll take that as a win

yuki 🪩: god imagine him showing up to econ actually smiling. i’d drop the class

shoko 🩹: if he starts doing couple shit on campus i’m gonna barf

gojo 🧿: imagine them holding hands in the dining hall. i will LOSE it

gojo 🧿: i’ll flip the table

geto 🍷: y/n has the patience of a saint and the taste of a girl who needs therapy

choso 🍃: she’s in love let her be 😭

maki 🥋: yeah well she better be charging him hourly for emotional labor

gojo 🧿: alright placing bets now

gojo 🧿: how long before he fucks it up again? i say three weeks tops

yuki 🪩: shut the fuck up gojo

ooo finally done another, not as good as my choso fic but i still fw this oneee (subtle plug go read this shit it’s fire: sex w/ a stoner)

m.list.

your guy’s comments make me the happiest girl in the world i will respond to them all you are all my biggest supporters omg kiss me lololo

[milksnake-tea]

━━ fear not the road untaken .

Sunday hadn't spent long with the Stellaron Hunters before boarding the Express, but the memories he'd made with them were priceless. One quiet day in the Express's cabin, while reflecting on his experiences with the Hunters, you appear to visit him.

astral express!sunday x gn!stellaronhunter!reader

contains: sunday used to be a stellaron hunter, teasing, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF THIS IS THE CUTEST THING IVE WRITTEN SO FAR, SUNDAY IS DOWN BADDDD AS HE DESERVES TO BE BITES FIST I MISSED THIS SO BADDDDD, not established relationship sunday just has a massive crush on you

word count: 2.06k

a/n: happy drip marketing yall. you all get a sunday fluff piece. as a treat. also yes i am completely and totally sane. (THIS IS THE MOST SELF INDULGENT FIC IVE EVER WRITTEN I AM SO SORRY GUYS)

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo

“Sunday, we’re going out to Belobog for a bit. Wanna come with?”

Heeled boots still in the midst of a step. Feather-like hair shifts and tousles as he turns his head. At the invitation, gold melts, sapphires glitter, and a gentle smile warms his lips.

March is a blessing, he thinks. She is bubbly, kind, and always manages to light up whatever room she steps into - in that regard, she is not too unlike his beloved sister. Although her ability to plan ahead leaves much room for improvement, he cannot deny that it was her presence that made his transition into a Nameless much easier than it would’ve been.

Although, truthfully, he’d expected more resistance from her - out of everyone, she seemed to be the most traumatized by the Charmony Festival Disaster, and she also had more of a distaste for Stellaron Hunters than the others. But surprisingly, she’d come around to him, and welcomed him into the Express with open arms - and a lot of food. He swears, every time she’s come back from a trip, it’s another sweet or drink shoved into his arms - not that he’s complaining, though.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he begins, then rests a hand over his chest as a reflex. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse. The last expedition has left me rather exhausted - and as you know, I don’t fare well in cold weather.”

Dan Heng nods in understanding. He’s never been a man of many words, and for that Sunday appreciates him. He rather likes straight-forward people, who aren’t afraid to say their mind - perhaps that’s why he’s grown to adore both the Express and the Hunters so much.

“Is there anything you want us to bring back?” pipes up the Trailblazer, dog-like eyes shining as they lean over March. “Like, sweets or whatever?”

Sunday bites back a chuckle. Somehow, word had gotten around that Sunday had quite the sweet tooth. He doesn’t know who started it or how they found out (he has his suspicions on March), but ever since the trio has been dragging him around to various planets and encouraging him to try the local desserts.

He wonders if he’s gotten cavities yet. He hopes not.

Maybe he should check again, at a later time.

“That Rye Bread Iceberg you brought last time was rather enjoyable. I’d like to try it again.”

March and the Trailblazer brighten at his words. “Okay, on it!”

Dan Heng only hums his acknowledgement before turning to leave the parlor car. “Let’s go,” he advises the others. “You know Seele doesn’t like to wait.”

Sunday has never personally met this Seele (the Trailblazer describes her as a crass but kind-hearted warrior), but her fury is enough to whip both March and the Trailblazer into shape. It isn’t long before the trio is waving him goodbye as they descend into the frozen planet, and he also bids them farewell.

And then it is just him, and the conductor.

A small sigh leaves him as he sits down on one of the many couches. He wasn’t lying when he said he was exhausted. Fighting - or any physical activity, for that matter - isn’t exactly his strong suit. Even during his time with the Hunters, he’d stayed behind the front lines, acting as a pseudo Kafka with his carefully crafted words and tuning abilities.

That’s one of the few things about the Hunters that he prefers over the Express - they didn’t force him to hike through deserts and jungles and mountains and Xipe knows what else. All they did was throw him off a skyscraper in the name of the script (he’s pretty sure Elio just wanted to see if he’d actually fly or not).

Sunday blinks, realizing just what had just passed through his mind. Then he sighs with a smile, leaning back into the red plush of the couches.

Only a few months since his fall, and he’s already beginning to think as weirdly as the rest of them.

“Sunday, are you alright?”

Sunday glances down to see the conductor waddling by his feet.

Pom Pom is… strange, no doubt - for whatever reason, Dan Heng fears them and has advised Sunday to not anger them at all costs. Their past is shrouded in mystery, but Sunday finds himself drawn to the conductor. Perhaps living most of his life in a fever dream like Penacony has warped his perception of what is normal and what is not.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He shifts on the couch to make room, but the conductor shakes their head.

“Are you sure? Pom Pom saw you laughing to yourself,” they fret, tapping their nubby hands together anxiously. “Have you been sleeping enough?”

Sunday crosses one leg over the other, and rests his hands over his knee. “If you’re concerned about my transition from Penacony to reality, be at ease. The Hunters have practically beat a proper sleep schedule into me.”

Pom Pom yelps in shock. “B-Beat?! They beat you?”

“Not literally,” Sunday hastes, instinctively reaching out a hand to calm the conductor. “It was more akin to… ominously threatening checkups. Although, there was this one time-”

He sees the look on Pom Pom’s face, and decides to stop it there. He fears they might break out sobbing if he continues.

“Nevertheless, rest assured that I am sleeping at an appropriate time,” he finishes reassuringly. His practiced smile pays off as the conductor gradually calms down, albeit worry about the Hunters’ methods still lingers.

“Alright, if you say so, Sunday.” They look around uneasily. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Sunday waves his hands hastily. “No, I am alright, thank you-”

“He’ll have some tea.”

Pom Pom jumps with a shriek and Sunday’s wings puff up. A familiar laugh ghosts his ear, and immediately Sunday’s face brightens.

“What- What are you doing here?!” Pom Pom quickly hides behind one of Sunday’s slender legs, hugging it like a lifeline. Sunday places a hand on their head to calm them as he turns to the hologram with a warm smile.

“At ease, conductor, they’re a friend.”

Your holographic form glitches in and out of reality. There’s a thin blue filter over your appearance, but other than that, everything is the same as he remembers.

“Hey, angel,” you coo, leaning your elbow on his shoulder as you sit besides him. Its weight is not the same as it would be in reality, but the presence is enough - a small, barely noticeable tingle that has his heart fluttering and his wings following in suit. “How’s life as Nameless? Do you miss us yet?”

Sunday laughs gently. “It has only been two weeks since I left the Hunters. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to miss you all.”

You pout playfully, sticking out your tongue.Even though parts of you chip away and reappear, and your form isn’t stable, Sunday can’t help but be as captivated by you as he was when he was still among the Hunters’ ranks. Where the projection fails, his tinted memory fills in.

“Silver Wolf misses you, although I doubt she’d actually say it,” you say, taking a lock of his hair and twirling it around your finger. “Has she visited you yet?”

Sunday stutters a bit before weakly batting your finger away with his wing. “No, I’m afraid she hasn’t.”

“Hm.” You smile at his attempt to brush you off. Letting go of his hair, you instead opt to tug lightly at his cheek, earning a squeak from the Halovian. “That’s weird. Maybe she was too shy to speak up.”

“I-” Sunday rubs his cheek when you finally let go. Embarrassingly, his wings jump to shield his face, an unfortunate reflex he’d yet to curb. “I suppose she was…”

He hears you hum, and he lifts a wing to peek at you. His cheeks feel hot - no, that’s an understatement, the entirety of his body feels as if he’s in a fireplace.

“Give her my regards,” he finally breathes out, thanking the Aeons for his training in keeping his composure. Sure, it ultimately fails whenever he looks at you, but at least he’s able to fix himself quickly enough… or at least, he hopes that’s what it looks like.

“You didn’t answer my question though.” Propping your elbow on his shoulder again, you rest your cheek in your palm. “How’s the Nameless life treating you?”

“It’s chaotic,” Sunday admits with a fond sigh. He relaxes into the couch once more, feeling himself sink into the plush. Briefly, he’s tempted to lean his head on your shoulder, but given that you’re a holograph, he holds himself back. “But it’s fun. The Nameless have been kind, and the planets I’ve visited… It’s nice, to see the universe as someone other than a wanted criminal.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Sunday would apologize, but considering that it’s you he’s talking to, he doesn’t feel the need to. After all, you’ve said worse to him, and him to you.

“You know what I mean,” he chuckles. “To be honest, though, the Express and the Hunters aren’t so different.”

He hears Pom Pom squawk indignantly, and again he ruffles their fur to calm them. Turning ever so slightly to your hologram, he gazes at you with adoration and fondness swelling his heart.

“To the both of you, I am forever grateful. If it weren’t for your kindness, I’d be rotting away in an alley somewhere. I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

All distaste for the Hunters fades from Pom Pom as they giggle bashfully. “Aw, Sunday… You don’t have to thank us. We were just doing what the Nameless do.”

You nod in agreement, reaching through his wing and poking his cheek again. “Conductor’s right. No need for thanks, birdie.”

“Still-” Sunday makes a sound like a startled bird as you poke his cheek harder, squishing it against the rest of his face. Underneath his coat, his primary wings strain with the urge to flutter and twitch, while his secondary wings are held back by sheer willpower. The only sign that they want to flap so badly is with the tiniest of tremors.

“None of that,” you chide him gently, tapping him lightly on the plush of his lips. “We’re just glad you’re happy - right, bunny?”

