#<- using that for these posts moving forward

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 15.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

a/n: was gonna post another sneak peek, but thought the entire chapter would be better :) as always, pls let me know of any typos

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

It’s a nice, warm morning. The sun’s out, there’s birds chirping, and a small breeze that feels lovely against the skin. And the best part of it all is that Hana called in sick today. Her now boyfriend, Naoya, reassured her everything would be alright and that he had an entire day planned out for just them two. Being taken care of by another person was a new feeling to Hana, one she hadn’t experienced since her last boyfriend. 

She’s never been with a rich man before. And she’s especially never been to an upscale golf course, wearing a tight, sleeveless top with an even tighter little skirt. Naoya is in his stance a few feet in front of her, club in hand as he readies his shot. She can’t help but feel slightly out of place.  

The brightness of the day feels almost surreal to Hana, like she’s stumbled into someone else’s life. The manicured grass stretches endlessly before her, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly cut greens, mixed with faint hints of expensive cologne, clings to the air. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, feeling self-conscious even though Naoya hadn’t once looked at her with anything less than approval since they arrived.

Naoya stands confidently, the sunlight catching the sleek fabric of his polo as he lines up his shot. His form is perfect, practiced—a natural at this, just like everything else in his life. He’s effortless in a way that makes Hana’s chest ache with something she can’t name. Admiration, maybe. Longing. Envy. She doesn’t know.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. The outfit he bought her might make her look the part, but internally, she feels worlds apart from the other women here. Women with polished nails, designer sunglasses, and easy smiles born from years of moving through places like this without a second thought. Hana crosses her arms, squinting against the sun. She watches Naoya swing, sending the ball sailing with a crisp, clean sound that echoes across the open course. He turns back toward her with a wide, satisfied smile, the cockiness in his expression unmistakable.

“You’re up, babe,” he calls out, motioning her forward.

Babe.

The word feels strange, too, curling around her heart like a new pair of shoes she hasn’t broken in yet. It’s sweet, almost nauseatingly so, and it makes her feel dizzy, like maybe she could get used to this if she let herself.

Gathering her nerves, she steps forward, clumsily taking the club he offers her. Their fingers brush, and Naoya chuckles under his breath, stepping closer to adjust her grip. His hands are warm, firm, guiding her in a way that’s both helpful and possessive.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear. “You’re too stiff. Golf’s supposed to be fun.”

Easy for you to say. Everything about today, about him, about this life, feels so far out of reach for someone like her. But she forces a smile, tightens her fingers around the club, and lets him guide her swing. Even if she feels completely out of place, there’s a small, stubborn part of her that wants to fit. To belong.

Maybe, if she fakes it long enough, she eventually will.

“Ah, so close,” Naoya sighs, watching the tiny white ball miss its hole, veering way off to the right. “You would think you’d be a little better after watching me all this time.”

“I—sorry.” She scratches the back of her neck. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her off, calling down the cart girl. Hana follows him as they approach the wide selection of cooled drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

“Hi, Naoya. What can I get for ‘ya today?” The blonde woman manning the cart asks, a smile on her pink lips. She tilts her head, regarding him with familiarity. 

Naoya barely spares her a glance, his attention more focused on the line of bottles glistening under the sun. “The usual,” he says smoothly, reaching for his wallet without hesitation.

The cart girl giggles, a light, practiced sound that makes Hana’s stomach twist ever so slightly. She’s seen that look before, the way the girl leans just a little closer than necessary, the way her hand lingers when she passes Naoya the drink. It’s casual. Too casual.

Hana steps back instinctively, feeling like she’s intruding on something she wasn’t invited to witness. She folds her arms loosely across her chest, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the sudden sourness in her mouth show on her face.

“You’re looking good today,” the cart girl adds with a wink, handing Naoya a cold can.

He finally looks at her, flashing a charming smirk, the same one Hana had thought was just for her. “Yeah? Must be the company.” He says it without thinking, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hana, almost like an afterthought.

The cart girl’s eyes follow his, her smile faltering for just a second when she realizes Hana’s standing there. Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, assessing, judging, maybe even pitying. Hana isn’t sure which would be worse.

Naoya tosses some cash onto the cart’s counter, far more than necessary for just a drink, and motions for Hana to follow him again. She does, but the small crack left behind by the encounter digs deep into her chest. As they climb back into his own golf cart, Naoya takes a swig of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t mind her,” he says casually, like he can sense her unease. “She flirts with everyone who’s got money. It’s nothing personal.”

Hana forces a small laugh, nodding like she believes him.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispers:

It’s not nothing to you, though.

And that’s what matters.

Naoya revs the cart up again, speeding toward the next hole, completely unaware—or maybe just uncaring of the way Hana sits a little stiffer beside him now, the sun suddenly feeling a little too hot on her skin.

“So,” he speaks up, causing Hana’s head to turn toward him. “You and bestie still not speaking?”

The mention of you causes her to stiffen, a frown forming on her lips. She scoffs. “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

“Shame, thought you said you guys were good friends.”

“We were, until she started changing when that…that asshole came in her life.” 

Naoya hums, stopping the cart at the next destination. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead letting the engine idle while he leans back lazily against the seat, his hand casually resting on the steering wheel. His eyes, however, are sharp and calculating as he watches Hana’s face carefully.

 “Guess that’s what money and status do to people, huh?” he says, a little too lightheartedly. “Especially when it’s someone like Satoru Gojo.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a slow, rhythmic beat. “Big name. Big wallet. Big ego.”

Hana huffs, crossing her arms and looking away toward the sprawling green of the course. “He ruined her,” she mutters bitterly. “She’s not the same person anymore. Everything’s about him now, about his life, his rules. Like she doesn’t even think for herself anymore.”

Naoya lets her words hang between them for a moment, pretending to be focused on something off in the distance. When he speaks again, his tone is almost lazy, casual almost. “You know…” he starts, drawing out the thought like it just occurred to him, “people like him… they don’t change for anyone. And they don’t really let anyone get close unless there’s something they can use.”

Hana furrows her brows, turning to look at him again.

Naoya catches her glance and shrugs innocently. “Just saying,” he continues. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught up in something way bigger than she realizes. Maybe even something that could end badly for her if she’s not careful.” He gives a small, knowing smirk, like he’s letting her in on some forbidden secret,  like he’s doing her a favor. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not mixed up in all that,” he adds smoothly. “But…” He trails off, feigning hesitation before flashing her a boyish grin. “You probably know more about what’s going on with them than anyone else, huh? Even if you’re not talking to her anymore.”

Hana shifts uncomfortably. She does know a lot, or at least, she used to.

And despite the way things ended between you two, there’s a bitter part of her that still wants to talk about it. Wants to air out the injustice she feels. Wants someone—anyone—to understand how wrong it all was. Naoya picks up on her hesitation immediately and presses just a little further, voice dropping to something more coaxing.

“Come on, Hana. You can trust me. You know I’m on your side.” He leans in slightly, eyes locking with hers, that charming smile never once faltering. “I’m just curious,” he murmurs, “about how deep she is with the Gojo group. About what Satoru’s really after. That’s all.”

He says it so sweetly, like it’s harmless. Like it’s just friendly concern. But beneath it all, Hana can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more riding on her answer than he’s letting on.

“I…I don’t know.” She admits, shrugging lightly. “I mean, they have a kid. I don’t see why else they’d still need to be close. She used to tell me when I first met her that she’d never go back to her ex, but that was before I knew who he was.”

Naoya listens intently, his expression carefully neutral, but his mind is already calculating the information. He nods slowly, leaning back slightly as if he’s processing her words, but really, he’s already piecing everything together. “Hm.” He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the cart. “I guess when you throw a kid into the mix, things change. But… I don’t know, Hana. That just sounds a little too clean, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “The way she acted before, all that ‘never going back’ talk… Do you really believe she’d just… forget about him, that easily? People like Satoru, they don’t let things go so easily. Not when they have so much to gain.”

He watches her closely, gauging her reaction to the way he phrases it.

“You sure she’s not just… saying that? Or maybe she’s in deeper than she lets on?”

Hana shifts slightly, clearly torn. She’s not sure if she should give him more, but something about the way Naoya talks makes her feel like he already knows more than she does, as if he’s playing her like a pawn and she’s too distracted by her anger to realize it. “I don’t know,” she says again, voice quieter this time, her uncertainty growing. “I mean, you’re right. I’m not sure. She told me everything was over, but she… she’s always been so secretive about him. Like there’s something she’s hiding. I don’t think it’s just the kid, you know? There’s more. But she wouldn’t talk about it.”

Naoya’s eyes glint with barely-contained satisfaction, his hand moving casually to pick up his drink from the cup holder. He takes a slow sip before speaking again, voice smooth and coaxing. “Right, that makes sense. There’s always something people like her hide. But…” He pauses, letting the words linger. “If you really want to help her—if you care about her at all—you should let me know what’s going on. People like Satoru don’t play fair, and your friend might be in way deeper than she thinks. I’m not trying to pressure you, but if you know anything that could help… It could keep her out of something she can’t get out of.”

The words are wrapped in a thin layer of concern, but the underlying message is clear: if she doesn’t give him more, he might just find another way to get it. Hana feels a slight shiver of unease crawling up her spine, but she doesn’t know why, not completely. Part of her still wants to trust Naoya, but the other part is beginning to feel like there’s something more to this conversation than meets the eye.

“So, what do you think?” Naoya presses, his smile gentle but determined. “Think you could tell me a little more? For her sake, of course.”

She racks her mind, biting at her lip in thought. Scratching her head. Pulled between two sides of wanting to keep her friend’s privacy, but also wanting to please the man who’s been giving her so much and more. Sure, he has his mistakes, but so does she. So does everyone. So do you. 

“I…I don’t know.” She mutters. 

Naoya’s smile falters, assessing her for a few silent seconds before humming and getting out of the cart. He stretches lazily, the sun casting a soft glow over his sharp features as he plants the club into the ground and leans on it. His stance is casual, almost careless, but Hana can feel the shift in his energy, a subtle coolness creeping into the air between them.

“That’s alright.” Naoya shrugs, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. “Take your time. Not like I’m in a rush.”

But his tone says otherwise, the underlying warning barely concealed. He straightens up, walking a few steps to the edge of the green, surveying the course as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a turn. Hana stays seated in the cart, her hands worrying the hem of her little skirt, heart thudding against her chest. She knows better. She knows she shouldn’t be entertaining this. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sharing anything about you. You were her friend first—her best friend.

But then she thinks about the nights Naoya spoils her with expensive dinners. About the shopping trips. The way he says she’s beautiful, special, that he sees something in her that no one else does.

Maybe it’s not so bad to share a little.

Maybe it’s just harmless.

And maybe… just maybe… you deserved a little karma anyway, after abandoning her.

She steps out of the cart, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path as she makes her way toward him. Naoya glances back, smiling a little, patient, expectant. “I…I really think it’s more of a custody thing. That’s just my speculation.”

Naoya lets out a small, amused hum, twirling the golf club between his fingers before planting it back down again, leaning into it with casual grace. “Custody, huh?” he echoes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Interesting.”

His words are light, but Hana can feel the weight behind them. The air shifts again, the easygoing summer breeze suddenly feeling less refreshing and more suffocating.

She nods quickly, as if to justify herself. “Y-Yeah. I mean… it makes sense, doesn’t it? They had a kid young. There’s probably no formal agreement. She hid him for years. She would always vent to me about stuff like her rent, paying for food, and clothes for Koji. Stuff like that.”

Naoya nods thoughtfully, the club tapping lightly against the grass as he watches the horizon. But Hana knows he’s really paying close attention to her every word. “Hm. Sounds like she didn’t have much support,” he muses casually. “Even though she had family money. Or… used to, right?”

Hana shifts uncomfortably, casting her eyes down at her feet. She shouldn’t be saying anything. She knows it. And yet—

“She doesn’t really… talk to her family anymore,” she mutters. “Or, I guess, they don’t talk to her.”

Naoya finally turns fully toward her now, the sun catching in his sharp eyes. He smiles, soft and indulgent, but Hana can sense the calculation behind it. “She sounds like someone who’s good at burning bridges,” he says lightly, almost jokingly. “Even the ones she might need later.”

Hana shrinks a little under the remark, guilt coiling in her stomach. Still, she doesn’t correct him. Maybe because some bitter part of her agrees. Or because it feels easier than defending someone who left her behind.

“You said she hid the kid for years?” Naoya presses, like he’s just casually connecting dots. “Why do you think she finally told him?”

Hana hesitates, nervously twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “She didn’t tell me how exactly he found out, either. But maybe she needed help? I mean… being a single mom is expensive. Maybe she got desperate. Or maybe he found out and forced her hand. I don’t know.”

Naoya’s smile widens a fraction, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Makes sense. Desperation’ll make people do funny things.” He straightens, brushing invisible dust off his tailored pants, the polished image of someone who already has everything he wants, or knows exactly how to get it.

Hana looks at him, feeling small and a little stupid under the weight of what she’s just admitted, but Naoya only chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You’re not betraying anyone. You’re just telling me what you already know.”

And Hana, desperately wanting to believe it, lets herself relax as Naoya pulls her closer, delivering a soft kiss to her cheek. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We can get some lunch, hit up the mall, buy something pretty for you. You like that?”

And Hana nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah, I like that.”

“I don’t know if I trust your parents picking Koji up.” 

Satoru glances at you as he finds a parking spot, brows knitting before he reverses back. “Why not? You’ll be in the interview and I have to run some stuff back ahh the office. They said they’d do it.”

Nerves fill your stomach, anxious about the interview you have with Carlisle & Harlow. Wearing your most sophisticated, fitted black button-up with the same color slacks to go with it. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm yourself as you straighten the collar of your shirt. The sharp black fabric feels comforting against your skin, almost like armor, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in your chest. The weight of the interview looming over you is enough to make everything feel more intense. “I know you trust them, but I don’t think I’m ready to put Koji in their care. I don’t trust them, not after everything.” You glance out the window. “What if something happens and I’m not there? What if they treat him differently… like they treated me?” Your voice quivers slightly, betraying the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

He parks the car, turning to look at you. “Hey,” he gently speaks, gaining your attention. “I know it’s hard. You have every right to trust them. Hell, sometimes I don’t. But I’ve talked with them, okay? And I promise you—I promise—that nothing bad will happen to Koji. I’ll protect him and you with all I can. And I’ll be damned if my parents have something to say about it.”

Your breath hitches slightly as you hold his gaze, his eyes a mixture of reassurance and determination. The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. “You say that now, but you’ve never been in my shoes,” you murmur, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to choose how they treated me. And if they treat him the same way, I… I can’t handle that. Not again. Not with Koji.”

Satoru sighs, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering between you and the parking lot outside. “I get it. I do. But you can’t shield him from everything. You’re not alone in this anymore.” He leans in, placing a hand over yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding. “You’ve been carrying this weight by yourself for too long. Let me help you carry it.”

You swallow hard, the uncertainty and fear bubbling up inside you. “It's just…it’s hard. Letting go, trusting people—especially them—it’s not easy for me.”

He nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I get it. You’ve had a lot of time to build walls around yourself. But this… this is different. Koji deserves a chance at family, at love. And that means we need to trust, even if it’s hard. Not just for us, but for him.”

You look at him again, his expression serious yet tender, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter. He’s not asking you to forget what happened or pretend everything’s okay. He’s just asking you to trust him.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you finally allow yourself to soften just a little. “But if anything goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Satoru’s smile is small but full of warmth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve got your back. Always.” He leans in, as if about to press a kiss to your forehead before you turn to the door. 

You awkwardly clear your throat, grab your purse, and ignore the urge to look back at his face. “Right. I—I’m going to go in now. Good luck at work. Your parents have my number, right? They’ll text us if anything happens?”

A hand scrubs over his neck, settling back in his seat. “Um…yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll take the bus back.”

“Are you su—”

“Thank you for driving me, bye now.”

You close the door before hearing what he has to say next. Forcibly brushing off this weird limbo you two are in, and instead, focusing on the now. This interview. Yourself. Your future. That’s what matters most. It’s a tall building situated within the nicer, more metropolitan area of Tokyo. One you’re still finding yourself getting used to. You don’t miss your shitty neighborhood, you won’t. But there’s still a small voice inside your mind that tells you this kind of environment, just living a city life, is not for you. Maybe one day, you can own a piece of property out in butt-fuck nowhere. Some cows, maybe chickens, and at least one chestnut horse. Ah, the thought is a nice one. If all goes well with this gig, that future may actually be a possibility. 

