yuuji only does it exclusively to make room for you. like you’ll come up to him at a party after drinking with your girls, he’s on the couch surrounded by his friends — as soon as he sees you wobbling over to him, he’ll lean back and spread his legs for you to take a seat. bouncing the thigh you choose to sit on with his big arm curled around your waist.
“havin’ fun mama?” he’ll tuck your braids or your curls behind your ear while balancing his solo cup on the same hand. “look so pretty tonight.” pink hair ticking your cheeks, lips just under your ear with words kept a secret between the two of you.
“more fun when i’m with you,” you mumble, giggling from your fruity drinks. you lean down for a sip of your boyfriend’s — which he holds up to your lips with an easy smile that makes your stomach twist. “missed you.”
yuuji squeezes your hips, bouncing you on his thigh again. “missed you more, baby. stay with me for a bit, i’ll take us home later.”
eyes from around the room land on you — the cute couple snuggled up together in the middle of a bustling party. jealousy and admiration flare, but you hardly seem to care because you’re the only one who gets to claim yuuji itadori’s lap as your throne.
Thinking about sitting in Toji’s lap which has become your designated spot these days.
When he rolls his blunts or joints, when he’s paying bills or on the phone with a friend, when he wants you to cuddle with him, or maybe get each other off on the couch— it’s yours.
Even has his hand out to help you like a princess getting on her thrown. Twirls his finger so you can show off your outfit to him, takes your hand before you sit in his lap and he nuzzled his face in your neck, “You’re a fuckin smoke show doll. Fuck me.”
It makes the guy chuckle, end of his eyes crinkling while he pats your thighs, “You’re such a daddy’s girl baby, can’t help yourself can you?”
Oh.
Oooohhh, did it do something to your insides. Made you feel all warm and tingly all over. Pussy clenching. You try to brush it off, looking towards the tv that’s not on- the speaker that plays his favorite music, anything to keep yourself distracted. but Tojis hand will slowly creep up your spine, up to your nape, thumbing the curls that lay there. “You’re my good kid, aren’t you gorgeous?”’
“Toji.” It almost comes out as a soft moan but you have restraint, only leaning into his caress. You’re sure he can feel the heat growing under your skin. His eyes trail all over you, emerald green eyes trained on you like you’re the only thing in existing. “So damn beautiful kiddo, you know that? My perfect girl.”
a/n: ‘Toji :P’ will be my tag for this hc. Hold on all.
❝ in space, no one can hear you scream. they can't hear you wake up alone in a hunk of space junk against your will. they can't hear your ship get engulfed by a much larger and very alien one.
and they certainly can't hear you fall in love with the four-armed grumpy alien you meet while you're trapped within your own ship. ❞
☾⋆ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. strangers to lovers. slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut. depictions of [likely inaccurate] science experiments. medical discussions. needles. illness. reader and sukuna can't exist in the same atmosphere. they're both huge nerds. bug discussions. mild violence. pet names [human, ange, baby]. trueform!sukuna. piv. inter-species sex. fingering. oral [f! receiving]. monsterfucking. sukuna has 2 dicks. size difference. biting. manhandling. licking. spitting/drool.
inspired heavily by project hail mary/iron lung/alien earth. mild modulo spoilers. sukuna is simurian. changed simurian lore.
☾⋆ wc ; 37.9k.
wattpad || ao3 || main masterlist
Your lashes flutter, eyes opening to sterile, controlled lighting. Lifting an arm feels like a hurdle to overcome when your muscles behave far more like limp pasta than something meant to support a full biological system. After your arm protests the very concept of movement, you flex your fingers, adjusting to the harsh whites of your surroundings.
“Movement detected.”
Blinking hard, you slowly take in your surroundings, expecting a hospital bay, only to be met with smooth white surfaces that tell a different story. Space.
It hits you like a truck and by sheer force of will, you lift an arm to your head, expecting some sort of blunt force trauma. That you must be seeing things. Rubbing your temples makes you aware of several tubes all connected to a tight white suit clinging to your skin. As you begin tugging on the tubes, many release with a hiss while others simply come loose without fanfare.
“Crew aboard: one member. Arrival imminent.”
You have to be dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
Managing to weakly push to your feet, you stumble through the halls of the ship on a weak gait. It’s a small vessel, with a science bay through a sealing door just outside the medical bay where you awoke, four bunks and a washroom in what you assume is sleeping quarters, and the bridge itself. It’s small, but clearly designed for more than one crew member. Your heart drops at the thought, because that’s when it truly comes flooding back.
Your work. The project. The disease. The creature.
Several pieces of the same puzzle, but each one troubling in its own right.
Still groggy from the induced coma, you force yourself to take a seat in the hall, grateful for what you can only assume is artificial gravity. You might have been sick if you had awoken in zero gravity.
Taking a breath as you sit in the center of a large octagonal hall, you force yourself to breathe. Long breaths, drawing each one out in an effort to keep yourself from boiling over when memories of the very thing that put you here feel fresh in spite of your ten year induced coma. It shouldn’t be you here. You, some entomologist they found online for a paper suggesting beetles are smarter than people think.
You weren’t even really good with people. Just bugs. You spent most of your time alone with your stag beetles, attempting to bring out the very intelligence you’d written about. You never minded being alone. Maybe it’s sad that you spoke to the beetles, but they kept you company in their own way. Yet here you are now, onboard a space ship by sheer coincidence, if it can even be called that. And it’s not the loneliness you fear.
No, you’re content to grab a marker and draw a face on one of the many white walls, call it ‘Wilson’ and name yourself the next Tom Hanks, even if your acting credits are undeserving.
What scares you is the narrow hallways holding you hostage in a vacuum. Once you reach the supposed ‘destination’ that the ship’s programmed voice spoke of being imminent, gravity will cut out. The ship will rely on your ability to navigate yourself through its halls and hell, even navigate the damn hunk of metal through space yourself to send the mission target back. You’re a fucking entomologist. A bug scientist. What the hell are they hoping for from you?
With a sharp inhale, you push back up to your feet, navigating through the cramped hall until you reach the bridge. There are a number of screens and what feel like countless buttons and switches, all labeled with tape. You suppose that’s meant to be for your convenience given that you’re no pilot, but the amount of labels is a textbook in and of itself. Frustrating.
Slipping past the second of two chairs on the bridge, your eyes are glued to the first window you’ve seen. Your lips part as the marvel of space itself comes into view when you slip into the nook by the window.
It’s beautiful. Stunning. It’s full of twinkling stars and the far more consistent shine of distant planets. There’s debris of various different kinds of space rock meandering endlessly through a void. There’s a gorgeous mildly yellow-green planet not too far away with pink and blue accents. Its surface is probably unlike everything you’ve ever seen.
Seeing a planet from space is another kind of beast. Space travel is relatively new to humanity as far as the general public is aware, and you certainly never envisioned yourself aboard a spacecraft. In another world, under other circumstances, it might even be a dream.
The nearest sun has you staring down at your fingers, wondering if the faint heat you feel might be from its rays or if you’re imagining things already, hardly a few minutes into your trip. That is, if you don’t count the several years in which you were in an induced coma.
Flexing your fingers again as you stare at them, it’s not until a shadow takes away the sun’s distant rays, that you notice something incoming quickly. Your eyes widen at the sight of a ship, alien in appearance. Long, slender, dark grays in sharp and jagged angles all come together to build a ship that makes yours look not entirely unlike the very bugs you study. Very, very small. Insignificant.
“Oh shit,” you gasp in wide-eyed disbelief as something straight out of a sci-fi movie moves in a line straight towards you. “Oh shit” you gasp again, racing to push yourself to your feet and clamber for the pilot’s chair as though the labels will push you into action. Paralyzed on the chair, the most you can do is skim each word in hopes that one might magically say ‘turn one hundred and eighty degrees and get the hell away from the giant evil-looking alien spaceship’.
Unfortunately, you never find that button. With your hands hovering over the controls, you find yourself watching in horror as you’re swallowed whole by the other spacecraft. “Oh shit.”
Your ship is harshly jostled as all of a sudden the hull drops like a stone onto something hard and metal, screeching as it slides across what you can only assume is a bay of the other ship as you stare into the darkened corridor of the inside of an alien spacecraft. You grip the chair for purchase in an effort not to get thrown aside while your ship blares warning and lights flicker.
“Oh shit,” you breathe when the lights outside your ship flick on and flood the bridge with the harsh lighting of a warehouse. There doesn’t seem to be any other ships aboard if this is a bay or hangar, but it certainly looks like one… Though you suppose you’re basing that off of movie knowledge, which is probably stupid. Especially for a scientist at the top of your field.
Slowly descending from your chair, you approach the window in awe, staring out into the metal box. It’s largely human, with pipes running up the walls and across the ceiling, lights in long bulbs overhead and lower lighting from small circular vent-like structures. The structure seems rougher than the smooth metals of your ship, almost as though it’s made of an unpolished mineral, with a luster that dictates something akin to quartz or obsidian, but it’s slightly off. The only thing inhuman about the entire thing is the text. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, the sort of thing that you wager you could decipher in time, but when you spot movement at the far bay, you figure time isn’t exactly on your side.
What a way to wake up after ten years.
The alien figure that approaches your ship isn’t human. But… they aren’t inhuman either. You know they aren’t human, with an extra pair of limbs attached to their upper torso and an extra pair of eyes aboard a plate of some sort on the right side of their face, but otherwise the only thing inhuman about them is their massive size, standing at what must be ten feet tall.
A tight shirt clings to their upper torso, some sort of spacesuit loosely draped from their torso in an off-pink that matches their short hair. Markings line their jaw, coming up just beneath their eyes not unlike tattoos, though you can’t be sure whether or not that’s what they are. The most inhuman feature of all, however, is the blood red gaze they fix your ship with as they walk in an even, calm stride towards the door.
A creature with a calm like this is one that knows it’s powerful. It’s the type of confidence befitting of someone who far outclasses everything they’ve ever come across and doesn’t fear the beyond like you do. “Oh shit!”
It’s just about the only words you can manage as you clumsily navigate towards the small porthole of the door where the alien has deduced they may find you. Peering out the small circular window, you can only pray you aren’t about to be probed or something similar.
When the alien approaches your ship with some sort of technology in-hand, you tap on the glass to get their attention. The large alien’s head rises, their brow lowering to a scowl of sorts as they examine you. This close, they look startlingly like a human man. Like the kind of man you might see in a gladiator movie given his sheer size and musculature, sure, but human enough to reason with. He speaks some sort of language, but you can’t understand a word he utters.
The language is a mix of huffs, growls, clicks, and what you would otherwise consider sounds not unlike the languages found on earth. Between each noise that reminds you vaguely of an echolocation sort of noise is a very human syllable. If you were to put the syllables together without the clicking, you might even get something akin to human vocabulary.
By all accounts, this is an intimidating encounter. His gaze is sharp, almost grating in looks alone. His pupils have rings surrounding them that give him a formidable appearance. His mother tongue is so different from any language you’ve ever encountered– human or animal– that the only thing you even can compare it to are films. Some part of you is wired to expect a Xenomorph to uncurl from wires and silently drop to the ground, acidic saliva dripping from its mouth, and yet the man remains still, awaiting your reply before he answers in kind.
Maybe it’s your poor instinct for danger, but you’re far more intrigued than you are concerned.
“Uh– Hello!” You attempt to reply in an effort to keep the peace, further perplexing the alien whose eyes narrow. Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you give your best effort to not get eaten. Or examined. Or whatever this species does. “I come in peace!” You offer, making a peace sign through the door with a wide grin.
His gaze slides to your hand, his deduction of the action clear in the way his narrowed eyes regard the action. He frowns like you’ve caused him an inconvenience, gliding his finger along the device in his hand briefly as he looks away. You almost wish he was more animalistic. You’re a better read on animal behaviour than human.
“Okay, um– hold on!” You hold up one finger, clumsily dashing back through the ship to the science bay. You grab a white board and marker, making your way back to the porthole. The four-armed alien is tapping on what you assume to be the screen of the device he brought with him, though his attention returns to you once you reappear. You draw a circle and the general outline of the continents, presenting the image to him. “I’m a human. From Earth,” you say, pointing to your drawing.
The alien’s gaze lowers to your drawing, then he taps on the screen of his device, growing more frustrated by the moment. When the device doesn’t seem to give him the results he wishes for, his shoulders visibly fall in frustration as he faces you again. His gaze fixes the drawing, then you once more.
When he doesn't reply, you quickly erase the drawing of earth, and draw something that might be more familiar. You draw the very thing you’re here in search of as clearly as you can from memory.
CRM-12. A creature so foreign, the scientists never even gave it a name. Beetle-like in appearance in spite of its size, which begged your attention, one of the heads in entomology. A creature intelligent beyond any credit they were willing to give it, treating it as lesser than even rodents. It was no more than an experiment, and your reason for being in the middle of uncharted space.
You present the drawing of the creature, a metallic brown beetle with accents that resemble an oil spill, iridescent pinks visible in the sun. Its eyes, however, are completely unlike any insect. Cat-like, they follow movement like the eyes of a higher being. Like they know. You hope that comes across in a crude drawing with a black marker.
