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ccazimi · 2 months ago

Text

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, mdni, 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.

#tw inc*st #cw incest #sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #sukuna fic #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk au #jjk dark content #dead dove fic #sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna x y/n #sukuna jjk

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Seven

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, angst

Word Count: 4.5k

You meet with Commander Graves. Ghost becomes your guardian. The reality of your situation comes down on your head.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“Have a seat.”

Commander Graves gives you a warm smile but there’s something off about it, like milk that’s about to go sour.

“Thank you,” you reply stiffly, staring just past him so you don’t have to look him in the face.

On the wall behind Commander Graves is a massive map of the world framed by file cabinets, shelving, and informational posters about “staying vigilant to suspicious activity.” On the map, there are no labeled countries. Only the continents and bodies of water are named. Amongst the land masses are different colored stars, roughly eight variations in total. There’s a singular gold one on the map where you currently are. The rest might be other safe zones.

Placing a hand on the back of his chair, Graves waits until you’re completely seated before sitting down himself. A plain file folder sits on Commander Graves’ desk. On the tab is your name. You feign indifference, retaining a neutral expression as Graves settles and opens the folder.

Commander Graves runs his tongue over his teeth, lips pursing slightly as he reads whatever is on the page in front of him. Another stranger—one that Ghost expressed disdain for last night yet refused to elaborate on.

“Medical came back clear,” he states, breaking the silence. “No parasites or diseases. Blood work is normal.”

No small talk then. Right to business.

Graves glances up from the file folder. “Won’t have to deworm you,” he chuckles.

Fucking gross.

Only a few words and you already dislike him.

The paper is turned, and Graves continues to read aloud. “Administered vaccines. Good.” He flips another page. “Psych eval came back not crazy.”

Arrogance. It’s weaved through Commander Graves’ tone, dampened only by his southern drawl. If this were Ghost, you’d have a snarky remark ready to fire off. But you know better than to set a man like Commander Graves off. This is someone with authority—much more than Lieutenant Riley.

Flipping through the remaining pages, Graves returns to a previous one, his gaze narrowing slightly as he takes a closer look. “Mild dehydration. Malnutrition. That’s common.” He pauses. “Have all your teeth. Not as common.”

It’s a checklist.

You might not be a science experiment but you’re not a human being either. More like cattle. A farm animal. A number on a sheet. Results on a page.

Flipping the paper over, Graves scans the page. He whistles, lips twitching with a hint of an amused smirk. “And fertile. The family planner will love you.”

Like a car without oil, your thoughts grind to a halt. Neurons tumble over themselves—stuttering for purchase as they try to process his words.

You voice goes high, cracking at the end. “I’m sorry? The family planner?”

Graves leans back in his chair, taking the results with him. “You’re of childbearing age. Healthy.” He shrugs. “One of the pillars of the mandate is repopulation.” The words fall from his lips casually, almost without motive and simply a statement of fact.

Your mouth hangs open, and you’re unable to formulate anything coherent. It is a waterfall inside your head or a tumultuous river that breaks its banks. Flooding. You are flooding. Drowning. Sinking below where there is no hope of oxygen.

Lieutenant Riley must have known. How could he not? Just a few days ago he pulled you from the Humvee and told Captain Price you were there because of the mandate. Did he bring you here knowing this? Was this his intent all along?

You’d look so pretty full of me.

Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.

Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.

A growing sickness blooms in your gut, twisting and coiling until you’re numb everywhere.

Graves is still talking, moving along as if you’re not ramrod straight and silent, likely staring off into space.

“Too fast and we’ll run out of resources,” he drones. “Things become…unstable. Too slow and we don’t keep up.” Commander Graves waves his hand dismissively. “We have doctors and scientists who handle that.”

There is only one thing on your mind. “And the family planner?”

Graves answers with an assertiveness that’s almost insidious. “You’ll talk with them.”

No maybe. No choice. A simple statement but it is entombment. Nothing to him but a cage to you. That’s how all men are because they don’t have to care. They sow their seed wherever they want and don’t think about what happens after.

You shake your head as if that is enough of a protest—as if that will change anything about your situation. “And if I don’t want kids?” you ask. “What happens then?” Panic creeps in, whispering about how you’ll be nothing more than a brood mare.

Graves appears unperturbed by your question, like he’s heard it all before. Many times. “They’ll be pushy,” he confirms. There is no elaboration, and that only stokes the panic to an inferno.

“But will I have to?”

This is what you need answered. Not that someone will suggest you do or that someone may or may not talk to you about potentially having a baby for the sake of humanity’s survival.

Not only that, but who will be the father? Is that a choice? Or will they make that decision for you?

Commander Graves snorts like the idea is absurd. “We’re not animals. You have rights.”

The panic does not extinguish. You had rights before the world went to shit, and yet some women didn’t have the option to choose whether they wanted to start a family. Having rights means nothing if personal autonomy has restrictions.

You recede slightly as the hope you still held melts away. “Will you go over those rights?” you ask, sinking into the chair, attempting to make yourself appear small.

It’s the first time you’ve been bold enough to ask a question without being startled into it. Anxiety is biting at your heels, but your anger and frustration are quickly rising. What you want is to lash out at Lieutenant Riley, to berate him for putting you in this situation. But you’re also upset with yourself for not trying harder, for not drawing more blood and seeking freedom.

This is his fault.

It is yours.

With a heavy sigh, Commander Graves leans toward the bottom of the desk, opening the lower drawer. Rummaging around for a bit, he eventually withdraws a slim brochure. Straightening, he holds it out to you. You tentatively take it, placing it in your lap.

The cover is light blue with white font. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations. You open it. Promptly shut it. Mandate information. The “pillars.” It’s too much to process and you won’t lose your composure while you’re here with Commander Graves.

You glance up at the small American flag hanging near the ceiling. It’s on Commander Graves’ uniform too just below the flag of the United Nations. All black. No color whatsoever. It’s the one true consistency across all the soldiers’ uniforms.

“So, it didn’t collapse?” you ask, shifting your focus back to the man behind the desk.

Commander Graves pauses and looks up from the open file folder. “What didn’t collapse?”

You hold up the pamphlet. “The United Nations.”

Graves snorts. “Lots of things collapsed, sweetheart.” He nods toward the pamphlet. “Even that.”

“I don’t understand.”

Graves adjusts in his chair. “Whenever there’s a power struggle, something always gives. Creates a vacuum. Sometimes the structures in place can’t sustain themselves when that happens. They collapse. Fracture. They might rebuild or…” He snaps his fingers. “Cease to exist.”

Boldness fuels your next words, the need for answers driving you forward even as another urge tells you to hush. “Are there still countries?”

Graves demeanor changes, his mouth turning toward into a frown. “When people outside the safe zones are brought in, they usually know the answer to that question.”

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I was isolated for many years. I don’t recall much of what happened.”

Commander Graves inclines his head, appeased. “I’ll inform your advisor. Maybe we can get you up to date,” he smiles, offering pleasantness.

“And the advisor is different from the family planner?”

Graves clears his throat. Sniffs. “They’ll handle your transition.”

“Is that not what this is?”

“No,” he chuckles. “Think of me as…crowd control.” Commander Graves rests his elbows on the desk, hands spread as he talks. “I make sure the right people enter.”

You don’t like his implication.

“And I’m the right sort of people?”

“When Bravo team found you, they were on the hunt, tracking down a group that needed to be brought to justice.”

“That’s the sort you don’t want?”

“Exactly,” he grins, and there is nothing sweet in that smile. There is venom in it—a bit of bloodlust.

Closing the file, Commander Graves retrieves a yellow notepad and a ball-point pen from the top drawer of his desk. Placing it on top of the file folder, he flips to a fresh page, uncapping the pen lid.

“We need to discuss where you’ll fit,” says Graves, reclining in his chair, poised to begin filling in the lined paper. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

There is no reason to give him any extra effort. You remain quiet for the sole purpose of Graves to lead this conversation. If he wants anything from you, he’ll have to ask. To dig.

“Let’s talk about what you did before the world went to shit.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Was it my language?” he laughs as if you’ll somehow find that funny. When you remain aloof, he coughs. “What did you do for a living?” he responds dryly.

As little as possible. Minimal effort. That’s all. You can do this.

“I was a library assistant at a school,” you reply, adjusting in your seat. “Spent a lot of time around books.”

Commander Graves’ pen moves across the yellow notepad. “And after?”

A flicker of melancholy blooms in your chest. Thinking about the community you’ve known for nearly five years is a dark spot—a hole in which you won’t crawl out of. To mention them might bring potential harm to the people you care about most. You need to tread carefully.

“I was taken in by a small community. Built up their library. Restored and transcribed books. Worked with the children on their letters.”

There’s the briefest rise of his eyebrows before he quickly extinguished his surprise. “You were a teacher?”

“Sometimes,” you admit but not elaborating further.

“This is good,” nods Commander Graves. “We can use this.”

Not a person. An animal. A machine. They’re expecting contribution in womb and intellect. Your tolerance is quickly slipping, melting away like ice cubes in the sun.

Begging Lieutenant Riley to return you to your home proved fruitless, and you haven’t attempted to ask anyone else. Commander Graves isn’t a pleasant individual, but he has authority, and might agree to release you if you can convince him.

“I’m so sorry to ask this, Commander,” you begin, forcing yourself to appear small and vulnerable. Men like Graves like to feel the hero. “Lieutenant Riley didn’t give me the option to come to the safe zone. When I asked to be taken home, he ignored me.”

Not entirely a lie, but also not the truth. Ghost did answer you, many times, and it was always no.

Commander Graves’ nose crinkles in disgust. “You want to leave? Why would you want to do that?”

Shit. That is not the reaction you were after.

“It’s all I know,” you admit demurely. You even add a fluttering of your eyelashes.

It appears to work.

Commander Graves’ demeaner softens, that southern drawl of his thickening as he talks. “You have nothing to worry over. It’s clean here. Safe. Much better than where you came from.”

How the fuck would you know?

“But if there’s any way—”

The shift is instant. From pleasant southern gentleman to dangerous villain, Commander Graves loses all patience. “I think it’s best you forget about that place. This is your home now.”

Lieutenant Riley’s rejection was firm but gentle. He even showed you pity, surrendered to you when you were most vulnerable and offered his body. This is different. There is violence in it. Graves’ delivery is a promise that any continuation of this conversation will only result in harm coming to you.

You give a quick nod, drawing your gaze downward to avoid that menace. “Of course, Commander.”

Graves presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. The silence stretches, and you dare a quick glance. The intent of violence is fading from his face, replaced with a sternness of a parent ready to chastise their child.

“Education and literacy are important to those in charge,” he says slowly. “That includes the preservation of human history.”

“There’s an archive here?” you ask, some hope and lightness returning to your voice. This is what you know—what you understand.

Commander Graves nods. “All the safe zones do to some degree. Ours is one of the largest, but it’s understaffed. A bit messy.”

“And you think that would be a good fit for me?”

Graves only shrugs. “I’ll make a note in your file.”

You watch as he scribbles something out on the notepad. Tearing it from its home, he tucks it into the file, scratching at his neck as he sets it aside.

“Just because I’ve cleared doesn’t mean you’re free to roam.” Graves relaxes into a more casual recline. “There is a thirty-day probationary period once you leave my office. During that time someone will be assigned to you. Escorting you around.”

Think it’s more like keeping tabs.

“To keep me out of trouble?” you ask.

“Look at it however you want, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You want to smack that condescending smile off his fucking face.

“But they’re here to help you learn your way around. Ask them questions. The transition from the outside into society is difficult for some. We want to make sure it goes smoothly. That you have everything you need.”

“That someone isn’t you?”

Please say no.

“No,” he chuckles. “I’m just here to give the final stamp of approval before you go past the wall.”

Thank fuck. Commander Graves is only a hurdle. There are people higher than him that he answers to. If you meet the right one, you might be able to leave this nightmare.

Graves leans forward and picks out a toothpick from a little holder on his desk, popping it into his mouth. “Lieutenant Riley is the one that claimed you at processing. You’re his responsibility during the probationary period.”

A familiar face. An anchor.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

The end of the toothpick rocks back and forth as Graves reaches for a handheld walkie. “Send in Lieutenant Riley,” he says into it before promptly placing it back on his desk.

Commander Graves is suddenly uninterested in you, grabbing another file from a nearby stack and opening it up to look inside. You are nothing more than decoration. It’s all awkward silence as Graves continues to ignore you. When someone knocks on the door, you nearly jump out of the chair and make a run for it.

“Come in,” calls out Graves.

The door opens wide. You sigh with relief.

Lieutenant Riley steps through, a looming but welcome presence. When his gaze lands on you, his brow softens, that familiar affection seeping in. But it is a fleeting moment. Maybe he senses your distress, or perhaps you appear frazzled because Ghost’s softness hardens. That stare is cold. Bitter. Yet it’s not for you. It slides to Commander Graves.

“She’s ready to go,” says Graves, not even looking up from his paperwork.

You’re being dismissed. Pushed aside.

You bolt up from your chair so fast you nearly knock it over. Ghost takes a step forward, extending his arm, and you go right to him. Stepping into him, he drapes his arm across your shoulders, ushering you from the room. Leaning into him is comforting—soothing. Yet it is also sharped and laced with stipulations you don’t entirely understand.

“Lieutenant,” you sigh as the door shuts.

“Hush,” murmurs Ghost. “Not here.” Behind the balaclava, his gaze sweeps up and down the hall. “Follow me. Quietly.”

It is pure instinct that tells you to hold on to his hand, fingers intertwining as you cling to him. Lieutenant Riley draws you close, keeping you tucked into his side. There is a dangerous bite in his eye, as if he’s daring the world to come and snatch you from him.

Possessiveness. Repeating.

Two more hallways. A stairwell. All of it in silence. If someone crosses your path, they quickly turn around upon seeing Ghost. When the two of you finally make it outside, it’s a breath of fresh air.

You close your eyelids and turn your face toward the sun. “Oh, I missed you.”

A shadow blocks your sunlight.

“Did you?” croons Ghost.

You open one eyelid. “I was talking about the sun.”

“Course you were, love.”

With a groan, you turn away from him. You make it about ninety degrees before Lieutenant Riley’s hand grasps your throat, forcing you back in his direction.

“I’m not in the mood to fight with you,” you murmur.

That whiskey-brown gaze glows with flirty intent. “But you love to hate me.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” you retort.

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze drops to your lips, lingering like he’s considering your mouth. It stirs a heat low in your belly. You’re forced back to that morning when you were beneath him and he stared at your body with adoration.

Ghost’s thumb brushes along your jaw. “Was he a bit of a wanker?”

“Graves?” you ask, and Lieutenant Riley hums in answer. “That’s an understatement. Can see why you hate him.”

“I’m sorry it was him.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “I’m a big girl. Can handle myself.”

Ghost’s grip eases, dropping away. “He’s a todger. Only cares about himself.”

Aren’t you the very same, Lieutenant?

You glance over Ghost’s shoulder at the looming wall. “He said you’re my minder.”

He shrugs. “For a bit.”

“Am I—” You pause, steadying your racing thoughts. “Am I staying with you?”

That flirty gleam returns. “You can.”

“No,” you say firmly, holding up a hand. “Just—just take me…” You trail off, unable to call this place home.

“Take you where you’re staying?” finishes Ghost.

“Yes,” you sigh, your relief palpable. “Please.”

The two of you weave between buildings and rows of frame tents that soldiers pop in and out off. Some glance your way, but no one approaches. It’s like before when you were taken to base. So many eyes on you but they all keep their distance. You stare ahead, not daring to make eye contact. Ghost remains at your side, the silent sentinel and guide.

Each step brings you closer and closer to the wall. Ghost navigates around a cluster of shipping containers, only for the two of you to step out into open ground. Between you and the wall is an electrified fence with barbed wire at the top. He comes to a stop at a set of heavy gates. You’re buzzed through, then escorted down a narrow opening before approaching another gate. You remain utterly silent as Ghost interacts with the guards. While they appear stern, they greet Lieutenant Riley with respect, not questioning why you’re with him.

An exchanging of words. Flashes of credentials.

“Welcome home, Lieutenant.”

You pass through the gate and beneath the wall. There’s daylight from the other opening, illuminating the short tunnel. Your heartbeat becomes thunderous, pounding so loudly it’s all you can hear. If Ghost is talking to you, you wouldn’t be able to tell. You’re on the verge of fainting—or fucking vomiting.

A few steps.

A few more.

Sunlight emerges, and you exit, finding—a city. At least, part of a city. It’s clear that the street you’re on was once a downtown area based on the building sizes alone. They’re all multi-level, jutting toward the sky. But they are only that: buildings. Plain. Simple. The architecture boring and modern.

Several military jeeps roll by, but there are no other vehicles.

Is this the safe zone? Is this all there is?

“Where are we going?” you ask tentatively.

“That building,” points Ghost, indicating a gray multistoried building with windows at even intervals. “Not far.”

“I don’t get a tour?”

“Not today, dove,” replies Ghost, moving ahead.

The only other people on the street are those in uniform. Some are by themselves. Others in pairs or groups. At street level, all the buildings have store fronts. There are bars, a couple of dining establishments, several barber shops, and what might be a pharmacy.