Entering the lobby, important-looking people pass by. Some on the phone, discussing whatever deals are on the line, others rushing about, seemingly in a hurry to get from one place to the next. It’s a little chaotic, if you’re being honest. But why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s dressed to impress, you can tell by the pristine, dark fabric of one guy’s suit. There’s a receptionist desk further down; that’s where you head. Straightening up and dusting off the imaginary particles on your shoulder, you make your way over. A subtle confidence is what you try to exude, smiling politely at the younger woman seated behind the desk. “Hi, excuse me?”

“One moment, please.” She holds a single finger up, talking on the phone while simultaneously clicking away at something on her monitor. 

You nod quickly, stepping back just a bit to give her space, hands smoothing down your slacks as you glance around the lobby again—more a reflex than anything else. The walls are glass and concrete, modern and intimidating, and the clean, minimalist aesthetic makes you feel a little out of place no matter how well you dressed today. Still, you keep your chin up.

The receptionist finishes her call a moment later, setting the phone down with a practiced smile. “Hi there, sorry about that. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you reply, clearing your throat gently. “I’m here for an interview with Ms. Carlisle at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, Ms. Carlisle hasn’t come into the office yet.” The receptionist replies, head tilting. “Are you sure your interview with her was today?”

Your expression dampens slightly, hands fiddling. “Oh, um…yes, I’m sure. She said today.”

“Hmm, well that’s interesting.” Once again, the receptionist clicks and scrolls away on her monitor for a few seconds. You almost begin to think it’s a sign from the universe that it was all too good to be true, that maybe Evelyn even forgot she scheduled a meeting with you today in the first place. You’re about to lose all hope, but the girl speaks up again. “Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for her in her office. She’s up on the last floor. Once you’re out of the elevators, take a right, then another right, then a left, keep walking down, and you’ll see it. It’s not hard to miss.”

You thank her with a polite nod, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach as you step toward the elevators. Maybe it was just a simple scheduling mix-up, or maybe this is what it’s like working in a place where everyone’s too busy to worry about being on time. Either way, you’re here now—and you’ll wait if you have to. You're not about to let something like this shake you. The elevator dings open with a soft chime, sleek and metallic inside, and you press the button for the top floor, which is the twenty-first. As the doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp collar, clean lines, confident-enough face—and you give yourself the smallest of nods. You can do this. 

The ride up is smooth and quiet, faced with the beautiful skyline of a bright Tokyo morning. When the doors finally slide open, you’re met with the hushed luxury of the executive floor. It’s quieter up here—less of the bustling chaos from the lobby. The air feels cooler, more sterile, with plush carpeting and abstract art lining the walls. Probably the higher up you go, the more important the people are, and the more hushed it is. 

Following the receptionist’s directions, you navigate the hallway, counting your turns. Right. Another right. Then left. And just like she said, there it is—Carlisle etched on the frosted glass door in neat serif lettering. It’s large, imposing, and framed by dark wood with a gold handle that gleams faintly in the soft overhead lighting. You pause just before reaching for it, taking another deep breath to center yourself.

This interview could change everything. Not just your job. Not just your income. But your whole future.

You knock twice, then slowly push the door open.

No one is inside, as you expected, but it still felt respectful enough to knock. There’s a dark mahogany desk in the center, a reclining seat behind it, with two chairs on the opposite side. Two monitors with a landline and piles of paperwork stacked on top. To the right is a plush, black leather couch. The walls have some paintings, you could only assume cost way too much for such simplicity. Carefully, you walk inside, plopping down onto one of the two chairs. Hands folded in your lap as the silence envelopes you, head swivelling around as you continue to take in the atmosphere. It’s not too large of an office, but still bigger than your normal supervisor's one. You almost question how similar this one looks to someone like Satoru’s, someone who has a high ranking in such a noteworthy company. Not that you’ve ever seen his. 

Boredom begins to strike as you wait for her to arrive. You check your watch. 8:36. If there’s one thing you hate most in your life, it’s late people. Your finger taps against your knuckles, your foot against the floor as time ticks. When you glance at Evelyn’s desk again, you notice that she has a framed picture. It’s the only thing on her mess of a desk that seems like a personal artifact. You lean closer in your seat, head tilting to the side and just barely nudging the frame so you can have a better look.

One more month until we meet you, Baby Jeanie. 

Evelyn is wearing a white dress, with a very obvious bump beneath it. Beside her stands her late husband, Noah Harlow, his blonde hair reflecting the sunlight. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and each of their hands is placed on top of the life they’ve created. Genuine smiles painted their faces. He’s wearing a clean, tan button-up, with light slacks to match. The day looks perfect, the picture beautifully representing what it must’ve felt like for the expecting couple. A small twist forms at your heart, lip curving down. 

“Three years today.”

You jolt with a gasp, quickly settling back in your seat, forcing your slouched position away. 

Evelyn’s voice is calm but laced with a grief you recognize immediately. Her heels click softly against the floor as she walks into the office, setting her bag down on the desk with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at the photo—she doesn’t have to. Her gaze is distant, almost unreadable, but you see the heaviness behind her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, flustered, guilt blooming in your chest as you sit up straighter, “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just—”

She lifts a hand, gently waving it off. “It’s alright.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “I keep it there because I want people to see it. It reminds me why I do what I do.” A pause. “And who I’ve done it for.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. Your fingers nervously clutch the edge of your slacks.

Evelyn takes her seat behind the desk and leans back in her chair, studying you with sharp, blue, observant eyes that don’t quite match the soft sorrow of her earlier tone. She taps the edge of her keyboard before finally breaking the silence again. “You’re early. I like that.”

“I—I wasn’t sure about traffic,” you manage, forcing a small, professional smile. “Figured it’s better than being late.”

“Smart. And rare,” she replies, and though her tone is cool, there’s something vaguely warm beneath it. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

She flips open a leather-bound folder, scanning your resume briefly. You can feel the shift—how she seems to pull herself together quickly, brushing her personal grief behind some invisible barrier to focus on the task at hand. “You did bring your resume, correct?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” You nod, reaching down to pull a folder out of your purse. You open it and hand her a straight, white sheet of paper stapled together. “

She takes it, head tilting as she analyzes it quietly. She hums. “Quite a lengthy list of employment.”

“I’ve been working since I was barely a teenager,” you nod. 

Evelyn doesn’t look up at first, eyes scanning the page with the kind of thorough attention that makes your pulse tick faster in your throat. Her fingers rest at the corner of the paper, unmoving, like she’s weighing something much heavier than a resume. Finally, she speaks again.

“And not a single job lasted more than…ten months.” Her gaze lifts, sharp and assessing. “Why is that?”

You hesitate, the air suddenly feeling too thick in your lungs. There it is—that dreaded question. Not unexpected, but still difficult to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re making excuses. You fold your hands in your lap, straighten your spine once more, and meet her eyes. “Most of them were out of necessity,” you say honestly. “Temporary work, short-term contracts, jobs I took to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t about building a career at the time. It was survival.”

There’s a pause. Evelyn leans back slightly, arms folding across her chest. She watches you in silence for a moment longer before her tone softens—just a fraction.

“And now?”

Your throat feels tight, but you manage to hold steady. “Now, I’m not just trying to survive anymore. I want something stable. I want something I can grow in, something that’s mine. For me. And for my son. I want us both to have security.”

Evelyn’s brow twitches faintly at the mention of your child, though she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sets your resume down and steeples her fingers. The grief you saw earlier remains behind her eyes, like a shadow, but something shifts. “You’re not the most qualified person on paper,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve made decisions from instinct before—and they’ve served me well.”

Another pause.

“Tell me why I should take that chance on you.”

You falter a bit, and a part of you almost blurts out, Well, you came up to me at my job, you sought me out, but you hold it back. “Well, I’m a very…hard worker. I’m passionate, and I’m very dependable. I believe that I have a lot of years' worth of experience, and  I can be a great addition to this company. I’ve never been a personal secretary before, but I’m diligent, I’m…great at conflict management. And I get my work done.”

“You and…many other people, Y/N.” She murmurs, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other. “Give me more. What makes you stand out?”

God, you hate questions like these. You rack your brain for a bit, coming up with the most generic answer. “I’m a very determined person. I’m adaptable.”

“And that makes you, what?”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is pointed, like she’s testing you, pushing to see if there’s anything beyond the surface. And maybe she has every right to. This is the kind of job people fight for, the kind you don’t just walk into from a string of restaurant gigs and hourly jobs. But you’ve fought too hard to shrink now. So, you breathe in, let your shoulders settle, and drop the polite, rehearsed version of yourself.

“It makes me someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard,” you say, voice calmer now, more grounded. “Someone who keeps showing up. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve worked through grief, through debt, through raising a child by myself. And I still found a way to keep going. I may not have a polished resume, and I might not look perfect on paper, but I learn fast, and I don’t need hand-holding. You won’t have to babysit me. I can take a hit and keep moving.”

Your voice quiets, but your gaze stays steady on hers.

“I know what it means to build from nothing. And I’m not afraid to start again, even here.”

The silence that follows is thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Evelyn studies you with a different kind of stillness now. Not dismissive. Not uninterested. Just…watching. Measuring. Then, she speaks. “How old is your child?”

“He’s five now.”

“Going to school?”

“He is.”

Evelyn nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regards you with something unreadable—less like an employer sizing up a candidate, and more like a woman pulling apart a story that hits too close to home. “You’ll have to leave early sometimes. Sick days. School closures. Emergencies.” Her voice is even, neutral.

You nod. “I try to plan for those things ahead of time. But yes, sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, but not unkindly, with intent. “Being a personal secretary isn’t just phones and calendars. It’s long hours. Emotional labor. You’ll be expected to run interference, manage people’s moods, anticipate needs before they’re spoken. My assistant before you quit because the pressure bled into her marriage.”

She lets that sink in. Not as a threat, but as a truth.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just telling you—you’ll be expected to carry a lot. Are you ready for that, Y/N? Not just for the job. But for what it takes from you?”

Your lips purse, fingers curling into your palms. Every question from her feels like a test. A reminder that this job, although presented to you, is not one for the weak. Well, luckily for you, you’re not married like the last girl. And, unluckily for Eveleyn, she may wish you were. 

You huff a small breath through your nostrils before speaking with conviction. “I’m ready. I’ve made the necessary steps to get to where I am for my son and for me. I can push and push, and I can take just as much. I…I have more to fight for now.”

Evelyn’s eyes flicker slightly, just a subtle change in the way she regards you, but it’s enough to let you know she heard you. She shifts in her seat, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. There’s a glimmer of something—approval or maybe just curiosity—as she leans forward just enough to study you. “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer now, less challenging. “You’re driven. That’s clear.”

You meet her gaze, holding it steady, feeling the weight of her scrutiny but refusing to flinch. This interview, this moment, it feels like one more battle you’ve got to win, and you’re determined to prove that you're capable of fighting for what you want, even if it’s a battle she doesn't yet fully understand. She taps her pen lightly against her desk, contemplating. “Alright, Y/N. I’ll be honest. I’ve had my doubts about taking on someone with little experience in this specific role. But you’ve shown me something I wasn’t expecting. I’ll need to run this by my team, but you’ll hear back from me soon. If all goes well, I’ll put you through a trial month. That’s all I can promise for now.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. The worst of it is over. Or so you hope. “Thank you,” you say, standing up with a calmness you didn’t feel five minutes ago. You offer her a polite smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Evelyn gives you a small nod, standing as well. “Good luck, Y/N. I think you’ll need it.”

As you leave the office, your heart is still racing, but now it’s not from nerves. It’s from knowing you’ve fought for this. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough. A smile makes its way onto your face. That wasn’t half bad and not nearly as long as you thought it would be. Of course, you would’ve loved to have been hired on the spot, but it makes sense that she needs to consult first. 

Still, it wasn’t rejection. 

You lightly chuckle, turning one of the first corners, when suddenly, you collide with someone. You gasp, stumbling back a little before catching your footing. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. That was an accident.” 

Locking eyes with the person you’ve just come into contact with, you see it’s an older man. His grey hair is styled sleekly back, with hints of crows feet around the outer edges of his hazel eyes. He’s dressed like every other man here. Nice, fancy, pristine. He dusts off his right shoulder, straightening his blazer out. “Don’t worry, simple mistake.” His voice is clean and smooth, slightly rough at the edges, which makes it obvious he was or still is a smoker.

You quickly step back, feeling a slight wave of embarrassment. The man’s eyes soften as he gives a short hum. “It happens.” He gestures to the hallway behind him with a brief nod. You step aside, offering another apology. His eyes just very briefly scan you up and down, lingering on a couple of features of your face, specifically your nose and eyebrows, before transferring quickly to your ears. 

“Have a nice day,” you mutter awkwardly. 

“Mhm,” is all he says before walking past you. Once he’s gone, your body feels lighter, as if this stranger’s presence made you all wacky from the inside. You cast a small look around the corner, making it just in time to notice Evelyn’s door closing with a click.

You swallow, shaking off the lingering feeling that man left behind. His presence, the way his eyes skimmed over you, there was something strange about it, but you can’t put your finger on what. You chalk it up to nerves from the interview and move on. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, right? Besides, it’s Evelyn’s opinion that matters now. You keep walking, feeling that mix of relief and uncertainty creeping back into your chest. It’s a good thing the interview went well, but the weight of waiting for a callback still lingers heavily. As you approach the elevator, you check your phone, noticing a message from Satoru.

Satoru: "How’d it go?"

You smile a little, despite everything. You type out a quick reply:

You: "Better than I expected. No decision yet, but I didn’t bomb it."

You hit send, stepping into the elevator, your mind still buzzing. A moment later, the door closes, and the hum of the elevator fills the silence. You rest against the metal wall, letting your thoughts wander back to the interview, to what could come next.

It could be the start of something bigger.

“My, this…neighborhood,” Akane comments, laced with disgust. Her face wrinkles slightly at the trash that leaks out of the garbage can, obviously not being taken care of, the sketchy-looking liquor stores that seem too close together, but must be an alcoholic’s dream. The car stops at the elementary school, she looks over at her husband. “Are you sure this is the boy’s school?”

“That’s what the damn GPS is telling me. That’s what Satoru said.” Yamato huffs, grabbing his phone, pointer finger jabbing at the bright screen, and pulling down the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. 

Akane sighs, straightening out her dress. 

“C’mon, Satoru said his class should have already been let out, let’s go find the room.” Yamato pushes his hair back, sighing as he gets out his Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Rounding the car to open the passenger door for his wife. They link hands and head toward the front doors of Koji’s school. 

“I hope we don’t get mugged,” Akane mutters under her breath. 

“Oh, quiet. We’re only here for the kid.” Yamato easily replies, eyes rolling. 

The inside of the school isn’t much better. The walls are faded, bulletin boards cluttered with crumpled flyers, hand-drawn posters, and outdated announcements. The linoleum under their feet squeaks with every step, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Akane grimaces as a child runs past them with a juice-stained shirt, followed by another with untied shoes and an uncovered sneeze.

“This place smells like glue and poverty,” she mutters, pulling her handbag closer to her side.

Yamato doesn’t respond this time. He’s focused on the numbers above each door, squinting until they finally stop in front of Room 2B. Children’s laughter and the low hum of a teacher’s voice filter through the door. Akane frowns, eyes narrowing at the chipped paint on the doorframe.

Yamato raises his hand to knock, hesitates for a moment, and then glances at his wife. “Just…behave, alright?”

“I always do,” Akane answers with a sugary edge, smoothing her hair back and lifting her chin as he knocks.

The noise inside dips for a second as a voice— the teacher’s—calls out, “Come in!”

And just like that, the Gojo parents step into a room that’s far too small, far too loud, and far too beneath them—only, they’re not here for any of that.

They’re here for Koji.

Yamato presents a small smile. “Hello, we’re here for our…” grandson? Should he say grandson? Technically, he is, but it doesn’t really feel that way. “Koji. We’re his grandparents.”

“Ah! Right!” The teacher, an older lady with brown hair and a stained apron, nods. “His mother said he would be getting picked up by you two.” She turns her head over her shoulder, and the other kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet either. “Koji! Your grandparents are here, come get your backpack and jacket.”

Koji looks up from the little table where he’s been coloring with a few other kids. Crayons clatter as he quickly slides out of his chair, eyes wide and uncertain as he stares at the unfamiliar older couple standing at the door. He doesn’t move right away. His teacher encourages him with a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay, sweetie, go on.”

He walks slowly, dragging his feet just a little as he clutches his drawing in one hand. When he reaches them, he stops just a few feet away, looking up. His face is unreadable—neither shy nor excited, just…quiet. Observing. His blue eyes flick from Yamato’s trimmed goatee to Akane’s sharp heels.

