#but im a stubborn fool

[clumsypuppy]

started stardew valley for the first time. born to remember villager likes and dislikes forced to immediately forget it the moment i take my eyes off thw wiki

[valentialbein]

Theres something wrong with me (community note: i’m PMSing) bc i had the most harmless convo about fechoes with someone the other day and i came out of it feeling so thoroughly embarrassed by my own media illiteracy that i feel i must never speak of this game again. Unfortunately im also working on a video where i do just that so i think i just have to deal with it

[little-piece-of-tamlin]

not me putting genuine hours into researching obscure genshin lore that the game doesnt want us to know yet, for the sake of some one-paragraph detail im deibating putting into this hopefully 20+k fic. what am i even doing

[amyloveletter]

i need to finish hollow knight............

[strixton]

worst part of losing my voice from allergies isn't actually not being able to talk. It's having to explain to every single germaphobe I know that I'm not contagious or sick, I'm just an idiot who didn't get more allergy meds and decided to brute force my allergies while dehydrated, and now all my coughing caught up to me

[ofbatsandballads]

Based on that little blurb you reblogged can I request the batfamily finding out that Jason has a girlfriend by him rummaging through the stuff in his pockets?

They're like dang dude what do you have in there? and it's all hair ties, lip stick, and a recipe for two 💕

-🍬

oh I love a good “Jason hides his lover from his family only for it to get revealed dramatically” fic and now thanks to you, nonnie, I get to write one!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include canon typical injuries, sibling violence, and slight hints at the batfam’s more traumatic interactions. this is mostly a good ol’ batfam fic, because reader is only alluded to, but I really like it. sorry I made it angsty for a sec there, I just can’t resist the Dynamics™️.

Jason should’ve known better. Really, he should’ve. Taking on Killer Croc alone? A fool’s mistake, but he was just too stubborn to say yes when Bruce asked if he’d like some backup. So now here he is, loopy in the Batcave after Waylon absolutely rocked his shit.

“‘S not even that bad,” he slurs.

The fact that he trips on his own feet and nearly faceplants before Bruce catches him says otherwise.

“Sure it’s not, Jaylad. Let’s get you to the medbay,” Bruce grumbles, worry creeping into that stone cold exterior.

“I’m fine, old man. Lemme jus’ go home,” Jason whines.

He’s met with a grunt that firmly negates his request.

“You can stay in your room tonight,” Bruce says.

“Not my home. Wanna go home,” Jason mumbles as he drops onto the medbay bed.

If Bruce’s face drops a bit, if guilt and sorrow flash across his eyes? Well, Jason’s too concussed to notice. Bruce just nods and begins to assess any other injuries Croc may have left on him. When he reaches for the collar of the Kevlar top, Jason flinches away from him so hard that he slams into the wall behind him. It’s only when Bruce realizes that he’d brushed his fingers against the scar on Jason’s neck that he understands why. His heart sinks and he can’t even look at his son. His shame doubles when he hears a trademark sigh of disappointment from behind him.

“C’mon, Littlewing. Let’s get all of this off you,” Dick says gently as he pushes past their father.

Jason doesn’t flinch when Dick starts to remove his gear. In fact, the presence of his older brother sets him at ease.

“I told ‘im I had it covered, Dickie. He didn’t fuckin’ listen,” Jason complains.

“Yeah, had it so covered you’re concussed in the family home?” Dick teases.

“What the fuck, Richard?” Jason groans before breaking out into giggles.

“How hard did Waylon hit him?” Dick jokingly asks Bruce.

“There’s no fractures, but the contusions are appearing rapidly. Jason’s lucky that’s all he got.”

Dick stares blankly at Bruce. He goes to open his mouth to retort that he was kidding, then decides it’s not worth his effort. Tim thinks it is, though.

“Wow, for a guy that’s chronically online for vigilante reasons, you still know nothing about the internet,” Tim laughs as he wanders into the medbay and flops down on the bed next to Jason’s.

Bruce ignores the teasing and catalogs all the injuries that are revealed to him as Dick strips away Jason’s tattered gear. There’s plenty of lacerations on his torso and likely some on his back. A few are deeper but nothing they’ll need to call Leslie for.

“Or maybe your jokes just aren’t funny, Timothy” Damian says haughtily as he sits himself next to Jason.

The thirteen-year-old tries to put on a mask of indifference, but it wavers when he spots the gash on the back of Jason’s right shoulder.

“Akhi, in what world did you think apprehending Waylon Jones alone would go well for you?” Damian scolds.

Jason narrows his seafoam eyes at Damian and lowers his voice.

“Ya really wanna talk about apprehending people alone, demon spawn?” he taunts lightly.

Damian’s eyes widen and he drops the subject because no, he actually does not want to talk about that on account of the fact that he tried to bring in Clayface alone two weeks ago and nearly got immortalized as a clay statue until Jason swooped in. The two of them had scrubbed his Robin suit within an inch of its life to try and hide the excursion from Bruce. It worked; only Alfred noticed the faint hint of clay in the threads of the cape and all he’d done was sigh and shake his head.

Jason’s gear is fully removed and his head is starting to clear a bit, wooziness replaced by a hammering pain in his temples. The headache masks any pain he would feel from the stitches being placed in his back, though he also suspects that those are less painful because Damian is doing them.

“Your technique is gettin’ better, y’know?” Jason whispers, the compliment unheard by the other three men bustling around the room.

The hands stitching him up freeze and he can imagine the look of surprise on Damian’s face even without turning around.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “I think it will be useful for future endeavors.”

Jason smiles to himself. He knows the kid wants to be a doctor, and he thinks it’s a damn better fate for him than whatever Bruce or Ra’s could’ve planned. The silence that settles over the medbay is peaceful, only broken by the sound of clacking computer keys or the zipping of evidence bags. Then, like an unholy boom of thunder, comes the voice of Tim Drake.

“What the hell is all this?”

Jason’s head whips to the side and he sees Tim rummaging through the pockets of his tactical pants. He goes to scramble off the bed and feels the harsh pull of thread that was mid-stitch through his skin.

“Mind your fuckin’ business, replacement!” Jason shouts.

He grabs a pillow and chucks it at Tim’s head, but he just ducks and continues to empty Jason’s pockets. The contents that spill out on the sterile tray are…perplexing to say the least. Two lip balms (one tinted red), three scrunchies (one black and two red), a grocery list with the word strawberries and a woman’s name underlined, a recipe for chicken stir fry with enough for two portions, and one single soft chocolate chip cookie lay unexplained in the harsh white light of the medbay.

If looks could kill, Tim Drake would be dead and buried six feet under.

“What part of mind your fuckin’ business did you not get?” Jason growls, glaring daggers at the nineteen-year-old.

“Holy shit, he’s got a fucking girlfriend!” Tim exclaims.

The pillow hits him square in the face this time. All four sets of eyes turn to him with varying emotions. Shock is evident in the forest green of Damian’s gaze, smugness and vindication in the icy blue of Tim’s, panic and guilt in the ocean blue of Dick’s, and some weird mix of sadness and fondness in the gunmetal blue of Bruce’s eyes that Jason doesn’t want to think about for too long. The acrobat quickly moves across the room and sweeps all the belongings off the tray and back into the pockets of the tac pants. He grabs Jason’s gear from Tim and hands it back to its rightful owner, who clutches it to himself protectively.

“Don’t make assumptions, Tim,” Dick says. “Civilians leave stuff on us all the time.”

It’s true. They’ve all come home with someone’s forgotten work badge or piece of jewelry before. The oddest thing was when Bruce had a Hello Kitty keychain stuck to the end of his cape. Jason casts a subtle look of gratitude at Dick for trying to give him plausible deniability. Not that it works. Tim stares not at Dick, but through him with his pale eyes in a way that makes a chill run down the spine of the eldest son.

“You knew already? How?” Tim asks incredulously.

Really, he’s a bit miffed that he hadn’t figured this out already. He has contingency plan files on each member of his family (himself included) and he had not a clue that Jason might be in a relationship.

“Drop. It. Now.” Jason warns.

Tim doesn’t consider it until he sees Jason’s fingers twitching in the direction of the butterfly knife on his belt. He doesn’t need another scar from Jason shanking him. Well, at least not today.

“Fine. Whatever. But if I have to bring Bernard here for Thanksgiving, then you have to bring,” and he pauses to remember and recite the name on the grocery list, “home too.”

He knows he’s pushed it when Jason lunges at him, dragging Damian and a threaded suturing needle behind him. Tim barely jumps out of the way in time to avoid a punch to the jaw.

“Robin! Knock it off!” Bruce barks.

It’s almost comical the way all four of his boys freeze in place. It is slightly less comical the way they all proceed to glare at him.

“Fuck it,” Jason grumbles as he settles back on the bed for Damian to continue stitching his wounds. “Just get these done so I can go home.”

“Home to his girlfriend,” Tim murmurs.

“I will fuckin’ slash your throat again, you second-rate fuck!”

Bruce lets out one long suffering sigh. He doesn’t know you yet (a quiet part of him hopes he may one day be allowed to) but he already feels sorry that you’ve been roped into all of this. He feels even more sorry when the butterfly knife flies past his head and buries itself into the wall inches from Tim’s neck. Really, what is he going to do with these boys?

[ccazimi]

You Are Also Like Me

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt. 3

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

“I want you to take my virginity.”

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

Annoying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God he can really be insufferable sometimes.

“I’ll eat when you answ—”

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

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

You stiffen slightly.

Classes. Six months.

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

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

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

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

“What?! When?”

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

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

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

Reluctantly, you nod.

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

You tell her you’ll look into it.

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

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

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

That Sukuna won't actually make you go.

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

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

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

Close touches, subtle innuendos, intense eye contact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and dry your hair. I’m serious.”

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

Two more days pass, still no progress.

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

Instead, you take the long way around it.

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

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

“Can I stay here tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten pretty brave…”

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

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

Your throat tightens, despising how smug he sounds.

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

“No? Then what is it like?”

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

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

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

“I’m not desperate.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, pulse quickening.

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

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

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

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

But you refuse to back down.

“You promised.”

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

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

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

“I know,” you whisper, throat dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, he doesn’t touch you.

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

You swallow. “No.”

“Liar.”

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

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

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

“Then stop wasting time.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s no more waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All muscle and sinew rippling under his flesh.

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

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

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

Eager to see him again, all of him.

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

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

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

“Spread yourself.”

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

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

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

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

“Like this. Hold it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it occurs to you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s right, but still…

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

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

Were you? You don’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to feel him completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It burns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurts—“

“Breathe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

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

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

“Okay w-wait not so fas— Uncle!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grips your hips, and slowly pulls out again.

It burns still, but less.

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

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

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

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

“More?”

You nod.

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

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

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

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

And then he stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hnngh, m-more Uncle—” you whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s familiar. Very familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, fuck yes—”

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

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

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

Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t care if they’re fake.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say that! You’re gross-”

“Oh please. You fucking love it.”

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

“I…I love it.”

“Love what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud to call you my niece.”

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

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

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

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

And then stillness. Too much of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl. “So romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s an odd, slightly disconcerting sensation.

“Can you at least try?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me go.”

“No.”

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

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

“Once again, that was one time.”

“That was this week.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delusional and smug. Impressive combo.”

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

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

“Maybe I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?” he asks, like nothing happened. 

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

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

“There was no logic. That was violence.”

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

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

“Head down."

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

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble.

“Mm. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

Uncertainty, maybe? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “So… I can?”

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” you mumble, brows furrowed.

He doesn’t answer—just shoves the toothbrush gently between your lips and starts brushing your teeth for you, slow and deliberate.

“Are you serious right now?” you try to say around the bristles.

“Mm-hm,” he hums, condescendingly calm. “Since you probably can’t do anything without me, apparently. Mouth open.”

You try to pull back, but his hand is firm against your jaw. “Uncle.”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Open your mouth wider.”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed up, while he carefully brushes in exaggerated little circles, way too pleased with himself.

“This is so demeaning,” you mutter.

He grins. “Is it? I think it’s adorable. You’re like a spoiled little cat. All hiss, no bite.”

When he finally pulls the toothbrush away, you shove him lightly in the chest, scowling. “I hope you don’t do this with your girlfriends.”

He smirks, not missing a beat. “Well, you’re not my girlfriend, you’re my—”

"Do not," you quickly cut him off, shooting him a venomous glare.

You expect the usual smirk—that smug, needling grin he wears whenever he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a flicker of something else—a beat of silence that lingers just a second too long. Then he looks away, the moment slipping like steam through fingers. “Go put on your pajamas,” he says quietly. “I need to change too.”

Your chest sinks. “What? Why?”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns away. “Because we’re not animals.”

That gets under your skin. Deeper maybe, somewhere more sensitive. “Yeah, except we just fucked like animals, so—”

“It’s not about that,” he cuts in, too quickly, too quietly. “It’s just… better this way.”

You watch him, frustration rising like heat under your skin. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”

He pauses, back still turned. “Do what?”

“Draw lines.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant it to—brittle, breaking around something you didn’t expect to feel. “You promised. Said you'd give me all of you. Until I had to leave.”

He’s quiet. His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds heavier than it should. You’ve hit something, and you both know it.

You press. “What—did you think I wouldn’t actually take it?” you sneer. “And you were the one accusing me of pretending to want it.”

That makes him turn, just slightly. His eyes meet yours, and for a flicker of a second, there's something raw in them. Frustration. Guilt. Or worse—fear.

But he doesn’t argue, just exhales through his nose, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he says. “Get in bed. But don’t complain if you wake up with my elbow in your face.”

You roll your eyes, but move, letting the towel fall from your body. You’re bare, except for your panties—the liner catching the faintest trace of blood and what’s left of him. You don’t look away as you straighten the blanket and peel it back, sliding under the sheet. It’s cool against your skin, kissing your chest where you’re usually too shy to sleep uncovered.

But not tonight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing—unsure, maybe even uncertain where the lines are anymore. You don’t say anything. Just wait, still and quiet, as he kills the light and lies down beside you. The space between you feels fragile, thick with everything neither of you is saying.

At first, neither of you moves.

You lie on your side, facing the wall. He’s behind you. Not touching, not close.

You shift slightly under the covers. “Are you really gonna sleep all the way over there?”

You meant it to sound teasing—but it comes out... needy, almost.

A heartbeat passes and then the bed shifts as his warmth touches your skin, his body fitting behind yours. Not quite touching yet, but it’s much closer than before. Tentatively, you push back, your back brushing his chest, careful not to let your ass brush up against his groin. He doesn’t pull away, just lets out a long breath, like he’s been holding it this whole time.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything,” you whisper.

But you know that’s not the real question. The real question is what this is, now, why he’s gone distant, why the warmth of his body doesn’t quite reach the space where you needed it to.

Guys pull away after sex — you’ve heard that. But he isn’t just some guy, and this wasn’t supposed to be just sex. There’s something more to his silence than that, you’re sure.

Or at least you hope.

That maybe the twisted, complex nature of your relationship would count for something here, where it matters more than ever, perhaps.

He doesn’t reply but soon his arm is slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the expanse of his broad chest, fingers resting right beneath the curve of your breast. They caress the underside so softly it almost tickles.

And then, softly—so quietly you almost don’t catch it—he murmurs against the back of your neck, 

“I don’t want to miss you.”

The closest he’s ever come to a confession.

You wake up to the smell of grilled fish and miso.

Sukuna’s here this morning. You’d half expected him to fuck off to wherever he goes for work, just to avoid seeing you after last night.

And not necessarily the sex part—but the part after, where you slept tangled together, limbs knotted, his body curled around yours. You swear that at some point during the night, between dreams, you felt one of his large palms gently cupping your breast. Not sexually. More like the way a kid hugs a stuffed toy in their sleep. Something unconscious.

Possessive yet soft.

But now, there’s nothing in his place except rumpled sheets and an empty stretch of mattress. You get dressed in your pants from last night, then pull one of his oversized shirts over your head to cover your chest. You’re not in the mood to cross paths with him in the kitchen half-naked, just to grab clean clothes from your own room. Finally, you make your way to the dining table and slump into a chair.

Sukuna’s standing at the stove, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast like it’s any other morning.

“You need to talk to your counselor today. About the dorms.”

You blink. “What?”

“For school,” he says, like you’ve asked something stupid. “Next semester starts in a few weeks. You still haven’t put in your housing request.”

You frown, slowly sitting up straighter. “Okay, well—good morning to you too.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. “Morning. Now eat.”

You study him carefully. There’s no trace of last night in his expression. No warmth, no softness, just that familiar sharp-edged irritation, like you’ve already done something wrong. “You’re being kind of a dick this morning.”

“I’m being realistic,” he replies flatly. “You want to finish your program, don’t you?”

It’s true—you do want that degree. But something about the way he says it now digs under your skin. “Yeah, but—why are you suddenly on my ass about it? You’re acting like I’ve been slacking or something.”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead sets a bowl of rice in front of you with a little too much force. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you challenge, looking up at him. “Why are you suddenly breathing down my neck about this stuff?”

Sukuna dries his hands with a towel, leans against the counter, and stares at you. His face is unreadable—annoyed, yes, but there’s something else under it. Distant and resigned.

“You said you wanted to go back,” he says simply. “I’m making sure you do.”

“Yeah, but why now?” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “We literally just—” You stop, cheeks burning. “You know.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That doesn’t change anything.”

You push the bowl away. “Right. Of course it doesn’t.”

The silence that follows is thick and bitter. “I’m not hungry,” you mutter, standing up.

“You need to eat.”

“Oh my god, can you stop acting like my dad for five seconds?”

He freezes. The words land in the room like something dropped and shattered. You hadn’t meant to say it but there it is, ugly and raw. He stares at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “I’m not your fucking dad.”

You cross your arms, scowling—but your insides are trembling. Embarrassed. And you don’t even know why. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he says, voice going cold. His expression twists, sharp and mean. That look he wears when you push him too far—when he lets something rotting and cruel crawl to the surface just to watch it burn you. “As if your dad’s ever seen you naked. Wrapped around his—”

“Okay, stop!”

He doesn’t stop. Instead, his voice goes low, flat and weaponized. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it when someone tells you what to do. You melt for it. Like a fucking pet. Tail wagging the second someone shows you attention.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between each word. “You want someone to feed you. Dress you. Tell you what’s good for you. Praise you when you behave. Punish you when you don’t. Isn’t that right?”

His smile is wrong. There’s no humor in it. “You don’t want a dad. You want an owner.”

Your stomach drops.

“And you’d rather it be me than anyone else. That’s the sick part, isn’t it?”

You clench your jaw, knuckled white around the chopsticks you grip so hard you’re surprised they don’t snap. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” you hiss, eyes burning.

His voice is equally low, gaze equally cutting. “Then sign up for your goddamn housing and make sure you’re out from under my roof in six months.”

Sukuna had almost forgotten what you were like before all this. Before you let him in.

But over the next few days, he remembers. He remembers how cold you can be. How distant. How easily you can withdraw behind those walls of yours, quiet and unreachable.

Polite, even — that’s the worst part. Not cruel, not defiant. Just... cordial. Impeccably so. With that measured tone and perfectly impassive face, like he’s a stranger you owe civility to and nothing more.

You don’t sleep in his bed anymore. Most nights, you’re behind the door of your own room. You wake up early, make breakfast before he’s even down the hall. You greet him with a sterile “Good morning,” eat when you’re supposed to, excuse yourself without fanfare.

And through it all, not once do you snap at him. Not once do you cry.

It’s this version of you — competent, composed, independent — that reminds him, with aching clarity, that you don’t need him.

You do the things he used to remind you about before he even opens his mouth. You fold your laundry without being asked. Clean your space, your dishes, your bathroom. You eat, on time, like clockwork. When you struggle with a jar, you don’t ask him. You run it under hot water, twist a rubber band around the lid, and open it yourself.