“Where are we?” you inquire, looking around at all the men in uniforms.

“Military housing,” answers Ghost.

“So I am staying with you?”

“No. You’re not staying with me.”

You increase your pace in order to keep up with his long strides. “Then why are we here? I’m not military.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re a civilian.”

“Then why am I not staying with the civilians?”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “Probation.”

“You have to be fucking joking,” you mutter.

“I’m not.”

“That was rhetorical,” you snap sharply as you approach the building you’re staying in.

Ghost punches a code into the keypad of the exterior door. It buzzes loudly, the handle giving easily under Ghost’s touch. He steps to the side to allow you to pass through.

You peer up at the winding stairwell. “No elevator?”

“If there was do you think we’d be taking the stairs?” he replies dryly.

“Asshole,” you whisper, following behind him.

It’s only six flights before Ghost yanks open the landing door, revealing a warmly lit hallway with carpeted floors. The doors are numbered but they don’t mean anything to you. You simply echo Lieutenant Riley’s footsteps. At the end of the hall, he takes a left, only to stop at a door that says “317.”

Withdrawing a key, he slides it into the deadbolt lock. A turn. A click. The door gives. Ghost pushes it wide and backs up, extending his arm in invitation. You lean forward, peering in.

“Go on,” he urges.

You take a step inside onto wood floors. A few more and Ghost enters, the door shutting behind him. It’s an apartment. And it’s barren. Plain. In the living room is a worn sofa and brown side table underneath a set of windows. There is nothing in the kitchen expect a white fridge and a stove that looks like it’s from the eighties. Nothing hangs on the walls. No art. No pictures. No character. You don’t dare go into the bedroom.

“There’s nothing here,” you state.

“Course not. You don’t own anything.”

A suppressing stuffiness settles in, forcing the air from your lungs until you feel lightheaded.

“There aren’t any books. Not even paper. What am I supposed to do in here?”

“Like I said, you don’t own anything.”

“And I just…stay here?” you ask, some of the shock leaking into your tone.

“Yes.”

You turn on Lieutenant Riley. “I’m a prisoner.”

“That’s not true.”

“But I can’t fucking leave.”

Ghost’s tone is neutral. “Not without me.”

You extend your arms outward. “But you won’t always be here. With me.”

“I can be,” he purrs.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Ghost shrugs. “It’s temporary. When the thirty days are over, you’ll move to the civilian area.”

“This isn’t my home.”

“It’s temporary,” repeats Ghost.

“This isn’t my home!”

Lieutenant Riley stares at you, unmoving. Fuck, you want to punch him, or maybe scream if that’ll make him understand. You think you’ll break—look away. But he does, walking away from you and into the kitchen.

“Probably didn’t stalk the pantry,” he grumbles as he starts opening cabinets.

You’re not thinking about food. You’re not thinking about anything except the fact that this barren fucking apartment isn’t yours.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” you ask, voice breaking as your eyes begin to water. “Do you know what you’ve taken from me?”

Lieutenant Riley ignores you. “There’s nothing in the bloody fridge either.”

“Are you listening to me?” Ghost shuts the refrigerator door but his hand remains on the handle. “Look at me, Lieutenant.”

It’s a slow shift. A slight turn.

“I had a home.” You gesture to the empty space around you. “This isn’t a home.”

“I told you it’s temporary.”

You step forward, a twisting fire growing in your chest. “I had a home,” you repeat. “A house. Not…this.”

Ghost remains silent.

“It had a porch with a hammock. The walls were covered in floral peel-and-stick wallpaper that Zac scavenged from a hardware store on one of his many runs. My bedroom window looked out over our community garden.” Grief comes rushing back, slamming into you. “I spent my days surrounded by books. Surrounded by people that love me.”

Ghost’s is still. Unmoving.

“This isn’t a home, Lieutenant.”

He finally drops his hand—finally moves. “I told you I couldn’t take you back.”

“You didn’t even try!”

Ghost strides forward, each step purposeful and slow like a predator approaching prey. “You don’t understand yet. But you will.”

You shake your head, the tears becoming real, stinging your cheeks.

“Get out,” you whisper.

“Dove—”

“Get the fuck out!”

When Ghost remains where he is, you cry out in frustration. If he won’t leave, you’ll separate yourself from him. Every pounding step is cathartic. Slamming the bedroom door feels even better. And there’s a goddamn lock.

Ghost does not come to the bedroom door. He does not attempt to open it. There is only silence on the other side, and your violent sobs.

You don’t remember when you drift off. You only remember waking and that the sun has dipped below the wall, darkening the room. Hesitation clings to your muscles, keeping you in bed a bit longer until you find the courage to peel yourself off the duvet. With shaking breath, you disengage the lock, opening the door just enough to peek out.

Lieutenant Riley is gone. The apartment is empty.

And yet that only worsens your mood.

Your feet drag as you emerge from the bedroom, unsure of what you’re supposed to do now. Sit around? Sulk? It’s not like you can distract yourself. For all you know there isn’t even cleaning supplies, and Ghost insinuated that there isn’t any food. You literally have nothing.

The decision to return to bed is instant.

Rubbing at your eyes, you turn back toward the bedroom door. A glint catches your eye from over by the window. Frowning, you move forward, and then come to a dead stop.

The previously empty side table is no longer empty.

There are books. An entire series if you’re reading the spines correctly. Beside it is a small handheld radio with a slot for a cassette tape along with a few musical options from the late eighties and early nineties. Next to that are two gently worn wordsearch workbooks and a couple of sharpened pencils, tiny sharpener included.

Tears come yet again, and you hate that they do. You hate that you wipe at your eyes, knowing that you’re not angry at all in this moment even though you wish that you were.

You asked Ghost to listen.

And he did.

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monstermoviedean · 1 year ago

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revealing myself as a zero tab freak ☺️

#answers to frequently asked questions:#where do things you want to look at to? i bookmark them or leave them open until i'm done with them and then close them. or i just forget #*go not to #where do all your unread fanfics go? marked for later black hole on ao3 #how do you find things? bookmarks or history #what's wrong with you? a lot of things but this particular one is an anxiety thing #back in the day i used to think having 'clutter' (open tabs) was inviting bad energy/luck into my life #so everything is cleaned up and closed #i also have zero emails in my inbox for the same reason #I am more casual about it now (eg i can have emails in my inbox and tabs open temporarily)#but i still feel satisfied when i have everything cleaned out

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mongoosingisme · 24 days ago

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Oh hey hi hello

New chapter of Pepper Problems

It's called "Sweethearts and Assholes"

It's under the cut. 18+ only if you'd be so kind. 'bout 4.5k words or so. You can read it if you want. It's on AO3 too

It's beta'd even (thank you @dandydanja ily)

Okay thanks love you bye

This is a series! You can start at part one here

In Shane’s mind there were only two types of people. You were either an asshole or a sweetheart. Sweethearts gave to assholes. Assholes took from sweethearts. Tale as old as time and all that shit. Your fate was cast as soon as your personality developed. You were someone who gave or someone who took. Simple as that.

Shane watched his theory play out from his spot in the bar on a Friday night. Pam, down there at the end. An asshole. Gus was a sweetheart, because he kept accepting Pam’s sob stories and knocking charges off her tab. The writer guy was an asshole, because he wouldn’t shut the fuck up when nobody wanted to hear him. The girl who moved in near the ranch was a sweetheart, because she’d sit there and listen to him talk anyway. Marnie? Sweetheart. Lewis? Total fucking asshole. Fuck that guy.

Some people were trickier. Like Emily. She walked and talked like a sweetheart, but underneath she was a consummate asshole. Probably why she and Shane got along so well.

Two guesses as to which one Shane was.

Assholes and sweethearts needed each other, Shane figured. Sweethearts needed to give. Assholes needed to take. Some symbiotic shit or whatever.

The problem was most people didn’t know when to quit. Sweethearts gave too much, until it hollowed them out into nothing. Assholes couldn’t help but take, until they got all big and heavy and mean.

Which came back to the whole “wanting” thing. “Wanting” was a precursor to “taking.” And once Shane started taking, it was like a bottomless pit.

This scared him, because the farmer was the biggest sweetheart he’d ever met.

He waved to Emily for another drink.

————————

A pattern was starting to emerge on nights when the farmer stopped by the saloon. Shane would watch her while he drank. He’d watch her smile, watch her speak, watch her nod and gesture and drink and lean. And then when she was done chatting with Lewis or Pierre or fucking Horace or whatever she’d come sit by him. All casual-like, like a whim. Like they hadn’t done this before. Like in a half hour or forty five minutes she wouldn’t say goodbye to Emily, get up, leave. Like Shane wouldn’t drain his drink and follow her like a fucking dog. Like he wouldn’t catch up to her by the bus stop. Like she wouldn’t invite him up to the house. Like she wouldn’t give him that smile, the one he hated, the one he had to get off her face

(…he hated that smile, hated it so fucking much so big and open and beautiful and shining and for everyone else and not the one for him and she’d make the most incredible sound when he kissed it off her, a mewl, a whimper when he’d dig his fingers into her jaw, and the way she’d gasp when they pulled apart, the way her eyes would be all wide and dark, her cheeks all flushed, her mouth open, all trace of that fucking smile wiped right off her face, and she’d melt into him and…)

They were fucking, he guessed.

He was trying not to get used to it, because good things didn’t last. He was trying to, well, not enjoy it, because enjoy wasn’t really a verb that applied to how he viewed the world, but he was trying to at least appreciate it. Acknowledge that something had gone wrong in the universe’s ledger and this adorable human being who was clearly meant for someone else had fallen in his lap instead.

(…in his lap in his lap she felt so fucking good in his lap as he sat on her couch, pants down around his ankles, legs spread wide, fingers digging into her hips, pushing and pulling and grinding up into her as her forehead pressed against his all hot and sweaty, those fucking hands in his hair all tight and pulling, that mouth all soft and open and letting those sounds out as he spoke to her, as he pulled her down, as he took and took and took and took and took and…)

They didn’t talk about it anymore, which was good because Shane had absolutely nothing to say, a clump of pitch in his throat, closing him off to any words that weren’t the mundane shit they’d shoot while sitting at the bar or the filth that came out of him when she was doing that thing she did, that look, that smile, that squeeze, that shake.

(“…fuck, there you go baby just like that move just like that for me move those fucking hips I know you can do it, know you can do better than that, don’t fucking hold back on me baby, I know what you can fucking do, show me how fucking good you take it, just like that fuck just like that just like that just like that just like…”)

It wouldn’t last.

It would end.

Soon, probably.

Hopefully.

Because if there was one thing Shane was good at, it was choking the life out of the people around him. The more life they had, the faster they’d wither. The farmer was full of life, and Shane’s vine was ravenous.

He was an asshole like that.

—————-

Just because you were an asshole doesn’t mean you couldn’t be responsible about it.

Shane hadn’t always been responsible, not when he was younger, but he was trying to be better these days.

He was trying.

It helped that he didn’t really want to talk to people anyway. Easier to lock all that shit down and let the world swirl on around him. The farmer made it pretty fucking hard, though. Because of her he’d already broken his first rule (don’t want things). He was flirting with breaking his second (don’t take more than you need). He needed to pull things back, because there was only one rule after that one, and it was the hardest one for him to keep:

If you find yourself taking too much, get the fuck out or get ready to bleed.

It was like a universal thing, right? More cosmic than interpersonal. Didn’t matter if the farmer wanted to get to know him. Didn’t matter if she seemed to like fucking him. That was her business. His business was his own. He knew the impact he had on people. He knew how much of himself he could inflict before it all crashed down around him. He knew how much good life would allot him before it made a correction.

He was getting real fucking close to that line.

He could feel it in the way the wanting was shifting. It never ended well, once he went through that shift. Not well for him, and not well for the people he touched.

Get the fuck out he reminded himself.

He reached for another drink.

——————

The farmer leaned more these days.

There were reasons for this that had nothing to do with Shane. He wasn’t that far up his own ass, y’know? She was single-handedly running a farm and it was the peak of summer. Of course she was tired. Of course she had less to say as she stared at her glass of beer. Of course she rested her head on her hand.

“Long day?” It felt strange to be the one to start the conversation.

Another sign of that shift.

“The longest. Fucking aphids on the tomatoes. Been spraying for days but it hasn’t seemed to do a damn thing.” She sighed, rested her head on her arms.

He wanted to be her arms.

“And something’s up with Mama goat. She’s not as energetic as usual. Not, like, lethargic, but not herself either? I don’t know. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.” She looked tired and overwhelmed and Shane was struck by the urge to wrap his arms around her, press his mouth to her temple.

He took a drink.

“Could ask Marnie to check in tomorrow,” he said to his glass.

“Would you?” She smiled up at him, all small and relieved and sincere. “I’d really appreciate it. I’m just not sure what to do.”

Shane grunted in acknowledgement.

He followed her home even though he knew she was tired, pushed her over the kitchen table, and the way she gave beneath him had him squeezing his eyes shut, metering his breath, doing everything he could to hold on just that little bit longer.

She was so fucking sweet.

“Stay the night?” she asked after, pulling up her shorts and pushing the dining chair back into place.

“Can’t,” Shane said. “Got work in the morning.”

He was an asshole like that.

—————-

He thought about it later, in his bed. Head spinning, stomach lurching, shoulder aching. Thought about what it’d be like if he was in the farmer’s bed instead. She’d probably want to fall asleep touching him, knowing her. She’d probably doze off all tucked up under his arm, her head heavy against his chest. Maybe her foot would sneak over, brush against his ankle. Maybe she’d hitch her knee up over his leg, let her thigh rest on his hip. Maybe he’d feel her breath on his neck as he fell asleep.

She’d be warm and still.

He ran his hand over his face, tried to summon up images of her body. Her breasts, her ass, her mouth, her neck. But they slipped out of his mind before he could feel them, and all he was left with was the absence of her weight on his mattress.

“Fuck,” he said into the darkness, and got up to get another drink.

—————-

Shane didn’t know how days that were the same could also be days that got progressively worse, but somehow that’s exactly how it went.

His stomach hurt worse in the morning. The coffee in Marnie’s pot tasted more bitter. It was harder and harder to find a gentle word for Jas, and the shame from this filled his head with static as he walked to work.

Work was the same, always the same, liminal and nothing, his boss bitching, the truck bringing endless loads to the back of the store, and the wheel of his trolley had a squeak to it that he could feel in his teeth. Canned music battering his head and the musty smell of Sam’s mop all churning in his stomach. He’d sneak a few beers from the bottom of a box on his lunch break, toss the cans in the woods out back. He’d get fired if he were found out, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The farmer was the bright spot, but even she came with her problems. The way she belonged to everyone in town, her smile and her gaze and her words and her time. The way he wanted to put his hand on her knee when they sat next to each other at the bar. The way she was trying to get to know him more, asking questions he couldn’t bring himself to answer, leaving only silence until she changed the subject.

“So did you play gridball before?”

“How old is Jas?”

“What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Have you always lived here?”

“Stay the night?”

That last one, again and again. She kept trying. She always kept trying. He wanted to be pissed off about it, dismiss her as clingy and annoying and cast her aside, but instead the question would follow him as he stumbled over the roots between her place and Marnie’s. As he’d stare at the TV screen in the dark, watching reruns of shows he hated and drinking warm beer from the box under his bed. As he’d drift in and out of sleep, not really awake but not at all at rest.

“Stay the night?”

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Because it was coming. A correction. A cosmic balancing of the books. The more he took, the greater the blowback would be. He was an asshole. It was in his nature to take more than what he needed. But the farmer was a sweetheart, and she was never going to stop giving. One of them needed to change their nature, but Shane was scared that was something neither of them could do.

———————

This year the jellyfish left and rain took their place.

Shane hated rain.

Days of it, making him feel even more tired than usual. His shoulder hurt worse. He’d wake up and wonder what would happen if he didn’t get out of bed, just let himself decay until he was one with the mud that soaked into his cheap shoes on his way to work l.

He got out of bed anyway.

The coffee tasted like dirt. Jas’s voice as she whined at Marnie about the color of her hair tie set Shane on edge. He bit down a sharp reply when she tried to pull him in on her side. “Do what Marnie says,” he managed, his voice tight and quick. Jas didn’t cry, but her lip had trembled a little, and the guilt was like lead behind his sternum as he shut the door behind him.

More of the same. Just more of the same.

The farmer wasn’t at the saloon that night. Shane sat dripping and drinking, rebuffing Emily’s attempts to make conversation until she gave up and went to talk to someone else.

He wished the farmer were there.

He wanted to listen to her talk.

He wanted to follow her home.

He wanted.

After his fourth drink he realized he could go to her house anyway.

The rain had intensified while he was at the bar, and he’d barely made it across town before he was soaked. Didn’t matter. He tripped, once, somewhere on the dirt road. Didn’t matter. He was shivering a bit by the time he made it to her door. Didn’t matter. She looked scared when he opened the door without knocking. Didn’t matter.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, half risen from the couch. She was dressed for bed, all ridiculously cute in her matching pajamas. She looked soft, like Shane could dig his hands right into her. “Yoba, you’re soaked. Don’t get the dog wet - she’ll smell like ass all night.”