The alien looks at the drawing you present, seeming to recognize it. He stares at you and chuffs, almost like a tiger, followed by a syllable unrecognizable to you.
“You know it?” Your brows raise eagerly at the reaction that you’re fairly sure is a yes given the way big cats so often use the first portion of the sound.
Another chuff in reply, then the syllable. You can work with that. The recognition in his gaze tells you that it isn’t a no, which means you’re communicating, even if it’s preschool-level communication. Even if he seems frustrated by the whole ordeal. Or maybe by you. Or the device. You really can’t say.
“Oh my god, you know it? I’m looking for it!” You point with a grin, intrigued by the alien life that seems to be as advanced, if not more than humanity.
He watches your eager movements with hooded eyes, all four following the way your body almost seems ahead of your mind as you attempt communication. In a far more languid movement, he lifts an arm, simply tapping once on the door as he stares at you, awaiting.
You purse your lips, fairly confident you understand. “Oh– I can’t leave my ship,” you glance down at the door’s handle. “Um– hold on.” You raise one finger again, drawing another picture on your whiteboard. This time, you present the alien species with a poorly drawn version of your ship, an ‘X’, and a stick figure of you, with your tongue out and an ‘X’ for either eye. “I would die in your atmosphere. I mean, probably. I guess I don’t know.”
One of his brows raises at the crude demonstration before he looks you up and down once through the porthole. He huffs, something of disbelief or maybe annoyance, before looking around the bay. He replicates your motion, raising one finger in a ‘hold on’ type of manner, disappearing for a minute. When he returns after a few moments, he lifts a lower arm to present to you a new device. From the device comes a hologram far more advanced than anything earth has managed thus far.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the very beetle-like species you’re here for. You nod, giving a thumbs up. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” You loudly proclaim with a grin.
He recoils, though you can’t quite place why. He watches your reactions, the smile, the thumbs’ up, the nod, and chuffs in reply. Alright, communication.
“Hey, um, there’s–” You stammer over words, before giving your signal for ‘hold on’. Quickly and crudely attempting to draw your best version of the window by the bridge. You hold it up to the person opposite you, pointing in the general direction of the much larger window across the ship.
His sharp gaze follows the direction you point, his head moving in that direction altogether, before chuffing and surprisingly disappearing. You blink, before quickly moving in that direction as well, cables and tubing still drifting listlessly behind your clothing from when you awoke. You stare down briefly at the ordeal, at the mess you’re sure you look, and figure that’s a problem for when an alien isn’t staring you down.
You’re just grateful he isn’t looking at you in the same way humanity looked at that beetle. That stupid, god forsaken alien beetle. Even if he does seem a bit annoyed with you.
Dragging the cables along with you, you slip past the chairs in the bridge to the larger window where your new alien peer is curiously examining the circuitry within the bridge. “This is the bridge,” you explain, pointing behind you. “For the captain.” You turn to face him again, unsure if he understands a word you’re saying, but the need to fill the air is unfortunately at the forefront of your mind. Slipping into the nook of the window, you watch as his crimson gaze tracks your movements, dropping to the cables that he examines for a moment. “These are just cables,” you explain, holding them up.
He grunts through a deadpan expression as though he has that figured out already, and it’s at this moment that you realize how grateful you are that there’s an atmosphere at all in his ship right now to carry either of your voices so that you can communicate. The entire thing is fascinating beyond any kind of entomology you’ve ever been witness to. Of course, you’d have an easier time grasping his behaviour if he were a bug, but you suppose you didn’t get much of a good understanding of CRM-12’s behaviour anyway in light of the events that took place with the species on Earth.
CRM-12. The thought makes you wonder. “Do you have a name?” You glance down at the whiteboard, but you aren’t sure how much it’ll help. “A, uh–” You point to yourself, stating your name, then to him. “What’s your name?”
He straightens, and in a very alien language gives you a series of growls and hisses, along with a series of somewhat more human-sounding syllables. You attempt to replicate the sound, you really do. The problem is that your vocal chords simply can’t shape the same noises that his can. He frowns as you can’t reach one of the clicks in your vocal range, and surprisingly offers something more familiar.
“Sukuna.”
Your lips purse as you stare out the window at him. It’s shockingly close to the syllables that sit intermittently between the clicks and growls in his name, like his language might not be as far off as you originally hypothesized.
“Human.” He adds, then replicates your name, shockingly nearly perfect.
“Yeah!” You agree with a grin. “That’s my name. I’m human.”
“My name,” he forms the words, copying them in his deep baritone voice. It sounds somewhat foreign after you’ve heard primarily chuffs and hums, but he doesn’t struggle to form the words. They’re clipped, like his tone isn’t intentional and there’s a rasp to his words like his throat wants to add the clicking to the words, but doesn’t.
You have an itch to write and document everything you can, but your lab is a few light years away and your journal is… yet to be found, since you awoke. You do what you can to catalogue every detail for later in your mind.
“Okay, okay.” Beyond interested and excited by the ordeal, you make a wild motion with both arms towards– well– everything. “This is my ship.”
Sukuna’s gaze lifts to the exterior of the ship, then returns to you. An upper arm lifts, muscle that’s inherently humanoid rippling beneath what looks to be something similar to a performance long sleeve clinging to his arm. He taps twice on the window. “Ship.” Then directly in front of you. “Your ship.”
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Is this your ship?”
He points back, chuffing. “My ship.”
The velocity of his ability to learn is stunning. In fact, you would wager a bet that not only is he so far advanced that he outclasses Humanity by miles, you would be willing to be there’s more to it than that. The scowls, the grimaces, the huffs. Could he be annoyed that you’re not capable of picking up his language? “Are you–” you point to him, then the chair behind you, “the captain?”
His gaze examines you as you point towards the seat on the bridge behind you. Understanding your gist, he chuffs.
“Holy shit,” your breath. Looking eagerly past him into the rest of the hangar bay, you press your hands to the window. He straightens, taking a step back as he stares at you with a raised chin. “Where are the rest of you? Do you have a crew? Do you have scientists?”
He growls, but it doesn’t appear to be a warning. Your limited knowledge of his language tells you it may just be a vocalization that’s within his language, but you can’t say for sure. You can’t be sure whether he’s answering in his own language or simply frustrated with your onslaught of questions. Maybe both.
“Are you alone?” You offer the option. “Just you?” You point.
To that, he straightens slightly, his gaze dropping as he evaluates your stature. He must determine you aren’t a threat, because he finally replies with a chuff. “Alone. Just Sukuna.”
It’s unbelievable, truly. It’s not the fact that there’s other intelligent life that baffles and equally excites you, but the fact that not only does he seem to be far more advanced, but it’s clear you’re both studying one another’s behavior. More interestingly, he’s making sense of your language so quickly without so much as forgetting a word that you’re fairly sure his species can outdo humanity’s feats in an evening. You watch him pick up words before you’ve even used it in much more than a sentence to yourself. He adjusts so quickly that it has you questioning everything you know about life outside of Earth. About life on Earth. About behavior, intelligence, and everything you’ve studied so hard when it comes to entomology.
Much of the… day? Is spent going back and forth, focusing primarily on language using the whiteboard, and you’re surprised to find Sukuna doesn’t just keep up, but clearly surpasses your intelligence. He’s offput by noise and moves at a much slower pace that gives you the impression that he wouldn’t know the expression ‘life is short’. You wonder how many years he’s wandered the universe.
He primarily listens and learns, letting you yap about tenses and grammar with little more than an aloof frown. He rarely inquires, but as his knowledge grows, he becomes more at ease. The rigidity in his upper and lower shoulders releases, and his expression shifts from one of skepticism to intrigue. Before you can inquire about his species or language, however, your ship comes online. With a robotic timbre, an announcement comes across the speakers. “Please report to the lab for documentation.”
You stare back into the ship for a moment before facing your new companion. “I need to go make a report,” you explain. “The humans back on Earth want a video of how things are going.”
You can’t be sure how much of that he understands given that he’s largely a closed book, but he chuffs his general understanding.
“Do you… sleep?” You make a motion of sleeping. “Or eat?” And point to your mouth.
The mere suggestion has him yawning, revealing primordial fangs behind his lips. He doesn’t grace you with a reply otherwise.
In a series of clicks and hisses, he says something you’re unable to translate and turns on his heel. Your best assumption is that he’s wished you a goodnight, so you opt to do the same. “Goodnight, Sukuna!” You call loudly from your side of the glass.
He tilts his head slightly, then shakes it, but doesn’t look back.
You watch the spot where he disappeared for a long moment. In the barren bay, the lights click as one by one they shut off until you’re left with only the ambient light of the interior of your own ship. Stepping back from the glass, you blink to yourself. He’s unlike anything you could have imagined when it came to aliens. It’s not like you haven’t met one, given that your assignment on Earth was studying CRM-12 and your assignment now is simply to retrieve more of them, and while you know even that creature’s intelligence was largely underestimated, you never imagined another planet like Earth could exist.
Maybe the atmosphere doesn’t match your own. Maybe there’s no oxygen. Maybe his planet is overruled by dinosaurs. You wouldn’t know. But somewhere out there is a planet with architecture and entire civilizations that you don’t know the first thing about.
As you make your way to the lab, a small camera prepped for you to record, you swear you’re still jittery with excitement. The scientist that swims in your veins can’t wait for tomorrow to come, ignoring every natural instinct to exercise caution. You don’t see yourself sleeping well in spite of the fact that your body remains heavy with the weight of several induced years of sleep.
Without thinking twice, you flip the camera’s screen to look back at yourself and begin recording. You recount your ship being engulfed, describe Sukuna, and explain your findings in largely scientific terminology.
“I know he’s not what I’m here for, but– This could be… I mean…” You shake your head. “I’m not giving up on this research,” you steel yourself, staring into the camera. Chewing on your lower lip, you reach for the camera, shutting the screen and effectively stopping the recording without signing off.
You take the extra time in the evening to put yourself back together. You’re not trained for space, or even for the use of this vessel as a whole, but you track down a sponge bath and washroom, before finally managing to find a small compartment with your belongings.
Dragging the compartment out from the netted area in which it resides, you open it slowly. Within are some clothes– some your own, most provided by the company responsible for your launch– along with a few general sanitary items. It’s largely impersonal, which you suppose you expected. Having prepared for this, you reach into the pocket of a hoodie and pull out the one thing you hoped to keep with you.
You breathe out a sigh of relief, unfolding a photo. The lines through the center block out only a modicum of the happiness held within it, but at its core it’s everything you wanted to hold onto. You’re holding the camera with a huge grin, an Extatosoma Tiaratum, a large stick insect, climbs along your shoulder, and your beloved Lucanus Elaphus, an Elk Stag Beetle, is in your hand. To your left is your best friend Shoko and her German Shepherd puppy, a month after she adopted him. She’s holding him like her pride and joy in spite of the fact that throughout her entire veterinary medicine degree, she swore she’d stick to an animal with less genetically pre-disposed health problems.
You had just gotten back from a research trip back then and were meeting her pup for the first time while she cared for your bugs while you were away.
It’s strange to think that she’s ten years older now. Your bugs are surely dead, and Shoko hasn’t seen you in over ten years. Your heart pangs as you pull the familiar hoodie on over your head and tuck the photo back in your pocket as you make your way back to the bed that didn’t exactly do wonders for your neck as you make way for the second day in uncharted territory.
–
The morning greets you in the same way it did yesterday. Cold, sterile, and controlled. The white lights flick on without asking, deciding your schedule before you ever do. You blink away the sleep in your eyes, grabbing a dehydrated granola bar sort of thing to bring with you to the bridge as you dress yourself in white pants and your own hoodie.
Sukuna still isn’t there when you arrive at the bridge, so you do the only thing you really can do in the enclosed ship bay. You come prepared this time, with a model of your ship, your whiteboard, some snacks, water, and a journal and pen to note your findings. Not necessarily for humanity’s sake, but out of habit, for you. With everything spread out around you, you reach into your pocket, pulling out your photo with Shoko. Your thumb smooths along the fold lines before you set it off to the side in front of you. Then as you would on any other day, you note your findings with small drawings in the column of your journal.
After a short wait, the bay’s lights flick on one after another with a metallic clang as each one begins pulling electricity to the large hangar. Sukuna has also come more prepared, with another new device in one of his many hands and what looks to be a spacesuit draped over another arm. He’s wearing much the same top in a slightly deeper tone of gray and baggy pants this time around, with that same overall neutral expression on his face.
Neutral is generous, given how grumpy he looks in human terms. Given how grumpy he is. Maybe it’s just his species, you can’t be sure, but he gives you the impression you frustrate him.
You perk up at the sight of him regardless as he approaches in the direction of the door’s porthole, changing his stride when he spots you at the window.
He clicks and grunts, which you assume is a greeting of sorts.
“Hi, Sukuna! Did you sleep good?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Sleep bad.”
“Oh. Why?”
He approaches the window, dropping the suit on his arm into a pile on the floor. “Human loud,” he states, pointing accusingly at you with a finger to the window.