A slightly awkward affair as the three leave the room, his teacher ensuring to tell Yamato to tell Koji’s mother about his homework left in his backpack. He nods, hand hesitantly hovering above the boy’s small shoulder as they walk back down the hallway. Yamato and Akane share a knowing, quiet glance. 

Once they get outside, Akane clears her throat, looking down at Koji. “Koji, do you remember us?”

“Um…only a little bit,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck as he mentally recounts the day he first saw the two who call themselves his grandparents. Luckily, you and Satoru were with him that day, but now he’s all alone. 

They get to the car, with Yamato opening the backseat. Koji’s eyes widened slightly in awe at the sleek, black car presented in front of him. “Papa’s car is cool too…” he offhandedly comments. 

Akane arches a brow. “I’m sure it is,” she replies curtly, helping him into the car with a practiced grace that still feels stiff, unfamiliar. Koji slides into his booster seat, hands lightly grazing the armrest before clutching his backpack in his lap. Yamato shuts the door and exchanges another glance with his wife before circling back to the driver’s side. The moment he starts the engine, the car hums to life with silent power, and for a while, none of them speak.

Koji, ever perceptive, clutches his drawing a little tighter.

Akane breaks the silence first. “So… what were you drawing back there?”

Koji hesitates. “Me and Mama. At the park.”

“Hmm,” she hums, gaze forward. “No Papa?”

Koji’s lips press together. “He wasn’t there that day.”

Yamato’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. Akane doesn’t respond, but the weight of her silence is as cutting as her tone. After a few more seconds, Yamato clears his throat, glancing at Koji through the rearview mirror. “We were thinking we could take you out for something to eat. Anywhere you like.”

Koji blinks. “Like… McDonald’s?”

Akane’s lips curl into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “If that’s what you want.”

“Can I get a toy?” Koji asks, almost hopefully now.

“Yes,” Yamato answers, firm but not unkind. “You can get whatever you want.”

There’s a beat of calm. Then, very softly, Koji says, “Mama doesn’t have a car like this.”

Yamato exhales quietly. “I know.”

Akane folds her hands in her lap, casting a sideways glance out the window. “That’s why we’re here.”

The ride to McDonald’s isn’t as painfully quiet. Yamato turns the radio on, volume in the middle. Koji swings his legs back and forth, looking out the tinted window as the streets blur past him. His head tilts when they pass the McDonald’s. “We missed McDonald’s,” he says, looking at the older couple with a confused gaze. 

Yamato meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror momentarily. “There’s another McDonald’s closer to our house.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to your house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why not my house?”

God, he forgot just how questioning children are. Akane answers this time. “Because your mother and father will meet us there later. Until then, you’ll stay at our house.”

Koji is silent for a minute, processing the information. He looks down at his drawing, hands smoothing out the paper. “Is your house big?” He questions. 

Akane gives a soft hum, like she’s debating how much to say. “Yes. It’s quite big. There’s a garden and a fountain in the front. We have a piano, too.”

“A piano?” Koji repeats, eyes lighting up just a bit as he looks up from his drawing. “Do you play it?”

“I used to,” she replies, her voice a little softer now. “Maybe I’ll show you.”

Yamato glances at her, surprised by the gentle tone, but doesn’t comment. He switches lanes with ease, and they pass through the quiet, wealthier side of the city. The roads get smoother. Cleaner. Koji notices the change, too.

“Are there kids in your neighborhood?”

“A few,” Yamato answers. “Most are older, though. Teenagers.”

“Oh.” Koji pauses again, then looks back out the window. “Mama says big houses get quiet.”

Akane’s lips press together tightly. “That’s true. But sometimes quiet can be peaceful.”

Koji doesn’t respond. He just tucks his drawing back into his backpack and rests his chin in his hand, blinking slowly at the soft-spoken world outside the window—one that doesn’t look like his. One that doesn’t feel like his. 

Yamato parks in the McDonald’s parking lot, unbuckling. Akane and Koji do the same, waiting for the man to open their doors. Koji hops out as Akane does. Koji, ever excited, begins to briskly walk to the front doors of his favorite place. Yamato and Akane’s eyes widen, quickly following. 

Akane’s hand awkwardly juts out, as if she’s about to grab his hand, before stopping. She instead clears her throat. “Walk slower, now.”

Koji slows down, glancing up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scuffing his shoes against the concrete as he adjusts his pace. He waits beside her, though there’s a slight fidget in his steps. He’s not used to slowing down for anyone but his mom.

Inside, the McDonald’s smells like fries and melted cheese. A kid screams with glee somewhere near the play area, and Koji visibly relaxes at the familiar chaos. Yamato leads them to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager takes their order. Koji clutches the edge of the counter, peering up as he declares confidently, “I want a Happy Meal. With the dinosaur toy. And apple slices, not fries. And orange soda!”

Yamato raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Happy Meal. Dinosaur toy. Apple slices. Orange soda,” he repeats to the cashier, who nods with a shrug.

Akane watches Koji from the side, eyes tracing how easily he fits here—how his energy might be too big for their cold, cavernous home. She adjusts the pearl bracelet on her wrist, a little unsettled. 

Once they get the food, they sit at a clean booth near the window. Yamato and Akane both sit across from Koji. Koji munches on his food contentedly, his legs swinging again. He pulls the toy from the box, a green triceratops, and sets it beside his apple slices. “He looks mad,” he says, turning it toward them.

Yamato checks his watch. “Maybe he doesn’t like apple slices.”

Koji giggles slightly at the dry humor of his grandfather. Yamato clears his throat, looking up and leaning back in the booth. The older couple watch in quietness as Koji happily devours his food, occasionally stopping to move his toy dinosaur and mimic a small roar. 

It’s strange for them. They’re grandparents, and yet they know close to nothing about this boy. All that they do is he’s a carbon copy of their son, but his mannerisms closely match yours. 

Akane finds herself watching Koji more than she eats. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, just like you do when you’re distracted. His laughter comes in bursts, quick and bright, like a firecracker going off in a still room. And when he talks about his toy, he looks up at them with expectant eyes, seeking some kind of shared interest neither of them really knows how to give yet.

Yamato studies him too, arms crossed now, food half-finished. The boy’s smart. He doesn’t fidget aimlessly; he thinks before he speaks. He absorbs everything. Just like Satoru did. Maybe more.

Koji finishes his apple slices, downs the rest of his orange soda, and then sits back and smiles at them. “Do you have toys at your house?”

“No,” Akane answers honestly. “But we can get some.”

“Cool,” he says, simple and trusting. “Papa gets me a lot of toys.”

Akane hums lowly. “Do you like your toys?”

“I do!” He chews on his last chicken nugget. 

“What’s your favorite toy?” She asks, arms on the table as she leans forward. 

Koji doesn’t answer right away. He swallows his food, then looks up at her with that same wide-eyed honesty he always has when asked something serious. His fingers toy with the edge of the Happy Meal box. “I like my robot dog,” he finally says. “Papa gave it to me when I was sick. He said it could bark and dance, but it only spins in circles now. I think I broke it.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But I still like it.”

Akane tilts her head slightly, a quiet softness tugging at her features. “Even though it doesn’t work right?”

Koji shrugs. “Yeah. Because Papa said it’s mine. So it’s special.”

She studies him—how simple his logic is. How unwavering his sense of loyalty already seems to be. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the edge of the table. “I see,” she murmurs. “That makes sense.”

Yamato glances at her, then down at his phone.

Koji sits up straighter. “Do you have toys from when you were little?”

Akane chuckles under her breath, caught off guard. “Not anymore. I didn’t keep many things.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “I guess I didn’t think I’d need them.”

Koji stares at her for a second, then looks at his dinosaur toy. “You can have this one if you want,” he offers, sliding it across the table toward her. “So you have a toy again.”

Akane freezes.

Even Yamato lifts his eyes from his phone, blinking in surprise.

“O-oh, well, um—” she clears her throat, hesitantly taking the toy in her hand. “Well…that’s very…nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mama says sharing is caring.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Akane’s eyebrow lifts. Seems you’ve taught your boy some good manners. At least. 

She turns the toy over in her hands, the little green dinosaur staring back at her with its molded plastic scowl. Something in her expression softens further, an unspoken crack in her perfectly composed exterior. It’s clear she hasn’t been offered something so small yet so sincere in a very long time.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I’ll take very good care of him.”

Koji beams, nodding. “Good. He doesn’t like being alone.”

Akane offers a small, almost reluctant smile. “Neither do I.”

Yamato watches quietly, lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows—not because of disapproval, but something closer to discomfort. Like watching something unfamiliar begin to unfold in front of him. Just then, Koji reaches for his drink, slurping the last of his orange soda loudly. He sighs, satisfied, then stretches his arms out wide. “When are Mama and Papa coming?”

Akane and Yamato share a quick look. She reaches for her clutch, already checking her phone. 

“They’ll meet us back at the house later,” Yamato says, standing up slowly. “Let’s get going before traffic gets bad.”

Koji jumps to his feet with a little bounce. “Okay!”

Akane hesitates just a moment longer, placing the dinosaur into her purse beside her wallet and keys, treating it more carefully than she expected she would.

The entire bus ride to your ex’s parents’ house was spent in utter anxiety. You fiddle with your hands, foot tapping, and looking out the window. You haven’t seen them since that one day a couple of months back. You wish things were just easy enough so that you could have at least a semblance of a relationship with them. Especially if this co-parenting works out, it’s going to be inevitable you’ll be seeing them. You sigh, head resting back against your seat, eyes closing. 

.

.

.

.

“Satoru not bringing you food anymore?”

You gasp and jolt, whirling around quickly. The kitchen light flips on, caught right in the act of stealing a couple of pastries from the pantry, as well as a carton of orange juice. 

Akane stands in a nightgown, arms crossed, with a strong expression. Her eyes move up and down your figure, scoffing audibly. Her chin tilts up, silently commanding you to explain yourself. 

You swallow the current food in your mouth, wiping it with your hand. “I…um…I—well, I can explain.”

“Explain?” She steps forward. “Explain why my son’s good-for-nothing girlfriend has not only been staying in our guesthouse, but stealing our food? Go on, then. Explain.”

Her belittling tone makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. God damn it, Satoru. Where the hell are you?! “I…um…there’s—there’s just some stuff going on at home. Satoru said I could stay here until things clear up.”

“And he didn’t even bother to tell me or his father.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to over—”

“Why are you here?”

“I—I needed a place to stay. I’m sorry. I won’t be here for long.”

Akane stares at you for a long, unbearable second. Her jaw clenches. You can tell she’s holding back something sharp. Maybe it’s restraint, or maybe it’s just another judgment she wants to hurl your way. “I should’ve known,” she says quietly. “Satoru always did have a soft spot for broken things.”

That one stings more than you’d like to admit. Your throat tightens. You look down, ashamed, both hands still wrapped around the cold carton of juice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” you whisper. “I just needed a couple weeks. That’s all.”

Akane stares you down in silence for what feels like a full minute. The ticking clock above the stove echoes between you, and your heart hammers louder with each passing second. Her eyes narrow, not with confusion, but calculation. “Let me guess,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “You got into a fight with your mother again. Or maybe Satoru ran his mouth and scared you off?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then tell me. Because all I see is a girl too proud to ask for help and too stupid to leave when she should’ve.” Her arms drop, but her words are no less harsh. “You’ve been sneaking around this house like a rodent. Do you know how humiliating it is to find out from the housekeeper that someone’s been using the shower and leaving dishes in the sink?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can feel your throat tighten.

Akane sighs—long, exhausted, and judgmental. “You girls think just because someone like Satoru gives you attention, you’ve made it. But you don’t know the first thing about surviving in this family.”

Your knuckles whiten around the orange juice. The ache in your chest is unbearable, but you force yourself to speak. “I didn’t ask to be here. Satoru said it wouldn’t be permanent. He’s helping me. And I’ve been trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“You failed.” Her reply is quick and cutting. “Do you know how hard his father and I work to keep his name clean? To keep distractions away while he was studying, preparing to inherit everything? And now look at him—sneaking you in like a dirty secret.”

The word “distraction” lingers in the air like poison. You blink rapidly, biting your tongue until you taste metal. “I’m not trying to ruin his life.”

Akane steps closer now. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t need to. “Then leave before you do.”

Akane snatches the food and juice from your arms, giving you a brief jut of her chin. “Go back into the guesthouse. I’m not dealing with you anymore tonight.”

You blink, holding back tears. Wordlessly, you bite your lip, turn on your heel, and exit through the back door into the cool night air. Tears sting your eyes as you enter the guesthouse, closing the door with a shut before making your way to the bed. 

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, still in the dark, clutching the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. The burn in your throat won’t ease, no matter how hard you swallow. You press your palms to your eyes, trying not to let the sob crawl out of you.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know.

You repeat this tiny mantra to yourself, willing your brain not to go into overdrive for what will be the millionth time this week. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru promised. He said they wouldn’t even have to know you were here. Just a few weeks, just until you guys figured out what to do, until you started feeling better, until you could afford that studio apartment in Setagaya. But it’s already been four nights since you found out, and you’re still waking up at three in the morning, stomach twisted in knots, half from nausea and half from sorrow. 

And he still hasn’t answered your texts. 

.

.

.

.

You stir awake from your small nap as the bus gets to your stop, rubbing your eyes and getting off. His parents’ place shouldn’t be too far from here, if memory serves you right. You sigh and begin walking, just trying to think about being able to see your little boy in a little bit, not come face to face with them. 

You hug your coat tighter around you as you walk, the cool afternoon air nipping at your cheeks. The streets are too clean here. Too quiet. You hate how familiar it still feels, the ivy-lined walls, the sharp turns of the hedges, the cold elegance of it all. You used to think it was beautiful. Now it just feels heavy.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you past the old stone wall you remember scraping your knees on one time, the bakery where Satoru used to buy you those strawberry mochi on Fridays. Everything is the same, but so different. 

You pause as you get to the intercom at the gate surrounding the Gojo Estate. Pressing the button. A small buzz sounds out, a man’s voice you recognize coming in. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Y/N.”

There’s a tiny silence before you hear another buzz, the wide gates slowly opening. Taking a deep breath, you start up the long driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat. Eyes focused on the two white grand doors. Once you get there, the doors open, revealing Yamato. 

You purse your lips awkwardly. “Um…hi.”

He nods briefly before stepping aside. The moment you enter, a wave of nostalgia washes over your entire being. You force yourself not to book it out of there. 

“Satoru said he’d be here in twenty minutes,” Yamato utters.

You nod, looking around. “And Koji?”

“Come,” he motions with his hand, turning to walk down the hallway towards the large living space. You follow a few steps behind, passing by a few family memorabilia on the way. You stop when he does. You blink, head tilting slightly. 

In front of you, your son and Satoru’s mother with their backs turned to you. They sit on the seat of the piano.

The scene before you feels surreal, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you, yet it does. Koji, perched on the piano bench, his tiny fingers brushing over the ivory keys, a look of intense concentration on his face. And Akane, beside him, her back straight and her hands poised delicately over the keys as she guides him. The quiet, peaceful moment is almost too perfect.

“She’s been teaching him for the last hour, he’s very curious.” Yamato comments, arms crossing. He side-glances at you, noticing your quietness. 

“Oh, well…that’s good. He’s never seen one in person before,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting on your feet. You can faintly hear Akane mutter a direction to your son, followed by his nod. Your stomach turns, unsure of how to feel about all this. “He’s been behaving?” You decide to ask. 

Yamato nods, meeting your eyes. “Quite so.” He says nothing for a few more seconds before sighing and angling his body towards you. “Look, this is new for all of us. I didn’t expect him to be so open towards us.”

“Because I taught him to be kind to everyone,” you cooly reply, looking up at him. “No matter what.”

Yamato gets the silent message, jaw ticking just barely. “I know you may have resentment towards us, but we’re not your enemy,” he finishes, voice steady, but laced with something heavier.

You blink, swallowing thickly as your fingers curl inside your pockets. Enemy. You weren’t expecting that word, but maybe it fits more than you’d like to admit. Your silence stretches too long, and you know he’s waiting for you to snap, to throw all your pent-up frustration in his face.

But you don’t. Instead, you let out a small exhale, glancing back at Koji and Akane. “I don’t resent anyone,” you say, voice quiet. “I just don’t forget.”

Yamato says nothing, but the pause between you sharpens. Then he gives a small nod, almost as if conceding to something unspoken.

You walk past him.

As your feet carry you toward the piano room, Koji glances over his shoulder again. “Mama!” he beams, hopping off the bench and running into your arms. 

You catch him easily, hugging him tight, letting his little arms wrap around your neck like ivy. “Hey, baby,” you murmur into his hair, inhaling the warm scent of shampoo and sunshine. When you lift your gaze again, Akane is standing. Her expression is cool and composed as always, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes says enough.