At first, it annoys him. Then, it sinks in.

You’ve always been capable. Always sharp, always resourceful. You could take care of yourself. You did, before him — before he inserted himself into your life. But now he sees the truth, that all those moments when you leaned on him weren’t signs of helplessness. They were choices.

You let yourself rest, let yourself be cared for, for once. Gave up the exhausting self-sufficiency because, for the first time, someone was there — and you wanted that someone to be him.

No it was never incapability; it was surrender.

And now you’re showing him that you can go back to holding it all again, alone, if you have to. And that, somehow, is worse than any screaming match, any slammed door. You even inform him one evening yourself — perfectly neutral — that you’ve talked to the counselor. That you’ve applied for housing, and the results should get back in a few weeks.

In many ways, you are certainly much more tolerable than before. And at the same time, in the most ironic twist of fate, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand those guarded, polite smiles you give him. The way you clean your own dishes without being asked. How you only come to him, or speak to him, when it’s necessary. How you seem unfazed by his longer hours, how you barely seem to even care or notice.

Sukuna only realizes then how much you’d opened up to him, how much of you you’d let him see. That the clinginess, the neediness he used to tease you for—those weren’t flaws. They were the soft depths you’d chosen to reveal beneath that armor he now remembers all too well. The quiet trust behind it, the way you’d let him in. And he’d taken your vulnerability and used it against you.

Vulnerability—somehow your greatest strength. Because he doesn’t know how to show it himself. Doesn’t know how to be soft without destroying something in the process.

He knows—as your guardian—that whatever this is between you has to stop. That it’s fundamentally wrong, that you deserve a future untouched by this, by him. That you should go to school, finish your degree, meet someone your age, live clean and normal and free.

But as a man who wants a woman—wants you—he doesn’t want any of that. He wants to keep you close. Keep you his. Make sure no one else ever sees you the way he has, touches you the way he has, ruins you in the way he already has.

And gods, it would almost be easier if you didn’t look at him like that—like he’s worth everything. Like he’s still someone you want, even now. And that’s what makes it dangerous. Which is why he had to draw the line and set the goddamn deadline. Force you to take control of your own life, even if it hurts you. Even if it kills something inside him.

And the worst part is—it’s working, isn’t it? You’re moving on. Maybe not willingly, nor gracefully, but you’re moving on.

And he’s stuck somewhere between what he owes you as your uncle… and what he wants as a man.

He doesn’t say much these days to you.

But he starts showing up in small, quiet ways.

A freshly folded towel left outside your bathroom door. A full cup of barley tea placed by your laptop while you study. Groceries restocked with your favorite brand of yogurt.

Little things. Nothing dramatic, nothing direct.

You ignore them all. Not because you don’t notice — you do. Every single one. But acknowledging them would mean softening, and softening would mean giving in. And that strange, ugly ache still swells inside your chest every time you see him. So instead you harden.

When he knocks gently at your door one night, a quiet “You eaten yet?” slipping through the wood, you pretend you have your headphones on. He waits a few moments, doesn’t push. Eventually, you hear his footsteps retreat. You stare up at your ceiling and feel the guilt press against your ribs, dull and stubborn. But you don’t open the door. Not yet.

Because some part of you still wants him to feel it. That you were hurt and that you’re not just going to pretend like it didn’t crack something open. And until then, you keep that distance. Even as it eats at you too.

A few days later, Sukuna finds you on the balcony.

You’re small in the dark. Knees pulled to your chest, sleeves tugged down over your hands. It’s cold, but you don’t shiver.

He leans in the doorway for a long moment before stepping out. Doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a quiet flick, exhales a slow curling stream of smoke into the night.

You don’t look at him, but there’s that familiar ache in your chest. A tightness.

“You’re freezing out here,” he says eventually, like it’s casual.

Nothing.

He tries again. “Didn’t touch your dinner.”

Still no response, not even a shrug.

A longer pause this time. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair.

“You remember that stray cat? The one you used to leave food for down the block?” His voice is low, rougher. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”

You don’t respond but your fingers twitch. Sukuna stares at the side of your face. The line of your jaw, clenched tight, the blankness in your expression.

But inside, you’re fracturing. You don’t know what it is — this urge to hurt him, to dig in the knife and twist, even if it hurts you too.  Some side of you that’s simultaneously sadistic and masochistic, that wants to sabotage everything good, that enjoys the mutual pain.

You suppose that like your uncle, you have a cruel streak somewhere within you as well.

It's been a full week now.

Sukuna lingers in the doorway of your room, like he’s debating whether to say something or leave. Hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes low. He doesn’t look like himself, not in the way you’re used to — no sharp smirk, no biting comment ready to tear into you.

Just that annoying silence again. Heavy and hesitant.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eventually.

You don’t look up from your notebook. “Fine.”

“...You eat anything?”

“No.”

A pause. You let it stretch out, wanting him to leave. Or maybe, secretly, you want him to stay and try harder.

“I made soup,” he says. “You could’ve just—”

“I didn’t want it.”

He tenses — not a lot, but enough that you notice. It makes you feel that rush of power, laced with bitterness. With hurt. And somehow you can’t stop yourself.

So instead you flip a page, scribble down a word you don’t care about.

He exhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t do it to punish you. I thought... if I didn’t give you a push, you’d never try. You’d stay here. Get stuck. With me.”

Now you glance over your shoulder, barely. “So you thought hurting me was a favor?” Your voice is flat, almost bored. It stings.

He clenches his jaw. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You finally lower the pen, clipping it to the side of the notebook to close it and keep it down. Then, you turn — calm, composed, lips pressed tight.

“No,” you say coolly, “I think you meant every word. That I’m a burden. That I should get out of your hair.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in. “It’s fine. You want me to move on, right?” You smile a bit. “I have a date tonight, by the way. Don’t wait up.”

It lands exactly where you intended it to. Sukuna goes still. A slow, bitter kind of stillness, the kind that simmers behind his eyes. You walk past him without another word.

And behind you, he doesn’t follow.

Your date is forgettable.

Some guy from a dating app you downloaded on impulse a few nights ago, during a moment of defiance or loneliness — you can’t tell which. He talks about cryptocurrency the entire time. You nod along, barely listening, more focused on finishing your ramen than the words coming out of his mouth.

When the check comes, he glances at it, then at you. "Want to split?"

You don’t even bother sighing, just slide your card forward and nod.

On the way home, the silence in the train feels more like relief than emptiness. You realize it then — the whole outing was a quiet attempt to prove something. To yourself, or to Sukuna, you’re not sure. All it proves is that he’s still the one you think about, even when you're sitting across from someone else. He would never ask you to split the bill. And for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely, that thought makes your chest ache more than it should.

You unlock the front door quietly, out of habit. The home is dark except for the low flicker of a lamp. You toe off your shoes, slip inside, and pause there for a moment — unsure why.

He’s not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. You glance toward his closed bedroom door

You expected to feel…something. Triumph, maybe. Validation. Or at the very least, distraction. Instead, there’s only that dull, familiar ache settling back in your chest as you wash your face, brush your teeth, change into pajamas..

You should get to bed, sleep it off. Pretend the date meant something, that it helped.

But you don’t.

Instead, like some quiet pull you can’t resist, you drift toward his door, knock once — barely audible — and let yourself in without waiting for an answer.

He’s in bed, half-asleep or pretending to be. The soft glow of the lamp beside him casts shadows over his face. He doesn’t say anything when you approach, just watches you through lidded eyes.

You hesitate at the side of the bed. Then, without a word, you crawl in beside him — careful, uncertain.

His body is warm, solid. You don’t touch him at first. Just lie there, facing away, the space between you sharp with tension. Then, slowly, you feel the mattress shift. A hand brushes your back, barely there.

You don't speak; you don't need to. Eventually, your hand finds his, and holds.

Not an apology. Certainly not a resolution. But something.

You wake up before him.

It’s still dark out, just the faintest grey bleeding into the corners of the sky through the window. His room smells like sleep and the faint woody aroma of whatever soap he uses. You’re curled toward him, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting lightly near his chest.

Not touching. Just…close.

For a while you just lie there, heart aching and quiet. You hadn’t meant to come to him last night but now, in this slow, blurry moment, you realize it was the only place you could’ve ended up.

He shifts a little in his sleep and a quiet sound escapes him, the kind that makes your throat tighten for no good reason.

Finally he speaks, voice low and groggy. “...You came home late.”

You don’t answer. Just breathe slowly, carefully.

His arm shifts, hand brushing your back again tentatively.  “Was he any good?”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh. Not amused, just tired. “No,” you whisper. “He was boring as hell.”

A long pause. You don’t look at him, and he doesn’t press. “Good.”

Another beat. You almost laugh again, but it catches somewhere painful in your chest. So instead, you let your eyes fall closed again and say nothing. His fingers linger on your back, warm and uncertain.

Still no resolution. Still no answers. But somehow, the silence between you feels less like distance — and more like a thread slowly weaving itself back together. You fall asleep like that, side by side. 

A couple days pass.

Things don’t go back to normal, not completely, but the ice isn’t as sharp as it was before. You’re both still circling each other, careful, cautious. But the air between you is a little less brittle now.

It’s late morning. You’re in the kitchen, halfheartedly eating some toast, still in your sleep shirt. He walks in, dressed and ready to head out, keys in one hand, phone in the other. He says nothing at first, just grabs a bottle of water and downs half of it.

You keep your eyes on your plate, but then, casually — maybe too casually — you ask,

“You working today?”

His brow lifts, ever so slightly though he doesn't turn to face you right away.

“Mmh,” he hums, wiping his mouth. “I am.”

You nod once, like that was all you wanted to know. But the smallest flicker of something akin to disappointment flashes across your face, and he catches it. He leans against the counter, watching you for a beat too long. “…You gonna miss me or something?”

You roll your eyes without looking up, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins faintly — just a hint of smugness there, but it’s gentler than usual. Almost soft. “Mm. That’s not a no.”

You snort under your breath and finally glance up at him, just for a second. He’s already turning toward the door, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now like maybe your question meant more to him than it should’ve.

And maybe your asking it meant something to you, too.

You don’t say anything else as he leaves. But when the door closes, you sit there with your half-eaten toast and feel the quiet press of his absence in the apartment. And this time, it doesn’t feel like punishment.

It just feels like… missing.

You don’t plan to wait up. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You clean up the kitchen after dinner. Do a face mask, scroll on your phone. You even get in bed at a decent hour, lights off, pretending you're tired enough to sleep. But you don't; instead you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrapped in too many thoughts and too much quiet.

You hear the front door open sometime after three in the morning. The soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off and keys landing in the bowl. 

You could stay in bed. You should. But before you can put thought into it, you're getting up and padding out into the hallway quietly, not sure what you're doing, until you catch sight of him in the living room — jacket off, sleeves rolled up, rubbing his neck like it’s been a long day.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You hover a moment, then casually speak up, your voice quieter than you intend. “Late.”

He glances up, just a little startled. But his gaze softens when he sees you — rumpled from bed, arms loosely crossed like you’re pretending this is some kind of ambush and not the result of waiting for him for over three hours.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you. There's a quiet tension that might’ve been awkward once, but now just feels…careful — like both of you are trying to speak without saying the wrong thing.

Then, after a moment, he gestures with his head toward the couch. “Wanna sit with me for a bit? We can watch TV or something.”

You hesitate but only for a second. “…Yeah,” you murmur. “Alright.”

You curl into the corner of the couch, and he sits down beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulder brushes his when you shift. You just sit there silently, some late night talk show on the screen that neither of you are really watching, the clock ticking on the wall.

Neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing. That this… is better. You missed this.

The room is dim, the air thick with the remnants of the night. You can feel the weight of his presence even without looking at him. It’s strange, how the space between you doesn’t feel empty tonight.

You sit, stiff at first, then relax, just enough for the warmth in the room to seep into you. You can hear him breathing — slow, steady, and soon the quiet becomes comfortable. He’s the first to break it, his hand still lingering in the air, hovering above you, before he drops it to his lap.

“Go to bed if you’re tired.” His voice is low, almost absent, but there’s something in it — a softness you don’t expect from him.

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you just feel the weight of your own exhaustion settle in. The events of the night, the day before, everything else—all of it starts to catch up. You never realized how much you needed this quiet.

“Not sleepy,” you mumble.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Then just let me.”

Your eyelids flutter, and the weight of sleep tugs at you, slow and irresistible. You try to fight it, but your body betrays you and involuntarily you lean back, just a little, and your head slips sideways.

His presence is warm, familiar, an anchor that you can’t seem to pull away from. Before you realize it, you’re not just leaning against the couch anymore. Your cheek is against his shoulder, your body curling slightly in towards him.

You don’t move. His hand is still resting near you, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin if you shift an inch. You want to move away, to keep that distance, but you’re too tired. Too drained. And, despite everything — despite the fighting and the sharp edges between you — you feel safer here.

You don’t notice when you finally drift off, your breathing evening out in rhythm with his. Sukuna watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the top of your head. He doesn’t move, even as you shift slightly in your sleep, closer to him.

His hand hovers for a beat before he rests it on your head, just a light touch, like he’s afraid of waking you. Or maybe afraid of needing you. He doesn’t let himself think about it too long. He shifts slightly, adjusting his own position to make you more comfortable, but he doesn’t push you away or force you to go back to your room. For the first time in a while, he simply allows himself to be in the moment with you, even if nothing is fixed.

Slowly, your odd relationship begins to rebuild itself. Almost like nothing’s changed. Which feels good, but you know is probably ultimately bad.

There isn’t much left for you to do regarding your college application now other than wait, which works in both your and Sukuna’s favors since he doesn’t have to ask you about it. And for a little while, you can both pretend like it doesn’t exist, like there isn’t a definitive end to all this.

You once again start bugging each other in that way, where it becomes a game to push each other’s buttons. The subtle jabs, the teasing remarks — it feels familiar, like slipping back into an old pair of shoes. Comfortable, easy.

One morning, you deliberately make a mess with the breakfast dishes, leaving them in the sink just to see if he’ll say something. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Spoiled,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the unwashed plates before he grabs his coat to head out for the day. You’re about to say something snarky back, but he catches you off guard when he pauses by the door. “I’m leaving. Don’t forget to eat. Don’t make me come back here to check on you.” His voice is sharp, but there’s something behind it that catches you off guard.

You don’t even reply, just raise an eyebrow as he walks out.

The day stretches on, and as usual, you find yourself stuck between the feeling of wanting to be left alone and the pull of his presence — a silent, strange comfort.

A few days later, you’ve had enough of your own thoughts spinning in circles. You’re lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone when Sukuna walks in, the air shifting the moment he steps through the door.

“Made yourself comfortable?” he remarks dryly, nodding to the mess of books and papers scattered around the coffee table. You shrug, not bothering to answer, but he continues, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’re avoiding me again. Good to know I’m still that important.”

You roll your eyes but a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Oh? And how am I avoiding you?”

“You’re still keeping your distance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you today. Less guarded. Almost vulnerable, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t respond immediately, the tension in the air thick. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then, the game kicks in. You look up from your phone, tilting your head with a feigned innocence. “And what about you? Still not asking about my college stuff? You’d think you’d care by now.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he smirks in that infuriatingly smug way. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to care? But I’m leaving it up to you. All of it.” His voice softens just a bit, and for a second, the tension fades. “Just don’t waste the chance.”

It stings. Not because of the words, but because you know they’re true. And deep down, you’re not sure if you’re ready to make that choice.

Sukuna won’t admit it, but he’s secretly thrilled at the way you’ve started to cling to him again.

It begins with you sometimes crawling into his bed at night, asking if you can sleep with him. He agrees, and soon the asking eventually just turns into you announcing that he’ll be sharing the bed with you.

And then the casual, domestic bickering returns full time to your daily life. One morning you’re sitting at the breakfast table, innocently eating leftovers from last night as he opens the fridge to grab some milk from his coffee.

The carton is suspiciously light, but he tries his luck anyway, unscrewing the lid to pour some into his glass.

A single drop falls out.

He catches you trying not to look at him, clearly hoping to escape the reprimanding that’s about to come your way.

“Seriously? Can you just throw away the damn containers when they’re finished?”

You sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it next time.”

“You say that every time.”

“Okay what do you want me to do? Go back in time and throw the carton away? I just forgot.”

He narrows his eyes. Maybe he’d buy into it a bit more if he didn’t see how well you could really do things, when you weren’t talking to him. Weaponized incompetency - that’s what this is.

If you’re not acting like some poor woman’s kind of shitty boyfriend, you’re acting like a spoiled pet.

You stand in the doorway to his office, arms crossed over your chest. Sukuna is bent over his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up at first, but you can feel his awareness of your presence, as always.

“I’m bored,” you announce, breaking the silence.

Sukuna barely glances up. “Do I look like your entertainment?”

“Not really,” you mutter, stepping closer. “But I’m here, so I thought you might want some company.”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches until you can’t stand it any longer. You move behind his chair and sit down on his lap without asking. He freezes for a moment, but doesn’t push you off. His hands remain on the paperwork, not acknowledging the shift in your position.

You lean in slightly, eyes flicking to the paper in front of him. “What’s this? Planning to buy something else you don’t need?”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice rough but not unkind. “I’m working.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight a little to grind—barely—against his thigh. “It must be hard to focus when you’re this uptight,” you say, deliberately lazy in your tone.

He glances at you sideways. “I’m not the one climbing into someone’s lap uninvited.”

“Don’t need an invitation. It’s my birthright as your only niece,” you reply with a half-smile.

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t bother responding. Pen scratching against the page like he’s willing himself to ignore you.

You want his attention, maybe something more — to get a peek into his head. But you know him; he never gives anything away when asked outright. That’s fine, you’ll go for the side door instead.

After watching him for a moment you lean in a little, voice laced with provocation. “Let me guess—you think this is annoying. That I’m clingy and that you’d rather be alone.”

He pauses just for a second, but you catch it. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Push a bit further.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or maybe you’re just trying not to care too much. Wouldn’t want to make things messy, right?”

That’s when his pen stops moving. His jaw tightens, just enough to make you smirk.

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my head,” he mutters, low and sharp.

There we go.

“Well, maybe you should share then,” you respond casually.

He leans back in his chair slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, and you feel your breathing quicken. Your pulse stutters—God, you’ve missed this. Missed him like this. Sukuna grins slowly, in that way that tells you he’s up to no good as his hand finds its way to the curve of your hip.

“You really wanna know what’s going on in my head?” He shifts beneath you, just enough for you to feel it—hard and rising under your weight.

“Guess I do,” you breathe, feigning calm.

“I’m thinking,” he says lowly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “That the shipping clause in the new procurement contract’s gonna screw us if customs get nosy in Kobe again.“

You blink before your face settles into a scowl of irritation. “God you’re fucking insufferable,” you mutter, looking away.

“What, did you want me to say I was thinking about you?”

You give him a dry, biting, pointed look that makes him smirk even wider.

“Well I was thinking about you too….”

You freeze for half a second.

“…And how you still haven’t bought the milk you finished without telling me. Or taken out the goddamn trash.”

You turn away, trying not to let the dejection get to you. Sure maybe you’re horny but it was more than that too — you wanted him to want you like that again. To feel that he still desires you in the way you know he shouldn’t.

So you begin to get up with a sigh, when he pushes you back down abruptly before casually adding, “Oh and how I want your pretty little lips wrapped around my cock right now-” He grabs your hips, grinding your throbbing cunt right onto where his bulge is straining against his pants, “So I can fuck your throat till you choke on it.”

Your eyes widen, breath hitching a little in surprise. Exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, considering how it makes him smirk.