“Me? This ship is huge, there’s no way you heard me. I don’t even snore!” You pout first, but your mind doesn’t give you the time to be offended as something occurs to you. “Wait, is your hearing really good?” You ask, pointing to your ear.
He chuffs. “You loud.” He makes a motion to his chest, demonstratively inhaling and exhaling in kind. “Like that.”
“Oh my god, you could hear me breathing across the ship?” You instinctively bring up your fancy space pen and journal, scribbling down messy notes as your mouth gets a few steps ahead of your brain. “Wait, but the ship is on. I can’t be louder than like– Is your engine not loud? Or the life support systems? You must breathe some sort of gas or–”
He huffs, tapping the glass with a subsequent growl. Much like yesterday, it’s not a warning but something entirely else. “Ship my design. No sound.”
“No sound? Your design?” You gawk, sitting down at the window. Sukuna follows suit opposite you behind the glass. His movements are heavier in nature and far more languid, one corded muscular arm keeping him upright as he takes a seat. In spite of his constant aloof expression, you note that he does still seem intrigued. “Wait– oh my god, are you an engineer?”
He shifts his jaw, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he attempts to use context clues to put the word engineer into place in his mental dictionary. He says something in his own language, reaching for the device he used yesterday to show you a hologram of CRM-12. This time, he flicks it on into some sort of 2D image, a screen of sorts. In concise, easy strokes, he pulls up a blueprint of his ship. “Engineer?” He queries, confirming the term.
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Yeah, you’re definitely an engineer. Holy shit,” you laugh, tone wrought with disbelief. “The photo you showed me with that yesterday, the uh– beetle species?”
His gaze narrows and he grunts, almost a low growl.
“Um–” you lower your gaze to your whiteboard, drawing a quick sketch of CRM-12 again, writing its name beside the image. “This guy.”
The confusion rife across his features dissolves as he chuffs. “Kerm.”
“Kerm?” You blink, unsure where this word has come from.
He points to ‘CRM-12’ like it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever pointed out, blatantly frowning. “Kerm one two.”
You laugh, airy and light, grinning. “Yeah, Kerm. Yeah, okay. Kerm. Um, you’re looking for them too, does that mean you’re a scientist too? Like, um–” setting the whiteboard aside, you tap your fingers listlessly along your thigh. “You study life and elements? And learn about creatures?”
That clicks with him and he chuffs again.
“Holy shit,” you practically bound to your feet, quickly sitting back down at the revelation with a multitude of further questions.
Sukuna’s brow tents as he watches, disdain dripping from his expression as though you’ve offended him in your bout of excitement when he shuffles back slightly. He leans back on one arm, the other three held as though you might present a threat to him. Still, he remains silent.
“Wait, so you’re the captain, engineer, and a scientist? Oh my god, that’s incredible. Human life is so short we could never even dream of studying all three things and exploring space.” You don’t even pause as your thoughts simply spill from your lips. “You must be able to live so much longer than us. Or maybe you’re just that much smarter. Wait–” Your hand presses to the glass. “Where are you from? What planet–”
“Human.”
“–are you from? How long are your years? How old are you?”
“Human.” Sukuna’s hand presses to the glass with a jarring bang as he leans over you in spite of the barrier, the size difference growing apparent. His voice booms, stopping your endless trail of words in their tracks. Once he has your silence, Sukuna proceeds to click and growl in a series you’ve heard once before, though you now recognize it as displeasure.
It doesn’t take an understanding of his language to put together that he’s calling you ‘too much’. He’s telling you you’re annoying.
Your cheeks heat up and you take the opportunity to sit back, sucking in a breath.
Sukuna’s hand peels from the glass, his prints remaining in the spot where it was. He sits back with a loud huff, rubbing at his temple with one hand as he leans back on another. “Planet is–” he states the name in his language first, then pauses to think before providing something you understand. Removing the noises between the syllables, he lands on a simple name. “Simuria,” he starts, choosing one of your questions and going with it. “Age–” he glances down at the hologram, waving his hand through it to erase the blueprint. He makes ten markings through it like a whiteboard, then clicks, his word for ‘ten’.
“Ten,” you nod your understanding.
He points at the markings. “Ten tens.”
“One hundred,” you nod your understanding.
“Ten one hundreds.”
Your lips part. “One thousand?”
He chuffs, staring blankly at you.
“You’re over one thousand years old?” Your disbelief is palpable as your jaw hangs slightly ajar, taking in the details of his face and overall physique. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your time interacting with aliens, it’s that you don’t know the first thing about them.
He chuffs again, like it’s plain to see and his age is obvious. “How old you?”
“Um, three tens,” you hold up three fingers. “And a five,” you demonstrate the next number. “But I, uh, spent the last ten years sleeping to get here,” you offer a tight-lipped smile. His eyes narrow as he attempts to decipher the emotion written across your face, but you train your expression back to neutral before he can. “We only live to be about nine tens, though.”
“Nine tens?” He recoils at the mere thought. “Weak.”
You let out an airy laugh. “Weak, yeah. Humans tend to be.”
“Three thousands. Or more.”
“You can live three thousand years?” Once again caught up in the sheer difference in time you’ve both experienced, you’re forced to sit back, leaning on your arms. “Holy shit.”
That’s not even beginning to touch on the fact that his planet’s years could also be longer than Earth’s.
Sukuna has come to recognize your exclamations as disbelief and puffs out his chest. You can’t be sure whether it’s pride or a sort of bragging right he holds over your head, but it’s heartwarming to bond with someone so similar, and yet so different.
“Where your crew?”
“Oh–” You push a hand over your neck, staring back into the ship. “No crew. Just me. Just a scientist. I’m an entomologist. I study bugs.”
His brow dips as he attempts to put together what he understands based on your statements. “No captain?”
“No. No captain,” you reply coolly, the most calm he notes you’ve been since arrival.
“Captain?” He points to the photo of you and Shoko as he peers closer.
“No, that’s my friend Shoko. Another human, on Earth. And these are my bugs. I’m a bug scientist.” You point to the beetle.
“You study bugs?”
“Yeah!” You grin, followed by the familiar feeling of information running through your brain as your most passionate subject arises. “There are thousands and thousands of them on earth. Like, a thousand thousands. More than that. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what we know about them!” You pridefully explain.
“Scratched the surface?”
“Like, we barely know anything about them. So I study them to learn more.”
Leaning back on one pair of arms, he crosses the other pair over his chest, fixing you with a perplexed expression as he clicks and chirps out a word, followed by ‘human’.
You smirk, lopsided but wholehearted. It’s yet another of those familiar moments where you recognize the word from context alone. Weird human, he called you.
“Do you not like bugs?”
“Bugs on Simuria big.”
“They’re big? How big?”
He tilts his head to either side, casting a quick glance off to the side as some sort of debris hits the hull of the ship. His gaze returns to you, unbothered otherwise by the noise. “Big like that,” he presses his finger to the glass separating you.
Following the direction in which he points, you whirl around to find he’s pointing to a duffel bag of sorts. “Oh, we have some like that. Most are smaller though,” you explain as you turn back. “These two are my friends, like Shoko. That’s Spike,” you point to the stag, “and Stipple,” you point to the spiny stick insect.
“Stipple like Simuria bugs.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen, filled with wonder, and Sukuna’s head tilts as he lets out a pleased chuff. The revelation only brings up more questions. “Simuria,” you breathe the word like something sacred. Were the circumstances of your trip to reach CRM-12 any different, you might even be racing to document this beyond messy scribbles in a journal. “Do you all have four arms and eyes?”
Sukuna follows your gaze before he growls, which you take as a no.
“Is it based on region? Or– oh, maybe modification or–”
Sukuna huffs loudly, staring intently at you. “Human weak and loud.”
Ah– insults. The default when you’re bothering him or going too fast. “Sorry Sukuna,” you laugh, still lighthearted and chirpy in spite of his grumpy demeanor.
“Simurians all different,” he explains, waving his hand through the hologram still sitting off to the side to erase it. He draws a stick figure of sorts with horns and an eye on its forehead, then another with a tail that seems prehensile from what you can tell, like a monkey.
“All different? So, it’s not based on regions?”
He growls, confirming your thoughts. “I need four arms for science and making ship,” he points broadly around him.
You blink in complete and utter disbelief, the buzzing of the bay lights audible even over the gears turning in your mind. “So you… grew two extra arms? Like, your body made them yourself?”
He chuffs, pleased once again by your disbelief with a hint of what you might call a smile. You’re coming to notice that he seems to like that. He enjoys praise, even if it’s of his species rather than himself. He enjoys being above you in any way he can. It’s probably one of the most human things about him, in a roundabout sort of way.
“That’s incredible,” you shake your head regardless, watching as he puffs his chest out again, his chin tilted up. You can’t help a smile at the sight of him, the boyish pride on his face is something of a marvel. “What other adaptations do you have?”
He considers this for a moment, before running a hand through his hair and presenting a second ear hidden under pink strands over his humanoid ear. It’s far less human than the first pair, you would consider it closer to an owl. Your lips purse as you near the glass, leaning with both hands splayed across it. He then lifts the hem of his shirt and you damn near choke.
You can’t even decide which part it is that actually chokes you. The fact that he’s sporting a six pack like no other and a second pair of pecks that sends heat to places you do not want to think about while trapped in a box in space, or the huge mouth plastered where a belly button would otherwise be. You cough to distract him from the way your throat seizes, then sit back in an effort to disguise how you’ve reacted to an alien you hardly know.
Sukuna tilts his chin up slightly as he regards you. You want to chalk it up to nothing more than a natural reaction to your cough, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that you recognize. You’re then unfortunately reminded that his hearing is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and he can likely hear your pounding heart. It puts an idea in your head that his sense of smell may… also… be better on that note, too. Breezing past the moment as quickly as you can, you cough once more. “What’s, uh– what’s that for?”
“Eating large food.”
The sensation is jarring, but it occurs to you that you’ve never once asked what he eats. “Like… what?”
To your surprise, he smiles. Actually smiles. “Noisy food. Good food.”
“Are you joking with me? Are you joking about eating me?” You sputter.
His toothy grin is replicated on his stomach mouth as he lets the hem of his shirt drop and for the first time you hear him rumble in laughter.
You don’t even have the instinct to wonder if he’s lying when you’re too intrigued by the whole ordeal and just shake your head. “Oh, so you have jokes now?”
“Always have jokes,” he grins, wide. “You not understand, weak human.”
You scoff. “I see how it is,” you tease, curious about his ability to pick up not just language but the deeper meaning behind it. With a sigh, you cast a glance back at the spot where he revealed the stomach mouth, focusing back on your mission. For as curious as you are, at the end of the day you’re trapped in a box in space with a limit on time and supplies. “How quickly can you evolve?”
He tilts his head from side to side, something he’s seen you do when you reply with ‘maybe’.
“Does it depend? Is it based on how your surroundings are?” You make a motion to everything around you.
“Yes,” he replies affirmatively for the first time in your language, rather than his usual Simurian response.
“How fast are we talking?”
His brow tents, head tilting like the question is stupid. “We talk at normal speed for you.”
You bark a laugh at the realization that he’s now completely misunderstood. “No, it’s a saying, sorry. How fast can you evolve? One planet rotation around the sun? Two?”
Clearly displeased with your laughter, he takes a moment to fix you with a glare before replying. “Not one planet rotation. Smaller time.”
“Less than one planet rotation around the sun or less than one planet rotation?”
“Less than one planet rotation.”
You swear you need to pick your jaw up off the floor. “Less than a DAY?” You shout in disbelief, hand raising to the glass in a slam that echoes over the metal bay.
Sukuna growls, recoiling away from your reaction. It’s not out of fear, but rather that you’re being noisy again. “Human. Weak human. Stop.”
Sitting back down, you offer another apology to the begrudging man sitting across from you. Pieces of the puzzle all suddenly begin to click into place. That’s why he picked up your language so quickly. He didn’t just learn, his throat adapted to the sound. His vocal chords changed in less than a day to work around the fact that humans can’t. His species is advanced in the kind of way you could only dream. Hell, you never even realized he lost the strange rasp to his vocalizations in your language. “Sukuna, I–” you pause, raising a finger as you become aware that you’re about to get ahead of yourself when you go dashing back to the lab.
You gather a space meal, several beakers, pipettes, gloves, and a sterile handling box. When you return and dump it all on the ground beside you in a cacophony of glass, Sukuna still seems displeased with the noise.
“Humans sent me here because of this,” you present a phial of liquid to him. Held within the small glass container is a dark red, almost black liquid with yellow separation. “These are Alveoli. Normal ones. They’re cells in our lungs,” you point to your chest. “And this,” you present another phial, but the color of the liquid is off, almost more of a brown. “Is Alveolarium. It appeared on Earth I guess ten years ago now and we can’t find a cure. Around the same time it showed up, I got called to an island in the middle of nowhere to research a new discovery,” you explain. “They sent a ship somewhere around here back then, and picked up a CRM– um– a Kerm.”
Sukuna doesn’t move, but you have his attention.
