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carnalcrows · 2 months ago

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DAYS IN THE SUN

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you. But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal. You stay. And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.

pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.

word count: 7.4k

best viewed in dark mode

The village always woke before the sun.

You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.

Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.

It helped.

A little.

⋆｡°✩

You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.

With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.

The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.

It never did.

They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.

⋆｡°✩

“[Y/N]!”

The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.

Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.

“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”

The air in your lungs turned to glass.

You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”

Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.

You stepped back. “No.”

Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”

The words sat there, raw and final.

Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”

You didn’t answer.

There wasn’t a point.

You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.

The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.

⋆｡°✩

You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.

No one ever looked at you and saw you.

Not yet.

Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.

His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.

“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.

He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”

You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”

He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.

“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.

You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.

“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”

“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”

You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.

He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”

You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.

“A rose,” you said.

He blinked. “A rose?”

“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”

You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.

But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.

⋆｡°✩

The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.

By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.

You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.

You thought of the rose.

⋆｡°✩

The storm swallowed the path whole.

Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.

Then he saw it.

Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.

He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.

The gates creaked open when he touched them.

⋆｡°✩

The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.

He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.

Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.

There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.

His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.

Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet.

⋆｡°✩

A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.

Something moved in the shadows.

It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.

“Thief,” he growled.

Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.

He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.

“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”

And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.

The castle looked worse in daylight.

Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.

That was how you knew he was inside.

You shoved the gates open and stepped through.

Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.

Then something moved.

You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.

Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.

You froze.

“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”

You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”

“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”

“He didn’t know—”

“I don’t care what he knew.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”

“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”

The silence cracked like ice.

He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”

He stepped forward. You held your ground.

“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”

You nodded once.

Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

⋆｡°✩

The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.

The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.

You didn’t touch it.

Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.

The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.

“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.

You jumped.

“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.

You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.

Until one of them waved at you.

“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”

You screamed.

⋆｡°✩

Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.

“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.

Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”

“You’re all—cursed?”

“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”

“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”

Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”

Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”

You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”

“Exactly!” he beamed.

There was a long pause.

You drank the tea.

It helped.

⋆｡°✩

Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”

You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”

Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”

“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”

“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.

“Yes!”

There was a silence.

Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”

“Flirty—?”

“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.

⋆｡°✩

You learned quickly that the castle had moods.

The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.

You liked that one.

Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.

But you weren’t alone.

You never really were.

You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.

But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.

You frowned. “What’s in there?”

“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”

“You mean the Beast’s room.”

They both flinched.

“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.

“But it’s what he is, right?”

Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”

That made you pause.

You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.

“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.

“He won’t,” Gojo said. “But you’ll break something.”

You didn’t go in.

Not that day.

But the seed had been planted.

And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.

“Curious little thing,” he muttered.

His claws curled around the railing.

“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”

But he kept watching anyway.

⋆｡°✩

You hadn’t meant to get lost.

The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.

Then came the thunder.

The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.

And then the torchlight vanished.

You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.

You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.

And that’s when you heard it.

Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.

You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.

He looked like death.

“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.

Sukuna didn’t answer.

He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.

You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.

“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.

“You—you were watching me?”

“I always watch what’s mine.”

That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”

He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”

You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”

You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

In two strides, he was there.

One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.

You blinked, stunned.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.

“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.

He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.

You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.

⋆｡°✩

He brought you back in silence.

The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.

You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.

“…Why are you like this?” you asked.

He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A pause.

Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect him to knock.

The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.

You opened the door. He was standing there.

No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.

“…Come with me,” he said.

You stared. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.

You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.

The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.

Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.

He opened it with one hand.

The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.

You stepped inside— and froze.

It was a library.

Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.

You turned slowly, staring.

“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.

“…You did this for me?”

“It was already here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”

Something tightened in your chest.

You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.

You turned back to him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.

And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.

You didn’t ask him to.

The castle started changing around you.

It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.

But more than that, he changed.

Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.

Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.

Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom happened by accident.

You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.

He found you there later.

Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.

You met him halfway. The silence stretched.

The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.

Your breath caught. You took it.

He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.

And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.

You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.

It started with curiosity.

You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.

The door wasn’t locked.

The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.