Shane couldn’t help it, had to scratch at Laika’s ears as she nosed his wrist. “Good dog,” he muttered. “Good dog.”

“What are you doing here?” She was standing by the couch now, one hand on her hip. Not quite defensive, but not quite welcoming either.

“What do you think?”

“To destroy my floors? You’re dripping all over the hardwood. Don’t move.” She walked off into the bathroom. Shane didn’t listen, tracked muddy footprints across the living room floor as he followed her, and the way her hips felt all warm and soft as he slipped his hands under the elastic waistband was worth her sound of annoyance. “I said don’t move!” Her words didn’t matter because she was laughing a little as he pulled her back against him and buried his face in her neck. “Fuck, did you jump in the river on your way over here? You’re getting me all wet!”

“Good,” he muttered, loving how she shivered as his chin scraped her neck. “That’s the fucking point.”

“Fuck you!” All laughing still, all wiggling under his hands, laughing harder as he grabbed her in tighter, as he couldn’t help but tickle at her waist, make that laugh louder, make her bend and move and Yoba this moment wasn’t for him, it couldn’t be for him, it was going to count against him someday when all was said and done but he couldn’t find it in himself to care because she was moving and she was breathing and she was heavy against his arms as her laughter grew hard enough that she started bending at the knees. “Take off your clothes,” she gasped, clutching at the sink to steady herself.

“Buy me dinner first.” Shane didn’t want her steady. He wanted her folding and staggering and leaning and falling until the only thing holding her up was him.

“Buy me fucking dinner sometime, you ass.” Still laughing, turning in his arms now, yanking at the collar of his hoodie and alright, alright, that was fine. It felt better to get it off of him, so he let it fall to the floor with a wet slap. And yeah, okay. The shirt too. It was good, the way her hands felt on his stomach as she dragged it off of him, fingers spread warm and wide, tracing up over his chest, over the place where his heart was hammering, the hem of his jersey catching on her wrists until she pulled it off completely.

“You’re so cold,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

She was such a sweetheart.

And then her hands were on his buckle, gripping the waist of his pants, and by the time they were falling past his hips he realized he’d never taken all his clothes off in front of her. He’d never seen her naked either. It was always some shuffle of fabric with the two of them, a shift but not a revealing. But then there he was, naked in her bathroom, and she was handing him a towel as she scooped up the pile of his clothes and all he could do was watch her as she walked off towards the kitchen.

“What the hell?” he called to her back.

“Putting them in the dryer,” she said. “You can have them back in the morning.” She looked over her shoulder and grinned, and Shane wondered if he’d just been tricked.

He should grab them back. Put them back on no matter how wet and awful they felt. Head out the door and go back to his room and drink his beer and stare at his ceiling. Because Shane was someone who took, and the way the farmer kept giving meant she’d have to be hollowed out soon, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done it and she probably wouldn’t be the last and fuck if he wasn’t such a piece of shit he could still do it, still get the hell out of there, but he didn’t.

Because he was an asshole like that.

————————

The situation could have been salvaged. Looking back Shane was sure of this. If all they’d done was fuck it’d be fine.

He should have done it, when she dragged him out to the couch with a towel around his waist. Should have pulled off those cute little fucking shorts and buried his mouth between her legs and made her shake until the dryer stopped and he could get out of there.

Instead he fell asleep.

There on her couch with the tv on, her shoulder underneath his arm, leaning on him all heavy and real, her cheek on his chest, her hand on his belly, his eyes getting heavy so quick. He should have just gotten up and gone home but instead it was just warm haze and her waist under his hand and a weight in his mind lifting and nothingness rushing in until the buzz of the dryer made him wake with a start.

The farmer was jumping up, and he tried to focus on how her ass looked walking away instead of the way his hand wanted to reach out after her. He rubbed his face, tried to will some motion into his body, tried to get up so he could get his clothes, put them on, fucking get out of there, but the couch was so comfortable and his body was so heavy all he could bring himself to do was watch her disappear around the corner.

When she came back she was wearing his shirt.

His shirt.

The farmer was in his fucking shirt.

He could feel those vines wrap tighter as he took her in. It was bigger on her than on him, slipping off a shoulder and cutting off mid thigh. Her body was obscured but in his mind he could still see it, could imagine how it’d feel to run his hands up under the fabric and grab and squeeze and

Fuck

“Ready for bed?” the farmer asked.

Fuck fuck fuck

Shane couldn’t stop staring as she walked past him. She didn’t stop to see if he was behind her, just walked to the bedroom with complete confidence that he would follow like a fucking dog.

Shane followed like a fucking dog.

“Nice shirt,” he said.

“Thanks!” Sunshine smile. Shane tried not to let his fingers curl, tried not to imagine the way she’d look at him if he kissed the joy right off her mouth.

“I have to go. I can grab the rest myself.” He watched as she pulled back the blanket on the bed.

“Told you,” she said. “You can have your clothes back in the morning.”

Shane’s heart was hammering. His buzz was wearing off. The half hour nap had him feeling half-removed from reality, all loopy and slow and stupid and Yoba’s Light she looked so fucking incredible in his shirt.

This was going to count against him.

This absolutely wasn’t for him.

“I need my shirt.”

He was trying.

She shrugged. Smiled again. “Come and get it then.”

He didn’t know if it was that smile he hated, the tone of her voice (all direct and teasing and sweet), or the way she didn’t wait for him to respond, just leaned over to fluff a pillow

(…his shirt riding up higher on her leg as she leaned and he could almost see the curve of her ass beneath it and was she wearing anything underneath? Maybe she wasn’t maybe he could just grab her and pull her and get his mouth on her, just knock her back on the bed and she would be right there and right where he wanted her and he wouldn’t have to do anything else just feel her on his tongue and…)

and he was moving, getting his hands on her, up under the shirt on her hips and fuck there was nothing else there and she was laughing, laughing and squirming and that’s not what he wanted, he didn’t want her laughing, not right now, but she wiggled away from him and backed up a few feet.

“Nice try,” she said. Fucking sunshine smile. “C’mon, hop in bed.” But that’s not what she was doing. She was backing away more, body tense and ready, smile still on her face, baiting him again, he realized, giving him exactly what he wanted because she was a sweetheart and that’s what she did.

Shane was an asshole.

That’s why he didn’t care too much about how hard he grabbed her arm. It’s why something leapt in his stomach when she made that gasp, the good one, the one that made him yank her close and clutch at her hair and bruise her lips with his and when he pulled away she wasn’t laughing anymore and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were dark and this wasn’t for him but he was going to take it anyway.

She smiled at him. The fake one. He pulled her hair tighter and there was no more smile, just a gasp, just that look that said more

(…fuck baby don’t worry I’ll give you more I’ll give you everything you fucking need you fucking need this don’t you need my fist in your hair need your face pushed into the bed like this, just like this don’t you? I feel it, I feel it, feel the way you’re so easy to move, huh baby? You’re moving so easy because you need it so bad don’t worry don’t worry don’t worry sweetheart I get it I got it don’t worry don’t worry I’m gonna give you exactly what you need…)

She whined all wild and needy as he swung her around. He kept his hand in her hair as he pushed her into the bed, face down, feet on the floor and there was still time. Still a chance if he didn’t fuck it up but of course he fucked it up, what else could happen when it was him and it was her and she wanted it so badly and he wanted it too?

“This what you mean, baby?” And she was gasping again as he shifted his hand, pressed in hard where her shoulder met her neck. “Want me to get my fucking shirt?” Arm up around her waist, hauling her forward enough to get her knees up in the bed, and her back was arching for him

(…good girl such a good fucking girl all ready for him like that, what the fuck was he supposed to do when she was looking back at him like that with that smile gone and her eyes wide and her ass in the air and she wasn’t laughing now, wasn’t laughing when his palm hit her ass, not so fucking interested in getting to know him now was she, not so fucking chatty are we now baby no we fucking aren’t…)

His shirt was pooling down around her shoulders, and his towel had dropped somewhere, and fuck it was so easy to push into her, to gasp when she gasped, to groan when she groaned, to rock and to move and to get lost in it, to spread his hands over her hips, to pull her forward and back, to take it slower, maybe, than what they’d built up to, to really feel it as he pushed in, the lack when he drew half out. Again and again, slower and slower, making it last because it had to be the last time, he knew it now, it had to be because he didn’t want to do it again.

He wasn’t going to do it again.

But after he came in her, all shuddering and deep and endless, she flipped to her side, crossed her arms over his shirt, tucked her knees up close to her chest. “You can have it back in the morning,” she said. “Stay the night.”

Stay the night.

What else could he do?

The chance was gone now.

All three rules broken.

He was fucking it up.

He wanted to fuck it up.

He wanted it. Not the falling asleep but the waking up.

And he was right. He was absolutely fucking right. She curled up against him as he laid on his back, nestled her head against his shoulder. The weight of it made his heart slow. The subtle movement of her chest against his ribs as she breathed consumed his focus for a while, and the pattern of his breathing followed hers as he stared up at the ceiling.

A clicking, the door creaking open, a shift in the mattress as the dog jumped onto the bed. A wet nose on his hand. The farmer moving, sighing in a way he’d never heard before. She murmured something too quiet to hear, pressed a kiss to his chest, hitched her thigh over his leg and went back to sleep.

Such a sweetheart.

Giving him exactly what he wanted.

That vine stretched further.

He gave her what she wanted too.

Because he was an asshole like that.

#stardew valley fanfiction #sdv fan fiction #sdv shane #shane stardew valley

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shehatescoffee · 2 months ago

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on my gen z jjk first year trio train of thought again, specifically how they would be as fans of other media...

i imagine megumi is MILITANT about both his goodreads and his letterboxd. he does NOT hold back. but surprisingly he gives five stars to the trashiest romance novels and the most low budget cash grab films while simultaneously ripping them to shreds in his review. he will rant about the stupidity of rotten tomatoes scores if given the slightest chance. he reports people for putting fanfiction on goodreads because do they want to ruin it for the rest of us??? he has 372 ao3 tabs open, carefully sorted into labeled groups.

yuuji loves films too obviously, but he pretty much gives everything 5 stars and puts a bunch of thumbs up emojis in his reviews. megumi got him into letterboxd but he only remembers to update it when megumi reminds him. similarly, he has a goodreads account but there are only like two reviews on it, one for a cookbook and one for a manga series he never finished. he does not know what fanfiction is until he accidentally catches megumi reading it and then he's all in.

nobara tries to SEEM very casual and writes ironic or jokey one sentence reviews on both sites but they usually aren't very funny. she wants to be ayo edebiri SO bad. she also only updates with movies and books that are like oscarbaity or ridiculously serious, and pretends she doesn't read or watch shitty romance but she does. she does. she refuses to admit that she used to be a wattpad warrior.

#jjk trio #jjk headcanons #jjk first years #jjk #itadori yuji #fushiguro megumi #kugisaki nobara

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wonderlandsakura · 10 months ago

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Ok for some reason my brain is hyper focusing on Johnlock again like I won't regret it 2-3 business days from now when I come out of it with 5 new open AO3 tabs (out of my already 156 open AO3 tabs not counting other unfinished/unread fic/fic I've not caught up on, full disclosure) for fic that I probably won't finish reading and/or while being unable to find the. Very Specific. fic I want to read and just having like an open half-filtered tab... But Anyway.

Here's a Very Rare Johnlock Post from me lol

Imagine after all the seasons are over and Johnlock are old and have finally talked about their feelings and properly, actually, gotten officially together

(and subsequently gotten married in like 2 months cause Sherlock filled out the paperwork while John was not actually at home and then actually having a discussion about it when John finds out it happened cause Sherlock casually mentions it and actually agrees after Sherlock mentions (read: steamrolls over him, anxiously) them practically already being married by common law and just officialising it for the tax benefits... they only have a proper wedding, maybe on their/an anniversary when Mrs Hudson finds out probably 6 months later or sth and complains,, but I've gone on a tangent again)

Anyway Rosie is a teenager, with after-school activities and a phone.

I'm just imagining Sherlock dragging John out on a murder case (read: date) and deciding to feed him midway through (like always, tbh,, sth sth that post about feeding the depressed man that tends to forget to eat but I digress)

So Rosie gets a text and a voicemail from the two of them (cause Sherlock prefers to text and tell me John is not the sort to leave voicemails, like he would have put it on the voicemail machine if they had one he's so old man sometimes)

And it goes something like:

[Text from Papa]

Ragù Bolognese, Angelo's, 7pm. Hugs. -SH

[Voicemail from Dad]

"Hi honey, it's Dad.

Sorry we won't be able to make it to dinner with you, your father's got a case and you know how he gets...

Anyway, Mrs Hudson is going out tonight remember, so your Papa is booking the usual table at Angelo's for you... You still like the Spaghetti Bolognese right?

Don't worry about us, we'll eat before we get home. And the reservation is at 7, so don't be late. This will probably take a while so don't wait up either and go straight to bed young lady, you hear me?

Anyway I've got to go, loveyoubye."

Anyway I think it would be very cute, like they love and care about her, even if they're old men who laugh at crime scenes and whose ideal date is trying to catch a murderer together, and they show it by taking a moment to make sure she's fed with her favorite food even when they're busy solving crime, so yeah.

#i know sherlock is not the type to message “hugs” and stuff that often but i feel like he would do it for Rosie #cause he's enamored like look at the way he looked at hee in the show #that's his baby #and john somehow manages to be the worried mother and the stern father in one conversation #he has a lot of practice tbf #i think i used anyway too much sorry #i also kept going on tangents i might need an adhd diagnosis my brain is so scattered sometimes but i think it's also hereditary #ANYWAY I'M OVER SHARING #shut up wonder omg they don't need to know everything lol #anyway (sorry so many anyways) i hope you liked this. it will probably never happen again #I'll stop writing random tags now #johnlock #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #john watson #bbc john watson #bbc johnlock #rosie watson #post season 3 #teenage rosie watson #Angelo's mentioned #texts #voicemail #gave up on formatting btw

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comrademutancy · 4 months ago

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2 quick Obikin recs while I have the tabs open bc this was originally started as a fic rec sideblog

Within Limits, now orphaned on AO3, previously under the username "sacrilegist," originally posted on livejournal in 2005, 22k, explicit

summary: "Anakin’s fustration grows as he and Obi-Wan’s tour on the Outer Rim goes on with no end in sight."

very intricately written. a lot fic will say "oh how they bantered" or "they loved to quip" or "one would never let the other have the last word" and so on and leave it as an article of faith or something in a purely decorative, adjectival way intended to add some casual flavouring to the characterization of a relationship without actually working out or even caring very much about the sources and consequences of this kind of friction. NOT SO THIS ONE. The relationship IS essentially in its very form this contestation. of words, and emotions, and status, and autonomy. I don't think I have read another Obikin fic that so explicitly and thoroughly and continuously explores some essential conflict between the two of them in this way.

am I explaining it well? I don't think so. ok. there's a lot of fic that do some aspects of power negotiation very well. or you know, Darth Vader is some variant of evil/unacceptable/way beyond the norms of permissible behaviour and Obi-Wan is... not. And that poses an intractable conflict. this fic is like... what if we have that intractable conflict BEFORE any of that even begins to fully realize itself, assume it was there all along. (I think a very common premise anyway? but rarely taken seriously and written out all the way)

I am also very predisposed to the idea the Jedi Order is very casual about sex in terms of dogma or principle, but Anakin or (in this case) Obi-Wan have specific personal reasons why they cannot be casual about sex with each other. this fic is a great example. (I also enjoy interpretations when they are casual about sex with each other. please msg/reply w recs if you know of any!)

History Never Repeats, ValiantBarnes (Cimila), 36k, mature

summary: "There's no possible way to keep track of how long Obi-wan's lived, now. He lives, he dies, he lives again. He'll wake up somewhere in the past, the possibility of change infuriatingly close but forever out of reach. Anakin always falls to Vader; the Republic always fails. The hows and whys of both are not set, Obi-wan's interference never changing anything for the better.

He quite dislikes the lives where they find themselves on Mustufar. The heat of it, the stench; Anakin's yellow eyes burning more than the lava ever could.

