#Content Scraping Services

[amrin25]

How Chrome Extensions Can Scrape Hidden Information From Network Requests By Overriding XMLHttpRequest

Chrome extensions offer a versatile way to enhance browsing experiences by adding extra functionality to the Chrome browser. They serve various purposes, like augmenting product pages with additional information on e-commerce sites, scraping data from social media platforms such as LinkedIn or Twitter for analysis or future use, and even facilitating content scraping services for retrieving specific data from websites.

Scraping data from web pages typically involves injecting a content script to parse HTML or traverse the DOM tree using CSS selectors and XPaths. However, modern web applications built with frameworks like React or Vue pose challenges to this traditional scraping method due to their reactive nature.

When visiting a tweet on Twitter, essential details like author information, likes, retweets, and replies aren't readily available in the DOM. However, by inspecting the network tab, one can find API calls containing this hidden data, inaccessible through traditional DOM scraping. It's indeed possible to scrape this information from API calls, bypassing the limitations posed by the DOM.

A secondary method for scraping data involves intercepting API calls by overriding XMLHttpRequest. This entails replacing the native definition of XMLHttpRequest with a modified version via a content script injection. By doing so, developers gain the ability to monitor events within their modified XMLHttpRequest object while still maintaining the functionality of the original XMLHttpRequest object, allowing for seamless traffic monitoring without disrupting the user experience on third-party websites.

Step-by-Step Guide to Overriding XMLHttpRequest

Create a Script.js

This is an immediately invoked function expression (IIFE). It creates a private scope for the code inside, preventing variables from polluting the global scope.

XHR Prototype Modification: These lines save references to the original send and open methods of the XMLHttpRequest prototype.

Override Open Method: This code overrides the open method of XMLHttpRequest. When we create an XMLHttpRequest, this modification stores the request URL in the URL property of the XHR object.

Override Send Method: This code overrides the send method of XMLHttpRequest. It adds an event listener for the 'load' event. If the URL contains the specified string ("UserByScreenName"), it executes code to handle the response. After that, it calls the original send method.

Handling the Response: If the URL includes "UserByScreenName," it creates a new div element, sets its innerText to the intercepted response, and appends it to the document body.

Let's explore how we can override XMLHttpRequest!

Creating a Script Element: This code creates a new script element, sets its type to "text/javascript," specifies the source URL using Chrome.runtime.getURL("script.js"), and then appends it to the head of the document since it is a common way to inject a script into a web page.

Checking for DOM Elements: The checkForDOM function checks if the document's body and head elements are present. If they are, it calls the interceptData function. If not, it schedules another call to checkForDOM using requestIdleCallback to ensure the script waits until the necessary DOM elements are available.

Scraping Data from Profile: The scrapeDataProfile function looks for an element with the ID "__interceptedData." If found, it parses the JSON content of that element and logs it to the console as the API response. If not found, it schedules another call to scrapeDataProfile using requestIdleCallback.

Initiating the Process: These lines initiate the process by calling requestIdleCallback on checkForDOM and scrapeDataProfile. This ensures that the script begins by checking for the existence of the necessary DOM elements and then proceeds to scrape data when the "__interceptedData" element is available.

Pros

You can obtain substantial information from the server response and store details not in the user interface.

Cons

The server response may change after a certain period.

Here's a valuable tip

By simulating Twitter's internal API calls, you can retrieve additional information that wouldn't typically be displayed. For instance, you can access user details who liked tweets by invoking the API responsible for fetching this data, which is triggered when viewing the list of users who liked a tweet. However, it's important to keep these API calls straightforward, as overly frequent or unusual calls may trigger bot protection measures. This caution is crucial, as platforms like LinkedIn often use such strategies to detect scrapers, potentially leading to account restrictions or bans.

Conclusion

To conclude the entire situation, one must grasp the specific use case. Sometimes, extracting data from the user interface can be challenging due to its scattered placement. Therefore, opting to listen to API calls and retrieve data in a unified manner is more straightforward, especially for a browser extension development company aiming to streamline data extraction processes. Many websites utilize APIs to fetch collections of entities from the backend, subsequently binding them to the UI; this is precisely why intercepting API calls becomes essential.

[wanderingmausoleum]

In reference to : https://www.tumblr.com/wanderingmausoleum/770369055434637312/i-am-so-curious-who-the-woman-in-the-tiny-portrait?source=share

I am but a humble Resident Evil roleplayer who reads your blog from afar, but the portrait on Lord Saddler's belt is of Maud Muller by George Elgar Hicks (1824 - 1914). Maud Muller is from a love poem between a village girl (Maud) and a town judge. Granted the source of the portrait, it could represent a love interest or a wife of his, rather than a nun?

(post being referenced link / poem link)

THERE SHE IS INDEED

thank you so much for this info anon!!! this is so interesting 🤔

[anti-rop]

how can you champion free speech and then celebrate when millions of voices on tiktok are censored. hypocrite.

I didn’t want to talk about politics on this blog but, oh well, here we go. Response under the cut.

Let me preface this: I’ve never been a fan of TikTok and when talk of a ban first started to come onto the scene 6 years ago, I thought it was a good thing, for a multitude of reasons but I won't go into all of it. I'll focus on what the proposed ban and SCOTUS corresponded to. This is a topic of US national security and the type of precedents it sets for foreign companies operating in the US. I thought it would be good to act now [2019] rather than later [2025] because looking at the growth curve, it was a service that would easily become so popular that lawmakers would find themselves in an impossible position and a ban would never happen. 

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what’s happened. Again, in my opinion, now a horrible precedent exists. To any foreign government out there, the message is that you are allowed to enter US markets under any pretense, with zero reciprocity for US companies, and as long as you are popular and influential enough the US government and population will go out of its way to facilitate your access

If we are going to go to such extraordinary lengths for a foreign company and government the US must make a demand of absolute reciprocity, in my opinion. Meta, X, Google, Snapchat, and other US-based technology companies must be allowed total market access in China immediately with zero control by the Chinese Government (because that is what they have done through ByteDance owning Tiktok). When the Chinese government inevitably laughs at this demand, ask yourself why. They correctly see Meta, X, Facebook, and Google as instruments of US soft power and as cultural contamination of their civic ideal which undermines their hold on power.

However, we seem to naively believe we're immune from the same influence and have waited so long to act now that we face terrible choices. The one we've made inevitably means we will have a natural experiment now of what it means to allow a government that actively seeks to undermine our civic institutions with the most powerful known technological tool to do so. And the fact that the CCP and ByteDance decided to “shut it down” rather than divest it tells us everything we need to know. No free enterprise would willingly shut off access to 170 million users. 

Also, we should be concerned that millions of Americans acted like drug addicts going through withdrawal when they couldn't access a social media app for roughly 12 hours. That is also cause for great concern. But that's a conversation for another day.

[starmapz]

what you know - ch12: too sweet || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 19.2k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

With a resounding slam, the hood of a newly-serviced Nissan latches shut. Stepping over a dirty rag and a wrench, Sukuna wipes his forehead with the back of his arm and makes his way across the shop to his boss. With a flick of his thumb to point back to the little silver hatchback, he mutters an “it’s good,” before trudging back across the shop and ducking under a half-open garage door.

His breath billows out in front of him, the chill of the air frigid on his sweat-laden skin. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulls out his lighter, rubbing his thumb over the engraved last name across the metal. It’s only his father’s last name carved into the silver, yet he swears yours is written across it too, in the way that the former scrapes and scratches once littering the surface are now gone.

Blinking out of the trance he’s found himself in, he reaches back into his pocket for a cigarette, flipping the cardstock top open, only to be met with an empty box. With a sigh, he grinds the back of his wrist into his temple, attempting to keep grease and oil away from his face by using his wrist, only to look down at his wrist and see it, too, is covered in oil.

Shutting his eyes, he leans back against the smooth concrete of the building, letting his head fall back on the wall. Letting out a breath, he blinks and watches the warmth swirl into the air, not unlike smoke. He has half a mind to try to placebo himself into believing there’s nicotine running through his system, calming his rampant thoughts.

Letting the empty box hang at his side, he stares at the overcast sky. You had been so uncharacteristically cold this morning that he finds himself going over the barely-ten-minute coffee meeting as though it’s a script reading and he forgot every single one of his own lines. Swallowing hard, he contemplates what he could have said or done differently, but at the end of the day, one thing is painfully clear to him.

You have no trust in him.

He can’t be upset with you for that.

He wasn’t in a good place when you’d gotten into an argument, but a few weeks of hovering over your contact every time his chest tightened gave him a lot of time to consider things.

It took him too long to come to the conclusion that if he’d just shut his damn mouth, maybe you would have come to him first for this job. He wonders how many people you contacted before coming to him for something that’s right up his alley. Something that he might even like.

He watches his breath billow above him again with another long exhale.

He’d tried to blame it on the alcohol, on the weed, on his stress, on the hurt you’d caused that had caught him off-guard and pierced him when you’d accused him of being inebriated in front of the kids. He’d looked to blame anything or anyone but himself. No matter how many times he tried to find blame in something else, at the end of the tunnel, it was always him, a decision he’d consciously made.

If he’s about to let you down, then he’ll dig that grave himself. He won’t let you put him there at the cost of what’s left of his dignity.

He remembers the thought running through his head. He’d been so caught up in his own anger, pain, and hurt, that he’d actively made the decision to double-down. He’d gone too far.

It’s not like Sukuna wasn’t accustomed to looking after his brothers on his own, but he’d grown so used to having you around that he hadn’t realized just how much you did for him. It was never just about the kids, or studying, or classes. It went beyond that. You went beyond that.

You made him feel sane.

“Ryomen, the Ford’s ready.”

Crimson irises slowly slide towards his co-worker, a head of raven hair peeking out from under the half-open garage door. “Be there in a moment,” Sukuna grumbles, pushing off of the wall and tossing the empty cigarette box into the trash at the corner of the building before hunching to fit under the garage door. Setting his gaze on a red F-150, he sighs as he falls into familiar motions of servicing the truck.

The next few hours pass by in what feels like a slog of sweat and unwelcome stray thoughts, but before he knows it, he’s opening the door for Uraume back at his apartment. He’s not sure he remembers the last time he saw them, a scowl drawn across his brows as they slip into his home.

“Rume!” Yuji excitedly calls, running straight into Uraume’s outstretched arms.

“I owe you,” Sukuna sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.

Uraume takes a moment to evaluate Sukuna, a frown pulling at their lips. “You don’t,” they shake their head as they always do, pulling Yuji easily into their arms. “I’m happy to help.”

Sukuna swallows hard, nodding. “Right. Thanks.”

Satisfied with his reply, Uraume nods, taking a step towards Sukuna. Little Yuji clings to their shoulders, playing with the collar of Uraume’s shirt. “So, do you want to tell me what this is all about? All of this?” The motion they make with their chin towards- well, all of him- has Sukuna’s scowl deepening.

His gaze lowers to Yuji, before flickering towards Choso fiddling with his GameBoy on the couch. It doesn’t look like the system is even on from what he can tell. He’s listening in, Sukuna’s almost sure of it.

Choosing to leave out the details surrounding the argument he’d had with you, dropping out of school, and anything else that could concern his little brother, he runs a hand down his face. “Got an interview,” he sighs, explaining that it’s at your publishing house.

Uraume’s brow lifts, as though they’re surprised. He wonders if you mentioned the argument to them, but he doesn’t have the time to ask.

“I gotta shave,” he mutters to excuse himself, his footsteps heavy with the weight of responsibility and exhaustion as he makes his way to the washroom to clean up.

Once he’s satisfied with his gelled hair and shaved face, he tucks the black button-up dress shirt clinging to his biceps into his slacks. He doesn’t exactly have the luxury of buying a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s about to burst at the seams, so it’ll have to do. Maybe it’ll work to his advantage, as egotistical as it is to think. With one last onceover of his appearance, he flicks off the lights and makes his way back out to the kitchen.

Yuji and Choso are watching Uraume intensely as they teach the two boys how to fold paper shurikens. His eye involuntarily twitches as he envisions himself getting hit by a stray flying star when he gets home tonight. Yet another way for the boys to pester him.

“I’m headin’ out,” he grumbles, grabbing his keys and throwing his coat and boots on. Before he can slip out the door, Uraume grabs the back of his jacket, stopping him in his tracks.

Sukuna turns on his heel to face Uraume with frustration flickering in his gaze, but they interrupt before he can snarl whatever meaningless words were about to spill in his irritation. Their voice is low enough to keep out of earshot of his brothers as Uraume sternly tells Sukuna they won’t leave until he’s told them what’s going on, really. “You look like shit,” they add. “And not in the usual way.”

“Ouch,” he mumbles, but there’s truth behind their words that he can’t deny. He simply nods and pulls from their grip with a hostile tug, shutting the door behind him.

He remembers you being grateful that your office is on a bus route, and now he’s grateful for it too, given that it’s not exactly within walking distance and he’d prefer not to take a cab to work every day if he gets the job. As the bus comes into sight, he boards it, popping some change into the box at the front before taking a seat with his portfolio in hand.

He winces as the bus hits a pothole, the sudden realization of an oncoming headache spreading a grimace across his lips. With everything and nothing on his mind all at once, he supposes it only makes sense.

Taking a step off the bus into the brisk air, he follows the route on his phone down a block and a half before finding a small unmarked office building. Standing at three stories tall, the building sports a faded ivy green roof that doesn’t fit this decade, or even the last one, for that matter. The windows are all covered in a layer of mud and snow, while the walls of the building themselves are weathered from the elements quite harshly.

His eyes scan the blank sign at the entrance, before falling to a buzzer. A wavy paper with smeared ink is taped to the edge of the box with the names of eight businesses and the numbers to dial to reach them spread across it.

Dialing the number of the publishing house, Sukuna buries his hands in his pockets. There’s no noise as he waits and he finds himself nearly punching in the number again when a cheery voice picks up, inquiring how they can help.

“Here for an interview,” Sukuna states simply, his eyes sliding to the door as the lock pops. Following the signage, he makes his way up a set of stairs to the second floor, pushing his way through the corresponding door.

Within the office, everyone seems to be in somewhat of a mad dash. He’s sure there’s lots of work to be done, but it has an air to it of being amiss. He supposes that’s likely the impending loss of a client you’d mention hanging over the heads of the employees.

The publishing house isn’t particularly big, focusing primarily on local authors and young readers’ books. Despite the run-down appearance of the outside of the building, there’s a homely feel to the office itself. It’s well-lit with a bright oak floor sprawling beneath his feet into a combination of desks strewn across the floor, printers, stacks of paper and filing cabinets, and a few offices along the walls away from prying eyes. Plants line many of the desks and the far wall is covered in a mural of art from books that Sukuna can only assume the business has published. He’s pretty sure he even recognizes a character or two from books Yuji’s brought home from the school library.

Taking a step towards the reception desk, Sukuna shrugs his coat off in an effort to make a good impression with his outfit.

A woman with curly black hair looks up at him with a grin, using what could only be described as a customer service voice as she tells him to take a seat and she’ll inform Maya of his arrival. He can only assume Maya’s your boss, so he quickly shakes his head, asking for you, instead.

The receptionist eyes him curiously before rolling her chair back a few feet to poke her head into an office.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

The look on your face as you peek out at him in your usual pencil skirt and white blouse nearly kills him. Your eyes don’t light up as they once had, your face neutral for the split-second you actually meet his gaze, only to look away as though you can’t bear to keep eye contact, turning back into your office for a moment.

Swallowing feels like an effort with the way his throat tightens.

He hears a chair rolling and chatter from within the office you’d disappeared back into before the clack of your black heels across the floor makes its way to him. Getting to his feet, he’s forced to wonder what’s going through your mind as your eyes scan him, but apart from the obvious discomfort on your face as you continue to avoid eye contact, he can’t get a read on you. His heart sinks as you greet him in a tone that speaks strictly of business.

“You look nice,” Sukuna attempts to break the ice, but the twitch of your brow as you glance back at him doesn’t instill confidence.

“Thanks…” You whisper, beginning to lead the way towards the back of the office. You thread around a number of desks, greeting a few colleagues on the way before finally turning towards him in front of a door labelled Maya.

“So listen,” you begin with a sharp inhale, turning to face him and steeling yourself. “My boss values experience above everything else, which I know you don’t have in the industry, so put your focus on your portfolio, okay?”

Sukuna nods, opening his mouth to thank you, but you’ve already turned away to lead the way into the office. Fuck, if you’d just give him one goddamn moment. He follows after you, his eyes scanning the office for anything to help him with the interview itself.

Light shines onto the desk in the center of the room through the large window in the back, while books with colorful spines line the shelves pressed against the walls. An old typewriter sits on one of the higher shelves, a few plants dotted here and there for some added flair.

What really catches his attention is the photo of your boss kneeling down in front of a lake with two kids with bright smiles. They look about the same age as Yuji and Choso, and Sukuna has to tear his gaze away, blinking as he’s reminded of the life and experiences his brothers never got.

Running his tongue over his lower lip, he sets his attention on your boss. She’s older, with long, straight black hair and curtain bangs. A pair of glasses sits along the bridge of her nose, while a sleek gray suit-jacket is fitted perfectly to her form. She sits at the desk with an air of perfect control in spite of the underlying issue that Sukuna knows plagues the office.

As he approaches with a dossier filled with his portfolio and resume tucked under one arm and extends his other in greeting, he watches the judgment pass over her features. Sukuna’s come to expect it these days, the way eyes will roam his tattoos, silently coming to conclusions about him.

“This is Sukuna,” you introduce him as Maya takes his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sukuna.” She takes a seat, motioning to the chair opposite her, while you sit at his side. There’s something comforting in knowing you’re there with him, even if the feeling is fleeting as you straighten, a smile that doesn’t meet your eyes plastered to your face.

The interview is fairly standard, though Sukuna clearly doesn’t have the experience that your boss is looking for. Still, he sets the dossier on her desk in hopes that she’ll reconsider. If he’s lucky, between his portfolio and the possible loss of a client, she’ll give him a shot at the job anyway.

Maya pulls the folder towards her, flipping it open and pulling out a mix of anatomy pages, sketches of characters his brothers like, inked cleanly in fineline, and the real standouts, the fully realized characters within worlds. The first page has Alice in Wonderland characters, while the tail of the Cheshire Cat curls neatly around the image as though it belongs on a book cover. The second has the Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar in a more crafty style crawling up a tree. He’d pulled the drawings together late last night in an effort to impress her.

Your boss’ brows raise, clearly more impressed by Sukuna’s actual work than either his standard interview answers, or his underwhelming resume. Her reaction, although minute, makes the extra few hours he’d spent awake working on those spreads worth it.

“These are great,” she compliments, leafing back through the pages until her finger catches on a page, separating two pages that had stuck together. Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly as he realizes the Sonic drawing that Yuji had colored with the half-finished Shadow had somehow made its way into his portfolio.

“That’s, uh, not meant to be in there,” he gruffs, his brow furrowing.

But it’s caught your boss’ attention in a way the rest of the art doesn’t. The scrappy way that Sonic is colored in comparison to the rest of his sketches that use primarily charcoal and graphite, tells of only one thing- a kid. Her whole demeanor shifts as she evaluates the way the cheap marker bleeds through the paper.

“Do you have kids?” She asks genuinely, backtracking quickly as she realizes that’s not exactly the kind of question you ask during an interview. “Sorry, don’t feel obligated to answer that.”

Sukuna sucks in a breath. “No, but I look after my brothers.”

Something softens in her eyes, as though memories of her own children- the ones in the photo Sukuna spotted- are running through her mind.

“May I ask how old they are?”

“Five and twelve.”

Sukuna wonders if you know that none of his employers knew about the kids until he had to get the letters from them for the case. He wonders if you know that by divulging his part of his life to your boss, to someone who doesn’t know him, he’s trying to show you that he’s changed. He’s trying to put in more effort, trying to give more of himself to you.

Maya simply smiles, a warmth held within her features that Sukuna’s not generally regarded with. “Do you have any experience working digitally?”

No. “Yes.”

Maya nods. “Did she fill you in on the deadline for the first seven projects?” She queries, shooting you a quick glance.

“She did.”

“Do you think it’s a possibility to have them done by tomorrow?”

Sukuna’s gaze slides over to you briefly, admiring the way the sun seems to make your skin glow. Swiping his tongue briefly over his lower lip, he nods. He’ll have to work through the night, but it’s not like he hasn’t done that before. 

In his periphery, your shoulders sag in relief, grateful that all of your hard work won’t be for nothing. He knows he’s lost your trust, but even so, seeing your relief makes this all worth it.

Maya excuses you to discuss details of the arrangement with Sukuna, so you slip away with a nod. Shutting the door behind you, you let out a breath, making your way back to your office. Well, if it can even be called that.

The room is decorated to the nines with Yuki’s favorite books and photos of her and her partner at pretty much every huge travel destination you can imagine. It’s hard to believe she’s not even that much older than you, yet she’s got so many more life experiences. At least, ones worth hanging photos of.

A table that acts as your desk is pushed up to the front of hers, with an extension cable running up onto the table to plug in your monitor and the laptop the company had provided you. It’s nothing fancy, but you prefer it to being at one of the open desks littering the center of the office space. It gives you a semblance of privacy and some silence to work in, apart from Yuki’s occasional humming.

The blonde’s head raises as she spots you, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “Puh-lease tell me it went well.”

“I think so,” you sigh, plopping down in your chair and letting it roll back a bit as you stare at the ceiling.

“Thank god, I swear Ayana just didn’t work on our books on purpose,” she groans dramatically, following suit as she pushes away from her desk, her chair rolling back until it hits the wall. “So who is he, anyway? Doesn’t seem like you know him well,” she comments, pointing the tip of a pen in your direction.

Momentarily forgetting about your makeup, you shake your head before pausing, staring down at your fingers that now glimmer with the makeup you’ve smudged. Doing your best to salvage it without being able to see your appearance, you wipe your pointer delicately around your eyes with a long sigh. “He used to be a friend,” you explain, deciding to leave it at that. It’s easier than over-analyzing the way he looked at you as you led him to your boss’ office.

For all your time spent keeping a straight face around him, you feel like you need an entire month-long vacation just to recover. And that hardly added up to twenty minutes. You know it’s for the best, but it’s hard not to give in when your heart still aches for him, even if your mind holds onto his misgivings still.

“Oh? Ohhh?” Your colleague pushes herself towards her desk, leaning over it and clasping her hands together eagerly. “Girl, spill.”

In hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have mentioned that you knew him.

“It’s not a big deal, we just had some disagreements and grew apart,” you shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance that clearly disappoints Yuki, but at least she believes you. You’re not sure you can bear the thought of picking at your wounds that had only just begun to scab over and heal. Especially not with Sukuna only a couple of offices away.