It was a rose.

Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.

You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.

You heard the growl before you saw him.

The roar shattered the stillness.

He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.

“What did I say?”

You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”

“You don’t belong here!”

“I just—!”

“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.

“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”

You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”

He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.” You took a step back.

He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.

You turned and ran.

The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.

Then came the howls.

Wolves. Closer than you expected.

Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.

You raised your fists anyway.

They lunged.

And then he was there.

⋆｡°✩

Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.

Then silence.

He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.

One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.

You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”

“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”

“I know,” you said.

He winced. Dropped to one knee.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.

“Let me help.”

He didn’t argue.

⋆｡°✩

The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.

The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“You ran.”

“You didn’t have to come after me.”

“You shouldn’t have left.”

The silence stretched.

You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.

“I thought you hated me,” you said.

He looked away.

“I thought you hated yourself.”

That got his attention.

“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”

You froze.

He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”

You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away.

⋆｡°✩

The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.

Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.

You stood.

He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

“I told you, you’re free.”

You looked up.

“I don’t mean the castle.”

For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.

“Too late.”

⋆｡°✩

When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.

It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.

When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.

You waited.

He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.

⋆｡°✩

He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.

It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.

Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.

You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.

He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.

⋆｡°✩

After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.

You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.

“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.

You looked up at him.

“You do now,” you said.

And he closed his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning, you found him in the garden.

The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.

When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.

“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.

Glass shimmered.

Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.

Naoya.

The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You can.”

“I’ll come back.”

His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

He didn’t argue.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.

You held his gaze.

“You’re more than this,” you said.

His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”

Neither of you said goodbye.

But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.

The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.

They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”

They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.

By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.

“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”

“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”

You turned.

Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”

“I’m here to end this.”

Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you held up the mirror.

And the courtyard fell silent.

⋆｡°✩

Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.

Naoya’s smirk faltered.

“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”

“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.

“He’s cursed.”

Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”

“He saved my life.”

“He’s bewitched you.”

“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”

Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”

Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”

He raised his musket.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

They moved like floodwater.

Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.

“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”

And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.

But the wind stole it from your lips.

⋆｡°✩

The castle saw them coming.

Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.

And the servants prepared for war.

Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.

And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.

“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.

No one corrected him.

⋆｡°✩

You had never run so fast in your life.

Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.

You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.

And then— through the trees— the castle.

And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.

⋆｡°✩

The servants fought like chaos incarnate.

Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.

Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.

There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.

He turned away.

And Naoya fired.

⋆｡°✩

The shot rang out sharp against the storm.

You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.

Naoya raised the gun again.

But this time, the ledge gave way.

He didn’t have time to scream.

⋆｡°✩

You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.

He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.

“You came back,” he rasped.

“Of course I did.”

“You… idiot.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”

“It’s too late.”

“No—”

“The rose…”

You looked over your shoulder.

The last petal falls.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.

You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Sukuna, please.”

One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.

“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”

“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”

“I came back because I love you.”

That stilled him.

Completely.

The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.

“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”

He blinked.

Once.

Then the light left his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.

You didn’t let go of him.

You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.

“Come back.”

Nothing moved.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m not done loving you yet.”

⋆｡°✩

The magic cracked like thunder.

It didn’t explode— it bloomed.

Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.

He dropped to the floor— whole.

Still.

Then his chest rose.

He gasped like someone drowning.

And when his eyes opened, they were still him.

Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.

“...You stayed,” he whispered.

You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.

Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.

You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.

You looked up at him.

“I still hate you a little,” you said.

He smiled, just slightly.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

⋆｡°✩

The castle bloomed again, slowly.

The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.

The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.

You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.

You stayed.

And he did, too.

⋆｡°✩

The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.

Sukuna stepped behind you.

His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.

You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.

You smiled. “That obvious?”

“Always.”

You turned in his arms.

Looked up at him.

“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.

“Not when you’re here.”

You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.

And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.

⋆｡°✩

The castle slept.

The rose never bloomed again.

It didn’t need to.