“Who’re you calling bunny?!” Pom Pom protests, steam puffing out of their head while steam threatens to escape Sunday’s face for completely different reasons.

Before you can reply, however, your form begins to glitch out, flickering in and out of reality at a higher frequency. With an annoyed click of your tongue, you stand up.

“Looks like Silver Wolf isn’t happy,” you comment, brushing off imaginary dust from your clothes. Taking one step so that you’re fully in front of Sunday, you lean in so that your projected nose barely brushes against his. “I have to get going now. You have my number, so text me if you need anything, okay? Or if you want to catch me up with your travels, you can always call me.”

Sunday’s voice feels lodged in his throat. With a subtle gulp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing ever so slightly, he manages to speak with an even voice.

“Okay,” he whispers, his voice almost a whimper. He wants to explode.

You smile fondly, and duck in to peck at the corner of his lips. The buzzing of your holograph morphs into electrifying lightning, surging into his veins, puffing up his feathers and making all of his hairs stand up and sending his already tapping heart into a frenzy. His body freezes into a statue, and all coherent thoughts melt away into a haze that is both ecstatic and shocked.

By the time you pull away, his wings are flapping erratically and his entire body is dyed in a rosey red. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but all words die on his tongue and he is left blabbering like a fool.

You laugh again, eyes crinkling so beautifully he swears he’s ascended.

“If that’s how you react, I wonder how cute you’ll be when it’s the real deal.”

And then you’re gone, vanishing like a sweet dream in a flurry of pixels, leaving Sunday there to dazedly touch his lips, and then where you’d kissed him.

And then he smiles, giddily, and his halo practically glows as soft, love-stricken giggles begin to leave him.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[snail-day]

Family Matters

I fear my brain worms have moved onto:

Yan! Choso x Reader x Yan! Yuki

Tw: Yandere Behaviors, Somno, Captivity, Power Imbalance, Mentions of drugging, Stockholm Syndrome, Overstimulation, Creampies, Full nelson, Dubcon/Noncon. MDNI

a/n: This was supposed to be short and sweet. I believe the brain worms munched a little too hard :)

You’d like to think Choso never meant for this all to happen. That the whole situation was due to his own desire to start a family. That if it were up to him, you’d be somewhere far from here, curled up with a book and not wrapped between his arms while he whispers sweet apologies into your skin.

However, Yuki did all the dirty work and brought you here. Who decided you were perfect for them. Choso wanted a family, and she didn't want to give up her freedom. You'd give her that. Though kidnapping doesn't seem like the best solution to that problem, but maybe you were just a bit more sane. Who knows.

Yuki’s always been a hunter. A visionary. She wouldn’t go for someone stronger; no, she chose you precisely because you weren’t. Soft and pliant, someone who reminded her of a rabbit caught between wolves. And now you’re here. While it took a while to get Choso on board, he eventually had to give in.

He never imagined himself sharing. Always thought he'd be monogamous. But when his lover comes home cradling you like a prize, whispering about how sweet you’d be (once tamed), how you'd look tucked into their bed? How could he say no?

Especially when you’re so cute when you cry. When you're sleepy from all the drugs she put into your system, not clawing or screaming every time he tries to hold you. Dragging you out from under the bed by your ankles so he can cradle you and stroke your hair nestled in the various blankets. Because when you're quiet, well, he can pretend. Pretend you want this, too.

It’s Choso who cherishes the naps. Who likes the way your weight sinks against him, your breathing slow and warm on his chest. Yuki’s always moving, training, exploring, and hunting down her next thrill. But Choso? He’s a sleepy homebody. He’s selfish when it comes to cuddling. You’ll try to wriggle away, always so defiant, but eventually you give in. Huffing and puffing as he releases a sigh, breathes in the scent of you as you melt into his arms, quiet for once. Humming against your temple, gentle fingers stroking through your hair, tender lips pressing gentle kisses to your forehead. You sometimes wonder if he wishes Yuki were a bit softer. Less adventurous. Maybe then he wouldn't be so devoted to clinging onto you.

But you realize you don't know much about him as he doesn't understand much about you. Perhaps it's the curse in him, but he doesn't exactly understand why you cry so much. You're being loved. Taken care of. What more could you possibly want? How much of the world does he have to give you?

It’s only when you’re tired that you stop trying to claw your way free. When you’re drowsy, limp, vulnerable that Choso can’t help but admire you. That peaceful little face… it makes something ache inside of him. Ache and throb. Precum stains his pants, his cock pressed hard against your thigh, and before he knows it, his hand is slipping under the silk nightgown Yuki dressed you in before she left this morning. No panties. House rule reserved only for you.

Two chubby, thick fingers trace lazy circles over your clit. You're still half-asleep, but your hips betray you, grinding gently into his touch with a breathy whimper. One that he hushes with soft coos into your hair, as he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He's too needy for proper prep, but not a monster. He won't split you open dry, no matter how desperate he is.

Gently coating his cock in the slick gel, groaning at the sensation, then smears the rest over your folds, working two fat fingers into you with care. Stretching you open, watching the furrow of your brows. The way your hips grind into his palm. That's when he knows you're ready to be his sweet girl.

Moving to shift you into a full nelson, your legs spread wide, needy cunt on fully display to the cruel, cool air, his toned arms wrapped tightly beneath your knees to hold you open. His body shakes as he lines himself up, the flushed purple head of his cock nestled against your soaked entrance. And when he finally pushes in - inch by slow, shuddering inch - his breath stutters in your ear.

" I'm sorry,” he whispers, voice cracked and barely holding together. “I just - I need you. I need you so bad. Love you too much. You understand, don’t you?”

You don't. But who are you to think when you're being split apart with each and every inch.

His trembling, soft lips brush your temple, then anywhere they can reach, almost frantic like he’s trying to kiss you into forgiveness. His cock twitches inside you, buried deep, stretching you around every vein, every pulsing inch of him as his hips start to roll in slow, desperate grinds upward.

It’s overwhelming when every movement seems to be thick and needy, every stroke a whimper he can’t quite bite back. You can feel the tears welling in his thick dark lashes as he mumbles, “Feels so good - feels too good - I’m sorry, I’m sorry - ”

And that’s when Yuki walks in.

“Aw, baby,” she sighs, lips pursed into a faux pout as she drops her bag and saunters over. “You said you were too tired to play.” She teases, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Kneels between your trembling thighs, fingers curling around Choso’s thigh to still his movements.

“Let me taste.”

She leans in, licking a long, slow stripe from the base of his cock to the swollen bundle of nerves at the top of your slit. Thin pink tongue all hot and wet, sinful even, and your entire body trembles. You mewl into Choso’s shoulder, but Yuki only hums in approval.

“None of that. Let mommy make you feel good, okay?”

God, she does. Takes her time savoring you, swirling her tongue, teasing both of you until Choso’s thighs are shaking and your slick drips down onto the sheets in glistening trails. Every drag of her tongue across his base has Choso twitching inside you, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Eventually, perhaps mercifully, she relents. “Go ahead,” she breathes, voice honeyed and cruel. “Stuff her full.” Moving her soft hand to stroke lovingly through his dark hair as he fucks you slow and deep, whispering praise between gasps. Yuki draws lazy circles against your clit with two fingers, tracing their names into your overstimulated nerves until you’re gushing into her palm.

“Such a good girl,” she murmurs, leaning up to kiss you gently. “See? We take such good care of you. You’re going to let Choso fill you up now, right?”

You nod, dazed, teary-eyed, far too dumb with pleasure to form a single coherent thought. All that spills from your lips are soft, slurred thank yous, babbled between gasps every time she pushes you into another climax. Each twitch of your body, every flutter of your walls around Choso’s cock, sends him closer, until he's almost sobbing, the warm tears finding home at the dip of your shoulder.

It only takes a few of those pretty little squeezes, and then he’s bursting with a low, choked groan. His cock throbs inside you as he cums, hot, thick ropes filling your cunt, the warmth blooming deep, pressing tight against your insides like he’s trying to make a home in you. He stays buried there, panting into your hair, as Yuki leans in again, slender fingers catching the spill of cum that threatens to escape with obscene care.

“I think we’d make a really happy family,” she purrs, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen, puffy cunt. “Don’t worry. Mommy will pay all the bills. Choso wants at least ten kids. You can do that, can’t you, sugar?”

You don’t answer. How could you, with exhaustion taking over? Your lashes flutter closed, brain turned to syrup from the overwhelming heat. Rebelling tomorrow seems like a better idea. Your head lolls to the side in a barely-there nod, and that seems to please her, or maybe it’s the taste, your juices tangled with Choso’s musk as she slurps her fingers clean, tongue dragging with a playful hum.

A part of you would’ve shivered. Maybe even cried. But then there’s pathetic little Choso, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, breath shaky, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in a soft, cracked whimper. As if the words have any meaning because he still doesn't pull out. You wonder if he even understands the word for someone who says it so much.

[alicentsgf]

love this this kinda amusing ongoing theme where some characters are so unable to accept that passive violence is STILL violence. i mean its exactly what tai's entire crisis was about. because yes arguing that someone should die does feel very different to shooting them point blank but you're still just as complict. you're still the reason they're dead. shauna is somehow arguably one of the most sane characters simply because she seems to have fully accepted their reality. she doesnt use the wilderness as an excuse for her actions or just hope that someone else will do what "needs to be done". she just does it. its not like she even seems to enjoy committing the act itself. its just a job, a necessity like butchering an animal for food. i think even asking for coach to be burnt was much more about the facade shes putting on for the others. like she wouldnt say no to it, but i dont think she ever actually believed the others would agree to burning him alive. its more that shauna figured out a while ago its much better to have people look at you with fear than with pity, especially in a setting like this. so she might as well turn her pain into rage and let it run wild. fear holds more power.

and thats why the knife is so symbolic of shauna, especially this season, because shes always been the one who has to get in close, feel the blood on her hands. when coach yelled at them that they couldnt even look him in the eye he was wrong. shauna was looking. shes the only one whose not afraid to and honestly that just makes sense. when javi died she pulled her headband over her eyes to make that first cut but ultimately it probably made no difference. at some point she would have had to look and when she did it was still him, he was still dead, she still let him die, and worst of all she still had to seperate his flesh from his bones. it was all still true whether she looked or not. reality must have hit shauna like a fucking train in that moment, seeing the cuts she'd blindly made on his body. how could she see javi like that and still try to delude herself that shes a good person, or that this world would reward her for kindness and empathy when it didnt reward javi. so she just accepts that this is her role. and now we have melissa making a sheath for the knife, which is also very symbolic because melissa is the sheath. she supports shauna, makes it easier for her to carry it all, for her to keep that brutal side close and easily acessible. (wouldnt be surprised if melissa ended up branded with an S too tbh)

so yeah shaunas fucking terrifying right now but ultimately thats because shes the reality of everything thats happened to them made manifest. shes the non believer who bloodies her hands to feed them whilst they avert their eyes and thank the wilderness. she creates the unrecognisible chunks of meat so they dont have to face the truth. and if shes representative of reality then shes exactly what almost everyone else is so scared of confronting. that this experience has changed them forever, that they're all killers to some degree. its probably a big reason shauna became so isolated. because the others just couldnt bear to try and understand her experiences or even truly look at her. and tbh when they're all just kids and the situations so dire you cant even really blame them for that. shauna doesnt just represent how bad things got, but also how much worse it could become. the possibility that one day they wont be able to explain away their actions via the wilderness, fate, or even necessity, and when that happens it really is over. they can never go home.