It’s not a case of being civil, you’re more than capable of being mature, and you’re sure Sukuna is, as well. That doesn’t mean you forgive him though. After all, you need to protect yourself first and foremost.

Yuki pouts, staring in disappointment at the colorful arrangement of books on one of her many shelves. “I was hoping your story would be at least a ten minute distraction from work,” she grumbles.

Shaking your head with a smile, you chuckle at your colleague. “Come on, your projects aren’t even that bad.”

In a fit to prove you wrong, Yuki is quick to pick up a stack of paper, wiggling it in the air. “Do you want this pile of knock-off Baby Shark books?”

Your eyes scan the name when she quits waving the paper around. Little Whale. Huh. With a shake of your head, you point to your own pile. “I’m good,” you chuckle, about to comment on some of the strange publications sitting in your own to-do list when someone clears their throat at the door to your office.

A painfully familiar ex-friend is leaning against the doorframe to your office, an iPad and laptop in one hand, with a pile of paperwork in the other. You assume that’s a good sign.

Good for your work, anyway.

And, if you’re being honest with yourself, there’s a part of you that hopes he enjoys the job, given that he’ll have the opportunity to do something he may actually enjoy for a living. No matter how much pain the thought of all your arguments brings you, you don’t think there’s a world where you don’t care for him, so you force a tight-lipped smile as you face him.

“Looks like it went well. Congratulations, Sukuna.”

His brow twitches, but he nods. “Appreciate you thinkin’ of me.”

You can only nod. “Um, yeah… Let me know if you need a hand with anything.”

Sukuna opens his mouth to say something before deciding against it and nodding. He pokes his tongue into the side of his mouth, pushing off the doorframe. “Have a good day, prin-” He catches himself, feigning a cough to cover up his slip. If it can even be considered that. He repeats himself, this time finishing his sentence with your name.

“Yeah, you too, Sukuna,” you wave him off quietly, turning back to your desk and burying your face in your hands.

Yuki fiddles with her pen, simply staring as she waits for the sound of the front door closing. “Soooooo… Are you that awkward with every person you just grow apart from?” She pushes, nosy as ever.

“It wasn’t that awkward,” you grumble, rolling your shoulders as you sit up and attempt to ward away the fact that Yuki is painfully right, and it’s probably for the best that things stay that way.

“Girl, everything about that was painful.”

With a sigh, you let your head hang.

You’re in for an interesting ride at work from here on out.

–

Sukuna shoves his front door open with his foot, his hands otherwise full. Shutting the door with his shoulder, he kicks his shoes off and dumps the laptop and iPad onto the table, alongside the printed client instructions for the covers and the paperwork he would need to formally fill out- all before going in tomorrow. His eyes slide across the apartment to Uraume scowling in concentration at the TV as they lose brutally to Sukuna’s brothers in MarioKart.

“Kuna!” Yuji cheers excitedly, shooting him a glance despite the fact that he’s effortlessly destroying Uraume.

“Winning, Yu?” Sukuna asks in a mild tone, though Choso isn’t too far behind Yuji. Even so, Choso doesn’t seem all that interested in playing. But lately, when does anything interest him?

Still, he’s also still beating Uraume, who can’t even spare a single word towards Sukuna, lest they get beaten by more computer players.

Which is saying something, given that they’re in sixth place in the race.

Out of eight.

“Loser,” Sukuna snorts, completely breaking their concentration as Uraume falters going over a jump and lands themself in last place as they fall off the stage.

“You’re a menace, Sukuna,” they huff as the podium comes up on-screen, entirely devoid of Uraume’s character.

“I don’t think that was my fault,” he comments with a sly smirk, though his eyes are clouded with stress. It’s strange how hardly an hour with you has him completely and utterly exhausted, where once he used to find comfort. Now, he’s stepping on eggshells around you, trying to find an opening where you might give him a chance.

Ignoring him, Uraume gets up from the couch to take a look at the iPad and laptop on the table. “You got the position?” They ask, smiling as they face him. “Congratulations, this looks right up your alley.”

“Yeah, they were pretty desperate,” he hums, running a hand through his hair. “Got a long night ahead of me, though. Seven covers due tomorrow morning, then I gotta head to the auto shop.”

Uraume’s brows draw together in concern. “Please tell me you plan on quitting a couple of those jobs.”

“I already sent a text to the supermarket, I got one more shift. Gonna talk to the shop tomorrow about changin’ my hours.”

Uraume frowns, though. “Don’t you think that’s still a bit much?”

“Need the money,” he shrugs simply, casting a glance at his brothers.

Uraume sighs, relenting to Sukuna’s stubbornness as they follow his gaze. “Can I have a word with you?”

Sukuna hums in acknowledgment. “Cho, homework. Yu, brush your teeth and get in your pajamas.”

“But it isn’t even late!” Yuji whines, whipping around from his place on the couch like this is the ultimate betrayal.

“I’m not asking ya to go to sleep, just get ready.”

Yuji groans dramatically, throwing his head back as he trails after Choso.

“What’s up?” Sukuna asks, turning back to his friend.

“You look like shit. What’s going on?” Uraume finally has the opportunity to confront him.

Way to sugarcoat it. Sukuna lets out a long sigh, running his hand through his hair as he plops down on the couch. A few stray pink strands fall down into his eyes, his hair having grown painfully long. The couch dips as Uraume takes a seat beside him, sitting with their hands on their lap. They push their snowy hair behind their ear, patiently awaiting Sukuna’s response.

“It’s nothin’. Just having a tough time with the brats lately,” he brushes them off, eager to bury his racing thoughts in the seven novel covers he had to put together.

“And the fight?”

Sukuna huffs, pressing the ball of his palm to the bridge of his nose. “Did she tell you?”

“No,” Uraume shakes their head. “But it’s pretty obvious.”

Dragging his hand down his face, Sukuna mumbles, “great.” He leans against his fist, his elbow propped up on the arm of the couch as his gaze shifts towards his friend.

“Will I need to keep pushing, or are you planning on telling me what happened?” They ask, their tone hardening.

“It’s not a big deal, I’m fixing it.”

Uraume lets out a prolonged sigh, crossing their arms in exasperation. “I’m not leaving until you stop bottling everything up. The last thing either of us needs is a repeat of when we first met. I can’t be here to peel you out of bed every time you need it.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Shit’s not that bad,” he gruffs, keeping his gaze fixed on the coffee table. He reclines into the couch, continuing to lean on his bent elbow as he kicks his feet up onto the table.

“Maybe not now,” Uraume shrugs, “but that doesn’t mean it never will be again.” Shuffling closer to him, Uraume’s voice softens. “Mental health isn’t a straight line, Sukuna. You can’t expect to always be fine just because you are now.” This garners Sukuna’s attention as his gaze shifts to examine his friend, frustration glimmering in the crimson of his irises. “And for the record,” they add, shrugging. “You still look like shit. So I don’t believe you, anyway.”

He grits his teeth, irritation flashing in his eyes, but he knows better than to push Uraume away, keeping his frustrations contained as best as he can. The last thing he needs is to lose the last person who doesn’t resent him.

“Yeah, fine. Fine.” He drags his hand down his face, sinking further into the cushions and crossing his arms as he explains the fight he had with you. He remembers it all too well. Remember the words that cling to the outer edges of his mind, taking root like the prettiest of flowers that he could never bear to pluck.

Uraume listens with an increasing frown, blinking a few times as Sukuna recounts the events of the last month, still choosing to leave out the details of the lawsuit. He doesn’t need Uraume, Toji, or anyone treating the kids with pity. At least, he convinces himself that’s the reason he won’t tell anyone.

Withholding what may be their tenth sigh in simply the last few minutes, Uraume rubs at their temples. “I understand that you were hurt, Sukuna, but she didn’t deserve that.”

“Don’t tell me shit I already know,” Sukuna hisses, having slumped back so far into the couch that he’s staring at the ceiling.

“If you know that already,” Uraume continues, unphased by his frustration. “Then why didn’t you reach out to her?”

With a drawn out inhale, he rolls his eyes. “Broke her trust. That was my last chance,” he mutters, his words dripping with irritation. Between this conversation, his own actions from a month ago, and his growing frustration with his current day, he’s becoming more and more desperate for a cigarette. He should have stopped to grab a box on his way home.

“You’re dense.”

God, he really needs that cigarette. He lifts his head from the cushion, scowling at his friend. “What?”

They sigh again. “Sukuna, you know I have a great deal of respect for you. I don’t want to downplay just how far you’ve come from when we first met and just how much you do for your brothers. So with that out of the way,” their face drops as they deadpan, “you’re an idiot.”

Sukuna huffs, diverting his gaze from Uraume. He already knows he’s about to be pissed off.

“She said you weren’t being yourself, correct? That she likes the ‘you’ that she got to know?”

“Yeah, and?” Sukuna pushes, irritation now pumping through his veins as he careens towards flat-out anger.

“It isn’t my place to air out someone else’s business, but I want you to think about that, Sukuna,” Uraume speaks with an air of earnestness that Sukuna isn’t accustomed to. They may have a more formal way of speaking than Sukuna, but they tend to keep their tone fairly lighthearted and casual most of the time, especially with him.

“Think about what?” Sukuna’s brow furrows in vexation.

Uraume’s already on their feet, tossing their coat over their arm. They cast a glance at him, briefly shaking their head. “Think about what she meant when she said that.”

He shakes his head, his mind racing to catch up to the meaning behind Uraume’s words as they head for the door. “The fuck do you mean? Uraume-” Sukuna pushes to his feet, catching up and reaching over them to keep the door shut. Their brow raises as they crane their neck to look up at him. “What the fuck do you mean?” The air of desperation in the usually low and disinterested timbre of his voice is unbefitting of him, causing Uraume to raise a brow.

“You know exactly what I mean, Sukuna.” They can only watch as Sukuna straightens, searching their face for any sign of a lie. When he doesn’t find anything, he scowls at the floor in thought. “Go get your work done.” They turn back towards the door, shoving his hand aside and slipping out without another word.

With his jaw hanging slightly ajar, he feels his heart accelerating.

I’ve seen the real Sukuna, and I like him, I- I like you.

That’s what you said. There’s no way he’s misremembering that. It’s replayed in his mind too many times to be wrong.

He blinks, staring at the door. Absently reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, he shuts his eyes at the realization he hasn’t magically come up with a box in the last five minutes.

With a sharp inhale, he walks slowly to the back of the apartment, pushing his hand across the paperwork he’d set down earlier. The papers slide across the smooth wood of the table, everything within his portfolio, alongside instructions and HR paperwork for the position now spread across the table in no particular order.

His heart pounds in his ears as he picks up the page he was searching for, something his gaze had ghosted over only for a moment while he’d gone through the paperwork with Maya after you left. Towards the bottom of the page is a category with a box titled ‘referral’, alongside your signature. His tongue runs over his bottom lip as he’s left unable to do anything but stare.

You like him. He knows that. You’d been close for a while, able to bounce off of one another as though you’d known each other for an eternity. You’d stuck by his side through his worst days, calming him down and picking him up when he needed it.

You were his closest friend. Maybe even closer than he’d ever been to Uraume or even Toji back in the day. Of course you like him. Is he dense for assuming that’s all you meant? He wants to believe the answer is no, but Uraume is rarely wrong, as much as he hates to admit it.

Bringing a hand up to scratch at his chest, he tears his thoughts from their spiral as something moves in his peripherals. Yuji runs over to tug at Sukuna’s dress shirt sleeve, putting the full force of his tiny frame into pulling at Sukuna.

“Kuna, come look at our shu- um-” he pauses, though his attempt to tug Sukuna along doesn’t cease. “Our sh- our shu… our ninja stars!” He finally settles on a word.

“Shurikens,” Sukuna corrects him with his usual mild expression plastered on his face. He humors his brother, finally allowing the little boy to pull him into the kids’ room. Choso is blankly working on math problems at the desk, but before Sukuna’s given the chance to make a comment about the origami stars, Yuji lets go of his sleeve, picks up a shuriken, and whips it at his oldest brother with the full force of a five-year-old. 

Sukuna scowls as the paper hits him square in the abdomen, causing little more than a wrinkle in his shirt, but the older brother snarls regardless. “Cut that out, brat.”

Yuji’s eyes light up at the sight that’s so startlingly normal for their house, that you’d almost forget about the lawsuit, or Choso and Sukuna’s plummeting mental health. Hell, for a moment, even Sukuna briefly forgets as he gives chase to his brother, who slips between his legs back into the living room where he can run around the couch.

The little boy doesn’t anticipate Sukuna simply running over the couch to get to him, shrieking with wide eyes and thrilled giggles as his brother scoops him up off the ground, holding him like a limp sack of potatoes.

“Nice try, brat,” Sukuna huffs, his voice surrounded by amusement that thrills Yuji. The boy laughs in delight as he wriggles around in an attempt to free himself, though it’s completely fruitless against Sukuna’s bulk.

Heading back to the boys’ room, Sukuna tosses Yuji onto his mattress, watching as the boy laughs in delight. Choso doesn’t share the same amusement, but something familiar flashes through his eyes as a hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

In an attempt to capitalize on the moment, Yuji tries to hop off of his bed to make way for another ninja star, when Sukuna lifts his foot to block the kid. “Later, Yu. Your brother’s gotta focus. Can you read a book or somethin’?”

Yuji pouts, staring back at the bookshelf that separates the boys’ beds. “But I’ve read them all.”

“I gotta get some important work done, can you read Dragonology again or somethin’? I’ll get you a new book soon if you can do that for me.”

Yuji glances back at the large red spine with gold sparkling text across it at the bottom of the book shelf, weighing his options. A new book must appeal to him, as he seems to decide it’s worth it, much to Sukuna’s relief.

As the boys quiet down, Sukuna lets out a sigh, changing into a hoodie and returning to his own work. Momentarily forgetting his previous train of thought and conversation with Uraume, he packs all the paper together, tapping the stack on the table to straighten it out before he grabs the laptop and iPad, heading for his bedroom. He leaves the door open a crack for his brothers as he begins leafing through the client requests.

The first one is for a children’s horror novel with animatronics, which he can certainly work with. Sliding a paperclip off the first request, he boots up the iPad, getting himself set up for the first design. The first animatronic is a bear with a hat, which Sukuna realizes is strikingly similar to a character he’s seen from Choso watching YouTube.

Scowling, he takes a look at the second request. A group of kids solving mysteries with a cat in a big van. Huh.

Another flip of a page to the third request. A series about a girl who tames dragons. Tames, not trains. Otherwise, that would be copyrighted. Sukuna chuckles at the realization that everything seems to be a knock-off. He wonders if his brothers would like this sort of shit. Maybe someday his brothers would be able to bring home something he illustrated.

Legally Nondescript Monsterology. It’s not catchy, but he thinks he can make it work.

Regardless, Sukuna works hard putting together the covers in a timely manner, while trying to retain quality. They may be knock-offs, but he still wants to give it his all given that he just quit one of his jobs. Not to mention, you recommended him, and he can’t let you down. Not again.

It’s then that his thoughts come racing back to him suddenly. You like him. He scowls down at the screen of the iPad, staring at the first cover with a glower that isn’t meant for the mildly creepy animatronic bear peeking around a corner in a small diner.

As if on autopilot, he digs through his pockets to pull his phone out and snaps a photo of the nearly-finished cover on the iPad he’d barely figured out to send to you. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, before sending the photo with the caption ‘do you think your boss will approve’.

He can’t think of a time, even over email, that he ever waited much longer than a few minutes for you to reply, though he doesn’t get that luxury this time around. Do you reserve that for friends? Or was that a side of you that only he was privy to?

Is he so dense, even now, that he’s unwilling to admit the fact that you might have had feelings for him?

Setting his phone down on the drawing table, his leg bounces relentlessly as he leans back in his chair.

Had he unknowingly led you on when he kissed you? He couldn’t have. You’d gone for chicken strips at a little diner after talking through that, you were both just horny and confused, he was sure of it.

Strip Joint. The diner you visited that night. The background of the art for the first novel is a carbon copy of it, he realizes. A complete accident, but it’s exactly what he pictured when thinking of a diner. He blinks at the drawing, so caught up in wondering how he hadn’t realized what he was doing that he nearly misses the vibration of his phone.

7:49 PM Princess || She’ll like it! Looks good.

His head falls forward against his phone with a sigh. You’re using periods at the end of your texts with him. Great.

Looking through your message history with him, he scrolls until he finds the night you stayed at his place, in his bed. Your texts were so bubbly, so full of life. Did you like him, then?

Did you have feelings for him?

Why does that knowledge make Sukuna’s arm hair stand on end?

Setting down his phone, he runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. He’s in for a long night, but the light at the end of the tunnel is the knowledge of how much he’s getting paid. Not just as a salary, but upfront for the overnight covers. Enough to cover whatever fees he was worried about with the lawyer, and whatever book Yuji decided on, as well as something for Choso. Maybe even a dinner at a restaurant.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, an ounce of your trust back.

–

The text you receive from Yuki the morning following Sukuna’s interview has you reeling in relief, thankful that Sukuna pulled through, and not only that, but your books are being pushed through the rest of the publishing process, and Sukuna is onboard full-time.

Well, that last part may not be something to be relieved over, but at least your hard work wasn’t for nothing.

Besides, there’s no way everything with Sukuna will be completely and utterly weird, right?

Your first Tuesday working with him, he was only able to make it for half of the day, so your paths only crossed a handful of times. Still, every time you came across one another seemed to have you both walking on eggshells. It’s not like you can’t both be civil and professional, sharing a wave or smile here and there and discussing business when necessary, but you can’t help but feel like he shouldn’t be coming to the intern when his iPad won’t connect to the company’s file cloud.

“Can’t you ask Felix?” You ask as Sukuna pokes his head into your office for the second time just since you arrived.

Although he remains stoic at your response, something flashes in his eyes. “He’s not at his desk.”

“He’s out this week,” Yuki comments with a yawn, giving you the bare minimum of her attention as she works on another Baby Shark knock-off book.

“Right,” you mutter under your breath, shooting Sukuna a tight-lipped smile as you get to your feet. “Let me see,” you hold your hand out expectantly, pulling up the cloud service’s settings on the iPad to see if you can find the issue.

After tapping through it a few times, you chew on your lip. “Did you try… turning it off and on again?” You’re met with silence from Sukuna, and when you tilt your head to look up at him, you find him staring at you with raised brows and a look that says that he absolutely already did that. “Sorry,” you murmur, going back to tapping at the screen somewhat aimlessly. You hum in thought as you click through the settings, tapping your manicured nails rhythmically along the back of the iPad as you hold it. “Hold on.”

Leading the way out to the admin computer, you login and search through permissions, before finding that Sukuna’s account simply hasn’t been added to the cloud function yet. He’d likely only submitted through Maya so far.

“That should fix it.” You offer the device back to him with a neutral smile.

He types in his password and nods. “Yeah, I owe-” He pauses, examining your expression with an intensity that has your hair standing on end. “Thanks.”

You nod, turning to head back to your office when Sukuna hesitantly spits out an “I’m sorry”.

Blinking, you pull your lower lip between your teeth once more, only halfway facing him as you wait for him to elaborate.

“For-” He pauses, shutting his eyes, before shaking his head. “For bothering you.”

And with that, he just walks away. You stare after him for a long moment, but the feeling of your heart slowing to a normal rate in your chest is a relief as he gets further away. The feeling that replaces the pounding in your chest is equally unpleasant though, as something akin to yearning wraps its claws around you.

You can try all you want to convince yourself that it’s just because he looks painfully attractive with a black button-up and sleeves rolled up to his elbow in the sluttiest way imaginable, or the way that it hugs his biceps so tightly that you can practically see every vein in his arm, but you’re not ignorant to your own emotions.

No, it’s not the damn shirt, or the slacks that hang low on his hips. It’s not the fact that he cleans up well when he needs to, or the way he’s got his hair pushed back with gel to keep it in place. It’s not even the way he seems to put you on a pedestal, as though no one in this office is capable of anything but you.

It’s the fact that something is clearly different now, and you’re not oblivious to the fact that he’s trying to show you that. He’s still as stoic and mild as ever, but he’s sharing more of himself. Even little things, tiny corrections, little changes in the way he talks not just to you, but to everyone, none of it is going unnoticed.

Does it really make a difference, though? Can you even forgive him after everything?

As he sits down in Ayana’s old office, now his, you shake that thought from your head. That’s not the question you need to be asking yourself. It’s whether you should forgive him.

At the end of the day, you need to make yourself your priority, and you’re not sure if that includes him.

–

The office is fairly quiet as you slip past reception after your morning lecture on Thursday. Yuki isn’t at her desk as you drop your bag alongside the table that’s pushed against her desk for you. Getting yourself set up for work for the day, you pause at the sight of a warm drink at the corner of your desk.

Smiling to yourself, you get to work, pulling the cup towards you.

“Hey, girl,” Yuki greets you, making her way around the room to her chair.

“Hey, thanks for the drink!” You beam at her.

She shakes her head. “Wasn’t me. I just got back from a meeting.”

Turning the cup towards you in search of a name, you come up blank, finally taking a sip of it.

Your exact order.

“Huh, I wonder who it was,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance as though a certain tattooed man isn’t the only thing occupying your mind, causing your heart to somersault in its cage.

“Ooh, do you have a secret admirer?” She leans in with a curious grin, tapping her acrylic nails on her desk. “I bet I could do some digging-”

“I’ll ask around at lunch,” you interrupt, taking another sip of the drink in an effort to dissuade her. The last thing you need is the queen of office gossip herself digging into your business with Sukuna. Yuki’s a sweetheart and you love her for that, but there’s nothing that she loves more than gossip, and as the intern, the last thing you need is to be at the center of it.

She groans dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

Playfully rolling your eyes, you point at her stack of paperwork. “Go back to Adolescent Shark or whatever you’re editing.”

She wrinkles her nose in mock offense. “I’ll have you know it’s Baby Whale.”

The small office is filled with your collective laughter as you fall into the familiar routine of work. You hardly get much of a chance to really begin digging into work before Yuki’s dragging you along to the break room for lunch, though.

The break room is fairly gray compared to the rest of the office, the only real hints of color being the plants that line the top of the wooden cabinets that hang along the far wall. A stainless steel fridge and microwave sit at the far end of the cabinets and counter, housing most of the staff’s meals.

“What’d you bring?” She asks curiously, peering over your shoulder to the tupperware you’re putting in the microwave.

“Just stir fry,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “Nothing fancy.”