#male reader #bottom male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gay #smut #trans male reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x ftm reader #ftm reader #sukuna ryomen x male reader #sukuna ryomen x reader

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hotniatheron · 2 years ago

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got a big zip tote from baggu for christmas and um, a girl and her well designed tote bag can be so personal

#it's the perfect overnight bag that can be used for shopping too i'm thrilled #big inside pocket. zips. handles AND crossbody strap that's adjustable. sturdy canvas. embroidered with flowers. what more could a girl wan

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dark-night-hero · 8 days ago

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Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other. part3

Imagine, you told yourself you would never step inside an art gallery again. Not after him. Not after the way canvas started to feel more like reminder than expressions, each one holding a piece of something you used to be. The way paintings had once meant joy, color and quiet wonder. And when Rafayel came into your life, they started to mean something else as time went by. Intimacy, absence, and grief.

but Imagine here you are. Alone, walking under dim lights and smooth white walls, your footsteps soft against polished floors. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was pain disguised as bravery. Maybe it was something else entirely, the ache of unfinished stories calling you back. Sometimes, grief takes your hand and guides you right back to the places you swore you'd never return to. So you walked through the gallery’s wide glass doors, your fingers clutching the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

Imagine the gallery was quieter than expected. No music, no murmurs. Just the soft echo of shoes against smooth floors and the steady hum of air conditioning cutting through stillness. You didn't look for his name. You didn't have to. You felt it. And just as you turned a corner, there it was, the first painting. And it stopped you where you stood. It was a portrait. It wasn't just a portrait, it was you.

Imagine the way you blink. It was you. It was you caught in brushstrokes only someone who had watched you closely, lovingly, could create. You figure was slightly turned, half-shadowed, wrapped in warm tones and soft light, like a memory suspended in time. The palette was warm, but lonely. It was your face, but your eyes were looking at something that was no longer there. At the bottom, engraved on a small silver plate.

'To the One Who Waited While I Learned How to Love'

Imagine the way you stared at it for a very long time. Not because you didn't know how to feel, but because you felt everything at once. The heartache, gratitude, sadness. The subtle, slow burning ache of recognition. It was beautiful. And painful. And yours. You genuinely didn't know whether you're going to laugh or cry. He remembered. He remembered you. As you are. As you tried to be.

Imagine you did not know how long you stood there. But eventually, you took a step away before emotion could spill over. And just around the corner. You found another. And this one felt like a punch to the chest.

Imagine this one was unfamiliar. Two figures on a quiet shore, bathed in golden dusk. The man was kneeling, a ring held delicately in his hand. And the other has their hand covered their mouth, eyes blurred with unshed tears. You could almost feel the moment in their chest, heavy and soft like warm sea air. The scene was surreal and tender. It looked like a fairytale. Except it never happened. The label read.

'The Moment That Never Came'

Imagine your knees didn't buckle but you heart did. Now you knew what you aren't supposed to know back then. That the plan existed. That he was going to choose you. Not out of duty but from something real. That maybe love was coming. That maybe he had been reaching for you all along, just too quietly, too late.

Imagine that's when you realize why he had been so distant. Why he was planning things behind your back. It wasn't lies. It wasn't betrayal. It was love. Just unspoken, delayed and misdirected. The timing had been off. You had been looking for signs of rejection when he was laying down things for forever. And then you had left.

Imagine the way you close your eyes. The way you took a deep, shaky breath. The way your fingers trembled as you walked slower, your heart beating loud in your chest. Just then came the last piece. And it wasn't a portrait of you. Not exactly. It was the one something you had left behind, finished when you last saw it. Now, it was still whole but something was different.

Imagine the man in the painting was unmistakably Rafayel. Sharp features softened by light, eyes darker than the ocean behind him. His gaze wasn't directed outward but angled toward the second figure. A person who wasn't clearly defined. It's features were blurred, barely there. Fading. It was you at the same time it wasn't you. It was idea of you. The absence of you. A memory painted too late. Below, the card was blank.

but Imagine as you stepped closer, your lips parted as you noticed something carved gently into the frame, nearly hidden. 'They thought I loved someone else' Those words stole your breath and just then. A voice can be heard behind you. "I didn't think you'd come." It was Rafayel. You didn’t turn around immediately. "Neither did I." There was a moment of silence. "I wasn't ready to see you." You added. "And now?" He asked, his voice almost like a whispered.