[athenaluciscaelum]

Okk so how about a dmc 3 Dante x stoic reader! Like Dante could pull cheesiest stuff and reader will just respond with a wink and Dante assuming we just don't care enough about him and back off only for him to find out that we do like his advances but just don't know how to respond to that. A comedic scenario igggg. Sorry if' it's confusing, feel free to ignore!

Note: I can relate to this personally. You might think that, writing all this, I might appear to be flirty or at least understand flirtatious cues... Nope... I still remember the artist who said my eyes were pretty at the India Art Fair, and I was like, "These are contacts." Only to later realise he was trying to flirt. And lots more instances; my love life is non-existent.

And the smut was totally necessary...trust me, I know you wanted it to be just funny. But I added a few more layers; I hope you like it. Let me know in the comments; I always appreciate them

Confidence

Pairing: DMC 3 Dante x Fem!Reader

Rated: Mature

Words: 3569 words

Warning: Sexual Content, Unprotected Sex, Oral

!!MINOR DO NOT INTERACT!!

Dante is confident. That is one way to describe Dante. Even if he proposed to a broom when he was drunk, it was with confidence. But you made him question his confidence. Were his good looks lacking? Were his lines trashy? At least he was original...right? You appreciated originality; you laughed when he mocked his opponents, so his humour was not missed on you.

You met Dante after the Temen-Ni-Gru incident. Few of the demons who escaped the tower were able to get into adjacent cities and towns of the Capulet City. By the time Dante reached your home, you were the only survivor. You were the same age as him or a year younger; he could tell. You were slumped on the floor, trying to stop bleeding from where your mother was stabbed; you cried, "Please...help!" Dante rushed by your side and touched your mother's corpse; it was cold. He removed your hands from the wound. You screamed, "Are you mad!? She will die!?" Dante looked at you with sympathy, "She is dead...." You frowned as you thrashed him, "No! Just help me!" Dante stood up, "I am going to check for survivors...." You cursed him; you were not sane anymore; you kept shouting and crying, "She is alive! She is alive! Why won't you help me!?"

Soon firefighters, paramedics, and police arrived. Most of the area was burnt to the ground; you were sitting in the burnt porch of what used to be your house, covered in a blanket. Dante was about to leave; he didn't like to mingle with authorities. But he saw your face; he saw himself in it. The face who lost everything and every hope. He walked over to you, sitting down beside you. You spoke in a monotone, your heart heavy with our loss, "I'm sorry... you were right..."

Dante sat beside you. "Do not be... Do you have anywhere to go?" You thought and gave him a logical answer, "Home was insured...." Dante looked at you with concern, "It will be considered an act of God," You screamed at him, "It was a demon!" Dante looked at you with pain in his eyes. "That statement is more likely to land you in a psychiatric ward than get you money from an insurance company..."

You looked up at the dark sky,"I do not care... I have nothing left..." Dante nods, "Nothing except your whole life..." You looked at him as he continued, "Live...I'm sure that is what your mother would have wanted..."

It was that day, and now it's been a year. Dante helped you bury your dead family members. The funeral home was paid magically, and you found money in your account, out of nowhere.

You never questioned it; there was so much in this world that didn't make sense to you anymore. Dante let you live in Devil May Cry. No question asked, no strings attached. You were so nervous on the first night. A fear that he might want to get something in return. He didn't, but he did give you free pizza.

It was a healing journey for both of you; he had a lot of pain in his heart that a stoic person like you could take and never utter a word about. And you had someone to lean on who had gone through the same. As you two spent those lonely nights together basking in each other's pain. It gave you both desire to live. Moreover, It gave Dante a desire to live with someone; he was daring to dream. It will be nice to hold you when you let him shed each layer of vulnerability in front of you.

But do you feel the same? Dante never knew how to talk. It was not a Sparda trait to talk about your feelings. It was a Sparda trait to stab and fight your nearest living blood relative. So how? Dante could only do what he does best – mask his feelings, put on his confidence and nonchalant mask, and flirt with you. In hope that you will reciprocate and maybe will become a haven for freaks of nature like him in more than one way. Does he deserve this in his eyes? No. But he wanted to try. No! No! He must not. His greed can be the death of you.

After much contemplation, Dante decided that he could just flirt, bask in your little laughs and flustered cheeks. It will be enough. He won't be greedy. So it begins.

Dante called you babe all the time. And you never paid much heed; he called everybody babe, right? Flirting is like his second nature, or first?

You didn't mind when he complimented you as you wore a barmaid dress and were making your way to the bookshelf in the corner. Dante whistles as he looks you up and down, impressed, "Hiding all of these curves under the hoodie all this time, babe?" You shrug and speak technically, "I mean, barmaid dresses are made to accentuate curves; it is actually the bodice and structure of the garment that give the chest a lift and cinch the waist... The flare makes your hips look curvy... Do you like it?" You smiled. Dante just blinked dumbfounded, "Ummm...yeah...that's what I said." You smiled as you picked up a book, "Okay!" And left. Dante frowned, "What!?"

Or when you did a full glam makeup with a perfect cat eye, blush and red lipstick. Dante looked at you from his desk as you came down, "You are looking extra gorgeous today..." You smiled, "Ohho...it's all makeup, not my real face......" Dante opened his mouth to say something but stopped. You smiled, "Thanks!"

Dante thought to himself, 'Okay, maybe verbal flirting doesn't work.' You need something more direct; you're a visual person, that's right! So how about something a little more explicit? Dante was in the Devil May Cry office with you. He was always interested in tattoos but couldn't get one due to his healing abilities. And you promised to give him one (temporary) with jagua gel. Dante sat on his chair, and you were sitting on the desk to reach his shoulder properly and get the angle. Dante spoke, "How about like a tattoo sleeve on my shoulder?" You nodded, preparing the jagua gel cone... sealing its tip with tape to make the point more fine. You nodded while squeezing the cone a bit to check the fitness of the line, "Sure.... Let me just get a towel and sanitiser; any oil will interfere with the staining process. Just pull up your sleeves, okay?" As you walked to the kitchen, Dante took off his coat and shirt; it will give you better access to the area and a good view of his body. Maybe you might see him in a different light?

You came back with sanitiser and looked at his body. It was chiselled, perfect, built like a Greek god on a marble. But the look on your face was unreadable as you stared. Dante saw you staring and smirked internally; he thought, 'At last, babe.' You frowned, confused, "Where are your clothes at?"

Dante smirked, so you want to play coy? He smirked, "Won't this give you better access?" You spoke dismissively, "No... You can just pull up your sleeves and wear your shirt back. It's cold... I do not want you to freeze..." Dante wanted to protest that he could not freeze but decided to throw his shirt back if you were not interested...he would never make you uncomfortable. He was many things but not a creep.

So is he going to give up on you now? He looked at you. You just came back from the office, sitting on the red leather couch, taking off your heels to massage your foot lightly. You sighed and unbuttoned the top two buttons of your white shirt. You were exhausted; Dante was observing you like a hawk and thought to himself, 'Was there any thought behind those eyes?' You were smart, sure. But are you that naive? Or were you still too deep in sorrow to understand his cues? Maybe you just need time and space, or maybe you were not interested.

He won't give up so easily. You looked at Dante, "Dante?" Dante got back to reality, "Yes, doll?" You yawned, "I need to go out with my colleagues tonight." Dante frowned, "You look exhausted..." You nodded, "Yeah...but it is not social...more like a work thing..." Dante understood, "Okay...and?" You pleaded, "Please...drop me there...I'm too tired...and also maybe stay there with me. You can take me back home, if you're free. You like to drink as well." Dante agrees, "I have my bike...are you comfortable?" You nodded...

You came down wearing a little black dress; Dante's heart started to beat faster; he could feel his blood going south. It was just a black dress; he needs to get a grip. He got on his bike. Maybe a nice ride through the city with your arms wrapped around his waist will make you appreciate him in a different light? You just need to feel how good and warm he feels?

Dante can't deny he was excited, and he was never this excited for anyone. Not for romantic interest, but to be honest, he never had a problem. His face card was lethal. His excitement shattered as you held onto the grab handle in the back. You spoke, putting on your helmet, "Let's go...?" Dante spoke defeated, "Yeah...let's go..."

Every now and then, he sudden jolt to enclose the space between you two. His mind thinking he has been being flirty all this time. You pulled closer to his ears, and Dante's heart waltzed. At last you understand, but your voice came out irritated, "You're a pathetic rider, Dante..."

You climbed off his bike as you reached your destination. He was sitting alone at one side of the bar, lamenting. Now you think he is a pathetic rider. This hurts more than all those failed attempts. You were on the other side of the bar, nodding to your colleagues and drinking.

He stayed because you requested him to stay, if he can stay.

You drank too much and made your way to Dante when your colleagues left. You slung your arms on his shoulder and spoke tipsily, "Not even one attempt to flirt with me all night? Not one compliment?"