She hums as she takes a seat, beginning to recount how her meeting this morning went. You take a seat shortly after with your food warmed, looking up to find Sukuna across the room, a few tables away.

He’s gripping a matching paper cup to the one sitting on your desk barely an hour ago, his gaze trained on it. Faint stubble dots his chin and his hair hasn’t been styled, but otherwise you’re reminded that he still cleans up fairly nicely, a new-looking red collared shirt hanging over his frame that fits him better than the black one from Tuesday. It’s still pleated across the sides, as though he didn’t iron it, though you don’t exactly take him for the kind of guy to do that.

As if sensing you looking at him, his eyes flicker upwards, meeting yours with an expression you don’t recognize. He blinks a couple of times, examining you before tearing his gaze away as he evaluates the room full of your co-workers. Casting you one last glance, he silently returns to staring at his coffee cup.

You shut your eyes for a moment as your heart twists at the sight of a very obviously dejected Sukuna, who, as usual, has no lunch. Staring down at your stir fry that’s beginning to look less and less appealing, you find yourself prodding at a pepper. Why do you so badly want to give him your lunch? How is it that your mind is telling you over and over how bad of an idea it is to let him back in, while your heart hollows itself out for him again, reopening old wounds?

You continue to prod at your lunch while Yuki fills you in on her day, eventually leaving for a meeting, alongside everyone else until the room is silent and near-empty.

Near-empty.

Sukuna fixes you with an intense gaze, that same unreadable expression drawn across his features.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you spit out in an effort to fill the air, rife with tension.

“Anytime.”

The silence hangs heavily between you both, weighing down on the man who can’t even seem to bear to look at you. The weight of the settled quiet, once filled with so much comfort, presses down around you suffocatingly as Sukuna finally meets your gaze with a scowl. It doesn’t carry anger or irritation as it usually does, but something else. Something different.

“I’m sorry,” Sukuna gruffs, his voice raw with emotion.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, fixing him with a look of uncertainty. The distance between your tables feels so painfully real, wedged between you like a chasm, unable to cross it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he continues, his eyes flitting desperately across the table as though he’s searching for words he’d rehearsed, only to watch them scatter across the surface.

If he’s being honest with himself, that’s exactly what’s happening. He’s watching uncertainty and hurt spread across your features and everything he’s spent the weekend putting together for this moment is falling to pieces in front of him. Every rehearsed and well-thought-out phrase falling to pieces. He swallows hard in an effort to stop his throat from tightening, anything to keep his voice steady.

He grips his empty cup harder, the frail paper bending beneath his fingers as he grows frustrated with himself.

“Fuck,” he hisses, mostly to himself as he scowls down at the empty cup. His grip tightens again and the lid pops off, rolling across the table and down onto the floor, drawing your attention to it as it collides with the leg of a chair near yours, tumbling to a halt. “Had all this shit I wanted to say, and it’s all fuckin’ gone,” he grumbles, huffing in exasperation.

Taking in his words, you nod slowly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.” Your voice is mousey as you fiddle with your fork.

The tattooed man scowls deeply at you, shaking his head. “Why?”

You sigh, attempting to gather your thoughts as everything within you races. Your mind, your heart, your nerves. You’re not sure which one’s winning, but you’re damn-near desperate for your mind to slow down, if nothing else. You can live with your heart pounding in your ears and the slight tremor in your hands, but it would be nice to at least think straight.

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I shouldn’t have accused you of… Of being drunk and high around your brothers.”

And damn it, Sukuna’s envious that your words come across so eloquently, even as you chew on your lip and avoid his gaze.

“I don’t care,” he mutters in a barely masked huff of frustration.

Straightening your posture, you tilt your head in confusion. That isn’t exactly the reaction you were assuming you would get to an apology, at least not with the way he’s been seeking you out at every turn.

Finally catching on to your confusion, his eyes widen. “No, fuck, I don’t mean it like that.” He pushes to his feet, leaving his cup behind as he shuffles past the chairs haphazardly tucked under the tables between you, until he can find a spot across from you at your table. “I just meant- I mean- it doesn’t matter.” He scowls at the table. “What you said that night. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore.”

Your eyes narrow as you try to make sense of the man who, for as long as you’ve known him, has never been good with words. “You forgive me?”

“Shit, yeah. That’s what I mean.” The burly man scratches the back of his head. “Look, it hurt n’ all, but I’m over it.”

You set your fork down in your stir fry with a sigh, absently chewing on your nail. The sleeve of your blouse falls down your arm to the elbow with the movement. “Still, I never meant-”

“You kept them.” Sukuna interrupts, stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of two woven bracelets around your wrist. His brow, raised in shock, slowly twitches into a furrow.

Humming, you follow his gaze to the bracelets tied to your wrist. “Oh,” you whisper, fiddling with the frayed end of a red piece of twine on your wrist. “Yeah, I didn’t have the heart to cut them off.”

Sukuna swears it takes the breath straight from his lungs.

Shit.

He always knew you loved his brothers, but it’s been a month now since you’ve seen them. A month of lies telling his brothers you’re busy, a month of expecting never to see you again. A month of thinking any care you once had not only for him, but also for his brothers is gone.

Now, every single one of his thoughts and expectations are muddled all because you didn’t have the heart to take off a couple of bracelets. Maybe to anyone else, it would be an act of clinging to something that isn’t there, but to Sukuna, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can fix what he broke.

If only he wasn’t so shit with his words.

“Why?” He gruffs.

Why?

It’s almost as though he’s outside of his own body, watching some idiot fumble with words.

“Oh, um- I don’t know,” you mumble. “I guess it just felt too final, and your brothers are so sweet.”

Felt too final? Did you not want things to end?

“They miss you.”

Oh, great. And now the same dumbass is using his brothers to guilt-trip you.

Your lips twitch into a frown. You’re not sure what you’re meant to do with that information when he knows you still care for them now, just as well as he clearly knows that you’ve been avoiding him.

“Listen, I’m fucking sorry,” he begins, balling his hand into a fist  in his lapp as he repeats himself again. “I was drunk, and high, and hurt, and I took that out on you. It was a mistake. I never meant any of it, I was…” he leans on the table, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms. “I was just tryin’ to hurt you back.”

You take in his words, nodding slowly as you try to understand where he’s coming from. “Why?”

Sukuna shakes his head, not quite sure himself. He raises his hand in a loose shrug, letting it fall onto the table with a thud. “Fuck if I know. Guess I just thought that if I was gonna waste my last chance with you, then…” he trails off, realizing just how stupid he sounds. “I dunno, princess.”

Your heart slams itself at full force into your rib cage, giving you whiplash as his nickname for you hits you like a truck. In truth, there’s a part of you that had expected him to move on like nothing had happened. Sukuna may be a more vulnerable person than he lets on to most, but you were there when he fought with Toji. How many years were they friends? So, why did your four months with him make his reaction so different?

At a loss for words, all you can do is blink at him, your jaw ajar.

Clearing his throat, Sukuna lets out a frustrated huff. “Guess I just thought that if I was going down, I was bringin’ you down with me.”

Rubbing your hands down your face, you narrowly avoid smudging your makeup. “That’s… dumb, Sukuna,” you mumble, your voice muffled behind your palms.

He waves his hand through the air again in some form of a frustrated shrug, letting it fall hard against the table. “Yeah, well.” His leg bounces beneath the table as he examines the wall. “You know I’m a dick.”

You exhale through your nose in something akin to a wry laugh. It’s a start, and Sukuna will count that as something of a win.

Silence settles between you both again, and Sukuna doesn’t know how to get his point across. He doesn’t know how to fix things because that’s not what he does. He leaves a path of destruction wherever he goes and lets down everyone he knows.

“Let me make shit up to you,” he offers, wincing when you visibly hesitate.

Your heart pounds in your ears, practically begging you to give in, and you’re thankful for your mind finally catching up to feed you reasonable doubt. “I don’t know, Sukuna. If that’s how you act the moment something goes wrong, how am I supposed to trust you?”

He nods, his leg bouncing impossibly faster beneath the table as his blunt nails dig into his palm. Scratching harshly at his chest with his other hand as though it might dull the ache, he considers leaving you be, but Uraume’s words hang above his head, pinning him to his seat.

Did you really have feelings for him? Do you still?

“Gimme another chance,” he pleads, tone laced with desperation. He wipes the back of his arm across his forehead, the room feeling a good ten degrees too warm as he considers what he can do, if anything, to get you to forgive him.

Your lips press into a thin line as you stare down at your uneaten lunch. “Sukuna, I…” you trail off, inhaling a long, deep breath. “You can’t ask me for that, you know that was your last chance. It’s not fair to me.”

Sukuna leans his full weight onto the table, sick to his stomach. Bile rises in his throat and he’s forced to swallow hard in an effort to keep himself in check, but it only makes him want to throw up more.

“Shit,” is all he can mutter, harshly rubbing his eyes. Maybe he should have done this after the trial, waited until he could really get his thoughts in order. Would it change anything? He’s not sure, but he supposes there’s no real point in filling his mind with ‘what ifs’ that make him feel worse.

His stomach churns as he watches you hesitantly begin to stand.

“Just… Let me prove myself,” he begs, standing up as well.

“Sukuna…” You sigh as he unknowingly tugs at your heart strings. You care about him a great deal still, but you can’t abandon a month’s worth of rationale just because you’re clearly not over him.

“I’m not askin’ for things to go back to normal, just… stop avoiding me.” He swallows hard, coughing into his elbow as his throat dries at the mere concept of you saying no. “Please, princess. I’m beggin’ you, here.”

Glancing past him at the office that you need to get back to in order to get some work done, you find yourself sighing. “I can do that,” you agree with a forced tight-lipped smile.

Sukuna lets out a breath of relief, shutting his eyes. “You won’t regret it,” he breathes out, running a hand through his locks to push stray strands of pink from his sweat-laden forehead.

You can only shoot him a wary look as you put your fork in the sink along the wall of cabinets. Returning briefly to your seat, you push it in and contemplate something, before sliding your tupperware across to him.

“Please eat something,” you murmur, slipping past him as quickly and quietly as you can manage.

He knows he won’t be able to eat anything, but as he stares down at the stir fry you’d clearly made for yourself, he finds his heart rate accelerating further, only it’s not from stress. No matter how small, some part of you still cares about him.

–

Your first week working with Sukuna had been… a lot. A lot to handle, emotionally, and a lot to process, and your second week only left you further confused. Although there were no emotionally charged discussions about your falling-out, he seemed to be trying anything that might get him an ounce of trust.

A warm drink sat at the corner of your desk once again when you arrived on Tuesday, still warm, still your exact order. You forgot your charger? Take his. It’s not overbearing, by any means, he gives you space and respects your privacy, but he jumps at any opportunity to help. It’s startlingly kind, maybe even sweet, and you’re not quite sure what to make of that. 

It’s not as though his personality has changed, he’s still stoic and mild as ever, he’s just… listening. Paying attention.

And maybe it makes you a sucker, or naive, but it warms your heart.

Still, you remind yourself this is just one day. Things could change when he grows tired of putting in effort.

Thursday rolls around to the same series of events, although you remember your charger. The difference this time is that a pastry accompanies your drink.

Blinking once, you realize you’ve been staring at your monitor in thought for longer than you’d care to admit, letting time get away from you. With a small shake of your head in an effort to regain your focus, you manage to get in a solid hour of work and complete the short young adult novel you’re working on.

Hitting print, you push up from your desk, your heels clacking across the wooden floors as you make your way to the printer, standing in line behind one of the senior editors waiting for his work to print. He pulls up a stack of paper, moving aside as he checks the pages over. Picking up the first page in the printer, you eye the number in the corner.

“Oh, um, I think you might have my first couple of pages,” you smile kindly as you turn towards him. Dressed to the nines in a full three piece suit (a bit much, really), he raises a brow at you, flipping to the last couple of pages.

“Looks like I do,” he agrees, though his eyes rove the page rather than handing it back. His brow twitches, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips as he continues reading through your work. “I’m seeing a couple of errors here, intern. Tell you what, you go get me a coffee, and I’ll work through your mistakes.” He tilts his head, a strand of long blonde hair slipping from his loose bun.

“Thank you, Reggie, but that’s Yuki’s job, we can manage just fine,” you dismiss him, outstretching your hand expectantly.

His smirk grows, his eyes trailing the length of your body. “I think it would be valuable to learn from a more senior editor than Yuki, don’t you think?”

Keeping your composure, you shoot him a kind smile. “I’ll let Maya decide that.”

“Don’t you wanna learn from the best?” He takes a step forward to nudge you, your first two pages held firmly within the stack of paper he’s keeping in his hand opposite you in an attempt to purposefully rile you up. “C’mon, I’ll do you a favor, and you can do me one. Just go grab me a coffee,” he insists.

Putting some distance between you, you stand your ground. “That’s not my job, Reggie.”

“You’re an intern, aren’t you? ‘Course it’s your job,” he grins, bringing a hand up to scratch at the unkempt facial hair on his chin.

Heavy footsteps fall in quick succession across the floor in your direction, just as you’re about to give up on dealing with Reggie and simply reprint the first couple of pages of your document.

“Is coffee outside of your skillset?” Sukuna gruffs, his sharpened gaze set on the printer as he waits for something as well.

Reggie grins in agreement. “Ooh, can the intern not figure out the machine?” He chides, chuckling to himself.

Straightening, Sukuna turns to face him, towering over the blonde in both height and stature. “Wasn’t talkin’ to her,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. This shirt may not look like it’s about to burst at the seams as he makes a display of showing off his muscles, but it still does him a lot of favors.

Reggie’s brow twitches into a scowl, his attention flickering between you and Sukuna. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as though he can’t possibly believe that someone like Sukuna would be siding with you. “Whatever, man. I can make my own coffee,” he grumbles, turning away.

“I need those pages, Reggie,” you remind him before he can get far. He pauses, fighting with himself for a moment before shoving them into your awaiting open palm and turning on his heel to walk away.

With an exasperated sigh, you turn back to the printer to grab the remaining stack of paper. “Thanks, Sukuna. He thinks he’s better than everyone just because his job title has ‘senior’ in it.”

Sukuna grunts, shooting a glare at the back of the blonde’s head as he disappears into an office. “Fuckin’ prick,” Sukuna grumbles under his breath, turning back to the printer. “Just needed to print somethin’ anyway. Not a big deal.”

As the printer doesn’t seem to have anything queued, you check the bottom of your stack, pulling out the one page that doesn’t belong and raising your brow in a challenge. “You needed to print the cloud storage login?”

Sukuna’s cheeks dust in a faint red as he jerks his hand forward to pull the paper from your grasp. “That was an accident,” he grumbles quietly, staring at the page like it’s betrayed him. “I meant to print a different tab.”

You can’t help the way your lips quirk upwards into a hint of a smile at his obvious white lie. “Right. Well, thanks anyway.”

“Mhm.”

You shoot him a thankful polite smile, stepping backwards a couple of times before turning back to your office with your paperwork clutched to your chest.

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes in the scene, considering a polite smile another win. At least he had some sort of highlight to his week before his meeting with his lawyer tomorrow.

–

Thankful for Friday’s arrival, you, Shoko, Uraume, and a couple of classmates you’re less familiar with all decide to spend one final night relaxing before you would need to focus on studying for midterms. One last night of relaxing and self-care before the onslaught of exhaustion and cramming began.

Popping a piece of popcorn into their mouth, Uraume sighs. “I took way too many classes this semester,” they groan, seated cross-legged on the floor between you and a close friend of Shoko, Iori Utahime. From what you can tell, she’s friends with Uraume as well, and they share a handful of classes.

“How many did you take?” Iori asks, leaning back against her palm on the floor of Shoko’s place. She uses her spare hand to toss her long brown hair over her shoulder, keeping it out of her face as she takes a long drag of a blunt, passing it to Uraume.

“Six,” Uraume chuckles to themself as they take the blunt while Iori gapes in disbelief.

“I thought four was a lot,” you comment with a shake of your head.

“I just wanted to be done this year,” Uraume sighs. “Toji, Atsuya, and I wanted to graduate at the same time.”

You’re sure Sukuna was included in that group once, but Uraume’s refrained from mentioning him since the argument. Although you never spoke to them about it, you���re fairly sure they’re aware of it. They are Sukuna’s closest confidante, after all.

“How’ve you been managing?” You ask, dunking your hand into the popcorn bowl sat between the three of you. Uraume offers you the blunt, but you shake your head as you toss more popcorn into your mouth, dragging the bowl a bit closer.

Uraume pauses for a moment, in thought. “Let’s just say that if I could go back in time, I would definitely give myself a lecture for thinking this was a reasonable amount of courses,” they chuckle, shaking their head.

“At least we can study for a few of them together,” Iori offers, met with a cheery nod.

As they discuss something to do with a science course, you glance down at your phone as it vibrates, expecting a message from Kento, or maybe Satoru or Suguru.

You tilt your head at a text from Sukuna, simply saying ‘hey’. Deciding to focus on the here and now, you shut off your screen and tune back into the conversation, even if it’s a bit beyond what you ever learned in any science course.

Your phone vibrates again as you nod along to something Uraume is saying, barely a moment passing by before it’s vibrating once more.

Your brows pull together as you glance down at the preview for the texts. ‘could you do me a…’ and ‘please’ are the previews for the following two texts. There’s a strange sense of uncertainty held within the idea that Sukuna’s pleading with you over text that makes your stomach churn. Finally unlocking your phone, all three messages come into view.

9:43 PM Kuna || hey

9:44 PM Kuna || could you do me a favor

9:44 PM Kuna || please

Tilting your head at the message, you glance up at your surroundings. Shoko is sitting cross-legged a couple of feet away chatting with a couple of her classmates as she pours herself a shot of vodka while Uraume and Iori continue to pass a blunt. You’ve been hogging the popcorn for a bit and your mind is lightly buzzed from the shots you’d shared with Shoko. Surely whatever Sukuna needs can wait, given that you aren’t exactly fit for doing anyone any favors.

Not to mention, although you’d agreed not to avoid him, this feels as though it’s crossing the barrier of proving himself into territory you’re not ready for.

But then again, maybe he just needs a hand with something work-related when you have a moment.

Shaking your head to keep yourself from overthinking, you shoot back a message.

9:47 PM You || I’m busy right now, can it wait until tomorrow?

His response is immediate.

9:47 PM Kuna || ya no provlem

9:47 PM Kuna || sorry

Shrugging, you lock your phone and toss a kernel of popcorn at Shoko to get her attention. “Pour me one too?”

She grins, pouring you both shots. You clink the glasses together and tip your heads back, enjoying the familiar sensation of the burn of alcohol running down your throat. It simmers in your veins, your buzz becoming more comfortable as the world around you dulls. Shuffling closer to Uraume and Iori, you join their conversation as it shifts from physics to gossip surrounding one of Toji’s teammates. Toji had been filling Uraume in on every little detail, enthralled in the drama himself.

It can’t even be twenty minutes later when your phone is vibrating in your lap again. Mindlessly unlocking your phone without looking at the message previews or who sent it, you read the new texts.

9:59 PM Kuna || im sorry

9:59 PM Kuna || i lied

9:59 PM Kuna || it cant waut

10:00 PM Kuna || please cab u just text back when u see this

Your brow furrows again as you read through the texts that carry a strange sense of urgency. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you contemplate what to say.

“Everything alright?” Uraume queries, nudging you. Your scowl dissipates as you stare up at them questioningly, having missed their question. They tilt their chin at your phone. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” you glance down at the screen, shaking your head as you shrug. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Is it Satoru?” Iori chimes in. “I swear every time he texts me, he makes it sound like it’s the end of the world,” she groans, throwing her head back.

Chuckling, you shake your head. “He’s like that,” you agree, “but no, it’s not him.”

“It’s Sukuna,” Uraume states matter-of-factly. You wonder for a moment if they saw your screen, but the grimace they sport as they continue tells you otherwise. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah… How’d you know?”

Uraume shrugs. “You get this look when it comes to him.”

Your jaw drops. “What look?”

“Like-” Uraume tries to mirror your worried scowl, covering their lips in laughter when you shoot them an irritated look.

“I do not!”

Uraume puts their hands up in surrender. “Don’t blame me. Toji pointed it out.”

Groaning, you drag your hand down your face. “I’m gonna kill him next time I see him,” you grumble, your attention returning to the lit screen in your hand when Uraume’s laughter dies down. You read back over the messages, sending the most direct response you can, although you get the sensation you know the response already.

10:03 PM You || Is something wrong?

It’s mere seconds before his reply comes across.

10:03 PM Kuna || no

10:03 PM Kuna || yes

Scowling at your phone in confusion again, Uraume spots your expression and shuffles closer to you. “Is everything okay with him?” They ask, keeping their voice down.

“I’m not sure. He’s acting a bit weird,” you whisper back to them.

Uraume frowns, their earlier teasing tone now turned to completely serious concern for their friend. “Truth be told, he hasn’t been doing very well. He seemed off the last few times I saw him.”

“Distant?” You question.

Uraume tilts their head in thought. “Yeah, distant. Not all there.”

Tapping your thumb along the side of your phone, you stare at the date. The court date is quickly approaching, and as much as he likes to think he can handle things on his own, you know better. Even Choso knows better.

And Choso is twelve.

10:04 PM You || What’s wrong?

10:04 PM Kuna || i need help

Staring at your phone in bewilderment, genuine concern settles in. The world must be ending for Sukuna to be asking for help. Not a favor, not something he’ll find a way to pay you back for. Help.

10:05 PM You || What’s going on? What’s wrong?

You attempt to repeat your question, hoping he’ll give you some sort of explanation.

10:05 PM Kuna || call me

Your heart begins picking up its pace as you push to your feet and move to the back of the room in an effort to keep the call private. Hitting the phone icon, you’re connected to Sukuna almost instantly, but you don’t hear anything over the line.

“Hello? Sukuna?” You cover your other ear with your palm, wondering if maybe your connection is weak.

“Hey. Can you talk?” He croaks out. Each word is pushed out as though it’s a hurdle, his breath coming in pants and wheezes.

“Sukuna, are you having a-”

“Yeah,” he interrupts before you can finish your sentence.

Your entire demeanor softens, unable to be upset with him.

“I know you’re pissed at me,” he struggles through his words, inhaling sharply. “But I didn’t know who else to ask.” He exhales shakily.

You cast a glance at Uraume, who’s watching you intently. Though you know they helped Sukuna a few years ago to work through his mental health, they don’t strike you as a particularly gentle person. A good friend, but maybe not the person you’d call while struggling with anxiety.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” you soothe, tucking your phone between your ear and your shoulder in an attempt to make a motion resembling a steering wheel convey a silent message to Uraume. They tilt their head, so you point at the phone and mouth the word ‘Uber’ to them. Their brow raises as the same urgency in your eyes transfers to theirs. They’re on their phone in an instant, ordering an Uber for you. “Breathe in and hold, I’m grabbing my jacket and I’m on my way.”