Imagine the way you turned your head slowly. Meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. And he looked tired but softer. Older, not in years but in weight. The kind that settles behind the eyes when you have loved and lost and learned to live with both. And for a while neither of you have spoke. The gallery blurred around the two of you. All you could hear was the echo of your own breath, and the sound of him trying to find the right words.

"Now" Your voice was steady but low. "I think I needed to." He stepped right beside you. Just close enough to share the silence. "I never got to explain." He started. "About the ring. About what I was planning." "You did." You replied quietly, eyes on the paintings. "You just didn't use words." "I should have." He said. "I was trying so hard to get it right. To time it perfectly. And I missed it. I missed you." A silence fell. Not cold. Not cruel. Just tired and familiar.

"You weren't wrong for how you felt." You said, finally looking at him. "But you waited too long. And I started to feel like I was holding on to someone who wasn't really reaching back." "I was reaching." He said. "I just didn't know how to show it without ruining the moment." There was a pause. "I wanted it to be perfect." "I didn’t need perfect." You replied almost immediately. "I needed presence." He did not say anything, but he looked away like he was ashamed. Like was mad, mad at himself.

Imagine he then looked at the painting once again. "I didn't know if I had the right to finish it." "You finished it beautifully." You left because it was done, that there was nothing more you could add, do to it. But you were wrong, he had made it more beautiful or maybe that was just his nature. Just then you took a breath. "You didn’t ruin me, Rafayel." You felt him flinch, and then he looked at you. "I just had to leave before I forgot how to love myself."

Imagine the way he swallowed hard, almost hesitant. "I still love you." You closed your eyes. "I know." He turned towards you, hands in his pockets like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you. "Is it too late?" "It's not too late to heal." Your voice was quiet. "It's not too late to forgive. It's not too late to remember." "But?" "But I don't know if it's time to start over."

Imagine you look at him like really looked at him and saw it in his eyes. The same ache that had lived inside you for a few months. The same love is still there. But weighed down by all the time it had been left unspoken. And he nodded slow. Accepting it. Respecting it. "But maybe someday." You added. And that was the difference. The possibility was still there. Fragile and small but real.

Imagine the way you took one last look at the painting. Your painting with his strokes layered over it. Two people who had tried. Two people who had loved, even if they had failed to say it at the right time. "I should go." You said. And he stepped aside, giving you space. Taking a deep breath. "I don’t regret us." "Neither do I." He replied quickly. As you started walking towards the exit, you pause. "You were the right story." You said softly, not daring to look back. "Just told in the wrong order." And then you were gone.

Imagine you did not say goodbye when you left the gallery and neither did he. Some things didn't need to be spoken. As you stepped into the late afternoon light, the city buzzing just beyond and you felt it. The pain was still there but it no longer ruled you. And somewhere quietly, the idea of a new beginning stirred. Not with him. Not yet. But with yourself. And that too, was love.

Imagine the way he stood there alone, surrounded by the gallery of almost. Paintings lined the walls like open wounds and open hearts. And somewhere in the silence, he let himself smile. Not out of joy but because you had come. Because you looked. Because maybe love, the kind that matters, doesn't always end in rings or promises. Sometimes it ends in recognition, in forgiveness, in a quiet goodbye that feels like a beginning. That somewhere in the spaces between canvas and silence, hope began again.

#dark night hero #live laugh love lads #lads x reader #lads imagine #lads #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel imagines #rafayel x y/n #rafayel x non mc #lads x non!mc reader #lads x you #lads x y/n

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vrtoys · 2 years ago

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#patterned #canvas #strap #women #silver #star #detail #convertible #crossbody #bag #jm1366

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baaldigital · 2 years ago

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This large handbag / shoulder bag has lots of different compartments. Inside the main compartment there is a zipped purse pocket, two open pouch pockets and some pen holders. This section closes with a zip. On the back of the bag there is a pouch pocket which closes with a press stud and on the front there are two zip pockets - one of which has an additional zip pocket on the front with 'Banned' Logo patch and a metal skull zipper pull. The other has a small zip pocket under a press stud flap which is decorated with studs and a pair of mini handcuffs which hangs from two d-rings. There are also another two zip pockets - one on each end of the bag. There is a canvas eyelet belt which runs around the top of the bag and the carrying handles also feature large eyelet decoration. In addition there is a clip on adjustable shoulder strap. A great Goth bag for all your dark essentials!