Dante sighs defeated; he swirls his whisky in his glass, "You look good, babe... I flirt all the time. But I see you do not want it... so I thought I would stop bothering you." You giggled, poking his cheek, "I love it...my pookie...you're so cute...when you're confused…" You giggled, and Dante pouts, "Do not lie..."

You sat on the table in front of his seat... it was dark there. You cup his cheeks as you slide between his legs... "I'm not lying... it's just so fun to see you try... I could barely resist flirting back..." Dante turns his face away, "Liar…" You turn his face back and press your forehead to his, combing back his hair away from his icy blue eyes. "Sitting shirtless in front of me, you were giving me a heart attack... I could barely resist... My heart was about to leap out... I had to ask you to put it back on... How am I supposed to concentrate? If I start to flirt back with you… I don't think I will be able to stop at just flirting... Are you ready for more than flirting?"

Your lips inches away from his, Dante cannot tear his eyes off your sweet lips. How badly he wanted to taste them. Dante looks into your eyes, "Who asked you to stop?" You guide his hands to rest on each of your thighs...and he starts to massage them. You moan, "I know humans die... easily... but that shouldn't hold you from loving them... I don't want you to regret it..."

Dante's mind was hazy; he kissed your lips softly, "I am broken." You cup his cheeks and kiss him back, "So am I." Dante kisses you back, his tongue licking your bottom lip. You understand his cue now and part your lips to let his tongue slide. He explores your mouth, tilting your head as he grabs a fistful of your hair to pull back gently and deepens the kiss.

Dante pulls back, and you gasp. Your hair tousled, lips swollen and cheeks flustered. He is going to paint you tonight… Your body will be his canvas.

Dante helps you stand up, but your legs are shaky. He can't keep his hands off you anymore. He picks you up, paying the tabs, and heads out to the parking lot.

Dante puts you down and quickly puts the helmet on your head, securing it. "Can't risk you." You smiled as you climbed back behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist this time. As he speeds through the city and back to Devil May Cry.

Dante picks you up and keeps kissing you as he walks through the door quickly, closing the door. He throws you over his shoulder, making his way to his desk. You giggle as he deposits you on his desk. You look at him and smile, "In a hurry?" Dante turns you and bends you on the desk while quickly shrugging off his coat and taking off his shirt.

Dante trails his finger from your neck to your spine.... making you tingle and moan. He smiles, "My little vixen...you will taste your own medicine tonight." You smile and look at the front. You hear his belt unbuckling and unzipping. Your body feels hot with anticipation.... You wiggle your ass, but Dante places a hand on your spine to hold you still, "Shhhhh...patience...doll..."

You laugh, "I'm not patient..." Dante rolls the hem of your little black dress and bunches it around your waist. He squeezes your ass in lacy black panties; he was literally drooling as he felt the wet spot; it was drenched, fuck! All for him? He gets on his knee and buries his nose in your clothed cunt to inhale while spreading your cheeks; his sharp nose pokes your already sensitive flesh, making you moan and wiggle your ass. But he holds your ass firm. He places open-mouth kisses on the clothed cunt and sucks on it, making you whimper... "Dante..." Dante smirks. "Yeah, doll... I'm just making sure you understand what I want..."

Your mind was fuzzy, and as you look back, you beg, "Dante...I want this..." Dante acts innocent, like his face is not buried between your ass cheeks: "Want what, babe?" You cry, "Want you to fuck me .... " Dante chuckles, "Now I can't deny my favourite girl."

Dante gets up on his feet... He unzips your dress and peels it off... You were wearing the matching bra... He unhooks your bra strap, the dreaded red lines... must be so painful... He rubs it soothingly, and you hum. He smiles, "It feels good?" You smile, "That feels good..."

Dante hums, "You can totally not wear them around me... Look how they marked your pretty skin...." You laugh... "Absolutely not... I might think..." Dante helps you take it off. His one hand is still on your hip to hold you in place.

Dante leaned to kiss and bite your neck, shoulder, back, and trailing from your spine to your ass. It was a slow torture. You tried to rub your ass against his crotch. It felt so heavy; you were sure he was big...but he kept you firm in place. He littered your back with little bite marks. Licking and kissing the red marks left by your bra a bit extra. He stands back up, slipping your panties off till your knees. He holds both your wrists back with one hand, while the other gives a few light smacks on your ass, making you yelp and shiver in pleasure. Dante looks at you and speaks, his breath hot against your ear. "Safe Word?" You blinked and thought, "Ummm....Strawberry…"

Dante chuckles as he lands another hard smack on your red and hot ass cheek. You cry in pleasure, "Feels good, baby..." Dante pulls on your wrists to arch your beautiful body...his free hand slides in front to squeeze your tits...he groans, "God...they are perfect...." His hand slides from your soft stomach to cup your pussy, giving a gentle push to squeeze your ass against his clothes' crotch. He moans in your ear, "So sexy..."

You turn your head, and he captures your lips. As his middle finger rubs your pussy and his crotch grinds against you.

Dante turns you around and makes you sit on the table. You look up at him with lustful eyes... You look at his clothes bulge; they looked so heavy and big... You cupped it, and he hissed, your hand moving slowly to stroke him, "May I?" You asked him softly. He nodded, "Go on, babe...FYI...I'm a little big." You nodded and thought, 'Sure, how big can it be?' As you pulled down his boxers to take his cock out, a bit of fear settled in you...he was big...quite a lot... Dante could read your face; he spoke reassuringly, "It will fit..." You doubted, "Ummmm......"

Dante sighed, "We can stop if you want....." You shook your head, "No!" Dante laughed; he was flustered, and so were you. "Never thought you could be so responsive." You just give him soft strokes in response.

Dante cupped your face, kissing the crook of your neck, curve, and shoulder, coming down to your chest, starting to bite gently and create a trail to your nipple. You moaned as he took your nipple between his teeth and sucked on it gently. You cursed, "Hell… you're so good... Dante..." Your hand kept stroking him, and he hummed in agreement. He trailed his kisses and bites to your other tit and then your stomach... swiping his tongue down to suck on your puffy clit. Your hand on his cock slides off as he dips to spread your holds and lick your clit flat. The tip of his tongue playing with your nub, your legs squeezed around his head, your finger in his soft white hair. You cry as he sucked hard on your clit, "Dante.....umm...just fuck me already..." He smirked, "I just want to make it clear what I want, baby; I know you don't take on cues well." You were frustrated, as your grip on his hair tightened, pushing his head further in your pussy. His sharp nose rubbing against your clit while his tongue fucked your cunt, your legs started to shake. Dante spread them on the table. You beg, "Dante! I'm going to cum!" Dante's chin was already covered with your juices, "Sweet baby....." You looked down at him; he looked so handsome, your hair sticking to your forehead, and you were panting.

Dante stood up. He looked down at you with a smile, leaning down to kiss your lips. "You are sweet..." You cup his face, "Ummm ....Dante....." Your ankles reached either side of his neck, and he held your legs firm. Dante pulled back his face. "Let me know if you're uncomfortable, okay?" You nodded. As he guided his tip to your entrance, he was thick, heavy and long. You squeezed your eyes shut, and he pushed in. It was a stretch; Dante kept caressing your face. He hung his head, his hair framing his handsome face and icy blue eyes. He was like an art, his face contoured in pleasure, brow frowning, a bead forming on his forehead, lips agape. You were mesmerised... He groaned and pushed in inch by inch, "You're so perfect, y/n."

You took your time as he pushed himself all the way in, he stayed there for few second for you to adjust. He clenched his teeth and pants. You moan, "Dante...move...please..."

Dante started to move slowly at first, hitting all the right spots, making you scream his name, and cum, "Dante! Right! Feels so good, going to cum!" Dante increases his pace as he holds legs with a bruising grip. As you came around his cock, it only fuelled him to hit that sweet spot again and again.

You were overstimulated and talking slurred, "Dante....no more....." Dante brought your legs down to let them wrap around his waist and leads down to pepper your face with soft kisses. "Just one more, babe?"

You nodded, your head lulled to the side...he didn't stop. He kept thrusting, pulling all the way out and ramming all the way in, skin slapping skin. He feels his balls tighten and rubs your clit with his thumb to come together. "Do it for me, babe?" You nod hazily and come around him, and he spurts his load in you.. Your legs fall limp, and Dante rests both his hands on the desk on either side of your body...to catch his breath, his head hanging low. You look so pretty, all flustered and blissed out, with his cum dripping out of your cunt and glistening on your inner thighs. He feels hard again. But he can see you need to rest... your eyes were barely open. He leans down to lick you clean.

You push his head away, "No more..." He smiles, "Fine..." Dante wraps you in his coat and carries you upstairs to let you rest in his bed.

JACKPOT!!!

[howitcouldgoes]

for all my ragatha haters out there

I am not one of them

I love Ragatha - in fact I'm a firm believer if you hate Ragatha.. you kind of have to hate Jax too. I can understand where potential confusion might come from since despite this episode focusing more on Ragatha's past compared to Jax's we do get to hear most of it through Jax's perspective. Which leads me to believe personally ep. 6 will be the opposite. Jax's backstory and how Ragatha will react to that information.

But still, Ragatha is one of the most human characters out of the whole cast(tied with Gangle) to me personally. She feels the need to be happy and positive NOT BECAUSE she's trying to manipulate anyone - but because she doesn't want anyone to focus on the negative and abstract. That's her method of keeping herself and everyone else sane. Almost blind encouragement and a positive attitude things will turn out okay - because what else is there?

She seems the closest to Kinger whose whole mentality is "The worst thing you could do in this world is make someone feels unloved or unwanted." and to hold onto memories and connections because they're all we have.

And then you have her mother - who is her only memory. She grew up with someone who made her feel like shit, unloved and unwanted - Ragatha confesses this when she literally says "And my mother... I doubt she misses me."

No Ragatha is not perfect, but she was forced to be in her childhood and early adult life.

I genuinely don't believe she's trying to manipulate anyone - and especially not intentionally.

Ragatha's positive attitude towards Pomni and her friendliness is because she sees herself in the jester - in Ep. 2 Ragatha confides in Kinger about this on the candy truck, seeing how horrible of a day Pomni had when she first got here and compared it to her negative reaction when she first arrived too. She's not trying to steal her from Jax or force her to be happy all the time - the only reason she retaliates with something like that is because she believes Jax is trying to turn Pomni bad - and the last thing she or anyone needs is a second Jax.