Slipping over to Uraume, you whisper a ‘thank you’, and walk past them and Iori on the floor, headed in a rush towards the door. “Breathe out.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” Uraume asks urgently, following after you, but you shake your head, making a motion that you’ll text them. They nod solemnly, leaning over to Shoko to fill her in on your sudden departure as well.

“Breathe in and hold again,” you instruct softly but firmly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you wait for the Uber. Pulling your phone away from your ear, you check the text Uraume sent you with the Uber’s license plate, sharing your location with them just in case.

“Breathe out,” you murmur over the phone, “I’m on my way.”

You hear his shaky exhale, and the hoarse croak of his voice as you crawl into the Uber.

“Just need you to talk, I know you’re busy-”

“Just let me help, Sukuna,” you insist, interrupting him. He doesn’t reply, relenting as you continue to walk him through his breathing. “Can you get to the door to unlock it?”

He grunts, and you hear shuffling on his end for a moment, continuing your breathing instructions until the shuffling comes to a stop. “It’s open.”

“Keep breathing for me, okay? We’re just pulling up.”

Thanking the Uber driver, you keep the line open as you dial up to his apartment. You hear the buzzer ring for a split second on his end, before the door clicks. Making your way up to his apartment, you jog through the door quietly and carefully, shutting it behind you and dropping your boots and coat off in a pile at the door.

The apartment hasn’t changed much since you were here, though there’s paper all across the house and it seems the boys have been dabbling in origami based on the paper ninja stars and what you can only imagine is meant to be a crane sitting on the coffee table.

Padding quietly through the living room, you hold the phone up to your ear. “Are you in your room?”

“Washroom,” he grunts before hanging up.

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you carefully open the washroom door, shutting it quietly behind you. The fluorescent overhead lights are on, illuminating Sukuna leaning against the wall near the bathtub at the back of the room. His knees are bent to his chest, his elbows propped up on them, his hands burrowed in his tangled hair. The landline phone used to let you in with the buzzer is discarded on the floor to his right.

The sound of the door quietly clicking behind you catches his attention as he peers past his wrist at you. His skin is gaunt, his appearance unkempt and jaw rife with tension. He looks downright exhausted, and you can only guess how long he’s been sitting in this position alone, debating whether he should reach out at all.

You may not know it, and there’s a high likelihood that Sukuna will never tell you, but he’s been in this position before. On the floor, in a washroom that no longer feels like home with a crushing weight pressing down on him. The difference this time around is that when he calls the one number that may numb his pain, he’s not met with a voicemail.

While that voicemail may be dear to him for reasons he can’t bear to think about, the gentle reply of your voice on the other line brings relief that the voicemail never could.

His dad would be proud of him for reaching out.

No matter how upset with him you still are.

“Hey,” you softly greet him, kneeling down until you’re perched on your knees. Your breathing instructions must have helped a bit, because he’s not as bad as he sounded earlier. His chest rises and falls a bit too quickly still, his skin clammy with sweat, but he’s more present than the day outside his building.

Gingerly, you reach up to move his hands from his hair. He doesn’t protest, his jaw slightly ajar as though the air is physically seeping from his lungs.

“Keep breathing deeply,” you murmur, letting him hold one of your hands as you use the other to move his sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. “You’re burning up, give me a moment, okay?”

Running your thumb gently over the back of his hand a couple of times, you push to your feet and slip into the hall, grabbing a hand towel from the linen closet. Slipping quietly back into the washroom and shutting the door behind you, you turn on the tap, running the towel under cold water and wringing it out.

Sukuna blinks his eyes open, desperation and guilt swirling within the crimson as he watches the way you wipe his forehead. Moving the hood of his black hoodie away, you rest the towel around his shoulders, pressing it against the back of his neck.

His eyes raise to stare at the ceiling as you plop down onto your knees in front of him and shoot him a reassuring smile. “Keep breathing for me,” you encourage him, taking a hold of his hand again and rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles. “In… and out.” You continue to encourage him, keeping as calm as you can despite your own concern and uncertainty.

Your gut twists in pain at the sight of him so vulnerable, so genuinely hurt that he’s willing to ask for help. You care too much to deny him when he’s clearly in pain, even as you struggle with thoughts of the complicated relationship you have with this man. No matter how upset you are with him, you can’t bear the thought of him suffering alone.

Sukuna’s head falls forward, his eyes on his knees as his breathing finally begins evening out, the room no longer feeling claustrophobic.

Giving him a moment to catch his breath, you remain silent as you rub his knuckles. Once he seems more present, his gaze flickering around the room and taking in his surroundings, you finally speak. “What happened?”

“Had a meeting with the lawyer,” he rasps, shaking his head as he flips it back in an effort to keep his hair off his forehead.

“It didn’t go well?”

Sukuna inhales sharply, holding his breath for a moment. “Went fine. Just need to see if I can get a letter from Maya, have her sign off on my salary n’ shit.”

“That’s good,” you nod along. “What happened after that?” You push him for details, hoping he’ll get whatever’s on his mind out into the open.

He slides his hand out of yours, running it through his hair with a sigh. “The kids overheard me askin’ if I would have any more time with them if I lost.”

Your brows tie together in sympathy. “Choso…?”

Sukuna shakes his head, throwing his hand through the air in an exasperated shrug. “He shut down. I dunno how to help him, I-” he pauses, dragging his hand through his hair again. A stray strand of salmon falls down over his forehead and into his vision. He likely hasn’t had a chance to get his hair cut in a while, and it seems it’s bothering him as much as Choso’s is, though you can’t imagine Sukuna will let you put his hair up like his little brother does. “You’re so much better with them than I am.”

You blink, your lips parting at his confession. “You’re good with them, Sukuna.” Before you can continue, he interjects with a snarl.

“Keepin’ a roof over their heads isn’t being good to them!” He growls, teeth gritted in frustration. At the sight of your dejection, he backpedals quickly. “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” He throws his head back in frustration, hitting his head on the wall hard enough to wince. “Shit-” He mutters, rubbing the back of his head.

“Sukuna,” you get his attention with a soft smile, pulling him from his spiraling frustration.

He fixes you with a scowl, his eyes flitting around your face. His shoulders fall as he relaxes, leaning his head against the wall gently this time. “Sorry, princess.”

“It’s okay. Just talk to me,” you encourage him, watching as he reaches out to fiddle with your fingers. Biting your lip, you will your heart to relax, grateful he can’t feel your pulse as it skyrockets from his touch.

You’re not as over him as you thought, but you suppose you knew that already.

“Cho locked himself in the brats’ room and Yuji wouldn’t stop crying. Don’t think he knew what was goin’ on.” Sukuna sighs, rubbing his free hand harshly over his face. “Cried until he fell asleep. Choso’s probably still awake, but I can’t get into his room without pickin’ the lock,” he mutters, scratching at his chest as the familiar weight of guilt and stress begin to press down on him again, his breathing growing somewhat erratic.

“Where’s Yuji asleep?” You whisper softly.

“Moved him to my room.”

God, no wonder he was struggling. “How long has this been going on?”

Sukuna’s thumb runs over your nails, focusing on the glossy finish of your manicure. “The lawyer left at six.”

You blink at him, your lips parting. “And Choso locked himself in his room right away?”

Sukuna nods, the tension in his shoulders rising again. “Couldn’t get Yuji to stop crying, couldn’t get Cho to open the door.” He scratches at his chest, stress settling deep within him once more as the room begins to close in on him. He lets his head hang, his hair falling down over his forehead once again. “I dunno how you got Cho to open up a bit, but I fucked shit up again.”

You press your lips into a thin line, comfortingly squeezing the tips of his fingers before pulling your hand from his. His eyes dart towards you, watching intently as you grab the towel from the back of his neck, heading back to the sink. Wetting the towel with more fresh, cool, water, you wring out the excess and kneel back down in front of him.

He doesn’t protest as you run the towel over his forehead, replacing it over the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulder as water rolls down his spine, but the sensation is somewhat welcome as a distraction from the tightening in his chest.

“You know,” you begin, adjusting the towel in an attempt to keep the water from running down his chest too. “You may not realize it, but you are good with them.” Sitting back on your heels, you evaluate your work before meeting his eyes, which are watching you intently. “You know their favorite foods, what they need when they’re sick, what they like to play and watch.”

“That’s surface-level shit,” he grumbles.

Reaching out softly, you let him fiddle with your fingers again. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“You might think so,” you shrug, “but I bet those things mean a lot to them. You’re encouraging Yuji’s love of sports, and Cho’s passion for cooking. You can’t tell me the gifts you got them for Christmas didn’t mean anything to them, or you.”

Sukuna blinks, glaring at the bathtub to his left like it’s personally offended him.

“Do you know how carefully Yuji colored that Sonic you drew? Or how excited they got when you played Nerf with them?”

He doesn’t reply, his jaw tightening as he recalls the Christmas eve spent with you and Uraume. Slowly, his hand moves to engulf your much smaller one, squeezing. Your heart is in your throat at the feeling of his thumb smoothing over your skin. There’s no world where this is good for your progress in getting over him, but it doesn’t matter, so long as he isn’t struggling on his own.

“I know you’re trying to be their parent, but that’s not what you are, Kuna.” He jerks his head towards you, his stomach fluttering as the nickname he’s grown more fond of than he’d previously realized slips so effortlessly from your lips. “I know you have the responsibility of a parent, and they realize that too, they’re smart, but they also need their brother.”

His tongue slides across his lower lip as he listens intently.

“They need the Sukuna who can turn off ‘parent mode’ and toss a basketball around with them, or beat them in MarioKart because that Sukuna can’t bear to lose to a five-year-old.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes dramatically as though you aren’t right.

“They love you, Sukuna.”

He inhales sharply, clinging to the deep breath like a lifeline. He knows his brothers care, but it’s hard to feel that it should be him taking care of them when he can’t even get his little brother to stop crying.

It stands as a cruel reminder of the question he couldn’t answer all those years ago from the social worker.

How the hell was he supposed to provide emotionally for his little brothers when he can’t even handle his own emotions? He’d had to call someone in a desperate attempt to escape the pain.

Not just anyone, but you, who he’s already feels an immense amount of guilt towards.

Sukuna leans his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Is that enough?” He mumbles, more as a rhetorical question than something he expects you to respond to. Yet in your infinite wisdom and kindness, you have an answer for that, too.

“You don’t have to be the only person they can turn to. It’s okay to need help, Sukuna.”

Tired pupils with dark circles weighing them down fall to his knees. He reaches up to scratch his chest with his spare hand, inhaling deeply. “I can’t just call you every time Choso’s acting off,” he mumbles, pulling his hand back to rest on his knees as he withdraws into himself at the idea of calling on the one person who doesn’t want to hear from him.

Well, one of the two. He can’t imagine Toji is his biggest fan either.

Pulling your hands back into your lap, you stare at your manicured nails, as though they might hold the answer. “Maybe not,” you agree, “but you don’t have to try to figure it out alone every time.”

He glances at you through his peripherals, dragging his fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. His lip curls in disgust at the feeling.

“Why’d you come in the first place?”

“Here?” You query, tilting your head.

Something flutters in Sukuna’s stomach, threatening to eat him from the inside out, leaving a taste on his tongue that’s so sickly sweet he thinks his body is tricking him into thinking he’s about to upheave the contents of his stomach. Yet, there’s no bile at the back of his throat, this is something different entirely. And that thought makes his chest tighten again.

Clutching at his chest, he nods in response, fighting to keep his breathing even.

“Just because I haven’t forgiven you doesn’t mean I want you to go through this alone.”

Somehow, that makes this hurt even more for Sukuna. He can’t help but feel as though he’s manipulating your overwhelming kindness, although that’s not the case. You’re too sweet for him, too sweet for the world he comes from and lives in.

Clutching the edge of the bathtub, he feels his heart accelerating, his breathing following shortly behind.

Catching a glance at the way his chest is rising and falling faster, you step in to stop his panic before it gets unbearable. “Talk to me, walk me through your thoughts,” you speak gently, running your palm back and forth along the length of his forearm.

Staring at the ceiling with a lidded, exhausted gaze, he shakes his head. “Just tryin’ to catch my breath,” he croaks, unwilling to admit that he has half a mind to kick you out if it only means he won’t be fucking up the strange agreement that’s settled between you both like a rickety bridge, as though your hand isn’t already outstretched to him on one end of it.

But Sukuna’s nothing if not dense.

“I think some fresh air would do you good,” you suggest, pushing yourself up off your knees. You extend your hand, but he doesn’t take it, opting to use the leverage from pushing his hand against the edge of the tub to get to his feet. He throws the towel in the sink on the way out.

The tattooed man trudges after you as you lead the way to the balcony, peering outside at the snow covering it. Jogging to the front door, you grab your boots and coat and Sukuna’s, offering them to him as you throw your jacket on. He slips his feet into the shoes in a half-assed fashion, leaving the coat unzipped as he keeps his focus on breathing evenly.

Heading out first, you use your boots to shove some of the snow aside. Sukuna follows after you, leaning over the railing. As he does that, you grab a couple of chairs from the kitchen, placing them facing one another on the balcony, before shutting the door.

The cool air on his skin is refreshing, the bite of the faint breeze seeming to lessen the weight on his chest, just a little bit.

Tugging on his jacket sleeve, you point to the chair behind him. “Take a seat.”

Grunting, he slides down in the chair, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Any better?”

He nods, staring up at the sky as he slumps back in the chair. It’s faint from the city’s light pollution, but a few stars twinkle at him in the distance. You follow suit, sliding down in the chair to rest the back of your head against it, staring up at the few visible stars. Your foot brushes against the tip of his boot, nudging it a few times as you shuffle in your chair to get comfy, zipping your coat up.

“Can you believe those are all stars?”

Sukuna clears his throat, his breathing evening the longer he spends out in the frigid night air. It’s warmed up enough over the past week that it’s bearable, though he does run warm. He hums in agreement, letting out a long, and surprisingly steady breath.

“How far away do you think that one is?” You point at the brightest one in the sky. Sukuna cranes his neck to see what you’re pointing at, serving as a great distraction from his thoughts.

His voice is still hoarse as he replies. “I think that’s Jupiter. Maybe Venus.”

You raise your head to look at him, curious. “It’s a planet?” As you watch his eyes dart around the night sky, you’re grateful to find that he seems more at ease. His features are only illuminated by the dull glow of the light from the entrance of the apartment that you’d flicked on upon arrival and whatever lights decorate the street. The dull yellow glow makes the darkened circles beneath his eyes painfully obvious, though you notice they actually seem a bit better than when you’d met him at the coffee shop last week. Maybe the new job is doing him good.

“I think so. It’s been a few years since I took Astronomy,” he shrugs in his seat, nudging your foot. “The ones that don’t flicker are planets.”

“Huh, I never knew.”

Sukuna hums, pulling his hands out of his pockets to fold them over his chest. As your eyes return to the sky, he lifts his head. You haven’t changed much in the time since he last saw you, though you don’t look as worn thin as you had been when you were helping him. He wonders if maybe your life is better with him sidelined, where you can focus on yourself.

Yet, he knows that it’s that mindset that landed him in this position, staring at a crater that separates you both where once he could reach for you freely. He’s not enough of a fool to let himself think that again. Uraume’s words still ring in the back of his mind, serving as a constant reminder that he might not know you as well as he once thought.

He remembers thinking once that you were a sun, while he was little more than a star about to burn out. Maybe he had run his course already with you, and if that was the case, he supposes that’s fine, but if a planet that produces no light can shine brighter in the night sky than the stars themselves, maybe he does stand a chance at standing alongside you again.

He’s not really sure what he means or wants by that, either. He just knows he longs for your presence. Longs for this, whatever it is. This sense of tranquility with you.

As the silence stretches on with Sukuna quietly observing you while untangling his thoughts, your eyes fall from the sky to meet his, a small smile gracing your lips. You tilt your head questioningly, a familiar feeling of warmth flooding through Sukuna. Cute.

“You didn’t deserve all the shit I said.” It comes out in a flurry, before Sukuna has a chance to mediate his own words.

You avert your eyes, your smile dissipating. You know this conversation is a long time coming, and the one in the break room was only the beginning, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I… Appreciate that,” you tread carefully. Sukuna can see your walls coming up, carefully guarding your heart where once there were none. Walls erected to guard you from him.

“I know you didn’t see me as a project, or whatever the hell else I said,” he adds, staring down at his forearms. He takes in a long breath, watching it billow out in front of him. “I shouldn’t have used your scholarship, or all that Prom Queen shit against you. You work fuckin’ hard, I was just trying to hit where it hurt.”

“Because I hurt you?”

He shrugs. “Guess so. It’s a shit excuse, though.”

You examine his expression, taking a moment to take in his words. There’s a level of maturity held within his tone that you don’t recognize, though it suits him. He’s still the same Sukuna, with serrated edges and bared teeth, ready to leap at the opportunity to jump into a fight, but he’s quick to reel himself back and approach things just a bit more level-headed.

Scratching at the stubble that dots his jaw, giving him a five o’clock shadow, he sighs. “I know I said it the other day or whatever, but I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”

You nod a bit, taking in his apology. “I’m sorry for making you feel like I was trying to fix you. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you about little things, and I shouldn’t have accused you of endangering the kids. I was out of line.”

Sukuna just shrugs. “I know you meant well. Don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body.”

You crack a hint of a smile. “Well, it wasn’t very nice of me.”

Sukuna shrugs again, looking back up at the sky. “You’re fine, princess. Don’t worry about it.”

Your heart betrays you, flipping in your chest as he calls you princess again. Chewing on your lip, you stare at his sharp, stubbled-dotted chin. Disheveled beyond belief after his long and shitty day, he still looks handsome as hell. You can’t deny just how attractive he’s always been.

“What do I need to do?” Sukuna gruffs, clearing his throat as it tightens with the fear that you could shoot him down in only a couple of words. Less, if you wanted.

“What do you mean?”

“To get things to go back to normal.” His gaze shifts to a car pulling into the parking lot below the balcony.

You take pause, considering for a moment what’s good for you. The man sitting before you, though still stoic and rough around the edges, has clearly come a long way. Whether that earns him a second last chance, you’re not sure. You don’t expect things to go back to how they were right away, but forgiving him feels like a step in the right direction. Maybe that’s the final step you need to allow yourself to heal.

Even as you think that, your pounding heart betrays those thoughts.

Maybe it’s just what your longing heart wants you to think.

But if you want it so bad, can it be so wrong? Could you be thinking about things the wrong way? Maybe you don’t need to get over him to heal. Maybe he can be a part of the process.

“I don’t know,” you admit, wrestling with your own thoughts. “I can’t say for sure if things will ever be the same, but it means a lot to hear you apologize.”

He hums, shaking a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“I…” you trail off in thought, chewing uncertainly on your lip.

“Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.

A smile pulls at the edges of your lips. “Now that I’d love to see,” you chuckle wryly, shaking your head as you shuffle in the dining chair.

“Tough luck,” he scoffs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips for what feels like the first time in ages.

Shrugging, you tuck your hands under your thighs, staring down at the parking lot as a white rabbit darts out from snow-covered brush to erratically hop across the lot under the cover of a truck. “A girl can dream,” you mimic his lighthearted tone.

Sukuna observes you for a long moment, crimson gaze darting across each of your features. He caught your impish tone, but something in your eyes, a glaze of underlying sadness, tells him there’s a level of sincerity to your request.

At least, he thinks.

With a huff, Sukuna slides down off his chair onto his knees before you.

“Oh my god, what are you-?”

“You wanted me on my knees, or whatever,” he grumbles like it’s normal, though his tone is earnest.

A giggle bubbles in your throat that you attempt to stifle, sitting up. “I was joking, get up,” you plead.

“Does saying I’m sorry from down here make it more serious?”

“Sukuna please, oh my god, this is embarrassing-” You bite down on your lip, taking in your surroundings as though someone might see you.

“For who? I’m the one on my fuckin’ knees-” he points out with a brow raised, mild irritation crossing his frown and interrupting your rambling.

“Your knees are gonna get all wet, please get up,” you beg, unable to hold in your laughter any longer as you tug at his bicep, getting to your feet to attempt to pull him up.

Sukuna can’t help his smirk, any irritation dissipating at the sight of your laughter. It brings a sense of peace to his life that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Even in the midst of all the issues plaguing his life, you still brighten it so much that he doesn’t mind being on his knees. Even if he’s giving up some dignity to appease you.

“Kuna, cut it out!” You giggle, tugging on both of his forearms with as much strength as you can muster.

His eyes crinkle a bit at the corners at your use of his nickname, but he stays put, insistent on earning your forgiveness in any way he can. When he doesn’t budge, you cover your face, though your muffled laughter still rings out in the open winter air. “Please get up, oh my god,” you giggle, peeking through your fingers.

“Alright, alright,” he relents finally, pushing up to his feet with a grunt.

“Your knees are soaked,” you murmur, brushing his sweatpants off for him, though his knees have two darker gray patches decorating them.

“My knees will live,” he gruffs, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

You raise a hand up to your lips, stifling your giggles as you turn back towards the parking lot. Sukuna joins you, brushing the snow off the railing so that his forearms don’t suffer the same fate as his knees.

Silence settles over you as you follow suit, leaning against the railing beside him. The rabbit you’d caught sight of earlier darts out from under the vehicle it had chosen, leaping up onto the sidewalk, camouflaged in snow. The light breeze rustles your hair, blowing strands of Sukuna’s salmon hair into his eyes. He shakes his head, his locks falling out of his vision.

The city is mostly silent at this time of night in the middle of winter. There’s no one out wandering at this time, even close to the college, with the cold. The distant sounds of cars driving across packed snow and thin layers of ice serve as little more than white noise.

“I forgive you.” You murmur, penetrating the comfortable silence.

Sukuna’s head whips towards you, as though in disbelief. He doesn’t say anything, blinking down at the rabbit sitting directly below the two of you. He’s never exactly been great with words as it stands.

“’Cause I got down on my knees, huh?” He settles on a teasing reply.

“God… no,” you giggle, craning your neck to look up at him. “Please don’t do that again.”

He huffs in amusement, nudging your shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean things are back to normal,” you warn more seriously, but he’ll take what he can get. He already knows he lost your trust and he doesn’t expect to get it back in what was just a desperate plea for help to pull him from the hole of doubt he’d dug himself into. After over an hour of working himself up and struggling to breathe, he’d felt out of options.