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seraphdreams · 1 year ago

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GOT MILK? | TOJI FUSHIGURO.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. what happens when you invite an unexpected guest into your home? lucky for you, this one cares about your health!

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. fem!reader / milkman!toji, smut, cliche porn trope, size kink, coercion, food play, a bit prey/predator dynamics, 1950s-esque setting, toji’s huge, unprotected “love-making”, mdni <3.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 3.3k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! it’s been a while, hasn’t it? i’m so so sorry i’ve been away from writing :( but trust me, we’re so back !! this is actually my first full length toji fic n i’m so excited 4 you all to read it . . i wanted to keep it light and cliche for all of our pleasure. this took me about two months to write on n off, but !! if you like this n enjoy it, please comment / reblog ! i’ll make you all a glass of seraph’s special milk, thank u ♡ a big shoutout 2 @gh4ul for beta reading ! i love u so muchie!!

fluorescent shimmers of the setting sun pierced through your living room window, beyond pastel curtains, and onto the curvature of your face as if the sun itself used you like its own canvas while you lounged upon the couch. soft murmurs of whichever television show you had fallen asleep watching hummed within the four thin walls of your flat, creating the perfect ambiance for a peaceful late afternoon nap.

it wasn’t as though you had done much during the day, aside from indulging in your boredom with the mundane baking of cookies, taking two batches to get right, alongside tidying your room.

although currently, you slept soundly in a way that came off as daunting to others; torso clad in a thin tank top paired with little pink shorts that could’ve been mistaken for underwear by any onlooker, with your hand rested just below your abdomen, chest rising and falling in the most harmonious synchronicity.

vulnerable, like prey unknowing of its predator.

fortunately, the neighborhood you resided in was safe. some sweet suburban city where everyone knew each other more than they knew themselves, and the thought of anything being remotely out of place sent residents into a frenzy. it was innocuous to assume that not much out of the ordinary took place. or that was the case, until —

knock, knock.

“delivery for y/n?”

stirring in your sleep, you prayed that the owner of the baritone voice that had woken you up was just some figment of your imagination, some effect of unintended lucid dreaming perhaps. yet, upon blinking open unfocused, bleary eyes, and the loud couplet of knocks on the door following soon after, you were pulled out of dreamland and into the vexing reality.

three more firm knocks paired with a gruff tone calling out flatly, “delivery,” was enough to have your body sashaying involuntarily to your front door.

whoever was outside was insinstently persistent. if they had thought to put even an ounce more strength into those compact knocks, your door would have been long gone by now.

“coming!” the dulcet tone of your voice was riddled with exhaustion and you were unsure if the sound had resonated with the stranger on the other end, your internal query being answered once the relentless abuse of your front door had ceased.

you had ignored the fabric of your meager top, not quite noticing the way the strap so slightly dropped from your shoulder, leaving such a beautiful expanse of skin exposed to, and for, anyone. swiftly, you had opened the door for your unexpected visitor.

there, stood some dark haired man, taller and bigger than any other man you’ve known in the neighborhood. he must have had to be over 6’0, with a stature so broad, chiseling muscles barely hidden underneath the thin fabric of his uniform. his white hat tilted upward, and as your eyes descended, you caught his matching suit worn just a bit too taut. it was as if the first two buttons of his shirt were hanging on for dear life to cover what massive mounds his chest was. not to mention, how his thighs were close to breaking free from their confines.

to the right of the struggling buttons, sat a little pin that read “toji.”

he didn’t put any effort into a friendly introduction, the only hint of expression you could trace was the furrowing of his brows at his forehead as he gave you an unreadable stare.