“Is that the kind of thing you wanted to hear? Huh?” he teases.

Yes, it is, but you’re feeling a bit more bratty after the way he just messed with you.

So you purse your lips, trying once again to climb off him. “Nope. Not anymore at least. I think I’m gonna go take out the trash actually since you were so concerned about that—“

His gaze darkens and before you can even catch the movement he’s gripping your wrist. “Knees. Now.”

You shoot him a glare. “And give me one good reason I should do that after that shit you just pulled?”

Of course the thought of getting to feel his cock in your mouth for the first time is more than arousing, but your penchant for demand avoidance proves to be just as stubborn.

“Because you waltzed in here practically begging for my attention—and now you’ve got it,” he says smoothly, thumb brushing along your lower lip, hand cupping your jaw. “Interrupting me while I’m working…”

His eyes drag over your face. “Might as well make yourself useful. Help me burn off some of this stress...”

You don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. He watches you, waiting. When you still don’t move, his hand trails lower—fingers wrapping around your throat with deliberate pressure.

“Get on your knees.” His voice drops, grip tightening just slightly. “I won’t ask again.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on his. Then you move. He releases you as you shift, lifting yourself off his lap and lowering to the floor between his legs, gaze never breaking from his. Sukuna’s eyes follow you, widening his thighs a bit more so that you have better access to the bulge now at your face level.

And before he even has to ask, you’re reaching forward, unzipping his fly to expose the swell in his boxers. He exhales softly when you finally pull down the waistband, freeing his erect cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip.

You swallow again, this time louder, the sound exaggerated in the quiet between you. He hears it, clearly, and lets out a low, amused snort.

“Nothing to say now?”

You give him another half-assed scowl, before returning your attention to his dick. His skin is tan against the dark pink of his hair, a contrast that draws your eyes before anything else. And when your hand finally wraps around him, the weight of him is undeniable—solid, warm, real.

His cock is just as imposing as the rest of him. No wonder he acts like that.

“What do you want me to do?” you murmur, giving him an experimental pump of your fist, before bending forward to lick the pearlescent bead of pre gathered at his slit.

A little salty, maybe even sweet, ever so slightly.

Sukuna breathes a bit sharply at the touch, though his voice stays composed, condescending and arrogant as ever. “Suck it? Give me a blowjob? Want me to say it in another languag— ah, fuck,” he hisses when you deliberately stiffen the tip of your tongue, firmly prodding into his slit.

Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to probably feel uncomfortable. You lift away, stroking his length gently with a small satisfied smile.

“Was that good?” you ask innocently, knowing few things annoy him as much as your weaponized incompetency.

“Just open your mouth and let me fuck it since you can’t do it right yourself.”

You place one hand on his thigh, the other bringing his tip back to your lips to give it another kitten lick. “In a moment.��

You tease your tongue around his frenulum, sliding your tongue up and down with soft, almost curious licks. He lets you explore dick as you borderline inspect it, lifting his shaft to peer at the heavy balls sitting below before running your tongue along the seam with almost reverent carefulness. Sukuna’s breath deepens, as you feel his hand coming up to knot in your hair.

“What’s this all about? Never sucked a dick before or something?” he murmurs, though he stays patient, letting you go at your own pace.

“I have. Just not yours,” you mumble, as you bring your lips back up, rubbing it against his sensitive glans just to see what it feels like.

Soft, so soft, almost satin-like.

You’ve sucked dick before, yes, but never felt the need to get so familiar with another man’s intimate areas, to take your time like you’re trying to permanently imprint the memory of it in your brain. You find yourself wanting to memorize every vein you trace with your tongue, the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him in your mouth.

Perhaps you understand now why he was so adamant on wanting to see every inch of your own pussy. Not to mention no other man’s ever leaked as much precum as he is right now, oozing from his slit as you coat your lips with it in a slick sheen. Sukuna’s muscles are visibly tensed beneath you, you can tell he’s reaching his limit from the steady tightening of the hand gripping your roots. Good.

But you want to push him further, just a bit. So you look up at him as you collect spit in your mouth, before parting your lips to drip it obscenely over his tip. And then, you blow on the wettened skin, ever so gently.

A notch forms between his brows, jaw clenching as it does when he gets irritated. Suddenly your head is yanked back, scalp stinging from the harsh tug.

“Enough,” he growls. “Stick your tongue out like a good slut.”

You do as you’re told, and soon he’s taking his cock and rubbing it against the flat of your tongue as you gaze up at him.

“That’s it.” He slides cock off your tongue, and onto your face, slapping it against your cheek with a wet noise, your saliva sticking to you skin. “Now open up.”

You widen your jaw and take a deep inhale through your nose right before he slides his girth in, inch by inch, feeding it into your throat. Immediately your gag reflex kicks in as he goes deeper than you’d expected, sooner than you’d expected.

Sukuna only snickers meanly when he hears you choke a bit, your throat convulsing around his cock. “Too much?”

You narrow your watering eyes in defiance, inhaling again through your nose before remembering a trick you’d heard somewhere about squeezing one of your thumbs so you don’t gag.

So you ball your left fist around your thumb as hard as you can, and strangely enough, it works. With that you hollow your cheeks and push your head down until your nose reaches the coarse hairs on his pelvis, taking in how tight your throat feels around his cock sheathed fully inside.

He smiles as you still a bit, the grip in your hair loosening so that he can stroke it instead, as he murmurs pleasantly surprised, “Oh, good girl. You learn fast, huh?”

Before he can do it himself, you begin moving your head back before sliding back down again, feeling the velvety skin of his shaft brush along your tongue as you bob your head up and down. Slick, squelching noises fill the study, your throat making wet clicks as it moves around him. You can feel your saliva starting to drool out, dripping down his shaft, some smearing on your lips and chin.

It feels sloppy, even more when you hear him groan in pleasure as he grips your hair again, the noise sending an unbearable warmth down to your core while you try to focus on keeping your teeth out of the way and breathing through your nose.

“Mmh, just like that baby, your throat feels so fucking good,” he rasps.

His praise goes right to your head, feeling much better than it had any right to. It’s enough to make you push away the aching pain flaring in your jaw from holding it open, just to hear more of it, to show him how well you can please him. You unclench the fist you were squeezing to fondle his balls, caressing and massaging them delicately while you work your throat around him, rubbing your tongue along his length and letting more of your spit drip out and onto his cock as you swallow around it.

You know Sukuna. You know beyond a certain point of pleasure, his lust will morph into something worse, something vicious that likes to ruin.

And you know it's what compels him to abruptly grip your hair so tightly it stings, and thrust his hips so hard into your mouth with a guttural noise that you make a muffled squeak of surprise, losing your rhythm and feeling you gag reflex claw up your chest, trying to push him back out of your throat. He grins wickedly, cock only twitching in excitement when he feels you struggling to take him, only encouraging him to go harder, fuck your skull till tears are streaming down your face and spit froths at your lips and dribbles down. Strands of your hair stick to the mess, but he’s too busy bruising the back of your throat to care enough to peel them away.

“Hah, I think this is your birthright as my niece,” he sneers between pants, as you try and regain some semblance of control, fingers trying find some purchase on his thighs to steady you a bit. “Finally putting that fucking mouth of yours to proper use.”

You’d be annoyed normally, but in the hazy mess your mind is in right now, with nothing existing but the wet heat of your throat engulfing his cock, the musky scent of him and the stiff pain in your jaw, you’ve been reduced to a primal need to devote yourself to his pleasure. So you relax, and let him use your throat, gazing up at him through teary eyes, drinking the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, brows pulled together, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.

Surrender.

Maybe he can sense the moment you finally do so because then his face is crumpling and you feel his hips stutter as he pulls back so his tip rests heavily on your tongue.

“Oh, fuck-“

Spurts of seed spread across your tongue as he fills your mouth, warm and viscous, as he fills your mouth. He finishes finally, pulling out his wet dick from your mouth with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t swallow; instead you keep his semen in your mouth for a bit, tasting it, feeling it, as he tucks himself back in. The texture is somewhere between saliva and diluted syrup, and under the saline taste there’s a strange sweetness — warm, earthy, almost like the smell of skin after sex. You chase it with your tongue, savoring the taste not because it’s objectively good, but because it’s his.

And then, an idea comes to mind.

Before Sukuna can react, you’re getting to your feet and climbing onto him. You tilt his jaw towards yours, muffling his surprised grunt as you abruptly kiss him, pushing your way through his lips, guiding the slick taste into his mouth with the tip of your tongue

You more than half expect him to push you away, but he catches you off guard when he kisses you back instead, deepening it and groaning softly as sucks the cum off your tongue, some of the white fluid leaking down the corners of your lips. When you no more is left, you pull away, breaking a thin strand of fluid connecting your wet lips.

You sit there for a moment, flustered and out of breath, before wiping your lips and face with your sleeve, scowling when he smirks at you completely unfazed.

“Was that supposed to be revenge? Because it kinda turned me on instead.”

“Sorry, I forgot you’re a fucking freak,” you comment dryly.

“Guess you got it from me.”

You glare at him again, pushing against his chest. “I’ve had enough of you.”

But Sukuna’s hand is trailing up your waist, coaxing you to stay there.

“Aw, and here I was thinking about rewarding you for your good work,” he purrs.

“Rewarding me?” you repeat, suspicious but a bit intrigued.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Get on the desk.”

Your brow furrows as you peek at the desk behind you, still covered in documents. “What?”

“You can move the papers to the side.”

You don’t move yet. “For what?”

Sukuna sighs. “Just do it. And take off your pants.”

And for some reason you comply, getting off him to hastily swipe the papers to the side before shrugging your pants down your legs and sitting on the desk in front of him.

He clicks his tongue. “No, I want you to turn around. I’m gonna eat you out.”

Oh.

You’re certainly not going to fight against that. Sure he’s never eaten you out from the back before and the position makes you a bit nervous, but then you remember you only get him like this for a few more months and soon you’re climbing up all the way onto the desk.

You feel a bit more vulnerable like this with your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your ass presented to where you can’t see him.

“Perfect. Just stay still now.”

You hear him moving and a warm palm squeezes one of your cheeks, kneading the pliant flesh before his second hand joins on the other side.

“Okay…” you mumble, “Just don’t try anything …weird.”

He doesn’t respond, but you think you catch a light laugh under his breath. Not a good sign, but you’re too far in now.

And then your panties are being pulled down your ass till right above your knees, and you can already feel how wet you are just in anticipation.

Sukuna doesn’t waste any time, and immediately his tongue is caressing at your damp folds, before slipping in and gliding through them till your clit. You moan softly as he begins lapping at your pussy, tingling heat building between your thighs as he licks you firmly, suckling on your clit in between.

Sukuna’s certainly talented at eating a woman out, you’ll give him that, because not even five minutes later you’re whimpering and shaking as the pressure in your clit builds till you cum on his tongue.

A few breathless moments and then you feel yourself loosening up again, coming down from your high, feeling much better now than a few minutes ago when you were sure he had some devious plans in mind.

“Shit, that was good,” you mumble as his tongue pulls away from your sopping cunt.

The relief you were basking in is ripped away when suddenly you feel him gripping your cheeks and spreading them apart.

Uncomfortable.

“I said no weird stuff—” Your words end in a squeak of surprise when you feel something warm and wet press against the tight rim of your asshole. Heat quickly rises to your face in indignation as you shift, trying to get away from the ironclad grip he has on your ass. “Oh my god, do not do that—”

A sharp slap to your ass shuts you up as you wince in pain instead. “You should really try new things, you know that? It’ll get you a lot farther in life.”

“Uncle!” you cry out in mortification when you feel his tongue back on your hole, prodding at it. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes,” his answer comes between small licks at your hole, making you flinch when he abruptly spits on it. “How else will you take my cock up here if you can’t even take my tongue?”

“What!?” You squirm, twisting your head to try and look at him. “No, no, that is definitely not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Why does it have to!? Is my pussy not good enough for you?” You can barely see him behind you from the way he’s holding your ass firmly in place, but that won’t stop you from trying, even if it makes your neck hurt a lot.

You hear him audibly sigh. “Do you always have to fucking argue with me?”

And then maybe as punishment, or just because he likes to torture you, he presses the tip of his tongue firmly enough against your puckered hole that it actually breaches through. You yelp at the odd, visceral sensation

He pulls it back out just to laugh at you. “If you can go three minutes without moving around or fucking bitching, I’ll let you go. How about that?”

“You better put a goddamn timer.”

Sukuna sighs, but he agrees, setting the time on his phone before putting it back on the desk. “Now shut the fuck up.”

It is still far from comfortable, this strange new sensation, and at first you’re still fighting to try and not squirm, especially when his tongue presses teasingly into your entrance again, before probing a little deeper. You’ve never done this before, not even with your own fingers, really.

His tongue feels delicate and invasive at once- even though he’s barely in deep, it’s somewhere untouched. Yet somewhere along the way you stop tensing and just let him play with your hole, and when his tongue pushes a bit more insistently against the tight ring of muscle, a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

Then his fingers are joining by pushing into your wet pussy, and the feeling of him massaging your walls as his tongue works diligently at your other hole is enough to make you moan and melt into the touch.

You hate it. That’s he always right. That he really, definitely, knows what he’s doing if he’s actually able to make you enjoy this despite the discomfort and your initial reluctance. And fuck, it feels good- dirty and sinful enough to make your arousal drip down his fingers and your hole clench around his tongue. But then the shrill ring of the alarm cuts through, startling you and yanking you before you can fall deeper into the haze. You don’t even realize you’re panting till he pulls away and you turn to look at him, feeling a bit conflicted.

“You can…keep going,” you mumble. “It felt kinda good.”

And to that, Sukuna looks at you with amusement as he licks his lips.

“Oh, would you look at that? My dirty little niece actually likes getting her ass eaten,” he coos as you stare at him venomously.

“But,” Sukuna leans back into his chair, grinning lazily. “The timer rang, and I promised I wouldn’t go longer than that remember?”

Irritating, infuriating man.

But you did say that, so this one’s a bit fair, even if you always feel like he’s setting you up on purpose every single time. You don’t say anything, just huff and roll over to pull your panties back up before sitting and getting off his desk, putting your pants back on.

Sukuna stands and stretches with a low grunt. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Then I’ve got work to finish.”

You nod, shifting a little where you sit, and watch as he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the quiet room for a moment, then cuts off. When he returns, drying his hands on a towel, his gaze flicks to you—still lingering where he left you.

He drops back into the chair, spreads his thighs, and pats one. “Come here. Sit.”

“Do you always have to talk to me like I’m a dog?” you mutter under your breath, though you quickly move to make yourself comfortable on his lap, resting your head against his chest as he gets back to work like you still can’t taste the faint astringent aftertaste of his cum in your mouth, or the dampness on the gusset of your panties.

Your relationship not only returns to what it used to be, but becomes something even more��evident from the fact that you now regularly sleep with him at night. Hours of tossing and turning trying to fall asleep turn into minutes as soon as you’re next to him. But with him next to you, the restless ache that builds in your body each night has nowhere to go—and you can’t exactly handle it the usual way with him lying inches away.

After a few nights, Sukuna can’t take it anymore. You crawl into his bed again, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and he lets you in without a word—again. You curl into him like you always do, seeking the warmth and safety he pretends not to offer. And as always, he runs his hand down your back, lets you rest your head against his chest, even pulls the blanket up over your shoulders without complaint. But then it starts- the shifting. The sighing. The squirming.

He can feel every frustrated twitch of your body, every little exhale like your skin is too tight to hold in whatever’s stirring inside. He cracks an eye open, jaw clenched. You’re on your back now, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s personally offended you.

He waits. One minute. Two. Then—

“You done?” he mutters.

You glance over, sheepish. “Sorry… I just—can’t sleep.”

“No shit,” he says, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “And you’re making it my problem too.”

You try to apologize, genuinely feeling kind of bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what it is—“

Sukuna just sighs and then his hands are sliding to your hips, pulling you closer against him.

You don’t say anything. Words are never needed with him — he understands what you need, even before you do. How to offer you some relief. He notices how your breath hitches, thighs shifting as he slips his fingers under your top, skimming along your skin. He notices all the things you try to hide.

“What’re you…” Your voice trails off as his fingers dip lower, beneath the waistband of your pajamas.

“Shut up,” he murmurs gently, hands slipping fully into the waistband of your panties.

Lower and lower, till they brush against your slick folds.

“You really need me to do everything, huh?” he muses, his voice low and lazy. “Can’t even get yourself off like a big girl?”

“Sukuna,” you whisper, flustered now, but your legs shift again—nervous, needy.

“What?” he taunts gently, like he’s scolding a pet. “You want to toss and turn all night like a brat, or do you want to cum so hard you pass out?”

You glare at him, cheeks flushed. “You’re such an asshole.”

He smirks, leaning down, mouth brushing just under your jaw as he deliberately dips a finger into the arousal collecting at your entrance, before puling it back out to smear your slick across your folds. “Yeah. And you’re wet for it.”

You let out a breathy sigh, just giving in, relaxing your body into his and letting him take over. One of his fingers slips inside you at first, and he presses it right against the spongey part of your wall. He can feel a throbbing under the sensitive, swollen flesh there, like your heart is literally beating in your cunt.

It makes blood flow to his own cock, but he ignores that for now.

He fingers you under the sheets, your juices spilling and dampening your panties, though you don’t really care. Soft, wet noises are audible from under the blankets, amidst your small whimpers and mewls, grinding into his hand for more.

Finally you cum with a small cry, and when Sukuna pulls his hand back out his fingers are covered in a glistening glaze. And just like he predicted, your body stays lax, satiated, no longer restless and squirming, and he can feel you starting to doze off against him.

But he’s Sukuna, so right before he lets you fall asleep he sticks his cum-coated fingers into your mouth abruptly. You make a muffled noise of surprise, and agitation.

“Clean them,” he says plainly. “You made a mess.”

You’re too drowsy to really fight back anyway so you lazily suck his fingers clean, tongue licking at the crevices in between , the taste of your own arousal coating your tongue before you swallow it down.

And when you decide you’re done, you pull his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop, turning your head away in quiet defiance. He snorts under his breath, wiping the damp fingers on your cheek just to get a rise out of you.

You groan, muffled against the pillow. “Can you not?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, unbothered, like you’re the one making a scene.

You try to swat at him half-heartedly, but your arm's too heavy with sleep, and he easily catches your wrist, pinning it lazily to the mattress.

“Such a brat,” he mutters, voice low and warm near your ear.

You don’t bother answering, just sigh, turning your face into his chest instead, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you down. His hand lingers at your back, a quiet weight as you fall asleep and neither of you realize it's the first time you've addressed him by his name of your own accord.

There’s something about growing up with very little family. No buffer—no siblings to confide in, no cousins to rely on, no grandparents to balance things out. Every relationship carries extra weight.

In your case, it’s your parents. In an ideal world, this would’ve drawn you closer. A small, tight-knit family. But in reality, emotional absence from either parent creates a gaping void—whether you name it or not.

For you, it’s a paternal wound. One that only becomes glaringly obvious when Sukuna slips into your life, uninvited, into the role of a pseudo-guardian.

It isn’t some cliché Freudian desire to date your father; it’s something deeper. What draws you to Sukuna isn’t the simple need for a father figure—it’s how he fills a hollow space inside you. And the quiet resentment that he wasn’t there to do it sooner.

But there are downsides to filling a wound. You haven’t forgotten that moment—the horrible, embarrassing moment the morning after he took your virginity. When, raw and vulnerable, you snapped, calling him "your dad."

Neither of you ever brought it up again. And maybe that’s for the best, because the implication was too real. Because while the sense of protection from him draws you in, it also comes with expectations you never asked for. Sometimes, when Sukuna acts like he cares, it feels like a leash—an invisible tether you never wanted, but can’t escape.