“I can live with that,” he mumbles, the breeze cutting through to his knees as it becomes increasingly clear that there’s wet patches where he’d been kneeling. The back of his neck is fairly chilly too from the towel. “Come inside,” he grunts, turning away from the railing to slide the door open.

Slipping your boots off, you attempt to shake some of the snow off onto the balcony before carrying them to the mat at the front door. Pulling your phone out, you glance at the message previews from Uraume checking in, shooting them a quick text to let them know everything is okay.

Sukuna drags both chairs back inside and casts a glance at the two room doors that are shut in the hall before meeting you at the front entrance with his own boots.

“What are you gonna do?”

Letting out a breath, Sukuna shakes his head. “Dunno. Sleep on the couch ‘til Yuji wakes up, try to get him to stop crying.” He shrugs. “I don’t think the kid’s gonna unlock the door.”

“Do you need a hand?”

Sukuna reaches up to scratch his jaw. “Nah, I’ll figure it out.”

Shoving his chest lightly, you fix him with a scowl. His head whips around to meet your gaze with equal disdain.

“The fuck was that for, brat?”

“How many times do I need to tell you to ask for help?” You groan, narrowing your eyes as you point at his chest.

Smacking your pointed finger aside with relative mercy, he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t fuckin’ shove me.”

“Sukuna. Focus.”

With a half-hearted sneer, he grumbles out a “fine,” giving in with little dramatism.

But it is Sukuna, so he does have to make a bit of a show of it.

“I’ll text ya when Yuji wakes up if shit’s bad, alright?”

Nodding, you cast a glance towards the back hall. “Uraume wants to help, too. Just… ask, when you need it.”

He regards you with his usual stoic expression. “Mm,” is his only reply, a silence settling between you that doesn’t quite feel as comfortable as you’d grown accustomed to with Sukuna so long ago. It isn’t even the same comfortable silence that you’ve felt with him tonight. There’s something unspoken, something hanging in the air, settling on the tips of your tongues that remains a talking point, but before Sukuna can voice his question, you glance at your phone.

“I should call an Uber.”

He hums once more, shoving his hands in his pockets as the opportunity passes. “Drink some water.”

You tilt your head questioningly, and fuck, Sukuna has no right to find it so sweet, so… attractive?

Clearing his throat, Sukuna scowls as his surroundings become increasingly more interesting. “I can smell vodka.”

“Oh. Right, I was with Uraume and Shoko,” you explain simply, hitting a couple of buttons on your phone to call for an Uber. Satisfied, you nod to yourself. “They’re a minute away, I’m gonna head downstairs.”

Sukuna hums again, his usual guarded personality having completely returned now that he’s neither having a panic attack, nor physically begging for your forgiveness.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Shooting him a polite smile, you put your boots back on and turn towards the door. Only moments before it shuts does Sukuna find his voice again.

“I owe you.”

“Just say thank you, Sukuna.”

“Thanks, princess. Text me when you’re home.”

With a more genuine smile and a small wave, you head out the door, letting out a breath as you consider the weird limbo you’re in with Sukuna now. Forgiven, able to jest and connect on some level that never quite disappeared, but it’s as though there’s a thin, near-invisible barrier that still separates you. Something unspoken, hanging over your heads like a condition of sorts.

Yet you can’t quite place the uncertainty. It’s as though you’re both holding back, holding onto something that the other can’t place.

Crawling into the back seat of the Uber, you stare out the window at the passing lights, all blurring into one another as you lose yourself in thought.

You want to tell yourself you’re letting him back in as nothing more than a friend, that you’ll keep your walls up and let him in bit by bit as he earns his place within your life again, but that would disregard everything that took place tonight. Try as you might to keep him at arms’ length, he has a way of slipping through your defenses and tugging at your heart strings.

You want to give him the benefit of the doubt that this time will be better, though. Maybe it’s naive to expect that the Sukuna that you’ve seen over these past couple of weeks is here to stay, but you can’t deny that there’s been a shift.

You can only hope things stay this way, and if you’re lucky, maybe the distance between you that you can’t quite place will begin to crumble.

You can’t say for sure if it’s what you need, but your erratic heart has a funny way of telling you that it’s what you want.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

❦ a/n ; in case you missed it, my best friend did some absolutely gorgeous and adorable art for the series here! can you tell i was listening to hozier when i wrote this LMAO anyway hiiii my loves, thank you sm for reading as always <33 i really hope you enjoyed it, that last scene has been on my mind for a couple of chapters and i couldn't possibly end the chapter without it, so uh 19.2k words it was LOL i expect the next chapter to most likely be longer as well, and it may take me a bit more time going forward since i have some research to do on legal proceedings and whatnot (you know what that means 🤭) so bear with me on that, i want to make sure i do everything justice. i also just want to mention that i do really appreciate each and every like, comment, reblog, and ask, it genuinely means the world to me and i read each and every one and love chatting with y'all <33 aaaanyway i'm yapping again so i'll stop LOL but thanks for sticking with me for my fave extremely slow burn couple 🫶

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut

@hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @catobsessedlady @timetoletmyimaginationfly

@clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig

@spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @jeonwiixard

@ieathairs @cinnamxnangel @nessca153 @aerareads @after-laughter-come-tears

@tillaboo @thepassionatereader @erencvlt @v1sque @a-girl-with-thoughts

@lauuriiiz @blueemochii @paradisestarfishh @erenxh @call-me-doll8811

@toulouse365 @dabieater @janrcrosssing @satsattoru @moonchhu

@privthemis @captainsarcasmandsass @ryomeowie @vitoshi @kunasthiast

@axxk17 @toratsue @bluestbleu @yuji-itadori-fave @totallygyomeiswife

writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[anaquariusfox]

I spent the evening looking into this AI shit and made a wee informative post of the information I found and thought all artists would be interested and maybe help yall?

edit: forgot to mention Glaze and Nightshade to alter/disrupt AI from taking your work into their machines. You can use these and post and it will apparently mess up the AI and it wont take your content into it's machine!

edit: ArtStation is not AI free! So make sure to read that when signing up if you do! (this post is also on twt)

[Image descriptions: A series of infographics titled: “Opt Out AI: [Social Media] and what I found.” The title image shows a drawing of a person holding up a stack of papers where the first says, ‘Terms of Service’ and the rest have logos for various social media sites and are falling onto the floor. Long transcriptions follow.

Instagram/Meta (I have to assume Facebook).

Hard for all users to locate the “opt out” options. The option has been known to move locations.

You have to click the opt out link to submit a request to opt out of the AI scraping. *You have to submit screenshots of your work/face/content you posted to the app, is curretnly being used in AI. If you do not have this, they will deny you.

Users are saying after being rejected, are being “meta blocked”

People’s requests are being accepted but they still have doubts that their content won’t be taken anyways.

Twitter/X

As of August 2023, Twitter’s ToS update:

“Twitter has the right to use any content that users post on its platform to train its AI models, and that users grant Twitter a worldwide, non-exclusive, royalty-free license to do so.”

There isn’t much to say. They’re doing the same thing Instagram is doing (to my understanding) and we can’t even opt out.

Tumblr

They also take your data and content and sell it to AI models.

But you’re in luck!

It is very simply to opt out (Wow. Thank Gods)

Opt out on Desktop: click on your blog > blog settings > scroll til you see visibility options and it’ll be the last option to toggle

Out out of Mobile: click your blog > scroll then click visibility > toggle opt out option

TikTok

I took time skim their ToS and under “How We Use Your Information” and towards the end of the long list: “To train and improve our technology, such as our machine learning models and algorithms.”

Regarding data collected; they will only not sell your data when “where restricted by applicable law”. That is not many countries. You can refuse/disable some cookies by going into settings > ads > turn off targeted ads.

I couldn’t find much in AI besides “our machine learning models” which I think is the same thing.

What to do?

In this age of the internet, it’s scary! But you have options and can pick which are best for you!

Accepting these platforms collection of not only your artwork, but your face! And not only your faces but the faces of those in your photos. Your friends and family. Some of those family members are children! Some of those faces are minors! I shudder to think what darker purposes those faces could be used for.

Opt out where you can! Be mindful and know the content you are posting is at risk of being loaded to AI if unable to opt out.

Fully delete (not archive) your content/accounts with these platforms. I know it takes up to 90 days for instagram to “delete” your information. And even keep it for “legal” purposes like legal prevention.

Use lesser known social media platforms! Some examples are; Signal, Mastodon, Diaspora, et. As well as art platforms: Artfol, Cara, ArtStation, etc.

The last drawing shows the same person as the title saying, ‘I am, by no means, a ToS autistic! So feel free to share any relatable information to these topics via reply or qrt!

I just wanted to share the information I found while searching for my own answers cause I’m sure people have the same questions as me.’ \End description] (thank you @a-captions-blog!)

[ozzgin]

I've kept my promise and returned with dino smut. Switch it to a dinosaur hybrid if you're too afraid of the full package. Content: gender neutral reader, NSFW (gangbang), monster dinosaur smut

"You've got to be kidding me."

You kick the wheel and walk away, trying to steady your breathing. This can’t be happening. Behind you, the guide continues to tinker with the car engine. He has a reassuring smile plastered on his face, but you can tell from the cold beads of sweat that he’s just as terrified.

You are stranded in a desert filled with dinosaurs. Scientific miracle? Sure. Presently your death sentence, too.

“Don’t walk too far from the vehicle, (Y/N), otherwise I can’t reach you in time if something happens.”

“What, you have a black belt in dinosaur fighting or something?” you scoff at the man.

“Now listen, do you think we didn’t anticipate these scenarios? I am equipped with this little guy here”, he says, pulling out a small, electric device. “Has enough juice in it to shock a T-Rex.”

Maybe he has a point. The Jurassic Park proudly dons a reputation of flawless service and guaranteed safety. Surely they must be equipped to deal with something as insignificant as a car breaking down in the middle of a guided tour.

You attempt to smile back, gathering some courage. In your newfound peace you didn’t really notice that the massive rock behind the car has moved, or that it was never a rock to begin with.

A wide row of razor teeth engulfs your official tour guide, and the enormous mandible closes with a loud snap. The upper half of the man detaches in a surreal, surgical cleanliness. You stare, mouth agape. It takes you a second to process the execution you’ve just witnessed, but the ear-shattering screech swiftly wakes you out of your trance.

Escaping from an entire pack of ancient predators feels rather futile, but that doesn't stop you from crawling up the steep hill, hoping the damned creatures can't follow. Had you known your comfortable car ride required survival skills, you would've worn a different pair of pants.

What's even more ridiculous is the nature of your perpetrator. Of course, you tell yourself, you had to trust a company that can't differentiate between the Cretaceous and the Jurassic. What's one or two million years? What's one or two dead humans in the grand statistics of their park?

You finally reach the top of the hill, and trip over some overgrown roots. Your collapse is cushioned by the scarce bushes patching the ground. Suddenly, you feel the branches vibrating against your burnt cheeks. Dear Lord, futile indeed. The heavy, bulky legs of the Carnotaurus approach you in a chaotic trample, nonchalantly stepping over your last bits of hope.

Knees scraping against the rocks, you close your eyes and shield your face, bent over like some beggar awaiting punishment. You're petrified. Did the guide feel anything when his innards stretched and tore under the unforgiving mouth?

The rough, scaly skin of the monster brushes against the back of your thighs. There it is! Flesh coming undone, bones giving in to the...wait. What are they doing, exactly? You subtly tilt your head, trying to catch a glimpse of the strange event.

It seems that your resigned position has given them different ideas. The horned beasts investigate your scent with peculiar interest. A brief altercation ensues, in which they lock their horns together and their tails swing around threateningly, nearly crushing you in their blind aggression. You cry out and try to distance yourself from the thundering scene, but a clawed foot pins you back into the ground.

You suspect your present captor is the winner of the conflict, standing above you triumphantly as the others wait aside. Is this the part where you become a grand meal? Its enormous teeth graze your clothing, and the threads come undone.

In a most unexpected turn of events, it's you who ends up stuffed. You don't know what pain to focus on: your back hurts from the rhythmic swaying, bare skin grating against the parched earth; your privacy is burning from the sudden, invasive stretch, as the creature buries itself deeper with each hungry pound.

Eventually, a familiar knot begins to form in the pit of your stomach. The thrusts become smoother, your legs weaker. Shameless moans begin to roll out of your drooling mouth, and you hold onto the Carnotaurus' rugged hips. Its mouth is slightly open, panting and groaning, blowing hot air against your already feverish body.

Your own high is interrupted by a thick, hot wave of fluid abruptly crashing against your inner walls. The beast detaches itself from you, leaving you heaving, dripping and sighing in disappointment. The least you could've gotten from this erotic absurdity was a decent orgasm.

Your naked body is suddenly shrouded in shadow. You look up to see a different member of the pack positioning itself between your legs. Glancing at the others, a horrifying, perverted thought occurs to you: they're taking turns, fucking you relentlessly.

Perhaps you will get your chance, after all. Or multiple.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Ruggie Bucchi: Pinching Pennies

The night before the Ruggie card preview came out 😭 I predicted he would wear shorts and an oversized T-shirt�� I clocked it www If you zoom into the initial artwork, you can tell that his clothes are frayed at the sleeves and hem. I bet those pjs are well-used and loved.

Aaah 💦 the vignettes show us a glimpse into Ruggie’s world… He really is doing everything he can to min-max what he has. What poverty does to you OTL

Rise and Shine!

“Wow! You’ve got so many things!”

You ogled the contents of Ruggie’s cosmetic pouch. The golden yellow drawstring bag was plump with products. Half finished tubes and bottles, opened foil and plastic packets clamped shut to prevent spillage, and palettes with sizable dents in their pans. It was a smattering of brands you vaguely recognized from the drugstore and the fancy high-end creams Vil slathered on his famous face.

“It looks like that, doesn’t it?” Ruggie asked with a shrug. He sat cross-legged before a washroom mirror, his mop of messy, dirty blonde hair tamed only by a speckled headband.

Ruggie flipped a compact open, revealing four squares of eyeshadow: the colors of cotton candy, peach, caramel, and mocha, each clinging to the edges of their pans. He stuck a ring finger in, frowning when it came away mostly clean. A faint dusting of brown coated the edges of his nail.

The hyena sighed. “Feels like ‘s never enough. This stuff’s mostly samples and testers, plus the occasional hand-me-downs from Leona-san.”

He went back in, this time managing to dig up a small mound. Smushing it against his thumb, Ruggie diffused the color into a soft beige. He patted this along the rim of one eye.

“Hey, free’s free.”

“Yeah, free’s free,” Ruggie echoed with a snicker. “Gotta make do with whatever we can under a capitalist society… well, short of eatin’ the rich. Can’t afford to do that right now anyway, not when I’m kinda countin’ on Leona-san.”

He scrounged around for more of the eyeshadow. A slight growl of frustration sounded from him. Laughing softly, you shook your head and held out a hand.

"Here, let me help you out. I think my nails are a little longer than yours right now, so I can try scraping out the rest and applying it for you.”

“Really? Alright, thanks for the special service~” Ruggie’s mouth cocked into a lopsided smile. He dropped the compact into your palm, then flopped back onto his stool. “Maaan, it feels so nice to be pampered like this.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you joked, drawing a tawny line under his other eye. “Stay humble.”

A pout. “I’m always humble.”

“Riiight.”

You pulled the color to the corners, then patted it along his upper lid. It was an attempt to recreate his usual look, the simple yet sharp Savanaclaw eye.

Your finger—your paintbrush—pulled back, and you got a good look at the canvas called Ruggie Bucchi. His scrawny limbs and laidback gait, irises that reminded you of a coming storm. At school full jewels—royals and the rich—he was a common stone on the side of the road, but he had always stood out to you.

You found yourself cupping his face, and then…

PINCH!!

"Yeowch!" Hands flew up, his eyes snapping wide open with alarm. Ruggie stared at his reflection, which now bore stinging pink cheeks. “What was that for?!"

You covered your mouth with a fist, hiding a growing grin. For being so stinkin’ cute, you wanted to say. It's hard not to tease you.

“To rouge your cheeks,” you replied cheekily, nodding at his miscellaneous makeup stash, “so you don’t have to put on any extra makeup. Save your actual blush for a special occasion.”

“I don’t normally wear blush.” Ruggie muttered indignantly as he rubbed at his face. “… I respect the hustle though. Just warn me next time before you go off and do that.”

"Haha, okay. It's a promise."

You snapped the compact shut and tossed it into his drawstring bag. Right as it landed, you felt a fleeting sting at your earlobe. Nails biting into it.

You turned back quickly enough to catch Ruggie having risen from his stool. He leaned over you, a hand positioned in a telltale pincer. His gaze met yours, and he belted out a jubilant howl.

Revenge. you suspected.

“Hmm? What’s with that look?” Ruggie asked, his voice set in a playful taunt. “All I’m doing’s helpin’ ya save on money~”

[pure-smut]

babysitting.

featuring: Toji Fushiguro x f!reader

contains: you're megumi's babysitter and toji pays for "extra services", might be slightly ooc bc we know toji is always broke as hell, age gap, dubcon if you squint, oral (m and f receiving), face fucking, doggy, unprotected s*x, creampie, breeding k*nk at the end

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

MDNI | 18+ content

You’ve been babysitting twice a week for Toji Fushiguro’s toddler for around two months now and he’s barely said more than five words to you.

He pays you on time, he comes back home when he says he will, and his toddler, Megumi, is a sweet little boy who’s easy to take care of. So it doesn’t bother you that Toji doesn’t really talk to you – you’re a broke college student and babysitting a couple of evenings a night is just a way to keep your head above water. As long as he pays, you keep to yourself and that suits you.

Until he offers something more.

Megumi’s been tucked into bed and you’re in the living room, watching TV until Toji comes home. He’s usually back around midnight so you kill time until then, checking in on Megumi every so often. When the front door opens and Toji comes in, you barely glance up from your phone.

Toji usually leaves your money on the kitchen counter for you to collect on your way out before he goes straight to bed. This time though, when you stretch and stand from the couch, he’s lingering in the doorway. You startle, not expecting him.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly.

Toji leans with his forearm against the doorway, looking at you. You feel like you’re under a microscope suddenly and you forget what to do with your hands, wringing them nervously in front of you.

“Um. Megumi was fine tonight, a bit fussy with dinner but nothing major,” you say, wondering if he’s finally looking for an update on minding his son. “He’s asleep upstairs, I just checked on him about thirty minutes ago.”

Toji tilts his chin up, studying you through a half-lidded gaze. You’re struggling to keep eye contact with him, your eyes glancing over his sculped torso, barely concealed by his black compression shirt. You cough awkwardly.

“Anyway,” you say. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

You make to move past him but his large form is blocking the doorway.

“Um…”

“Your cash is in the kitchen,” Toji says and you blink up at him, wondering why he’s telling you something you already know. “And…”

Toji pulls another wad of cash from his sweatpants pocket.

“I have extra for you, if you want it.”

Your eyes widen at the money in his hands. You’re barely scraping by this month and some extra money would really help. But…

“Extra for what?” you ask, brow furrowed.

Toji smirks at you, his scarred lips lifting at the corner.

“Let’s see…” he says, flicking through the notes. “$50 to let me lick your pussy…”

You inhale sharply, mouth dropping open, but Toji continues on as if nothing’s wrong.

“$100 to suck my dick, $150 to let me fuck you aaaand…” Toji holds up the entire wad of cash with a grin. “$2,000 if you do all of it.”

Your lungs constrict. You swallow thickly as your eyes dart between Toji’s easy smile and the cash he’s dangling in front of you.

You open your mouth, your first instinct to tell him to shove his money and storm out. But the more you think about it…

Toji watches you close your mouth, eyes on the money, and knows he has you. He’s not in any rush – he can be patient. He’s been waiting all this time for a payload like this so he could entice you with it. He watches as you dither in front of him, hands fidgeting.

You think about all the nights you’ve lived off ramen and plain bread, the amount of textbooks you had to pirate because you couldn’t afford them, your savings as they slowly dwindle every month.

And then you think about the broad man in front of you, Megumi’s dad, who isn’t even bad looking. You’ve had worse one-night stands and you didn’t even get paid for them. So what’s the problem, really?

You nibble at your bottom lip.

“Okay,” you eventually say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do all of it.”

Toji grins a little wider.

“Smart choice, kid.”

He pushes past you, putting the wad of cash down onto the coffee table, and beckons you over.

“Strip and get on the couch,” he says firmly. “And spread your legs for me.”

Fuck, why was that so hot? You already feel a coil of heat in your lower stomach even as your hands tremble, tugging off your top and leggings. You’re in your underwear, hesitating, when Toji frowns at you.

“I said strip. That means everything.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat and do what he says. You fight the urge to cover yourself as your bra and panties drop to the floor. Instead, you sit back on the couch like he said and spread your legs.

Toji drops to his knees in front of you, grabbing your hips and pulling your further forward. You’re already glistening with arousal, making him smirk. He dips his head and parts your folds with his tongue, licking you deep.

“Ah…” you gasp softly as you feel his tongue for the first time, hot and soft against your lips.

It feels strange to have someone eating you out when you haven’t even kissed, have barely even spoken before now, but as Toji’s tongue probes your hole, you quickly lose yourself to him.

His thick tongue slides inside you, his mouth flush to your pussy as he licks you deep. You automatically grind against him, your hand in his hair, a whimper leaving your lips.

Toji always wondered what you taste like, had fisted his cock to the thought of this before every time you were in his house in your tight leggings. He often fantasised about this, about buying your dignity and making you spread your legs for him. As he moves up to your clit, feeling it swollen with arousal, his cock throbs.

You’re this turned on already. Your pussy was practically waiting for him, already slick and primed for a good fucking. Toji hoped you’d be, hoped he’d found a perfect little live-in fucktoy. And he has.

Toji strokes the flat of his tongue over your clit, sucking it with just enough pressure to make a lustful moan roll off your lips. You’ve had people go down on you before but it never felt like this.

Toji keeps sucking and licking your sensitive nub as he presses a thick finger inside you. You clench around him and it makes his cock even harder, anticipating the feel of you around him later. He curves his finger, finding your sensitive spot and stroking it until your back curves.

“F-Fuck… Toji, I… I’m…”

You try to stammer out a sentence but you’re too close, your brows knitted in the middle, your thighs wrapped around his head. Toji continues to stroke you on the inside as he feels your clit throb against his tongue.

It’s too much.

You cry out, gripping his hair hard as you cum on Toji’s tongue, your thighs shaking against his head.

Toji laps up your juices, licking you through your orgasm until you’re jerking and shuddering under him. You taste too damn good and you’re so fucking wet for him. He didn’t realise eating your sweet little pussy would get him this hard but his cock is aching, begging to be touched.