“was told to drop this off here.” toji spoke. he held out a small wired basket with two glass jars of white liquid, seeming to be milk. maybe it had been your fuzzy, half-awake mind, and what little thoughts were up there, but you couldn’t recall a time where you had placed an order for some strange fluid.

was it a thing the neighborhood would do every once in a while?

as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and gave the handsome stranger a soft pout, you spoke airily. “what’s in the jar, sir?”

his demeanor shifted into pure displeasure, not fancying the query your hollow brain came up with. it remained undoubtedly clear that he wasn’t the most amiable of folks.

“it’s milk, darling.”

“i didn’t order any milk, sorry.” that same pout remained on your lips as you shook your head for the milkman to end a seemingly quick conversation, but just as you were about to close the door back, the pressure of his strong hand against the wood made your attempt futile.

to your surprise, a miniscule smirk was evident on his scarred features. “no?” his narrowed eyes drank you in from the bottom up as if you were lemonade on a scorching summer’s day. those same eyes skillfully darting from the spill of your breasts in your little top, up to your pretty pursed lips and doe-like orbs.

anyone could tell from a mile away what type of girl you were — the type that toji devilishly enjoys.

it wasn’t often he was presented with a doll such as yourself. sure, he could pick the mind of others increasingly well, could tell just when someone was planning to set him up (like some sort of off-duty criminal) but with you, it was as though not a thought could be lodged behind vacant eyes. everything about you was pure, untainted.

he stepped closer toward you, his foot conveniently placed between the barrier between your home and the outside. “try it for yourself. it’s fresh, and organic.” as he spoke, the glint in his deep gray eyes had overturned into a sly darkness. and when you shook your head at his advance, he only scoffed, peering in closer until he fully stepped foot into your abode.

“oh, c’mon,” vexation laced his tone. “don’t make my job harder than it already is.”

his hauntingly large frame eclipsed yours, the sun casting a backlit shadow behind his silhouette, like something out of a 50’s horror film. at that moment, you were in no position to deny his simple request.

it was just milk, perhaps he wanted an honest review.

your eyes met his, and you swallowed thickly as you hoped that courage would fill the void in the pit of your stomach. “how much for a glass?” softly, your question floated in tense air. a smirk upticks on his face as he reaches into the basket, holding up the larger jar of the two settled in the basket.

“for you, it’s free of charge.”

maybe you should’ve questioned the insubstantial value, for nothing in this economy was truly ever free.

you take the bottle from him, popping open the lid and taking a sip. the unnerving feeling of greedy eyes caused goosebumps to form over your skin. the liquid certainly had a thicker texture to it, possibly an ode to its organic nature; and as you sipped and sipped, you failed to notice the drippage that rolled amply down the side of your mouth to your chest. toji, however, caught sight of it — because, of course he did.

after you had your sample size, you took a manicured thumb to glossy lips, wiping your bottom lip to collect the remnants before taking your tongue to your thumb to lick up the remains.

in that moment, you reminded him of a kitten, some meek animal vastly trusting of the others in its environment.

his smirk grew wider and he closed the door behind him as he stepped closer, now merely a few inches away from your figure. “oh, but miss,” his voice full with anything but a genuine concern for you, he traced his finger along the trail of milk that lingered at your chest. “you missed a spot.”

his sudden touch startled you in such a way that shifted your body to jolt once you felt his cool fingertips. that same motion forced you to completely forget about the open jar in your hand, accidentally spilling an even larger amount of milk all over yourself in the process.

drenched in the liquid, your top became practically see-through with only the sight of your pert nipples showing underneath. it's candy for the eye, toji’s at least.

“you gonna keep that on, princess? you’ll catch a cold.” his voice feigns concernment towards you, as if he pitied the pathetic state he put upon you. in that moment, sheepishness clouds your empty head, and if you could cower away, you would; but instead, you took him up on his suggestion, turning your back to him and doing away with the thin barrier.