So her jealously in Ep. 5 when Jax is growing close to her - IN THE MATTER OF A FEW MINUTES BTW - when Ragatha has tried for four episodes now to befriend her is killing her.

Hence why she's so relatable. Ragatha's inability to get angry without consequences(most likely from her mother), raised to be happy and perfect, humbling herself quickly by calling herself just a farm girl - is why people now think she's tricking everyone - but that's just it. She is just a girl, and by the sound of her and how Ep. 5 ended - she grew up with absolutely no friends.

It brings us back to that question we all had at some point in our lives: "Why does no one like me?" "Why does no one want to be friends with me?" "Is it me?" "Am I the problem?"

Ragatha watches Pomni, the girl she wanted to befriend so badly not out of pity or a selfish desire but because she thought Pomni was lonely just like her - walk away with Jax. And then watches Zooble and Gangle walk off with Kinger mindlessly following because he doesn't care and we see her standing all alone.

And there she debates: Does she want to keep pestering Jax and Pomni? Like a bother? Like she finds him annoying but here she is anyway chasing after him..

or does she follow the trio that didn't even realize she got left behind?

I love this little Raggedy Anne look-alike because I see so much of myself in her. She just wants to be good and yet that overly positive attitude and friendliest over the years is growing tired and annoying and the only person willing to tell her that isn't even Jax. Not directly anyway. With no one to tell her what to do - how to improve - what can be done differently - Ragatha can only keep asking herself those same questions and keep trying with the same approach.

Jax may be my favorite character - but I just don't agree with his view on Ragatha. I think she's a delight.

But if you deadass just hate Ragatha because she's annoying to you, or boring, then okay idc disregard the above-

btw i know ive been spamming so much tadc this might be my last post temporarily but i wanna make a few things clear for ppl who shockingly hate my girl

[kys02]

Jax is not a jerk.

Please, hear me out.

TW: mention of domestic abuse.

I’m not here to excuse his actions. If someone does something bad, they should be held accountable. But there’s always a reason behind behavior. No character is “bad just for the sake of being bad.”

I know Jax has done a lot of messed-up things, but give me a chance to explain his actions—maybe you’ll see him in a different light.

Jax has boundaries.

A true villain doesn’t hold back. They’ll do whatever they want without hesitation. But according to the Gooseworx, Jax does have boundaries—there are lines he won’t cross.

I know what you’re thinking about. “But he threw Pomni out of the truck in Episode 2! He left Ragatha ( and Pomni ) behind with a glitching Kaufmo in the pilot! He constantly bullies others!”

But let’s look deeper.

First, remember that his teasing and pranks are a coping mechanism. It’s his way of keeping himself sane.

Second, he never takes things too far. Yes, his actions can be cruel, but when he realizes something genuinely harms someone, he backs off.

Take the pilot, for example. He left Ragatha when Kaufmo glitched out, but why? Because he was scared. Later, we see that Ragatha got “infected” with the glitch.

Now, think about the moment she said, “I am in so much pain!”

Here’s where it gets interesting—recently, in a Japanese billboard ad, there was a small scene where Kaufmo glitches behind Pomni while she’s arguing with Jax. And what does Jax do? He immediately gets nervous and says, “Wanna continue this somewhere else?”

He knows when to stop. He realized that if Pomni also glitched, it would hurt her. That means he does have empathy. He may act cold, but he’s not heartless.

Why does he act this way?

Now let’s re-examine some of his actions.

Remember when he threw Pomni out of the truck?

Or when he cut off her conversation with Ragatha?

(Both moments from Ep 2.)

Every time he sees others forming connections, it bothers him. Because deep down, he wants that too—but he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Instead of confronting his own feelings, he shuts those moments down. He disrupts conversations, pushes people away, and keeps his distance.

And here’s the key point:

If a parent abuses their child, it’s often because they were abused themselves. (I know this is a terrible example, but it gets the point across.)

If Jax constantly picks on those who are soft, emotional, or vulnerable, it’s because he sees himself in them.

He hates in others what he hates in himself.

And behavior like this doesn’t come out of nowhere.

Someone, at some point, showed him that “messing with people is fine!” Maybe it happened before he ended up in the circus. Maybe it started after. But the fact remains: he does it because someone did it to him.

His teasing and cruelty aren’t “just for fun.”

They’re a defense mechanism, a way to stay sane, and a reflection of his own self-hatred projected onto others.

So, what’s the takeaway?

No, this doesn’t make him a good person. He still does awful things, and nobody has to forgive him for that.

But understanding his actions doesn’t mean excusing them.

All I’m saying is: if we ask “why” instead of just labeling him as “the mean one,” we get a more complex character.

Thanks for reading!

(And by the way, I saw so much engagement on my last post—thank you all so much! 💜)

[chappellcastiel]

The envy Arthur and Lancelot would have had for each other must have been insane.

Because Merlin is secretive with Lancelot. He tells him things he would never tell Arthur, he opens up to him and Arthur knows he can never have that trust. Never have that closeness not while he’s king and Merlin a servant.

But to Lancelot he’s been secretive about protecting Arthur. It all resolves around Arthur, opening up about protecting Arthur, giggling over using magic to please Arthur. Lancelot knows it will never be him on the other side of the devotion not like this.

just like he will never be Gwen’s because she loved him once yes but at the end of the day it’s Arthur she chooses.

and in Arthur’s eyes Lancelot is Gwen’s first love will always be known as such and will always be looked at as such even if she loves him she loved Lancelot first and Arthur can’t help but think if she could have him she would.

Anyway I’m so sane about them and at the end of the day how they still understand why it’s like this because they would choose the other as well.

[trippinsorrows]

stuck

authors note: if you've read the hot mess express, you'll understand this. you really, sadly, do need to read said hot mess in order to understand. it's backstory that, hopefully, sheds a tad bit more light on solana's situation.

limited tags. hopefully, we can keep these few shorts contained with just a select few folks, so ya'll don't start making them requests for this to actually become a thing. 😭

words: 1.5k

warnings: angst

“You remember my cousin Bron?”

An unexpected question that pulls us from the silence that settled between us. The only sounds present in the kitchen being the splash of dishes into the water and the clatter that stems from me placing the wet but clean plates in the drying rack.

I have to think about it for a second. “He’s big, right?” And orange. I’ve never seen a white man other than that man with such a….bold tan.

One glance at Cody leaning against the counter beside the dishwasher, cold beer in one hand, eyes on me. “Yeah. Was at the wedding.”

I wonder if he knows I try my best not to think about said wedding. “What about him?”

Cody waits until taking another sip before responding. “Apparently, his wife has been cheating on him.”

I’ve never been so thankful to have my hands submerged in the sink of soapy water, because if not, he would have seen the way they stilled at his answer. It takes a lot for me to maintain my composure. The only thing keeping me sane and still the swell of my belly, the feel of the babies moving inside, as if they also heard him. 

As if they also know. 

“Oh?” I grab the sponge to continue scrubbing the dishes used in the dinner I prepared for us tonight. It’s been his recommendation. Dinner once a week, alternating houses, to prepare. Prepare for us finally living together.

I wish I could feel less depressed about that. 

He nods. “Yup.”

I don’t know what possesses me to ask. Maybe because it feels like a normal, natural follow-up question to such a statement, but still, something about it leaves a bitter aftertaste. “Are they getting a divorce?”

But, it’s when Cody chuckles, almost comically that I turn my head to look at him. “Of course not.”

The smallest hint of a frown on my face, as I ask, “but….she cheated on him.” Why wouldn’t they divorce? The unspoken tail end of my statement. A statement that suddenly feels like it has ulterior motives, like there’s something else being sought out.

Insight. 

I’m looking for his insight. 

His eyes settle on me, and I take a second to take him in. Cody isn’t an ugly man. Hardly. Striking blue eyes, sharp, angular features, a nice build. He’s an objectively handsome man, albeit with….interesting tattoos. 

But, he’s not him. 

No one could ever be him.

“We don’t do that in my family.” 

Thankfully, Cody’s reply snatches me from memories of the man I saw just earlier today. He’d come to see me at the hospital, snuck and brought me lunch. The feel of his big hand on my stomach, questions about the pregnancy and how I’ve been feeling as we ate in the backseat of the SUV. The almost domestic nature of it all before we ended up arguing. He left, upset with me and vice versa. Not like it’s the first time, nor will it be the last time. But, up until that point, it was nice. 

However, there’s nothing nice—or sensible—about Cody’s answer. 

“Why?” Again, it feels like a normal question. The conversation now something that has my full, undivided attention. “I mean….people get divorced. It—it happens all the time.”

“Not us.” I wish I could tell if he’s still referring to his family. Or something else. “It’s….it’s not a good look.”

“And staying with someone who cheated is?” Ironic words coming from the poster girl for infidelity herself, but there’s something illogical about what he’s saying. Something I can’t understand. Or, maybe I just don’t want to.

Still, he remains staunch rooted and planted in his take.“They have children. It’s better to work things out than to break up the family.”

I turn to him, hands now pulled from the water, as I use the towel on the counter beside the sink to dry them. “But, sometimes that does more harm than—”

“Solana.” The firmest use of my name I think I’ve ever heard from him. It makes my shoulders drop. “That’s just how it is, alright?” It doesn’t feel like he’s looking for understanding. Just acceptance. Even if forced. 

And once again, I’m not sure what possesses me to ask, why I would even rock the boat and dance so close to fire, but it escapes before I can reel it back in. “So, if it was us, and infidelity was an issue….we just….stay married? No matter what?”

I don’t know what answer I’m looking for. What answer I want to hear, or even what I need to hear, I just know his response isn’t on the list of possible responses that I’d mentally formulated. “It’s different for us.” 

The shovel continues to dig. “How?”

“Our marriage is a contractual agreement. The fulfillment of a debt. Divorce isn’t an option, because there’s no undoing the contract.” 