You don’t look too closely at it. You don’t ask questions. You don’t dig into why it feels this way, because deep down, you know that if you did, you’d start trying to excuse it. And that feels worse.

So you let it haunt you quietly instead. You let it settle in your bones, a constant undercurrent of discomfort that you’ve learned to live with. And you don’t question it.

Not even when, one evening, in the middle of one of your usual bickering sessions, Sukuna announces—out of nowhere—that he’s taking you on a date. Especially since, according to him, your last one was pathetic.

You’re pretty sure it’s just his way of proving a point, another game to pass the time.

But still.

Your stomach flips. That giddiness bubbles up, childish and bright, almost shameful in its intensity—not because you crave male attention, not just because someone chose you.

But because he did. Because it’s Sukuna, and everything he represents.

The one person who never had to care, who didn’t owe you anything—but still chose you, regardless. And even if his gesture is wrapped in sarcasm and ego, it feels surprisingly pure. Like something tender buried beneath something cruel.

It disarms you.

Especially when he adds, almost carelessly, that you’ll need a new dress, proper heels, maybe even a little makeup.

“If I’m doing this,” he says, “I’m doing it right.”

Of course, you try to laugh off the part about him buying you things. You’ve been trained to never take from others, to never be the one who gets lavished with attention, and you don’t know how to accept it anymore. Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe you’ve never known how to let yourself be spoiled.

Sukuna, however, just gives you that look—a sharp, unamused stare—and tells you to shut up.

So you do. You nod, face flushed, trying to hide the way your chest tightens. Not just from excitement, but from something heavier, something sharper. The ache of being cared for in a way you were never shown how to care for yourself. Something dangerously close to wanting—no, needing—to be wanted in a way you never learned how to ask for.

Sukuna means it when he says if you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.

Which is how you end up at the store that weekend, standing in front of an employee assigning you a changing room. You hold out the dresses draped over your arm—four of them—for her to count.

“Ooh, those are great choices. What’s the occasion?” she asks, smiling.

And then Sukuna appears behind you like some large, intimidating shadow, and you swear you can see her recalibrating behind that smile—trying to figure out if he’s your dad or an older boyfriend. She definitely lands on the worse conclusion when he smirks and rests a hand on your shoulder.

“She has a date tomorrow night,” he says.

You force a small smile, shifting under his touch, laughing nervously. “Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” she replies—now clearly convinced he’s your father. "You can take that big stall at the end,” she adds with a knowing look.

You blink, eyebrows knitting as you glance between Sukuna and the girl. “Oh, he’s not co—”

“Thank you,” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, steering you away before you can finish your sentence.

The second you're out of earshot, you twist out of his grip, shoving the door to the stall open. “There is absolutely no need for you to come in with me. Just stay out here. I’ll show you each one when I try them on.”

Sukuna tilts his chin toward the bench inside the stall. “See that? That’s for uncles supervising their bratty nieces. Tradition.”

He gives you a grin so filthy you nearly combust.

“Oh my god—shut up.” You glance around, mortified. “Don’t say shit like that. People’ll get the wrong idea.”

“More like the right idea. Hope they all know you suck your uncle’s—”

You slap him before he can finish, cheeks blazing, and yank him inside by the wrist as he laughs.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter.

The door clicks shut behind you. You hang the dresses up one by one, studiously ignoring him as you grab the first one off the rack. Sukuna sprawls on the bench like he owns the place—and you. Legs wide, arms folded, eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You peel off your top, then pause at your waistband. “Can you, like…close your eyes?”

He opens his mouth—no doubt ready to say something disgusting—so you cut him off before he can get the words out.

“Ugh, never mind. Forget it,” you mutter, yanking your pants off anyway.

Now you’re hyper-aware of the mirrors. Of the lighting. Of the man sitting behind you who doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Can you not ogle me like some creep?”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches, then slowly palms himself through his jeans.

Your mouth drops open. “Seriously?!”

You yank the dress down over your chest, catching him trying not to laugh, which only infuriates you more.

“Need help?” he drawls.

“No.” You drag the dress into place and turn toward the mirror.

At least he’s stopped groping himself. But his gaze still drags over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Well?”

Sukuna tilts his head, chin resting in one hand. “Cute. But the next one’s tighter, right?”

You roll your eyes—trying to ignore the flutter in your chest—and grab the next dress. The tightest one. Black, short, zipper up the back. You strip off the first dress without looking at him and step into the second.

It hugs you like a second skin. The zipper, of course, sticks halfway up. You grunt, trying to reach around.

“Sure you don’t want help?” he murmurs, smug.

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. Then you hear the soft creak of the bench as he stands. Your breath catches, as you feel him behind you before you hear him. His fingers brush your spine lightly through the fabric.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs. “You’ll jam it.”

He tugs the zipper up—too slowly, too deliberately, the gliding motion grazing your skin like a tease. 

“There you go,” he murmurs as you look up.

The dress is black silk, soft to the touch and sinfully tight. It hugs every single curve without shame, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes shadows dance across your body. The neckline plunges just enough to make your pulse quicken, and the back dips scandalously low, exposing the gentle curve of your spine.

It stops mid-thigh—short enough to tempt, long enough to tease. The sleeves are off-shoulder, barely clinging to your upper arms, adding that extra edge of vulnerability, like the dress could slip just a little too far with one wrong move.

Sukuna’s gaze is unreadable as he takes in this one, but you’re too focused on one small detail to even worry about that.

Your hands pause at your lower stomach, fingers brushing the slight bump that feels more noticeable in this lighting, in this mirror, in front of him. You tug the fabric subtly, trying to flatten it, your face twisting with discomfort.

Sukuna’s eyes catch the motion immediately. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just keep adjusting, suddenly wishing the lights were a little dimmer. “It fits weird here. Makes me look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts clean and low, that stern, irritated tone.

You glance over at him, and his gaze has shifted—no longer teasing, no longer just looking for fun. 

“You look good,” he says simply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Stop pulling at it.”

You try to deflect with a shrug, suddenly warm in the face. “Whatever. I just don’t like how it fits right here—”

Sukuna steps closer, towering behind you as his hands slip down to rest at your waist. His fingers settle exactly where you were trying to hide, pressing just enough for you to feel it.

“This part?” His voice dips. “It’s hot. Not sure who put those silly ideas in your head.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror—not looking at you, looking through you, like he wants you to see exactly what he sees.

“Wear this one tomorrow,” he says, already deciding.

“What about the other ones—”

“No. This one.”

You try to argue, but the words feel thin. You just nod.

You make it out of the changing room alive—barely—and he lets you breathe for a while.

The next stops are easier. He picks out a pair of heels you actually like, lets you test them with a spin, and even hums approvingly when you twirl for him. Then he lets you drift toward the makeup section like it’s no big deal, arms crossed while you test swatches on your wrist. He even pays for everything without blinking, which should annoy you more than it does.

It’s... almost domestic. Almost.

Too domestic. Which is exactly why the second your guard drops, he grabs your wrist again.

“Wait—where are we going now?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. Just smirks and steers you with that same annoying confidence you’ve learned to hate. And then you see the store sign. Lace everywhere. Soft light. Satin mannequins. Entire walls covered in things no sane person wears unless they plan on not wearing them for long.

Your stomach flips. “No. No, no, no—absolutely not—”

“You owe me- I sat through the whole makeup segment like a saint,” Sukuna says, voice low and lazy. “Besides what do you think we’re gonna do after I take you out to dinner? You didn’t think it was just that, did you?”

“Wh— First of all you were on your phone the entire time! Second of all, that’s not what I thought,” you stammer, heat crawling up your neck. “I mean—I didn’t think anything! And you could’ve warned me, you psycho!”

It doesn’t help that the saleswoman gives you a courteous, knowing smile.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs, already plucking something red and lacy off a nearby rack.

He starts picking things out way too fast—like he’s been here before, like he already knows exactly what he wants to see you in. A red lace set that’s mostly straps. A black sheer bodysuit with strategic cutouts. Something so small and silky you’re not even too sure what it actually is.

Your mouth opens. “Are you—seriously?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “You said you’d try something on. Don’t get shy now.”

“I didn’t say I’d try on whatever sadistic thing you pulled off the wall,” you hiss, snatching the red one from his hands. The thing barely weighs anything—it’s just lace and suggestion.

He finally glances at you, eyes flicking down to the scrap of fabric in your hands, then back up to your face. He smirks. “You’d look good in it.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I know your size.” He grabs another hanger. This one is deep wine-colored and... crotchless? You choke on air.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“No,” he says easily. “You’ll keep that one for later.”

Your entire face burns.

But there’s that spark again—the one he always knows how to strike. A tiny thrill under your ribs, curling somewhere low and secret. You hate how easily it lights up around him, how much worse it makes everything. Your parents would skin you alive if they saw you come home with things like this.

And sure, maybe the lingerie is scandalous. Obscene, even. But it’s also… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you nervous. Erotic in a way that feels like it wasn’t meant for someone like you. This is what people wear when they want to be seen. Worshipped.

Adored.

You’re not used to that, not sure you believe it’s something you’re allowed to want. Maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Why you keep glancing away from the mirror, like you’re afraid of catching your own eyes. Why you deflect—tell him he’s a total perv for wanting to see you in all that stuff, pretending to be offended with each skimpier set he picks out.

Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. He ends up with half a dozen pieces slung over his arm—lace, mesh, satin, straps.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, trailing after him as he heads straight for the fitting rooms.

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered.

You glance around the store like someone might save you. The girl at the register doesn’t even blink as you pass by. Clearly, she’s seen worse.

You make it to the fitting room and try—again—to shake him off.

“I’m going in alone,” you say, palm flat against his chest, blocking the door. “You don’t need to supervise everything, freak.”

He doesn’t budge, just glances over your head toward the row of fitting rooms, eyes flicking until he finds the one he wants.

“This one,” he mutters, guiding you toward the end of the row. You start to protest again, but he’s already turning the handle and nudging the door open with his foot like he owns the place.

“There’s a seat,” he says plainly.

You freeze. “There’s what?”

He gestures inside. And sure enough—tucked in the corner like some kind of luxury upgrade—there’s a little bench. Padded and polite.

Utterly unbelievable.

“Why the hell is there a chair in here!?”

Sukuna shrugs, completely unfazed. “Probably for men like me. The ones who pay.”

You scowl. “You’re not coming in.”

But it’s already too late. He steps inside before you can close the door, brushing past you with that arrogant ease like this is just his natural territory. The lock clicks behind you, and suddenly the space feels smaller.  The room is too pink, the lighting too warm, too sensual. Too many mirrors.

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, lingerie in your arms, staring at him like maybe he’ll take the hint and leave.

He doesn't. Instead he sprawls on the little bench like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over the backrest. His gaze is lazy, almost amused, as he watches you, and it grates on your nerves more than it should. You yank a hanger free, desperate to get this over with. You don’t even look at the tag, just grabbing the first thing that catches your eye—something black and sheer, satin and silk, its fabric soft but undeniably revealing.

You take a closer look. A chemise.

But not just any chemise. The front has an open bust, leaving little to the imagination, with two thick ribbons dangling at either side—meant to be tied over your breasts. You can't help but cringe; the ribbon looks thick enough to cover just your nipples probably, leaving everything else exposed.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you are."

You sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation, and take off your top, holding the chemise against your torso, trying to get an idea of how it might fit.

“You need to take your bra off too," he adds smugly.

Your face burns, and you’re almost certain you can feel the heat creeping all the way to your ears. You hesitate, the chemise still pressed against your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily in your stomach. You can feel the faint pulse in your throat, and despite the sharp burn of embarrassment, your fingers move to undo your bra, almost without thinking.

Sukuna watches you, the air around him thick with that same, unreadable calm. The amusement never leaves his expression, but it feels like there’s something more beneath it, like he’s watching a very private performance.

You pull the bra off, leaving you bare chested as you pick up the chemise to put it on. Your nipples stiffen in the air, and you try not to look at the way his eyes are drawn to them, how he licks his lips.

You slip it on, the fabric soft and delicate as it caresses your skin, till the underwire sits right below your breasts. Heat prickles all across your skin, and somehow you feel even more exposed with the lingerie outlining your nakedness.

With another swallow you lift the ribbons to your chest, across your nipples, when—

“Let me,” he says, voice low and smooth.

Intense, but not biting. Soft, almost, though the look in his eyes certainly is not — closer to something much hungrier, instead.

But your beyond bound of arguing, not when you feel so vulnerable, so you turn around and timidly walk up to him till your breasts are in his face, holding the ribbons out for him. He takes them from your hands without asking, holding them gently across your bare nipples. The fabric brushes your skin—soft, deliberate, teasing. Then he slowly begins to tie them.

He pulls the satin taut until the soft weight of your breasts spills out around it, obscene and almost delicate, like a gift he’s unwrapping in reverse before finishing it with a bow, neat and centered. You stare at your reflection, heat blooming across your chest, your neck, your face.

“I look ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely audible.

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, like the very word offends him. His tone turns low, almost lazy. “Then how come”—he takes your hand, guides it lower—“you’re doing this to me?”

He presses your palm against the growing bulge in his pants. Firm, heavy and real. Your breath catches as your thighs tense. Your panties grow damp as your mind short-circuits, shame and arousal folding over each other like waves.

“Gonna call me a creep or a perv again?” he teases, almost gently. Almost fond.

No. Because those were only reflections of your own discomfort with yourself, weren’t they? Because right now you feel desirable, so his arousal makes you want more.

Surrender.

You give in, not caring that you’re in a public changing room, as you straddle his lap and settle, guided more by instinct than thought. Your lips find his—hot, searing, desperate—and he kisses you back with that slow, claiming hunger that always makes you feel like you’re being owned.

But even in that closeness, something twists under your ribs. A voice.

Not loud, but constant, like pressure behind your eyes. It always shows up when you're too close to him like this, when it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling dangerous.

It reminds you, as it always does, that this isn’t forever. That it can’t be, even if there wasn’t that goddamn deadline.

Because what you have isn’t just complicated— it’s illicit. Unnatural. Wrong.

Something that can’t have a future, not with what he is to you and what you are to him. Because of that twenty-five percent. That shared part of you that ensures this can never become love, only shame and ruin.

It aches, sharp and splintering, like a thorn working its way deeper into your heart. You know you should pull back. That you should start untangling yourself now, before you sink too deep into something you’ll never escape cleanly.

But his mouth is like a sedative, his touch a kind of sweet anesthesia that dulls your self-preservation into a low, useless hum.

And so you don’t stop. Because in this moment, he makes you forget. Forget what’s right, what’s wrong, who the hell you’re even supposed to be.

[barcapix]

IM ACTUALLY BEGGING EVE LANDO WITH NERDY READER PLEASE!!!

✮ Mr. Lover - Lando Norris

lando norris x ‘nerd’!fem!reader

sy: even though it’s a usual habit for you, and lando knows it, he always finds a way to pester you about how your spending too much time away from him. even if it’s being at a library.

a/n: small drabble to fill my formula one drought on my blog…but im cooking up a confident lando x untouchable reader fic and a charles x british reader fic, what do we think? (they will be pretty lengthy)

warnings: nah.

masterlist

bookworm girlfriend & insecure boyfriend.

a common routine of yours lately—hiding your persona from the media with stacks of books, each one detailed amongst your bipolar interests.

they ranged from political discourses, theatrical drama pieces, thriller suspenses and even the sickly sweet romance novels that reminded you of your relationship.

speaking of which, you were certain that he was already on his way to said library, a couple steps away from where you were hibernating. he’d done it everyday this week, and today was going to be no exception.

“i thought i’d find you here,” a forstakenly familiar voice cut through the programmed reading circuits in your brain. “the third day in a row.”

predictably, it was lando.

standing there with his arms folded along his chest, his thin, pale blue tee doing nothing to shield the contracting muscles in his biceps.

you looked up, lifting your glasses up an inch. “you’re saying it like it’s a bad thing. someone’s gotta stay busy.”

“it is a bad thing,” he counters, carelessly gliding the stack-of-six books across the polished wooden table, sending them toppling over.

without a second thought, he flung himself onto an opposing chair, shuffling to bring himself closer to you. after all this, you just stare at him with bewilderment.

“are you done with your tantrum now?” you ask, merely giving him a raised brow. “because if you are, i’d happily go back to reading thanks.”

you hear him scoff when your eyes travel back to the page infront of you, his own knee already bumping yours in a need for attention. nonetheless, you continue to scan the words with pure concentration, only briefly acknowledging your boyfriend throwing silent pouts and exaggerating tuts when he wasn’t the focial point of your spotlight.

lando caves in—enough is enough. your slow reaction time fails you this time, when lando swats your hands away from the rims of the hardcover book, pushing it aside with an aggressive type of force.

it ends up adding to the horrendous massacre of books he started minutes before.

“lan,” you groan, tugging the material of your hoodie over your wrists. “couldn’t you just wait another hour? is an hour really that unbearable?”

“well think about it. what could we do numerous times within an hour?” he grins to himself like a spoiled child, “and there’s your answer.”

typical. inevitable. you roll your eyes at his remarks, the obscenity of his insecurity, that so cleverly made him look like a fool.

“maybe another day babe,” you reply dryly, not even remotely interested in engaging into his profound tactics to get you where he wanted. “but i was invested by the novel i had, so if you wanna go back home ill meet you t—”

as you attempt to reach across the table, lando interjects you by locking his hands over yours mid-motion, pinning your hands in place.

“last time i checked, its not a sin for a man to wanna spend time with his girlfriend,” he cockily disputes, devilishly smirking.

you blink slowly, a brief pause in the unruly air that filled the finite space between you. your lips slim into a thin line and protest, “maybe it’s not a sin but it is an inconvenience.”

“c’mon don’t be so stubborn love,” the tone in his voice laced with sarcastic disbelief. “after all of the time you could of spent with me today, you chose to spend time in a library.”

you grit your teeth, trying to pry your hands from his hold. you’d grown accustomed to this—the push and pull battles between your determination and his relentlessness.

you were polar opposites, who somehow found love in one another. ultimately, at the end of the day, you admired how fervently he craved your affection, even if it cost the desire of your daily hobbies.

“all i’m saying is i’ve missed you today. i saw you four hours ago; that’s four hours too many.” lando admits, softer this time.

instead of releasing your hands, he holds them firmly by intertwining his fingers with yours. the brunette leans on closer, his addictive peppermint scent wavering up your nose.

“you really can’t survive that long, can you?” you inquire. “what are you gonna do when your in melbourne?”

he shakes his head defiantly. “take you with me.”

the look on your face says it all—the characteristic scrunch of your brows, the distinctive yet subtle jutter of your bottom lip.

you glance around at the broad shelves that lined the outskirts of your corner, back at your boyfriend, before relenting with a sigh. “we can leave under one condition: you promise me you won’t disrupt me here tomorrow.”

“i promise. i pinky promise.”

“alright then, lead the way home.” you eventually let him win, as he ghosts his lips over the shell of your ear, as he carves out a path from your jaw to your lips with kisses—his way of being thankful.

the stubble on his chin makes you squirm, finally cracking up a smile after such a gruelling debate. sure, he was probably the most annoying and insufferable man when he wants to get his own way, but he was your insufferable man.

“though i have to say, these glasses of yours make me fold,” he heartily chuckles, bringing them up from the bridge of your nose. “if this happens again, i beg you—don’t wear them because i might just lose.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

more benjicot and cannibal with reader please im begging 🙏

There was once upon a time where Benjicot was scared of your dragon Cannibal, after all it wasn’t every day to see one in the Riverlands, and so the day you dropped into his life unexpectedly upon the back of the behemoth did the young lord of house Blackwood knew this was going to change his life.