Toji pulls back with a groan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Before you realise what’s happening, he climbs on top of you, kneeling with his knees on either side of you as he presses his cock to your mouth.

Your head is against the back of the sofa, slumped in the seat and half-dazed from your orgasm as you feel his fat mushroom tip on your lips. It’s slick with precum and you open your eyes long enough to see the size of it. You don’t have time to worry whether you can take it – Toji doesn’t give you time – before he’s forcing his cock past your lips.

You open your mouth to try and accommodate him but he’s so thick. You swirl your tongue over his sensitive head and Toji lets out a long groan in relief. You hot mouth on his cock makes him leak even more precum which you dutifully lick up.

“That’s it. Good girl,” Toji praises you as he pulls back slightly only to push even deeper.

You have nowhere to turn, your head pressed against the back of the couch as Toji starts to fuck your mouth. You try to keep your jaw slack, your tongue licking along the fat vein running across the underside of his shaft as Toji slowly picks up speed.

You gag as he hits the back of your throat but Toji doesn’t let up, using your thick saliva as lube to face fuck you harder. Your eyes water, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth as the slopping sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth fill the room.

Toji’s hard as a rock, the heavenly feel of your mouth enough to make him want to cum. He’s tempted, loving the idea of making you swallow his load. He bets you’d struggle to swallow it all, his cum dribbling out of your mouth as he scoops it up with his fingers and forces it back in your mouth, forces you to suck his fingers clean.

“Ah, fuck…” Toji grabs the back of the couch as leverage, rocking his hips as he continues to use your mouth as a fleshlight.

You know it’s rough and degrading but it’s only making you hornier. You rub your thighs together, feeling them slick with your arousal, desperate for some more friction on your clit. Toji notices and grins down at you.

“You gettin’ turned on, baby?” he taunts. “You gettin’ wet from sucking me off?”

Toji’s hit the jackpot with you. It’s been a while since he felt this good with a woman, since he found such a perfect little slut to fulfil his needs and look after his son.

Toji pulls himself from your mouth, thick strings of saliva between your lips and his cock. You gasp for breath, your eyes wet and cheeks flushed. Fuck, you look so sexy like this. Toji needs to have you now.

He grabs you by the wrist, pulling you up roughly before pushing you over the arm of the couch, bending you over. You’re too fucked out to protest, moving limply where he puts you as Toji kicks your legs open.

You can only whimper as you feel his thick tip prod at your entrance. You clench, nervous, knowing how big he is, as Toji slowly sinks his girth inside you.

You’re tight but you’re ready, squeezing around Toji as he pushes deep. The combination of his saliva-slicked cock and your dripping pussy means there’s no pain, only a delicious stretch as your walls wrap around Toji. He keeps pushing, pushing, until he’s bottomed out, his pelvis flush to your ass.

Toji takes a second to savour the moment. You feel indescribable. Your silky walls are so hot, so pillowy soft, even as you clench around him it feels like you’re milking his cock.

“Perfect,” he growls. “My perfect little fucktoy.”

Toji grabs your hips, sinking his fingers in hard as he withdraws. After fucking your pretty little mouth, he’s already close and he wants to prolong it as much as possible. But a feral need overtakes him.

He starts to slam into you, fucking you wildly as you cry out beneath him.

“Shh,” he hushes you even as he doesn’t break pace. “Don’t want to wake up little Megumi, do we?”

His words silence you down to a whimper as you press your face into the couch cushion to smother your moans. Toji bullies his cock into you, his eyes glued on your cunt as your lips wrap around him, sucking him in. He knows you haven’t cum yet, not from him fucking you, so he pulls your hips back slightly, leaving enough of a gap between you and the sofa so he can reach under you and play with your clit.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop from crying out again. Your orgasm builds from a combination of Toji deftly rubbing your sensitive nub and the way his cock is rubbing against your sensitive walls, each stroke sending your nerves alight.

Toji’s not overly concerned with your pleasure, not really, but he knows your perfect pussy will feel even better if you cum on his cock. Plus, he knows if he draws a second orgasm from you, it’ll be much harder for you to protest the next time. So he grits his teeth, delaying his own orgasm until he can feel yours.

It doesn’t take long.

You clench your hands into fists, moaning into the cushion as you clamp down around him. Toji was right – you feel even better. Your walls massage his cock, fluttering around him in a way that’s making him see spots.

Finally, he lets go.

“Fuck fuck fuuuuck.”

Toji buries himself to the hilt, exploding inside you. You feel his cum hit your walls, painting your pussy white as he fills to you the brim with load after load. His cock twitches with each wave of pleasure, his grip hard enough to leave bruises on your hips.

Your collapse onto the couch, still bent over as Toji slowly withdraws. A flood of his cum follows, spilling down your thighs, but your limbs are too heavy to move. It doesn’t matter though because Toji scoops you up, carrying you upstairs to his bedroom.

You feel a wet cloth between your legs, cleaning you up as you lie on his bed. You want to speak but you’re too dazed, weariness sweeping over your body.

Toji climbs into bed next to you, pulling you to him so you’re lying on his chest. For the first time that night, he tips his head down to kiss you.

He’s surprisingly tender, kissing you softly as his tongue gently laps into your mouth. You kiss him back as he pulls your leg over his, nestling it between his thighs.

“You did so well tonight,” he tells you. “Are you on birth control, baby?”

You stir at his question, your brain churning slowly.

“Um… no…” The implications begin to dawn on you. “S-Shit. I need to get Plan B.”

Toji hushes you with another kiss, his hand idly running up and down your thigh.

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” he says with a smile. “Let’s give Megumi a little brother or sister, hm?”

masterlist

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

Social media needs (dumpster) fire exits

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

Of course you should do everything you can to prevent fires – and also, you should build fire exits, because no matter how hard you try, stuff burns. That includes social media sites.

Social media has its own special form of lock-in: we use social media sites to connect with friends, family members, community members, audiences, comrades, customers…people we love, depend on, and care for. Gathering people together is a profoundly powerful activity, because once people are in one place, they can do things: plan demonstrations, raise funds, organize outings, start movements. Social media systems that attract people then attract more people – the more people there are on a service, the more reasons there are to join that service, and once you join the service, you become a reason for other people to join.

Economists call this the "network effect." Services that increase in value as more people use them are said to enjoy "network effects." But network effects are a trap, because services that grow by connecting people get harder and harder to escape.

That's thanks to something called the "collective action problem." You experience the collective action problems all the time, whenever you try and get your friends together to do something. I mean, you love your friends but goddamn are they a pain in the ass: whether it's deciding what board game to play, what movie to see, or where to go for a drink afterwards, hell is truly other people. Specifically, people that you love but who stubbornly insist on not agreeing to do what you want to do.

You join a social media site because of network effects. You stay because of the collective action problem. And if you leave anyway, you will experience "switching costs." Switching costs are all the things you give up when you leave one product or service and join another. If you leave a social media service, you lose contact with all the people you rely on there.

Social media bosses know all this. They play a game where they try to enshittify things right up to the point where the costs they're imposing on you (with ads, boosted content, undermoderation, overmoderation, AI slop, etc) is just a little less than the switching costs you'd have to bear if you left. That's the revenue maximization strategy of social media: make things shittier for you to make things better for the company, but not so shitty that you go.

The more you love and need the people on the site, the harder it is for you to leave, and the shittier the service can make things for you.

How cursed is that?

But digital technology has an answer. Because computers are so marvelously, miraculously flexible, we can create emergency exits between services so when they turn into raging dumpster fires, you can hit the crash-bar and escape to a better service.

For example, in 2006, when Facebook decided to open its doors to the public – not just college kids with .edu addresses – they understood that most people interested in social media already had accounts on Myspace, a service that had sold to master enshittifier Rupert Murdoch the year before. Myspace users were champing at the bit to leave, but they were holding each other hostage.

To resolve this hostage situation, Facebook gave prospective Myspace users a bot that would take their Myspace login and password and impersonate them on Myspace, scraping all the messages their stay-behind friends had posted for them. These would show up in your Facebook inbox, and when you replied to them, the bot would log back into Myspace as you and autopilot those messages into your outbox, so they'd be delivered to your friends there.

No switching costs, in other words: you could use Facebook and still talk to your Myspace friends, without using Myspace. Without switching costs, there was no collective action problem, because you didn't all have to leave at once. You could trickle from Myspace to Facebook in ones and twos, and stay connected to each other.

Of course, that trickle quickly became a flood. Network effects are a double-edged sword: if you're only stuck to a service because of the people there, then if those people go, there's no reason for you to stick around. The anthropologist danah boyd was able to watch this from the inside, watching Myspace's back-end as whole groups departed en masse:

When I started seeing the disappearance of emotionally sticky nodes, I reached out to members of the MySpace team to share my concerns and they told me that their numbers looked fine. Active uniques were high, the amount of time people spent on the site was continuing to grow, and new accounts were being created at a rate faster than accounts were being closed. I shook my head; I didn’t think that was enough. A few months later, the site started to unravel.

https://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2022/12/05/what-if-failure-is-the-plan.html

Social media bosses hate the idea of fire exits. For social media enshittifiers, the dumpster fire is a feature, not a bug. If users can escape the minute you turn up the heat, how will you cook them alive?

Facebook nonconsensually hacked fire exits into Myspace and freed all of Rupert Murdoch's hostages. Fire exits represents a huge opportunity for competitors – or at least they did, until the motley collection of rules we call "IP" was cultivated into a thicket that made doing unto Facebook as Facebook did unto Myspace a felony:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

When Elon Musk set fire to Twitter, people bolted for the exits. The safe harbor they sought out at first was Mastodon, and a wide variety of third party friend-finder services popped up to help Twitter refugees reassemble their networks on Mastodon. All departing Twitter users had to do was put their Mastodon usernames in their bios. The friend-finder services would use the Twitter API to pull the bios of everyone you followed and then automatically follow their Mastodon handles for you. For a couple weeks there, I re-ran a friend-finder service every couple days, discovering dozens and sometimes hundreds of friends in the Fediverse.

Then, Elon Musk shut down the API – bricking up the fire exit. For a time there, Musk even suspended the accounts of Twitter users who mentioned the existence of their Mastodon handles on the platform – the "free speech absolutist" banned millions of his hostages from shouting "fire exit" in a burning theater:

https://www.forbes.com/sites/martineparis/2022/12/17/elon-musk-bans-journalists-on-twitter-as-more-flee-to-mastodon-heres-who-to-follow/

Mastodon is a nonprofit, federated service built on a open standards. Anyone can run a Mastodon server, and the servers all talk to each other. This is like email – you can use your Gmail account to communicate with friends who have Outlook accounts. But when you change email servers, you have to manually email everyone in your contact list to get them to switch over, while Mastodon has an automatic forwarding service that switches everyone you follow, and everyone who follows you, onto a new server. This is more like cellular number-porting, where you can switch from Verizon to T-Mobile and keep your phone number, so your friends don't have to care about which network your phone is on, they just call you and reach you.

This federation with automatic portability is the fire exit of all fire exits. It means that when your server turns into a dumpster fire, you can quit it and go somewhere else and lose none of your social connections – just a couple clicks gets you set up on a server run by someone you trust more or like better than the boss on your old server. And just as with real-world fire exits, you can use this fire exit in non-emergency ways, too – like maybe you just want to hang out on a server that runs faster, or whose users you like more, or that has a cooler name. Click-click-click, and you're in the new place. Change your mind? No problem – click-click-click, and you're back where you started.

This doesn't just protect you from dumpster fires, it's also a flame-retardant, reducing the likelihood of conflagration. A server admin who is going through some kind of enraging event (whomst amongst us etc etc) knows that if they do something stupid and gross to their users, the users can bolt for the exits. That knowledge increases the volume on the quiet voice of sober second thought that keeps us from flying off the handle. And if the admin doesn't listen to that voice? No problem: the fire exit works as an exit – not just as a admin-pacifying measure.

Any public facility should be built with fire exits. Long before fire exits were a legal duty, they were still a widely recognized good idea, and lots of people installed them voluntarily. But after horrorshows like the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire, fire exits became a legal obligation. Today, the EU's Digital Markets Act imposes a requirement on large platforms to stand up interoperable APIs so that users can quit their services and go to a rival without losing contact with the people they leave behind – it's the world's first fire exit regulation for online platforms.

It won't be the last. Existing data protection laws like California's CCPA, which give users a right to demand copies of their data, arguably impose a duty on Mastodon server hosts to give users the data-files they need to hop from one server to the next. This doesn't just apply to the giant companies that are captured by the EU's DMA (which calls them "very large online platforms," or "VLOPS" – hands-down my favorite weird EU bureaucratic coinage of all time). CCPA would capture pretty much any server hosted in California and possibly and server with Californian users.

Which is OK! It's fine to tell small coffee-shops and offices with three desks that they need a fire exit, provided that installing that fire exit doesn't cost so much to install and maintain that it makes it impossible to run a small business or nonprofit or hobby. A duty to hand over your users' data files isn't a crushing compliance burden – after all, the facility for exporting that file comes built into Mastodon, so all a Mastodon server owner has to do to comply is not turn that facility off. What's more, if there's a dispute about whether a Mastodon server operator has provided a user with the file, we can resolve it by simply asking the server operator to send another copy of the file, or, in extreme cases, to provide a regulator with the file so that they can hand it to the user.

This is a great fire exit design. Fire exits aren't a substitute for making buildings less flammable, but they're a necessity, no matter how diligent the building's owner is about fire suppression. People are right to be pissed off about platform content moderation and content moderation at scale is effectively impossible:

https://www.techdirt.com/2019/11/20/masnicks-impossibility-theorem-content-moderation-scale-is-impossible-to-do-well/

The pain of bad content moderation is not evenly distributed. Typically, the people who get it worst are disfavored minorities with little social power and large cadres of organized bad actors who engage in coordinated harassment campaigns. Ironically, these people also rely more on one another for support (because they are disfavored, disadvantaged, and targeted) than the median user, which means they pay higher switching costs when they leave a platform and lose one another. That means that the people who suffer the worst from content moderation failures are also the people whom a platform can afford to fail most egregiously without losing their business.

It's the "Fiddler on the Roof" problem: sure, the villagers of Anatevka get six kinds of shit kicked out of them by cossacks every 15 minutes, but if they leave the shtetl, they'll lose everything they have. Their wealth isn't material. Anatekvans are peasants with little more than the clothes on their back and a storehouse of banging musical numbers. The wealth of Anatevka is social, it's one another. The only thing worse than living in Anatevka is leaving Anatevka, because the collective action problem dictates that once you leave Anatevka, you lose everyone you love:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

Twitter's exodus remains a trickle, albeit one punctuated by the occasional surge when Musk does something particularly odious and the costs of staying come into sharp relief, pushing users to depart. These days, most of these departures are for Bluesky, not Mastodon.

Bluesky, like Mastodon, was conceived of as a federated social service with easy portability between servers that would let users hop from one server to another. The Bluesky codebase and architecture frames out a really ambitious fire-suppression program, with composable, stackable moderation tools and group follow/block lists that make it harder for dumpster fires to break out. I love this stuff: it's innovative in the good sense of "something that makes life better for technology users" (as opposed to the colloquial meaning of "innovative," which is "something that torments locked-in users to make shareholders richer).

But as I said when I opened this essay, "you should do everything you can to prevent fires – and also, you should build fire exits, because no matter how hard to you try, stuff burns."

Bluesky's managers claim they've framed in everything they need to install the fire exits that would let you leave Bluesky and go to a rival server without losing the people you follow and the people who follow you. They've got personal data servers that let you move all your posts. They've got stable, user-controlled identifiers that could maintain connections across federated servers.

But, despite all this, there's no actual fire exits for Bluesky. No Bluesky user has severed all connections with the Bluesky business entity, renounced its terms of service and abandoned their accounts on Bluesky-managed servers without losing their personal connections to the people they left behind.

Those live, ongoing connections to people – not your old posts or your identifiers – impose the highest switching costs for any social media service. Myspace users who were reluctant to leave for the superior lands of Facebook (where, Mark Zuckerberg assured them, they would never face any surveillance – no, really!) were stuck on Rupert Murdoch's sinking ship by their love of one another, not by their old Myspace posts. Giving users who left Myspace the power to continue talking to the users who stayed was what broke the floodgates, leading to the "unraveling" that boyd observed.

Bluesky management has evinced an admirable and (I believe) sincere devotion to their users' wellbeing, and they've amply demonstrated that commitment with capital expenditures on content moderators and tools to allow users to control their own content moderation. They've invested heavily in fire suppression.

But there's still no fire exits on Bluesky. The exits are on the blueprints, they're roughed into the walls, but no one's installed them. Bluesky users' only defense against a dumpster fire is the ongoing goodwill and wisdom of Bluesky management. That's not enough. As I wrote earlier, every social media service where I'm currently locked in by my social connections was founded by someone I knew personally, respected, and liked and respected (and often still like and respect):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/02/ulysses-pact/#tie-yourself-to-a-federated-mast

I would love to use Bluesky, not least because I am fast approaching the point where the costs of using Twitter will exceed the benefits. I'm pretty sure that an account on Bluesky would substitute well for the residual value that keeps me glued to Twitter. But the fact that Twitter is such a dumpster fire is why I'm not going to join Bluesky until they install those fire exits. I've learned my lesson: you should never, ever, ever join another service unless they've got working fire exits.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The House Guest 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“When I said I owed you,” you whisper and look over your shoulder. 

“Talk as quiet as you want, he’s got super hearing. Can’t even squeak out a silent but deadly with this guy,” Sam chuckles. 

“Wow, that’s gross,” you crinkle your nose. 

“I can be a nasty boy.” 

“Not better,” you give him an apprehensive look as you face him. “I saw him on the news.” 

“Hey, I was there too,” Sam chirps. 

“I know that but...” 

“He got a bit trigger happy. We’re just waiting for things to blow over. He needs a calming personality.” 

“So not you,” you retort. 

“No, not me. I’m into choking but not by him,” he snickers. 

“I can hear you,” the man leaning on the car hood snaps back as the sucker in his mouth hits his teeth. 

“Oh, I know,” Sam shoots a finger gun in his direction. “Also, he’s giving up smoking so he’s a bit testy.” 

“No, I spent eight hours in a car with you so I’m pissed off,” the grumbly sidekick hurls back. 

You look between them. Sam Wilson, the new Cap, superhero, avengers, comedian, and Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, assassin, and... mystery. You should refuse. You owe him but that much? A near-fugitive in your house? 

“Sam, I don’t exactly got a guest room,” you cross your arms. 

“Look, if the dame don’t wanna take me, don’t twist her arm,” Bucky sneers and bites into the sucker, scraping the stick with his teeth. “I can figure myself out.” 

“That’s what you said before the explosion. I’m not falling for it again, man,” Sam shoots back and shakes his head. He puts his hands on his hips and faces you. “You’re not just doing a service to me, but to America.” 

“Yes, okay, but this is Canada.” 

His eyes drift in realisation and his lashes flutter, “right, but we’re allies.” He looks at you again and smiles, “I thought Canadians were nice.” 

You roll your eyes. “Goddamnit. Fine.” 

“Like I said,” Bucky approaches, “I can go somewhere else. I don’t wanna be a burden.” 

“It’s not you,” you assure him. “There isn’t much space, that’s all. If you’re fine with that, so am I.” 

“I told him, it’s not a big deal,” Bucky huffs. “But he insists.” 

“I have to insist. I’m the Captain now.” 

“You keep saying,” he turns on Sam. “So why don’t you get that shield and we’ll see if you’re really up to that title.” 

“Alright, alright,” you step between them. You’re not a fan of conflict. Sam knows that and that’s why he brought him here. “No need to argue. You got a couch,” you look at Bucky then turn to the other man, “and you have a long ride home.” 

“Wait, you’re kicking me out?” Sam says. 

“If you stay any longer, I won’t stop him. I said he could stay, I said nothing about mediating whatever this is,” you wiggle your finger between them. 

Bucky snorts. He’s just as bad as Sam. They seem to only know how to goad the other.  

“Fair. I mean, you don’t want this guy getting any grumpier. He’s already such a treat,” Sam smirks. 

“Enough, I just told you,” you wag your index at him. “Well, nice to meet ya,” you turn and offer your hand to Bucky, “welcome to Canada.” 

“Thanks,” he says, though you can sense him staring down the other man. 

“Sam, have a safe trip. You need water or anything for the road?” You offer over your shoulder. 

“Nah, I think I’m good. A nice ride home alone. With good music. Think I’m set.” He cackles. 

“You wouldn’t know good music if it shot you in the face,” Bucky growls. 

“Dude, go get your bag out of my car,” Sam snips. “Good riddance, is what I say.” 

“Drive safe,” you shake your head as you walk toward the house. “I was in the middle of something.” 

You climb the porch steps and leave the inner door open as the screen door snaps shut behind you. Out of sight, you stop to shake off the adrenaline. You only realise then how the unexpected rival stirred you up. You weren’t ready for Sam but especially not a houseguest. Still, the only reason you have this place is because of that man. You can do this. 

You take a breath and go back to the kitchen. If Sam trusts Bucky, you can too. You’re not one to welcome in strangers, especially men, but this is different. And even if he asked, it wasn’t much of a choice. 

You wash your hands and dry them before pushing your sleeves back up. The striped button-up isn’t exactly your Sunday best. You add breadcrumbs to the bowl of raw beef as you hear footsteps on the porch. The door opens slowly and gently hits the frame. You listen to your guest as he sighs in the entryway. 

The house is small. One-floor, a single bedroom, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen with a small dining table that doubles as your workspace. It isn’t much, but it’s yours. And it’s history. Your family’s. 

You sense him hovering just outside the doorway. You glance behind yourself and hang your hands over the brim of the bowl. You still need to chop the veggies but that can wait. It isn’t his fault Sam decided this would be the balance in the scales. 

“Let me show you around.” You cross the kitchen as he peers through.  

His beard is dark, his hair overgrown and pushed back behind his ears, and tugs at the bottom of his denim jacket. He looks skittish as you approach. He has a duffel bag in his hand. 

“Look, sorry if I came off short. You know how Sam can be,” you say. 

“I do. He assumes a lot,” he mutters. 

“Sure does. So, like I said, it’s not a big house. Kitchen here,” you point over your shoulder, “living room behind you, bathroom down the hall and the bedroom. There’s a back door. Yard’s bigger than the house.” 

“Got it.” 

“So, you’ll have to camp out on the couch but good news, it’s from 1987 so it folds out,” you squeeze by him and lead the way into the front room. 