“I was sent to research behaviour since it looks like a bug, but they also discovered that Kerm have cells in their shell that are really similar to the pathogen causing Alveolarium which was spreading a lot, but Kerm cells seem to carry properties that might help or stop or kill the disease or something,” you explain, shutting your eyes tightly as you search for vocabulary he’d know. “Basically they have similar cells,” you explain.
Sukuna inhales, long and slow as he sits up. Interestingly, his gaze splits as he looks over both samples at once. His languid movement makes sense when you consider that he’s well over a thousand years old and still has two thousand to go, if not more. Of course life isn’t short for a creature like him.
“We had one Kerm,” you continue. “But it died.”
“Died. Gone?” Sukuna confirms the meaning of the word.
“Yeah.”
He grunts. There’s no real emotion behind it, it’s nothing but sheer acknowledgement.
“So I need to get more Kerm. It’s…” You stare down at the sealed contaminated cell sample. “It’s bad, Sukuna. A lot of humans died. Probably way more since I’ve been gone.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his jaw moving as he evaluates your expression and every little micromovement of your body. He has a way about the manner in which he moves like he’s above life itself, everything in his mannerisms is lazy and unbothered– that is, until you grate on his nerves, anyway. There’s something almost kingly in the way he carries himself. After a long pause, he sets a forearm on his leg, leaning forward. “You want cells. Mine.”
Your jaw hangs open as you attempt to explain yourself. “I mean– you might be able to save us, but obviously only if you’re okay with it! I just– We don’t actually know anything about the Kerm, and I can’t guarantee if it’ll make it back alive or even at all, and–”
“Human.” There’s less heat in his voice as he shuts you up with the low rumbling of his timbre. “I help. You get suit,” he speaks like he’s ordering you, pointing.
“Suit?”
His eyes narrow as he gets to his feet, offense dripping from the very click of his tongue he gives you. “You scientist. You help.”
Your jaw hangs open as you glance back between him and the ship. You seal your lips into a tight line, staring down at fidgeting hands. “Sukuna, I–” You shake your head.
“Your atmosphere weak, humans weak. Use your second heart, my ship pressure not crush you. Stop scared movement,” he points mildly at your twiddling thumbs.
Before you can explain the truth, you’re perplexed by his words. “Second…? I only have one heart.”
He huffs. “Then I help reinforce oxygen tank to survive pressure of sulfur gas atmosphere. Weak human. Foolish weak human.”
You’re left in utter disbelief and mild shock, frozen in place as he turns on his heel to, you suppose, make you a new tank fitting of the pressure of his ship. When the hell did he even pick up the word foolish? Did you say that? Shaking your head of the thought, you need to focus on what matters here.
“Sukuna!”
He stops a short distance away, his gaze thrown over his shoulder.
“Sukuna, I can’t– I can’t leave.”
He crosses his arms– all four of them– unimpressed. “Why?”
“This was always meant to be a one-way trip. I don’t get to go home. I’m sealed in here. I have no depressurization pod, no suit, no way to unseal the ship without losing the oxygen in here. No portable generators, nothing. When the ship loses power, that’s it.”
Slowly, he turns towards you, straightening as he regards you. He doesn’t just look displeased, he looks downright offended. His usual go-to doesn’t seem to cut it either as he spews out something more than just ‘weak’. “Wrong.”
It likely doesn’t convey what he wants, but you get the gist anyway. “Yeah. It’s stupid,” you agree.
“Your stupid.”
“Yeah,” you laugh half-heartedly. “My stupid.”
Clearly realizing you’re butchering your own language to appeal to his limited use of it, he turns on his heel again, muttering something under his breath. Your hand slips away from the glass keeping you safe and trapped in tandem as you watch Sukuna disappear. You find yourself staring at the photo of you and Shoko again. What you wouldn’t give to check in on her right now. Or ever again.
This will be it for you. Your food supply is limited to what it was deemed was a reasonable amount of time to– somehow– procure not just one but multiple specimens of Kerm or CRM-12, or whatever you’re meant to call them. Your power will fizzle out. Your oxygen supply will end. Your ship’s fuel is already near its limit. You’re sealed in a death trap as a final sentencing. You shut your eyes tightly, rubbing your hands over your face in an effort to reset.
When Sukuna doesn’t return in a couple of minutes, you move around the ship in an effort to clear your head and get some exercise. Anything that stops reminding you of just how trapped you are in a void of uncharted territory with an alien that far exceeds any of humanity’s feats.
You grab a bite to eat, rehydrating some macaroni and cheese in a flimsy bag. It’s unappealing as all hell but it’s better than starving. Eating straight out of the bag, you meander back towards the window, blinking when you find Sukuna setting up a mobile science lab of some sort just outside the bridge. You jog closer to the window, taking a seat to watch as he sets out largely similar and recognizable equipment, although the shape and build of much of his technology is infinitely more advanced. Bigger, too, given his size.
One set of eyes glides to your movement, an eerie feat of having an extra pair, while he continues to set up. Your mind goes into overdrive trying to figure out just how much that sets apart his biology from yours to have the energy production and sheer brainpower to manage so much at once.
His nose wrinkles when he watches you spoon food into your mouth. Chuckling, you approach the nook by the window, presenting the bag to him. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” You tilt the bag in his direction.
“It’s bad.”
“Hey!” You chide with a grin. “It’s better than it looks. You can’t call it bad until you try it.”
With an unusually pompous huff, he turns back to the mobile set-up and picks up a box-like device, connecting it to the window by suction. He runs his thumb along the edge like a dial and it comes to life, seeping a sort of caulk onto the glass before it begins drilling through the window. Your survival instinct recognizes the structural instability. Your curiosity chooses to ignore it as the device uses some sort of nanotech to recreate its shape on the inner glass, sealing itself.
You purse your lips, your spoon held in mid-air. “A mini pressurization chamber.”
He chuffs. “Give macaroni and cheese.”
“You need to learn manners,” you mutter more to yourself than to him as he literally holds his hand out to bluntly demand your lunch with that unnatural edge to his voice that never quite fits his genuine intrigue.
“Manners?” He queries, though his hand never moves.
Chuckling to yourself as you give in and offer the small bag and spoon of food to him, you watch as your door closes and the pressure within the device changes. “We say please when we ask for something and thank you when we’re given something if we want to be polite or nice to someone.” When his side opens, the bag and food as a whole are crushed under the pressure of his differing atmosphere, presenting him with a dripping mess of squished pasta.
Admittedly, it does look bad now. As it begins dripping melted cheese that’s entirely too watery out the other side straight onto his shoes, he stares at you with the kind of tight-lipped expression that transcends any language barrier.
He’s not thanking you for this.
“Sorry,” you wince, offering an apologetic grin.
He growls, trudging back across the large expanse of hangar bay to get something to clean up the mess. By the time he returns and cleans up the cheese, he finally opts to take a bite of the crushed food, fixing you with a glare.
“Bad. Bad food for weak human.”
You can only smile, because it figures that he would hate it. “Fair enough,” you laugh, watching as he sets it along with the dirty rag he used to clean the cheese. Your eyes widen a fraction at the thought. “Wait, what do you–”
Rolling his shoulders, he points to the small chamber that connects you. “Give Alveolarium.”
Your thoughts are already long forgotten as you pick up one of the cultures, chewing on your lower lip as you examine the glass. “I think your ship’s atmospheric pressure might crush the vial.” You hold it up to him. “It’s pretty thin.”
With a hum, Sukuna offers a box through the exchange to put the phial in. As you exchange materials and Sukuna begins separating the infected cells into smaller cultures within an oxygen-controlled box with barometric pressure equal to your ship’s, it occurs to you that in spite of your life being cut short, some part of you is happy for this experience. Even if your notes and findings get stranded out here, you can say you found companionship in a grumpy ten-foot-tall genius alien, and that’s pretty cool.
With your plights long forgotten as you watch Sukuna work with your face practically plastered to the glass, the technology and rate at which he’s able to work grabs your attention. Your chest practically rattles in excitement as he moves through practiced motions like he already knows what to do.
“What’s that?” You query, watching eagerly as he injects something into a lower arm.
One pair of eyes flicks to you. “For cells.”
“For stem cells? Like from your bones?”
He chuffs, pulling out a rubber band as he restricts his blood flow to take a sample.
“It’s that fast?” You gawk as he already begins drawing a sample.
His brow twitches as you break his concentration, but he chuffs to give you a reply regardless.
“Oh my god. We have a drug that does that too, but it takes a while before it produces any neutrophils– um– stem cells. You’re so much more advanced than us, I never imagined how much different life could be!” You watch as blue blood is extracted from his arm, and he begins separating the sample in order to work with it. “Your blood is blue? Is that because of the differing atmosphere? Or maybe it’s an adaptation somehow–”
“Human,” Sukuna groans, disenchanted with your rambles. He fixes you with a tired expression, pointing to the experiment in an effort to get you to focus. “Stop. Noisy.”
“Right, sorry!” You apologize with a wide grin.
A series of clicks, syllables, and growls escape the brutish man as he mutters something to himself, undoing the band from his arm and flexing his fingers a couple of times before pulling a sleeve back down. As he introduces his cells to the Alveolar cells that are infected in the controlled environment, he moves a small device over the culture slide, projecting hologram of the microscopic cells. His cells are so different from anything you’ve observed on Earth that you have no issue telling which belong to him in spite of your differing major.
The cells collide once, the Alveolarium attempts to attack Sukuna’s cells, then simply… backs off. “They’re incompatible,” you state dryly, your shoulders dropping.
Sukuna grunts. “Alveolar cells still functional. My cells not see issue.”
“That could be it.” You shrug.
He hums, tapping a finger twice along the table. “Then we change environment.”
“Create artificial stress until your cells react,” you breathe, your hand snapping down to the ground beside you with a metallic clang that has Sukuna flashing you another glare.
“Loud. Loud human.”
“Sorry, I just– I’m a bit overexcited,” you offer with a smile.
Sukuna continues to stare for a moment, then adjusts the pressure within the glass box where the experiment is taking place to something more dense. He attempts to alter the environment enough that his cells recognize a threat, while not outright killing yours. Striking a balance between them proves to be a multi-day endeavor. In the moments where you can only wait, you slowly begin to unravel the enigma that is Sukuna.
You can’t count how many times Sukuna huffs or makes his disdain known with a very dramatic look in your direction when you suggest something altogether dumb, but you also note that he tells you you’re noisy less often. He picks up on more scientific terms, and even begins to pick up on prepositions purely from your use of them. He teaches you about Simuria, how the Simurians all have extra eyes, two hearts, and are fairly large compared to humanity, though they largely don’t resemble one another. He teaches you about one with horns, who you assume is a friend. He, on the other hand, refers to the horned Simurian as a neighbor.
You get the feeling Sukuna isn’t the friendly type.
“You’re invasive,” he gruffs out in reply to your question.
Your head falls back as you stare at the ceiling with a groan. “I literally just asked if you choose to be alone!” You retort lightheartedly. “You don’t even have to give me a reason!”
“You’re invasive. Like Kerm.”
“Like–” You gawk at him, watching a slow smile curl at his lips. “Like Kerm?”
“Loud like them too.”
“Hey!”
His head tilts as you exclaim your displeasure with that statement, but it’s one of the rare moments where he does seem pleased, which brings a smile to your face regardless. For whatever reason, nothing seems to get him boastful quite like belittling humanity. And since his only knowledge of humanity is you, that puts you at the center of his jokes.
“You know,” you meander back to the topic of Kerm, pulling the smile straight from his lips when you change the subject. “You never did tell me why you’re here. You know the Kerm too, so is it for them?”
He chuffs. “I did tell you. The Kerm are invasive.”
“That’s not really a reason. That’s just like– a statement.”
Seated on the floor with his back against the glass that separates you, he rolls his head along the rigid surface, his gaze finding you. “Kerm are smarter than you humans think,” he grumbles out a baseline explanation. He utters something in his language, then puts together a few sounds until he has a new word for you. “Methalonian weapons. They aren’t natural. They’re–” he taps his fingers on the bay’s floor briefly in thought. “Created by another species.”
“Methalonian,” you test the word. “Are they artificial? Or are they mutated? Like, completely not real or mutated from something that already existed?”
He taps his finger decidedly. “Mutated. Another species mutated them. I’ve been circling this planet for a while now to find where they come from,” he explains. “There are no other species here. They ate all of their resources. Now they invade.”
“How do they even leave? Are they that smart?”
He growls. “They attach themselves to ships and invade.”
“Oh. What are you planning on doing to them, then?”
He sucks in a breath. “Killing them.”
You freeze, staring at him as he examines your expression. You’ve never been much good at training your emotions, your pupils narrowing to mere pinpricks. You swallow, gaze averting to the photo of Shoko. “You were never gonna let me take any.”
“... No.”
“That’s why you trapped me. You knew I was here for them.”
“Made a guess,” he agrees with a hand motion that you’d equate to a shrug.