It did but he didn’t necessarily expect it going in the direction where he now had almost daily arguments with the elder dragon about hogging you all to himself. You were his betrothed! He would be allowed to be with you at some point of the day without your clingy dragon glaring at him!

Benjicot wasn’t going to give Cannibal respect if he wasn’t going to let him spend some time with you in Raventree, he was stubborn in that belief and unfortunately Cannibal was equally as stubborn in keeping his rider close by at all times due to his distrust of others. Meanwhile poor you during all of this were forced to be stuck in the middle of the feud between dragon and man; Needless to say you were confused on how your beloved dragon and your future husband became like children when in competition for your attention and affection.

You had enough to give out to the both of them but it seemed that both Cannibal and Benjicot wanted all of your love and affection for themselves and won’t settle for anything else, which meant you were suspected to see one try to sabotage the other at every given moment, and while it’s something that you’ll never admit to but seeing them make fools of the other never failed to make you catch a case of the giggles.

You fondly remembered the times where Benjicot was showing off his skills with the sword to you during training, always glancing over at you to make sure you were watching him and smiling when you were, only for Cannibal to huff and sweep his legs from under him by using his tail.

‘Benji!’ You called, trying to stifle your laughter as you ran to your beloveds aid, helping him stand as he looks over at Cannibal, who was looking in another direction to avoid responsibility of making him looks like a idiot in front of you. ‘Are you okay?’ You asked with a small smile as Benji pouts.

‘You’re laughing.’ He says almost defeatedly as he holds you against his chest. ‘Your dragon tripped me up and you’re laughing at your betrotheds pain. You wound me my beloved.’ He adds as you cooed at him softly and pressing kisses to his face in apology, unaware that Benjicot was staring down Cannibal cockily as the dragon only growled at him; The young lord had long since grown use to Cannibal’s threats as he knew that you wouldn’t be too pleased should Cannibal bring him harm, so the beast of old legend was forced to growl and huff from a safe distance.

‘Better?’ You asked as you pulled away, Benji quickly changed his face to a softer one as he rests his head against your own.

‘Better.’ He replied. Cannibal growled dangerously low as Ben only flipped the behemoth the middle finger behind your back before stealing a kiss from your lips as a reward, cheekily bitting your bottom lip because he could.

Not even the next day did Ben see you coddled into Cannibal’s side as the dragon looked at him as though to say what are you going to do little bird? He clenched his jaw as he knew that he was at a disadvantage whenever this happens because Cannibal wouldn’t let anyone, not even a raven get close enough without the threat of being consumed alive by the behemoth.

‘You win this one reptile.’ Benjicot said under his breath as he was forced to find something to occupy his mind in the meantime until Cannibal decided that you could run back into his arms, where he’d keep you hostage for twice as long as Cannibal. Benjicot didn’t care if he had to carry you with him if he had to in order to consider the day well spent, he’ll do it and he’ll do it ten times over just to rub it in Cannibals face.

Cannibal huffs in pride as he drops his head to nuzzle your head with his snout, making your laugh as you patted his warm, rough scales in response as you cuddled further into your dragons side as you felt the lull of sleep overcome you.

Benjicot had never been more jealous of a anything in his entire life then he did in that moment, he should be the one holding you until you fell asleep, but he couldn’t help but hold respect for the old beast for protecting you as long as he had because he wasn’t certain where his life would’ve lead him had you not come into his life. So he guesses the old lizard was good for something, giving him his future spouse.

So while he and Cannibal may compete for you, they knew that they’d drop everything just to keep you safe and loved because you deserved that much for bringing them peace and light in their respective lives. You were the most important person to both Cannibal and Benjicot, so if anything were to happen to you, may the old gods have mercy on their soul as they might catch an enraged Blackwood upon the back of an equally enraged Cannibal as they tore the realm apart to get you back.

[crow-quilll]

'Nobody's Soldier' Chapter 14 teaser

Hello all. Miss me? :)

New chapter should be out in the next day or two - hard to tell. Im working a couple jobs, which is annoying, so my time to write is lessened. But I'm almost done: 4,000 words to go! Until then, enjoy this little taste tester:

------

“What did you expect me to do? Let you run this place into the ground with your obsession for that self-righteous fool?”

“Funny, you think you’re in control,” In-ho retaliates instantly into his Officer's mask, lips curling back, “but I made this place what it is. You are a cog in the machine I built. You are a nobody, and if you think I’m going to –”

A sharp and sudden crack splits through the air. For a moment, In-ho doesn’t even realize it’s for him.

And then he feels the bullet hit.

A brutal, piercing punch to the shoulder as lead suddenly rips through his muscle and tendon. In-ho lets out a bark of pain and staggers back, one hand immediately going to his left shoulder as he doubles over. A pain - a pain he’s felt before - swells in his shoulder like a rod of hot steel was impaled through his flesh. Hot blood seeps between his fingers faster than he can stop it, just like it had before in the same exact spot.

In-ho looks up, blinking through the blur of it all to look at his officer. The sour stench of gunpowder burns in his nostrils from the smoking gun in his underling’s hand.

“You don’t get to talk like you still run this place,” The Officer says with an admittedly frightening amount of calm in his tone, “It’s over. The only reason you’re still around is because the VIPs liked your … performance with 456."

In-ho’s glare deepens, and a ragged snarl comes from him as his lips twitch into a furious smile, “Struck a nerve, did I?”

“Say another word and the next one will go through your skull.” 

“You won’t,” In-ho hisses through a growl of pain, pressing his hand against the bullet wound harder, “the VIPs have given you orders to keep me alive, and we both know that the only thing you’re good for is following orders.”

The Officer clicks his tongue, visibly pausing to bite back his anger before he says, “The VIPs told me to keep Number 001 alive. They didn’t tell me to make sure he was unharmed.”

The threat prickles in In-ho’s ears uncomfortably. In the Officer’s voice, In-ho can hear the deliberate ring of rage that has been repressed for far too long. His underling can finally say what he’s always wanted to say.

“So, get fucking moving before I shoot your fingers off one by one.”

In-ho stays frozen in place, every cell in his body aching to rip the man across from him into dozens of bloody pieces. His silence is bristling with dangerous contempt. He’s not supposed to be helpless, he made a vow to never be helpless again. 

This is what Gi-hun must feel when In-ho orders him to do something. He must feel this itch to disobey, this unnamed and foolish need to prove that he has the freedom to make a decision.

None of this should ever have happened. How the hell did this happen? How did he let this happen?

It’s not fair. He’s given years of his life to this facility and its games. He’s bled himself dry to keep this place afloat in Oh Il-nam’s absence. He made sure Il-nam’s legacy lived on. He made sure these games would continue.

And - what, the VIPs want him gone? They’d rather watch ‘Young-il’ scramble to treat Gi-hun, to care for him, to kiss him? Is that it? Did they find that more entertaining?

Why do they want him gone? Why do they want ‘Young-il’ instead?

Why?

In-ho, unlike Gi-hun, knows when the game is stacked against him. He knows when to keep the cards close to his chest, but also when to show his hand and make a big move.

And now is not the time for small, futile resistance. 

In-ho swallows back the wrath that bites at his insides and rings in his bones. He finally feels his stubborn hold on the system he perfected relent, knowing that he’s got nothing to hold on with. No support, no army, nothing. The VIPs think he’s either off of the island, or just another soldier to play with. 

Funnily enough, his only ally now is Gi-hun.

This entire situation has only added to the long list of reasons why he needs Gi-hun. Now he needs his little soldier to get back on his feet and stage another revolt - only this time, In-ho will be working with him completely. At least up until the point where they take back control, just so he can turn around and re-establish power over the games and Gi-hun himself. 

He’s not sure how or when it happened. But all of a sudden, Gi-hun was everything to him: he is the air that In-ho breathes, the hunger in his gut, the thirst on his tongue, the fever that festers beneath his skin, the story he can’t stop reading, the prayer he can’t stop whispering.

Oh, In-ho needs Gi-hun more than anything. And if the Officer wants to take that away from him, there will be hell to pay. Hell..

After what feels like minutes of tense silence, a low, enraged snicker comes from In-ho. His eyes meet the mask that his Officer wears, imagining the expression of the other man despite the fact that he cannot see it.

“You want to play ringleader for a little while?” In-ho spits, refusing to mask the hatred in his face, “Fine, let’s play.”

The Officer lets out another sigh of irritation. He loads a live round into the handgun, finger resting on the trigger.

“Let’s go,” The Officer urges his former boss, “I’ve got orders to put on a show, and you are not wasting anymore of my goddamn time.”

[noctiva]

My poly ticcijack agenda was well recieved im cheering. Toby being stubborn and denying his attraction even when Jack comes up literally *smelling* it on him <3 I imagine Jack lets it go after a while and Toby is relieved thinking he’s in the clear. He is not. The next time the three of you have sex Jack is teasing Toby in a way he *knows* is teasing but he just cant prove it. Dirty talking reader while he’s fucking them from behind but making *full* eye contact with Toby while he does it… Fucking reader harder when he knows Toby is close so they’re forced to take Toby deeper…Brushing his claws against Toby’s skin while you’re all changing positions… and he’s *so* casual about it that Toby cant tell if hes that desperate and his minds making it up or if Jack’s being a massive fucking tease. (it is the latter)

-🔌

OH THIS IS GOOD. can i borrow your brain for a day pleaseeee ohhh my godddddd.

this i can get behind! Jack is definitely a tease. Has been, from the moment he realized that Toby’s attraction might not just be towards you. And maybe Toby’s alright at hiding his feelings, but definitely not good enough to fool someone as perceptive as Jack is.

Because he can hear it when Toby’s heart rate kicks up a few notches every time his claws brush against his skin. He can feel it when Toby’s body just heats up more and more with each filthy word that he says. Is Jack talking to you, or him? It sure seems like he’s talking to him. Does he mean everything he says?

It’s a game to Jack, and it’s so fucking fun. He won’t ever push Toby more than the little bits of teasing he does though, because he wants Toby to come to him. Wants to take pleasure in finally getting him to cave and accept that maybe he wants to take your role every once in a while. He’s such a loud mouthed little shit, it would be so gratifying for Jack to knock him down a peg. Wipe that shit eating grin off of his face for once.

Toby will end up caving, because holy fuck he just can’t take it anymore. And it probably wouldn’t be some shy ass beating around the bush type of proposal. As i said in a previous ask, he’d just be jumping Jack’s bones out of the blue one day. Equal parts frustrated, annoyed, and too horny for his own good.

[angelsheartts]

hiii idk if requests are open so either have this as a silly little thought or a request <33

lucifer and (ideally gn/male) reader have been flirting for a little while and then one day lucifer finally asks reader out, but they reject him

he’s super confused thinking he may have misunderstood their whole dynamic until he overhears reader telling someone at the hotel the reason he rejected lucifer is because reader feels like lucifer would never be able to love them as much as he loved lilith/doesnt want lucifer to use them as a rebound

overall i was hoping for hurt/comfort but whatever rows your boat, love your stories and i hope to see more of them in the future !! have an amazing day <3

.° ༘ THE OTHER WOMAN ᝰ.ᐟ .

#pairing: lucifer, x gn reader.

#cw: angst, fear of being the second choice, lucifers backstory with lilith, starting something new, accepting that relationships come to an end, happy ending 'cause im not that mean hehe (at least not yet).

#note: I LOVE THIS REQUEST SM, i haven’t wrote any angst in my blog BUUUT i love it, this request is mwuah.

everyone at the hazbin hotel knew that lucifer had been courting you for the past few months, everyone except you.

or, well, that’s what the sinners at the hotel thought, at least. you obviously knew that the king of hell had been flirting with you, and at the beginning, you almost fell head over heels for him, until indecisive thoughts started to fill your head.

"was he REALLY flirting with you?", "why would he still be wearing his WEDDING ring if he had been flirting with you?", "will he ever LOVE you like he loved lilith?", "will his daughter even ACCEPT your relationship?"

as soon as those thoughts started appearing, you started distancing yourself from the fallen angel, sadly for lucifer he had already started to get the courage to officially ask you out on a date.

the king of hell wasn’t an idiot; he noticed how you started to make up excuses to not talk to him alone or how you weren’t really responding to his flirting anymore, but decided to be stubborn and brush those thoughts off.

-

as soon as you received a text from lucifer saying he would pick you up around eight, you knew he was planning something, and as soon as you saw him all dressed up, nicely done hair and his prideful smile showing on his face, you knew what was coming, but who were you to not appreciate his efforts? if you knew that it was going to end someday, why wouldn’t you enjoy the moment? yes, you were being a fool for accepting his offer, but having a tiny crush on him wouldn’t hurt you, right?

after having a nice and really luxurious meal at a restaurant in hell, lucifer guided you to an actually peaceful spot where you could see all of the pride ring. ironic. who would even think that hell has a peaceful place, one where you should feel relieved, but why weren’t you feeling that way? was it because you knew what was to come?

"(name), is everything alright?" lucifer interrupted your thoughts with his angelic voice, or could you say demonic? at the end of the day, he was still an angel, just a fallen one. "mmh? yeah, i was just..lost in my thoughts i guess" you answered, admiring his glowing red eyes shining in the dark. "oh, okay" he said, letting a nervous laugh come out. "i think there is something i need to tell you, (name)" lucifer said, this time his voice had a serious tone. "i thought that after lilith I couldn’t get to love again, but heavens was i wrong. i had the chance to get to know you this past months, and…you've changed my life in that short time." he started, giving a sincere smile "would you want to be my partner?" he asked, fidgeting with his fingers as you stared at him.

oh, well, that question made you nauseous. "i-, i don’t think i want that, lucifer" ouch, that hurt his pride."I think it’s time for me to go, i’m sorry" you said in a quiet tone, standing up and leaving him there, and as much as you didn’t wanted to look back, you did, but the only thing you could see was lucifer in the same position as when you stood, this time though, he was hugging his knees staring at the view you both were looking at just a few minutes ago.

-

since his confession about his feelings towards you, he hasn’t been in the hotel, and the cast started to suspect that it has to do with the date you had with him. charlie was the most preoccupied, since she had been the one to encourage his dad to finally ask you out. she tried texting his dad to ask him about your response, but the king of hell just responded with a "it didn’t go as planned, but don’t worry about it, char-char."

after that text charlie obviously knew that his father was feeling bad about whatever happened that night, and would isolate himself from the others, so for her attempts to not let that happened she kind of tricked you into visiting him, she asked you about the date, and since you kind of lied to her by telling her that the date went as normal as a date should go, she then answered by saying something along the lines of "if that’s so, would you mind reminding him that he needs to come to the hotel?"

you could write lucifer a text message telling him to come to the hotel, but since you literally ran away that night, you forgot that your cellphone was laying somewhere near to where you both were sitting, so yeah, you did in fact lost it.

-

going to his mansion was a really weird feeling, what can you even say after rejecting someone? would he even open the door? as you were lost in your thoughts again, you heard the front door open, and as you made your way into his house it wasn’t really hard to find his bedroom.

as you knocked before opening the door, the first thing you noticed was how lucifer had his bedsheet covering him, it made you smile since you noticed how charlie did that too, so you could guess she got that from her father.

there was a silence as you both stared at eachother, until lucifer decided to interrupt the silence. "i-, i-i’m sorry about what happened, i think i might had misunderstood our relationship" he confessed, his messy hair and dark eye bags made you worried "it’s okay lucifer, and about that night..there is still something i haven’t told you about my answer" you declared, making him look at you with such hopeful eyes, oh hell, how can such a prideful fallen angel have so much faith in what you were going to say. "i said I didn’t want to take it further, since i still believe your heart belongs to lilith, and because of that i thought that rejecting you would be the best option." he opened his eyes at the mention of his past lover. "but, me and lilith haven’t been dating since seven years, (name) what me and her had is long gone" he reassured you, while signaling you to sit on his bed, the king bed who looked so comfy yet so empty. "lilith still is an important person in my heart, she has been with me since beginning of humanity and is the mother of my daughter, but the persons who’s my heart belongs now is you, my love" after hearing those words you could feel your eyes fill with tears, of course lilith was gonna be an important person in his life, but why would that stopped you from being in his heart as well, were you being selfish all this time? wanting to be the only person who’s important to him?

"and, this time i haven’t been at the hotel, i thought about why you said no, and i think i may have noticed something" he said, getting out of his bedsheets and caressing your face, you could feel your face burn at his touch, yeah, you really have missed him, "you were always staring at my wedding ring, weren’t you?" he asked looking at you with a glum face, yes, you do recall looking at his wedding ring while he looked at you with loving eyes, the ring that made you doubt so much about his feelings towards you, "i was a fool for wearing my ring while flirting with you, and if my ring has made you have those doubts about our relationship, you should know that i had decided to take it off" after hearing those words, you noticed that he was right, you haven’t noticed until now, you didn’t feel that cold ring against your face. "and if you still willing to try, i’m sure that soon enough i will be using a ring who will be showing who my heart really belongs to"

"that’s so cheesy" you answered chuckling, you tried to jokingly ignore the fact that he just said he would propose you, because if you took it serious you were sure that your face would be as red as the famous apple, actually, you were sure that if he offered you the 'fruit' you would have accepted, wait, were you even thinking about a fruit? but anyways your angel needed reassurance from you, that in fact, you liked his cheesy words. "yes, i still want to have you in my afterlife, lucifer" "well, if that’s my future’s wife/husband wish, then, who am i to object?" the fallen angel winked at you before starting to teasingly kiss your whole face, the moment he started doing this, you noticed something you didn’t thought you could, you felt like his first option, not just a rebound.

and yes , it will be a long journey until he really overcomes his past relationship with lilith, but since he's willing to do as much for you as you would do for him, you both will soon overcome your fears of past experiences.

[freyito]

I need more Gallagher, I think I’ve read everything x reader about him

So here are some ideas, you can also do other characters with this of course

Gallagher x reader he’s had a long day and accidentally snaps at you. hurt/comfort

Gallagher x reader you accidentally fall asleep at the bar while he’s closing up. Fluff

Gallagher x reader the once married got divorced years past you meet again and realize your still in love trope…

Gallagher x reader close proximity. Smut/fluff

Gallagher x reader he’s the first person to buy you flowers. Fluff/comfort

Gallagher x reader after an argument you go missing… perhaps on your own terms out of anger or your actually kidnapped, either way soft fluffy ending

Gallagher x reader comforting after a nightmare, could go either way or could be both

That is all, 👋👋👋👋

✭ pairing(s): gallagher x gn reader

✧ a/n: URGH ANON YOU GAVE ME. SO MUCH INGREDIENTS. I HOPE YOU KNOW IM THANKFUL. while i love EVERYTHING YOU'VE GIVEN ME :3... i've chosen the first three ehe :3... this one will be based off the third one YAAAY. ALSO HAPPYYYYY NEW YEAR!!! kinda happy this one will be my first post! i had a lot of fun with it if we couldnt tell ^^

✦ taglist: @fffrost, @shinysora

🗒 cw: gn reader, previous relationship, so much yearning (but like. not enough.), fear of commitment, mention of weight loss, depression, SIOBAHN THE GOAT, little bit of lore-building (he has a dog.), not proofread

✎ wc: 8k

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇ

He was never like this. He had never lingered on his past for too long, an irrational fear of having it chain him down. After all, today’s Gallagher could be different from yesterday’s. No matter how well crafted the lie was, there were always some sort of leaks through the cracks, like just how much he loved you.

He was never made to be loved and love. He was simply a lie, and he knew that. He perpetuated this lie to you for all those years, simply because he was too greedy to admit his own nature (or perhaps, creation). Because, like the selfish creature he truly is, he did not want to let go of you. Most people seek out love, and he was no different, meme or not. He was created with the heart of a human, so who would fault him for making such an error? He lived and loved like any human would, no?