Contract. A piece of paper. A single, binding legal agreement that’s left me in a situation not of my doing but of someone no longer with us. My father, bless his soul, in trying to save our family from being homeless, from losing everything he worked so hard to build, made a deal with the devil. Thought promising his daughter to Dusty’s son—the man who stands only inches away from me— gaze assessing and watchful, would save us. And, in some ways, it did. It saved my family but damned me. A debt I didn’t even acquire but am being forced to pay.

A debt I’ve considered from time to time over the past years actually repaying. If there exists some chance to pay off the debt my father accrued in his constant borrowing from the Nightmare Factory. If the deal can be undone. Thousands. I know it was in the hundreds of thousands at the time, and time, inflation, maybe even interest, would raise that initial number, but with the salary I’m set to make once I’m done with school, it feels doable. Even if I don’t live the life one might expect someone with a Dr. behind their name to live. Even if fancy, expensive restaurants are traded for simple, budget friendly meals. Designer clothes with names so foreign, I don’t even know how to pronounce them, replaced with fast fashion outfits that serve the purpose under my white coat. A decent apartment in an okay part of town versus the condo I live in now, courtesy of the man I call my legal husband. Major sacrifices to some, a path to freedom for me. 

Freedom to choose. To actually choose who I want to be with. Whose wedding ring I want to don. Who I wish to spend the rest of my life with. 

And kind as Cody can be, that’s not him.

If only the alternative wasn’t him. 

But, the fact of the matter is that this conversation leads me to believe that for all of my wondering, and maybe even hoping, over the years, there still and will always remain the fact that no amount of monetary substitution can undo what’s already been done. Can null and void an agreement made by two parties no longer among this earth.

And one of those parties is no longer here because of the man you wish to leave your husband for. 

The dread that settles within me deepens the frown on my face, something I’m unable to hide. Just like the most devastating question and realization I’ve encountered in some time.

Perhaps ever.

So, I’m stuck? Forever?

Unspoken words fully felt. 

“Even though….even though it was technically not for me?” I don’t say her name. Not even just because of this situation. It’s too painful, hurts too deep to invoke the name of the person I’ll never be able to see or speak to again. The person whose place I was forced to take, and sometimes, when I think about it, I wonder if…if her ending would be preferred over this. Freedom in the eternal versus bondage in the living. 

His eyes are leveled, briefly darting to my belly, his free hand reaching to plant over my stomach. I wish I didn’t want to back away. “Yes.” 

I don’t say anything after that. Not immediately. It’s not until he removes his hand, and I resume washing the dishes that I ask another question. One that stems from putting it all together, what was said, what wasn’t said, and what could be extracted. 

“If they were to divorce….he’d keep the kids from her….wouldn’t he?”

He never gives me an answer. 

And that’s all the answer that I need.

Stuck. 

[etherealstar-writes]

I WANNA BE YOURS | WOSO X READER | PT 16

pairings: woso x reader

summary: in which you're accidentally added to a random group chat, not knowing they're all actually famous footballers, and obliviously end up having many of them competing for your love and attention.

part: sixteen

part one here

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

THE NATIONAL DIVING TEAM

the imposter aka y/n ❤️

felt lotte 😔

neev you went to a wsl match and to an arse-nal one of all ?! i thought you were a chelsea supporter y/n 😔 how could you do this to me bae

kyra who the hell would be sane enough to support chelshit?

elton PLS

willybum CHELSHIT HAHAHA

neev are we seeing this rn sam @ samtheskippa the disrespect

sam the skippa kyra lillee cooney-cross

kyra erm mum, save me @ stephy

stephy i ain't getting involved in this

kyra 😔

meado oh my lord

tom holland's twin i have a concussion y/n ✌️ twinning

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ want me to come over and we can watch movies i'll bring ice-cream

tom holland's twin pls do 🙏

stairway why is lotte getting special treatment? i sprained my ankle the other day

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ sucks to be you

elton are you seriously still mad at us for accidentally giving you a concussion

the imposter aka y/n ❤️

neev i'll make it up to you with nandos i'll pay 🙏

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ okay

willybum that's all it took for you to forgive her? nandos?

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ hey, nandos is fire 🔥 only ppl with taste can understand

mccard real

kyra real

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ and i can never stay mad at you guys for long

the REAL karate kid yayyy

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but tillies are still my number one

willybum NOOO

kyra YESSS as you should 💪

the REAL karate kid okay but you support arsenal yeah? 🥺🙏

neev NAHH chelsea 🤍💙🥺🙏

brightness chelsea 🤍💙

flaming hot chelsea 🤍💙

sam the skippa aye up the blues 🤍💙

elton NAHH yanited 🔛🔝

earpsy yesss ❤️🖤

zelem ❤️🖤

turner ❤️🖤

hempo it's actually mancity thank you very much

lani ayeee

esme yess

chloe that's right

kyra nah y'all are absolutely delulu it's fairly obvious y/n should support ausenal we're superior 💪

wilybum you mean arsenal 🤨 ❤️🤍

kyra yeah that of course 😁 ❤️🤍

the REAL karate kid ❤️🤍

meado ❤️🤍

tom holland's twin ❤️🤍

mccard ❤️🤍

ford ❤️🤍

stephy ❤️🤍

stairway NAH WHAT THE FLIIP WE HAVE MOST OF THE ARSENAL TEAM HERE THIS IS UNFAIR

neev YEAH UNFAIR FR

cha cha i was gonna suggest spurs ....

willybum OH HELL NAH

the REAL karate kid NO

elton ABSOLUTY NOT

cha cha okay okay geez

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ i think i should remain unspoken about this topic before things get more out of hand ....

neev NAH this is an important life decision y/n

rusty metal wait y/n barca will welcome you with open arms

willybum THEY AREN'T A WSL TEAM LUCY

rusty metal i thought it was just clubs in general 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ barca is lookin very convicing ngl and i most def support ausenal (and lotte) 🇦🇺✊

mccard technically i'm an honorary aussie so do i count in ausenal 👀

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ of course

neev i thought we had a connection y/n 😔

willybum why not lionessenal 😔

meado that is a terrible name

the REAL karate kid fr

willybum sue me for tryin why don't you think of something better then

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ nahh doesn't hit the same as ausenal

willybum i liked it better when you didnt know who we were and supported me 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ that isn't very cash money of you willybum

ona you should come to barcelona y/n!

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ anything for you ona 🙏

stairway nahhh come support bayern in germany 💪

kie barca is superior actually

rusty metal that's right!

willybum they're overrated

kie you did not

ona added la reina

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ MOTHER ALEXIA EKBHFlkuweqBFQLUEB NO WAY OMG IVE PASSED AWAY

neev HELP the alexia putellas being added to this gc was NOT on my bingo card this year 😭

ona alexia, leah williamson just said barca is overrated

willybum deleted a chat

willybum i don't know what she's talking about alexia you're amazing

la reina thank you? your nickname is ... creative

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ alexia will you adopt me?

la reina what?

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ what? erm you are insanely peng oml

ona i thought i was peng 😔

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ YOU ARE

ona then you need another compliment for her

kyra alexia is very mother actually

cha cha she is fr

neev seconded

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but steph is mother for me 🙏 alexia is literally la reina, my queen 😩

stephy what in the world are you guys talking about 😭

rusty metal wait what am i then?

neev grandma duh

rusty metal i shouldn't have asked 😭

ona grandma lucy hahaha

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ ona i'm packing my bags rn coming to barca right away for you

ona i shall be waiting

willybum i can't believe we're being forgotten about 😔

kyra no one cares lord farquaad

willybum you pest 😒

willybum changed kyra's name to pest

pest wow

willybum suits you very well

pest that's not gonna stop me from pestering you, willybum you do realise that

willybum steph control your child

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ but i never did anything 😔

willybum NOT YOU ALSO SINCE WHEN HUH? 😭

stephy do you have a problem with my children, williamson?

willybum erm no

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ mother, kyra is hogging your favourite son from your favourite daughter

stephy kyra give calvin back to y/n

pest wow i'm the neglected middle child i guess 😒

the imposter aka y/n ❤️ L

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

not me finally posting another crappy chapter 🤭

next part here

[prometheus-rewound]

The theme for Cloudward Ho is already so good: The innocence of nature vs the haunted wisdom of man.

Like, it’s EVERYWHERE. Literally the first few lines after the intro flashback include “the Human Project.”

I mean obviously the mushrooms are a huge clue. Brennan literally says they are there to punish people’s hubris for trying to overpower nature.

But there are so many other good parts of this:

Montgomery— who fits the genre of a poacher, Teddy Roosevelt figure, is fighting to save nature. He sees the hearts of animals.

Even the bits— the Brontosaurus in the fighting ring gets compared to a bear frightened by stage lights, two animals being exploited by humans, who don’t have the capacity to understand what they are being made to do. “Chip, the bear doesn’t know it’s in a competition” was both funny and hit me like a truck.

None of the dinosaurs are Jurassic Park monsters. They are animals— intelligent, emotional, but still innocent because they aren’t plotting some larger goal.

I mean the real stand out moment was the Legio Rex bit. Like, it makes you think about that yea, humans at the end of the day are just animals too, but we have the capacity to understand the horrors happening to them. While the velociraptor-mind-people were just confused and frightened, the Legio Rex were forced to understand more than they could bare and little ate themselves to stay sane.

Human curiosity, progress, and wisdom is the villain this season I have my money on it. Like even Comfrey’s work is going to have some twist to it. Like she has the hubris to try and control nature, which is why she is able to be somewhat aligned with Mordershire— they both have the same hubris. Because as humans we have the insane ability to deconstruct how the universe functions and they is a blessing and curse to every other creature we share the planet with.

[exquisink]

made suguru a dull boy…

synopsis. with more and more responsibilities stacked like a tower of pancakes on geto’s plate, you and the twins feel like suguru’s forgotten how to have real fun! so you take him on a trip back down memory lane… (hopefully in a more positive light)

tw. implied kidnapping, yandere geto, the twins are the only thing keeping you sane, established dynamic captor/captive, reader is a non sorcerer, cult leader!geto, piv sex, oral (f! and m! receiving), reader has kind of mellowed out since you’ve been captive for more than a year or two by now. geto is actually kind of nicer to you.

WC: 3.1K

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask Nanako in a hushed tone, glancing at the stacks of metal bins containing a lot of Geto’s collectibles that he’d forgotten since he took on this new role. They’re all just sitting here collecting dust rather than being displayed and admired by a once bright eyed, unassuming, impressionistic fanboy. It’s hard to think about the fact that at one point, Geto was just a normal teenager who grew into whatever he was now.