Sometimes, Obi-wan misses the sickly yellow of them as much as he does clear, sky blue."

if I had to pick, this is probably my favourite Obikin fic of all time. some things I really care about: intractable conflict, Obi-Wan's infinite sadness (did you know the tag "infinite sadness" on ao3 actually directs back to Obi-Wan's infinite sadness specifically???), a certain level of fidelity to canon and canon characterization if we're not going total AU or similar, murderous impulses taken to their logical conclusion

at longer length: I think I like this so much more than other (also excellent) time loop stories because it never lets go of the brutality of Vader's crimes and his personal involvement in the fall of the Republic as the underlying engine driving all of Obi-Wan's choices and actions. and so Obi-Wan will never stop trying to thwart Vader and Sidious by whatever means necessary. like of course it's a personal history/story for Obi-Wan and Anakin and that, as usual, is the emotional core of this fic. but they were also adherents of ideologies. real true believers. the violation was not only at the level of personal betrayal (and murder and maiming and so on) but a fundamental breach to belief systems they were living and dying for - ie the Republic. the destruction of everything once held dear doesn't just happen incidentally or accidentally. I read Obikin fic because I care about their relationship, but I care about their relationship because it's an artifact of a galactically rending conflict preceded and followed by centuries of rebellion and revolution, which is not something that could be avoided with just a change in disposition or temperament. there has to be a futility to the effort and at the same time there can never be any question Obi-Wan would ever stop throwing himself on the pyre of history in a seemingly hopeless attempt to put it out. Spoiler alert: we are rewarded w a HEA, a very lovely wrapped with a bow HEA, and it feels earned precisely because it was not guaranteed. to be honest I don't think I would be as emotionally satisfied or loved this as much if it was otherwise but I would almost respect it more for leaving us hanging

please read this fic I love it so much

#Obikin #fic recs

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backjustforberena · 1 month ago

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I just finished your latest story on AO3, Salt in the Wound. It is so good, I would love to see that conversation, my brain is already ticking. And also, Meleys, that ending also has me wondering!You write Corlys and Rhaenys so well!

Anyways, I am responding to your offer to answer questions, and I love reading your thoughts on everything Eve. Have you or would you ever write for Maryland? I’m drawn to Rosaline, of all Eve’s characters she might be my favourite. Do you have any head canons about her you’d like to share?

Oh, no, I've been busted! Honestly, sweetie, this ask just made me laugh so much. Thank you for sending it in, that's made me smile. And let me tell you why... it's because I literally have a tab open on my browser, right now, for a Maryland fic. I've been adding to one for the last few days, fleshing it out! So the answer to your question is... yes, I think I would probably write for Maryland. It's my first foray into the space - there are some lovely fics already available by other authors, so you should totally check those out, if you haven't already. I have got headcanons. I have got ideas of Rosaline's past and Rosaline's future and how it all pans out with the family and with Jacob and life on the island. Just conclusions that I've come to, based on the material we get from the show and coming up with answers to questions left open by the show as well. The fic that I'm working on is a bit (stealing a phrase from a friend who has been kind enough to listen to me witter on about it) slice of life as it's set two weeks after the end of the show. It's just a scene with Rosaline and Becca reuniting and the moment but it could springboard into something bigger. Certainly I have headcanons about Rosaline's past relationships (casual and non-committal, the affairs with married men are few and far between but are plural, hasn't had a serious boyfriend since university, stopped looking for one after her second bout of illness a decade ago). Her work/life balance (she doesn't have a 'life' - she's friendly but doesn't particularly cultivate friendships, again, as a defensiveness). Her health and diet (totally fastidious but would never admit to anyone that it's born out of a desire to control or prevent being poorly again - she'd just say she likes running, which she does, and deplores sugary things, which is also a little true as well). She is also actively a snob and won't apologise for it but there's still something liberating about home comforts. Thank you, as well, for your kind comments on "Salt In The Wound". I'm very pleased you enjoyed it. I had fun coming up with that dynamic between Addam and Rhaenys. And, as you say, poor Meleys! Though it's up to the reader if Meleys is alive or not. I deliberately chose not to be concrete in her fate. So it's absolutely up to you. A question for you now... what makes Rosaline such a favourite of yours?

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r473n · 7 months ago

Text

New KenMayu just dropped!

Kenchan x Mayuri AU modern world.

Gift for @toxictaicho and @srtruth 💜

Zaraki is a retired army guy finding it very hard to balance his internalised homophobia and the fact he is falling in love with a dude.

Mayuri is a neurosurgeon with no interest and no time to waste on a relationship, certainly not with that idiot man that keeps appearing everywhere he goes!

Fluffy, smutty, self-indulgent mess.

Mayuri's transness plays a pivotal role in this fic - I normally only mention it casually as another adjective that describes him - and there are going to be some uncomfortable conversations around transphobia and homophobia. But this is fiction, so I get to make it all end up happily, yay!

Link to ao3

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Will he, won't he

Chapter Text

He strode briskly along the sterile, white, hospital corridors. The clacking of his Louboutin oxfords echoing angrily in the quietness that surrounded him.

This better be fucking good, he thought, or they are getting shouted at until morning.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi hated the night shift. He had no problem staying awake - he’d frequently forget to sleep when he was engrossed in an exciting project - but he detested the lack of a rigid schedule and the constant interruptions, most of which were dull consultations that he wouldn’t deign to reply to in normal circumstances - when other, lesser clinicians were available.

He couldn’t really complain -though he frequently did - most of the residents were so utterly terrified of him that they rarely dared call him, unless the situation was dire.

He pushed through the big double doors of ER and was immediately hit with a cacophonous mayhem. People in blue and green scrubs rushing left and right, a patient whining somewhere, another one crying for their mommy - or morphine, he wasn’t too sure - some doctor shouting instructions that were all wrong... he shuddered. This was why he loathed coming to emergency care - there was too much noise and too much stupidity. When he was operating silence reigned, only his voice could be heard, and that was his idea of heaven.

His ears began ringing painfully. No matter how much he modified those damned cochlear implants they always failed him when there were too many sounds. He could feel the migraine approaching.

“Sir, it was me who put on the call.” Said a petite intern with big, puppy eyes. He looked so young Mayuri was tempted to ask him if his parents knew he was out at this hour. “I'm so, so sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr. Lemura already has a bleeding brain tumour.”

“Well, that would certainly explain why he is so bad at his job.” He said, massaging his temples. This was going to be a terrible night.

“Oh... I-I mean-“

“I know what you meant, idiot. Stop your babbling and give me the history.” He extended his hand, the moment the folder touched his fingers he wrenched it from the boy’s grip. “Where is the patient?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Over here!”

He skimmed through the clinical notes as he walked, trying to pay no mind to his surroundings. Nothing much for past illnesses apart from some mild liver issues, bloods showed high levels of alcohol - nothing atypical at this time of night. Reason for admit: blunt trauma to the head, suspected concussion... A drunken brawl? This asinine case was why this imbecil had woken him up?

“Here we are, sir” said the intern, holding open the partition curtains around one of the gurneys so he could walk through. The whole of the ER was compartmentalised, by drapes hanging from ceiling tracks, into small, almost identical sections that were only big enough to house a hospital bed, a table and a chair.

“Log in and find me his MRI” he muttered without looking up from the page.

“Yes, sir. I had it ready, here” placing the laptop he’d been carrying under his arm on the little overbed table, the young medic opened the tab with the results and stood as far away from Mayuri as he could whilst remaining polite.

Kurotsuchi leant closer to the computer screen and studied the 3D images for a few seconds. Ah, this is much better, he thought.

“Congratulations.” He mocked through a growing smile. “you’ve earned yourself some one-on-one time with the best surgeon in this hospital.” He turned to look at the patient and his grin faltered. The guy was in a terrible state. His face was a bloody pulp, his left arm was in a cast and his chest was covered in bandages that couldn’t hope to conceal the large haematomas spreading over his skin - which signalled many a broken rib. He looked like he’d been run over by a train, not punched by some hooligan.

Mayuri quickly flicked through the pages fearing some mistake. “This is the right patient?” he asked, frowning threateningly at the young doctor.

“Y-yes, sir... Is-is there a problem?” the poor boy’s face had quickly lost all colour. He anxiously tried to peek at the chart in Mayuri’s hands from a safe distance.

“Are you trying to tell me that this man’s injuries were caused in a fist fight?” He could feel his rage starting to bubble inside his chest. The stupid curtains did nothing to quieten the unbearable surrounding racket and now he had to deal with some inefficient anamnesis, or worse, a lying patient.

Ignoring the intern’s nervous stammering he turned his attention to the man again.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Mr. Sato. I haven’t got the slightest interest in your life, your struggles, your health concerns nor what may have caused your lesions... But, unfortunately for the both of us, in order to do my job properly, and avoid any further senseless demotions, I need to know the truth!” He took a deep breath before he continued, trying to reign in his anger and hopefully improve his pounding headache. “Now, how did you get these wounds?”

The man looked at him with a wary expression, his swollen eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I was beaten up by some guy.” He muttered as clearly as his broken jaw allowed.

“Some guy... one, single individual?” Mayuri prodded, incredulous.

“Yes! – ouch - Why the fuck would I lie ‘bout that?”

Mayuri knitted his brows - he had a point. Why would this pitiful ned lie about being beaten up by one man, if I were going to fib he’d probably excuse his loss behind some overused fabrication such as ‘there were too many to count’.

“I see.” He stroked his chin, still not fully convinced. “Well, regardless, you have a subdural haemorrhage that needs surgical correction. I will be performing the operation tonight. You can thank me later.”

“Wait, didn’t you say you’d been demoted? I don’t want you operating on me!” the man exclaimed anxiously, wincing in pain.

“I’m terribly sorry I gave you the impression that I care... Patients don’t choose their clinicians in this hospital, which is lucky for you, because you clearly make bad decisions for a living.” he sneered, then handing the intern the file he instructed “I want everything signed and him ready in an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mayuri exited the small area with a dramatic flourish that left the curtains billowing behind him. Perhaps all wasn’t lost, the surgery was simple enough for him, but it meant he likely wouldn’t be bothered again for the rest of the night.

“Mr. Kurotsuchi! How good it is to see you down here!”

A cold chill ran down his spine. That sickly sweet voice always made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

“I was on my way out.” He announced, not looking at his interlocutor, hoping that would cut any further conversation at the root.

“Ah, of course, you’re such a busy man.” Dr. Unohana continued in a patronising tone, gazing at him with her infuriatingly calm expression.

Dr Retsu Unohana was the head of ER and one of the longest standing doctors in the hospital, which, despite her young appearance, made her into a mother figure for most newbies. They all flocked around her like ducklings afraid to get drowned by the current. She was an institution. He would never admit it, but Mayuri considered her one of the most brilliant clinicians he’d ever met. She wasn’t on his level, of course, but she was too close for comfort.

“I was wondering if I could borrow your expertise a little longer. It’s not every day that we are blessed with such a prodigious mind around here.” She said, smiling politely. She had a way to make Mayuri feel small and provoked with each vacuous compliment.

“I’m afraid I can’t. I have to prepare for surgery.” He said curtly, examining his fingernails.

“How exciting! Luckily this will only take a minute.” She pierced him with her icy stare until his will crumbled and with a derisive snort, he admitted defeat. She was a stubborn woman, she’d argue until morning, it was probably best to just go with it than try to escape her passive-aggressive coercion.

Still wearing that maddeningly benign smile, she lead the way and he followed.

“I must admit this probably won’t be as exciting as your usual cases, but I need a neurologist to double check that my patient’s cranial reflexes are intact, before I discharge him.” She casually explained as she walked uncharacteristically slowly.

Mayuri hummed in response. She was more than capable of performing a basic neurological exam, she didn’t need him to double check anything. What was she up to?

“Here we are,” she announced merrily, opening the curtains to a slightly larger cubicle. Mayuri’s mouth fell open. Sitting on the edge of the bed was the most bestial looking man he’d ever seen. His size alone was extremely intimidating, even without the blood stains over his hands and shirt. Mayuri noticed he had an old scar that ran down the side of his face and seemed to have damaged his left eye, and wondered what could have caused it. “Mr. Zaraki here has suffered blunt trauma to his skull, from a hard object, I believe it to be a pool cue?”

The man in question assented with a gruff grunt and Mayuri immediately felt a pleasurable thrill run down his spine. Oh, why is my body such a slut, he thought.

“I'm fine. I told you already, woman. No need to go wasting other people’s time!” The man stood up aggressively, his enormous frame casting a large shadow over the two clinicians. Mayuri's heart rate skyrocketed, he couldn’t tell if the sudden rush of adrenaline was due to exhilaration or apprehension, or perhaps a mixture of the two.

He glanced at Unohana out of the corner of his eye, she seemed as tranquil as if she were sitting by the seashore.

“I'm afraid your injuries might be more serious than you hope, Mr. Zaraki, and since you won’t consent to any imaging, we have to take a more traditional approach.” She explained in a sympathetic, mellow tone that felt completely out of place. “You should sit down.”

“I sai-“ the giant tried to argue, but was immediately cut off.

“You should sit down.” The second time she spoke there was no room for interpretation, she might have omitted ‘or else’ but it was certainly implicit. Her voice had turned steely so drastically that the temperature of the room seemed to drop by at least 10 degrees.

Despite her big, round eyes - that spoke of a demure innocence - and her small stature, there was a dark side to Unohana that seeped out like poisonous fumes from time to time. It was a calm, calculated type of assertiveness that was somehow so terrifying it triggered an innate flight response. She never needed to get angry, her aura was threatening enough for anyone to contradict her.

Zaraki must have felt the shift too because without further protest he did as he was told and sat back down, eyeing her cautiously.

There was a long, awkward silence before Mayuri realised that was his cue to move.

Gulping, a bit uneasy, he approached the mountainous man and sat on a chair in front of him. Even hunched over, Zaraki still appeared massive, his shoulders were almost twice as broad as Mayuri’s and his long, black hair fell limply, framing the sides of his face and giving him an even more savage look.

Mayuri forced himself to focus and proceeded to quietly examine him. A few abrasions on his powerful knuckles, a couple of bruises starting to form over his vast, muscular chest, a split on his lower lip... he examined his reflexes and cranial nerves and found no abnormalities. He was about to announce this when he realised...

“You are the perpetrator?” He exclaimed with no small amount of shock in his voice.

“Eh?” Zaraki was staring at him with an vacant expression, his mouth agape.

“Perhaps my assessment is wrong and you do have concussion.” He said testily. He suddenly felt much more comfortable around him now that he’d realised he was stupid. “Are you the man who beat up my patient? Were you in a bar fight? Is that how you got hit on the head?” he questioned, knocking lightly on his own temple.

“What are you? the fucking police?” Zaraki deflected with a hoarse, cutting tone that sent another shiver flying through Mayuri’s body.

“No...” He smirked. “I was merely wondering what kind of wild animal could have caused injuries such as my patient’s. It's nice to satisfy one's curiosity.”

Zaraki gave him a lopsided smile. “Well, he got it coming.”

“How so?” he leaned closer, catching a whiff of the guy’s intoxicating, manly scent.

“Called my friend a faggot.”

“I see...” Mayuri squirmed, reclining back in his chair. With a huge bully like this, chances were he was just a homophobe trying to defend another homophobe from being called a homophobic slur by yet another homophobe. He needed to tread lightly. Not that he was scared, but he’d been assaulted enough times in his life for being queer. It was getting tiresome.

“He seemed not too happy that my friends were kissing, so I went to see what the fuck was his problem.” Zaraki explained offhandedly with a cheeky smile. “He thought it was smart to talk to me like shit and call my friend that... so I rearranged his face with my fists.”

Mayuri felt a little flutter of hope in his chest.

“Your friends were kissing?” he heard himself ask eagerly, not even sure why he was so interested.

“Yeah. I know it wasn’t a gay bar but why the fuck can they not kiss wherever the fuck they want? They ain’t hurting anyone, right?

“Indeed.”

“They've got a right to do it just like normal people”

“Right...” he had been holding his breath all this time, waiting for the inevitable confirmation of his suspicion, and here it was. It would have been too good to be true.

“Shit, I didn't mean that.” Zaraki flinched, looking embarrassed and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that they aren't normal, they are. I meant that they should have the same rights as non lgb...gqp...ib people.”

“I believe you may have forgotten a few letters.” Mayuri quipped sarcastically, which clearly flew over the other man’s head.

“Oh... sorry.” Zaraki looked to the side and frowned, as if trying to remember the right acronym.

“Anyway, as riveting as the tales of your honourable conquest might be, I am a very busy man... If you excuse me.” He stood up, taking his gloves off with a loud snap. “I’ll ready your discharge papers and then you may go, Mr... Zaraki.”

“Oh, yeah? is that- don’t you need to do any more tests?”

The way he was looking at Mayuri was interesting, he seemed almost disappointed... or so Mayuri would have believed if it weren’t because, mere minutes before, he had been extremely keen to leave without even a check up.

“No need. I'm extremely good at my job, I can assure you. You’re fine to go home.”

Giving the man a last appraising glance, he exited the little booth, not missing Unohana’s self-satisfied, tiny smirk.

That was indeed an very odd interaction. Why had she called him to perform such a basic check and why was he feeling so flustered all of a sudden?

His ponderings were interrupted when a very pretty twink, with died eyebrows and a fashionable haircut approached him wearing a worried look.

“Excuse me, my name is Yumichika Ayasegawa. Are you Kenpachi’s doctor? Would you be able to tell me if he’s going to be alright?”

“Are you family?” he looked the man up and down.

“No, we’re friends.”

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge such information, then.”

A second man, bald and tall, with brightly coloured eyeshadow came towards them, awkwardly carrying three takeaway coffee cups.

“He doesn’t have any family, we’re his emergency contacts, doesn’t that count?” he asked quite aggressively.

“No.” Mayuri replied, chagrined at his tone. “Patient confidentiality is of paramount importance to me.” He lied, revelling in the man’s increasingly angry scowl. “I'm afraid if you want information you’ll have to follow the official channels, like everyone else.” He turned around and immediately walked away before they could harass him with any more annoying questions.