He wanted to be stubborn, by god, he wanted to be stubborn. And he truly was, right up unto the end. He held onto you like a man starved, only a step away from getting on his knees and begging you. But in the end, his love won out. You wanted the divorce, and he didn’t want to hurt you more than he apparently was, so he went through with it.

It hurt. It truly did, it hurt so much he still feels the sting after years. He tried to rationalize it every day he could, tell himself that you would’ve found out eventually, and he would’ve ceased to exist. But that made it even worse, it made him curl up on himself on those lonely nights in the room that was supposed to be yours, it made his throat tighten and his hands shake and he felt like such a goddamn fool. Someone like him shouldn’t be crying. There was no room in his facade to cry. So why did you make him feel this way? By now it had been several years. He should be over it. But he isn’t. And he resents himself for that.

You had moved on by now. A nice quiet life away from the heart of Penacony, a promotion, and an absolutely positive attitude once you weren’t weighed down by the ring. It’s not like you disliked Gallagher. There were never any fights, no contempt for one another, no reason to think he didn’t love you. But you were scared of the commitment. It only took you two years to realize. How did you stay with your job so long, but not Gallagher? You didn’t know. And it only served to make you feel even worse about the divorce.

You always find yourself thinking of him now and then, his face never truly leaves your mind. You couldn’t keep a partner for long at all, always searching for some little piece of him in them. While you didn’t want to, your subconscious was just as stubborn as the man himself. The two of you didn’t text anymore, and you assumed he had your number blocked. So, you yourself had assumed he moved on, and in the silliest, saddest part of your mind, you chose to accept that. Perhaps he got a new partner, maybe he’s even married again by now. He deserves it, you think. He was one of, if not the kindest souls you had the pleasure of meeting, let alone sharing a few years of your life with. So, you hoped he was happy.

Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. His days had become so monotonous that they started to blur together. Wake up bright and early, get some breakfast (which consist of the most mediocre meals, cereal and/or poptarts. Milk if he’s lucky enough), rush to work, patrol, break, patrol, home, and back to sleep he goes. He barely takes much care of himself anymore, his stubble much more of a mess than when you left him, hair still untamed. He’s done his best to watch himself and keep up, but in the end, the most he can do after work is drag himself to bed.

He’s missed your face oh so terribly, missed your laughter and humming and simply your voice. What a treat it would be to come home to that once more, sweep you up off your feet after you’ve had such a long day and pamper you in bed. He’d go on and on about how you need to eat properly, get enough sleep, and take care of yourself. Even if he’s had a stressful day, even when it is so very apparent by the way he dragged his feet when he came through the door, the way his voice was low and groggy and he could only get a few words out like he didn’t want to speak, the way his eyebags had gotten deeper, he still had his priority; to care for you. Now, he’s met with no one to care for, refusing to acknowledge himself without you.

Days off for him are a rare occurrence, and when he does get one, he chooses to sleep most of the day. He’d do it every day, if he could. He’ll get up and allow himself a shower, perhaps order some food if he really feels like it. But going out now, even to just treat himself, it’s impossible. Gallagher doesn’t want to bear facing the world without you. Even if it has been three years.

It’s obsession, he tells himself, though it is not. He loved like a dog, and had convinced himself since the moment you two started dating that there would never be a rift or a tear between you two. Years later he still grapples with the truth. He understands that perhaps there will never be a second chance, given how long it has been, especially without so much as a text from you. But, he wants one. So badly. He’d do anything, as he’s repeated to himself so many times, to have you back. To love you once more, to truly love you. And he hates himself for it.

Lately, his schedule has changed. He gave his supervisors full control over his schedule, choosing to open up his availability when you left. Only now had they taken full advantage of that, with the vacancies the Bloodhounds had after the Charmony festival. Despite being Head of the Bloodhounds, a different team handled the schedules, and completely disregarded the years of his life he gave to the Bloodhounds and flip-flopped his schedule around. He was pulling more doubles than ever, night shifts that turned into day shifts, his days off dwindled to one, and ultimately his health was thrown into limbo. Due to the changes, he was unable to sleep properly, at most, he got three hours.

Because of this, he didn’t have time to go to the Dreamjolt Holstery, choosing to put his job over his hobby. Which ultimately made him feel worse. While he tried to protest the changes to his schedule and the fact that it’s been stressful on him, his superiors ignore this, continuing on with the rough and unpredictable schedule. It takes a while for him to break, as strong as he is, he can only take so much.

Time blurs together for Gallagher, what felt like years could be just months, weeks, or days. Everything felt the same to him, even with his skewed schedule. Somehow, in between his shifts, he finds himself at the Holstery, hazy and tired out of his mind. Thankfully, there weren’t many patrons tonight, a few vagrants like himself spread out within the corners. Siobhan was surprised to see him, schooling her expression into neutrality when she saw his state.

Disheveled, tired, near half-dead. He greeted her with an unintelligible mumble, slumping down into a chair. He passes out right then and there, ultimately succumbing to the stress that had fallen on him over the years. Siobahn stares for a moment, unsure of what to do. When Gallagher had stopped showing up at the Holstery without a word, she was worried. The hound always found his way back, but he had been gone for months. And now here he was, in arguably worse shape then he had been for several years.

Coincidentally, you had a week off because of the Charmony Festival (and the subsequent tragedy that happened after), and you found yourself quite bored. It had been quite a while since you drank, seeing as you really only trusted one bar. You chose to leave it be after the divorce, not wanting to disturb Gallagher at all. But you can’t help but miss it. Surely it’s been a long enough time by now, so why not go pay the bar a visit? Surely Gallagher has moved up.

After a couple moments of debating, pacing around your apartment and thinking out a very overcomplicated plan of action if he were to be there. You’d leave immediately of course, avoid any of the awkward conversation, or perhaps any spite he had towards you. What if he came in while you were mid-drink? Then it feels like it’d be unavoidable… Still, you muster up your courage and walk out of your apartment. There shouldn’t be any hard feelings, anyways, right? It had been quite some time, and you two must have moved on by now. Surely you two would be okay if you were to meet again…

The cool(ish) night air calms your nerves, though. You can’t remember the last time you had a nice night stroll like this, even in the buzzing streets of Penacony. The city never truly slept, no matter what had transpired even seconds before. The dead of night could be just noon for people, or even morning. As such, most businesses kept running 24/7. It was always odd to you, even as a Penacony native, but you got used to it eventually. Bright flashing lights in your face at almost all times when you were out, endless ads about random things you’d never need for your daily life, and salesmen trying to corral you into their stores, to get you to buy luxuries even you can’t afford. Such was life, there was no tranquility in most Hours, anyways.

However, it all goes silent the minute you enter the elevator in the Reverie. The idle chatter from the lobby is shut away by the metal doors and a ‘clink’, as the elevator starts its ascent. You stand square in the middle, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wait for the elevator to reach the floor. You can’t help but grow nervous with each second, all those silly, impossible events happening in your head again. What if you did see him? What would you do? It’d be hard to act normal after all these years.

Before you can answer your question, the elevator doors slide open, and your legs carry you through the hallway without hesitance. It’s much more quiet here, a light, jazzy tune playing in the Holstery. There’s no chatter, barely any clatter of the shaker or glasses, if any, and you know you’ve found an opportune time to show up. It had been so long since you’ve even visited the Holstery, your irrational fear holding you back. The amount of dates you and Gallagher had together here, impromptu or planned, was innumerable. You always loved watching him work, and sometimes he allowed you to get behind the bar yourself, teach you how to make certain drinks. Those moments were always special, as were most in the relationship.

When you step into the bar proper, Siobahn looks at you, then smiles gently. She had been the first to know about the divorce, from both you and Gallagher. Given how she was the only coworker Gallagher had liked, and how close you two were when you started dating him, it was only fair she knew. Not that there were many people you two talked to much. But she was supportive of both sides, never taking one or the other.

In front of her, a drunkard with brown hair is passed out on the counter, head in his arms as he snores. You shrug and walk around him silently, a few more chairs down, before sitting down. Siobahn raises an eyebrow and looks between the two of you, before taking a step over so she is standing in front of you. She opens her mouth to say something, pauses, then shakes her head and smiles even wider. Her eyes dart once more to the drunkard, and you turn to look out of curiosity.

He was wearing a white dress shirt and a vest, sleeves rolled up. The scars on his arms were impressive–

Ah.

It clicks only then, the man is Gallagher. You feel your stomach flip-flop, but your expression remains neutral. You don’t know whether you should just walk out now, reach out and tap his shoulder, or just talk with Siobahn. You want to do all three. So badly. You want to leave and avoid this awkward situation before it happens, but at the same time you want to see his face again. You also would love to catch up with Siobahn, seeing as you haven’t seen her in quite a while. But your focus is drawn to Gallagher.

He looks a bit thinner than you remember, more ragged even though you can’t see his face, and suddenly your nerves turn into concern. He never drank alcohol, as far as you knew. He despised the stuff, and really only enjoyed mocktails and virgin drinks. So, why did he decide to drink himself to this point…? In the end, your curiosity wins out, and you lean over, before standing up and sitting closer to him, just one stool between you. He doesn’t smell of alcohol, which soothes your nerves a bit, so you reach out and tap on his shoulder.

He flinches harshly, jerking up with a sharp breath and a cough, before looking down at you. His eyebags are heavy, eyes having a hard time staying open. His stubble is more of a scruff, one that looks quite itchy.

“Oh,” His eyes light up just a smidge when he realizes it’s you, a big, dopey smile spreading across his lips. “It’s you.”

The words are spoken with no ire, like you expected. Instead, he looked like some lovesick puppy, all smiles and sighs as he stared at you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your heart flutter. It’s been far too long since someone’s talked to you like that, let alone looked at you like that, and you are glad it is Gallagher himself.

He does his best to blink the sleep from his eyes, before reaching up and rubbing at them. He takes a deep breath, a sound you fondly remember, one he made in the morning when he didn’t want to go to work but had to. And you find yourself pining for him. You turn your head away quickly, gathering your thoughts and looking to Siobahn for help. What could she do? You don’t know, but you sincerely hoped she could come up with something.

“Ah, well, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you,” She smiles gently, clearly holding back the word ‘two’. She herself doesn’t know exactly who she’s addressing, seeing as Gallagher’s finally awake.

“Yes, I didn’t expect to see you… or Gallagher here tonight,” You do your best to smile through it, but you can feel Gallagher’s hazel eyes burning into the back of your head. You are at war with yourself, telling yourself you can’t be feeling this way for Gallagher, just because of one look. Yet at the same time, you’ve missed him so dearly, it’s hard not to fall. Even with how ragged he looks at the moment.

Behind you, Gallagher sighs, yet you don’t turn to look at him, too afraid that if you were to catch another glimpse, you’d do something that would be contrary to the divorce and what you had told him. Siobahn shoots a quick glance to him as if now asking him to help, but when you don’t turn around to look at him, his shoulders slump. While what you said held no venom, it didn’t hold the fondness he was hoping for, either.

With a grunt, he pushes the stool out and stands up, shaking his head. You finally turn around, but he doesn’t look back, his footsteps slow and sluggish as he finally exits the Holstery. You turn back to Siobahn and the two of you share a look, falling silent for another minute. Perhaps Gallagher didn’t want to see you at all, and his smile was more out of formality and politeness than anything. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt, but you did your best to shrug it off. There was no real reason to feel like he truly wanted you back, anyways. It’d be selfish to think so.

“I guess he’s clocking out, then…” You mumble, an attempt at a weak joke.

“He had to quit about a month ago, actually,” Siobahn shakes her head, wiping down a glass quickly, before setting it down and leaning on the bar. “That’s the first I’ve seen of him since he told me.”

“I see,” You nod, looking down on the counter. You assumed Siobahn wouldn’t let him sleep on the job, anyways, so it made some sense. But why? As far as you remembered, he quite loved this job. “May I ask why?”

“Well, he said it was because of the Bloodhounds changing his schedule,” She shrugs, “So I took his word for it. He didn’t tell me much, though. And we haven’t really talked much since then. What about you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s been… a long while. Since I’ve even texted him,” Saying that makes you feel… horrible. You’ve barely talked to him, and yet he gives you one silly little smile and suddenly your heart is singing for him. “I didn’t expect to see him tonight. Well, I did, but I also didn’t.”

“Y’know, since that was the first time I’ve seen him in a bit… he also looked kinda rough. Real rough. But I mean the way he smiled at you…”

“I know. I know, I noticed it too. Both things. But I don’t think his smile means anything with the way he walked away,”

“He seemed more hurt than anything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that, aside from when you two were married. Not that I’m saying you should get back together, but, he seemed quite–”

“I knowww…” You groan, lowering your head. “I’m starting to regret my decision, not like I can change it now, but the way he looked all sad and like a goddamn puppy, ugh.”

Siobahn chuckles, raising an eyebrow. She allows you to wallow in the silence for a while, before nudging you. “Perhaps it’s time to make up? Only if you want to. But I mean, if you’re feeling this way after, what, two years? Then, maybe…”

There’s a teasing lilt towards the end of her words, and when you look up at her she tilts her head with a small smirk. You hate to admit that she’s right, but also a part of you truly wants to. You’ve missed the intimacy he provided, the way his heart would skip a beat whenever you cuddled up to his chest, even after a couple of years, the way he’d fidget with your fingers when you held hands, or simply the way he’d look at you, how reminiscent his gaze was earlier of you’re previous days of love. Ugh, the more you thought the more you made up your mind.

“Fiiine,” You huff, as if you truly didn’t want to. But the way you get up hastily says otherwise.

“Oh, you’re really gonna try? You’re going to show up at his door?”

“Yeah. I am. I think it’ll be more… I dunno. It just makes more sense.”

“I’m cheering you on,” She chuckles once more, “Text me about the results once you're done. I know it isn’t my place to know, but… well, I’m pretty curious.”

“I will, I will,” You sigh, giving her one last wave before you head out of the Holstery all too quickly. It’s not that you didn’t want to continue talking with Siobahn; you truly did. But if you stayed any longer, you’d convince yourself to leave Gallagher be. And maybe that would be a good thing, but you already made up your mind. You could be chasing after a ghost for all you cared, but you figured you had to try.

The walk to his apartment was full of doubts. The night felt colder than ever, and you did your best to tell yourself to keep going. Perhaps you should’ve stayed at the Holstery and at least taken a shot for confidence. Every single part of you, even your heart, told you to just leave it be and go back to your own apartment. You see him once after a couple years and you decide to make everything right, now? But your legs keep walking, and you can’t tell if you hate it, or love it.

Before you can reach a definitive conclusion on whether to just give it up or go through it, you’re at his door. Suddenly it’s a lot more intimidating than you hoped, almost comically eerie, and you haven’t even knocked yet. Sure, it could seem all sorts of wrong for you to show up at his door, for you to even remember where he lived. But there’s no use worrying about that now, you’re stuck here whether you like it or not, and the only way through is, well, through.

You raise your hand and knock, once, twice– and the door opens. Gallagher stands in front of you, barely registering that you even knocked, looking just about as miserable as he did when you saw him at the Holstery. He blinks, trying to wash away his fatigue, before your presence finally registers.

“Mh, sorry, I can’t listen to your sales pitch,” He mumbles, as you take a couple steps back and he closes the door behind him.

“Gallagher.” That’s all you have to say, and he practically flinches, eyes widening for a second.

“A-Ah, sorry, I didn’t– I have work,” He stumbles over his words for a moment like he had on your first date, then immediately schools his expression back into something more neutral, locking the door quickly, before trying to walk past.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and grab his wrist. He pauses and looks back at you, and you swear you see a twinkle in his eye. Though, aside from that, you can feel the worry fester in your gut. If he has work, it’s so very selfish of you to pull him back. But you do.

“I’m sorry, I just,” You don’t know what to say, but neither of you pull away. Your hand loosens around his wrist, and it takes every bit of self control to not reach down and grab his hand. He’s still so warm, as warm as you remembered, and even though he looks quite beat, he still looks like the man you loved.

The silence stretches on for an unbearable amount of time. Gallagher doesn’t pry his wrist from your hand, despite how late he was for work already. He can’t find the strength to do it. He’s longed for something like this moment for quite some time, and now that he has it, employment be damned. His supervisors couldn’t give a damn about him, so why should he have to feel bad for being late? Plus, he had wanted this. So goddamn badly. If he pulled away now, all those nights hugging pillows and ‘i’m sorry’s didn’t mean much anymore. Perhaps they’d mean he had moved on. And he should be okay with that. But he wasn’t.

“I missed you,” He finally manages to speak, turning his entire body towards you. Once more, he looks like some lost puppy, and by the Aeons do you want to reach out and pet him.

“I’m sorry.” Is all you can get out in your fluster. You missed him, yes, and seeing him was only such a painful reminder of that. But at the same time, seeing his state, and remembering the piss poor excuse you left him with, how could you not apologize? ‘I’m just not ready’, what a joke that was. You loved him, dammit, and you weren’t ready? He gave you everything, he was ready. He was more than ready. And somehow, after three years of him cuddling up to you every night, cooking for you, making special drinks, all those sweet nicknames and the way he softened up after an especially rough nights, it took you a year of being in a relationship and two years of being married for you to tell him you weren’t ready?

Not only that, but he had given you no pushback. He didn’t beg you to stay or try to talk some sense into you, he just nodded and let the process start. That was it. You don’t know what impression it gave you, whether he wanted you to be happy or if he didn’t care for it at all. But hearing his words now made you realize what a fool you had been.

“Don’t– Don’t apologize. It’s my fault,” Gallagher finally wrenches his wrist free from your hand, only to put his own on your shoulders. “I wasn’t enough, so I oughta apologize.”

“No, no! That’s not what it was,” You place your hands on his biceps instinctively, and– Aeons, they’re still big– squeeze. “It was me being stupid. That’s all.”

“You’re not stupid,”

“Well I was for the way I left you,”

“No, don’t talk about yourself like that,” He finally lets go, hands falling to his sides with a huff. “I wasn’t enough, I get it. There’s no reason to apologize to me–”

“There is! You were more than enough–” You find yourself getting angry at his words. You pause, taking a deep breath and calming yourself. “I just… This isn’t about that. Maybe it is. I don’t know. You look like– You don’t look well. And I’m worried.”

Another silence falls between you two, making your stomach flip-flop. You can’t push away the previous exchange, and no doubt you’ll need to return to it later, but at the same time you didn’t want to keep him.

All you can do is nod fervently, because you worried that if you opened your mouth, you wouldn’t shut up. You didn’t want to make him late for work, but at the same time you wanted to tell him to just stay home and talk now. There was no way he could get work done in that state, especially at his rank. Before you can speak your mind, he’s halfway down the hall. However, he stands up a little taller, rather than dragging his feet as he walks away, and you can’t help but feel a surge of pride along with butterflies in your stomach.

.  * 　　　 ✦     .     　⁺ 　 .

Eight hours feel like twelve hours while you wait. You decided you’d busy yourself with some chores at home to clear your head, but it ultimately made the day feel even longer. For the last couple of hours, all you could do was sit on your couch and fidget. It felt like you HAD to wait for this moment. If you started something now, you would be betraying a part of yourself.

All you had to wait for was a notification. Part of you wanted to just go over to his apartment and wait out the rest of the time. You felt an overwhelming need to apologize, your nerves eating at you all day. Seeing the shape he was in, the melancholy that lingered in the air no matter his sappy smile or his posture, you wanted to take it all away. You wanted to say it was some sort of savior complex, but to tell the truth, it was your feelings. Your silly, pathetic feelings. One little look and suddenly you were rethinking everything that had led to this point.