Does he remember anything about having a bright childhood or has it been all doom and gloom from the start for someone like him? You can’t help but spiral into the possibilities. Does he remember playing ball and wondering how high up he can throw it and catch it? Does he remember his first balloon animal at someone’s birthday party? Does he remember the first video game he’s ever fallen in love with, or his first board or card game? 

Does he even have fond memories to look back on? Why does he work so hard to erase what he was before?

You still don’t have an appropriate label for someone like him, someone so otherworldly. ‘Monster’ is too on the nose and doesn’t capture all of those nuances about the guy. 

But does he even deserve to be deemed complex? Or should you just call him some guy? Some guy who has plucked you off the streets because you had some curse he was after. Some guy who has decided to keep you around because he has some kind of lust or obsession with you. 

That’s definitely a discussion for another time… 

“It might help him remember he’s a person too,” Nanako suggests with a shrug. “You know, smoke and mirrors aside, he’s just a person. Even if that ego of his doesn’t like to admit it…” 

“So what’s in all of these?” you prod as you pluck one of the tins from the top of one stack, waving off the dust that gathers around your face and blowing more of it off of the cool surface. You squint your eyes. So much of the paint has chipped off but you recognize the font of a popular franchise. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” you nearly scoff but try to refrain unless you want your head chopped clean off. “Are these fucking Yugioh cards?” 

The shock in your tone even catches Mimiko and Nanako off guard for a few moments, but they bounce back quickly. Nanako glances at Mimiko, and the older twin doesn’t know how to approach the topic at first but seems to come up with an explanation out of thin air like she always does.

“That Satoru Gojo guy Mr. Geto keeps talking about liked Digimon,” Mimiko explains, as her eyes scan the rows upon rows of countless trinkets and gizmos Geto claims he’d much rather leave behind, forgotten. “And Geto always rambled on about how much cooler Yugioh was from all those stories he’d tell us. They were best friends or something, but they got into a huge fight and that’s why they still aren’t talking now.” 

“You know they can still be friends if they just talked things out,” Nanako remarks, curiosity in her tone. “I mean, clearly Gojo still cares enough about Mr. Geto if he hasn’t killed him yet, right?” 

Mimiko nods. “Yeah.”

You ignore their conversation because you don’t really care to know much about that stuff, since it’s out of your realm of understanding anyway. Sorcerer politics that shouldn’t concern a non sorcerer monkey like you.

“Wow, I can’t relate,” you admit, finding yourself chuckling in spite of yourself. It’s not from amusement, still just disbelief that Geto was a person before all of this. Before what he is now. You almost are curious to know a little more, just to see if it’s worth peeling back all of those layers. “I was always a Pokemon girl.” 

“So is Mr. Geto!” Nanako chirps, beaming to where you can see her eyes twinkle in spite of the low ambient lightning of the attic. “Maybe you can like him more if you bond with him like this.” 

“It’s a thoughtful idea, but he’d probably say anything made by monkeys are only for monkeys.” With you being his sole exception or something of the kind, just a pretty appendage for a ruthless cult leader and scam artist. Something to tell his new world order that beneath all of that male bravado is a blatant hypocrite. “Isn’t that why he’s forgone his old personality?” 

“We just want Mr. Geto to have room to be a person, not just a dad or a leader, so can you please do this for us?” Nanako asks with a little pout. You fret as you assess the situation, glancing at the box in your hands, and then at the numerous stacks before you. 

How can you even say no to that face? Even if she’s completely complacent in all of this, you can’t completely fault these two girls for clinging onto the man who saved them from certain death for dear life. 

You have learned more about Geto than you have ever cared to in these few moments alone.

“Fine,” you decide, with a sigh in defeat as you toss some of your hair away from your face. You have taken countless losses here, so what’s another? “I’ll try to get your dad to lighten up, if it’ll make you both happy.”

“Thank you!” Nanako and Mimiko reply in unison with wide grins, before exchanging a look with each other. 

The stroll back to the second floor of the temple is a silent one as your mind is still muddled with thoughts about Geto’s not terribly distant past. From what you remember the twins telling you, Geto found them when he was no older than 16 or 17 and then he takes over this organization without so much as breaking a sweat. Given his status as some big shot sorcerer who doesn’t agree with the conservative ways of their society, you suppose that’s not entirely farfetched but you also aren’t aware of just what any of this means for someone like him or them. 

It’s just very hard to believe that beyond all of this, is a boy whose youth had been stripped from him. And misery loves company, so that’s why he decides to take you in maybe. You still don’t know his reason behind why he chose you or why he kept you—all you can do is infer. And perhaps every single possibility you have ever come up with is entirely off the mark but you don’t really care either way.

It doesn’t matter anymore. This is your life and you have to accept it. No one is going to save you, and no one can save you from forces they cannot see or fight.

You slip into the bedroom, eyes flitting to Geto who is seated like an emperor on your shared bed, one leg extended and one tucked in to support a book he’s reading in his lap. He’s let his hair fall down his back and frame the sharp features of his face. He doesn’t seem too reactive as he glances up from the page he’s about to flip through and actually smiles these days upon seeing your face. He has become soft with you, as far as softness goes for someone like him. He sets his book aside and strides toward you, looming over you like the giant he is compared to you and really compared to most people.

“Where have you been off to for so long?” Geto greets you with a light kiss on the crown of your head. He gestures to the box in your hand, and as a chain reaction you grip tighter onto it. “And what’s this?” 

Time to play up that act. Like you’re completely complacent, completely submissive to him and that you’re totally alright with anything that happens from here.

Because you have no power anymore, right? You may as well wear your mask well. And you seem to, these days. You seem to please Geto more and more with each passing month you’ve been here. At some point, you don’t even bother keeping track of how long it’s been since you’ve been in his care. Has it been a decade at this point or just a few months? It’s all a blur now.

None of it matters, anyway.

“Forgive me, the twins dragged me through one of their little adventures,” you reply with a small smile as you hand him the metal tin box. “This belonged to you. We—I thought you might want it.” 

Furrowing his brows at that, he slides off the lid, violet eyes widening upon the stacks of collectible cards. You catch something amiss in his stare. Something flashing in his eyes. 

Nostalgia? 

“I thought I burned these,” he mutters, more to himself, picking up one of the cards. You do recognize that one from your childhood. The Dark Magician. And is that another smile on his face? Another real, genuine smile? Are you dreaming? You must be! “Did they take you to the attic?” 

You feel your heart drop. Like old times. You nod. “They wanted to play hide and seek, but we found these instead.” 

He inspects the card with a quizzical expression. 

“Is there a purpose for this?” he prods with a hum.

“W-we just thought it’d be nice if you relaxed every once in a while,” you squeak, averting your gaze from his eyes to your feet. His expression contorts into something close to shock or impressed. 

But he just laughs.

“How do you mean?” he replies. He seems amused rather than angry or defensive and you aren’t sure if you’re terrified or not. “I’m plenty relaxed.” 

“We mean you just don’t have room to be you. You’re not just a leader,” you tell him. Rather bold words out of you that under past circumstances, you might have been punished for challenging him at all. But that’s not what you’re doing here. “You are your own person beyond those titles. We just—well I—!” 

“—shush, my dear. It’s endearing, truly,” he replies, placing the card back into the box and setting it onto the foot of the bed. “But I haven’t forgotten anything about who I once was. It’s my primary driving force in doing what I do.” 

“Then why throw yourself into all of these things? It just seems like… you’re fighting for your life all the time, and it doesn’t always have to be like that,” Who are we really talking about here? Him or you? “You need time to be with family too. You need to be, well, yourself too and—!” 

—you’re interrupted with his lips plunging onto yours. But it isn’t hungry or demanding. Rather longing, gentle, coaxing. He pulls away for a moment so you can catch your breath as his intense violet gaze meets yours. 

In moments like these he’s like a majestic dragon. Mighty. Domineering. Ethereal. 

Hypnotic. Entrancing. 

Beautiful. Breathtakingly so. Even in spite of everything, in spite of all of these horrors he’s put you through that feel so small and trivial in these fleeting moments where you can almost believe he feels something for you as beyond a pretty pet. 

A slender finger traces the edge of your cheek and you find yourself leaning into his touch. 

“Since when has this concerned you so much?” he purrs, his hands snaking down to the dip of your waist, securing you in place. Your eyes glimmer, with an edge of fear but more wonder of what’s spiraling in a mind like his. Dark, ruthless. Calculating. 

“Because…” you swallow thickly, the palms of your hands resting on his pecs, drawing your lips closer to his as your eyes begin to flutter shut. “Because you deserve to breathe, Geto. To have fun. To live a life, an actual life. Like anyone else.” 

Even if you are excluded from this equation. He has taken you from your life. But you can make the most of what you have here, perhaps. 

“Let me assure you, my dear, I can still have plenty of fun,” he growls seductively into your ear as he grabs you by your bottom and rests you on your back on the mattress, planting heated, open mouthed kisses on your neck. You don’t have a reason to argue or protest, as he slips your silk robe off of your body, revealing your bare body as you’ve forgone wearing undergarments in this temple. At any point he may want access to you and you have accepted that part of your life just as you have everything else about this arrangement.

But that doesn’t mean you’re completely content with it. No, it just means you know when it is best to surrender.

A breathy gasp escapes your lips when his mouth lands on your folds, tongue rolling between them and circling your clit until it stiffens. 

You can distract yourself in these moments because now you have new thoughts that haunt your mind—does he remember the first time he’s ever had a candy he loved? What about going to carnivals and trying a funnel cake? What has made his eyes light up in childlike wonder in his youth before his role in the world stripped that away from him until there was nothing left behind than the evil possessing him? 

He calls your name and commands you to watch.

And you do, no more hesitations like before, when you would cower at the idea of even so much as glancing in his general direction. You boldly find his face, half of it lightly coated in your juices, some of it sliding off of his sharp chin as his dragon-like gaze bores into yours. 