“Beats a full barracks,” he comments. 

You nod and peek over at him. “Guess that makes sense.” 

He sniffs, “thanks. Really.” 

“Again, not too much,” you gesture to the room. “I gotta finish the meatloaf.” 

“Think I can handle it,” he affirms. 

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: April 2

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. This week:

Meta trained on pirated books—and writers are not having it

ICYMI: Meta has forever earned a spot as the archetype for Shadowy Corporate Baddie in speculative fiction by training its LLMs on pirated books from LibGen. You're pissed, we're pissed—here's what you can do:

The Author’s Guild of America—longtime champions of authors’ rights and probably very tired of cleaning up this kind of mess (see its high-profile ongoing lawsuits, and January’s campaign to credit human authors over “AI-authored” work)—has released a new summary of what’s going on. They’ve also provided a plug-and-play template for contacting AI companies directly, because right now, “sincerely, a furious novelist” just doesn’t feel like enough.

No strangers to spilling the tea, the UK’s Society of Authors is also stepping up with its roundup of actions to raise awareness and fight back against the unlicensed scraping of creative work. (If you’re across the pond, we also recommend checking out the Creative Rights in AI Coalition campaign—it’s doing solid work to stop the extraction economy from feeding on artists’ work.)

Museums and libraries: fodder for the new culture war

Not to be outdone by Florida school boards and That Aunt's Facebook feed, MAGA’s nascent cultural revolution has turned its attention to museums and libraries. A new executive order (in that big boi font) is targeting funding for any program daring to tell a “divisive narrative” or acknowledge “improper ideology” (translation: anything involving actual history).

The first target is D.C.’s own Smithsonian. The newly restructured federal board has set its sights on “cleansing” the Institution’s 21 museums of “divisive, race-centered ideology.” (couch-enthusiast J.D. Vance snagged himself a board seat.) (Oh, and they’ve appointed a Trump-aligned lawyer to vet museum content.) The second seems to be the Institute of Museum and Library Services, a 70-person department (now placed on administrative leave) in charge of institutional funding. As we wrote last week, this isn’t isolated—far-right influence overmuseums and libraries means this kind of ideological takeover will seep into every corner of the country’s cultural life.

Meanwhile, the GOP is (once again) trying to defund PBS for its “Communist agenda.” It’s part of a larger crusade that’s banned picture books with LGBTQ+ characters, erased anti-racist history, and treated educators like enemies—all in the name of “protecting the children,” of course.

NaNoWriMo is no more; long live NaNo

When we initially signed on as sponsors in 2024, we really, really hoped NaNoWriMo could pull it together—but its support for generative AI and dismissiveness toward its own audience prompted us to withdraw our sponsorship, and many Wrimos to leave an institution that helped cultivate creativity and community for a near-quarter century. Now it seems NaNo has shuttered permanently, leaving the community confused, if not betrayed. But when an organization treats its community poorly and fumbles its ethics, people notice. (You can watch the official explainer here.)

Still, writers are resilient, and the rise of many independent writing groups and community-led challenges proves that creatives will always find spaces to connect and write—and the desire to write 50k words in the month of November isn’t going anywhere. Just maybe... somewhere better.

The continued attack on campus speech

The Trump administration continues its campaign against universities for perceived anti-conservative bias, gutting federal research budgets, and pressuring schools to abandon any trace of DEI (or, as we wrote on the blog, extremely common and important words). In short: If a school won’t conform to MAGA ideology, it doesn’t deserve federal money—or academic freedom.

Higher education is being pressured to excise entire frameworks and language in an effort to avoid becoming the next target of partisan outrage. Across the U.S., universities are bracing for politically motivated budget cuts, especially in departments tied to research, diversity, or anything remotely inclusive. Conservative watchdogs have made it their mission to root out “woke depravity”—one school confirmed it received emails offering payment in exchange for students to act as informants, or ghostwrite articles to “expose the liberal bias that occurs on college campuses across the nation.”

In a country where op-eds in student newspapers are grounds for deportation, what part of “free speech” is actually free?

We now live in knockoff Miyazaki hellscape

If you’ve been online lately (sorry), you’ve probably seen a flood of vaguely whimsical, oddly sterile, faux-hand-drawn illustrations popping up everywhere. That’s because OpenAI just launched a new image generator—and CEO Sam Altman couldn’t wait to brag that it was so popular their servers started “melting.” (Apparently, melting the climate is fine too, despite Miyazaki’s lifelong environmental themes.) (Nausicaa is our favorite at Ellipsus.)

This might be OpenAI’s attempt to “honor” Hayao Miyazaki, who once declared that AI-generated animation was “an insult to life itself.” Meanwhile, the meme lifecycle went into warp speed, since AI doesn't require actual human creativity—speed-running from personal exploration, to corporate slop, to 9/11 memes, to a supremely cruel take from The White House.

“People are going to create some really amazing stuff and some stuff that may offend people,” Altman said in a post on X. “What we'd like to aim for is that the tool doesn't create offensive stuff unless you want it to, in which case within reason it does.”

Still, the people must meme. And while cottagecore fox girls are fine, we suggest skipping straight to the truly cursed (and far more creative) J.D. Vance memes instead.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!)

- The Ellipsus Team xo

[innerfare]

Ace NSFW // Smut Compilation 

Summary: A compilation of Ace smut from my multi character posts (Wearing His Hat, Kisses, Going Down On You, Sex Toys, Threesome Headcanons, Blowjobs, Playing With Your Nipples, Mirror Sex).

Genre: Pure Smut

CW: NSFW // service dom Ace, oral (receiving and giving), outdoor sex, threesomes with Sanji, Sabo, and Marco, toys, slight exhibitionism

———

Wearing His Hat: 

He was always putting that hat on your head. Everyone knew him by the orange cowboy hat, and if you wore it, they knew you were his. What most of them didn’t know, however, was exactly what he did to you when you wore that hat. 

You were sitting on the deck of the Moby Dick one evening talking to a few members of the crew over some sake when Ace passed behind you. He didn’t say anything, just dropped the hat on your head and went to talk to Marco. 

Your cheeks heated up. Grateful the darkness hid your blush, you finished your sake and told the guys you were headed to bed. Though they whined about you turning in early, they didn’t try to stop you. What you didn’t notice were the knowing looks they exchanged behind your back, the crew slowly catching on to yours and Ace’s code. 

When you reached Ace’s cabin, he was already waiting for you. He wrapped you in his arms the moment you entered. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, groping you as soon as he got his hands on you. 

“What?” You asked as innocently as you could manage. “Is there something you’ve been wanting to do?” 

“Lots of things I’ve been wanting to do.” He pushed you toward the bed. “We can start by you sitting on my face. And remember the rule- if the hat falls off, we start over.” 

Kisses: 

Usually pretty slow, savoring every bit, but that doesn’t mean the kisses are sweet or soft. They’re deep, the kind that devolve into almost pure tongue. He’ll put his hand on your chin and tilt your head up, leaning in like he’s going to press a modest kiss to your lips, only to leave you got and bothered. A very good kisser, too, not even from experience but simply because he has a natural gift. Has a good rhythm, can get you worked up with his hands tied behind his back. Almost always smiles into it. Melts when you’re on your knees and press gentle kisses into his thighs. 

Going Down On You: 

All of those manners he worked so hard to learn go right out the window when he gets your panties off and his face between your legs. Is especially obsessed with the smell of you; as soon as he catches the scent, he’s on you like a beast. He wants it all over his face and hands. He wants to fall into bed and smell you on his sheets and pillows. 

“The best smell in the fucking world,” he’ll groan, dragging his nose up your slit. 

His favorite is to put you on your back and push your bottom half up so your bare cunt is high in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable for him to eat at his leisure. He’ll put his big, strong hands behind your knees and hold your legs in an impossible position while he buries his face in your juicy cunt, the knowledge it’s all his enough to make him hard. 

“Fucking delicious. And it’s all fucking mine.” 

Like his brother, he has quite the appetite, but unlike Luffy, he’s never just content to devour you. He’ll lap at your folds until you’re overstimulated, and then he’ll pull out his thick, veiny cock. He’ll shush you as he pushes it into your quivering cunt and fuck you until he’s as spent as you are, and then he’ll fuck you a little more.   

His Favorite Place: 

Ace lives to fuck you outside. He’ll push you up against a tree, pin you underneath him on a beach, go down on you in a cave, he doesn’t give a fuck. Having sex outdoors makes him feel wild and free. His absolute favorite is to have you on your hands and knees under the hot sun, fucking you from behind like some sort of animal. You’ve both ended up with all manner of scrapes and bruises from these outdoor trysts, and he always kisses your little injuries after, promising to go easier on you next time. 

Threesome Headcanons 1: 

Sanji inviting Ace to join the two of you. "You want me to give you some pointers, huh?" Ace leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and observing as Sanji fucks you, then stepping in to show Sanji how to make you obey him, training you up a bit and teaching you some proper manners. Ace is just a little older and way more experienced, as well as a bit more domineering. He doesn’t let you get away with things the way Sanji does, doesn’t let you flip him on his back and ride him or cum whenever you want. He’s an easygoing dom, but a dom nonetheless, and you will be getting spanked if you mouth off. Ace even makes you bend over so he can demonstrate proper spanking technique on you for Sanji to use later. 

Threesome Headcanons 2: 

Ace and Sabo would run you ragged. These two have boundless energy, and don’t think for a second they won’t be grinning and high-fiving when they get you on all fours, Ace rubbing his hand up and down your back while he fucks your pussy, Sabo holding your hair back for you while he fucks your mouth, both of them praising you for taking their big cocks like a champ. They don’t compete like Zoro and Sanji but rather work in tandem to draw as many orgasms out of you as possible. They show off, but not necessarily in a competitive way. “Sabo, check this out.” “Whoah, Ace, so cool. Let me try.” When you’re all finished, they’ll cuddle you between them, Ace with his face buried in your chest, Sabo asleep on your stomach. They might wake you up in the middle of the night to go again, but only after they eat everything in the fridge. 

Threesome Headcanons 3: 

Marco asking for your help to initiate Ace as a division commander, Ace watching wide-eyed as Marco works you over, Ace amazed by how easily Marco bends you over and makes you cum, how pliant you are and willing to take Marco’s load. Ace almost cumming in his pants when Marco pulls out and tells you to treat the new division commander right, gritting his teeth and curling his toes as you ride his cock because he doesn’t want to cum too quickly with Marco watching. Marco biting back his grin because he can see the sweat rolling down Ace’s temple and chest, raising his eyebrows when Ace flips you over and fucks you into the mattress like that’s what you were made for, reporting back to the other division commanders that the new kid can fuck.

Sex Toys: 

He’s such a pleaser (service dom, 100%) and he worries deeply that you’ll get satisfaction elsewhere while the two of you are parted, so he buys you a very discreet vibrator necklace to wear. That way, you’ll never have to find another man in his stead (it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him it’s not necessary, he’s convinced he has to make you cum three times a day to keep you nice and satisfied, and if he’s not there to do it, he’ll make damn sure you have the tools to do it in his name). Expects you to tell him all about it when he gets back. This eventually turns into him watching you use it on yourself, and then you showing him exactly how you do it so he can take over. He won’t tease you with it, but he does fully expect you to say please and thank you. 

Blowjobs: 

He enjoys when you politely ask him if you can suck his cock. He’s surprisingly restrained as you lick up and down his length, looking up at him with your doe eyes. He’ll bite his bottom lip and rub a hand up and down his muscular chest and abdomen, the other resting on your head as it bobs up and down. He might buck his hips a little bit, but he won’t fuck your face; doesn’t think it’s hot when you choke, actually hates it. He’ll stroke your hair and groan a bit, his voice extra deep, and swear when he cums. “That’s my girl. You're mine, all fucking mine. Nobody else gets to feel your lips around their cock.” And his favorite part, perhaps one of his favorite things in the entire world, is cumming on your face. He doesn’t mean anything disrespectful by it, doesn’t even view it as dominating you in any way. It’s actually a soft gesture when he does. He just thinks you look so pretty with his cum on your face, and it makes him feel so loved that you enjoy his cum so much. 

Playing With Your Nipples: 

The king of feeling you up. Has literally never gotten into bed beside you without sliding his hands beneath your shirt. This inevitably leads to him thumbing your nipples, his fingers making slow circles around the sensitive nubs before he starts pinching and pulling, eventually going in with his mouth. If he catches you in a hallway or empty room and wraps his arms around you from behind, this also typically escalates to him reaching beneath your shirt to play with your nipples. But it’s never so casual that it doesn’t escalate. If he gets his hands beneath your shirt, he’ll be fucking you, and he’ll be pinching your nipples the entire time. 

Mirror Sex: 

Neither of you intend for it to turn into mirror sex. He has you naked in his bed, the pillows on the floor and the sheets tangled around you, one of his arms looped under your knee to hold your leg up, the other braced against the mattress while his fingers tug on your messy hair. He rolls his hips against yours, bottoming out in you over and over, your breathless moans like music to his ears. Determined not to cum yet, he turns to the side to focus on something other than your pretty face contorted in pleasure, and he catches sight of your reflection in the mirror on the wall. He sees for the first time how his tattoos ripple with his muscles as he fucks you, how your legs are wide open for him, how your tits squish into his naked chest, and he cums almost immediately. You have no idea what made your tiger cum prematurely until the next time you have sex in his cabin and he grabs a blanket and throws it over the mirror.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[bangaveragewhitewine]

so soft like silk chiffon

Eddie Munson x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Contents: Sickeningly sweet and cosy domesticity. Female reader. Eddie and reader share clothes, but I see her as curvy. Librarian / Bookstore reader x Record Store Eddie. Food mention. Weed mention if you squint. 

Note: This started as a single line in doc, abandoned for months and months. Looking for anything to focus on and any distractions from life, I present the doc formerly known as ‘Eddie Munson makes you dinner while wearing your silky robe. Send tweet.’ Barely edited, certainly not beta’ed. This is as much a surprise to me as it may be to you!

PS - I like to think of these two as the same couple from The Boy Is Mine, but feel free to imagine otherwise. Enjoy!

The keys in your hand are skin-warmed, digging their teeth into your palm and leaving their tangy metallic bitemarks behind. So eager to get home, you do not feel their weight or their sharp edges. 

Home. 

The thought alone makes you smile. An easy curve of your lips, much more effortless and real than your customer service facade.

Home is more than the hot shower and fresh bedsheets waiting to wash away the day and welcome you home. It is more than the stocked-up cupboards and the cold bottle of wine that calls ‘drink me!’ so sweetly after a long shift. More than the couch that cradles your weight and the records stacked and spinning as you breath in earthy green to unwind a little more, sink a little deeper into the weekend.

All of those things are great, you cannot wait to scrub away the sheen of sweat and the dry feeling that lingers on your hands after hours of stacking returned books and settle yourself into the groove in the couch with a carb-heavy dinner and cold white wine, the perfect remedy for the summer programme planning meeting-induced headache.

Now, home is so much more than simple pleasures and little luxuries. 

It’s the man who kissed you goodbye on the stoop before you turned in opposite directions for work this morning, both sleepy-headed as you set the countdown until you see each other again. Tick tock, tick tock, two whole days together over the weekend.

It is the man who races you back to the apartment, waiting with a triumphant smirk and an invitation to share the hot water, or a smiley face in steam on the bathroom mirror. When you win the race, the sound of his key in the lock and his goofy ‘honey, I’m home’ makes your tummy flutter.

Home is more than four walls and a front door; a small apartment at the top of Lakeview, perfectly poised between the library and the record store, with friends and favourite bars dotted around the Windy City. 

You have been playing house with Eddie since you were both gap-toothed with scraped knees, making up magical lands and adventures from morning until the sun set and only re-entering the real world to raid your fridge or eat the sandwiches Wayne made with cold cuts and crispy salty chips. It made sense that you would always be home for each other. 

The final few steps do not feel so arduous when you know he is home before you; the sound of Black Sabbath already playing from the stereo beckons you back into the cosy confines of your apartment. Smiling to yourself again, you take a final step over the threshold, feeling weightless.

Through the shred of War Pigs, Eddie catches the jangle of keys and the quick click of the closing door. He skids on socked feet from the kitchen to the short hallway, smile wide and eyes sparkling. 

“She’s home!” 

Eddie’s arms span out wide, swathed in wide swishing satin. He’s wearing your robe again, half open over his bare chest and boxers. The check print and his inked-up hairy legs are a wonderful contrast to the delicate swish and sway of painted florals. 

When it’s not wrapped around your bed-warm body in the mornings or draped on your lotioned post-shower skin at night, it hangs on the back of the bedroom door like a silky waterfall. That is until the seasons turn and the printed satin is carefully laundered and folded away, replaced with teddy-soft terrycloth until the weather warms again.

It just smells like you, which justifies how often Eddie wears it when you’re not home, and sometimes when you are. It is not just your lotion and perfume, your shampoo and the coffee you mopped up with the edge of your sleeve the other morning. An indescribable essence of you has been threaded through the thin fabric, sewn through satin like a phantom thread. 

And now it smells like Eddie too; the collar holds a musk that you cannot name, other than it is totally Him. 

You can smell it now as he wraps you up, a gentle blend of his and hers. Eddie’s hug manages to drain every ounce of tension and stress from your body, loosening your clenched jaw and tight shoulders with a simple squeeze. 

“Missed you,” murmured against his neck, your cheek pillowed by satin and a spill of curls that escapes his scrunchie. 

“Bad day?”

The slow pass of his hands along your back melts away the tight ache that had settled just beneath your waistband. 

“No, just better now.”

Even with your eyes closed, you can feel his smile, hear it. 

“Aww, you like me or somethin’?” he murmurs, a wisp of warm breath tickling your neck that cries out to be kissed.

Eddie is a weak man, easily tempted at times, and presses three sweet kisses from the collar of your shirt to the base of your jaw. 

“Or something.” 

He feels your smile too, the curve of your mouth against his shoulder. He has to see it, pulls away just enough to sneak a peek at pure sunshine. Your teasing is taken with a grain of salt, betrayed by how down bad you are for him. 

“Hungry?” he asks, gliding his thumb along your cheek with an almost hypnotic gentleness.

“Yeah, are you cooking for me?”

Beyond the shower clean scent of him, you find notes of garlic and rich tomato. Your stomach rolls ravenously, mouth wet at the thought of his pasta sauce.

His coy shrug makes you smile, proud of himself for predicting that you needed a night off dinner duty and an obscene amount of pasta as your week draws to a close. Eddie had noticed the tightness in your jaw, the way your shoulders had crept higher and higher with each working day.

“Just somethin’ easy, carby. That okay?” 

The way your eyes sparkle - something between thrilled and touched by his kindness - gives you away before you can crush into him again, arms winding around the solid trunk of him to squeeze. 

“I love you.”

Your voice is muffled against his chest, but Eddie can feel it; the way your lips form those three words, the adoration that radiates from you into him. He drinks it up. 

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your head, crowning you with his love.

You stand there, in the hallway of your home together, a slow rocking sway, foot to foot.

Before you let each other leave - you to the bedroom to strip off your clothes and wash the day away, Eddie to the kitchen - one more kiss, syrup-slow and sweet, is shared amongst the lived-in clutter. A box of books and clothes to donate, a borrowed amp to return, the rescued-from-the-sidewalk side table holding your keys, a vase of flowers and a framed photo of you, Eddie & Wayne at a barbecue in Forrest Hills.

Slowly you part, coming unstuck from each other so that you can come back together again over plates of pasta and plans for your weekend.

When you a shower-damp with hair dripping on the plains of your shoulders, you remember your robe has been stolen by a handsome thief. A wash-worn t-shirt lies folded on the counter with your pyjama shorts, waiting for you beneath the heart traced in steam, oozing with adoration. 

Butter soft beneath your fingertips, you bury your nose in the stretched-out collar and breathe in the scent of him. The scent of home.

Thank you for taking the time to read this! Your comments, reblogs and likes are cherised!