#bleach #bleach fanfiction #mayuri kurotsuchi #kenpachi zaraki #kenmayu #bleach au

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seiya-starsniper · 1 year ago

Text

Rating: Teen || Chapters: 2/5 || Word Count 3.5k/??

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

AO3 Tags: POV Multiple, Hob Gadling gives live advice to a bunch of teenagers, while helping them solve cases, that's it that's the fic, also he maybe plays matchmaker for his hot mess bestie

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2 below, or using the link above on AO3!

--------------

Hob Gadling considers himself to be a rather open minded man. He's lived hundreds of years, and seen thousands of strange and unusual things in that same amount of time, so the chances of something catching him completely off guard are rather slim in the year 2024.

The last few days, however, have proven that there are still many, many things that can surprise him.

One of those things being one Charles Rowland, who is currently waving at Hob from the entryway of the New Inn.

Hob normally doesn't like to get involved in anything having to do with the supernatural, and especially not anything related to the type of work that Edwin and Charles do. He'd met them purely by chance after some asshole with delusions of grandeur had tried to frame him for a series of murders. He’d sent Edwin and Charles on a wild goose chase in a poor attempt to cover his own tracks.

Hob thought that once they caught the real murderer together and cleared things up, that would be the end of things. But then, Hob kept getting involved in their cases over the years, all of them entirely on accident. Eventually, somewhere between the fourth and fifth poltergeist, Hob decided he might as well figure out how to defend himself against supernatural entities, and maybe make himself useful for these poor boys too. They certainly needed all the help they could get.

Hob had been glad to hear that Edwin and Charles had recently gotten some sort of amnesty in exchange for continuing to help ghosts and other souls move on. It was good work, what these boys did. Hob has seen ghosts that haunted the same places for centuries finally be to pass on into the afterlife thanks to them. And now, they not only had permission to keep going, but had gotten more help to do it too.

The addition of Crystal to their little crew had been a surprise, and Jenny an even bigger surprise, though the latter seems less interested in solving cases, and more in making sure Crystal doesn't get herself killed in the process.

Still, Hob's only ever seen the teens all together in some sort of group, never alone, and he's definitely never seen Charles without Edwin. From the moment Hob had first met the two ghost boys, they’d always been a singular unit in his mind. And yet here Charles was, alone and looking strangely expectant while trying to appear casual as he waits for Hob to close out the tabs on the last remaining lunch hour patrons.

“Everything all right?” Hob asks when Charles approaches him once his last customer leaves.

“Of course!” Charles answers, his signature smile bright on display. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello. And to thank you again for the assist the other day.”

As a ghost, Charles is technically always in the neighborhood, so Hob knows that that’s not all that there is to his visit. It also hasn't escaped Hob's notice that Charles specifically picked the one day Jenny wasn't working the kitchen this week to drop by the pub. He clearly doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here.

But Hob knows by now how to deal with skittish teenagers. Even dead ones.

“Well I'm almost done here and then I'm gonna head upstairs for a cuppa,” Hob says. Mark’s going to be here soon to relieve me of duty. Happy to have some company if you have the time to spare for an old man.”

“Oh! Yeah sure, I'm not busy,” Charles says, and cute that he’s still trying to pretend that he hadn’t come here with a purpose, when his eagerness is so clearly written all over his face. “Don't need any food though, as you know.”

“Sure, sure,” Hob replies, waving his hand dismissively so Charles can head upstairs ahead of him. He's going to make a cup of tea for Charles anyways. The boy always seemed to love the steam that came out of the mugs, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

Mark comes in exactly at 2:00pm, and Hob chats with him for a few minutes, before he clocks out and heads upstairs to his flat above the pub. Charles is already waiting for him in the living room, and Hob immediately sets to the task of warming up some hot water in the kettle and grabbing some mugs for tea.

“So how are things at the agency?” Hob asks as he waits for the water to heat. “Busy as ever, or more so now that you’ve got yourselves a psychic?”

“Definitely busier,” Charles says. “Crystal’s been a massive help with our cases, we're solving them even faster than before.”

“Good,” Hob replies, just as the kettle clicks, letting him know the water is done. “I’m glad she’s using her powers for good nowadays,” he adds as he brings the two mugs over to the couch. Charles looks surprised by the extra mug, but accepts it without a word. Hob doesn’t expect him to drink any of the tea, of course, but as predicted, Charles seems to fall into a trance watching the steam rise out of the cup.

“Thanks for not giving her too much of a hard time,” Charles says when Hob sits down in the recliner across from him. “She’s been really down on herself lately for everything in her past.”

“I can only imagine,” Hob agrees. He knew a thing or two about wanting to reinvent oneself and burning away the past. He’s had hundreds of years to do so after all. In fact, it could even be argued that Crystal was far ahead of where Hob would’ve been had he been in her shoes. The girl he’d met a few nights ago was so different from the one he’d met a year ago in court that Hob would’ve thought she had a twin instead.

“Seems like you two get along well,” Hob notes after a brief silence has passed. Charles perks up immediately, taking the opening in the conversation.

“We do,” Charles replies, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah? So are the two of you a thing then?” Hob asks, and would you look at that, turns out ghosts can blush after all.

“I—maybe?” Charles says, his voice pitched higher with uncertainty. “I don’t know, actually. I mean, it's, well…complicated I guess?”

“How so?” Hob asks. He’d suspected there had been something going on between them, it was obvious in their body language, and how they gently teased one another throughout the night after the banshee had gone. Now Charles is talking like a man newly in love and completely besotted.

“Is she giving you mixed signals?” Hob follows up when Charles doesn't answer.

“No!” Charles exclaims, shaking his head. “It’s me really, I’m—I don’t know.” He sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought for a while that’s what I wanted and then Edwin—” he suddenly cuts himself off, a small amount of panic now crossing his features.

Ah. Now the reason for Charles' visit suddenly makes itself clear. Crystal clear even, but Hob keeps that terrible pun to himself.

“So Edwin finally told you how he felt about you?” Hob asks, deciding to rip the bandage off now and quell the strange awkwardness in the room. Charles’ head whips up so fast Hob feels his own neck start to cramp up in sympathy.

“You knew ?” Charles asks. “But Edwin said he’d only figured it out when we were in Port Townsend!”

Hob shrugs. “Sometimes, things are easier to spot when you’re not in the middle of them,” he replies. “But it was pretty clear that, at the very least, Edwin considered you the most important person to him. It's not surprising he fell in love with you too.”

“You really think so?” Charles asks. “Because I don't—I’d never really thought about it before, you know? He's my most important person too, but I never thought that we would be more than that. But now that he's said it, I can't stop thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” Hob asks. “Does it bother you that he feels that way?” A shake of the head. Good. “Do you ever think you could return those feelings?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem!” Charles cries, his voice pitching near to a whine. He stands and paces around Hob’s living room, and Hob has to try not to laugh into his tea. Teenage problems were always the same, whether a live or dead.

“To be honest, I’m still really into Crystal,” Charles starts, “...but then after everything with Edwin, and what happened to Niko, I started thinking, well, how long will that really last? Crystal’s alive, I’m not. She’s going to—she won’t—she’ll eventually—”

“Grow up?” Hob offers when the teen can’t find the right words. “Grow old, hopefully? Live a fulfilling life with someone else that’s flesh and blood?”

“I—yeah. Ideally yes,” Charles replies, though it's clear the thought bothers him by the way he scrunches his features. “But also, what if us being together puts her in too much danger? What if she—if what happened to Niko happens to her, I couldn't bear it, Mr. Gadling.”

“Hob,” Hob corrects the boy gently. “I've told you before that you don't need to call me Mister anything, makes me feel way older than I already feel,” he adds with a laugh. Charles gives him a half smile and just shrugs helplessly. Some habits were impossible to break, it seemed.

“And those are perfectly reasonable fears to have,” Hob continues. “Crystal is her own person though, and you need to take into account that she might find the risk worth it. And to be honest, I feel like the risk to her life is the same, whether you two are romantically involved or not.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” Charles agrees, flopping back down onto Hob’s couch and staring back into the still steaming mug of tea. “So do you think we should give it a go, then?”

Hob shrugs. “I think you two like each other,” he replies, “but whether you think a relationship is worth it is up to you. Does Edwin know about you two?”

“He knows—some stuff yeah,” Charles replies sheepishly. “I had told him I liked her way before he, you know, confessed to me and all. And like, even afterwards, it seems like he’s fine, but I really don’t know if it’s all actually fine, or if he’s just trying to act like he’s fine just because I look fine but he’s not really fine and what if I’ve mucked everything up or—”

“Hey, slow down, Charles,” Hob interjects, and the boy’s mouth clicks shut immediately. “From what I can see, nothing has changed between you, so I wouldn't worry about it,” he adds, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Besides, you and Edwin have been together this long now, you've got more than enough time to sort things out, one way or the other.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his voice now wistfully soft and clearly full of affection. “When we were in Hell, I said that to him,you know. That we have eternity to figure it all out.”

“Did you now?” Hob asks, now smiling himself. “Sounds like you two are on the same page then, as per usual. Now you just need to make a decision yourself and Crystal.”

“Yeah…yeah you're right,” Charles says, seeming to come to a decision. His back straightens and he sits up, his signature smile back on his face. “Edwin and I may have forever, but Crystal doesn't and it's rude to keep a lady waiting right?”

“Absolutely," Hob replies.

Charles leaves shortly after, promising not to overthink everything and let his feelings come naturally to him. Hob is fairly certain he knows where things will land eventually, and he's sure Charles does too. It doesn't make the journey to get there any less worthwhile.

#dead boy detectives #dead boy detectives fanfic #the sandman #payneland #dreamling #charles rowland #edwin payne #crystal palace #hob gadling #seiya writes #seiya writes dbda #chapter 2 let's go friends whooooo

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raylangivins · 7 months ago

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Thank you @coyotesuspect for tagging me to do a fic writer interview!!! I love shiteing on about writing :)

How many works do you have on ao3?

41 and like half of that is from the Beatles boom of the last couple years 🫣

What’s your total word count?

242,272

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

live through this and you won’t look back (check please, jackparse); if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side (wolf 359, kepcobi); baby, it’s all relative (beatles, mclennon); i thought i knew you, what did i know (beatles, jane pov mclennon); slip of the tongue (beatles, mclennon)

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

Yes!! Although I’ve gotten bad about getting back to comments on old fic bc i always open it in a new tab to respond later and then I forgor. But I’ve turned on the ao3 inbox so i can get better about finding them again. I love receiving comments and I genuinely appreciate all of them. Be rude not to reply!

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Any ‘68-‘69 era beatles fic I’ve written tbh, but i think the worst of them is one and one and one is three where I forced poor Paul to endure a threesome with John and Yoko :)

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Oh god idk, one of the angst-less pwps probably. tune me up and turn me out I wrote with the express purpose of depicting John and Paul being horny and in love so maybe that one. Also I have a forever soft spot for wouldn’t it be nice? because the ending is so 🥰🥰🥰 ROMANCE!!!

Do you write crossovers?

Wrote one this year about Don Draper hooking up with Paul McCartney :) plus this oldie about Jean-Ralphio from parks and rec becoming the 11th doctor’s companion.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Only from troll accounts

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Brother I write any kind. I’ll write kinks I don’t even like if the muse demands it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No but I’ve had someone finish a fic I abandoned years ago on ff.net and then they message me about it being like “can I finish this” and then I checked he fic and they’d already posted it and only asked permission bc someone asked them if they did lol.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think I did in the ff.net days but I can’t remember if anyone’s done it since

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No :( I’d love to. I have no idea if I’d be any use though, I have such a self-contained writing process.

What's your all-time favourite ship?

Raylan/Boyd or Pacey/Joey probably, neither of which I’ve written anything for lmao

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

There’s a jackparse fic that I’ve been trying to write since the summer of 2020, and tbh I’m still delusional enough to think I will get it done eventually even though I’ve written almost nothing for it. Never give up, never surrender!

What are your writing strengths?

This sounds dumb but I’m good at capturing vibes. I like to be concise so I try to pack a lot of emotion in the fewest words possible.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I don’t care for physical descriptions so I don’t do them as much as I probably should. I think this, again, goes with my desire to be concise lol

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If it’s a word or line here and there fair enough but if you’re writing a whole exchange that I don’t understand, my eyes are just gonna glaze over it. Dawg, I cannot read that! And also I think there’s such nuance to the way people switch languages when they’re bilingual and a lot of not bilingual people writing bilingual characters do not understand that. It’s both more and less casual than the way most people depict it.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Gossip girl :)

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Idk I don’t usually go into a fandom expecting to write for it, it’s more that I join and sometimes the desire strikes and a lot of the time it doesn’t. In terms of beatles which I am consistently writing for, I really want to write a Paul/George fic which I haven’t done yet. But I love a little childhood friendship moment <3

What's your favourite fic you've written?

I love all my children equally, but stuff from this year I’m particularly delighted with are a great threat just because the universe of Paul being the girl beatle was so delicious to play with and also toxic yuri >:), and The McCartney Issue cause it hit me while I was in the midst of struggling with sort of writer’s block and a bit of a confidence dive in terms of writing, and it came to me so fully formed so it was nice to know that spark was still there, and I had a lot of fun with it.

Tagging, if you’d like @javelinbk @crepesuzette2023 @jeanharlowseyebrows @wurmzirkus @planetaire ❤️

#tagged tag

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hyylia · 1 year ago

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A DRINK WITH DESTINY ──

botw/totk modern au | rated T major characters: zelda, link summary: for galentine's, zelda and her friends decide to check out hyrule's newest bar, the lost woods. word count: 1695 warnings: alcohol mentions/use

a/n: happy (late) loftwing letters @angelicgarnet! you said you like botw/totk zelink and modern au's so have this modern meet-cute story :) i hope you like it!

read it below the cut or on ao3 → here

It’s five o’clock. The Lost Woods has just opened, and it’s only a matter of time before a crowd makes its appearance. Link’s spent the last hour preparing for it: stocking the bar with an array of cheap liquor and top-shelf alike, cutting garnishes, filling the bin with ice. The Galentine’s event tonight had been his clever idea—a way of bringing in and establishing patrons for Hyrule’s newest bar.

“Go ahead,” he calls out to the band in the corner, tucked away on a small wooden stage. The head of the band, a tall woman with a dark brown bob, nods her head and readies her violin. Light, traditional Hyrulean folk music fills the silence hanging in the bar, just as the crowd begins to slowly trickle inside.

“I’ll have a Champion.” A Gerudo woman with long, red hair sits at the bar mere moments later, handing him her card between two fingers. “And a Zora’s Scale for my friend.” Her head tilts in the direction of the shorter redhead who takes up the barstool beside her. Link nods, mindlessly pulling the Champion into a tall glass, slowly falling into the motion of making drinks. “And another friend will be joining us soon. Put her on my tab when she comes in.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “What does this friend look like?”

“You can’t miss her,” the Gerudo says with a knowing smile and a wink. She takes a sip of her Champion, then nudges the Zora beside her to do the same. Link shrugs, turning away to take the order of another woman.

Eventually, a steady stream of patrons occupy the bar, groups of young women eager to celebrate their friendships and drink on a good deal. The music becomes a background to the loud chatter taking place, and at some point, the Gerudo and Zora leave their barstools with their drinks in hand, mingling with a few others they must know. He turns his attention to his work, focusing solely on getting his drinks just right.

Some time later a voice cuts through the bar. It’s soft and sweet, clear as day to him despite the noise. His attention is shattered at the sound of it. He looks up, distracted.

“Sorry I’m late!” The voice says hurriedly to the Gerudo from earlier, holding a soft blue purse close to her body. She pulls the gold chainlink strap up onto her shoulder with one hand, then runs the same hand through her blonde hair in an attempt to smooth it down into place. From far away, Link can’t hear the rest of the exchange, but he sees the Gerudo wave the apology away. She says something to the woman, then points her towards the bar. Towards him.

The Gerudo was right; he couldn’t miss this woman.

Link has bartended for years—mostly on the side, only recently full-time. He’s flirted, exchanged phone numbers, the whole nine yards. But she… She is like something out of a fairytale. Her golden hair lays in silky straight strands, bangs clipped out of her face with blue butterfly clips. Her eyes are big and beautiful, green like emeralds and accentuated by dark brown cat-eye liner. The pink gloss on her lips seems to glow, reflecting the dim light around them. She is the first woman to make him feel truly nervous.

“Hi,” her soft voice says. She stands on her tiptoes, leaning over the dark mahogany bar to speak to him. It’s unnecessary. Even with all the noise, his attention is focused solely on her. Listening.

“What can I get for you?” He says, trying to look casual as he pours another cocktail through a strainer. He sits the glass on the bar in one quick, fluid motion towards its recipient.

“Oh. Um.” Her green eyes trail from the drink and over to settle on the framed specials sheet sitting atop the bar. They scan the sheet slowly, taking in every detail. Finally, she frowns. “I’m sorry. I don’t really drink…”

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, sounding maybe a bit overenthusiastic. “Do you want something sweet or dry?”