She sees you. 

“Thank you for teaching him,” you offer, voice strained but civil.

Akane tilts her head slightly. “He’s a fast learner,” she replies. “Takes after his father.”

You don’t comment on that, resisting the urge to say his mother, too. 

“Would you like to hear what he’s learned?” she adds, tone perfectly poised.

You blink in surprise. For a moment, you wonder if this is some sort of trap, but Koji pulls back, eyes shining with excitement. “Can I show her, Grandma?”

Akane gives a small nod. “Of course.”

He runs back to the piano. You follow more slowly, sitting beside him this time. Your eyes flicker to Akane. She doesn’t sit, but she watches, hands folded, body rigid in that ever-disapproving way. Or maybe that’s just what she’s forever used to. 

And still, as Koji presses the keys with tiny, proud fingers, all you can do is wonder:

Is this her trying?

Or is this just her performance?

You never know with these people. 

Koji plays a small, four-key symphony. You smile softly, watching his tiny fingers move around the white keys before looking up at you with an expectant smile. “Oh, you’re so good. That sounded so wonderful,” you kiss his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to bring him into your side.

He giggles, kissing your cheek back. “Grandma said I’m a puh—poo—umm…a pr—”

“Prodigy,” Akane finishes for him.

Koji nods quickly. “Yeah! That! A prodigy!”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch at the corners, though you keep your tone even. “Is that so?”

Akane finally moves, just enough to step closer. “I wouldn’t say it lightly,” she murmurs. “He has an ear for rhythm. Muscle memory. Coordination. His age group typically struggles with that.”

You glance at her sideways. “He’s always been observant. Picks up things quickly.”

Akane nods once. “Yes. He’s sharp.”

There’s something there—a flicker of approval, rare and unfamiliar. It lands oddly. Not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either. Still, it lingers longer than you expect. And for the first time since arriving, her words feel… not like a dismissal. Not like judgment. More like an assessment.

You exhale slowly. “Well… as long as he’s enjoying it.”

Koji beams between you both. “I wanna be really good. Like the people on Papa’s phone!”

You blink. “What people?”

“He showed me a video of a man playing piano with his eyes closed. Really fast!” Koji’s eyes go wide. “I wanna do that.”

“Sounds ambitious,” you murmur, brushing his hair back gently.

“It’s possible,” Akane says, arms crossing. “With discipline and the right environment.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “He’s five.”

Akane’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So was Satoru when he started.”

The comparison between Koji and Satoru is one you expected, but that doesn’t make you any less frustrated. You look back at Koji, his joy too pure, too focused, to let the weight of that conversation reach him. He starts playing again, a slower, clumsier version of the earlier song, tongue poking out in concentration. “Well, he’s not Satoru. He’s Koji.”

“He can still learn how Satoru did.”

“Or he can learn what he wants, when he wants. And if I allow it,” you calmly reply, standing up from the bench and taking your son into your arms. He’s already growing big enough to the point where picking him up hurts your back even more. However, you still want to cherish whatever strands of dependency you can with your son, even if that means suffering a backache.

Akane’s lips press into a thin line, not quite disapproving—but not agreeing either. You can see the tension in her posture, in the way her hands shift slightly as if she wants to say more but is holding back. “He’s yours,” she finally says. “That much is clear.”

You hold Koji tighter. “He always has been.”

Yamato clears his throat, hoping to die down the growing tension as he stands beside his wife. “Why don’t you two wait for Satoru in the dining room?”

You don’t need to be told twice, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, practically feeling their eyes burn holes in the back of your head. Once you’re gone, Akane sighs heavily, foot tapping against the ground. “That girl hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not in the mood to break up a fight right now, Akane.”

“I’m not fighting,” she snaps, glaring up at Yamato. “I’m observing. Simply. It’s not my fault she dislikes us.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or does not, I don’t care enough to worry about that. But at least try to act civil in the presence of a child, yes?” Yamato asks in exasperation, eyebrow lifting. 

She scoffs. “I am acting civil. Do you see me raising my voice and throwing a tantrum?”

“No, but it’s your tone.”

“And how is my tone?”

“Jesus Christ, just be nice for one goddamn minute. I’m too old for this crap,” Yamato huffs deeply, hand running through his hair. His lips are set into a creased frown, and he waves his hand up. “Just try to make her feel somewhat comfortable, okay. Got it?” 

Akane opens her mouth. “But she—”

“I said, got it?” He asks again, giving his wife a look she’s familiar with. One that says he won’t tolerate her disobedience any longer.

Akane’s jaw tightens at the silent command, but she doesn’t argue this time. She just presses her lips together, gaze flicking toward the doorway you disappeared through. “…Got it,” she says eventually, her voice clipped.

Yamato sighs through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. He doesn’t say anything else as he steps out, leaving his wife behind in the piano room. She lingers for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the bench where Koji had been sitting—small hands, wide eyes, laughter like Satoru’s when he was little. She swallows something bitter before turning on her heel and following after her husband.

In the dining room, you sit Koji down on the edge of one of the long chairs, pulling his little hoodie off his head and smoothing his hair. He swings his feet as he sits, talking excitedly about the keys, the sounds, how Akane let him press the pedal even though he “wasn’t supposed to.” You smile and nod in all the right places, but your mind is elsewhere, your eyes flicking to the large windows, the too-white walls, the marble floors. It’s like being dropped into someone else’s memory.

You hear their footsteps before you see them. Yamato enters first, his face unreadable as always, though there’s a tiredness behind his eyes. Akane follows after, her posture still regal, but her expression more composed. Less… cutting.

She doesn’t look at you as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

Yamato clears his throat and glances between you both. “Would either of you like tea while we wait?”

“I’m okay,” you mutter.

“Um…juice?” he asks Koji, his voice a tad bit gentler.

“Apple?” Koji grins.

Yamato nods. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the side kitchen, silence settles between you and Akane again. You keep your attention on Koji, who starts humming some made-up song to himself. 

Then, after a beat, Akane speaks.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” she says, tone low and careful, like each word has been weighed a dozen times before being spoken. “I only meant to point out potential.”

You glance at her. Her gaze is steady.

“He’s your son,” she says. “But he’s Satoru’s, too. You can’t expect the world not to notice what’s in his blood.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “I don’t mind the world noticing. I mind when people try to turn him into someone he’s not.”

She sighs. “All I did was suggest he has greater potential.”

Akane’s words hang between you like an unresolved chord. The flicker in her eye, curiosity, perhaps hope, maybe even defensiveness—doesn’t go unnoticed. 

You tilt your head. “I’m not against potential. I’m against projection.”

Her lips twitch at the corner. “You think I’m trying to mold him or something?”

“I think you don’t realize how easy it is to mistake admiration for control,” you say calmly. “And I’m not going to let him grow up thinking love has conditions attached to it.”

Akane stiffens slightly at that, her hands tightening over her lap. “You assume the worst in us.”

“No,” you reply softly. “I remember the worst. That’s not the same.”

Another pause. This time, it’s her gaze that flickers away, settling on the far end of the table where Koji now softly drums his fingers, looking between you and her. She decides not to push it; the longer the discussion grows, the more curious he might become. She looks up as Yamato holds out a juice box for Koji to take. 

Just as he does so, Satoru walks into the room. His two top buttons unbuttoned, eyes glancing between his mother and you, silently trying to determine the comfort level of the current situation. “Hey,” he says, coming over to stand beside you. A quick look at your expression says everything. 

“Papa!”

“Hey, buddy.” Satoru smiles, welcoming Koji into his arms, adjusting the small boy against his chest. He gives him a small kiss on the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Okay, I’m gonna miss my friends.” He admits, looking down with a small frown. 

“Aw, buddy. I’m sure you are, but you’ll make even more friends at your new school.”

Koji childishly sighs, arms wrapping around his father’s neck and putting his face into the crook of it. 

Satoru pats his back lightly, now focusing on his mother and you. His first question is directed towards you. “Everything good?”

You nod, though it’s a small, half-hearted gesture. “Peachy,” you murmur, not quite sarcastic, but not fully honest either.

His hand remains on Koji’s back, rubbing in slow, thoughtful circles. He glances at Akane, who has returned to her perfect stillness, eyes calmly watching the exchange as if it’s all part of a silent evaluation.

“She was just making observations,” you say before he can ask. “About Koji’s potential. About blood. About you at five.”

Satoru raises a brow, slowly lowering Koji to the chair beside him. “Mom,” he says, voice calm but edged, “We talked about this.”

Akane doesn’t flinch. “And I was careful. I said nothing out of line.”

“You never do,” he replies smoothly. But the look he gives her carries more weight than his tone. It’s the look of a son who’s lived too long parsing praise from performance. Yamato goes to his seat beside Akane with a grunt, muttering something about needing a stronger drink. You focus on Koji again, standing up to wipe juice from the side of his mouth as he slurps through the straw.

Then, Satoru shifts slightly closer to you, brushing your arm. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says low, for your ears only. “We can head out now, yeah?”

You glance at Koji, who’s swinging his legs, and you nod.

But it’s Akane who speaks next.

“You’re always leaving,” she says, tone bitter.

Satoru exhales through his nose. “And you’re always making it easy to.”

“The cooks will be making some shrimp tacos,” she says, standing as well. Her arms cross, looking between the two of you. “Maybe the boy can—”

“Koji is fine,” you cut in, fixing her with a firm gaze. “He’s a picky eater.”

Her lips purse tightly, restrained disapproval lurking behind her eyes. As if she is holding back a sharper comment.  Her posture doesn’t waver, but the chill in the room thickens.

“He’ll learn to adjust,” she finally says, looking at you. “Children do. Especially in families like ours.” 

Families like ours.

The words cling, sticky, and unpleasant. Satoru’s jaw tightens. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, the smallest urge to step in, to shield, to lash back. But instead, he smiles, tight, impersonal. “Koji isn’t some soldier in training, Mom.”

Akane lifts her chin. “And he shouldn’t be raised like a normal civilian, either.”

Yamato scoffs again, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

Satoru ignores his father, eyes still on his mother. “He’s five,” he says flatly. “He likes dinosaur nuggets and cartoons that scream too loudly. He doesn’t need to know what it means to be part of this family yet.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” you add on. 

She huffs dryly. “So you both plan on, what? Never allowing him to come over? To stay over?”

“Nobody is saying that, Mom.” Satoru exhales through his nostrils. “That is not at all what we said. Stop putting words in our mouths.”

“But that’s what I’m hearing.” Her voice rises, Koji just barely flinching in Satoru’s arms. You both notice, and your expression darkens. Satoru holds him closer, hand moving to his pearly white strands of hair to weave through in a calming manner. As if noticing the way she snapped, she blinks. For a moment, it looks like she might apologize. 

But neither of you cares enough to stay to hear it. 

“We’re leaving now.” You state, not leaving room for even more of whatever pathetic argument she might try to throw. Satoru and you turn, walking to the door. 

Yamato side glances at Akane. Her eyebrows are furrowed, biting hard on her lip. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks regretful. 

“Wait,” Koji says, looking over Satoru’s shoulder at the older couple. “Can I say bye to Grandma and Grandpa?” 

Satoru pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other under Koji’s legs as the boy leans back slightly in his arms. You glance at him, silent, weighing the moment. Akane straightens. Yamato says nothing.

“Of course you can,” Satoru says finally, setting Koji gently down. “Go ahead.”

Koji pads back into the room, small feet quiet against the polished floor. He stops in front of Akane first, looking up at her with hesitant eyes. She meets them, unsure for once. There’s a flicker of something unfamiliar—a tender softness she doesn’t wear often enough, one she hasn’t had to wear in years. 

“Bye, Grandma,” he says politely, giving a little wave.

Akane stares at him for a beat too long. Then slowly, she lowers herself to one knee, smoothing down her skirt. “Bye, Koji,” she replies, her voice quieter. “Thank you for coming.”

He smiles, just a little. She doesn’t hug him. But she brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve, like it’s the closest she knows how to get.

Next, he turns to Yamato. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Yamato grunts. “Be good, kid.”

Koji nods solemnly, then trots back to Satoru, who scoops him up with practiced ease. The tension hasn’t left the room, but the mood has shifted slightly, a tilt of something that might eventually become understanding. Or not. You don’t count on it.

Satoru looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

Akane nods once, lips pressed tight.

You don’t say anything else. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. As you walk down the hallway, Koji resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder, you murmur, “Thanks for not letting that go on any longer.”

He nods. “You looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing a glass at her.”

You snort, the sound small but real. “I still might.”

He holds open the front door. “Next time, we do neutral territory. Like a park. Or the moon.”

Koji yawns. “Only if there’s nuggets on the moon.”

You smile, despite it all. “We’ll make it happen.”

.

.

Akane sits back quietly in her seat, eyes laser-focused on the door you two just left. Her husband rubs his face. “I swear, if it’s not me one day, it’s you. And you said I’m driving him away.”

Akane doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the door, her fingers tense around the armrest of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Her jaw clenches, her silence a loud statement in the room. Yamato shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he leans back in his chair. “I’m getting too old for this.” He exhales heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of both frustration and resignation settling on him. “Every damn time, Akane. Every time.”

Finally, Akane shifts slightly, her posture still stiff, but her eyes now narrowing as she shifts her eyes to her husband. “I don’t need your lectures right now, Yamato.”

“I’m not lecturing you, Akane,” he says, his voice sharp but tired. “I’m trying to understand where the hell we went wrong with him.”

Akane’s lips twist, the muscle in her cheek twitching slightly. “Where we went wrong? What about you? You think I don’t see how you’ve handled him? I’m not the only one pushing him away. He’s a grown man now, and he’s made his choices. Don’t you dare act like it’s all on me.”

Yamato’s eyes flick to the door again, his expression exasperated. “I don’t particularly favor either her or the boy, yes. But at least I can fake it in front of them. You preach how I’m ruining this family and how I care more about our legacy, but you’re the reason our son left our house angry, again.”

Akane’s gaze hardens as her husband’s words sink in, but she doesn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickens, heavy with the weight of old arguments and unspoken truths. Her fingers twitch tighter. Her posture remains rigid, every muscle seemingly on alert, and for a moment, Yamato wonders if she’s just waiting for the right moment to tear into him.

But instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet but icy when she finally speaks. “You want to talk about our son’s choices? Fine. But I’m not the one who hid behind his work, his pride, and a hundred excuses to avoid facing the truth.”

Yamato glares at her, the sharp edge of his frustration showing. “And what truth is that? That you’re right? That everything I’ve done to protect this family, to secure our future, was a mistake?”

Akane’s lips curl into a tight, bitter smile. “No. The truth is that we’ve been playing this game for too long, Yamato. For decades. You think Satoru’s leaving this house—this family—is his fault? You’ve built this perfect little empire on the backs of people like him, forcing them to believe they owe you everything. You taught him to put legacy before everything else, before loyalty, before love, before family.”

Her words cut deep, and Yamato feels his chest tighten. He leans forward, staring at his wife for a long, painful moment. “And what? You think you’ve been a perfect mother? You think you’ve done everything right? You think Satoru’s supposed to just bend to your every whim because you said so?” He scoffs bitterly. “You’ve been so busy trying to mold him into something he could never be. You haven’t seen him, Akane. Not really. You’re just as shitty as I am.”

Akane’s eyes flash with something, either anger or regret, or maybe both, but she’s quick to mask it with a calm veneer. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen exactly who he is, and that’s what I’m trying to protect. This family doesn’t have the luxury of softness, Yamato. Not when it comes to survival.”

Yamato laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Survival? Is that what you think this is? You think we’re still fighting to survive?”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the silence. It’s as if both are trying to hold on to the shards of a family that, in truth, has already splintered. Yamato’s gaze falls back on the door, his voice softer now, tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anymore, Akane. I don’t know what’s left of this family.” 

Akane’s expression softens, just slightly, but her voice remains firm. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.” She gets up and storms out the room. 

Yamato leans back in his chair, finally letting his eyes close for a moment, as though trying to block out the heavy weight of the conversation and everything that’s still left unsaid between them. 

God, can we just be a normal family for once?

.

.

.

.

“He barely even let me come over to his parents.” Himari scoffs, teeth gritting. She’s leaned over the middle console from the back, eyes narrowed into slits as she watches the car housing her used-to-be-boyfriend, his annoying wrench of an ex, and some useless kid drive off. 

Haruka sits beside her, wearing a white fur coat and dramatic, huge sunglasses that cover her eyes. She nudges beside Himari’s side, causing the other woman to grumble, in an attempt to get a look herself before the car makes a turn. Emi sits in the passenger seat, while Kenji is in the driver’s seat. The tint of their blacked-out vehicle keeping their presence obscured from outside view. 