[dog-bimbo]

dark content, dead dove do not eat, fem!reader, dubcon teetering around noncon, manipulation, dumbification, humiliation, age gap (implied) (legal), nicknames, using reader as an ashtray, overstimulation, edging, gunplay, coercion, power dynamics, manipulation, shiu kong is his own warning lmao, explicit language 18+ only minors dni part one part two

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu who needs a good, sloppy blowjob after he's done for the day... or even when he's not. you're under his desk, your knees bruised from that rough carpet that's been put down in this office two owners ago, gagging as he thrusts further into that poor, serviceable mouth of yours. he's taught you to take him in a noise-free way for when he's taking calls, no matter how hard it is to do so. as he comes, he grabs you by the roots of your hair and pulls you so that his cock's deep in your throat. he only looks down to address you after he's done with his call. "c'mon baby, stick your tongue out for me..." and you do, which is what prompts him to ash his half-way done cigarette there— "atta girl," he cooes as your wince in pain, his hand rubbing against your cheek with that faux-tenderness.

when nasty, 1cky bf!shiu fucks you, he fucks you dumb. he lets his voice go extra low and cruel when you try to resist his advances—the overstimulation, it drives you crazy... "sh-shiu... i can't— take it no more..." you cry, tears streaming down your eyes. but he keeps thrusting his cock to the hilt and pulling it back with that cruel drawl that gives you the illusion that he might stop, but he goes on and on and on. "baby, if you're gonna cry, atleast make it pretty for me..." and his deep chuckle rings against your ears, your gummy walls getting tighter against his cock. you could never get enough of his sick words. "—fucking clenching from just a little attention. pathetic."

speaking of overstimulation, nasty, 1cky bf!shiu has his cruel ways even while edging you. his fingers go up and down your sensitive, puffed up cl!t, friction varying but for the most part, he's just been denying that sweet release for hours. you buck your hips, your eyes pleading him for friction, for mercy, for something. and if you dare to use your own hands, he'd probably not even let you move a damn inch. "you wanna come so bad you’d drool on yourself for it, huh?" you nod frantically, he could feel your sticky desperation. "then say something stupid f'me, something that proves me there’s nothing left up there but need." and you try, you really do. but it's not your words that are insufficient, it's his sadist tendency that gets in the way. "hmm, not dumb enough," he says, almost bored, "guess we’ll have to keep playing until you forget how to talk at all."

and of course nasty, 1cky bf!shiu is into gun play, he has one. so why not? you blink up at him, wide-eyed, stupid from the fear. he laughs lazily like it's no big deal, tapping the cold barrel against your cheek. "open up, sweetheart," he murmurs, almost sweet. you simply swallow, "what, you don't trust me?" and there's a complicated answer to that as usual </3 he slowly pushes it in and the metal scrapes your tongue, "that's it, good girl. don't think too hard, don't move. wouldn't want you hurtin' yourself." the barrel pushes deeper, slow, deliberate, gagging you. you whimper, drool slipping past your lips as you try to stay still, it has never felt this hard love a man. he cocks the hammer. the click echoes in your ear. you flinch, eyes tearing up as he grins—slow, lazy, cruel. he finally pulls it out with a wet pop, your debasement stirring his cock through his suit pants. he then cracks the barrel open—it's an empty chamber. "told ya'" he drawls, patting your cheek like a dog. "it wasn't nothin' to worry that pretty little head about."

nasty, 1cky bf!shiu buys you whatever you want, for a price though. you stop in front of the display, fingertip grazing the glass. it's a necklace you’ll forget about tomorrow. he's at your side in a heartbeat, palm sliding low across your hip like he owns it. "want it?" you shrug. nod. "it's a bit too expensive, maybe no..." you don't wanna fall into that trap again. he tilts his head, cigarette still burning between two fingers. "then come earn it." he’s leading you away before you can blink. he shoulders a door open, an old stockroom with dusty shelves. stale air. he fucking hated it but he's desperate for some release. he crowds you up against the wall, your cheeks squished against the old dried up paint. his knee forces your legs apart before you can close them as he pulls your underwear down your thighs without a warning. he leaves them bunched around your ankles. "i-i don't want it—" "it'd look real good on you." he spits in his hand once and it makes you feel like shit. he jerks himself lazy before pushing his fat cock down your pussy without warning, without care. you grunt, body jerking forward against the wall. "yeah, baby... that's it... just like that." he keeps one hand on your hip, the other balancing his cigarette so it doesn’t drop ash on your back. he fucks into you like he’s scratching an itch—careless and shallow thrusts that drives you insane with need and worry. you don’t make a sound. you don’t dare and he's pretty good at keeping quiet himself. as he finishes, he pulls your hair back sharp, teeth grazing your ear. "this is why i love you." you stand there, panties twisted, legs trembling as his cum drips down your thigh. he zips up, straightens his jacket, blows smoke toward the ceiling while he’s smoothing himself out. he flicks the cigarette to the ground to grind it out with the heel of his boot. "good girl," he says, almost sweet. he buys the necklace five minutes later, drops the box into your hand like it's something you won at a claw machine game, you kinda wish it was the case... </3

[hehe-69]

Bonfire SMUT

Jacob x Reader

Other Parts of Bonfire: Part 14 it has all the other links to all the previous parts I’m too lazy to do then all rn

Warnings: 16+ CONTENT YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION! SUB JACOB, BODY WORSHIPING, SERVICE TOP JACOB FOR LIKE A PARAGRAPH! NON DESCRIPTIVE SMUT SO THAT ITS GENDER NUTRAL! CRYING DURNING AND AFTER! USE PROTECTION YOU DIRTY DOGS!!!!

Summary: You and Jacob are both 18 as you’re going into your senior year of high school, the two do you decide to take the next big step in your relationship.(yes I aged him up for this, no I am not sorry)

Tage list: @coldonez

Outside it’s storming, thunder crashes and the wind howls, wet and cool through your open window. Papers scatter across your room as the breeze blows, you’re back is turned away from the window, as you kneel on your bed sitting on your heals. The air is tense and chilly as you wait, the minutes tick by as try to even out your breaths as your nervous system goes haywire. You’re on edge, straining your ears to listen through the howling winds and thunderstorm.

Then you hear him, crawling through your window, hear his shaky and sharp breaths. And the soft thumps of his shoes that steal the breath from your lungs as each one brings him closer to you, the sound of him kicking them off and his deep shallow breathing. Like he’s trying to calm his own nerves as well. Jacob was drenched head to toe from the downpour, but quickly drying off due to his hot blooded nature.

Your breath quickens as you feel your bed dip under the weight of Jacob’s body, and feel his damp hair press against the back of your head. His breaths hitch evey once an a while and you feel them against the back of your neck.

You breath in deep and sharp, trying to get a grip on your nerves. Jacob doesn’t move, he waits for you to turn your body and face him. Now pressing your foreheads together, Jacob’s breath hitches. “Are you sure about this?” Jacob asks softly. “If you changed you mind, I would understand.” You smile softly, stroking his cheek. “I’m sure.” You breathe out. “I want to do this, I want you.” And Jacob looks you in the eyes and suddenly, your nerves dissipate. It’s just you and Jacob, finally getting this moment together.

Jacob surges forward to kiss you fiercely and desperately, breathing hard through his nose. Jacob leans the both of you so you fall sideways onto the bed and the second you hit it you roll him onto his back with you on top of him. Straddling his narrow hips and licking into his mouth.

You roll your hips hard, and you feel Jacob’s legs thrashing as he moans out between kisses. He tries to keep up, rolling up to meet your brutal pace as his hands run up and down your back before landing on your ass to hold you close as he grinds his hips up. When Jacob gasps out sharply you kiss down his jaw, keeping your hips rolling. Jacob breaths hard and bites back the sounds threatening to escape him, as his shaky hands rub up and down your back and the top of your thighs. “Jacob.” You sigh out, moaning softly at the delicious friction between your body and his. “Don’t hold back,” you sigh. “I want to hear you.” And Jacob whines out at this, and his back arches up.

“Fuck.” Jacob hisses out as you kiss, lick and suck along his sharp jawline and down his neck, a whine escapes him as you suck hard at the base of his neck. You humm out softly, your hands that were once on either side of Jacob head, sneak thier way down his bear chest. Your let you nails scrape against his skin, Jacob bucks his hips up and grips your hair as he moves your head to kiss him again. He’s kissing you deep and slow, licking into your mouth and it reminds you that you would like to take you time. You would like to draw this out, learn what makes him tick, enjoy this moment with him.

So you and Jacob spend the hours, kissing, licking, touching and tracing each other’s bodies. It’s hot and heavy, but soft and loving when it needs to be. You and him spend time stripping each other of your clothes, laughing and giggling when you’re hurried movements cause you both to get caught or your hands fumble with buttons.

Jacob makes good on his promises and showers your body with love and affection. Bring you right to the edge of euphoria, and backing away last minute. You didn’t even get to complain as he leans down to taste you instead. Hands in his hair pulling him closer spur him on and he doubles his efforts. It’s toe curling and breathtaking, how much devotion and patience Jacob shows as he basically worships every inch of you skin, theres not a single part of it he hasn’t touched, kissed or licked.

He consumes your every thought, consumes your very soul, till all you can mange to get through your incompetent mouth is his name and strangled cries. It’s his breath in your ear and his mouth on your jaw that pulls you back down to earth. Those warm calloused hands that cradle your face and stroke your cheek. Jacob lays over the top of you, propped up on his forearms so that he doesn’t crush you. He sits there an waits, kissing you and whisper I love yous till you’re back in your own body.

And one look into Jacob’s loving and impossibly tender eyes gives you the energy to finally jump his bones. You grin wildly at him, and he smiles brightly back before kissing you deeply. A small yelp escapes his mouth as you roll yourself back on top of him. You can’t help but giggle at his reaction, leaning down to kiss his nose. “I love you so much, your laugh, your smile, everything and all that you are.” You whisper out softly, and watch how Jacob melts and smiles at your words.

“You have me, heart and soul, all that I am and all that I’ll ever be is yours to keep.” Jacob’s voice is impossible soft, like he’s whispering out a confession of a lifetime. The timber of his voice is full of this inconceivable amount of sheer love, devotion and truth.

The both of you are laid bear before one another, not just in physical form but in a spirit and emotional level beyond your wildest dreams and comprehension. This is about more than just sex, or “boning”, this is something raw and real. This goes beyond a simple and overused word such as love.

This is all and more of what your relationship is to one another. This is accumulation of evey silent moment shared, those quiet and sweet heartfelt moments where all you needed and wanted was to just be close to one another. To just exist in the same space and basic in the presence of each other. All the times you’ve broken down and fallen apart together, all the times you both sat and collected the shattered broken pieces of each other and put them back together. You have waited, watched and loved each other nothing can compare to the underlying and overwhelming feelings of admiration and devotion you share for one another.

This bond, this invisible string pulling, holding and connecting you and Jacob to each other is only as strong as it is now…because you and him have suffered, lost and grieved together. You and him have supported one another unconditionally.

It’s why, it is so important to you that you make sure Jacob Black knows how loved and valued and treasured he truly is. It’s why you kiss, lick and bite his skin as you travel down his body. Why you thrive so wildly on the trembling of his body and the symphony leaves his mouth. His breaths, gasps, whines and moans, the way you soften your touch when he jumps or dubble down your efforts when he cries out. It’s like a dream come true, Jacob Black, sweaty and blissed out before you, the sounds alone could sedate your soul for lifetimes.

The way he back arches, how his brows thread together in pure pleasure, the way his mouth is dropped open as he breaths harshly. You horrified you have done something wrong when he stops you, crying out a desperate wait and you instantly freeze in terror.

But your body implodes with molten hot heat as he tells you he wants to finish inside you. It’s like your entire brain is fried at his words, but your body throbs with the need of him. Jacob came prepared for this, protection and even a small bottle of lube from a dinky gas station that makes you laugh softly. But it’s how considerate he was to think of it all that makes you smile and laugh. You help him roll on the condom, and lubricate, it’s purely for your personal enjoyment and his own. Jacob is impossible hot and ready to go. The lube wasn’t really necessary, just a precaution to easy his nerves. He didn’t want to hurt you, not like this, not ever. Even though he had spent what felt like hours in between your legs prepping you for this.

And when you’re hovering over him, ready to slide down and welcome him into your body, you lean down to kiss him. And slowly lower yourself onto him, till your hips are flush and you feel impossible full, impossibly complete. You both are left breathless at the feeling of finally being together, connected in such an intimate, intense way. You’re breathing into each others open mouths as you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you.

Jacob sits up, letting you support yourself on his shoulders as he holds onto your hips, helping you lift yourself up and back down. Jacob gasps out sharply and you can’t help by whine. It’s mouthwatering, brain fogging, and devastatingly delicious. The way heat and pleasure shoots throughout your nervous system, as each roll of your hips. When you finally find your rhythm, you push Jacob down onto his back, planting your hands on his abdomen and digging you finger tips into his skin as you set a brutal pace.

Starting sharp, slow and deep, but quickly speeding up. You watch Jacob through hooded eyes as he tips his head back to breathe harshly and cry out. This overwhelming feeling of joy fills your soul, joy that it’s you who gets to see him like this, you who gets to have him like this. The closer you both get to the finish line, the more your hips shutter and your legs burn.

Jacob wordlessly springs into action, rolling you both over without ever breaking the connection. Pining you onto your back with his body as he borrows his head into your neck. You don’t waste a second as you instantly run your fingers through his hair and tug lightly. Jacob’s whole body shudders at the sensation, and it encourages him to begin the push and pull of his hips.

Jacob’s left arm wraps under your thigh to prop you right leg up, and he moves his own right leg to push his knee into the back of yours. And he drags his hips, slow but brutal, it’s brings you impossibly high and close but you linger right over the edge. So he moves his hand in-between your legs to spur your orgasim on.

It’s all too much, the sounds he lets out into your neck, his impossible heat and burning hot love and desire. It sends you up into cloud 9, your head throws back and you cry out as you finally cum hard. You’re impossibly grateful to hear Jacob’s broken whine as he spills into you. You and him lay there, his full body weight ontop of you as you both breathe in hard and shaky, coming down from the thrill of your own lovemaking.

Jacob unburies his face from your neck, so that he can gaze upon your blissed out expression. You crack your eye open to see the most lovesick and beautiful expression on Jacob’s face. He looks at you as off you have given him the whole world, and you realize, you and Jacob have be softly crying throughout the night as he leans down to kiss the tear trails on you face.

There is something so precious and beautiful about being so wholly and completely seen. Utterly understood and accepted. You laugh out softly, out of pure wonder at your luck and wrap your arms around his neck to hold him close. You both lay there, for a long while before Jacob gets up to clean you up and throw away the used condom.

Afterwards Jacob pulls you in close, kissing your head. And you both lay there, kissing and talking, laughing and cuddling close. And you both drift off into peaceful and happy sleep.

————

I HOPE THIS WAS GOOD! I PORED EVERYTHING I HAD INTO IT! This is my first smut so I up yall ate it up.

Tired my best to make sure all genders could enjoy it.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to request what else you’d like to see in Bonfire my Jacob long fic.

Thanks so much for reading!

Love ya🫶

[gold-onthe-inside]

we'll always have paris

who? emily prentiss (s7) x photographer!reader summary: in the aftermath of doyle, you try and scrape together the remnants of your life with emily, weeding out old flowers for something new. content warnings: reader is a photographer word count: 2.1k author's note: requested by @mggslover, written for spring-fest, and you can find more emily x reader here. please enjoy. everything in italics is a flashback.

You thought it had just been a nice gesture, JJ and Hotch helping you pack up Emily’s apartment. Sergio was under shared custody between you and Penelope, a small sacrifice to give the despondent analyst something positive to channel her love and grief over losing Emily into. Packing her life into boxes was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, taking down photo frames. You hadn’t thought twice when you never saw Emily’s clothes again, JJ packing them into a suitcase. You’d assumed it was headed to a thrift store, satisfied with the sweaters you’d kept for yourself. You would have stayed at the brownstone, if you could afford it, sleeping in her bed, in soft sheets that reminded you of her, staring at the bedroom ceiling.

Instead, you were back in your studio apartment, going over photos of her instead of digitally correcting the wedding film you’d shot a week ago.

“It’s beautiful,” Emily murmured, sitting up in bed with your belated birthday present to her, in a soft grey tanktop and plaid shorts. You watched her, biting your lip in anticipation as she pulled out the dainty gold necklace, an engraved pendant dangling from her hands.

“It’s St Christopher,” you replied, shifting closer, resting your chin on her shoulder. “To keep you safe when you’re travelling.” Her dark curls tickled your cheek as you pressed your lips to her pale shoulder, running your hand over her arm.

“I’m not sure I believe in saints,” Emily said softly, looking at you as you tilted your head to meet her dark gaze, unable to help yourself to pressing a few more kisses to her arm, soft under your touch, but toned when she wanted it to be.

“That’s okay,” you replied, smiling at her. “That’s not why I gave it to you.”

“No?” Emily’s temple furrowed as you straightened, fingers tucking her curls away and sweeping it over her shoulder.

“The legend goes,” you explained, taking the necklace and unhooking it, “that St Christopher dedicated his life to carrying travellers across a river.” You were on your knees, hooking the chain around her neck, and pulling her hair back as you continued. “And one day, he carried a young boy across the river, and then the river became swollen, and the child was heavier, but Christopher pushed on anyway, to get the child across the river. And then the child revealed that he was Jesus Christ, but, I mean, the religious stuff aside…” Your hands rubbed her arms. “I was thinking about all the things you do, how much of yourself you give to help others… and I guess, the point of all this is… you’re a saint to me, Em.”

Emily looked at you with an expression that was completely unreadable, and then she was cupping your face and kissing you, pulling you closer by the hip.

You’re broken out of the reverie by message from your boss at the agency.

Julia: A private client’s requesting your services in Paris. I wouldn’t tell you if the money wasn’t good. Let me know if you’re up for it.

It turned out your boss was as confused as you were — not that you weren’t a brilliant photographer; you’d done your fair share of everything in the catalogue, starting out as a forensic photographer, to working for the Washington Post, to tabloid magazines (that was the worse than the crime scenes you had to photograph), to wedding and family shoots, to headshots and modelling shoots. But the money was insanely good. Good enough to get Emily’s apartment back. So you take it, not particularly worried about the danger of it.

Penelope’s ecstatic for you, more than happy to take Sergio in full-time, yapping on about all the things she wants when you come back, and all the places you have to try, and photos you have to take, and before you know it, you’re clutching your passport and ticket in one hand, your suitcase in the other.

“So, how many languages do you actually know?” you asked, walking with Emily through the city, coffees in hand.

“Well, there’s French, Spanish… My Italian’s not great, my Russian is terrible,” Emily replied, enjoying the dumbstruck look on your face. “And I grew up in several Middle Eastern countries, so I’m pretty familiar with Arabic—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “Jesus, now I feel like an idiot.”

“No, come on,” Emily countered. “You’re an artist—”

“I take crime scene photos—”

“To make money, I’ve seen the real stuff,” Emily assured her, a hand going to your waist, pulling you to the side of the pavement, connecting you closer with her. “The way you capture people and places is… It’s like poetry.”

You looked at her serious face, black eyes shining at you under dark lashes. “Really? It impresses you that much.”

“I think you could have your own gallery,” Emily professed, and that makes you laugh, starting to walk again, but she pulled at your wrist. “Seriously. At the very least an exhibit in some gallery, but still.”

When you closed your eyes, you were still in that apartment with Emily, tangled in sheets, soft morning light streaking the room golden, Sergio curled up at the foot of the bed, talking and kissing, limbs wrapped around the other, Plato’s soulmates trying to become one being. When you close your eyes, you can kiss her tattoos again, smell her shampoo, hear her laugh, and then say your name so reverently that it wouldn’t sound right from anyone else. When you close your eyes, you never want to open them again.

The agency had you set up in a studio apartment, fitted with everything you needed — a dark room, backdrops, lights — your living space behind a sliding door. You’d just finished setting up when you heard the knock on your door, opening it to receive your mail. Your French is clumsy as you thanked him, moving inside to open the small brown paper package. The paper fell apart to reveal a white jewellery box, opening to a gold necklace with a St Christopher pendant, and the shock of it almost makes you drop it.

You're quick to open the letter, praying that would calm your nerves, shaky hands unfolding the paper to find short sentences that give you nothing.

Come see me at Cafe de Fleur. I can explain everything. Yours, EP.

That wasn’t… It couldn’t be. You buried her. You wept at her grave. Screamed at Sergio to shut up because she wasn’t coming back. But it was her handwriting. The same loops that wrote every birthday card and note on your bedside table. It’s not even a question; your keys are already in your hand, grabbing a saddlebag and sliding into sneakers before running down three floors, and heading for the cafe across the street.

And there she is, at a table outside the cafe, sitting with coffee and a newspaper, a coat around her shoulders, wearing a white dress that went down to her knees. Chic and elegant to your messy, barely put together style. The wind is knocked out of your chest, watching her chew on a thumbnail. Her hair is shorter, the bangs grown out enough to be swept to the sides of her face.

“Don’t do that!” you chastised with a laugh, taking her hand in yours as you nestled against her on the couch, her dark gaze snapping to you. She’s been more anxious of late, distant; something about work she couldn’t tell you. “I swear, I’m gonna have to put lemon juice on your fingers to get you to stop at this point.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, wrapping her arms properly around you, kissing your hair.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I should just join the FBI so I can get you to relax better,” you murmured, snuggling against her chest.

“Don’t do that,” she replied, a serious edge to her voice. Almost like a plea. “I don’t want you to see the things I do.”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen crime scenes before,” you replied, looking up at her. “I just can’t help but feel like… this job is… It’s putting this distance between us, and I don’t like it.” Her hand rubbed along your waist and stomach, trying to comfort you. Always comfort you.

“I’m gonna sort it out,” she promised, her gaze distant again. “I swear. I won’t let it taint this.”

Your brazen impatience died as you tentatively walked towards the seat across from her, and Emily looked up at you, watching you dropped the jewellery box in front of her, your face masked with anger and hurt. “This is how you tell me you’re alive?” you managed to ask, your voice lowering with bitterness.

“To… To be fair, there aren’t a lot of great ways,” Emily replied, her voice quiet, absent of her usual confidence, and you huffed as you plopped down in the seat.

“So, what, the job offer was a ruse to get me to Paris?” you asked dryly.

“Yes and no,” Emily replied softly. “I submitted your photos to a gallery here, and they seemed to like it… so… you do have a job here if you want it. But the private offer was from me. If you’d come here on your own, you could’ve been followed.”

You swallowed, closing your eyes and rubbing your face. “I don’t understand, why—”

“I have something Doyle wants,” Emily said slowly, watching you closely. “Something he’s willing to torture me all over again for, but right now, he thinks I’m dead. And it needs to stay that way until they find him.” You looked up at her, willing the tears away.

“I’m not made for this, Emily,” you told her. “All of this… cloak and daggers bullshit, I… Christ, Em…”

“I know,” she said instantly, covering your hand with hers. “I just… I couldn’t live with you thinking I was…” Dead. You stared at her nail-bitten hands, her touch feeling like a dream you couldn’t trust. “But I understand if you want out, I don’t expect you to upend your entire life around me—”

“You did that already,” you said, without thinking, knowing how cruel it sounded from your lips. “What’s the use of an out now?”

“Honey,” she murmured, almost pleading, squeezing your hand. “I love you,” she whispered. “In another universe, I would’ve… I would’ve spent the rest of my life with you.”

You finally looked at her, properly, make-up trying to hide the dark bags under her eyes, the fatigue in her shoulders. Maybe from the rest of the world, but not from you. “I still want that,” you murmured. “But this isn’t a life, Em. Living in hiding, running away at a moment’s notice…”

“So, we won’t hide,” Emily promised adamantly, squeezing again. “We can… Honey, we can build a life here. You and me. I mean, isn’t this what we talked about all the time? Running away to Europe? I’d leave the FBI, you’d actually pursue your art.”

“I… Emily, it was a dream,” you replied weakly. “And-And, they’re gonna find Doyle eventually, I mean, you should have seen Derek. He’s not gonna stop until he finds him.” You watched Emily’s face pale, her eyes downcast with guilt.

“I know,” she murmured, her hands still running over your knuckles. “But even if they find him… I don’t know if I want to go back,” she added quietly, and you frowned, watching her carefully.

“You love the job,” you insisted.

“I love you,” Emily replied, eyes finding yours. “Doyle threatened you, honey, threatened to take you away from me, and I can’t live with that. And I also can’t live without you, so… If that’s what it takes to keep this safe, I’ll leave.”

“And do what?” you asked, the words coming out in a disbelieving huff.

“Everything I put off,” she answered, shrugging. “Everything we missed out on.” You want to believe her. Everything inside of you is begging to believe her.

“And if I say no?” you asked tentatively, watching her face fall in resignation.

“It’s all up to you,” she said softly. “You have a job at a gallery if you want it. Or you can go back home, if that’s what you want. I won’t bother you again.” And your hand instinctively squeezed hers, not wanting to let go.

“I don’t want that,” you said automatically, her sharp eyes watching you. “I want this. A life with you.”

“You’re sure?” Emily asked, her heart hammering in her chest, and you nodded.

“I’m sure.”

comments and reblogs appreciated <3