Slumping back against the bridge’s floor, you stare at the ceiling. Your alien counterpart watches in silence as you process what you know of the Kerm, your current situation, and your species’ survival. You consider Shoko back home, and the rest of your family and friends. You consider your nights out together ten years ago and what that might look like now if you ever make it back. You consider the failing government, and how it’s possible everything has completely fallen apart since your launch. But what really gets to you is that if this doesn’t work, there’s no world where Sukuna lets you send a Kerm back.
Maybe you shouldn’t care. You’re physically welded into a ship in the middle of nowhere. Yet here you are, even after everything, still being hopeful. It’s the most human thing you could possibly do. “What did The Kerm do to you?” You quietly murmur, still staring at the ceiling.
He inhales once, long. His eyes shut. “They’re mutated to kill,” he grunts. “The cells your scientists found in their shells…” his jaw ticks as he clicks, something you can’t decipher as syllables follow it. “It is not your cure.”
You lift your head, leaning on two elbows to look at him.
“It is your cause.”
Your lips part, brow furrowing. “But– I– That’s not–” Your chest tightens, emotions betraying you as you feel your waterline wet. Quickly wiping away the evidence, your fingers curl against the metal floor beneath you.
Sukuna doesn’t budge, his fiery gaze pinning you to place.
“But Alveolarium has been around longer than the Kerm was on Earth.”
He moves a knee, tilting his head. “Has it?”
“I… Don’t know, actually.” At last, you admit it, but things don’t fully add up from what you know. You let yourself fall onto your back again. “The company that sent me here, we had a bit of a disagreement. I guess… Maybe they were right, but still.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, minute, as he attempts to decipher the vagueness of your statement, but by nature of a language barrier, he can’t make out what emotion it is that you’re so graciously dancing around.
You swallow hard. “Did… Did they kill a lot of Simurians?”
“Yes. Humans?”
“If it’s them then… yeah, I guess. Millions. Like, thousands upon thousands.”
Morbidly intrigued, Sukuna shuffles to get a better look at you, his face closer to the glass than ever. “How many humans are on Earth?”
“Um–” You quickly pull up the whiteboard, demonstrating a number for ten, then a thousand, then a million, then a billion. “There were eight billion.”
This is the most baffled you’ve ever seen Sukuna, who physically recoils at the mere thought. “How do you keep distance? How do you celebrate the union of humans?”
“Union of humans?” You laugh. “Weddings? I don’t know, you invite a hundred people and call it a day.” But the question sparks something in you as you sit up to face your baffled friend. “How many Simurians are there?”
“Seventy nine.”
“WHAT?” You gape, noting that he doesn’t complain about your noise in spite of his narrowing eyes and defensive posture. “Are you guys close to going extinct? Like, being gone? Are you not worried?”
He simply growls in reply. “No, human. Things are…” He hesitates, his gaze averting. “We all have space and resources, it isn’t cramped.” He rolls his shoulders back. “We celebrate all weddings every year. Then stay alone with our partners.”
There’s a pit of jealousy in your stomach that you cover with a smile. “So you have someone you’ll be going back to, hey?” You grin, prodding at him through the window. You equate the unsettling feeling to a yearning for having someone like that back home, or even the option to return, but it would be ignoring the bigger picture that you’ve both been sitting in this bay for several days together and you’ve grown fond of him. You may not have a choice in being here, but he does. And he chooses to help in spite of his own goals. Your heart likes that he chooses you a bit too much.
To your surprise, your question irks him and his eyes narrow. A harsh hiss erupts from his throat as he suddenly turns back towards the pressurized box where your experimentation is taking place.
Your shoulders fall, watching the muscles over his back pull taut as he busies himself with little more than prep work for a next experiment as you continue to wait.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (hah) to realize that Sukuna has no partner. The thought trickles through the pockets of your mind. Seventy nine people on a planet total… You can only imagine how lonely that gets. Even you, who chooses to be with bugs a majority of your life, always returns home to Shoko and your bugs at the end of a trip.
Seventy nine. That’s thirty nine weddings. Is he the only Simurian with no partner? “Sukuna…” You watch him work, his movements unbothered as he dilutes samples and ups heat to push his cells to react. “Are you lonely?”
He freezes. A muscle in his cheek twitches as he flexes his jaw, choosing not to reply when he continues in his motions.
Your shoulders fall as you watch him silently work, pulling the rug out from under you on the reality of your relationship. A working relationship, really. He’s always chided you for being invasive, and you suppose this is why.
“I’m lonely,” you offer, quietly. His movements don’t freeze altogether, but they slow. He moves as though any noise might distract him from what you’re saying, in spite of the fact that there’s no keeping secrets from a man with ears like him. “I wish I could go back to Earth. Or maybe meet the Simurians, or see more of the universe. I wish I could study bugs again.”
When he still doesn’t reply, but his movements slow to a crawl, you pick up the photo of you and Shoko, presenting it to him again. “I’d love to tell my friend what we’re up to.”
After an extended moment’s silence, he removes his hands from the box, resting them on the table he rolled in. The dense metal protests his weight, even though it was designed for him. Likely designed by him, too. He still doesn’t face you, choosing to protect himself from your prying eyes by continuing to face somewhat away from you.
“It’s not so bad up here though, you know. I mean, I met you. That’s pretty cool.” You scoot closer to the glass, hoping to find common ground through friendship, if you can call this such a thing.
Your movement grabs his attention. His gaze flickers towards you, the only sign he’s heard you at all. He continues to face forward, his shoulders hunched over the cool metal table.
“Why are you alone?” He finally speaks up, unmoving otherwise.
“I’m uh– pretty noisy,” you offer with a grin in terms he knows well, deflecting the question. “So I guess it just never worked out with other people.”
Sukuna straightens, turning to face you. “Not what I meant.”
You smile, half-hearted. “I’m a criminal, Sukuna.”
“Criminal?”
You nod, pulling your knees into your chest as he slowly nears the glass again. He takes a seat, cross-legged as he leans over his forearms to give you his full attention. “I did a really bad thing. Other humans got hurt and I’m here as a punishment. Our technology isn’t as good as yours and the crew that signed up for this mission knew they wouldn’t get to go back to Earth. The choices I made landed me here instead of them.”
“What did you do?”
Your arms tighten around your legs as you settle your chin along your knees. “The Kerm, you know how I told you we had one?”
He chuffs.
“We put it in a cell, a big cage or room,” you explain to the best of your ability. “I was told they just caught it and I was brought in to study it, because it looks similar to our bugs so people in charge made assumptions,” you haphazardly point at the photo where your bug pets are crawling on your clothes. Their features are close enough to the Kerm that you can see the train of thought that led to you. “In my time studying it, I realized it was smart. Like, way smarter than any bug on Earth. Maybe even smarter than any animal. It was listening. It was learning.”
“You opened its cell.”
With a drawn out sigh, you bury your face in your folded arms, muffling your words. “I opened its cell.”
“It ate them all.”
“It ate the crew for this mission. Every last one of them. And then the people in charge killed it, too.”
With two arms relaxed in his lap and two holding him up, Sukuna watches in relative silence as emotions swim through your eyes. He doesn’t have a name for most of them, but he’s seen them in himself. Over a thousand years of life will do that to you.
Your voice is a mere whisper. “It was so smart, Sukuna. I just couldn’t watch it live out its life in a cell.”
“Now you live your life in a cell.”
You lift your head, gaze flickering across the buttons you never bothered to figure out and the white walls you never quite grew accustomed to when all you ever see is Sukuna. “Yeah, I guess so. Funny how that works, huh?”
“It’s not funny,” he hisses, his brow furrowing in such a way that actually has you curious.
It’s not as though you didn’t consider yourself acquaintances at least with him by this point. You've spent several days together and he chooses every day to return when he could have dropped you off at any point and cleaned up his scuffed hangar, but he doesn’t. Every day, he pushes his own goals and mission back another day into the future and chooses to help the trapped little entomologist residing in the back corner of his ship. The whole thing is funny if you’re grim enough about it.
In spite of his frustration, you shuffle forward, pressing a hand to the glass. “It’s okay. I’m glad we met before I’m gone.”
His brow twitches not once but twice as he stares at your hand like it’s a personal affront. “My ship can get you home.”
Your fingers curl just slightly against the glass. Your body inadvertently winces at the thought. “Maybe. But if I go home, I’ll still be arrested and live life in a cell down there. That’s… worse.”
“Even if you bring back a cure?”
“Humans are… complicated.”
“Stupid.”
A puff of air leaves your nose. “Yeah. Humans are stupid.” You do what you can to mask your underlying sadness as your lips curl up into a smile.
You can’t read Sukuna’s expression as his intense crimson stare burns into you. You know there’s a level of disbelief and maybe even frustration at your self-sacrifice in his eyes. Whether you want to admit that an alien could feel something like that for you is another story.
You can see the internal battle raging within him, although you can’t identify what battle it is that he fights. In spite of his troubled scowl, you’re shocked when an arm slowly lifts from where his elbow rested on his thigh. He brings it to the glass, his fingers pressing first over each digit, before his palm splays over yours. The heat he radiates is warm enough that you feel it through the glass, befitting of a ten foot alien that expends far more energy than you. As if you weren’t already aware, it makes it apparent just how much he dwarfs you.
You peel your gaze from his hand, examining the way he refuses to look at you. Softly, you pose a question that might answer some of your own. “How many Simurians were there before the Kerm?”
His frown deepens, his head falling. “Over one thousand. I evolved. Most… did not.”
Something briefly occurs to you of the whole ordeal. You wonder if maybe there was someone that even he– a scientist and engineer clearly capable of incredible feats– could not save. “Your family?” You query, your voice a near-whisper that you know he picks up on.
His eyes slowly drag across the glass, staring straight through you as his reflection startlingly pins him in place. He swallows hard, refusing to confirm when it’s not you staring him down, but his own misplaced guilt that reflects back at him.
His jaw locks, teeth grinding as he pulls back suddenly, on his feet in an instant with an expression you can’t place. He’s scowling with wide eyes, turning on his heel as he excuses himself with nothing more than an “I’m tired,” trudging away with footsteps that echo throughout the bay.
Sitting back, you let out a sigh as you’re left alone once again.
–
The somber tone of that day never fully recuperates itself into something easier. There’s a constant pressure looming overhead that unfortunately isn’t barometric. It’s that of a ship set to fail and a man who treats revenge like a cure for loss. But on the other hand, one thing does change. Sukuna opens up.
He shows you a hologram with images of Simuria that leave you wistful for the greater universe. Space was never your forte, but the dense petrified wood forests and gaseous craters and mountains have your brain tripping over itself in curiosity of what insects could exist in those biomes, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he brushes you off as noisy.
As the days pass and your food supply begins to run short, you’re left with no option but to eat less as you quietly enter survival mode upon realizing Sukuna eats… well, rocks. So you’re left only with what was packed for you.
You were intended to have sent Kerm back by now. You weren’t intended to find life like Sukuna. You weren’t intended to bond. You weren’t intended to be left with a yearning to explore the universe and see the things he’s seen. You weren’t intended to slowly begin to wither. There was an out for you, as morbid as it is. A single dose ready to take once your mission was complete.
And yet, every day, Sukuna brings something new for you to see or experience. It’s small, but it’s surprisingly meaningful. He shows you the vast cliff faces of a Simurian coast that’s a famous vacation spot. He tells you stories of the gaseous craters within the planet that make much of it uninhabitable, hence the far smaller population across it, even before the Kerm. He demonstrates the use of four arms to their full extent and how his brain adapted. He shows you his tattoos. God, the tattoos.
He tells you all about how they each have meaning. How in Simuria, they’re a mark of life events. His wrists were banded when he finished an equivalent of elementary school at twenty-eight. His upper arms were an equivalent of high school at thirty-six, and something akin to university marked his shoulders at sixty-two. It’s a wonder to hear someone graduating university at sixty-two with their life still ahead of them.
He lifts his shirt and points to stripes along his shoulder and back. You swear you’re paying attention. You swear. He smirks, but he tells you nonetheless that they were from what you might consider a bachelor’s degree equivalent.
“What about your face?” You ask, tracing the ink on his jaw along the glass as you leave behind a smear.
“That,” he states, “was my choice. We all choose what our face will look like.”
“No special event?”
“Just me,” he breathes.
It makes you smile.
He hates how much that very action sits under his ribs. It pokes at him, prods at him like it belongs there, reminding him that this won’t last forever.
One morning, he arrives with dark circles under his eyes. He notes that you both look tired. He knows his reasoning, but he can’t place yours. Your energy is largely spent, yet you just awoke. You’re not noisy anymore. He places a circular device on the ground. A holographic device, you recognize it right away, but it’s far larger than the usual one.
“You wanted to see the mountains,” he states simply, ignoring the failed experiment to his left, in spite of the fact that he needs to start a new one with time of the essence. “You will.”
Awaiting him in your usual nook by the window, you’re wrapped up in a blanket, smiling in spite of yourself. For the first time since you met, weak feels as though it properly describes your appearance, but you refuse to give up despite your body’s shortcomings as your stomach rumbles. Sukuna never points it out.