Himari huffs again, tapping her fingers impatiently against the window. “I don’t get it. He just let her waltz in and take over, like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Haruka, ever the faux composed figure she is, brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs dramatically. “Men are always like that, darling. So quick to give away what doesn’t belong to them.”

Emi leans forward, her voice laced with mild amusement. “It’s not just about what belongs to him. It’s about what she thinks she deserves. And she clearly thinks she deserves him.”

“So, what now?” Himari crosses her arms, looking at her parents, then at Haruka. “I’m confused how this old hag will help.”

“Huh?! What did you—”

“She’s here to reclaim her daughter and drag her out the clutches of Satoru, Himari.” Emi sighs, looking over her shoulder at her daughter. “Just ignore her, she’s only an accessory.” 

“Excuse me!—”

“Approach her again,” Kenji finally speaks, effectively quieting down the car. He lights a cigar. “His father has been sending a representative to meet with me instead of himself. Seems cowards run in the family.”

“And then what? What if she doesn’t help?” Himari argues back. 

“I can help,” Haruka starts, lip curled into a scowl. “I’m not a useless brat like you. God, your generation knows nothing of respect.”

“I respect people who are on my same level. You? You’re like my pair of 2016 Versace pumps.” She flips her hair back. 

“Oh, you little—”

“I have reinforcements. When the time is right,” he lets out a puff of smoke. “They’ll start playing too.”

Himari groans loudly, running her hands through her hair. 

Haruka glares at Himari, her lips tightening into a practiced, poisonous smile. “I see Emi’s been raising her like a spoiled show dog. Pretty enough, but all bark, no bite.”

Emi chuckles softly, her tone dismissive. “And yet she’s the one he was with until your daughter came crawling out of the shadows, looking for scraps.”

“Crawling?” Haruka lets out a bitter laugh, the fur collar of her coat brushing her jaw as she turns to face Emi more fully. “Please. She doesn’t crawl—he has to have come looking. Don’t confuse desperation with effort. If anything, your Himari was the warm-up act.”

Himari scoffs, insulted, but Kenji speaks before she can bite back again. “Enough,” he says, cold and unamused. “This isn’t a fashion spat at a luncheon. This is about leverage. And right now, we don’t have it.”

The silence that follows is tense, thick. Himari bites the inside of her cheek, her nails tapping faster now.

“What do you want me to do then?” she asks, frustrated. “Just wait around while she plays happy family with him? With that child?”

Emi snorts. “If you had done your job properly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. But now…” she tilts her head, a calculating gleam lurking in her eyes, “we take advantage of what she loves.”

“And what’s that?” Himari asks, venom on her tongue.

Kenji answers instead, calm and deliberate. “Her son.”

That shuts everyone up.

The silence hangs for a second too long, and then Emi, always the tactful one, breaks it with a smooth, almost bored, “You don’t touch the boy. You use the boy. It’s simple, really.” Haruka’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Now that’s strategy.”

“I’ll accept as low as 730,000 yen,” Mei-Mei cooly states, leaning back leisurely in her chair. Legs crossed with a coy smile. “Last time, you low-balled me a bit. And it ended up causing quite a stir. I’m sure this will be even double that, so the lowest is 730,000.”

Across from the table sits an older man. Tapping his cane against the ground, his wrinkled face set into a constant grim expression. His eyes so dark, they look like hollows in his face. Bushy white brow just barely lifting as he hears her offer. 

“Quite the offer for an audio tape,” Gakuganji expresses grimly. 

Mei Mei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows just slightly, thin, polished, dangerous. “It’s not just an audio tape,” she purrs. “It’s leverage. Undeniable. Unedited. The kind of thing that makes people resign overnight, or mysteriously disappear.” She leans forward, fingers lacing together on the table, her voice lowering but still smooth as silk. “730,000 is the price of convenience. Of silence. And I’m being generous.”

Gakuganji’s tapping stops. His cane stills, and his knuckles tighten around the curved handle. “You’re young,” he says, voice dry as gravel. “Too bold for your own good.”

“And you’re old,” she replies sweetly. “Too used to being feared to realize when someone’s already won.”

A long beat passes before Gakuganji chuckles under his breath, no humor in the sound. “You’ll learn the consequences eventually.”

Mei Mei’s eyes narrow, her tone still velvet. “I already have. That’s why I charge before I hand things over. And besides, you’ll learn too, won’t you? Considering I’ve been doing your dirty work for you for a few months now.”

“My hands are not dirty, yours are.”

“And so are my ears.” She easily adds. “Unfortunately for you, I haven’t been able to ear-hustle on much. Other people with higher bids have my attention more than you and your mysterious vendetta against the Gojo Group.”

“It’s not mysterious.”

“Then why them?”

Gakuganji’s eyes glint, though his expression remains carved from stone. “Because they’ve forgotten what it means to answer to someone.”

Mei Mei hums, unimpressed, brushing invisible lint from her lap. “You mean you.”

“I mean structure,” he grits out. “Power has rules. Lineage has purpose. And Satoru Gojo—” he leans in, voice dropping to a growl, “—spits on both. Just like his father before him. Just like his mother did in silence.”

She tilts her head, amused now. “So this is about old grudges? Bloodlines and bruised egos?”

He says nothing. Mei Mei lets out a light, airy laugh, reclining again. “Fascinating. And here I thought it was about money. Or maybe land. You’re boring when it’s personal, Gakuganji.”

His knuckles twitch again around the cane. “When it’s personal, Mei Mei, it’s permanent.”

She smiles again, cold and brilliant. “Then you’ll have to pay extra for permanence. I’m not cheap, and I don’t do charity for bitter old men.”

“This is a necessary execution. They believe they are worth more than everyone else. Especially Yamato’s devil spawn. He disrupts balance itself. Privileged, spoiled rotten, wealthy, and unfortunately…very smooth talking. Everyone bends to his will just because of his name.” Gakuganji gruffs out.

She lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Necessary and personal usually go hand in hand, old man. I just like to know who’s paying for what. There’s always something more beneath the price tag.”

His lips curl in distaste. “And there’s always someone like you, digging for the bones after the war.”

She smiles again, dazzling and cold. “Better than dying in it. So.” She taps her manicured nail against the table. “730,000. Or I hand the audio to someone with less of a vendetta and more imagination.”

Gakuganji’s eye twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Mei Mei holds out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. Again.”

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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[fastcardotmp3]

600 words; post 8x17; they're back in the same house as if it's my fault....

Pepa has gone home and the dishes are done and Eddie is in the shower and Buck is alone with Christopher for the first time in a year and all he can think about is Eddie on the verge of cracking as he lamented the fact that his son has lost yet another person he loves when he's barely a teenager and--

"I'm sorry. That I didn't check in on you properly."

"You checked in," Christopher screws up his face, the same old way he always has when Buck says something he can't register as true.

"Not-- enough," Buck clears his throat. This kid takes up more space on the couch than he used to. Is this couch smaller than the blue one shipped off to Texas? Has Chris gotten that much bigger? "I'm sorry. I know you loved Bobby just as much as the rest of us, and there's no excuse I-- I promised I'd always be there for-- you."

Christopher looks at him. Christopher looks at him and there is a painful amount of Eddie in that gaze, the way it studies, the way it surveys a person and logs-- logs, just-- Buck doesn't even know what, but he knows when Eddie does it, he always finds himself devastatingly seen on the other end.

And Christopher is doing it. Looking at him like that. Surveying.

"It's okay, Buck," he says, like a little boy overlooking a drawn-back sea. "I get it."

"You get...?" It's Buck's turn to be confused, trying his damnedest to control the stinging at the backs of his eyes as he meets Christopher's gaze.

"I loved Bobby a lot," Chris explains deftly. "He was-- really important. To Dad and me. And he, um, helped us a lot. I remember he brought so much food to Mom's funeral that we had to give some to--"

"You gave some to me, yeah," Buck laughs wetly and lowly and Chris smiles this melancholy little quirk of the lips.

"Yeah," he agrees. "And the more I, like, look at it all? It's super obvious how much he did for us even though I didn't always get it when I was little. But it's still different."

"Different from what?"

"Different from you and Bobby," Chris shrugs. "He was family to me, but it's like. Like, for you it's different. For you it's like if I lost you, y'know?"

Y'know. Said so casually and so certainly.

Like if I lost you.

Like if I lost you, he says, in comparison to the man Buck took into his heart as a stable and consistent presence. A man to look up to, to emulate, to steal little bits and pieces from until Buck himself felt whole.

Like if I lost you, Christopher says, and Buck doesn't have any words to respond to that, only a swelling of feeling he's been holding so tightly against his chest that he couldn't even move when Eddie got up in his face less than twenty-four hours ago.

Buck couldn't move when Eddie told him about the night he spent grappling with it all alone in the dark, couldn't create follow-through from the desire in his heart to reach out and grab on, because his hands were numb and stagnant and stuck.

Now, something knocks loose.

Buck tips forward.

He drags Christopher into his arms and tucks his head under his chin and holds on tight through Christopher's quiet little laugh of surprise at the expression.

His voice is rough when he knocks that loose too.

"God, I missed you, kid."

And as a door clicks open down the hall, as steam chases damp hair and a curious, bright-eyed man into the archway overlooking the scene on the couch, mouthing okay? to Buck's quiet nod of acknowledgment, Christopher embraces him back.

"Missed you too, Buck."

[ccazimi]

You Are Also Like Me

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt. 3

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

“I want you to take my virginity.”

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

Annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

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

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

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

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

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

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

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

“What?! When?”

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

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

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

Reluctantly, you nod.

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

You tell her you’ll look into it.

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

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

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

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

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

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

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

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

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

Two more days pass, still no progress.

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

Instead, you take the long way around it.

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

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

“Can I stay here tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

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

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

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

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

“No? Then what is it like?”

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

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

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

“I’m not desperate.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

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

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

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

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

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

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

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

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

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

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

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

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

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

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

“Then stop wasting time.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s no more waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

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

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

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

Eager to see him again, all of him.

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

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

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

“Spread yourself.”

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

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

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

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

“Like this. Hold it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it occurs to you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s right, but still…

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

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

Were you? You don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to feel him completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It burns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

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

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

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

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

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

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

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

“More?”

You nod.

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

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

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

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

And then he stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

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

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

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

Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t care if they’re fake.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

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

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

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

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

And then stillness. Too much of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “So romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me go.”

“No.”

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

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

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

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

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

“Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

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

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

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

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

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

“Head down."

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

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

Uncertainty, maybe? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “So… I can?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t come.

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

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not tonight.

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

At first, neither of you moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at least you hope.

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

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

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

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

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

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

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

Possessive yet soft.

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to eat.”

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

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

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

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

“Okay, stop!”

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

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

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

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still no response, not even a shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

It's been a full week now.

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

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

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

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

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

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

“I didn’t want it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

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

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

Your date is forgettable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wake up before him.

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

Not touching. Just…close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple days pass.

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

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

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

“You working today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It just feels like… missing.

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

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

“Then just let me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A single drop falls out.

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

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

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

“You say that every time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There we go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing to say now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surrender.

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

“Oh, fuck-“

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

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

And then, an idea comes to mind.

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess you got it from me.”

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

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

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

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

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

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

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irritating, infuriating man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still.

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

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

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

It disarms you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

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

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

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

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?”

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up. You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands. Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him. His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier. He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him. Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic. Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate. And then you see the store sign. Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips. “No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in. A red lace set that’s mostly straps. A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts. Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks. “You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything. Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even. But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you. This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want. Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes. Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by. Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded and polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory. The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller.  The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn't. Instead he sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should. You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look. A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts. You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears. You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on. Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts. Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting. Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him. He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered. You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real. Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs. A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever. That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural. Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him. Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart. You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop. Because in this moment, he makes you forget. Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

[cbeargyu]

hiii i hope u consider on the drive home by niki inspired fic with soobin or beomgyu if you still take requests 🥹 idk how to explain it but i think it's so them

ON THE DRIVE HOME

summary: after a painful breakup, you and beomgyu are on a silent drive home, both reflecting on what’s been lost. as the car hums quietly, memories of happier times together surface, but it’s clear that the love you once shared is now gone.

pairing: ex!beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: angst, romance, melancholia, post-breakup

warnings: post-breakup, emotional distress, heavy angst, implied emotional trauma

wc: 1,031

ANON REQUEST<3

the hum of the engine is the only sound that fills the space between you.

the silence weighs heavier than any fight, more suffocating than the words you never said. the car moves forward, but the world outside feels like it’s standing still, just like you. just like him.

you glance at him for a second, but then look away, heart sinking. his eyes are on the road, but you know he’s not really looking at anything. just the miles ahead, stretching out like everything between you both — too far to reach, too long to walk.

it wasn’t like this before. you remember how you’d play around with the music in the car, him laughing at your terrible taste in songs. “you have the worst playlist, but it’s okay because you’re cute,” he used to say, every time you rolled your eyes at his teasing.

he would reach over and adjust the volume, making the song louder, until you both were singing off-key, laughing until your sides hurt. “i’ll never let you go,” he said, more than once, as you looked at him with a smile that felt like the future.

the flashback fades. you’re back in the present. the hum of the engine is all that’s left now.

his fingers grip the wheel tighter as the car turns a corner, but you’re not sure if it’s the road that’s making him tense or if it’s the feeling in the air, thick and cold between you.

“i think we’ve been trying to hold on to something that’s already gone,” his words from earlier come back like a slap, the sound of them still stinging your skin. you’d felt the weight of them, but you couldn’t say anything, not when you knew it was true.

you want to argue. you want to scream that this isn’t what you wanted, that you didn’t want to be here, on this empty road, with everything between you both shattered into pieces.

but your throat feels like it’s closing up. you can’t speak. you’re afraid the words won’t come out the way you need them to.

you remember when you first told him you loved him. you’d been sitting in this very car, parked in front of his apartment, the city lights outside flickering like stars. you’d hesitated, heart pounding as you looked at him, unsure if the words would make everything change.

he turned to you, smiled, and then whispered, “i love you too.” his voice was soft, genuine. it wasn’t a declaration — it was a truth. you’d never been so sure of anything in your life.

the kiss you shared after that felt like the beginning of everything. the start of a journey. the start of a love you thought would last forever.

the car hums quietly, pulling you back to reality. you glance at him again, but he’s staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. it’s like he’s already miles away, even though you’re both still in the same place.

you try to breathe, to steady yourself, but the pain of knowing it’s over hits you again. "we're already gone," you think, feeling the words deep in your chest.

he clears his throat, softly, and the sound pulls you out of your thoughts.

“do you want me to drop you off around the corner?” his voice is hoarse, but he’s still trying to sound neutral, like he doesn’t care. but you know he does. you know he cares, even if he’s too afraid to show it.

you nod, unable to trust your voice. he doesn’t ask again. the car slows down, and you both sit in the stillness, neither of you making a move to end the moment. it feels like this moment is stretching out, like it’ll last forever — the space between you so wide, you’re not sure how you even got here.

you were lying in his arms once, not long ago. “do you ever think about the future?” you had asked, tracing circles on his chest, the warmth of his skin against yours. he smiled, kissing the top of your head.

“i think about us,” he had said, his voice so soft, so certain. “i think about the life we’ll build together, and i can’t wait.”

now, you’re left with nothing but memories of promises that were never kept.

the car stops at the curb. the world outside feels distant, like it’s not even real anymore. you don’t want to open the door, but you know you have to. you both know it’s time.

you grab the handle, but then you hesitate. you glance at him, and your heart aches at the way his eyes don’t meet yours. he’s looking at the dashboard, his hands still clutching the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

you want to ask him if he’s okay. you want to ask him if he’s really okay with this. but you don’t. you can’t.

because you already know.

he’s not okay.

and neither are you.

the first time you argued, it felt like the world was ending. you both shouted, said things you didn’t mean, and then fell silent, staring at each other across the space between you. you remember how you held your breath, afraid that the silence would mean something was broken beyond repair.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, later, after the fight had ended. “i don’t ever want to lose you.”

but now, it feels like the loss was inevitable. like something was already broken, and neither of you noticed until it was too late.

you open the door. you can feel the weight of everything inside you, the heaviness of goodbye, but you still don’t say anything. you just step out, the cold air hitting your face like reality.

before you close the door, you glance at him one last time. you think maybe, just maybe, he’ll say something. anything. that he’ll stop you from walking away.

he doesn’t.

the engine hums quietly as you close the door behind you. you don’t look back. you can’t.

but you hear the car stay idling, long after you've walked away.

and somehow, that silence, that waiting — that’s the hardest part.