You could worry about it all day, but you could never reach a conclusion on whether you should give it up or push through to have this talk with him. All you could do was hope that something positive comes out from this. At worst, nothing would truly change in your life. You’d carry on as you have been, one step at a time. At best… perhaps you’d get a second shot. If you did, you promised yourself you wouldn’t let it go so easily. You wouldn’t let him go.

Just before you lose your mind, your phone vibrates. You’re way too quick to check the notification, like a lovestruck highschooler. It’s been quite some time since you’ve seen his name pop up on your phone, and just that causes butterflies to flutter in your stomach, despite your nerves.

“I’m on my way home now, if you’d like to meet up at my place”

It’s so oddly formal, coming from him. But you suppose you aren’t any better, your own texts coming off just as awkward, a simple ‘omw’ sent back. You didn’t mean to be so curt, but if you hadn’t been, you would’ve started to overthink your answer, even to just a simple text.

With a deep sigh, you get up off your couch and grab your keys and wallet, shoving them into your pockets. You take another moment at your door, trying to compose yourself. It feels quite right to see him again, to talk with him again, and you can’t stop the guilt from creeping into your veins. You are hoping for… more, again. After you left him for something so very selfish. You had stopped talking to him about three months or so after the divorce went through, rationalizing it as the fact that you and him needed to move on. You couldn’t just stay friends, and you didn’t want to impede on his own life. You made up all sorts of scenarios to keep your mind at ease, and for all you knew, you lied to yourself so that you wouldn’t look like a fool running back.

Yet, here you are. Yearning for more, more, more. You wanted to apologize– you did apologize. But you felt the need to do more. You didn’t know what was going on in his head, you barely understood why he looked like such a mess, and you, for the most part, wanted to somehow swoop in and save him. Like a hug and a kiss would fix all that was wrong. Maybe it would, but usually, that wasn’t how the world works.

Before you make your anxiety worse, you open the door and decide to push through. It’s all for clarity, at the very least. You aren’t doing this to possibly get back together with him, it’s to provide you, yourself, and Gallagher clarity. Clarity. All you can do is repeat that word to yourself as you lock your door and make your way down the hallway.

Each step makes you feel heavier, as you dread what’s to come. Every possible outcome starts to scare you, good and bad. You shouldn’t be that scared, with the way Gallagher acted around you, even if it was just a few minutes in total. But you can’t help it, the sudden wave of guilt twists at your gut and claws at your mind, and it takes all your strength to not turn on your heels and high tail it back to your apartment. You don’t know how many more times you will fight with yourself over this, but you can only hope this will be the last.

.  * 　　　 ✦     .     　⁺ 　 .

Gallagher’s apartment isn’t necessarily as well-kept as it was when you two lived together. It isn’t exactly messy, you can tell he tried to clean it up in the few minutes he had from getting back from work and you coming over. But overall, there was a certain air of… melancholy. Bitter and thick, reflecting Gallagher’s state.

He himself seemed too nervous to sit down, choosing to stand by the couch and mess with his tie. He looked even more tired than before, voice rough with exhaustion. You had asked multiple times when you entered his apartment if he’d like you to come back after a later time, and he said it was fine each and every time.

“Would you like something to drink?” His voice comes out a tad weak, looking down at you with an oddly sheepish smile.

“I– No, I can get something myself… if that’s okay,” The last thing you’d want to do is make him work more.

“No, I’d really like to. Please? I promise I want to,” He gives you the look, soft eyes, sheepish smile, once again, like a lost puppy. “Please.”

You can’t help but sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. It’s the kind of look he used when he wanted you to stay a little longer in bed when you two woke up (despite the fact that you both had work most of the time), and you cannot find the strength to say ‘no’ a second time. You give him a pitiful nod, and off he goes to the kitchen.

While he busies himself with the drink, you look around the living room. Not much has changed, save for your own items that were missing. Dog fur clung to nearly everything, as was the norm. He had brought his Doberman into the relationship, the sweetest pup you’ve met (aside from maybe Gallagher himself), who had endless amounts of energy. He had named the dog ‘Whiskey’, which… didn’t fit the dog at all. But who were you to judge? You had a puppy and a boyfriend at the time, so you were happy. You did kind of miss the dog, seeing as your apartment didn’t allow pets of any kind.

You wanted to ask where the dog was, looking over the back of the couch and into the kitchen. Gallagher was completely zoned in, a couple of different bottles of drinks and syrups on the counter, a couple ice cubes in a rather fancy whiskey glass, all while he was mixing the drinks. It is a sight for sore eyes, the tranquility of it all. There had been quite a lot of nights where you had sat exactly where you are now, and watched him work. He always loved mixing drinks, on the clock or off the clock. And you were more than happy to try most of them. His concentration softens his features, and for a spell he looks younger, more energetic, and not as weak as he has been.

You catch yourself blushing, and quickly turn your head away, turning your focus down to your hands, fidgeting nervously. What were you going to ask? Right, ask about Whiskey. Instead, you keep your mouth shut and force your mind to keep quiet. You can’t help the influx of memories that wash over you, especially in this space. Being not only close to Gallagher, but your old home, there’s a warmth that burns in your heart, one that can be extinguished all too quickly.

Before you can fluster (or perhaps hurt) yourself more, he’s placing the whiskey glass in front of you. It’s a nice, vibrant red, no doubt something fruity. A mocktail he made you quite a lot, one that you were always worried he would get sick of making. But, apparently not.

“So, uhm,” He starts, taking a seat on the couch as well. He leaves one cushion between you two, unable to allow himself to get closer. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” You didn’t expect him to start with that of all things. What did he have to apologize for? “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. I feel I have to. I don’t think I was…” He trails off, a note of sorrow in his voice.

Two years, he reminds himself. Two years, and he still felt this way. He wallowed every night, begged whatever force was out there for it to be different. Once again, he knew it was dangerous. There was no love for something such as him in this world, and yet he held onto the thought of you every waking day. For all he knew, you could be his undoing. If you were to find out the “Gallagher” you knew was not the Gallagher he was… it scared him. Yet, it scared him even more to be without you. Is it truly so bad to look for a warm hand when the clock stops ticking? Would it be wrong for you to be his final memory?

“I don’t think I was enough.” He says in an infinitely weaker and mournful tone. He looks away from you, shrinking in on himself.

The words themselves stun you. Suddenly, your throat feels tight and tears prick at your eyes. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You stare for a moment, taking in the way he finally seems smaller. A man you’ve always known to be strong, who you swore you’ve never seen be emotional aside from the day of your wedding, curled up in on himself, vulnerable. Somehow, hearing them now, it hurts even more than it did earlier. And you realize you have to prove him wrong, to tell him it was you, not him, wasn’t enough.

In a moment of selfish action, you scoot over next to him and reach for his hand. It is warm, and it trembles. But he doesn’t swat your hand away, nor does he look at you. After a beat, you grab his other hand, squeezing both.

“Oh, Gallagher…” You mutter, looking into his eyes even though they avoid yours. “That’s not it. You were more than enough, I promise you. You really were.” You squeeze his hands once more, to prove your point. “Somehow, I got it in my head that.. that I wasn’t ready. Even after all the time we spent together. And that’s on me– It really is.”

Finally, he looks up at you, his eyes glossy, mirroring your own. He squeezes your hands back, and relaxes just a little.

“I didn’t mean to rush you…” He responds, voice slightly shaky. He forces a small smile onto his lips however, and it makes your heart stutter.

“No, no, it wasn’t that. I was ready. I swear. I just– I should’ve talked to you, instead of doing what I did,” You huff, shaking your head. “It was unfair of me to come to that conclusion just because of some anxiety.”

“Well, I don’t think you should blame yourself like that,” Even his voice softens as he straightens up, turning his entire body towards you. “I really do wish you would’ve talked to me, but… if you were anxious… I mean, I get it. But don’t talk about it like that.”

You open your mouth to say something, but words fail you. All you can do is nod and meet his gaze, unable to tear yours away from those hazel eyes.

“... I mean, it was pretty expensive for something as simple as that, but– Sorry, bad joke,” He chuckles sheepishly, “But it’s okay. If anything, I’m glad we’re talking about it now, instead of never…”

His eyes rake over your face, down to your hands. He takes another breath like he’s about to say something, then pauses, shakes his head, and chuckles once more.

“I’m sorry,” Is all you can choke out, your hold on his hands loosening.

“It’s okay, there’s no need to apologize. I get it, I really do,”

Gallagher lets go of your hands as well, turning his hands over and presenting his palms to you. It’s a gesture that is so small and from the outside would seem meaningless, but something you always quite loved– as were most things you have seen tonight. You had a habit of playing with his hands whenever you could, running your thumb over the back of his hand when you two were holding hands, messing with his fingers to annoy him when you were watching a movie, and tracing over the creases in his palms to calm yourself down if your mind wouldn’t shut up. It helped when you were anxious, or when you couldn’t fall asleep.

Without thinking, you use your thumbs to trace over the creases in his palms, hands still rough and calloused as you remembered. For a moment, it helps calm your nerves, allowing you to think clearly. Yet, despite that, you can’t form any proper words. You untense and allow yourself to really, truly breathe. After a beat, he drops his hands into his lap, eyes searching your face for any sort of hesitance. You find yourself chasing after your hands for a moment, catching yourself and clearing your throat as you pull away.

“... I have a question. That you can say no to, okay?” He leans back, trying to seem more confident, but he wears an unsure smile on his lips.

“Okay,” You nod, your stomach, once again, flip-flopping.

“I… want to try again. If you feel the same, of course. I just…” There’s a subtle blush that dusts his cheeks as he looks around the room, reaching up and scratching at his stubble. “I meant what I said earlier today. I missed you.”

Your mouth goes dry. It isn’t something you expected– though, it is quite welcome. But you can’t help but hesitate, it sounds a little too good to be true. You bite your lip and allow the question to hang in the air for a second longer, still unable to conjure up a response. You’d tell him you’d love to, but–

“Just– Just a few dates, here and there. We don’t have to pick up where we left off,” Gallagher chimes in at your hesitation, before shrinking away, worried that he’s being too invasive.

You look down to your lap, trying to string your thoughts together and form a coherent response. This was the best possible scenario you had hoped for, so why do you feel so unsure? You fidget with your fingers, all sorts of ‘what if’s popping up in your head. What if it ends up like last time? What if this isn’t just a case of ‘right person, wrong time’, what if it always had been ‘wrong person, wrong time’? You loved Gallagher when you first started dating, you loved him when you married him, and evidently, you loved him even after the divorce. And yet… it was hard to say yes. But you couldn’t let your anxiety eat away at you this time, you promised that to yourself at that moment.

“I’d like that,” You finally speak, voice quieter than you anticipated, and shy.

When you look up at Gallagher, you can tell he’s trying to hold back his own little celebration. He opens his mouth to say something, moves a little in his seat, then closes it. His hand raises from his lap for a second, before he places it back down. Eventually, he figures out what to do. He flashes you a simple grin, the kind that made the corners of his eyes and his nose crinkle.

“Great. Yes. Totally. Okay, I’ll uhm– well, my schedule isn’t the best anymore, so… I don’t know. I mean, this can be a date, right?” He stumbles and trips over his words, unsure if he should let his excitement be visible or not. You haven’t seen him this flustered in a long, long time. And it warms your heart.

“It can,” You chuckle, tilting your head. “I mean, I did kinda miss our movie nights.”

“Perfect! I’ll, uh, well,” He moves to grab the remote off the coffee table, eyes flickering over to you in a bout of nervousness. “Guess I’ll get it started. Ah, wait– do you want some popcorn, or anything…?”

“Ah, actually… Can I ask where Whiskey is?” You can’t help but go back to the dog, as if having a movie night without the pup felt wrong.

“Oh, I-I left him in my room. Didn’t want him to annoy you or anything… uhm, did you want me to go get him?”

“Yes. Please.”

At your eager response, Gallagher practically scrambles to get up. You listen to him pad down the hallway to his room, before he opens the door. The minute that door opens, you hear Whiskey’s claws scratching at the hardwood floor as he runs to the living room to check out the new smells. He wasn’t much of a pup anymore, around 3 years old now. His floppy ears bounce up and down as he runs to you, and he practically crashes into you when he jumps up onto the couch (and ultimately into your chest). You can’t help but laugh as his entire body wiggles in excitement, licking at your face and sticking his nose into it every time you turn your head to avoid his barrage.

Gallagher can’t help but chuckle as he watches, taking his seat back, betraying you and leaving you to fend for yourself against Whiskey’s storm of kisses. Gallagher can’t help but ‘subtly’ reach over and wrap his arm around your shoulders. He figured since you were just soooo defenseless, why not sneak in? Despite the awkward, childish anxiety, like you two had just started dating from earlier, this feels so very… normal. Regardless, you didn’t have time to react either way. Whiskey was relentless with his kisses, determined to make up for the several years he didn’t see you.

Eventually, you are able to pry the dog off of you, and the space calms down for a moment, despite the excited wagging and half-lunging at you. Considering how much he has grown, it’s kind of hard to pull him back. But within a minute or two, he finally calms down, finding his peace on your lap, laying his head on your leg and staring up at you with big ol’ eyes, begging for attention every time you stop petting him.

“Let’s see…” Gallagher hums, finally turning on the tv and figuring out which streaming service to use. “What are you feeling? Horror? Classic? I’m game for whatever.”

“Hmm,” You tilt your head, scratching behind Whiskey’s ear. “I dunno. You pick.”

With a huff of approval, Gallagher chooses a streaming service, quickly scrolling through a couple of movies, before choosing a thriller. Why not be a little cliche? Even if you were used to this stuff by now, he can’t help himself. You can’t help but chuckle and smile at his choice, looking up at him through your lashes quickly. In a moment of selfishness (or perhaps lovestruck idiocy), you lean up and press a kiss to his cheek, before leaning your head onto his shoulder fully.

Gallagher can’t help but smile like a fool, hand squeezing your shoulder. He dares not to look down at you, as if he was afraid this wasn’t real. Ironic, coming from him. But, he couldn’t help it. Something he yearned for after so long, finally in his hands… Someone he had yearned for. Whiskey, however, is quite displeased with this show of affection, giving you a lethal side-eye, as if to say ‘how dare you show him love and not me.’ Such betrayal that you have shown Whiskey, choosing Gallagher over him.

© freyito, 2025 | masterlist | queue | kofi | discord server | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN, REPOST ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[wintergrofyuri]

@itsonlypolite

@wrathful-banette

TEEHEE OK

so. i forgot to say. skeptic IS a detective. a pi. a gumshoe. a dick, if you will. but i guess thats sort of implied already. i just wanted to state it clearly.

but anyways.

this whole thing was made bc im so fucking insane about the cage chapter. the themes about being a slave to fate and how our actions are not our own and losing control of yourself and your life. just. ugh. it speaks to me a lot. and ofc skeptic being an old timey detective is so universal. i joke about hating him but i Do like him and find him interesting. i want to put him in situations.

and thats what this whole au is. putting skeptic in situations. hearing new perspectives, having his theories proven wrong, dealing with uncooperative suspects, red herrings. i love when hes wrong or ignored or otherwise slighted. he seems very. sure of himself? not an arrogant fool, but more. a guy who hasnt been wrong before. ykno. and i think ur typical film noir (with slay the princess elements like cycles and fate) is just a really natural fit to explore all that.

but its Also about playing with the whole "perception based creature" thing that the princess has going on. i Love "character nobody really knows" and the princess, with her multiple forms and fluid personality, works Rlly rlly well with this concept. i love the princess and i think she deserves to be a mysterious "haunting the narrative" type character. shes like a spy with multiple disguises. or someone in witness protection.

and also bartender hero lives in my mind like a parasite. oh my god that reminds me i need to talk about the others ok.

hero is the bartender (as stated before) of "the long quiet" bc i think its funny theyre still in tlq even in this silly film noir au.

stubborn is the bouncer/bodyguard/whatever the fuck you call it. he kicks ppl out when they get too rowdy.

cheated is The regular there. he either sits at a table and mopes or gets roped into a card game with opportunist that results in both of them being kicked out (theres always blood drawn).

opportunist is a conman/snake oil salesman whos only still allowed bc hero is too nice and opp is too good at buttering ppl up.

smitten is a tortured artist, lamenting to anyone who will listen about his lost love and muse. he is never paying his damn tab, but again, hero is too nice.

cold is a mysterious figure who only visits the bar like. once a month. he barely talks to anyone and only drinks water. (hes an assassin LOL)

broken is the local priest (the god is shifty btw) who only visits bc hero told him to get out more. he doesnt drink either. he just looks vaguely haunted.

contrarian is a guy whos hard to pin down. you cant find him, you just have to pray he appears ykno. the only people who Know him are hero and cold, but hero refuses to divulge anything abt him and cold is just. Cold. ykno.

paranoid is skeptic's partner (lol) and secretary. he does half the work around the office (maybe more) and lives with skeptic. he complains and protests and threatens to quit, but its all bark. hes very loyal. to his own frustration.

now im going to be honest. hunted is Super difficult to put in this au. given his role as a fight or flight, base animal instinct type, he cant be fit into an au like this very easily. ive considered a hunter, but that doesnt fit him at all. so. im a hack and i should delete my tumblr.

but no seriously hunted is very difficult. ALSO. THE NARRATOR. ive been thinking if i should add him and how prevelant he should be and what he would be like. if he should be in the bar or if skeptic would need to meet him somewhere else. maybe hes the villain ykno. but im. not sure and i dont wanna make the whole thing Too big ykno. i swear its not just bc i dont like him (joke (hes fun to hate (but also i hate him), i genuinely am stuck on what to do with him.

anyways. thats pretty much it. i dont wanna derail this post with. yaoi ramblings. so ill keep it close to my chest. also b4 u ask, im. not going to make this a fic or anything. i dont have the energy for something like this and im not very. good at writing longform anyway. i much prefer tiny drabbles. and anyways, its kinda. rlly unfinished cuz ive been too busy thinking too hard about minor details.

listen to 3 time tony winner, broadway classic, city of angels with music by cy coleman, lyrics by david zippel, and book by larry gelbart. thanks.

I ALMOST FORGOT. theyre still birds 💜. yayyyy 💞

[forlorn-crows]

may i request a ficlet or a headcanon on how mountain and rain fell in love?

anon, i need you to know i SQUEALED so loud when you first sent me this. i love these boys so MUCH, and im so happy you asked about them. consequently, i have written you an entire fic fhghdhjf. happy mountain monday!

tagging @divine-misfortune for giving me ideas for this, including the title

𝑩𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒚 𝑭𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Rating: Teen

Relationship(s): Mountain/Rain, Mountain & Dewdrop, Mountain/Zephyr (mentioned)

Tags: fluff, romantic fluff, first kiss, falling in love, pre-relationship. mentions of past relationships & now turbulent ones. they're just so cute okay :((

Words: 2,648

It happens quickly, like a rushing river thrusting debris together after a storm. Leaves and shorn-off buds tangling with algae before coming to rest at a rocky bend in the stream. The current carries them towards each other—part chance, part fate, part cruel circumstance. Gentle in the way it allows them to float on the surface, but persistent in the way it doesn’t let up until they ultimately intertwine.  In that way, Mountain can’t help the way he’s been drawn to Rain.

read the rest under the cut, or on AO3!

It happens quickly, like a rushing river thrusting debris together after a storm. Leaves and shorn-off buds tangling with algae before coming to rest at a rocky bend in the stream. The current carries them towards each other—part chance, part fate, part cruel circumstance. Gentle in the way it allows them to float on the surface, but persistent in the way it doesn’t let up until they ultimately intertwine. 