She chews her lip. “Maybe somewhere in the middle? Probably more sweet I think. But not too sweet.”

He nods. Normally when women don’t know what to order, he makes them a classic. A Castletonian, or a simple Zoran’s with cranberry. It’s hard to go wrong with either of those, and if they don’t like it, well… then he has a better idea of what to make for them next time. Yet, for her—for this goddess standing before him—something else comes to mind entirely.

He takes a step away from the bar, conjuring the supplies up quickly from the shelf behind him. Her eyes follow intently all the while, taking in each and every motion he makes. For good measure (and maybe because he likes the feel of her eyes on him), he shoves the sleeves to his blue shirt up over his elbows before he continues. The Master Sword tattoo on his right forearm is fully visible now. She seems to smile at the sight of it.

“How long have you guys been open?” she asks. He’s grateful for her attempt to fill the heavy silence hanging between them.

“Just a couple of weeks.”

“Cool…” Her eyes fall away from him now, taking in the scenery around them. They focus on the plants filling every corner, fake vines crawling up the few faux stone ruins around the room. Finally, they land on the band playing in the corner. “I like it. The theme is really cool.”

“Thanks,” he says, sincerely. Then he shrugs. “I’ve been interested in Ancient Hyrulean stuff for a while. I thought it’d make a cool bar concept.”

Her eyes light up, snapping back to him. “Me too! Well, not the bar thing.” She rushes to explain. “That sounded negative. I don’t mean it like that—it’s a cool concept. I just… I’m actually an archeaology major at the university.”

“Really? I thought about going to school for history.”

She leans forward. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve always been bad in school. Trouble focusing, sleeping during class, that kind of thing. I’ve never been super disciplined, I guess.”

“I get it,” she says, but he can tell from the tone of her voice that she doesn’t. No–this woman strikes him as intelligent. She’s probably never made below an A-plus in any of her courses.

He nods without thinking and, with one final motion, garnishes her drink with a simple Silent Princess. It floats lightly on top of the light blue liquid, edible gold glitter shining with every swirl of the martini glass.

“What’s it called?” She wonders aloud as she takes the glass from his hands, peering inside.

“The Princess.”

Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens, then closes. A dark red flush crawls up her skin.

“Oh,” she says quietly. Then, as if realizing what he’s done, her eyes narrow. She eyes the glass suspiciously. “And do you make The Princess for every fair lady who enters your establishment, sir?” Her faux-royalty accent makes him smile.

“Only for you. It seems fitting.”

Despite the dim lighting, her cheeks burn fiercer. She smiles.

“Oh. Then thank you.”

“What’s your name?” he asks finally. It’s his turn to lean against the bar, resting his chin lazily on a hand.

“Zelda,” she says with a soft smile. He widens his eyes.

Zelda, like the ancient princesses from thousands and thousands of years ago. Either it’s a coincidence or—

“Are you teasing me?”

“No,” she laughs, “that’s really my name. What’s yours?”

“Link.” Her mouth falls open. She laughs harder. It’s a lovely sound and makes his heartbeat quicken.

“Like the hero?”

“The very same, actually. My dad was really into military history. Wars and stuff.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Hero,” she teases, holding a hand out for him to take.

“Same for you, Princess.” Feeling bold, he pulls her hand closer. His mouth lightly brushes the back of her hand. It hovers. At the very last second, before he pulls away, his blue eyes flick up to meet hers. She dares to hold his gaze.

They break away only for her to take a sip.

“Mmm! It’s perfect!”

“Good.” He gives a lopsided grin, releasing her hand. “I’ll make as many as you wish, Princess. On one condition.”

“And what might that be?”

He points his finger up in the air, towards the rickety wooden sign hanging above the bar. Drink Responsibly. Don’t Get Lost, it says, scrawled in someone’s poor attempt at mimicking Ancient Hyrulean script.

She laughs. “Clever.”

“Thanks.”

“Zelda!” The Gerudo’s voice cuts through the bar. “Come here!”

“Sorry,” she apologizes, wincing. She hesitates to move away from him. “Thanks again.”

And like that, she’s gone.

—

He’s closing up the bar when something catches his attention. A specials sheet, removed from its frame and torn in half, sits between half-full glasses on the bar. When he peers closer, there’s text.

Thanks for everything. You were really nice tonight. I’d love to get to know you more. -Zelda

Below the text, a set of numbers is scrawled in pretty handwriting. Her phone number. Link grabs the paper quickly and wastes no time in sending her a text.

—

Her phone buzzes, just as she enters the shared apartment with Urbosa and Mipha. Warm and fuzzy, stumbling slightly from the alcohol, Zelda struggles only momentarily to pull her Slate from the pocket of her jacket. It lights up when she finally does, the notification quickly expanding on her screen.

Hey, it’s Link, the bartender. Thanks for giving me your number, I’d love to hang out some time. :)

Zelda blinks once. Twice.

“How’d he get my number?” She asks no one in particular. Had she given it to him? Did she forget? It’s possible, she muses. The Princess had been stronger than it’d tasted.

“Sorry, Zel.” Mipha is the first to crack, her voice soft and nervous. “But you should have seen the way you two looked at each other.”

“And, Princess,” Urbosa gently mocks, a wide, mischievous smile spreading across her face. “He’s handsome.”

Zelda can’t say she’s angry.

#disclaimer im zelda and i dont drink very much so if some of this doesnt make sense just smile and nod and pretend #however ive been picking up part time shifts at a restaurant/bar recently and ive learned a lot !!#hyylia lore #thats what inspired me to write this tbh link would make a bangin bartender #i wanted to include more but alas word limit #if this is received well i might add to it and flesh it out more!! i was already worldbuilding for just this little drabble which is so fun #y but thats how it goes isnt it lololol #also ok i know in botw/totk its technically hyrule/korok forest but like the lost woods is such a good idea for a bar i couldnt help myself #loftwing letters #loftwing letters 2024 #zelink community #zelink #botw #totk #my writing

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danvillecheese · 2 years ago

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the general audience versus the rest of us

this analysis is not to degrade anyone outside of or in the fandom, it’s simply to showcase how differently people remember phineas and ferb. there are a number of topics I will delve into, all of which are lovingly put into sections under the cut. so, with no further ado… enjoy!

how normal people watch it

so if you’re like me and watched pnf occasionally on tv growing up you’ll remember bits of the show. you’ll remember it’s repetitive and episodic nature, the way everything goes back to how it was at the start of the day. phineas and ferb think of something to do, candace attempts to bust them, perry fights doofenshmirtz, and doofs machine makes phineas and ferb’s invention disappear, sticking to the status quo of what linda typically sees. it’s predictable, but not in the sense that you necessarily know what’s going to happen. maybe you do, or something happens that subverts your expectations. the “typical phineas and ferb episode structure” (or TPNFES, I’m calling it that now) is how a lot of people who haven’t seen the show in a while will remember it. or maybe not. maybe they remember doof making an inator that does x. or they remember the aglet song (never forget ze aglet!). it’s typically something you’d have seen at least a couple of times during its original run.

and no, of course there’s no problem with only remembering one or two things about a show from your youth. I personally watched a lot of shows as a kid that I don’t remember a thing about. yeah I watched LazyTown when I was like four but if you asked me the plot of any episode I would NOT be able to tell you. and it’s because it wasn’t something I was really interested in. and of course, kids can be interested in shows and know a lot about them and then hit their teen years and not remember much about them later. but if they go back and absorb that content again? they see stuff they missed the first time, or stuff they definitly remember. hell, they might even sing along to A.G.L.E.T. because as everyone knows, pnf lyrics stay with you forever. (even if you haven’t heard the theme song in a decade you won’t forget the lyrics. that shit is hardwired into you from the moment you first see it.)

my point is, a casual viewer doesn’t do anything more than just… watch the show. hell, sometimes they don’t even watch it, they’ll have it on in the background while they’re on their phone or doing something else (couldn’t be me!!). watching the canon content just once gives them the satisfaction of starting and ending the show. they don’t go into detail about it. they probably won’t open an ao3 tab the moment the last episode finishes. they won’t make a tumblr sideblog dedicated to understanding the intricacies of character arcs, their goals and ideals and how they interact with others. they don’t care enough to do that bc it doesn’t make their brain go insane for more knowledge about the show. and as strange as it sounds, they don’t have it on their minds for that long. yeah, maybe theyll think about how nice the songs were in that s4 finale but after that, that’s it. they’ll move onto something else.

how I watched it

I watched phineas and ferb as a kid. I’m pretty sure I watched it when it first aired, too. perhaps not in 2007, it might have been the year after when it actually started premiering (nz airing is so far behind it’s not even funny). I watched it as it aired, and then grew out of it around the middle of s3. I got a little older, started watching different shows, and I was just generally doing other stuff. I have a vivid memory from 2012 when a kid from my class told me that pnf wasn’t worth watching bc the same thing happens every episode and my socially inept ass went “omg ur so right” and I stopped watching it. fast forward a couple of years and I hear that the show is like, actually finally ending. idk why but I remember it being in 2014, not 2015 when it actually did air (the pnf wiki doesn’t have the date for the nz airing of last day of summer so I guess we'll never know if it aired early or not) but I watched it and kinda just carried on with my other interests at the time.

around 2017, I start talking to an internet friend from the same country as me. we talked about our upbringings and stuff we used to watch on tv, and she brings up phineas and ferb. aha! I know that one! it encourages me to rewatch the show and before I know it, I’m shoulder deep. i mention facts about it to real life friends and family (“there’s a pnf episode where…”) and I go hunting for interviews and comic-con panels with the whole cast on youtube. you know how it is. I start going through the posts on tumblr and I find a sibling show of sorts – one that also has a crossover planned for 2018. I watch that show. I lurk in the shadows of the tumblr tag for a while. I start writing fic. I draw the characters on any piece of paper I can get my hands on.

it all comes to a head in october 2018, when I wrote a phinjeet fic called cappuccino, and one of my favourite artists EVER made fanart of it. and obviously, I had to put it somewhere. I’d thought about making a dwampy sideblog for ages and had no idea what to call it or anything, but this was all the encouragement I needed. I made the sideblog. I reblog the art. then I went through my likes and got some of the pnf/mml posts out. fast forward almost five years, and here we are. still just as insane, just with a new username.

in short — no, my experience watching pnf is not one of those typical of a general audience member. I mean, it would have been, if not for that fateful conversation with my internet friend that basically rebooted me and quite literally rewired my brain to be insane about this cartoon universe. I’m not by any means a casual viewer of this show. I know more than an average person would about it, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I adore this little community of ours. and being able to crack out of context jokes that come from the shows to older people who I know have never seen it, well, it’s a cherry on top.

both the GA and the fandom contribute to the culture staying alive

there’s certainly a way that the general audience keeps pnf alive, even if they have no idea they’re doing it. they’ll make very generic memes about it (you know the ones I’m talking about) and they’ll circulate the internet for a bit, reminding everyone about the show they watched casually as a kid. us, on the other hand, make very very niche memes about it. like hieroglyphics. and combovers. (see what I did there?) ours tend to stay in our little circulation, minus the ones that break containment. you get it in any fandom though, it’s certainly not limited to us.

as many times as you’ll see the posts that attempt to explain the ‘doof is phineas dad theory’, you’ll see just as many responses debunking it. or seeing dan and swampy debunk it, as they should. (honestly I think we need like crystal fucking clear evidence in the reboot to explain it otherwise it’s just gonna keep happening.)

the circulation of phineas and ferb itself through any means, be it memes or actual conversation that prompts a rewatch or even just a memory of the show, keeps the show relevant. I think one of the more notable ways this has happened is dan povenmire getting tiktok famous and basically reminding every older gen z kid about the show. to quote jeff swampy marsh – “plus there’s always reruns so the show will never die” – sure, disney channel itself barely exists anymore but reruns can also kinda be translated into disney+ rewatches or even just the passage of a meme on the internet.

phineas and ferb has stayed, somewhat, consistently relevant. I mean, think about it. since pnf started airing, there hasn’t been a year (except for 2021) where nothing has happened. pnf aired from 2007-2015, milo murphy’s law aired from 2016-2019 (which includes phineas and ferb characters so I count it as pnf content) and catu came out in 2020. dan’s own show hamster and gretel started airing in 2022, and based on the poster, I don’t think we’ll be missing any phineas and ferb characters at all. dan basically confirmed it. and truly, it’s what keeps the show alive, even when it’s not really there.

things in the show that the ga have very different opinions on, re:

candace and jeremy’s relationship

something the general audience haven’t caught up with yet is the way that candace and jeremy interact within the show. sure, if you haven’t watched it since you were 10 then you probably remember candace being like insane and loud about the boy she’s obsessed with. if you watch it again, you’ll see that jeremy is almost just as bad. it’s just downplayed because he’s not a main character. we don’t see his perspective NEARLY as much as we see candace’s, which might make it seem a bit more one sided or unrequited than it actually is.

in the episode “backyard aquarium” from early s2, we’re shown a montage of both candace and jeremy trying to ring each other for a whole day, until candace goes to bust her brothers and forgets about her phone for a little moment. this gives jeremy time to leave eleven messages for her. obsessed much? (it’s actually kinda sweet) and yeah, they’re teenagers. every feeling seems way more amplified than it actually is so both of them getting upset that they cant contact each other is pretty realistic, even if it is just played for laughs.

there’s a lot of really thorough characterisation when it comes to both of them. mostly with candace, obviously, she is THEE main character of the show so clearly she’s deep and very fleshed out. we don’t see it as much with jeremy but we get pretty good glimpses of it when it’s shown. he’s got the picture of her from “the bully code” in his guitar case. he likes her so much! he put her picture in the place he keeps one of his favourite things!! he’s down so bad for her! but of course, if you don’t actually pay attention or care especially about any of that stuff, you’re going to miss it and generalise about it. and it unfortunately applies to quite a few things in the show. sigh.

doof’s relationship with his parents

for real, fuck those guys. I think the ga are pretty aware of this part, and if you asked anyone to say what one of doofs backstories are they’d probably say “his parents didn’t show up for his birth!” or “he was a lawn gnome!”. both of which are specifically tied to his abhorrent relationship with his parents. but what they potentially don’t remember is how he still tries to gain their affections anyways. it’s the classic trope of not being able to cut off your abusers simply because you just can’t, morally. you still want to prove yourself to them and make them see you’re worth having around even if they never liked you in the first place. heinz tries very hard both in his youth and in the show itself to gain affection from both his mother and father. these include:

the teddy bear and trying to be good at kickball (thaddeus and thor)

the original gnome (fathers day)

even the fucking clip show episode from the end of season 3 (this is your backstory) where his mother comes back and he goes in for a hug and is instead greeted with a smack. hmm.

even just those examples are enough evidence that yes, heinz did actually really try with his parents even if they didn’t care. and again, it’s unfortunately played for laughs that heinz is constantly beaten down by almost everything around him but as we know, he gets a real family at the end of the show and things seem to work out well for him. does he get closure with both of his parents by the end of s4? maybe not his mother, but sort of with his dad. and yeah, maybe they’ll get into that in the reboot. but it’s definitely something the ga never noticed. it’s always about laughing at his tragic backstories, even if that is the point of them, not necessarily feeling bad for him and wanting to see him come full circle with everything that’s happened to him. and it does!

isabella and her one (1) personality trait

according to the ga, isabella garcia-shapiro is a one dimensional character who’s only personality trait is having tunnel vision heart eyes for the boy across the street. is your blood boiling yet? mine is! isabella is one of the most fleshed out characters in the show, with a large family and interests outside of phineas. hell, she’s the leader of her fireside girls troop which is a huge part of her personality. she’s brave and strong and gives ominous patch related threats to a man almost five times her age. but no, the general audience will only ever see isabella as the girl obsessed with phineas. I’m not discrediting this at all because yes, she’s obsessed with him. she’s a simp. definitely nothing wrong with that at all! but the ga claiming that it’s her only personality trait? get fucking REAL this girl is deep and gets upset and anxious and emotional about things that have nothing to do with the boy she’s in love with. even if it does have something to do with that, she carries on anyway because she’s strong as hell. it’s not the first time a character has been like that on disney channel — I mean, kim possible was pretty boy crazy but her crime fighting always came first, right? (really showing my age with that reference. wow) and I hate to reference act your age bc it’s vile but she doesn’t only ever spend her time moping over phineas as a teenager, she keeps herself busy and helps her mom at the restaurant and is an RA at her college and does a whole heap of other things! she’s multifaceted and it’s what makes her a really compelling character to watch. and watering her down into just the girl who likes phineas is a huge discredit to her character.

so, where am I going with this?