[riddlemearose]

fdnjkn 🫡 always happy to help lmao

I was gonna put this all in the tags but it started getting long so you know what? I'm gonna dump it all here instead

I've said to a few people before that I didn't like the fact that Wild's guilt was such a focus, and then I got better at actually analysing LU and realised oh that's actually largely perpetuated by the fandom.

Wild is an incredibly nuanced take on guilt that's rarely seen, bc in media guilt is often portrayed as all-encompassing and in your face. Yet while Wild's guilt is an important motivator, it's actually something he keeps tucked away from everyone else and ruminates on in silence.

And, while i havent played a lot of HW, Warriors is just as fascinating to me bc it feels like the fandom's taken a post-ww2 view on his trauma (in that it's irrelevant). Shellshock which became PTSD was largely ignored for most of the last century but it changes you in so many ways.

We dont know how long its been for wars (i assume maybe 6-8 years) nor how he's processed anything that happened in HW, but Wars not only has raging paranoia issues he has normal situational trauma from seeing your men die, but ethical trauma (good ol' trolley problem my beloathed).

He will constantly second guess his choices until he's sure he's making the right ones, because he will always be worried that his wrong decisions will send someone to their deaths.

Militaries often are not good for people's mental health, and both of these characters have grown up exposed to that environment. Like it or not, they are intensely similar, which is bad because the people who can hurt you the worst are often the ones who are like you the most.

Anyway, I'm just gonna link this amazing runecatwrites analysis on their relationship bc it says everything I can't, and says it way better.

And finally, to quote Captain America, "some stuff you leave there. Other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it gonna be in a big suitcase? Or in a little man-purse? It's up to you."

okay im gonna say something crazy and i need people to hear me out.

i see all this “War will mean well but say something that hurts Wild” this and “War will do something that reminds Wild of the army and traumatize him” that, but guys the sword swings both ways. War has his FULL memories of the war. He has ALL that trauma hanging over his head and he suffers from it constantly. Wild could very easily say something (like a command or something because his brain wants Warriors to shut up sooooo bad it’s the first thing that pops into his head and he says it before he can thinm) to WAR that could catch him off guard and completely shut him down Just As Easily. Wild isn’t some like. helpless victim, leaving him alone with War isn’t going to kill him. Wild has just as much potential to accidentally cause harm to War’s mental health and fuck him up

I don’t think either of them would do anything to hurt the other on purpose, like they’re teammates and they’re so so so similar they could be besties. But sometimes words carry heavier weight than the speaker intends, and things could be tense. But GENUINELY, Wild could do just as much damage

[anon-188]

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: fluff 🤍 | wc: 1.5k

summary: you were determined to make an old fashioned, you really were. but eagerness doesn’t always translate into success. good thing AJ knows how to step in—hands first, mouth second.

warnings: domestic tension, soft teasing, suggestive language, low heat, playful!AJ, neck kisses, fluff, established relationship, light spice undertone, mild explicit language, alcohol use.

a/n: here's some fluff—well, my version of it anyway. needed something soft to balance out the absolute filth of my last post. don't worry though, there's a good chance an alternative version of this one is already in the works ;) enjoyyy ♡

It was late—the kind of late that blurred time, where the world outside the bar felt nonexistent. Jake had closed up hours ago, but that never meant leaving. Not for this crew. Upstairs, the guys were still going strong, voices carrying through the bar in bursts of laughter and too-loud arguments over shit no one would remember tomorrow. Cigars were being passed, half-finished bottles lined the table, and no one was keeping track of anything—least of all how far past their limit they were.

But AJ? AJ always knew when to disappear.

He’d wait for the noise to settle, just enough, then slip away. The others wouldn’t notice—wouldn’t care. Because they already knew where he was going. Where he always went once the chaos quieted down. You.

Sometimes it was just behind a corner, where he’d press you against the wall, mouth brushing your ear just to tell you how good you looked. Other times, it was up on the rooftop, where the air was cooler, quieter—and his hands didn’t even try to behave.

And while you loved those moments—his hunger, the way he touched you like he couldn’t help it—you also loved his sweet side. Like tonight.

You were standing behind the bar with AJ, trying (and very clearly failing) to make an Old Fashioned on your own.

“Wait. What?” you asked, brows pinched as you held a glass already half full of ice.

“Baby, no,” AJ said, chuckling low as he reached over and gently took the glass from you.

He tossed the ice into the sink and set the empty glass off to the side. “Ice comes later, and this is the wrong glass for it anyway,” he added with a smile like he wasn’t completely calling you out.

You didn’t respond, not immediately. But he caught the way your tongue pushed against the inside of your cheek—your tell. That small, silent signal you always gave when you were trying really hard not to get annoyed. You’d told him you wanted to do it yourself, that it couldn’t be that hard. 

And you meant it. He knew that. You were eager, always willing to learn—and he loved that about you. But he also knew it made you stubborn as hell.

Still, his smile stayed on his face, completely unbothered—even when you sighed and crossed your arms, eyes narrowing at the now empty glass. 

"Come here," he said, nodding as his gaze finally caught yours again. "I'll show you."

He reached for you, gentle but firm, and you resisted—just enough to make a point. But it didn’t last. It never did. You gave in, a smile tugging at your lips before you could stop it.

AJ pulled you closer until your back was pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped loose around your waist. You felt him lean forward, reaching past you with that effortless confidence to grab the right glass—a lowball.

You hummed under your breath, and he laughed softly behind you as he set it down in front of you. He moved again, his arm grazing yours as he reached for the bottle of simple syrup.

“Start with this,” he murmured against your ear as he handed it to you. “Just a little.”

You tilted it carefully, pouring slow, while he watched over your shoulder—his voice low and close. “That’s good.”

Setting the bottle down, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he was already reaching past you again. “Now,” he said, grabbing the small bottle of bitters, “a few dashes of this. Over the sugar.”

You followed his instructions, wrist flicking carefully as the bitters splashed into the glass, blooming dark against the syrup. AJ didn’t say anything—just chuckled softly as you carefully tapped it once, twice, three times before you set the bottle aside.

Then came the muddler. He set it gently in your hand. “Mix it—just enough to dissolve the sugar.”

Your brows furrowed with focus as you got to work, only for both of his hands to find your hips, fingers settling into his favorite spot.

“Easy, baby,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “It’s not going anywhere.”

A soft laugh slipped from you, and your movements relaxed. The mix started to come together, sweet and spiced, and when you were done, you set the muddler aside with a small clink.

“Now you can put in the ice,” he said, lips brushing your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, half-smiling, and dropped the ice in piece by piece.

Next came the bourbon. He unscrewed the top, handing you the bottle.

“Slow. I’ll tell you when.”

The amber liquid slid smoothly over the ice, your pour slow, just like he said. His hand came around, tapping your wrist.

“Right there.”

He set the bottle aside for you, his touch wandering lower—slow and unhurried—as he leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, then one higher, near your neck.

“Now stir,” he said. “Gently.”

Careful and smooth, you stirred the drink as AJ’s fingers traced lazy shapes against your waist the entire time.

Finally, he handed you the orange peel. “Last step—twist it over the glass. Then drop it in.”

You did as he said, the scent of citrus rising faintly in front of you. Then, you dropped it into the glass.

As you studied your handiwork, you huffed out a laugh—proud of the cocktail. You grabbed the glass and turned to face him fully, holding it out. He took it, fingers brushing yours—drawn out on purpose.

Your hands dropped to your hips as you watched him take a sip, eyes scanning his face for a reaction—though with AJ, that was nearly always a lost cause.

“Thoughts?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, teasing.

He lowered the glass slowly, already smirking. “Delicious.”

You arched a brow. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” he replied, smirk deepening, eyes full with mischief. “This is the best Old Fashioned I’ve ever had. Swear.”

His grin widened as your eyes narrowed, suspicious but amused. Still, you rolled them anyway, shaking your head.

“What?” he said, voice lazy and teasing. “You don’t believe me?”

You held your ground, giving him that look—the “serious” one that made him laugh more often than not. 

“You want to taste it?” he added, that playful look never leaving him.

“Yeah, I do,” you said quickly—ready to call him on his bullshit.

He nodded once, lifted the glass, and took another slow sip—eyes still locked on you like he was savoring the drink and the moment in equal measure. Then, without missing a beat, he lowered the glass and kissed you—his lips cool and sweet with the remnants of bourbon and bitters. You kissed him back for half a second before breaking into a laugh against his mouth.

He pulled back, his smile spreading wide across his lips. “Is that not what you meant?” he asked, entirely too pleased with himself.

You flashed him another look—part amused, part unimpressed—but your lips were already twitching as you grabbed the drink from his hand and took a small sip.

Your eyebrows raised slightly. To your surprise—it was actually good.

“See?” he said, already smug. “Better hope Jake doesn’t catch you pouring like that—he’ll have to fire Lili on the spot.” 

“Shut up,” you said under your breath as you gave his shoulder a half-hearted shove.

He laughed, catching your hand in his—then gently guided it up and around his neck as he slid the glass from your grip, setting it on the bar behind you. 

His mouth found yours again—softer this time, but like he meant it. Because he did. He always did. Your other arm came up slowly, looping around his neck as well, pulling him closer until there wasn’t much space left between you at all.

After a moment you pulled back slightly, lips still hovering close to his. “Thank you for teaching me,” you murmured, softly.

AJ’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “Anytime,” he said, voice low and full of suggestion. “But if that’s your way of asking for another lesson…”—his hands slid down to your hips, then roamed slowly over your body, fingers bold—“I’ve got a few things I could show you.”

Before you could answer, he kissed you—quick, then slower. His mouth lingering just long enough to make your breath catch before he dipped lower, brushing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. One after another, light, fast, and teasing.

By the third kiss, you were already laughing—shoulders jerking as you tried to wiggle away. Your elbow bumped the glass behind you, nearly knocking it over.

“AJ!” you yelped, breathless, half-scolding as your elbow moved dangerously close to the glass again. “We’re gonna knock it over.”

“Good,” he murmured against your neck—lips brushing your skin as he grinned. “Gives me a reason to stay down here a little longer.” Then he kissed you again—slow and warm, like the rest of the world could wait, like being here with you was the only thing that mattered. 

Because in his mind? It was. 

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

tag list: @alealuvshayden @haydenchristensenisbae @sythethecarrot

(my mentions have been a little glitchy lately, so if it’s not tagging you, let me know!!)

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, just let me know (comment or message me). i’m happy to do it! :)

links: materlist

[daddyfuckedme]

TAROT CARD OF THE DAY: for those who come across this post.

The King of Swords reversed is about a quiet inner truth. You know where you stand on certain topics and issues and nobody can just come along and change your mind. You contribute to conversations around you with ease and you mean every word you say. People appreciate your input. Being so ahead of others may make you unkind, manipulative or have you abusing newly gifted power, so don't let this get to your head - you have to come back down to earth. Again, you or someone in your life the king represents is taking advantage and being downright cruel with those around him. He seems intelligent and witty but he doesn't use it for good. Try to get away from that as fast as possible. Take decisions with a glass of tea and reflect, you don't need to make them now but eventually you have to move forward. (And you will.)

Inbox me for a reading.

[tawnfawn]

you could be the death of me | soap

summary: in which reader copes with the events in chicago and the fear it brought with it, and soap tries to reassure her.

word count: 3.5k

tags: john "soap" mactavish x fem!reader, fluff, angst, best friends to lovers slow burn, platonic cuddling (but is it really?)

cw: death, guns, violence, literally anything that's in the last campaign mission of mw2, mention of nightmares, sleeping together (literally, not sexually), panic attacks, anxiety, fear

notes: funny enough, i think i've had this in my pages app for at least a year. i've just been writing this for fun and never posted it because i'm a perfectionist, but here's the first chapter of a currently 18k-word document of my simping for soap. hope you enjoy!

“Johnny?” Your voice was quiet and tentative when you stepped into the room, cringing at the creak of the old door. You heard a low groan, and through the darkness, you could see Soap sit up in his bed, watching blearily as you closed the door behind you.

“Bird…?” Your call-sign was slurred, like he was just waking up. “That you?”

“Fuck, were you sleeping?” You slipped off your shoes and crept toward his bed, trying not to make too much noise. “Sorry.”

“’S'fine,” he yawned, laying back down. You could barely see the glint of his eyes in the dark, his face only partially exposed by the moonlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains. “Is some…” He yawned again. “Something wrong?”

“Scoot over.” You didn’t answer the question, instead clambering onto the bed and slipping under the covers next to him. “Hi,” you said softly, sitting upright against a pillow.

He tilted his head to look at you, peering up at you through the darkness. “What’re ya doin’ here, lass?” he asked, and you looked away, chewing on your lip.

The stress of the events on your latest mission had rocked all of you, especially Soap. You’d seen the broken, furious look in his eyes after the events in Mexico and Chicago, after all Hassan had done, and you’d seen his fleeting triumph at the Iranian’s death. You still remembered the terror that had coursed through you in those moments—especially the horror of being cut off.

“Hassan’s in the last car. Use the lift cars to get there,” Gaz had told you, and Soap had practically shoved you to the side, jumping down to the lift before you could. 

“Don’t jump yet!” he called to you, peering over the edge. He hopped down to the other car before you could stop him. “I’ll make sure it’s—”

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light and BOOM! a rocket exploded into the ceiling, blazing the room in fiery orange. You shrieked as he hit the ground, scrambling for his gun. Iron screeched as the car’s cables snapped, and Soap plummeted downwards.

“Soap!” you cried out. You leapt forward, but Gaz pulled you back by your vest before you could follow. “That car won’t hold! Jump down!” he yelled down, but there was no response.

Soap was far, far below now—too far for you to jump—so you teetered on the edge of the platform, leaning as far as you could to get a view of him. Fortunately, he’d managed to stay intact, but he looked dazed, clumsily struggling to his feet, and your heart leapt to your throat as the car groaned and rocked beneath him.

“Fucking move, Johnny!” you screamed, and he finally seemed to register the words. Pushing himself to his feet, he hurled himself off of the deteriorating car and into the elevator with Hassan. There was a loud crash as he fell on top of the Iranian, sending them both tumbling to the ground. You could barely see him now. He scrambled to his feet, snatched the missile controls from Hassan, and bolted out the door. You and Gaz screamed at him to move as a cacophony of gunshots and angry Arabic pierced the air.

“Fuck!” You ran to the other elevators, frantically smashing the call buttons as you grabbed for your radio.

“No use, Bird, they’re all on lockdown.” Gaz placed a hand on your shoulder, turning you to face him. “Come on, we need to—”

A legion of Al-Qatala stormed in to interrupt, and you both dove for cover amidst the gunfire, scrambling to get back to Price.

It was more than a fight to get out of there—it was the three of you against ten? fifteen? of Hassan’s soldiers, but you managed to mow them down. Price was speaking to Soap through the radio—you nearly cried in relief at the sound of his voice—as Laswell directed him through detonating the missile.

You stayed silent on comms throughout Laswell’s directions, but once they were finished, you immediately patched in. “Bird to Soap: I’m coming to you,” you hissed into your radio, sprinting down the steps. You’d finally found a stairwell that led down to the construction floor, but it was chock full of Al-Qatala soldiers, and your frantic footfalls echoed loudly throughout. “It’ll be a sec—” you grunted, slamming your boot into the throat of the fallen soldier clawing at your leg “—but I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about me, bonnie.” You could hear his smile amidst the radio static, and your stomach twisted. “I’m gonna kill every single one of these fuckers.”

“Yeah, yeah, save some for me,” you joked, but your voice was strained.

“Two down,” Soap whispered. “Just need to—”

His voice was cut off by the sound of gunshots, and the radio went silent.

You stumbled, nearly slipping on a corpse as you frantically yelled into your radio. “Soap!” you barked into the radio, waiting. It was silent. “Soap!” you cried again. No answer. “Fuck!” In the deafening echo, you slammed your fist against the wall and leapt down another four steps, praying you weren’t too late.

Upon slamming open the door to the construction level, you saw two things: one, the bodies of two Al-Qatala soldiers, and two, a distinct lack of both Soap and Hassan. You cursed under your breath, but then, BOOM!and the unmistakable shriek of glass breaking pierced the air.

The explosion had come from your right. You crept around the corner, doing your best to avoid the broken glass and shrapnel on the ground, and followed the noise to find Hassan, alive and standing over Soap. The Iranian was clearly the source of the explosion: one of the windows behind him was shattered, and smoke unfurled from the edges, orange-tipped embers floating about. Shrouded in the haze, he looked like a goddamn supervillain, aided by missiles instead of magic. He tossed his rifle to the side. “We are not attacking!” he snarled, hauling Soap up by the vest. “We are invading—!”