“You taste divine as always,” he purrs as he closes his mouth over your hole, sucking hard. Not much longer until he coaxes the first orgasm of the night out of you, but he never stops at just one. Whether he admits it to himself or not, he does enjoy thoroughly spoiling you but not without something in return. “There’s nothing else I’d rather feast on, except, perhaps…”

His tongue laves your perineum before rimming your back hole, making your hands fly up to clamp your mouth shut in a poor effort to muffle your pitiful moan. 

“Such a dirty girl,” he teases with an audible kiss to your anus. “You like this hole being teased more, don’t you?” 

He snakes the tip of his tongue around the rim of your back hole again, before dipping it inside. You gasp again, arching your back off of the feathery bed. 

“This is the most exciting part of my day,” he continues to ramble on as he feasts on your asshole while two fingers rub your folds and clit to work another orgasm out of you. “Watching you come undone beneath me. This is what I find fun. Learning what can make you scream for me.”

He slurps against your back hole, fucking his tongue into the tight ring of muscle and he chuckles as you try to find some grounding. 

“This relaxes me,” he goes on, “Making you feel like this.”

Once he coaxes another orgasm out of you, he pulls back, allowing you to catch your breath as you come down from that mind numbing high. But then you glance at him and he’s inching toward you, guiding your head toward the tip of his cock, hard, veiny and leaking. 

He pats your cheek, beckoning you. 

“Open up,” he demands in a singsong tone and you obey, wordlessly, jaw hanging open as he pushes his tip past your lips and teeth. He growls at the sensation, the flat of your tongue gliding along his shaft as he inches just enough of his size. He tosses his head back, eyes rolling back into his skull as he bucks himself into your mouth, fucking your throat and thankfully you have trained yourself and don’t gag anymore when taking his size like you once did. His size doesn’t intimidate you like it once did.

Many things about Geto don’t intimidate you like they once did, the more you think about it. In a way, it is actually reassuring to know that he’s still just some person and you can still find power over that somewhere. 

Maybe you can’t figure out what to do with this information now… 

But it does remind you that you can still be a person beyond whatever Geto’s made you into for him too. 

You want to remember the girl you were. The girl whose eyes lit up at the sight of cute animals in videos or on the street. The girl who’s had her own hopes and dreams that still can be reached if she just fought hard enough.  The girl who had likes and dislikes and an identity. 

All outside whatever this is. 

He can’t take that away. He may have taken many things, but you have realized you have something to hold onto that he chose to throw away about himself.

You nearly choke a bit as Geto forces you to take his entire length as stringy shots of cum flood the back of your throat. He slips his cock out, still hard and needing to be inside you and your position shifts. He has you seated on his lap as he guides the tip of his cock to your entrance and pushes inside while a hand wraps around your neck. 

“Swallow,” he demands in a harsh whisper, more from arousal and you listen, you obey, because you haven’t a choice in this case. You still grimace from the zingy salty taste of him and it’s something you likely aren’t ever going to get used to, but you have come to be able to accommodate his size when he fucks you like this now. Long, deep, harsh. Each jerk of his hips shakes the bed. Now your body is in a coat of sweat and sometimes he likes to observe himself disappear into you while he murmurs into your ear about how well you take him. 

“You’re so perfect,” he praises, nipping your ear. “So good for me. Fuck, you feel like the perfect sleeve for my cock. You’re made for it.”

His other hand moves to fondle your breasts as he fucks into you, biting down on your shoulder as he comes inside, pumping you so full of his seed that some of it trickles out of your hole while he’s still inside of you, warming himself up. 

“This is plenty fun for me,” he assures you with a kiss to the shoulder he just bit. “Trust me, love, I haven’t grown dull.”

[gremlingottoosilly]

Incel könig wanting to kidnap girlfailure reader even though she's completely willing made me giggle tbh. Is his view of relationships so fucked up he can't even imagine her just living with him normally?

You're literally saying you won't be against living with him as long as he is fine with you kinda rotting in his bed every day and night, and he still thinks you're plotting a betrayal plot against him so you could run away and report him to the police...there is no reasoning with this guy - he doesn't believe that you truly want to be with him because honestly, who wouldn't want to be with him?? That's right, no one! He believes in this, at least, and internalizes this fact as much as possible despite your attempts to get him to listen... You're still getting kidnapped because, obviously, no sane girl would ever want to be with him!! Even insane ones wouldn't want him, so why bother and try to court you if your version of flirting is to just kinda stand beside the bed awkwardly and talk about anime? Honestly, he doesn't understand how you are so chill about being here, with him - you should have already thought about running away like three hundred times, and yet, you're here, barely even bothering to move from the side of the bed as you just lay here, a bit awkwardly. Honestly, Konig is in pure bliss. He needs you here, he wants you here, and now he doesn't want to worry about you escaping or just leaving him because you're chained to the bed!! He would undo the chains once you asked him one time because he doesn't want to make you irritated with everything, but he would still ask you to at least try and stay here...he can force you to, of course, but you enjoy playing into the fantasy too much. He can be a caring boyfriend when he isn't a fucking loser, after all.

[julesnichols]

Okay bear with me here because I've got brain fog and tend to word salad but I'm gonna try my fucking best--

Everyone who insists that shipping/romance isn't the point of Severance and that anyone who ships is missing the REAL point about what capitalism does is also missing the fucking point, because it's BOTH

Because yes, it's about what capitalism does and the evils of giant corporations. But it's also about love, and specifically two things about love:

1. That falling in love when you're not supposed to, when you're trapped in hell, is one of the most revolutionary things you can do in a system that wants to crush you into dust. In a system that wants you to obey, loving somebody instead of giving in or giving up IS the most revolutionary choice you can make. This corporation can tell you that you're less than human, they can torture you, but you can still carve out a life and a family and find romantic love, too

and

2. That you cannot create a version of yourself that exists solely to do labor for his entire life so that you can cease to exist for forty hours of the week to escape your grief, and not face the consequences of that action

I think I've made my point about the first one enough as is, so let me just get into the second a bit more:

Mark Scout was choking on his grief over losing Gemma. He drowned himself in alcohol to cope, and either lost or left his job that he loved. He took a job that involved brain surgery to split his consciousness in half rather than confront his grief head on; he can choose not to exist for forty hours of his week, and spend the other hours either drunk out of his mind or asleep (the consequences of drinking being something that bleed into his innie as well).

I think that anyone who's dealt with a traumatic and painful loss can relate to why he would do such a thing. Isn't it understandable, if you had a way to not exist for a while, that you would take it without hesitation? That if you were drowning and confronting it would mean more pain before it got better, you'd run from it if you could?

But what Severance wants us to do is go beyond sympathizing with Mark Scout: it asks us to consider the consequences. Because in severing himself for a reason people can sympathize with him for, he created a version of himself that exists solely to work for his entire life, with no breaks, no rest, and torture tactics when he fucks up-- no matter how small the fuck up may be.

A version of himself without his memories, who has trickles of his grief but none of the love to go with it. Who falls in love with someone he meets down there, because Mark S. was created so that Mark Scout could avoid his grief and his love for Gemma. And thus, Mark S. moved on, because he never knew anything else.

Then Mark Scout finds out that Gemma is alive. He reintegrates without his innie's consent, because he views Mark S. as inferior to him and entitled to his memories. Their relationship is inherently exploitative.

Mark S. and Helly's relationship progresses further. Helena Eagan stalks Mark Scout. And here's something that gets me: you have to have your head buried six feet deep in the fucking sand to not see that they were flirting.

A sane person would've run when Helena awkwardly bragged about who she was and offered to bring Mark Scout to her father. But Mark Scout escalates it, turning it into a flirtatious joke about her taking him home to dad. And yes, he does ultimately go for more brain surgery because he feels guilty and spooked that he was flirting with Helena. Because he escalated the flirting.

Again, you have to be deep in denial to not see that. It relates back to the point about how he feels entitled to his innie's memories and experiences: he feels guilty and unsettled, so he tries to absorb more of them in hopes of more glimpses of Gemma to help him find and save her.

Again, can't you sympathize with that?

And again, the show asks you to consider the ramifications beyond that.

(note: I am on the side that innies and outies aren't cut and dry separate people as they are the same base people with different memories and lived experiences, akin to amnesia)

The first thing that Mark Scout remembers is Mark S. having sex with Helly, specifically as he watches her orgasm for the first time while he's inside of her. An extremely intimate moment, and it's intentional that it's that and not another flash of Gemma. Because the show, once again, is asking the audience to consider the consequences of Mark Scout's actions in severing himself.

And Mark S. recognizes that Mark Scout is exploiting him at the end! Mark Scout demands he find Gemma, save her, and be willing to die (because even if he reintegrates, NEITHER of them will be the same-- I'll come back to this in a sec). He belittles what Mark S. has with Helly and the life he's made for himself. He dehumanizes him. Because Mark Scout created Mark S. to escape, to do labor for him, and again-- he wanted to use him to get Gemma and then cast him aside, furthering how he dehumanizes and exploits him... and there are consequences to that action.

Back to the thing about reintegration I said I'd get back to: the characters within show, and quite frankly a large swath of the audience, thinks that it's Mark Scout absorbing Mark S.'s memories, and just still being Mark Scout with those memories. And yet, the show has shown us that this isn't the case. Petey says his earliest memories of the severed floor feel as far back as his childhood! What I think reintegration does, is create a new version of innie and outie, with both their memories. And that it's probably reliant more on harmony of goals and desires than forcing it; but again, the outies view the innies as inferior. Even the people in the show who claim to advocate against severance don't consider the innies human enough to consider what'll happen to them.

And so of course Mark S. chooses himself for the first time in his life at the end of the season. Because once again, the show asks you to look beyond the surface and consider the consequences.

And yet, too much of the audience also subconsciously (or consciously sometimes tbh) thinks of innies as subhuman, and miss the entire fucking point. Yes, there are obnoxious shippers; there always fucking are in large fandoms, use the block button as God intended. But you are being equally obnoxious and obtuse if you insist that the show does not want us to consider love and romance, too. Because again, it's about both the evils of capitalism and how revolutionary love can be, and how you cannot escape your actions. You cannot separate those two themes, because the show uses the romances in the show as vehicles to explore the evils and consequences of capitalism.

So stop fucking saying everybody who ships things doesn't understand the show, and actually watch it yourself, because clearly you don't either.