I’m not saying ever general audience member has to rewatch phineas and ferb a million times to understand every single character arc. hell, I’m not even saying that they have to rewatch it at all. there’s such a huge divide when it comes to it, and obviously not everyone is going to experience everything the same way. a lot of people simply don’t care enough to crack open the psyche of every phineas and ferb character to understand their motivations. that’s just the freaks (affectionate) who roam on tumblr, eager for media analysis of a childrens cartoon that ended almost a decade ago.

for a lot of us, it’s very satisfying to be able to analyse specific media. there’s writers and storyboard artists that put all that stuff in the show for a reason, right? it makes us want to see parallels and understand where a characters moral alignment sits and why exactly buford speaks latin. and for others, they’ll simply watch a show and move on. there’s no need for them for it to be on their brain 24/7.

overall, there’s a stark difference in the way people watch a show as iconic and culturally significant as phineas and ferb. the general audience watches it very differently to us, and that’s okay! it happens with any piece of media. there’s casual fans that watch something once and then the very not casual fans who have it on the brain constantly. and then there’s fans that have been very absorbed in the fandom and move on, which again, you’ll get anywhere. nothing about the dwampyverse fandom is limited to us, in terms of the way things go (not the source media itself. name one other show that has anything REMOTELY similar to pnf happen in it.) most people know the show, and most people don’t know about the insane and obscure facts about it, and I think it’s fantastic.

goodnight tri-state area. thank you.

#phineas and ferb #cj writes unecessary analysis abt a show that ended almost a decade ago. nothing new here #in my insane era (again)#dwampyverse analysis

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what-is-merlin-so-gay-for · 1 year ago

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do you ever need to recalibrate when switching between different fandom content?? because tell me why i just read tumblr posts saying that frank the therapist of the 9-1-1 team needs therapy because of their shit and then opened my current ao3 tab where frank the son of mars is casually chilling with other half-bloods??? and for a sec i though it was the same frank?? and i was so confused???

anyways this happens all the time and it’s so funny because i just have these little moments??? like why is talia al ghul a pine tree??? since when does jason grace wear a red helmet and carry guns?? why is evan sucking face with barty and not eddie??? and then i remember

#fandoms #so many fandoms #9 1 1 #pjo #batman #marauders #frank zhang #frank the therapist #talia al ghul #thalia grace #jason todd #jason grace #evan rosier #evan buck buckely #mine

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buttered-baguette-writes · 2 years ago

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Accidental Love (Fated)

Newt just wanted to free Thestrals from MACUSA and their cruel ways of keeping them in line. He didn't expect to have a Dark Lord come over to his house for tea every afternoon, nor that the same man would be exactly what he needed. Soulmates: a Dark Lord completely smitten with a magizoologist. Surely, that's not how the story goes?

6.9k Also on ao3!

Nobody could say they’ve run into a Dark Lord twice by complete accident.

Well, except Newt Scamander.

The first time had been a very long day ending in the subway of New York late into the night. Newt had been running about, doing this and that, before being dragged into a high-stakes situation by the Dark Lord. He hoped that would be the only time he would meet the Dark Lord. And yet, the second time was also in America.

Newt had been keeping tabs on MACUSA. They had a small handful of magical creatures in their care. They had Thestrals for their carriages and Newt was horrified to find out that they still used whips and harmful spells on the poor creatures. With solid evidence, Newt was set on freeing those creatures from MACUSA and the abusive conditions. So, when he saw that a carriage test run was scheduled, he made his move.

He was so focused on his goal that he didn’t think about the fact it was the middle of the night. And by the time he realized why, it was too late to stop. There was no way MACUSA would let him go after that stunt.

And that was how Newt came to have a herd of Thestrals in his basement and a Dark Lord on his couch.

The blonde draped himself over the couch as he sipped tea. He wore a shockingly open expression. His wand was tucked away neatly.

Newt didn’t know if that made him relieved or offended.

“You didn’t even care about the carriage, just the creatures,” Grindelwald said, amused.

“I didn’t think there’d be a criminal in there.”

“And yet you carried on. Even now you’ve done nothing expect get me tea.” The tips of Grindelwald’s lips tipped up and his eyes brightened for a second. “So many potential consequences and you haven’t tried to run, fight, alert someone.”

Newt looked away. He had too much to lose; he couldn’t go running to anyone. “What do you want Grindelwald?”

“Nothing,” the blonde said. But when Newt gave him such an expectant look, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “Call me Gellert.”

Newt bristled. That wasn’t a thing people just did, and a man like Grindelwald enjoyed his status. By merlin’s beard, why would he ask Newt of all people to call him by his first name? Newt frowned, slightly annoyed to still see the open expression on the other man’s face.

Hastily, he rose from his seat and left for his kitchen.

Grindelwald watched him go. He shouldn’t have been there; he didn’t know why he hadn’t left yet. There was just something about the red head that had him curious – something his visions enticed him with that he wasn’t allowed to see clearly. Whatever it was, he knew he had to wait and find out lest he lose it.

Finishing his tea, he set the cup on a coaster. He didn’t miss the pleased look Newt had made when he noticed.

“I’ve run out of biscuits,” Newt said. He stayed standing, unsure of what to do. His eyes kept wandering to his basement door worriedly. The Thestrals had been left in an enclosure to calm down, but he was anxious to go down and begin his work with them.

Grindelwald hummed as he stood. He supposed he shouldn’t keep the magizoologist away from his creatures for too long.

“That’s alright. I prefer cakes anyways.” Grindelwald wore a small, soft smile as he spoke. “I shall see you tomorrow night.”

Newt was lost, unable to recall if the man used the door or apparated.

He had no idea what he had gotten himself into.

Somehow dressed casual and luxurious, Grindelwald appeared the following night as he said. He took his spot on the couch again, waiting patiently as Newt prepared some tea for them. When the younger man returned, he could not help but be delighted by the small plate of cake slices brought with.

Newt, with all his strength, told himself that he didn’t see the way the Dark Lord lit up.

He was a Dark Lord for Circe’s sake. There should not be a pleasant smile on his face, and Newt most certainly shouldn’t find it pleasant.

Newt stared at the cakes, unsure why he bothered to buy them. He didn’t need to follow orders from the blonde, and yet he went out specifically to find cake. A little voice in his head told him it had to do with the smile he saw earlier, but he decided to block it out. It was a ridiculous thought.

“I apologize for my actions in America,” Grindelwald said into the silence. His voice was earnest, his eyes hidden as he focused on pouring two cups of tea.

Newt tilted his head. A completely unprompted apology from a ruthless Dark Lord. “What do you want, Grindelwald?”

“Gellert,” the blonde corrected. He said nothing else.

Newt rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Gellert?” He asked. It felt strange to call him by such name, but it was the shorter choice.

“You’re a curiosity. A beautiful one. Am I not allowed to wonder? Everyone, even many of my followers, fear me. You don’t. It’s in my nature to want to know why.”

Newt fought against a blush. He had never been called beautiful before, but he had to focus. “And the best way for you to do that is over tea and cake in my house?”

Grindelwald smirked. “Is that an offer to have tea in your bedroom?”

Newt’s cheeks turned a furious pink. He scolded himself and tried to clear his mind. “No,” he said sternly. “Why aren’t you in hiding?”

Grindelwald almost mentioned the blatant change of topic. “I don’t need to.”

“Surely everyone would already be searching for an escaped criminal? Even you shouldn’t be this calm about it.”

“As far as MACUSA is concerned, I am still sitting silently in their little cell. Last night was simply an unfortunate accident for one of their workers now lost to the sea,” Grindelwald explained. He had been able to easily convince a lost fool to switch places with him in exchange for a better position in life. He supposed he would follow through with his promise and not make the man a simple acolyte.

He stood up before seeming to promptly forget what he was going to do. “Bathroom?”

Newt directed him to the downstairs bathroom but otherwise stayed seated. He used the silence to wonder what he did to get stuck with a curious Dark Lord until he felt magic settle over everything.

Arms crossed against his chest and a frown on his face, Newt waited until the other man returned to his seat. “Did you put wards on my house?” Newt stared right into those mismatched eyes, catching a flash of mischief.

“Sensational. It would have taken others hours to realize,” Grindelwald replied. He was honestly impressed and even more interested in finding out what the magizoologist could do. It seemed like he was weak and not in touch with his magic entirely, but it took little time for Grindelwald to figure out it was most likely a mask. That the red head didn’t want people to know about everything he knew.

“Of course, I’d know, it’s my house.” Newt felt his cheeks unwillingly heat again and promptly looked away. “Is it too reasonable to ask you to take them down?”

“For both our sakes, yes. We don’t need someone to come barging in now do we?”

Newt internally cursed the other man. However, it was a good idea. He really didn’t need his brother barging in and finding him lounging about with the most wanted man in Britain. There was no way he could spin a lie that grand.

Besides, Grindelwald’s work was anything but mediocre.

Newt let out a sigh. “Fine.”

Grindelwald relaxed back into his seat. “How are the Thestrals?”

Newt stopped himself from diving into a rant about the creatures, instead settling for giving the man a skeptical look. “Why?” For all he knew, the blonde could want to take them and use them for his plans.

“I’m not a monster, darling. I do care about others, creatures included,” Grindelwald said truthfully. He wore that open expression again; one he couldn’t seem to get rid of even if he tried. Nor could he control his thoughts as he kept using endearing terms and complements on the red head.

Newt, predictably, blushed at the word ‘darling’. There was no way the other actually meant it.

“Well then…” Newt plunged into a rant about Thestrals and why he had been so determined of getting them away from MACUSA.

Grindelwald listened closely.

It continued like that for a week. Grindelwald coming over at night to simply talk with Newt over tea and cake. It was… surprisingly pleasant.

One morning, Newt was woken by the sensation of magic urgently rushing through his being. It didn’t harm him in any way, but it certainly made him jump out of bed. Only to find out it was the wards on his house alerting him to his brothers’ presence.

Gellert keyed me in? Newt thought, momentarily thrown off. Then he realized it was a combination of his own magic and Gellert’s that was setting off the alarm and an unwilling thrill ran up his back.

He hastily shook that thought away. He didn’t want it or need it.

Rushing downstairs, Newt let his brother in.

“Why on Earth do you have wards up?!” Theseus yelled, way too frustrated for that early in the morning.

“For my creatures?”

Theseus eyed him but let it go. He let himself into the kitchen.

Newt followed behind quietly.

“What?” Theseus started rummaging through all the cabinets and draws, making a bit of a mess. “Where are the biscuits? Why do you have cake? You know I don’t like cake.”

Newt’s shoulders slumped. “I ran out…” he replied, voice low. He hated when his brother did this. He still acted like Newt was the baby brother even though they were both grown men. But Newt never had the energy to say anything. The one time he did caused him a headache that was more irritating than accidently splinching during apparation.

Theseus didn’t always get his way at home or at work, so he had decided he’d get his way at Newt’s house.

What will Gellert say? Newt wondered. He had accidently taken to ranting about his brother to the Dark Lord. All it took was Grindelwald actually listening and asking questions to get Newt to open up – at least about his brother. It was a strange sort of comfort he knew he shouldn’t have.

And yet…

“Don’t you have work?” Newt asked.

Theseus pulled on the ends his suit jacket, raising a brow. “I came by to tell you something, but yes. I do have work.” Theseus sounded annoyed, but it was for more than one reason. He was always in a cranky mood. He waited until Newt asked him what the news was. “The Ministry rejected your appeal.”

“Oh,” was all Newt could muster. That had been his latest and last attempt at getting his travel ban eased or cancelled. He had no other options. If he needed to leave, he would have to do it illegally. Not that it phased him, but he didn’t think I’d be the best thing for his record.

Newt leant his hip against the counter. He had nothing else to say to his brother that morning, especially after he was being so rude.

It seemed Theses didn’t have the time that day to angrily stare and he left within a few minutes.

The rest of Newts day was split between the basement and his library upstairs. The library was where he kept his more ‘controversial’ or prized documents. A lot of it related to creatures while the rest was random knowledge or things like how to escape a country unnoticed. It was attached to his bedroom, a simple portion of the wall enchanted with a password. It didn’t creak or groan when opening.

Newt was about to head back up when the front door opened.

“Gellert?”

The Dark Lord was earlier than usual. And looked deflated. He seemed tired and a little bit out of it. He perked up slightly when he saw Newt, however. “Afternoon, darling,” he said with warmth. He had given up on trying to stop himself from using pet names for the red head as they just flew out of his mouth despite his best efforts.

And why would he stop if he got to see those freckled cheeks flushed?

Newt looked between the book in his hands and the man in his living room.

“Can I have a tour?” Gellert asked. He was curious to find out how the magizoologist lived from something other than his living room and kitchen.

“Uh…” Newt saw excitement in those mismatched eyes, and something compelled him to agree. “Sure, follow me,” he said.

He showed the blonde to the tiny, spare bedroom downstairs. Then up the narrow steps to his bedroom – the only thing on the second level. It was full of blankets and pillows and looked cosy and well lived in despite the fact he often fell asleep in the basement. There was an attached bathroom – nothing special. Grindelwald pointed to an inconspicuous part of the wall and asked about it, somehow just knowing that there was a room hidden behind it.

Knowing the other man would find a way in there one way or another, Newt opened the door to his library.

“Magnificent. You are gifted.”

Newt faltered as he put a book away. “Pardon?”

Gellert didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he took the time to glance over the names of the books and the intricate detailing on the wooden shelves. “Can I see the basement?” He asked. If it were anyone else, he would have simply waltzed around the house like he owned it. He would have already known what was in every cranny.

Newt was silent. He contemplated the pros and cons before deciding that it was okay. He would protect those creatures with his life and his creatures were surprisingly protective of him.

He led the way, feeling as if the blonde was watching him intently.

There were about fifty enclosures in the basement. Some were empty, but most had at least one magical creature residing in it. There was even one that had a pack of muggle wolves. Newt had found them as their natural habitat was being destroyed for housing. He knew that muggles hunted them for fun and couldn’t bare the idea of letting them fall to that fate. They were very much still wild creatures, but like everything else, they were fond of Newt.

Grindelwald was shocked silent. His lips morphed into a smile when he saw the wolves. A smile not for magical creatures, but the muggle canines.

“You are greatly underestimated,” Gellert stated. The basement had been much larger than he was expecting, with different sections and levels. “To create and maintain all of this is truly magnificent.”

Newt flushed. No one ever complimented him, so he could not understand why a Dark Lord was the first person to praise him for everything. “Thank you?”

“Truly exceptional, my dear. You should be encouraged more often.”

“The Ministry would say the exact opposite,” Newt replied. He knew that they would put him on a watch list if he let them know he could do more magic than just the basics.

Gellert’s mood dropped instantly. “What have they done now?”

“Refuse to lift my travel ban. Nothing serious.”

“Would you like my assistance?”

Newt snorted. He wasn’t an amateur. He stared directly into those mismatched eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have my own ways against the rules, Gellert.”

Mischief and a challenge. Grindelwald was overwhelmed with a sense of giddy excitement that he had to force himself not to reply. He didn’t know what nonsense would blurt out and he wasn’t up for embarrassing himself that day. But there was something so inviting – enticing – about the way Newt all but lit up when rejecting his offer that he wanted to know more.

“Right,” he finally murmured out.

They headed to the living room after that for their daily tea get-togethers. Their fingers brushed as Newt handed Gellert a teacup and they both acted like they didn’t feel the light tingle in their fingers.

But Gellert was beginning to figure out why he was there.

Gellert spent the next two weeks discussing things with the only person he fully trusted – Vinda Rosier. She had been delighted to help, amused by her boss.

Gellert had been making great progress with Newt. The magizoologist trusted him more. There was no diabolic scheme, and the other man knew that, because Gellert was unreasonably honest with him.

He couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t lie, physically or verbally. He wondered what things would have been like that if they had met earlier. Then again, Gellert wouldn’t have any damage to make up for.

A few months into the whole daily tea thing, and Newt realized he was friends with the Dark Lord. He enjoyed their conversations and was actually excited when the wards let him know the other had showed up. It was a more subtle (and pleasant) feeling compared to the alarm magic that was sent through his body when other people showed up.

Newt had accidently bought too many apples. He gave some to the creatures but still had lots left over. He wasn’t going to sit around and let them go bad. So, he looked up a recipe and made an apple cake.

It turned out surprisingly well.

“That smells delicious. And here I was thinking we should dine out,” Gellert said as he made his way into the kitchen just as Newt was slicing the cake.

Newt let out a laugh. “We can still ‘dine out’ if you want,” he said. There was just something about that expression paired with the blonde’s tone that made him feel giggly. He picked up two slices of cake. When he turned around, Grindelwald was much closer than he was expecting.

Gellert accepted a slice with a smile, quickly eating the fluffy sponge. He licked his lips, holding eye contact with Newt. He leaned in slightly, keeping track of every reaction the red head made. “Perhaps we should do something different today?”

Newt didn’t freeze or hold his breath. He took in every feature on the other man’s face and smiled. He could feel something in the space between them and his being beckoned him to close the distance, to touch the other man and see if those strange tingles would happen again. “What would that be?” Newt asked, voice a honey-like whisper. There was no hesitation or fear.

And Gellert saw that. He put his hands on the counter on either side of Newt, bringing them slightly closer together. But not enough to touch. Not yet. He felt like he needed to savour it before he drowned in it, because he knew he would get addicted to Newt.

He licked his lips and watched as Newt’s eyes followed the motion. So, he started to close the small distance between them, putting his hands on Newt’s waist. One of Newt’s hands came to rest on his neck.

And then, the wards went off. Followed by obnoxious knocking on the front door.