He barely finished the sentence before a gunshot rang out, and your bullet pierced through his brain, sending both him and Soap tumbling to the ground.

You were so focused on Soap that you didn’t even register Hassan’s corpse—just the huge gash across your best friend’s forehead, the blood soaked into his vest and pants, his crimson-stained hand against the ground. For a brief, haunting moment, you saw not victory, but death; not justice, but sacrifice. It wasn’t until you ran to him, falling to your knees and cupping his face, that you saw life again, embedded in the curvature of his smile.

There was a massive gash across his forehead, courtesy of Hassan’s rifle. Small cuts and tears adorned his clothes and body, only adding to his already massive collection. Blood was everywhere—fortunately, mostly not his—and his battered and bruised face was sprinkled with ash. His eyes met yours, and you nearly collapsed in relief. Then, the dizziness hit.

It felt like you were falling. Fear, incandescent and ice cold, gripped your heart like a vice and filled your lungs until it was spilling out like insults after injury. You gasped for air, but there was no space to breathe; suddenly, everything was hitting at once, your body folding in on itself. Plummeting underwater, you were drowning, drowning, drowning, your pulse swelling to a snare drum, everything becoming deafening as black dots danced behind your eyes. The deafening drone of static flooded your ears, growing fervid, blood was roaring so loud you could smell it, and suddenly, your head was numb, and suddenly, you weren’t real anymore, and you were cold, and it was dark, and even though your eyes were open you saw nothing, all void and vacuum like you’d never been alive. You fell forward, reaching and reaching and reaching for something, but you didn’t know what. Unable to find it, desperate for relief, spinning and falling and gasping for air you couldn’t breathe you couldn’t breathe you couldn’t breathe. Your hands dug like claws into flesh the same way a fist crushes a windpipe—violent for the sake of survival—and all you could hear was ringing, like someone had set off an IED. But over the ardent shriek there was a sound: warm and familiar, barely more than a warble of unintelligible words. Rough hands grabbed your face and pressed your head to warmth—your ear to a throbbing heartbeat.

“S’alright, lass,” Soap was saying, but his voice shook. “Ye’r alright. I’m here.”

Your widened eyes stared, unseeing. You couldn’t quite collect enough air to respond, so you just nodded weakly. His heartbeat was loud and steady, and you fought to clear your mind of all except its rhythm.

“Johnny.” Your breathing was shallow as you clung to his shirt. Everything was black. “I-I thought—” The words tumbled out as you gasped for air. “I heard gunshots, and I thought—”

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” he promised, wrapping his arms around you. He was drenched in blood, sweat, and god-knows-what else, but you pressed your forehead to his anyway, fighting for oxygen as frantic apologies fell from your lips. He let out a heavy breath, some burden like Atlas—a mixture of relief and fear and pain and exhaustion passed down through centuries—and pressed his lips to your forehead. Ignoring the sweat soaking his shirt, you buried your head in his neck and squeezed your eyes shut. In that moment, you didn’t care about anything or anyone else. You needed to feel him close, feel the warmth of his breath. You needed to feel him alive.

So that’s why you’d come to see him. That’s why you were here. It had been a few days since the events had concluded, but you hadn’t had much time to talk with all the flying and fixing and debriefing and healing. Your tongue was heavy like lead in your mouth when you looked at him, taking in his soft expression. The gash in his head had been glued shut, no longer dripping crimson, but even in the dark it was still visible, the angry red scar stretching from the top of his forehead to the edge of his brow.

“Y’alright?” Soap asked softly. “Nightmare?”

As strange as the question sounded, it was standard for the both of you. Your job had exposed you to horrors beyond expression—horrors that, no matter how hard you tried to ignore during the day, still managed to haunt your sleep at night. 

You shook your head with a shudder. “M’fine, it’s just…” Your voice trailed into silence, and you shifted awkwardly on the bed. Your mouth felt too dry to speak.

He looked at you and sighed. For a moment you thought he might chastise you, but then he threw his arm over your waist and in one strong motion, yanked you down and into his side, making you yelp in surprise. He practically shoved your face into his neck. “Jus’ tell me what’s wrong,” he muttered, low and raspy.

Briefly, you considered dissenting out of spite, but then you weighed your options, and accepting the cuddle won by a landslide. With an almost indignant huff, you settled in next to him, using his bicep as a pillow and throwing an arm over his broad chest. He was shirtless—unsurprising, since he’d been sleeping—but you didn’t mind. You were used to it in this job, anyway, and Soap was always taking his clothes off. It’s too hot, bonnie, he’d complain in cloudy weather, or We should play strip poker, he’d suggest to piss you off. God knows how many times he had begged to go skinny dipping together. 

You laid your palm on his chest, relishing in the heat radiating from his skin, and let out a small sigh of content as you burrowed into his side. His warm hand settled on your back, its weight grounding, and a chuckle vibrated through his chest. You sniffed. “Be quiet,” you told him.

“Thought you were a bird, not a fucking koala,” he teased, and you dug your fingers hard into his side until he yelped. “Hey!”

“Thought you were Soap, not an annoying bastard,” you mocked, and he snorted.

“Am I at least a sexy annoying bastard?” he joked.

“No.”

“Ah.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, practically melting into his touch, letting all of your senses be filled by him. His scent was different; normally it was masked by sweat, dirt, and blood, but sans-mission, it was an intoxicating spicy-sweet that made your head spin. It was always so comforting to have him envelop you like this, so strong and warm and reassuring. You’d missed this in the past few days—or rather, missed him. Everything that had happened recently had made you feel like you were spinning, spiraling out of control. His warmth, his familiarity—it was grounding. It wasn’t often you allowed yourself to be so soft, especially around others and especially on base, but with Soap, it was different. You never felt like you had to hide around him. In fact, you weren’t sure if you could at all.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated, gently resting his head next to yours.

“S’just…you scared me,” you admitted quietly. You were grateful that he couldn’t see your face; you felt too embarrassed to confess this and meet his gaze. “In Chicago. Thought you were…” You hesitated for a moment, wetting your lips. “Gone.”

The both of you were silent. The memories of that dreaded night flooded your thoughts, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. That drowning feeling came back, faint but just as frightening, and you sucked in a breath, your fingers flexing against his chest.

Buh-bum.

The sound of gunshots.

Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

You smelled blood.

Buh-bum. Buh-bum. Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

No, no blood. Just vanilla and cardamom and him.

“I’m here,” he promised.

Buh-bum. Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

You squeezed your eyes shut. He hummed, shifting, and his fingers intertwined with yours. “We’re on base,” he reminded you. “S’okay. You’re safe. I’m safe. I’m not going anywhere, yeah?”

Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

You focused on his heartbeat, focused on the way it pulsed in his chest like a melody, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

“Ye’r alright, bonnie. I’ve got ya,” he whispered, and the knot in your chest loosened slightly. He hugged you tighter, and your lungs began to drain. “Remember where we are?”

“Base,” you managed. Your breathing was slowing. “Bed. Safe.”

“Mhm, that’s right.” His palm, warm and heavy and familiar, settled on your scalp. The knot unraveled. “And I’m here, yeah? I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, and he squeezed your hand. “Yeah, okay.”

Buh-bum. Buh-bum. Buh-bum. He was alive. You were alive. Things were alright.                                                            He squeezed your hand, silent as he waited for you to calm down. “Y’alright?” he asked eventually. He spoke softly, carefully, like he was trying to approach a wounded animal. The sound of it made your heart pinch.

You reached up to trace the marred skin on his bare shoulders, forgotten scars expanding and contracting with each breath he took, red and pink and white like Valentine’s roses. Your touch was featherlight as you watched the flickers of moonlight peel the layers of his person away, exposing slivers of sullen flesh to your prying eyes. In the pale, scattered moonlight, he looked almost ethereal.

“Bonnie?” he prodded.

“Yeah,” you admitted. You sighed. “I’m alright. It’s just—”

He clicked his tongue, interrupting you. “I got the missile, you got Hassan. It’s all over,” he promised. “Don’ need to worry yer pretty little head about me, bonnie. I’ll be fine.”

You made an indignant noise. “Of course I have to worry about you. You’d die without me.”

His thumb rubbed over your knuckles. “S’part of the job,” he said patiently. “Y’know that—”

“Don’t care if it’s part of the job,” you insisted, and you pulled back slightly to look at him. “I care about you.” Your hands strayed from his shoulders, traveling up the slope of his neck and settling on the sides of his face. His half-lidded gaze met yours, heavy with fatigue, and he leaned into your touch, a low, satisfied noise rumbling from his throat. The roughness of his stubble scratched against your palms, but his gaze was soft, gentle—a wild one tamed. You’d never seen anyone have eyes as captivating as his: deep, shadowy blues that you could only describe as alluring, like the color of the sea before a storm. He gazed up at you through long, dark eyelashes, expression guarding something you couldn’t quite read, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. No matter how hard he tried to hide his emotions, his eyes always betrayed them to you. While others struggled to decipher his expressions, you were a Soap connoisseur—just one look and you were picking apart the pieces of his person like a programmer searching their own code. He knew that. You knew that. Maybe that was why you looked away.

“I’m fine, pet,” he reassured, and he reached up to run his hand through your hair. His blunt nails scratched lightly at your scalp, likely to placate you (it worked), and you relaxed into his touch.

“Just… don’t die on me, okay?” you mumbled. “I couldn’t… you can’t do that.”

In a normal conversation between the two of you, he would tease you for such a statement, insinuate all sorts of wild fantasies and implications. But you both knew this wasn’t a normal conversation, so he simply nodded in earnest. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll try my best.”

“Promise me.” Your voice was quiet, but insistent. 

His eyes never left yours. You both knew that was impossible. “I promise. You too.”

“Me too,” you agreed, and you let your hand drop back down from his face to his chest. You buried your head back in his neck.

“You need to stop worrying so much,” Soap said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. Both of you knew that was impossible.

“Can’t,” you huffed, ignoring him. “You’re always doing stupid shit, like some—some bloody idiot.” 

“Bloody?” His face suddenly lit up with a grin. “All that British talk’s finally getting t’ya, is it?”

“Oh, shut up,” you retorted. “It’s all your fucking Scottish yapping.”

“Aye, but you love my fucking yapping, don’tcha, lass?” he chuckled. He pulled you in closer, humming in satisfaction. The warmth of his body was soothing.

“No,” you mumbled, closing your eyes. Exhaustion was finally starting to seep in now that you weren’t so stressed, and you were melting like butter in his hands. “Okay, well, maybe.”

“Attagirl,” he purred, laying a heavy hand on your head. His fingers traced soft shapes on your scalp, sending pleasant tingles down your spine. “You staying here?”

A noncommittal noise was your automatic response. Logically, you knew it was smarter to go back to your room—sleeping with teammates, regardless of circumstance, was enough to earn a serious reprimand, not to mention the relentless teasing that would come with it—but his chest was so comfy, and his arms were so snug, and you could already feel yourself drifting into darkness, drawn by the lullaby of his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Besides, sleeping together was nothing new; there’d been many a mission in which you two had shared sleeping bags, huddling close for warmth in cold environments (or maybe just for comfort). It’d become a habit at this point, and one you weren’t keen to break. In a profession such as yours, there was safety in numbers, so this way, neither of you would be caught in an ambush alone. And no one could blame you, either; you and Soap had been through thick and thin together, so it was only natural you two were close. As touch-oriented people, it made sense.

But that still didn’t explain the strange, warm feeling that seemed to spread through you. Feeling him wrapped around you, so warm and large in comparison, always made you feel some kind of comfort, some sense of safety that you weren’t used to. You didn’t know why. You could undoubtedly handle yourself, but for some reason, Soap just made you feel safe—no matter if you were here on base or in the middle of Mexico. He just knew you so well, always able to ease some of your worries with a tight hug and a few kind words. Your fingers intertwined with his, squeezing tightly. It was almost cruel: he was everything you needed, but you could barely drink in the comfort of his body, greedy for the heady sense of contentment only he could grant you.

“Night, Birdie,” he bid you softly, and you sighed.

“Night, Johnny,” you mumbled back, and you relaxed in his arms, drifting into strange dreams you wouldn’t remember in the morning.

[superhusbands4ever]

My non-spoiler review of Thunderbolts* because I have a lot of thoughts as a long-time MCU fan and also not really anyone to talk to about it:

Firstly, I will say I did not go into this movie expecting it to be as good as it was. And I mean genuinely good, not just “good for a Marvel/superhero movie” good. It was a story that still felt grounded in reality the way that Phase I MCU did and that felt relatable. I went in with low expectations having been disappointed by the majority of post-Avengers: Endgame movies, but I was pleasantly surprised.

I love that the story was character and emotion driven, and had a message and a self-contained story on top of it actually having direct ramifications on future MCU projects and being impacted directly by events and character actions in past MCU projects. I did not expect this movie to be an emotionally impactful allegory for mental health. I was not expecting such a wonderfully powerful message about the self and how we view ourselves and our actions and our place in the world, despite our past or our mistakes. Honestly of the 13 movies that have come out since Avengers: Endgame (Jesus fuck), this is 1 of only 6 that successfully made me emotionally connected/invested in the story, and 1 of 4 that made me actually genuinely cry because of how the characters made me feel.

It’s just really nice to have a writer and director who understand the MCU movies were always meant to be emotionally driven and character driven stories first, and an interconnected universe second. That is something that I think a lot of phase 4 was missing. It was a lot of “we’re going to make a bunch of independent stories with something set up in the after credit scenes that will get characters from point A to point B and then we might maybe see the characters again or any ramifications of the movie in the next 10 years.” From Endgame to now, with the exception of a handful of movies, it felt very much like they were just throwing things at the wall to see what would stick.

But what makes Thunderbolts* unique is that you can see the through-line of the story. Like I said before, while it works as a self-contained story, it’s also an MCU movie where we see the direct results/impacts of past movies and we can see the way this will directly influence the MCU moving forward, especially in projects already announced. Unlike when Disney was trying to focus on Kang as the next big bad and everything felt disjointed, with Thunderbolts* you can see how this movie is going to impact everything from now until Avengers: Secret Wars and it’s in a way that makes sense. The same way you could tell just from watching Phase 1-3 movies how they would tie directly into Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame and Thanos as the major threat. The movie is subtly important for setting up the next phase of the MCU, but not so subtle that we can’t figure out what they’re trying to do.

And then on top of that, the actual like cinematography and direction choices in this movie are just so much better than a lot that we’ve seen from other movies, like Multiverse of Madness or Quantumania or Love and Thunder. The visual shots and aesthetics reminded of Captain America: The Winter Soldier-days of the MCU. Some shots looked like they could have been straight out of a comic book panel. The use of practical effects over CGI whenever they could get away with it ABSOLUTELY shows in the quality of not just the action sequences, but also the worldbuilding. It definitely felt like a pivoting moment for Disney’s handling of the MCU, and hopefully that is something that they continue sticking to.

Watching this movie genuinely gave me that feeling I used to get watching Iron Man or The First Avenger or Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 1. Thunderbolts* felt like a reminder of all of the things that made me love the MCU in the first place. I can only hope that they keep that direction up with Fantastic Four and Avengers: Doomsday.

[greetingfromthedead]

21. The Caravaners

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 3.2k This chapter has been beta-read by kn1vesm

Author's Note: I am happy to be back and posting Apple Blossoms again! This set of chapters is very special to me and I can't wait to have them all out for you to read! And if you want to join a fun little group chat to have the latest news about this series and talk crazy (about any topic) with other goons, join our Discord community.

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The longer you stare at the faintly lit structure in the distance, the clearer it becomes. Your heart swells again with hope, your stomach taken over with anxiety. The storm of emotions paralyzes you for a moment, so great is the relief of finally seeing a caravan. Nothing says they are carrying medical supplies, but they are a sign that goods are starting to move again. For a moment, you even forget about the distress signal that still flashes in your general direction; all you can think about is the possibility of your worries being over.

Finally, you lower yourself onto your saddle again and push your tomas forward. Your bird carefully makes its way down the dune, and you can faintly hear Knives following behind. Before you reach the caravan, a flashlight floods you with blinding light, and shouts reach your ears. It is a rush of voices and commotion; words of concern slip over your lips, and soon enough you are in the midst of four people, all talking at once.