In that way, Mountain can’t help the way he’s been drawn to Rain. In a whirlwind of summonings, the water ghoul stayed unfazed from the beginning: cool, collected. The ease with which he took to their routine and their lives gained all of Mountain’s admiration. He was the fresh scent of petrichor after months of brimstone and burnt skin. 

Dew was . . . well, Dew was different now, and more connected to Aether than ever. None of them could help the fact they all mourned his water in different ways. It was what it was—and that made it easy for Mountain to let the new water ghoul in while he temporarily loved the old one from a distance. 

Melancholy, perhaps. Thankfully, now, it’s becoming easier to figure it all out, even amongst the chaotic shuffle of ghouls, instruments, and authority. They’ve had a few moments, some good, some bad. Mountain’s accepted, after many weeks of unbridled anger, stubbornness, and isolation, that it simply will take time.

And woven into the healing and the mess of it all is that bright cerulean lure, flashing over and over. 

It doesn’t help, of course, that Rain is gorgeous. Lithe and sharp, siren-like in the way he involuntarily commands Mountain’s attention. But more than that; it’s the way he lets mistakes roll off of him in rivulets. The way he walks around like he’s been there a thousand years, but never in a cocky way—more like he finds comfort in everything and everyone with an ease that only adds to his elegance. 

It’s the way he bounds over to Mountain while he’s working outside the greenhouse to ask if he needs help instead of breezing by on his way to the lake. Always offering for the earth ghoul to join him (Mountain’s scared shitless of making a fool of himself being alone with him, so he never does). 

And, it’s the way that Rain really, really listens to him. Eyes soft and kind, always cocking his head in genuine interest when he speaks. How he doesn’t let anyone pull him away for some heated rendezvous or grab him for another practice session when they’re deep in conversation.

Slowly but surely, he’s gotten to know the water ghoul. Little smiles exchanged while he watches Dew teach Rain the bass. Sharing favorite foods, like orange blossom infused honey to drizzle over Rain’s toast at breakfast. Neutral compliments that turn into lengthy conversations at the end of their rhythm section sectionals (where Mountain doesn’t miss the amused, knowing shake of Aether’s head as he exits the practice room, leaving them to it). Jokes shared over dish duty at the end of the night, long walks around the abbey and its grounds where their shoulders brush and Rain’s face lights up like the most lustrous sapphire. 

The earth ghoul just can’t seem to have enough of him—of his genuineness. His openness to learning new things while always being honest about who he is and what he needs. 

What he wants, though? Who he wants? Well, Mountain is a little blind to that. 

He, however, is not blind to his own wants. 

Wants that flutter to life in his belly when he walks in on Rain in the baths one afternoon. Mountain can’t help that he blushes something fierce, steps stuttering as he contemplates continuing or fleeing. There’s no need to say sorry, at least; it’s not an intrusion to walk in on another ghoul in their shared bath house. But that doesn’t stop Mountain from feeling like it is, with the way he’s alone, poised somehow perfectly in the patch of setting sun streaming in through the skylights. Running fingers through raven-black hair as he massages his shampoo into his scalp.

It’s not the first time he’s seen him naked before. They’ve been to the lake together a handful of times, where Rain has thus far preferred to be bare as the day he was summoned. But at this moment? He almost seems more . . . real. More ethereal and mesmerizing. Even from a few yards away he can see the faint markings scattered across his shoulders and back, almost white in the dimming light, popping against his blue-toned skin. The fins along his ears glow close to orange as the scattered beams of sunlight shine through the thin skin. 

Mountain could admire him for hours. Trace up and down the fins on his spine, map out his spots like constellations. Watch his gills fluff and flutter. He wants very badly for Rain to let him. 

One day.

Eventually, the water ghoul notices his guest, looking over his shoulder as he squeezes on the ends of his hair. His cerulean eyes crinkle up at the corners when he notices Mountain staring (gawking, really), and the earth ghoul is nearly brought to his knees right there. 

“Hi, Mountain,” he says smoothly. Underneath the water, his finned tail swishes. 

“Uh,” Mountain clears his throat, “ . . . hi.” It’s so small and hesitant and he wants to kick himself. Any shred of nonchalance leaving his body the moment Rain puts his eyes on him.

The water ghoul just smiles, tipping his head towards the water in front of him. “Come join me.” His voice is sweet and melodic as it echoes against the high ceilings and mixes with the soft bubbling sound of circulating water. Every part of him a siren’s call.

Something akin to bashfulness creeps up his spine, face going hot at the thought of disrobing entirely in front of a creature so, so much more gorgeous than he. While he’s seen Rain naked before, Rain’s never seen him naked, and though he has no qualms about being naked in front of kin (he’s learned the hard way about human ideals of decency), something about it being the first time the water ghoul will see more than just his chest and calves has his heart fluttering like a mortal teenager in a romcom. 

“Sure. Thanks.” Lords below, have mercy. He strips quickly before he can think about backing out, dropping his clothes into a haphazard bundle on one of the benches. 

“No soap?” Rain observes his lack of toiletries as he places his towel at the bath’s edge. 

“Oh. No; was coming more for a soak,” Mountain explains, slipping into the water. He can feel the heat radiating from the tiles underneath his feet, a soothing temperature that instantly eases the tension in his tired muscles. He trills contently. 

The water ghoul makes a thoughtful noise as he tips his head back for a rinse. Mountain watches the ridge of his throat stand out against his neck as it bends, the gills on either side fanning out slightly as the skin around them pulls taught. Before his gaze can wander past the beginning of his sternum and take in the way his chest tips towards the ceiling, though, Rain straightens back up, hair now slicked back against his scalp. 

“Well, you’re welcome to use mine. If you change your mind.” The fins on his ears twitch and shake off the residual water droplets, sending some flying towards Mountain’s face. 

“He-ey,” he accuses, squinting one eye and blinking the other rapidly. “I think there was some shampoo in that one.” 

Rain grins, sharp double fangs on full mischievous display. “Oops. Guess you’ll have to rinse it off.”

Mountain sighs and rubs at his cheek with the back of his hand, head shaking slightly. He takes an over-exaggerated breath, holding it all in his cheeks and raising his eyebrows at the water ghoul before sinking beneath the water, submerging completely. For as dense as his hair is, it thankfully wets easily, and he’s pushing back up to full height—now fully drenched—after only a few seconds. 

Rain’s laugh reverberates around him, pretty and delighted. Mountain knows it’s because of the hair in his eyes, most likely transforming his appearance closer to that of an unkempt highland cow than a slightly disheveled earth ghoul. Mountain chuckles in response, shaking off like a dog. 

“You asked for this,” he says as their laughter dies down. He’s about to raise his hands to his face and push back the wet strands, but instead, Rain’s there suddenly, brushing the hair off his forehead with soft, cool hands and thumbing the water away from his eyes. Mountain’s breath catches in his chest, heart beating very fast as Rain’s hands pause to linger on his cheeks. 

They’ve never been this close—such a distinct lack of distance that Mountain can feel the breath from Rain’s nose fanning over his slightly parted lips. It’s been difficult enough in the moments Rain bumps against him in the hall or when their hands brush when passing plates at dinner. Touch that lingers for hours afterwards. Now he’s within the circle of the water ghoul’s arms with nothing but bath water between them, and Belial, he might not survive the next few minutes. 

“H-hi,” he whispers. Anything to not break this spell, despite the urge he has to slip from his hands and drown himself in embarrassment. 

“Hi,” Rain smiles. His eyes dart down to Mountain’s nose, back up again, then down to his lips. And his gaze stays there as he tilts his head to the side and asks, so blatantly: “Will you kiss me?”

Mountain nods so fast he thinks his brain rattles in his skull. 

Rain laughs again, and Mountain’s heart swells with something he dare not yet name. 

“C’mere, then.” And Rain is pulling him in, shifting his hands to hold against the nape of his neck, thumbs at the hinge of his jaw. Mountain can’t help the noise that escapes him when their lips connect, Rain’s so soft and cool it makes him ache. It takes all his willpower not to slot their bodies together when he places his hands on the water ghoul’s waist. He’s so smooth, skin almost taking on a stingray-like texture from the water and stray soap residue. 

The kiss is brief, chaste, but not without movement. Lips meeting, parting, then meeting again with softened breaths shared by their noses. A flurry of excitement runs through him when Rain smiles against his mouth; a juvenile feeling, but one that warms his entire chest. One that he has to have a tight hold on, lest he get too excited.

When Rain turns his head, rubbing their noses together, Mountain huffs against his lips as another kaleidoscope of butterflies fills his belly. But he pulls away after that, their mouths separating with a soft sound. All at once he becomes frozen, eyes still closed—almost like he’s drifting through space, memorizing the feeling of Rain’s lips moving against his.

Rain laughs breathily. “You still with me?”

Mountain bites his lip, eyebrows quirking up in the middle. His hands are still sliding against the water ghoul’s skin. Just feeling. The smoothness of his skin only makes him want to touch him more. 

“Uh-huh.” Mountain can hear himself how distant he sounds, how terribly infatuated he is just from one kiss. It brings him back to those early days with Zephyr: how cautious and reserved he was around the elegant air ghoul when they gave him attention. How they managed to pull something genuine and warm out of him over those first few months. How Mountain’s world changed the moment Zephyr pulled him down to their height and pressed their lips to his. 

And maybe that’s what it was about Rain that hooked Mountain from the start. That similar brand of ease and elegance, the nonjudgemental willingness to help him through his stubborn, thick head and realize yes, this ghoul wanted him. Where Zephyr helped him gain confidence to live a life topside, Rain has helped him rejuvenate that life and give him purpose again. 

Hard not to fall (over and over again) for a ghoul like that. 

After probably too long of a pause, Mountain opens his eyes. Rain’s smiling at him, blue eyes sparkling. Everything about him outshines anything else in his view, and he just has to return the smile. Mountain rubs his thumbs over his hip bones, sharp but smooth, so pleasing to touch that he just wants to touch him over and over. Rain scoots millimeters closer and hums thoughtfully.

“Well?” He’s still holding his face between his hands. He moves them from Mountain’s jaw and slides them down his neck and over his shoulders, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.

Mountain gasps softly. Grips Rain’s hips a little tighter as he watches the water ghoul lick his lips. He doesn’t answer his question, because all he wants to do is pull Rain right back in. 

“Will you kiss me again?” It’s easy to ask—easy to want more from him, want to give him more. He could sink into this warmth between them and happily never come out.

“You don’t have to ask,” Rain smiles, already closing the gap between their mouths—and now their bodies—again. This time, he lets himself touch, really touch. Arms circling his waist, snaking between his shoulder blades, hands running softly along his fins and moving upwards to tangle in his hair. It would be too easy to completely let go, lose himself in it all and let Rain devour him right here in the bath. Open up for him and let him take all of him. But he doesn’t want to get too far, too carried away. Not here. Not now. 

Not yet. 

Rain works his hands over the planes of his chest, his stomach, lingering just on the edge of politeness as he familiarizes himself with Mountain’s little tufts of fur. Skilled, thin fingers twist and pet at the mousy brown strands dusting his chest, his stomach. Still kissing chastely, but not without intention or desire. 

Tiny wings flutter faster in Mountain’s stomach, swooping high and low in their wild flight. Pushing little sounds out of his throat as Rain huffs softly against his lips. It’s too easy to let him hear those sounds—illustrating how much he wants him, letting him hear all the ways he makes him feel just at the slightest of touches. 

Rain pulls away, and Mountain dizzily follows. Chasing kiss-puffed lips and the sweet taste of laughter breathed between them. But the water ghoul slips from his grasp with ease, wading away from him.

“Wait, but . . .” Mountain doesn’t actually know what to say. His lips and body buzz where Rain last touched, nerves alight. 

Rain just shakes his head and smiles. “Plenty more where that came from, Mount.” He pulls himself out of the bath, and Mountain swears he bends over purposefully just to make him look. Rain runs a towel over his body and squeezes the bulk of the water from his hair. Then he tosses the towel in the bin in favor of a soft waffle-knit robe, sighing happily as he slips it on. 

Before Mountain can say anything else, Rain’s scooping up his soaps and shuffling out of the bathhouse in a pair of garishly blue rubber sandals (completely in contrast to the muted stone-gray of his robe, but Mountain supposes those kinds of shoes don’t come in sophisticated colors). The smile stays on his face even as he rounds the corner. 

Leaving Mountain alone, tingling everywhere. 

“Belial, help me . . .” he mutters into the empty room. He sinks down, nose deep into the water and equally as deep into those lingering, fluttery feelings. 

[wildmayhemz]

Late-night encounters and the games we play

Pre Caracas Gabriel T Rorke X (medical) Reader

This is an apology for not finishing that work in progress. I forgot that I finished this one😵‍💫 im pretty sure it’s no gender but please correct me if I’m wrong.

No warnings

————————

The night was deep, the air thick with the lingering scent of cigars and cheap whiskey. The low hum of conversation in the officer’s lounge had faded as the night stretched on, leaving only three men at the table. Merrick, Elias, and Rorke nursed the bottom of their drinks, the camaraderie of war-hardened men evident in the comfortable silence.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Elias said, swirling his glass. His tone was casual, but the meaning ran deeper.

Rorke let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “That’s the job.” He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like a predator shaking off the day’s hunt. “We don’t get the luxury of slowing down.”

Merrick raised a brow. “Maybe not, but you could try acting like you’re still human. For morale.”

Rorke scoffed, tipping his drink back. “Morale’s your job, Merrick.”

It wasn’t long before they called it a night, and Rorke made his way back through the base. The halls were quiet, save for the occasional radio chatter in the distance. The tactical lighting cast sharp shadows against the walls, but something else caught his attention—the soft glow spilling out from the medical office.

Your office.

His boots moved on their own. He didn’t need an excuse to stop, but he told himself he was just curious. That was a lie, and he knew it. The tension between you and him had been there for a while now—silent, unspoken, but very much alive.

You weren’t one to be impressed by him. And that irritated him more than it should.

Rorke leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as he took in the sight of you. You were hunched over your desk, flipping through patient charts, your fingers pressing against your temple in exhaustion. The crease between your brows told him you were running on fumes.

“Didn’t realize medics had a death wish too,” he drawled, breaking the silence.

Your head snapped up, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by unimpressed exhaustion. “Didn’t realize the mighty Gabriel Rorke took detours through the infirmary.”

His smirk widened. “Maybe I just like watching you suffer.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes before turning back to your papers. “If you’re not dying, I don’t have time for you.”

He stepped inside anyway, ignoring your blatant attempt to dismiss him. His presence filled the space, all heat and intensity as he leaned against your desk, his fingers idly toying with a pen.

“You should get some sleep.”

You shot him a dry look. “You first.”

Rorke let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m not the one about to drop dead in a pile of charts.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, scrawling something onto a report.

He grinned. There it was—that fire.

You never bowed to him, never gave him what he wanted. And somehow, that made him want to push harder.

He plucked a file from your desk and flipped through it with little care, earning a sharp glare from you. “You always this stubborn?”

You snatched the folder back. “You always this insufferable?”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Only when I like someone.”

The air shifted. Subtle. Dangerous. Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to play it off, shaking your head with a quiet scoff. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

He leaned in just enough to test you, his voice dropping an octave. “Good thing I wasn’t trying to flatter you.”

You swallowed, your pulse betraying you despite your best efforts to appear unaffected. His eyes flicked down to your lips for half a second before he straightened, stepping back as if it was nothing. As if he hadn’t just left you teetering on the edge of something you didn’t know how to handle.

“Go to bed,” he ordered, voice softer now but still carrying that unshakable authority.

“I’m fine.”

He scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “Of course you are.”

Then, just as you were about to roll your eyes again, he kissed you.

Swift, deliberate, and entirely unexpected. His lips were warm, demanding, yet not rushed. A test. A taunt. A declaration.

By the time your brain caught up, he was already pulling away, that damn smirk firmly back in place as he studied your expression like he’d just won some kind of game.

You opened your mouth—maybe to demand an explanation, maybe to call him an arrogant bastard—but nothing came out.

“Sweet dreams, doc.” His voice was smug, laced with something deeper.

And then he was out the door just as he came.

You sat there, heart hammering against your ribs, staring at the empty doorway like it held all the answers. What the hell just happened?

But when morning came, and you saw him again with the team, you did the only thing you could.

You acted like it never happened.

—————————

The morning rolled in too fast, dragging you back into the relentless cycle of treating injuries, dealing with soldiers who refused to follow medical orders, and drowning in paperwork.

And pretending last night never happened.

You’d gone over it a dozen times in your head, trying to rationalize it. Maybe it had been the whiskey on his breathe. Maybe it was just Rorke being Rorke—arrogant, pushy, and so damn sure of himself.

But the way he kissed you… He didn’t do anything not on purpose.

Not that it mattered.

You weren’t the type to lose yourself over something fleeting, especially not with a man who was more committed to war than anything else. You had no illusions about what kind of person Rorke was. He was a soldier first. Always.

So when you walked into the main tent where the rest of the Ghosts were gathered for briefing, you kept your head high, expression neutral, and carried on like normal.

Like nothing had happened.

And he noticed.

Rorke was standing next to Merrick, arms crossed, his posture easy but his gaze sharp. He tracked you the moment you entered, those dark eyes brimming with amusement. He was waiting for something—a reaction, an acknowledgment, anything.

You gave him nothing.

Instead, you focused on sorting through the morning’s reports, half-listening as Elias went over upcoming drills and deployment schedules. The occasional glance was thrown your way, but you ignored them all.

Especially his.

And that’s when you heard it—the deep, knowing chuckle.

You didn’t have to look to know it came from Rorke.

The bastard was enjoying this.

You felt the weight of his stare, the silent challenge it carried. He was waiting to see how long you could keep up the act.

Fine. You’d call his bluff.

“Hey,” Merrick said, snapping you from your thoughts. You looked up to find him watching you with mild concern. “You good?”

You nodded easily. “Just tired.”

Elias smirked. “That’s what happens when you pull all-nighters.”

Before you could respond, Rorke’s voice cut through. Low. Amused. Dangerous.

“Yeah, doc. You should really take better care of yourself.”

You felt the heat of his gaze as if he were standing too close, even though he hadn’t moved an inch. The double meaning wasn’t lost on you, but you refused to react.

“Appreciate the concern, Captain,” you said smoothly, flipping a page in your folder. “But I manage just fine.”

Merrick glanced between you and Rorke, brows furrowed slightly as if he was trying to figure something out. Elias, caught on quicker, a knowing smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

Rorke, however, was still watching you like a predator watching its prey.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t let him win.

“Alright, enough,” Elias finally said, cutting through whatever was brewing in the air. “We’ve got work to do.”

The meeting continued, but you weren’t stupid. The game wasn’t over.

If anything, it had just begun.

—————————

You were making rounds in the infirmary, taking inventory and preparing for the next wave of chaos when you heard footsteps behind you.

You knew who it was before you even turned around.

“I thought I told you to go to bed last night,” Rorke drawled, leaning against the supply cabinet like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t bother looking up from your clipboard. “I did.”

He snorted. “Liar.”

You sighed, finally glancing at him. “What do you want, Rorke?”

His smirk deepened. “Oh, so we’re back to names now?”

You leveled him with a dry stare. “Would you prefer Captain?”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re really gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

Your heart stuttered, but you held your ground. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rorke pushed off the cabinet, closing the space between you in two slow steps. He was taller, broader—intimidating to most. But not to you. Not really.

“You’re good,” he murmured, voice lower now, softer but no less dangerous. “Almost convincing.”

Your fingers tightened around your clipboard, knuckles white.

He noticed.

His smirk turned downright wicked.

“That’s fine, doc,” he said, stepping back like he hadn’t just completely rattled you. “I can play this game as long as you can.”

And just like last night—he left first.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Alone with the undeniable truth.

As if the bastard would ever leave you alone.

.

.

.