“Newt? Artemis, I know you’re in there!”

Newt’s head fell to Gellert’s shoulder with a loud sigh. “By Circe…” he mumbled as he started to pull away and towards the door. For a second, he forgot just who he was with before promptly springing into a small panic. He spun around only to find the other man with a calm expression.

“Go before he breaks your door. He won’t see me.” Gellert saw the hesitation. “Trust me, darling.”

Newt finally turned back to the door. With a deep breathe, he opened it. “Hi, Thee.”

The elder Scamander frowned. He pushed his way past, hanging his overcoat and scarf on the rack near the door. “I told you to take down these wards. What were you doing anyway?”

Newt closed the door and had to take a few breaths before replying. “I was in the kitchen.”

Theseus rolled his eyes. Whatever he had planned on saying left his mind as he saw a wolf snarling at him from the couch. It had an almost blonde coat and brown eyes that seemed angry about his mere existence. “Why?!”

“Why not?” Newt retorted as he saw the wolf. He sat down next to it, running his fingers through the fur to calm it down. Of course, it worked like a charm.

Theseus shook his head. “Your affinity for wild things is ridiculous. How you earn their trust and make a relationship with them is beyond me.”

“Maybe because you call them things or beasts. I know what you say to other people.”

“Merlin Newt! I think you’re getting a bit —”

“What did you want, Theseus?” Newt was done. He had finally reached his limit. How he hadn’t already reached it was a mystery – or maybe he was already beyond his limit.

Theseus recoiled at the harshness. “We’re planning on brining Grindelwald to Britain in the next few months. I figured I would tell you…”

“Thanks.”

Theseus sighed long and hard, bracing himself to ask his next question. He wasn’t used to having to deal with his brother like this. “Leta kicked me out again. Can I stay the night?”

“No.” Newt left no room for debate. Firstly, his brother had been rude for the past few months – more than usual. And secondly, he had things he wanted to do. “Sleep on your couch.”

Theseus didn’t know what to do. Sure, he had had his little brother mad at him, but this was different. He didn’t know how to handle it. So, he left. He showed himself out.

Newt ran a hand through his hair roughly as the door clicked shut. He got up before the wolf turned back to a man, heading straight for the kitchen to fetch tea and cake. He and Gellert had things to talk about and he had been putting it off for too long.

Newt didn’t see Gellert for a week and a half after that night.

When the blonde did show up, it was with flowers, an empty notebook, and a hopeful smile.

Newt opened the door to let him in with haste only to find a woman standing on his steps, waiting for something.

“Newt, this is Vinda Rosier.” Grindelwad introduced them. It was somewhat of a relief having the person he cared about and the one person from his organization that he trusted meet.

“Is this him?” Vinda asked Grindelwald. When she got a nod, she turned to Newt. Her expression was polite but there was no trace of a smile. “Tu es son âme sœur? Le zoologiste magique ?”

Newt raised a brow at Gellert and then at her. “Oui, et tu l’es?” He swore he saw Gellert swoon out the corner of his eye. He’d have to check that.

“Son commandant en second.”

“Vous devez être très habile,” Newt said with a small smile.

Vinda’s lips quirked upwards. “I like him.”

Newt opened the door slightly wider and stepped to the side. “Would you like to come in?”

“No. I was simply escorting him here. Very nice to meet you, my Lord.”

Newt watched her go. He was sure he was going to be seeing more of her. Which was fine. What did baffle him, however, was that she was talking to him when she said Lord.

Turning to face the man in his house, Newt made a face.

Gellert held out the flowers with an almost hesitant smile. “I’ll explain.”

Turns out, Grindelwald had been sulking quite a lot over the last week. He had felt terrible after their little fight and couldn’t stop thinking about it. After Rosier scolded him, he started thinking about what he could do to fix things. And thus came the genius idea of reorganizing his entire ‘greater good scheme’ with Newt.

Hence the notebook. He wanted to write everything down. Keep note of the changes, of the integration of creature rescue and protection, and the major point: not eradicating muggles.

By the time they had talked about everything concerning Gellert’s work, night had fallen. But that didn’t mean they were done.

In fact, Gellert stayed the night. They didn’t do anything except cuddle and talk as Gellert didn’t want to rush anything. Besides, the bed was extremely comfortable that he fell asleep near instantly.

When Newt awoke the next morning, it was to an empty bed. Stretching out, he thought nothing of it. Gellert was a busy man that had a revolution to enact; surely, he couldn’t waste away his mornings as well as afternoons.

However, he was proved wrong. He found Gellert in his kitchen bustling about, humming to himself. The blonde smiled when he noticed Newt was up.

“Good morning,” Gellert said warmly. He spun around holding two plates of egg and something else, cups and tea pot floating behind him. He set everything down on the small dining table, pulling out a seat for Newt.

The red head smiled brightly, settling down into the chair. The food smelt and looked amazing. When he bit into it, it was a fluffy heaven. The only other people he knew that cooked that well were Queenie and Jacob.

Grindelwald made small talk as they ate and refused to let Newt do the dishes, settling for drying what the red head washed. Everything was so utterly soft and domestic. Their hands brushed as they squeezed into the small counterspace around the sink. The space between them crackled and energy ran through their entire bodies. Newt quickly understood that it was Gellert’s magic mingling with his and that unfamiliar, yet excited rush washed over him.

“Hey,” Newt said softly. He dried his hands with a quick spell as he waited for the blonde to turn and face him. He cupped one of Gellert’s cheeks, not surprised when he all but nuzzled into the hand. “Thank you.” Newt’s voice was quiet, the smile on his face soft.

Gellert melted. He had no idea what he did to have the pleasure of meeting Newt, but he was glad he did. He lightly gripped Newt’s wrist, turning his face so he could place a kiss to the palm. “Anything for you, Schatz,” he said. It was the truth, after all. He was already completely gone, his entire heart Newt’s to claim. He would do anything for the other man – even sit in a cell if that was what he really wanted.

He didn’t know how else he could show Newt that he was his to have. He didn’t think he could hide it. Everyone would know the second they saw him looking at Newt.

A lovesick man.

Newt felt a shiver run up and down his spine because of the kiss on his palm. He raised his other hand to rest on Gellert’s shoulder, applying just a little pressure. It was enough to get the other man to come closer, hands resting on Newt’s hips. Exactly what he wanted.

Gellert’s head fell to rest on Newt’s shoulder as he murmured words onto the skin. Newt didn’t catch all of it, but he could make out a few words. “…devoted… forever… eternity… yours…”

Newt tilted his head down slightly, voice a whisper as he said, “I’m yours.” He giggled as feather-light kisses were trailed up his neck until Gellert was gazing into his eyes once more. It seemed that the little fight they had had the other week had made Gellert doubt that Newt would want something, even after patching things up the night prior. “Truly,” Newt added.

Newt couldn’t tell you who leant in first. He could tell you that it wasn’t what he was expecting.

The kiss was sweet and slow and full of emotions. There was a dull thrum of magic shifting between them, a combination of both their magic. It didn’t intensify the moment by making it hotter, messier, more sensual, but by amplifying their emotions. They pressed impossibly closer to each other and held on for dear life, like the other was a lifeline.

Maybe, in some way, they were.

Theseus had avoided his brothers house like the plague for a month. He was waiting for Newt to calm down fully and was working up nerves of steel just in case he hadn’t.

Only, when he visited, he found an empty house. Most of the furniture and everything impersonal were left in the house covered in a thin layer of dust. The kitchen was empty of cups and tea pots, all general appliances unplugged and sitting neatly on the counter. There were no clothes in the bedroom or books on shelves. And the basement, normally full of life, was stripped down bare. Even the expansion charms had been taken away, leaving only a small, tiny, cold, room.

And Theseus lost it.

There was no trace of his baby brother ever living there. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

He wasn’t allowed time to dwell on it as his workload was increased. He filed a notice about his brother but was forced to ignore it. Four months on and he was constantly having to push the thought of his baby brother to the back of his mind. He just didn’t have time with all his work and an escaped Dark Lord plotting evil in every shadowy nook and cranny.

Theseus had been sent to France in order to scope out an establishment that had been marked as suspicious. They lost the Auror that found it – they couldn’t blend in with the scene and was sniffed out quickly.

Theseus was sat on the skirts of the establishments largest room. He observed everyone as he nursed a glass of fire whiskey, feeling odd without his usual attire. The place had a fancy-dress code and was a place to make good connections for an array of businesses.

His eyes zoned in on a woman with dark hair, a purple dress, and a hair piece to match. There was something about her that put his senses on high alert.

She was at the bar, standing in front of the man she was talking to, obscuring Theseus’ view. Her posture screamed importance and elegance. She excused herself from the bar, heading towards the entrance of one of the smaller rooms.

Theseus started to watch her, but his eyes caught sight of a familiar head of copper curls that made his heart drop to his stomach. No. Please, no, he thought. But that did nothing for him.

Newt was sat in one of the tall bar stools, talking animatedly to the bartender who smiled along with him. They were clearly familiar with one another as the bartender immediately began to mix a drink for the red head. There was no exchange of money which made Theseus’ stomach lurch. Either his brother was getting by in unseemly ways, or he visited often to have himself a tab.

Neither option seemed better.

Downing the rest of his drink, Theseus slinked his way over to the bar. To his luck, the bartender went to serve another customer, and the seats on either side of his brother were left empty.

“Newt?” He asked hesitantly.

Newt spun to face him, almost spilling his drink with the speed he put it down.

“What are you doing here Newt? And where have you been for the past months?!” Theseus couldn’t help but raise his voice. There was no way he could be calm after accidently stumbling upon his own brother that disappeared with no warning nor a note.

Newt’s eyes flicked away for a moment. “Dealing with business is all,” he said, nonchalant.

Theseus’ left eye twitched. “Business doesn’t mean you leave the country for four months! Which, you are in big trouble for,” he exclaimed.

Newt told himself to not roll his eyes. Instead, he took a sip of his drink, lifting it in a cheer to the bartender. It was made well after all. “There was no way around it. You were never going to lift it.”

“They would have given you chances after the first year was up. Like finding that boy from the subway in New York," Theseus said. He was certain that the mention of that boy would get his brothers attention, but he acted like he hadn’t heard.

“Think of all the creatures I could lose in a year, let alone three!” Newt roared. He made a hand gesture when he noticed the bartender watching their conversation. She was gone the next second. “And I would not help the Ministry hunt down and hurt that boy. Credence doesn’t deserve that.”

“You know?” Theseus asked.

“Of course.”

Theseus stood there dumbfounded. What was he supposed to do. It seemed that no matter what he said, his brother would say something to battle it. Clearly, there was no way to simply coerce him to going home. “Listen, let’s just go home and —”

“Is everything alright here?” The woman in the purple dress asked, appearing out of thin air. She had a heavy French accent which made Theseus fill with dread.

All Newt had to say was, “He’s my brother.” and she backed off. Sighing, Newt gave his brother a sympathetic smile. “I’m not going back. Not yet.”

“You leave me no choice,” Theseus said as he reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a pair of gold bangles.

Newt eyed the magic restraining cuffs wearily, leaning away. “That’s not a good idea,” he warned.

Yet Theseus wasn’t listening. He was going to take his baby brother home. He reached out with one hand towards Newt. Within a breath, he had someone physically restraining him, holding his arms behind his back. The bangles hit the floor with a clank. Three quarters of the establishment turned their wands on him, the lady wearing purple with hers pressed directly against his neck. Everything was silent, waiting for him to move or to be given directions.

“My Lord?” A random voice urged. The title made Theseus’ blood run cold. He would be in big trouble if Grindelwald had decided to make and appearance.

Newt let out another sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Vinda, the cuffs.”

Vinda – who looked lovely in purple – slowly removed her wand from the elder Scamander’s throat in favour of picking up the cuffs. She made a motion and the ones holding Theseus back brought his arms out in front of him. She worked silently and within seconds Theseus’ wrists donned those gold bangle-cuffs.

Defenseless. Confused. Hurt. Worried.

“Shall we take him with?” Vinda asked, turning to Newt now that the threat was neutralized. She was the only one to relax, the rest waiting for a cue.

Newt shook his head. “Sweet thought, but no one will be able to handle his whingeing,” he stated. A huff from his brother made his statement all the more believable. With a wave of his hand, everyone dispersed. Only the two holding Theseus and Vinda stayed with him, keeping watch over the situation. Before Theseus could start ranting to him, Newt spotted a woman and the bartender making their way up the bar to him. “Odette, Jacqueline,” he started before diving into fluent French.

He apologized for the disruption and promised that he would deal with the unwanted guest. It wasn’t the establishments’ fault that the elder Scamander got in.

Theseus watched the exchange silently. He accidentally made eye contact with Vinda, the woman glaring at him harshly. If looks could kill, she would have already stabbed him three hundred times.

“You work for Grindelwald,” Theseus said blandly. Vinda squinted her eyes in return, not wanting to converse with him. “Why are you with Newt?”

Vinda let out a small cackle. “I thought you were supposed to be smart, British boy,” she mocked. “I have two lords – what of it?”

Theseus’ mind must have overloaded from stress and worry that he couldn’t come up with an answer. Nor could he remember being dragged to a private room.

“Send him to America. Have one of the ministry acolytes pick him up. A few bruises here and there and they should hold him in MACUSA for a while. They’re not taking any risks right now.”

Theseus refused to believe Newt said that. That he so casually and quickly put together a plan to get Theseus out of the way. There was no way his brother would ever be in any form of relationship with the vile man Gellert Grindelwald. No way…

Almost a year after the first night Grindelwald had tea with Newt, a massive herd of wixen were scrambling into a tomb in Paris. Grindelwald had spent countless hours restructuring his agenda and enforcing it, successfully rerouting his plans. ‘The Greater Good’ now also called a revolution.

Newt sat in the front row of the coliseum like tomb. He had heard the speech hundreds of times, having helped the blonde practice. He blended in with the crowd enough to not be spotted as he smiled at Vinda who stood in the centre as well. He had Credence seated beside him, the boy holding his arm for comfort. He was still nervous around wixen but had latched onto Newt quite quickly.

They all knew there were Aurors in there with them. They had snuck in but had taken no other precautions of fitting in, so, they stuck out like a sore thumb. It was just a matter of waiting to find out who exactly had decided to crash their gathering.

“Go forth. Let everyone know that the next stage of the revolution is upon us!” With the speech over, all the followers started poofing away one by one.

All that was left was Grindelwald’s inner circle and the swarm of Aurors that thought they stood a chance.

Always one for the dramatics, Gellert made a ring of raging blue flames encircle the most inner circle of the tomb. He scowled as his eyes glazed over all the Aurors in the tomb. He recognized the eldest Scamander, that annoying Lestrange woman, and the sister of Newt’s dear American friend. He was amused when they all noticed his red head, even more so when they were told to hold fire.

Gellert watched as Newt escorted Credence to the platform, promising him that he was going to be okay. Then they had a whole conversation with Vinda before finally Credence left with her, leaving Newt to stand by Gellert against the Aurors.

Theseus, Leta, and Tina all started talking at once, their words almost incomprehensible.

Newt scowled; expression similar to Gellert’s.

“You all said it,” he said, voice loud, carrying throughout the entire tomb. “I have an affinity for dangerous creatures. I learn, get to know them, earn their trust. Develop a relationship. You all call him a monster, so, why is Gellert not the same?”

Everyone cringed at the use of the Dark Lords first name.

Theseus was the first to open his mouth, to complain. But Newt wasn’t having it.

“Just because you and Leta have issues doesn’t mean others need to have bad relationships,” Newt said hotly. He felt Gellert snake his arm around his waist, their magic mingling and instantly making him feel slightly better about the situation.

Theseus took a few frustrated steps forward before being stopped by the flames racing their way up the stairs towards him. They stopped just short, just enough to make him fearful of them. “Love has ups and downs. It can’t be fireworks all the time.”

“Oh contrary,” Gellert spoke up, a smirk on his lips. “Touching a soulmate always feels like fireworks.” Sure, he was stretching the truth a little, but it was for a good cause. Getting the elder Scamander to break again.

Theseus spluttered. “No. Those are fairytales.”

Multiple people around him muttered their opposing opinions, Leta included. She looked so pained by it, like the fact her and Theseus weren’t soulmates physically pained her.

An impatient Auror suddenly fired a blast of magic towards Newt and Gellert. The latter easily deflected it, instantly sending a spell of his own that had the man on the ground, writhing in pain.

As much as Newt enjoyed watching his partner, he had things to attend to at the castle. “Remember, Tina and Theseus are exceptions. Queenie will hate us if not.” Newt turned to his side slightly to find those mismatched eyes already on him. He pressed a quick peck to the blonde’s cheek before stepping away with a smile. “Au revoir!”

Any form of happiness or non-murderous intent left Gellert’s body. A sadistic smile overtook his features as he readjusted his grip on the elder wand. It was his time to play and let out a bit of steam.

All the Aurors gulped.

#fanfic #grindelnewt #soulmate au #newt scamander #gellert grindelwald #gellert grindelwald x newt scamander #vinda #multilingual newt #accidental love (fated)

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