He runs his finger along the outer dial that his machinery tends to run on and it springs to life. You bring a hand up to block the light protruding from a high-lumen-count projector, squinting as the hologram doesn’t just project something in a controlled, small environment, it extends to every wall as though you’re there. The bulb remains bright as Sukuna steps away from it, allowing you to see a mountain as though you’re there.
It’s not a rebuilt landscape either, you realize as you press your hands to the glass to get a better view. It’s a video. It’s a bit shaky, and you’re certain that if it played audio, you might hear the camera operator panting. Every time it shakes and the hologram can’t make sense of what it’s projecting, you squint, but it comes back in a moment. When it flashes suddenly, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna, following along behind the camera operator. He looks young. In human years, you would guess his twenties. Maybe three hundred for him. You can’t help a smile as you note that he doesn’t seem to have four arms. You wonder if they came later.
The camera flashes again as the operator moves it, revealing his own face along with Sukuna and four laughing Simurians. Sukuna still bears his usual aloof expression, but the joy in his eyes is palpable as they all pose for a photo. The camera operator looks largely like Sukuna, though he bears no facial tattoos and only a simple set of extra eyes. A twin, perhaps.
To Sukuna’s left is a Simurian with shoulder-length white hair who’s much shorter than the rest of them with an eye in the center of their forehead, a tall and slender Simurian with horns and the same third eye, one with shaggy white hair and six striking blue eyes, and one with silky-looking black hair and four eyes, purple beyond your wildest beliefs.
“Are those your friends?” You query, covering a cough in your elbow.
Sukuna intently watches the action, chuffing when the camera turns away. “We went on a trip after my fourth tattoo.”
“You look young.”
He steps around the projector, moving closer to your window. “I was.” He’s never been the most talkative, but he does ask more questions. You chalk it up to scientific curiosity. “Are Earth mountains like this?” Were you more keen, you might realize he’s deflecting you from the subject of the friends of which he’s mostly lost.
You stare around at the landscape. Simuria is largely rocky with giant craters. It’s covered in iridescent minerals that seem to form under the far more gaseous and toxic-leaning environment. “Some,” you decide. “The more harsh environments get colorful like this. Mostly, they’re gray with trees. Kinda spiky green ones with pointed tops. We get snow, too, at the tops where it’s colder.”
Simuria is warm, from what you’ve gathered, and his head tilts curiously at the thought of snow.
“You know when you bring a liquid to a cold temperature and it freezes?”
He chuffs.
“Like that, but tiny shavings of it. It’s white and cold. It falls from the clouds.”
“Fascinating.” And he means it, too. It’s the most intriguing part of all of your interactions with him. You don’t learn through questioning as scientists anymore, you learn through sharing as friends.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur to yourself, watching the video clip play out. It cuts off without so much as a sound of warning, the room returning to the usual bright and barren metal appearance you’ve grown accustomed to. “Snow doesn’t have much friction, so humans would go to the top of mountains and slide down.”
“You have no cliffs?”
“Not really on the snowy mountains.” You scoot forward, leaning your shoulder against the window as you pull yourself into a tight ball with a blanket draped over your shoulders. “Mostly in deserts. Desert mountains look more like Simurian ones, but mostly one color. They’re warmer, too. Most of the time.”
Subconsciously, Sukuna leans against the glass, his shoulder warming you enough that your eyes flutter shut. “What color?”
You yawn. “Orange. It’s kinda like a darker version of your hair. If you squint.”
Absently running a hand through said locks, he stares out at the hangar’s walls, where the hologram projected mountains mere moments ago. “I think I know the color,” he murmurs mostly to himself. Rising from where he leans against the glass, his lips part to speak when he finds you sound asleep slumped against the glass.
His jaw tightens, a sharp pain rising behind his teeth at the sight of the tiny Human he’s grown fond of curled into a little ball aboard her ship. His friend. Slowly, a hand rises to the glass as something in his chest twists painfully. He recognizes the feeling, he’s no fool. He’s spent over a thousand years alive and isn’t a stranger to the pang gnawing at him as the noisy stowaway he picked up passes out in his presence.
To you, he’s safety. To him, you're more than just company.
And you’re wasting away in his hangar bay because some species he’s never come across decided that would be the case simply for having compassion. It brought about a mistake, sure, but you had compassion nonetheless where they did not.
He sucks in a breath, taking long strides over the metal floor to continue experimenting until you rise again. He works quietly, although he knows your hearing doesn’t compare to his. He moves with silent ease in spite of his lumbering form and watches with a frown as every environmental change he puts either of the cells through doesn’t bring out the result he wants. His cells adapt to the environment, but never recognize the Alveolarium as a threat.
Stepping back as he attempts to re-evaluate, he casts a glance back at you. Even if your energy wanes, your heart still beats steadily in his keen ears. He can get you back to Earth so long as he can figure out a solution to get energy back into your system somehow given that his food doesn’t fit within your diet.
You stir with a yawn, seemingly roused by his glance. You press against the glass, sitting up and blinking a number of times. When you meet his gaze, a spark of energy ignites that has Sukuna wincing. You clamber against the metal, some sort of button or zipper on your clothes clanging hard against the metal. “Sorry, Sukuna! I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”
He growls, rubbing absently at his second ear tucked within salmon locks. “It’s fine,” he grumbles, although your company is more welcome than he gives off as you sit upright to watch his experimentation once more.
You offer suggestions that get you deadpan expressions and a dramatic roll of the eyes given your lack of knowledge on the subject of medicinal chemistry is lacking. You figure you’re better at telling stories anyway, and even if you lose your place here and there when your tiredness catches up with you, Sukuna always offers a guiding suggestion when you falter.
The following day is when he starts to notice a trend that doesn’t greet either of you with warmth.
You drag yourself to the bridge later than usual without your morning granola bar. Sukuna offers you a mineral, but he knows it would break your teeth. He also offers meat, but you both already know your system rejects it. The blanket you’ve been dragging around with you for the past few days is bundled so tightly around you that Sukuna would wager a guess that you’re colder than usual, too.
When you make a motion to point at something on the table, his gaze lingers on your trembling finger. He can hear your stomach. He knows you’re starving. He’s watching your spirit fade, completely helplessly.
Sukuna, a man who’s spent over two hundred years coming to terms with the past and adapting to being alone, finds himself completely at a loss and frustrated beyond his means when he finds you the following morning. Or– more accurately– when he doesn’t find you.
His footsteps are even as he makes his way across the hangar. Your belongings remain at the glass, but you aren’t there yet. He tilts his head, catching your heartbeat as a slow, steady thump that keeps him at bay, and moves to check on his most recent experiment. He frowns as he finds after the allotted time, his cells remain by their lonesome, still unable to identify your Human disease as a threat.
Truthfully, it perplexes him. You determined early on that you share enough DNA to potentially be susceptible to the same diseases. Hell, by all means this is something Simurians have already overcome. It came from the same source, so he can’t figure out why his stem cells have yet to take to yours.
Carding his finger through his hair, he lets out a forlorn sigh, eyes shut for a long moment. Your heart is a steady drum in his ear, a reminder of what it is that he’s working towards. Had someone told him two weeks ago that he’d be helping such a pitiful little species overcome a disease of their own doing, he might not have believed them. But there’s more to you than your brittle bone structure and weak muscle mass. You’re smart. Perhaps not as advanced as he is, but you’re smart far beyond your thirty five years.
You’re smart in the kind of way Sukuna can only dream. He’s seen the way your mind works, how thoughts pour out before you even have time to put them together. He’s seen how resilient you are in the face of certain death. But what really gets him is your attitude. You grin through every shortcoming. You ensure him that if you keep trying, eventually your minds will come together and you’ll figure it out. You never acknowledge that breakthroughs like this take centuries. You didn’t even blink when he revealed that he’s been searching for the source of the Kerm for over a hundred years.
You’re unlike anything Sukuna’s ever known. And something dark crawls beneath his skin when you don’t rouse by the time you’re usually eating. Noon, you called it once.
With his experimental cells set in an extremely cold environment, he leaves the workspace to round your ship. His head tilts as he listens for your heartbeat as though it ever left his periphery, but it’s as sound as it’s ever been. Slowed by sleep perhaps, but sound. He comes to a halt when it grows louder as he nears your sleeping bay. His hand drifts across the scraped metal where your ship tilted on its axis when it scraped the ground as he scooped you up, resting along the damaged hull.
He hones in on you, and finds you’re still breathing. Still there. Still alive. But shallow. There’s no wheeze, no sharp inhales. It’s simple and shallow.
His brow furrows as he turns to fully face the ship. You aren’t just malnourished anymore. Something is wrong. His gaze lifts, traveling along the mechanics that keep your ship in one piece, far more primitive than the smooth and compact design of his. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, but when what he’s faced with isn’t an easy explanation, he turns on his heel.
He moves with more severity than he has in a century, no longer silent as he pads over extended corridors of metal that leave him questioning ever having a ship of this size. When he reaches his lab, he reaches for a scanner and jogs back to your ship.
It only takes a moment to calibrate its sensor to search only for organic matter. He lifts it to your ship. Alveolarium, as expected. Blood, and healthy stem Alveolar cells, as expected. All in small quantities.
Until everything lights up red. Immense amounts of blood, of musculature and tissue, along with a high volume of water. He’s found you. And along with everything he expects of an organic creature, a revelation that makes his blood run cold.
An uncontrolled quantity of Alveolarium. You’re infected.
Somehow, between the multitude of items you’ve exchanged and the experiments you’ve run by your lonesome, you must have been exposed. Your energy is being sapped because your body is fighting a disease engineered to kill.
He harshly clicks and growls to himself in a series of muttered curses, as he stares at the reading. For the first time since the bioweapon you call Kerm was found on Simuria over two hundred years ago, he finds himself completely and utterly helpless yet again. Control slips through his fingers like the sands of time as he raises the scanner once more as though it might reveal a different fate, but it never does.
His chest rises and falls heavily, his arms falling to his sides as he stares blankly. His mind takes a moment to wrap around the reality that you’re not Simurian. You’re human. You’re noisy and weak, your mind can’t keep up with your thoughts, and you’re invasive as hell– you won’t adapt to the illness. And god, is it quiet without you.
Urgency kicks in like a long-dormant volcano coming to life as he moves back to the table, evaluating how many samples he has left. He draws more of his cells, ignoring the tingling feeling in his arm as he injects himself with a drug to draw stem cells from his marrow. He drags more of his lab to the hangar, setting out tables and creating extra boxes able to pressurize to the same barometric pressure as that of an oxygenated atmosphere.
He lowers incubation times to do more tests, changing the parameters so often that his notes become a mess.
You don’t move. He hears you shuffle once on the first day. On the second, he grits his teeth as he listens to your harsh breaths. Your moans, your groans. You move at one point in what sounds like a drag of your feet and he hears water, but he’s not even positive if you make it back to your quarters.
As he watches one of his cells back off from Humanity’s infected lung cells, he leans over the table on two arms, sucking in a long breath. He doesn’t know how long he has. He doesn’t know how long you can survive without food. He doesn’t know if you have more water.
His second pair of hands ball into fists at his sides as he shuts all four eyes tightly. He didn’t know what to do two hundred years ago watching something so similar take out his entire species. He doesn’t know what to do now, stuck in the same situation. His knowledge is far more advanced than everything he knew back then. His technology and abilities exceed everything from back then. So why the fuck can’t he figure it out?
Is it that your suggestions were more useful than he gave you credit for? No, is it that he simply misses them? That they kept his mind from running off-rails into mania?
He works himself to the bone until he’s leaning with his back to your window. With one knee pulled up, he rests his elbow atop it, using his hand to block the light from his pounding head. He absently rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes shut as he runs through formulas in his head until his mind begins to give in. The only thing he can bring his mind to hone in on is the sound of your heart. The steady reminder of the noisy human he’s doing this for in the first place.
Just as he begins to drift off, the gentle buzz of lights in your ship comes to a halt, a mechanical voice brought to life by necessity.
“Backup power activated. Life support systems online.”
The alien jolts, his slumber interrupted as he stares up at your ship with wild eyes. They flick all around the bridge as he takes in the red light and the way the buttons along the navigation board have dimmed, many shutting off altogether.
“Backup?” He states the word as though the program might respond to him. “Online?” Neither word is in his vocabulary, and as he gets to his feet, all four hands pressed to the glass, he searches desperately for meaning. “Human? Human?” His mind is too worn out to fill in the gaps with context as panic coats his movements like a snake slowly seeping its venom into its prey.
With a final call of your name, his fingers squeak as they drag along the glass. He turns back to his work station, dragging his hands violently over his scalp. He clicks and growls to himself, slamming a lower hand down over one of the sealed pressurized boxes. It cracks easily from his strength, putting his experiments immediately at risk. His eyes widen, two hands raising as though he might be able to stop it with his bare hands. He rushes back through his ship, racing through corridors to find something capable of stopping the crack before it shatters altogether.
Returning with a handful of options, he opts to melt a stone element from his planet into the crack. It’s the safest option he can think of. Sitting back from the soldering gun, he collapses onto the floor in a flurry of exhausted limbs. His stomach mouth parts as his body expends much of his energy on his mental state, only furthering his trouble.