“gimme a minute to change.” you shyly said as you looked back at him with a hand barely covering your chest.

how cute you were, so willing to invite a stranger into your home and even strip for him — were you always this welcoming?

before you could scuttle to your room, you felt a firm grip on your arm. toji, now clearly having fun with you, had given you a menacing smirk along with a tsk of his tongue. “you’re still all wet,” he turned you back around to face him in one swift motion. “let me clean you off.” his hand slowly trailed up your arm and to the swell of your breasts where he cupped one in his large, calloused palm. the feeling of his rough fingertips over your bare skin caused you to break out in a shudder. “s-sir, i don’t think..”

he shushed you the moment his thumb rolled over your hard nipple, milk still dripping down your skin. with one hand, he pulled you in tight by your waist, and with the other, he aided himself in wrapping his lips around your nipple. you could only describe his touch as hungry, rough as if the opportunity to take advantage of your vulnerability would slip away into thin air. he locked steel grey eyes with you as he did so. once he got his fill of toying with your sensitive mounds, he switched his sucking motions into little bites.

his deep groans and your soft whines filled the space instantaneously. he’d rotate from one breast to the other until he felt you growing weak in his hold, the squeeze of your thighs telling him everything he needed to know about your desire. and when he felt satisfied with the level at which he teased you, he unlatched.

it felt as if all air had rushed out of your system from the raspy whines you had let out during his ministrations. you took a moment to catch your breath and regain composure as he stood up tall to his original position.

oddly enough, comfortability grew within you, possibly the adrenaline of a handsome stranger feeding your mind with illicit thoughts. “am i all clean now?” your voice comes out shaky, feeble with lust, and as your eyes scanned his formidable appearance, down to the bulge that left his sheer size to anything but the imagination, you grew greedier.

“squeaky fucking clean.” his response comes off as a growl. “how about some real milk as a reward, sweetheart?”

you tilted your head, as a confused puppy would, looking up at him with spacey eyes. “real milk? i thought i was just drinking it?” he smiled at your perplexity, finding you too cute to let go. “that milk,” he pointed at the bottle you set on the counter beside you. “isn’t as organic as it claims. you need the real thing in ya.”

toji fumbles with his belt buckle, unfastening it until he could comfortably whip his cock out. you had never seen something so large, so girthy that it instilled a blend of fear and excitement within you. “on your knees, pretty thing.” he demanded. “gotta make sure my girl grows big and strong.”

you complied, obviously. when someone as sturdy as him tells you to do something, it’s only natural that you do it.

with your weight now rested on your knees, your job was easy. you wrapped a feeble hand around the base of his cock, mouth agape in bewilderment that he could barely fit in the cusp of your hand. toji let out a hiss under his breath once your hand began to diligently slide up and down his shaft. slick dribbled into the rapture of your enclosed fist from just how turned on he was. as you continued to teasingly pump him, your tongue darted to place gentle kitten licks paired with tender kisses to his angry tip. “you’re real confident now, aren’t ya?” he goads, though not necessarily in a mirthful manner.

a soft pout forms at your lips upon hearing his words, urging you to increase your pace by a minuscule amount. once you had gotten familiar with the monster in your palm, you wrapped your lips around the head, slowly inching yourself down his shaft until your nose met the unruly hairs of his pelvis. he was heavy in your jaw, a telltale sign that you’d end up with a strong ache that’d take days to soothe; and the throb of his length only led to the gush in your panties.

as you began to bob your head, toji threw his head back, large hands gripping at your jaw to keep you nice and puckered for him. the sensation of his plush tip bullying the back of your throat causes you to moan, a sound, and a feeling, that toji doesn't miss. you pick up your rhythm, but shortly after, toji starts up his; slamming his cock into your unexpecting mouth with no remorse.

rough ministrations urged you to gag until you came to ignore the feeling and focus on his pleasure, innocent and teary eyes showing through a wall of thick lashes up at him. what a cocky bastard.

“c’mon, you can take more, can’t ya?” he goads, his vocables resonating in a choppy cadence underneath the guise of his groans. “dontcha want milk?”

the mix of saliva and his precum trailed from your mouth as his heavy balls slammed against your chin. you took notice of how his vigorous pace faltered, signally an orgasm just seconds away.

one thrust. two thrust. three.

he’d managed to hold your face to his pelvis as he fucked through his orgasm, a deep groan bellowing through the air while he painted your throat in his seed.

what a liar. he didn’t taste anything like milk.

slowly, he pulls away and spurts the last few drops of cum onto your swollen lips, where he took much needed amusement in your starry eyed gaze.

your heavy pants were like music to his ears, something he wished he could etch into his memory for years to come.