Once your mind catches up, you start to piece together the situation. The car pulling the caravan broke down during the day and won't start again; the battery is full, and nobody can figure out the reason behind this issue. That's what one of the younger men tells you once you ask what happened. The eldest man doesn't seem too happy with everyone flocking so eagerly around you; he keeps grumbling comments that make it clear he is weary of bandits and other lowlives. The only woman among them is relieved to see you and assures that nobody is injured and that their food and drink supply has not failed them yet. She puts your heart at ease, and afterwards she apologizes for her husband's mistrustful nature. The fourth person is another young man who details everything he has already tried in order to fix the car. You aren't sure how long the conversation takes; you aren't even sure if any greetings were spoken. The caravan people are glad to have caught the eye of someone who doesn't seem to have any ill intent, and you are still like on a cloud, happy to see a caravan and eager to find out what they carry. Not a single phrase or name sticks with you, but by the end of it, you are all on the same page.

"I'm glad nobody is sick or injured!" You smile at them. "But then again, I'm afraid my knowledge only applies to doctoring people and not machines."

"It was a long shot anyway; flagging down a mechanic would have been great, but since you are on toma, you could at least make it to the next settlement with less trouble and perhaps send someone our way," one of the young men speaks kindly, seemingly starting to calm down again and settle into a slower and steadier tone of voice.

"Not sure there are any decent mechanics around, but we can certainly try to get you help. The next settlement isn't too far away. Is that where you came from?" You nod, starting to feel better now that a plan is beginning to form.

"Yes, we left in the morning and broke down somewhere in the late afternoon," the other young man fills you in. "By bird, it shouldn't take longer than a day. We can hold on, no problem, if you would be so kind as to head there in the morning. As long as no worms eat us or bandits come to be a bother, we have the resources to be stranded for at least a few days."

"You came from Grantsmon, right?" You double-check that your knowledge doesn't fail you.

"Yes, spent the night there after driving for two days straight from Octovern," the same man continues, "Boy, oh, boy, is that quite a place nowadays."

"Hey now, perhaps we should get settled? I'm sure our new friends have also had a long day. It is silly for us to just stand around here," the woman speaks up just as you were preparing to ask about the city.

You are led to the other side of the caravan, where the wind is less harsh. They have set up a tent there; it is large enough to act as a shop for their wares but currently houses four spots for sleeping. You follow the caravan people inside after tying up the toma. You keep glancing towards Knives, but he avoids looking at you, or perhaps the hood hides him from your sight by accident. This should be okay. Even if they recognize him, they are stranded and can't haul him off. But what if they take your toma? The bounty is enough to be worth abandoning their wares. Anxiety starts to creep back into your gut.

"We have enough space for everyone. You can set up your own sleeping spots. What we lack in privacy, we make up with protection from the pesky sand," the woman speaks as she pulls the already set-up bedrolls closer together. "Are you hungry? We saw your light; you must have been making dinner. We have enough to offer you some of our supplies too."

You thank her for her hospitality, but you still feel uneasy. The men glance towards Knives, who brings in your bedrolls, his face still hidden by the hood. You realize he might look even more suspicious like this. Uncertainty pulls you apart. If only you could trust people, if only you could keep everybody safe.

"So what wares do you peddle?" you finally ask, trying to draw their attention onto yourself as you help Knives set up the two sleeping spots next to each other.

"Mostly clothes and some other essentials. Food, water, some tech," one of the young men replies with a shrug.

"Do you happen to carry medical supplies?" you ask, hoping to hear a positive answer.

"Sorry, we unfortunately don't. I gather you are a doctor?" The same man crushes your hopes.

"Yeah, I have been looking for traders who could bolster my equipment. I was already low and left most of what I had with some people who needed them more." You wonder how Jenny is doing and how the people you treated are. They probably expect you back soon, yet you are still empty-handed.

"You don't happen to be talking about Silvercrest?" The woman asks and makes you raise your gaze, fingers still gripping the thin sleeping bag you were laying out.

"Yes. Do you happen to have any news?" You perk up further.

"Not really, I just know an emergency package and a doctor amongst the newcomers were sent out in a hurry," the woman replies apologetically.

"Yeah, we heard about it from the other caravan who was getting their own supplies at that time," a young man mentions.

"There are more of you?"

"Oh yes, we caravaners were stuck near Octovern for a while so they could get their productions up. Some we knew from a while ago; for others, it was the first time. A group of us set off at the same time, heading for Grantsmon. We split up only now. They headed for the northern trade routes; we took the western one." You can barely tell who is talking; your mind is already running rampant with the shards of information given.

"So someone is carrying medical supplies among the other caravans?" You ask for clarity on what you already suspect.

"Yes, quite a lot of it too. They're heading for the remaining towns that still might have doctors. They all headed towards New Pernvil, to my knowledge," one of the young men replies, and you finally sit down on your mat, taking a moment to let the good news sink in.

You have hope again that you don't have to head to October. You have confirmation that caravans are moving again, and they carry what you need. You smile, relieved that your journey may not be as difficult as you once feared. You don't mean to glance over towards Knives. And you for sure don't mean to smile at him. But there you are anyway, meeting his gaze and feeling a warm flutter in your chest. His eyes are wide, his black hair messy from the hood that has slipped from his head. He doesn't turn away from you; instead, something akin to a slight glimmer appears in his eyes, as if he is relieved too.

A map draws itself up in your mind; you try to picture a route that would help everyone, but you quickly run into a problem. These people here need the help of a mechanic as soon as possible. The closest town is Grantsmon, but if the other caravans have already moved north, you will lose at least a day of travel time trying to catch up with them. Probably even more. If you could head straight towards New Pernvil, you might meet up with them in just four days, considering that the caravans most likely aren't moving too much faster compared to your toma despite being cars.

"You okay?" the woman asks as she reaches out a bowl of soup to you.

"Yes, I'm fine," you smile, not wanting to reveal that you had the small, fleeting thought of leaving them stranded for longer than needed by heading north in the morning. You can't do that to these people.

"Man, I am glad we found someone in the desert! What luck! I was not looking forward to the possibility of walking all the way back again!" One of the younger men settles into his bed, resting his head on his hands.

"Well, our new friends haven't agreed to anything yet. We can discuss it tomorrow morning and come up with a plan together. Let's rest for now," the woman smiles at the other men who don't seem to be very interested in Knives anymore, who hasn't spoken a single word all this time. They must be used to all kinds of people.

"Right! I am beat!" the other young man announces, stretching his arms above his head.

After this, everything settles—the young men soon are fast asleep, the woman puts away the little burner she used as a light source, and while her husband still seems a bit unhappy, you don't get the feeling that he is hostile, not towards you nor Knives. Perhaps they don't recognize him. Maybe they don't care. Whatever the case, the anxiety within you calms just enough for you to feel tired too. For a while, you fight it. You try to remain alert, especially when Knives gets into his bed beside you, his wide back towards you. Maybe this is what the caravan people were waiting for. Maybe this is the golden opportunity for them to strike. But the long day claims you before you can worry about it for too long, and soon you are fast asleep.

When you finally wake, you feel dry as a bone. Your mouth, nose, and eyes all feel parched. Your body is heavy and tired. You can tell you have slept for a long time; the suns did not wake you this morning since you were hidden away by the tent's canopy.

"Here," you hear a woman's voice, and as you force your eyes open, you see the outstretched canteen.

The warm water still feels refreshing, allowing you to gather your wits and properly wake up.

"Good morning," the woman speaks softly while smiling, "You must have been tired."

"How embarrassing," you mutter while clutching the canteen, "I'm sorry for being so rude."

"It's okay; you have nothing to worry about."

"But we were supposed to head out early to go get you help," you remember, feeling guilty for causing a delay.

"I've got a feeling you don't need to go get anyone, dear."

You wonder about the woman's words for a moment before starting to hear male voices from outside. A quick look around confirms your fear—Knives is gone. Your stomach drops. For a brief moment, your brain turns all the voices into a violent struggle. Before you can jump up from your spot, you realize there is no malice at all in those voices, and suddenly they get interrupted by the sound of a car engine. You slowly get up to go and investigate just as the sound dies down again.

Pushing aside the cloth door reveals the brilliant weather outside. The sunlight blinds you for a moment, but quickly you start to make out shapes again and realize all the men have congregated around the car. Including Knives. He stands in front of the open hood and wipes away the loose hair from his brow that gets in his eyes as he focuses his efforts back onto whatever is before him. Knives wears a different shirt, one that is stained with grease and dirt from working on the car. It barely fits him; the fabric is pulled tight around his chest, and the sleeves are rolled up, revealing his muscular arms that still carry a few scars from his injuries. The others are chatting around him; one of the younger men sits in the driver's seat, halfway hanging out the window to try and see what is happening. The other youngster stands beside Knives, and both of them seem to bombard the raven-haired man with questions he has no intention of answering. Your companion simply stares straight ahead with a stoic expression as he works on the car. You are reminded how he helped the family with their water purification system. He is handier than he lets on, and it is surprising that he reaches out a helping hand at all, considering his usual cold demeanor. You see the slightest hint of strain on his face as he pulls on something and then lets out a sigh of relief.

"Try it now," Knives's smooth voice speaks out as he steps back.

The man in the car quickly settles into the seat to turn the key, and after a few labored whines of the engine, it starts. The men around Knives celebrate and pat him on the back, but his eyes turn to you. His expression is strange, somehow so distant. He doesn't show any joy or excitement, a drastic difference from the scene around him. His gaze seems peculiar; it almost makes you feel as if he wants to tell you something, but on the other hand, he appears as cold as usual.

As you step closer, he averts his eyes, talking to the man beside him and pointing at something under the hood. His voice is low, and his sentences are brief. Reaching the congregation, you get ignored by everyone there. The men are still celebrating, talking over each other, claiming to have known the cause from the beginning, and Knives simply takes a rag and cleans his hands while walking away without giving you a second look.

Despite being used to Knives's coldness, seeing him just turn away without a word leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You don't understand him or his motivations, not for the things he does nor when he acts the way he does. You know there is a more candid version of him; you have seen it yourself. You have seen his gentle eyes. You have cupped his blushing cheek. You know that there is a vulnerability within him waiting to be revealed if only he would trust you enough to stop pretending. You want it, perhaps more than you should. You want him to like you.

"This is fantastic!" the cheerful man beside you exclaims, patting you on the back, "We don't even have to wait for a mechanic!"

"Yeah, I wonder why he didn't say anything yesterday. Strange fellow, but I am glad he could help us out of this pickle," the older man speaks calmly, his low voice reverberating in your bones.

"I certainly thought him strange! I just found him under the hood in the morning! I thought he might take off with our battery or something, but apparently he just couldn't sleep!" The man inside the car pipes up. "He studied it all for quite some time before even asking for any tools; lucky for us, I had them all on hand!"

The chatter continues, but you are unable to respond. You have nothing to say, and your mind is overtaken by the way Knives walked away. You spot the shirt he must have worn before the borrowed one, and you pick it up, heading back towards the tent since you left in such a hurry that your pillow and sleeping bag remained thrown about. You turn the fabric in your hand as you walk back. You don't notice the curtain doors moving; you don't raise your eyes from the faded color, so you can't stop yourself in time and walk into Knives, who just exited the tent. You bounce off his chest, your head quickly snapping back, and the inertia is enough to make you lose balance, toppling you backward. Just before you lose your legs, Knives's hand grabs your forearm, his long fingers securely wrapping around to pull you back into balance, perhaps a little too quickly, a little too recklessly, since you end up stumbling forward instead, grabbing hold of his shirt as you crash back into him.

Even as it becomes clear that you are not going to fall over, Knives's hand doesn't release you, instead holding on, holding you close. Slowly you raise your chin, looking up into his surprised face. You caught him before he could school his features into indifference, his eyes wide, a pinkish shadow flushed over his cheeks. You feel his chest shift under your hand as he draws in a breath, a little later than he should have. As if he held it until now.

"You'll get dirty," is all Knives mumbles, his face settling into a more neutral expression as he lets go of your arm.

You are still left speechless, too flustered to say anything, too taken in by the expression he donned. He shifts away from your touch and sidesteps you, his gaze lingering on you until he can no longer see you from the corner of his eye. You still feel his handprint on your arm; it tingles slightly, and you cover it with your own to soothe the goosebumps. You turn your gaze on Knives's back, who once again walks away from you, the hand that grabbed hold of you brushing its palm against his pants as if you were the one dirtying him.

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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Tom Perkins at The Guardian:

Michigan’s attorney general, Dana Nessel, announced on Monday that she was dropping all charges against seven pro-Palestinian demonstrators arrested last May at a University of Michigan encampment. The announcement came just moments before the judge was to decide on a defense motion to disqualify Nessel’s office over alleged bias. Defense attorney Amir Makled said the motion largely stemmed from an October Guardian report detailing Nessel’s extensive personal, financial and political connections to university regents calling for the activists to be prosecuted. “This was a case of selective prosecution and rooted in bias, not in public safety issues,” Makled added. “We’re hoping this sends a message to other institutions locally and nationally that protest is not a crime, and dissent is not disorder.” Nessel’s office is still moving forward with cases involving the alleged off-campus vandalization of the home and workplace of several university leaders. A handful of other cases against campus protesters still have not been dropped, but Makled said he was hopeful they would be. The protesters and their supporters, among them the US representative Rashida Tlaib, had previously alleged bias in Nessel’s office, arguing that the university recruited her because she was a political ally.

[...] Nessel was recruited by university regents, who were frustrated by local prosecutors’ unwillingness to crack down on most of the students arrested, to take over the case and file charges, three people with direct knowledge of the decision told the Guardian at the time. The investigation also found that six of eight regents contributed more than $33,000 combined to Nessel’s campaigns. Additionally, her office hired a regent’s law firm to handle major state cases, and the same regent co-chaired her 2018 campaign. Meanwhile, Nessel received significant campaign donations from pro-Israel state politicians, organizations and university donors who over the last year have vocally criticized Gaza protests, records show. In September, just days before Nessel announced the charges, a regent posted on Instagram a picture of himself with Nessel and the pro-Israel state representative Jeremy Moss, another outspoken critic of Gaza protests, at an event for the Michigan Jewish Democratic caucus with the caption “grateful for these two”.

Good news: Michigan AG Dana Nessel (D) rightly drops all charges against seven pro-Palestinian campus protesters arrested at the University of Michigan solidarity encampment last year.

[virtuousvigil]

accountability in accomplishments p.1

posting this later from drafts but i wanted to make a post to keep track of my accomplishments for the month of April:

gained 43 followers on here in a month (woah! hello everyone!!)

all my top notes posts on here has been my art (!!!??!?!?!? /sobs)

posted chapter 3 of AMSATASM, got to 1k hits, 42 kudos, 23 subs which is. insane. insane!!!!!! [/sobs louder]

got a few future chapters drafted and outlined as well, have a solid plan to get to the first major plot point!

updated my license (my picture finally doesn't make me wanna fling myself into the ocean)

finished my application for starting my BFA/MLIS in Fall

had some meaningful & important meetings with my mentor that seem to be helping me pave a clearer path in my career

read 2 books after a long slump with reading

started drawing frequently again

finally got my sleep schedule somewhat under control

bad on meds (wellbutrin they could never make me hate you)

applied to volunteer at my local library branch

finished a piece of art for the first time in like over half a year and most importantly......

I GRADUATED WITH MY FIRST ASSOCIATE'S DEGREE!!!! :'D WITH A 3.6 GPA NONETHELESS EHEHEHEHE

[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a digital drawing of riz gukgak from fantasy high. in the front is a relatively small drawing of riz juggling books that are falling out of his hand and a phonecall, and he has a huge backpack on. he looks a bit overwhelmed, hair flying in all directions, and has a nervous smile on. in the background is a large shadow of riz, only one glowing eye and a shining gun visible. the background is red, giving an eerie feel. End ID]

Kill your best friend

Cheat your way to your rogue teacher

Announce your presidential campaign

Don't let them know how angry you are

LEARN TO RECOGNIZE A MONSTER

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[piecesofchess]

Tartarus is still a little broken and that's Fun !

[mortispoxi]

Seeing Twitter users recommending the People Make Games documentary as a good way to get insight on the issue is so….

I know, I’m always extremely disappointed whenever I come across someone who thinks it’s the end all be all explanations regarding the Studio ZA/UM situation.

Recommending that video always comes with a heavy caveat from me that the person needs to stop around the 40 minute mark since the interviewer shows a very clear bias that’s unbecoming of a journalist.

Regardless, now that more people are finding out about these layoffs, which might take out members of the studio that have been there since the beginning, it could finally help smack some sense into those Twitter users that actually thought, FOR SOME REASON, Rostov, Kurvitz, and Hindpere were lying for shits and giggles rather than seeing what's ACTUALLY going on which is that the investors have a very obvious agenda against the real wronged party. Hopefully this'll also open their eyes to how the People Make Games video fed into this twisted narrative that Kurvitz was somehow at fault/responsible for the theft of his own IP, but that might be asking too much from their concrete brains. Here's hoping though!