In an effort to gather his thoughts, he leans over his knees, dragging his hands down his face. Backup. Red lights came on, some systems shut down. Using context clues, he can put that together. He pushes down his panic as he works on the second word. Online. He can still hear your ship whirring. He can hear your breathing. Life support must be working.
Okay. One problem down.
No matter how he changes the co-culture or adjusts the selective pressure, no matter how he adjusts his hypothesis or the duress he puts his cells under, the results remain the same. His cells adapt. But never to the disease. They co-exist in separate worlds.
Two eyes flick towards your ship, reminded of you, stuck on your own in a cell of your own doing. His fingers curl into his palm as he drives his focus back to his makeshift lab.
He can’t figure out why his cells won’t recognize yours. You may be different species, but his cells should recognize the pathogen in the Alveolarium as similar to the same illness that took out a majority of Simuria. He’s already adapted past it, and the cell structure isn’t that different.
He drags his nails over his scalp while his lower arms remain in fists. How much power do you have left? How much longer can you survive without water? You’re largely compounded of it based on his scan, can you survive without intake?
With a harsh growl, he pushes to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles protest. Pain simmers as he pushes them, keeping the reins on his control over this situation with an iron grasp. He pushes through the burn, pushes his mind to its limits as he works out chemical compounds with what brain power he has left, all the while continuing to alter the cells’ environment until he has nothing left to give.
–
Your ship doesn’t do its usual chime come morning. What’s worse is that your coughing startles him awake. Your heart stutters, a deadly sound for any species.
Hunched over in an odd position on the floor, Sukuna cracks his neck, rubbing at it as adrenaline pumps through his veins.
You’re dying. For all the tireless work he’s doing, you’re still dying.
He reaches out for the window where you once sat, dragging his fingers over it like your very ship might fall from his grasp at any moment. His breathing accelerates, his chest leaden with the gravity of the situation. Resting his entire body against the glass, all four arms settle along the panel. His head rests unevenly on the panel, off-kilter at the whim of the plate that resides over the right side of his face. A low rumble starts from deep within his chest, erupting in a full-blown furious fit of hisses, clicks, Simurian syllables and roars.
He curses in his mother tongue like he did over a hundred years ago. He’s spent over a century learning, advancing, and searching the damn stars for a bioweapon only for the very same thing to be his demise once again.
Peeling himself off of your ship, he reaches back to rub at a kink in his neck. His first issue was a lack of understanding of your ship system. He fixed that. His second issue is the cells. He can’t fix that without trial and error. His third issue is you dying, which is made up of two issues. The pressure of his ship would crush you, but your own life support systems are failing. When your ship depressurizes, the hull will be crushed, your oxygen will flow out into the sulfuric compounds that make up his air, and you’ll suffocate.
And then there’s the dehydration. And he doesn’t know which one is a more immediate threat. Regardless, his immediate problem is your ship. He stares at it in an effort to figure out how to remove it from the equation.
He could create a new box for you, something smaller than your ship, create his own life support systems for you and pressurize the box by pumping in oxygen and out carbon dioxide, similar to the box he uses for experiments. It’s not impossible in theory, but he doesn’t have the materials on-board to build a box of that size, nor does he have an extra generator capable of creating oxygen at that scale.
The only materials aboard are from your ship, the very thing he can’t tear apart right now.
He drags his hand back through his hair, tearing it straight from the scalp as he fails to find a way to guarantee containment while also pressurizing whatever he can work out. On a small scale, he can manage with what’s in his lab. On a large scale, all he can truly manage is his ship itself. His shoulders fall slowly. His ship.
The pressure of your atmosphere wouldn’t be a big deal on a creature like him. His ship could handle that without question. His muscles would survive. He could wear a suit, pump the sulfuric components through it. He could save you from the immediate threat. For a moment, the thought sits with him. It slips into his chest along his ribs, curling around his pounding hearts. It almost doesn’t feel real.
But when the dust settles and he’s left simply staring at your window, it becomes suddenly, startlingly, real. He turns on his heel like a man on a mission, moving through the ship as he heads for the mechanical room. He wrenches the small metal door with too much force, causing it to bend as he slips down into the tight space.
Machinery hums and breathes around him, worn pipes humming on every side as he shimmies through the space you might think was built by someone else given how much Sukuna is forced to squeeze through it. A whirring tank brushes his skin– hot– burning him in the process, but it’s barely a distraction when he’s aiming for the back of the room.
Sure enough, the sulfuric gas generator residing at the back comes into view quickly. The generator currently keeping his ship pressurized could be repurposed for oxygen through chemical reactions similar to what’s currently generating his sulfuric gasses. He can suit up, and–
His hands come to a halt as he finds himself scanning his surroundings like it might change his fate.
]He only has one generator. He can only create sulfuric compounds for his own atmosphere on a small scale with what he has onboard his ship, but not enough to support him long-term, and what’s currently stored won’t last forever. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, when he considers that he still has to kill the Kerm, on a planet whose atmosphere he knows nothing about, with creatures built to kill whether through sheer violence or illness. He can’t risk using what sulfuric compounds he has stored while aboard his own ship.
In the cramped space with the generator’s hatch open, he presses the ball of his palm against his temple. There’s an answer. One that he’s already considering. But the cost could be his life. He could make the change to oxygen and pray his body is forced to adapt and maybe save you, should he survive. It’s either that or sit here and listen to your heart and breathing weaken until you’re nothing but a shadow in his hangar bay.
On the flip side, if he doesn’t adapt, then you’re both dead.
Sukuna has always been a man of certainties. He chose science because it makes sense. He chose science, because variables don’t react without reason. He chose science because it gives him control of his outcomes through error and studious attention. But this decision isn’t about science or reason.
This decision is about the hundreds of Simurians he feels responsible for losing. It’s about his revenge against the Kerm. It’s about the noisy human wheezing in his hangar bay who told him she wanted to see Simuria. It’s about the stupid girl whose heart stuttered as she solemnly lied to him about being okay with her fate. It’s about how cold your hand felt, even through the glass.
He barks out a Simurian curse, reaching for the tools necessary to begin generating a different gas.
He wrenches on a cable, giving it a harsh twist to unlock it from its position. The ship comes alight with warnings that he opts to block out as the pressure of the hull begins to shift. It’s not painful to begin, even as the ship’s very structure complains with harsh moans and groans. He floods the chamber with sodium chloride and ups the heat until it begins producing oxygen. As the remaining sulfuric gas runs into a reserve chamber, he shuts the generator and continues to ignore the creaking and warnings his ship spews.
Getting to his feet again, he slides through the tight space, sucking in every last breath he can of sulfuric gasses as they begin to dissipate.
Oxygen hurts. He pushes through the pain, trudging through the halls as he fails to catch his breath, certain that the generator is working when his muscles feel loose as the pressure of the ship adjusts to the new gas flowing through its chambers. He turns down a long hall, ignoring the flashing lights along every wall while the hull groans. When he finally reaches the hangar, his chest doesn’t ache or burn, it sears like something is clawing at him from within, begging to be let out. It’s not his first brush with pain like this, but there’s something different when it’s his lungs. Tears form along his lash line as he lacks sulfuric gasses to his brain, the compounds unable to pump blood to his most important organs.
When he reaches your ship, he stumbles into it, still upright through sheer willpower alone. He slams his fist into the panel nearest where he last knew you were, loosening the edge. His fingers curl around the newly revealed edge and with all the might left in his body, he tears it off. Along with it comes a series of mechanics as your ship begins to beep and protest in tandem with his. Only once he tears through some wiring with a series of flashing lights does your ship finally shut off.
This is it– the test of his own scientific capabilities. Whether or not you survive in the environment he’s artificially created within his own ship.
The blaring alarms mitigate his ability to find you, his head whipping one way or the other. He drags himself through the pain, through the mind-numbing brain fog, picking up a half-finished bottle of water he spots on a counter along the way, until he finds you.
You’re sitting awkwardly in a corner, shivering, but conscious. Alive.
Your eyes are harshly lidded when you stare up at him, clinging to your blanket like it’s a lifeline. Your dry lips part, a look of sheer confusion falling over your expression like you doubt what you’re seeing in the dark corridor of your ship whose systems have completely failed.
Sukuna’s chest struggles to rise and fall evenly, every breath furthering the pain behind his eyes as his lungs fail to pump sulfuric compounds into his bloodstream and his brain function falters. He doesn’t let his knees give out until he’s able to hand you the water bottle.
“S’kuna?” Your voice sounds as though it’s been scraped against the very compounds that make up Simurian mountains. You sound as though you don’t trust your voice, let alone your mind.
Close enough to leave the water within your reach, the giant alien’s body finally gives out. The water hits the floor beside you just within reach as one arm attempts to grab the counter that you lean against. His palm brushes the surface, but his body drops like a stone to the floor beside you, scraping his palm. His vision is narrow as he uses what little strength he has left to envelop you in his arms, acting as a blanket for your shivering form.
The moment he touches you, clarity shoots through your mind like lightning. This is no fever dream, you’re not waking up out of sheer necessity of needing water or a way to warm up. It’s a shock to your system in more ways than one. He’s not just warm– his body runs like a furnace in comparison to yours. He’s so warm that curling into him isn’t a choice, it’s survival and he knows it.
The very thing that kept you apart for so long hits you harder than the shock that Sukuna is beside you. “Wait–” the word comes weakly as you give his arm a shove. It barely affects him. “You can’t–” A cough settles at the back of your throat, interrupting your thoughts. “What did you do?” You rasp out between the kind of coughs that wrack your body and send spikes of pain to every receptor that will listen.
But he doesn’t respond, any semblance of consciousness long gone as his arms go limp. You can’t move him. You can barely move yourself. The most you can do is hope that his body takes to oxygen like it did to science, or whatever it was that truly gave him an extra pair of arms. You assume that’s his hope too.
The flashing lights and warning buzzers continue to blare outside the hull. Your ship offers very little cover from the noise, but enough that your already-foggy mind is able to drown out the noise with the static of illness. Unable to fight the heaviness held over you, you shakily grab the water. You may be too delirious to grasp the true gravity of the situation and what Sukuna’s done, but you know better than to overlook the gift of water.
The massive alien wrapped around you on the ground makes it easy to lean into him, basking in his warmth as it quells a modicum of your shivers. The longer you sit there in the flashing lights and blaring sirens, the more your body gives in to the grasps of the sandman. Subconsciously, you lean into Sukuna– passed out beside you– until your head leans against his shoulder. It doesn’t rise and fall, but you find comfort in the fact that when you press a hand to his chest in search of something, anything, that might give you hope, his heart pushes a single beat through. One after another, each of his two hearts continues to push through the unlikely situation.
That reassurance makes it easier to give in to the forces pushing you to unconsciousness. Because you recognize Sukuna’s actions as more than just kindness in the face of danger.
This is a species you’ve never witnessed whose primary goal was revenge, brought to his knees by the very stowaway he huffed and puffed over being noisy. Not by manipulation or force either, but by choice. Sukuna didn’t just choose to save you. He chose pain, he chose to bet on low odds. He chose to put off his mission, and he chose to endanger and expose himself to disease, all for you.
He isn’t just asking you to live. He’s commanding it.
–
Sukuna doesn’t stir for forty eight hours. You aren’t much better, but at least your body faces wakefulness in the face of dehydration. You don’t know how long Sukuna can survive without food or water, but you have no other option but to hope it’s longer than you.
Midway through the third day is when he finally stirs. It comes in twitches at first. It’s not dramatic, but in the few moments where you’re awake and delirious and you spot any semblance of movement, you cling to him like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Next come the wheezing breaths. Then groans, and sharp inhales that sound unnatural. You feel his pain deep in your ribs like a stabbing sensation. His fingers drag so harshly against the metal floor that his fingers break through it, the metal proving to be little more than an ant to his elephant strength.
Consciousness is dramatic for him.
Like a switch being flicked, his body comes to life and with it, his pain and confusion. He flies back, head ramming harshly into the cabinets you had been leaning against. He huffs out his displeasure, but the sensation is harsh in his chest. His lungs may have adapted, but oxygen is a harsh forced change to sulfur. The compounds shred within his chest, something that has one of his many hands flying up to grip at his chest.
He mutters a harsh curse under his breath in his mother tongue that sends pain back through his throat like a ricocheting bullet. In the cramped confines of your torn-open ship’s hull, he rests his head back against the door to the lab. Every breath is fire in the large expanse of his chest, his lungs accepting the oxygen not out of desire, but need.
He mutters a curse again, recoiling far less as he pushes through the pain. Ignoring the deliriousness of pain and the cramping in his gut, he cards a hand through mildly oily locks, pushing them away from his forehead. When his gaze glues itself to you, blearily watching him from the floor in a state of suspended wakefulness, he freezes altogether.
You’re alive.
His chest finds a new way to deliver pain as he hunches forward, sliding back to the spot where he had clearly been your pillow if your odd position is anything to go off of. He glides over the floor, taking a seat where he had been in an effort to provide a pillow.