“it’s all messy.” you mewled, licking at the seed that dripped to your lips. his hands were glacial as you felt them on your face while he leaned down to be eye level with you. “oh, i know. lemme take care of that.” he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, drinking in his own orgasm before taking you into a heated kiss.

it was a brief moment, so brief you were too lightheaded to even realize how he manhandled you into the perfect position — bent over to touch your toes.

he pulled away, roughly tugging at your little shorts until they pooled at your ankles. you felt him slide his cock over your panties just before pushing them to the side to line it up with your slit.

all toji wanted to do in that moment was slide right in, but he knew he couldn’t. you just weren’t wet enough to handle all of him. and besides, he definitely didn’t want to deal with a whining princess suggesting that it “doesn’t fit.”

instead, he slid his sensitive cock between your folds. “gotta get you nice ‘nd ready,” he spoke while reveling in the way that his tip catched at your poor, neglected clit. “feel flattered, i don’t do this for everybody.”

each slide jolted your body as the slightest tinge of pleasure coursed within you. it wasn’t enough to get you feeling close, no, but it was ample in gushing more slick from your hole.

“t-toji, sir, please..” you had let out a soft, vexed sigh at the lack of feeling, wiggling your hips to create friction in any type of way.

it reigned pointless, as most things did with toji. he was too busy focused on the sheen covering his cock from just toying with your angelcunt that whatever nonsense you were spouting was irrelevant to him. he continued his motions until the tightening of your core and fluttering of your pussy told him everything he needed to know.

satisfied with the level at which he teased you, he halted. just before you could fucking cum. you let out a frustrated whine that didn’t mean much to him, agitated by the loss of sensation.

in mere moments, he was pushing himself past your walls, stretching you out while your little cunt struggled to accommodate his size. “w-what if it doesn’t fit..?” you managed to babble out in your pathetic state.

oh, if your nosy neighbors knew that sweet little princess down the street was getting her cunt stretched out by the milkman, they would have a conniption.

toji smirked at your concern, ultimately brushing you off while continuing to urge himself even deeper. “let’s just make it fit then.”

the feeling of being stuffed full was unlike anything you’d experienced in the past. your past partners weren’t much to moan at, but toji? he had you grasping at any surface to give you leverage. as soon as he bottomed out, you could feel the tip rubbing so deliciously against the hollow of your cervix, the tinge of pain going unnoticed from how riddled with desire you were for him. with confirmation that he was fully inside, toji began to set a rough pace, strokes deep and firm enough to have you jolting forward with every thrust.

you scrambled to hold onto anything for dear life, afraid that your knees would grow weak and give out underneath your own weight. though, he kept his hands taut at your hips, only speeding up his potent thrusts to taunt you even more for your lack of stability.

fucked dumb within the first few seconds, drool dribbled past your lip, your eyes rolled into the back of your skull as you tried to take everything you were given.

with the intense way your walls were hugging around his cock, he couldn’t help but let out something of a deep, guttural groan. you had reached behind you to press a feeble hand to his abdomen, hoping it would ease his ministrations, yet your adorable action only caused the opposite.

he took your wrists in his one hand, pulling you up to hit deeper within your walls. “fuck! ‘s too d-deep!” you cried out, that familiar coil of pleasure tightening within your being, and to your dismay, he only held you closer against his chest, other hand gripping at your jaw while his cock milked your gspot for all it’s worth.

“too deep? this too deep for ya?” toji taunts. “i thought you knew how to take dick, you sure looked like it.”

his grip at your face only tighten an ounce more as he waited for whatever nonsense you could muster out.

“i-i can..! i c’n take it!”

only seconds later did your high come crashing down, sending your body into a flutter of shocks. a sensation so perfervid, it had your mind hazy while you creamed all over his cock.

following suit, in a bout of thrusts, toji was painting your insides with his warm wet seed, only pulling out once he felt you go limp in his hold.

“don’t tap out on me now, you haven’t even paid for the milk.”

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highdramas · 1 month ago

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a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”

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