The sensation of his returned warmth has your lashes fluttering as you stare up at him. He can see the gears physically turning in your mind as you make sense of him being there, awake, and alive as well.
For a moment, his brain betrays him. He moves on instinct, brushing his thumb over your collar. Only to be met with a weak smack to the chest. He blinks, staring down at you with confusion woven within his fondness.
“You could–” you cough, “have died.”
A series of growls and clicks between syllables you don’t recognize fall from his lips like he’s giving you a full scolding in a foreign language. It almost brings a smile to your dry lips as you recognize only two words.
“Noisy human.” His muscles are fraught from disuse as he hoists you into his lap.
The alarms may have stopped blaring, but the lights around him continue to flash in warning, reminding him of the reason he underwent this in the first place. Under the duress of having very little energy after evolution and his chest protesting his every movement, he groans as he pushes to his feet with you cradled close. He pulls you into his chest, casting a glance down at you as even in sickness, your eyes seem to shine as you watch your environment change. You never fail to bring wonder along with you, no matter the circumstances.
He treats you with the fragility of a flower as he brings you to his lab, moving over a panel that has no identifiable buttons, yet as Sukuna moves his hand over it, you hear the shift behind you. A bed reveals itself from the wall, not entirely unlike that of a human, though it’s a far harder material that he makes adjustments to in order to conform to your body as he lays you down.
His medical equipment isn’t unlike yours. He gets you started on an IV without hesitation, preventing the first of his major worries, and watches as your body shuts down, grateful for the new fluid intake. Every time you fall asleep is no easier than the last. One of his hearts skips, then the second one, but he takes the opportunity to continue his work. He moves the samples back to the lab, no longer bothering with the oxygenated box as he’s able to work faster now.
Waiting is the hardest part. It leaves him feeling powerless, pushing himself to his limits to distract himself from the fact that you look weaker every time his eyes glue themselves to you.
“Dabura’s anniversary was yesterday,” he mutters one morning, standing between you and his experiments where he can monitor both.
His lower hands rest on his waist, the upper arms crossed over his chest like twisting wrong doesn’t still send a shock to his system as his lungs continue to mold themselves to their new dual-purpose. He pushes through, idly taking a step towards you and the pile of blankets he stole from your ship that keep you from shivering.
“You would like the celebration,” he remarks, meandering to the side of your bed. He lowers himself to take a closer look at you, before sinking to his knees. His upper arms rest along the edge of the bed, chin seated atop them. “We have a–” he pauses, glancing aside at the realization that he frustratingly can’t even tell you about the celebration because he lacks the words. He growls, his expression pushing into a scowl as he utters the Simurian word for ‘fire’. “A heat light. It’s big,” he presses on. “We use chemicals to create oxygen vacuums,” he continues. “Everyone comes from across the planet. We eat a lot. Drink.”
You don’t stir.
“You would have liked Satoru. He was noisy, too.” His gaze rises from where he sits to sweep your face. You don’t have the gentle look he’s grown accustomed to anymore, your features sunken and permanently pulled into a pained expression. It wrenches at his chest more than the pain of evolution somehow. “He studied the Kaliyans. Some Simurians have deep ties to them. Neither him or I did, so he chose to study them. We never did find answers before…” He huffs, muttering a curse of clicks and growls. He lets his cheek fall to his arms, at a loss. He shuts all four eyes at the sound of a timer going off, sucking in a breath as he wearily pushes to his feet.
He stares at the hologram emptily. It irks him to see the Alveolarium still rampant, but he expects no less at this point. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting to get out of these at this point when experiments like this don’t just take days. They take years. They take materials and vigorous testing and… He throws his gaze over his shoulder, noting how shallow your breaths are now.
He doesn’t have years. He might not even have days, yet again. He bought himself more time, but he’s back to square one with control slipping through his fingers yet again. He grits his teeth so harshly it sends a sharp pain straight to his brain. One would only catch his wince if they were paying attention, as his bottom left eye twitches from the sensation.
Padding out from the room to give himself a break to eat as he overthinks every equation until there’s no semblance of hope left, he sits casually at the bridge, staring out at the planet below. Green clouds and space debris make up the remnants of the species that created the Kerm, long extinct by the hands of their own bioweapon. Below those clouds are the pinks and blues that make up the largely crystalline surface where the beetle-adjacent species now resides, hungry and in search of new prey.
Kerm. The thought settles between his ribs alongside the pain of his evolution. He always envisioned his arrival at their planet to be more triumphant. He envisioned traveling to its surface to ensure that his hypothesis was correct and they’ve eaten beyond their means, invasive to their own planet and destroying its very ecosystem until all that remains are themselves. Then leaving without a trace of the Kerm, the planet, or his own actions.
Yet all this trip has done is resurface every scar he buried a century ago. He scratches at them until what remains are no longer just scars, but open wounds. Forcing down what food he can manage, he drags a hand down his jaw, staring out at the planet, Methalon. It’s silent for a long moment as he inhales and holds the breath.
In Simurian, he finds himself muttering to himself. “What if you’re right, human?” Another extended silence as the thought lingers. “What if… Kerm are more than your cause? What if they’re your cure, too?”
He taps his finger along the panel in which controls reside as he mulls the thought over, before springing into action. He doesn’t have the luxury to consider the consequences, pressing a palm to the controls as they react to electromagnetic pulses emitted from his brain and read through his fingers as he brings the ship to life for the first time in a couple of weeks, disturbing the spacerock that’s settled around the ship.
With a groan, the ship’s nose shifts as he points it towards the planet’s surface. The pressure surrounding the ship shifts as he nears the atmosphere, far more dense than what you would be accustomed to, so he thanks the stars that it’s him going in place of you. He stops the ship a short distance from the planet’s surface, setting it to hover within the densely gaseous atmosphere. It’ll keep you out of reach of the Kerm, which he hypothesizes shouldn’t be able to reach you with their stubby wings.
Should he be wrong, he supposes you’ll both succumb to his stupidity. He almost cracks a morbid smile at the thought. Not that you both might be a lost cause because of his decisions, but because he so often chides you for being stupid, when he’s recklessly allowing himself to be stupid now, too.
But he’s certainly not noisy. No, he talks to you because you like it. Not because he does. He’s quiet.
Suiting up, he drops to the planet’s surface with his limited sulfuric compound supply, his tank unsuited for oxygen. Gravity pulls him down like nothing he’s ever experienced as he drops heavily to the surface. He expected the dense atmosphere, but it still presses down on him like a weight.
Crystallic compounds crunch underfoot, and he shouldn’t consider himself shocked when he comes across the first series of Kerm, or as he knows them, Methalonians. He supposes the name isn’t very fitting, however, given that they’re unnatural. They killed whatever species was more befitting of the name.
The first one turns towards him, its head swiveling as its iridescent shell reflects the gorgeous light of the crystalline environment aiding it to blend in. It regards Sukuna with an entirely animal head tilt that might fool someone who doesn’t know their methods, but Sukuna isn’t fooled. He grips his EMP gun tighter, preparing himself for the inevitable. While the Kerm believe he’s fooled, he sets down a heavy containment pod, opening it with a hiss.
When he faces the group again, all fifteen or so creatures are facing him. Their wings buzz and hiss as they communicate, their antennae twitching through the air as they coordinate what Sukuna already knows to be an attack.
This time, however, he’s prepared. The first one approaches him slowly and curious, feigning a kindness they don’t possess. The brutish alien keeps up the facade in an effort to keep himself from being buried by a sea of Kerm.
He reaches a suited-up and reinforced hand out to the creature, watching its mandibles click together. It approaches slowly, peering up at Sukuna’s outwardly non-threatening demeanor. Its head tilts as it nears, nudging his fingers like it might provoke him.
But it’s not Sukuna that breaks the facade first. The creature zips forward, smashing its mandibles together where Sukuna’s hand just was, giving him enough time to lunge back. As the rest of the group moves in a coordinated hive towards him, he unleashes a small EMP attack that temporarily disorients the Kerm, sending them in more varied directions.
One that approaches him meets the fate of a heated vibrating dagger to its thorax, while another leaps at Sukuna’s shoulder. He spins, wrenching his shoulder in an effort to dislodge it from his suit, but its mandibles dig into the material. The material is impenetrable by their mandibles, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt anyway.
Hissing, Sukuna throws an arm around the Kerm to prevent it from leaving as he pulls the gut-ridden blade from the previous Kerm to lodge it into the next one. He remains largely in control, throwing one off to tear another from its own thorax with the blade the following moment until the smaller crowd re-coordinates itself. Sukuna launches another small EMP attack, throwing two of the group off, while the remaining four all leap at him at once. Mandibles clamp down on one shoulder, while another clings to his abdomen, choosing to methodically jab at the spots where his organs are.
Smart little asshole.
Sukuna recoils, hissing as pain rips through his stomach just beyond where his second mouth can reach. It momentarily disorients him, knocking him to the ground long enough that the remaining two Kerm are able to pile themselves onto him as well. They separate him from both the EMP and dagger, the sound of the vibrating tool over the crystalline earth grating on his nerves.
He shuts his eyes tightly, attempting to reset himself as he evaluates how much he’s been stamped down. He grits his teeth, grunting as he manages to lift an arm and throw one creature off with enough force to disorient it. The freed hand allows him to get enough leverage to flip himself over, slamming one hand straight through the creature’s shell. With one fierce glare, he flips the fight back in his favor, grabbing an incoming Kerm by the head and crushing it in one hand.
With a majority of his movement freed, he picks up the EMP again, blasting the remaining three insects and smashing them too, leaving only the one he tossed aside earlier. He grabs it by the thorax, wrangling it between two arms as he shoves it into the containment box with his spare set of hands. Once it’s inside, he lets out a huff, staring down at his gut-covered suit. He’ll need to be sure he carefully washes himself and his suit after this, given that he doesn’t want to expose you to more diseases that the bioweapon could have hidden beneath its shell.
Getting back to his feet, he better evaluates the surrounding environment. There’s evidence of trees, of civilization and buildings in the distance now turned to rubble and ash. He doesn’t have much sulfuric compounds left to breathe, so he figures he’ll do a once-over of the planet from within the ship, focusing his efforts back on a cure for you as he returns to the safety of his ship.
–
Splaying the Kerm’s insides across his workbench proves to be a disgusting feat. Even within a containment box, the smell permeates the damn room. He ends up moving it into the hangar, which by some grace has better filtration, but Sukuna finds himself further beaten down by the smell. As if his failures weren’t enough.
Unlike his cells, the Kerm’s stem cells do attack the Alveolarium… Unfortunately, no matter how he attempts to alter them, they only ever seem to act as aggressors.
For as smart as Sukuna is, he finds himself missing your curiosity. Your stupid questions. You challenge him. Not just because you’re noisy, but because you’re far more willing to approach the unlikely with an open mind. You lack the knowledge he has, specializing in natural biology where Sukuna excels in chemistry, cytology, geology, archeology, and engineering, but he’s also had a few extra years. Your lack of specific knowledge allows you to excel in general knowledge that Sukuna found himself praising you for.
Mentally. It’s easier to show fondness through actions than words, after all.
Bringing a hand up to his eyes, he presses a thumb and forefinger into them, yawning as every continued failure sets him back not just physically, but mentally too.
He collapses at the base of your bed, your breathing setting his nervous system into a furious rage of emotion as he realizes for the first time how close he truly is to losing you, with no cure in sight. Your species is weak in every sense of the word. Your muscles lack the build that Simurians have, your brain’s capacity is low, your immune system could be knocked over by a harsh wind, and yet Sukuna can’t help but find you endearing. Your lifespan is barely a smear in the grand scheme of his life, and yet the brutish alien, a species who mates for life, finds himself wondering how many ways you might be able to throw his life into disarray.
He wants your annoying quips. He wants your too-loud rambles. He wants to feel you warm in his arms, your eyes bright and wide as he shows you a Simurian mountaintop in some dumb-looking suit of his creation.
He slams his head back against your bed with enough force to rattle the very stone that makes it up. Dragging his hands down his face, the most he can do is stare at the experiments as one by one the timers go off and he’s left with one failure after another. His gaze splits as he looks between not just one, but four separate failures. Pushing his hands back through his hair, he balls his fists within the strands, eyes shut tight. Sitting so close to you, he still feels far. He finds himself mourning something he has yet to lose.
You haven’t awoken in several days, and as much as he wishes he could equate it to illness, the fact is that you’re dying. He can pump as many nutrients as he wants straight into your body without allowing your stomach the opportunity to reject his food, it’ll only do so much when it’s not your stomach fighting you anymore. It’s your lungs.
Every round of failed experiments is another scathing tear at his wounds as he leans against your bed on the floor. His gut aches where the Kerm attempted to strategically puncture his suit and beneath his performance longsleeve are several mild puncture wounds that only serve as annoyances in the grand scheme of things.
“I’m the foolish one,” he states simply out of the blue. “Not you.” He doesn’t follow it up with a long-winded explanation or flourish, it’s as simple as he makes it. You only ever did what you thought was right, giving every living creature the benefit of the doubt. It landed you in a cell, parked in his garage, but god damn it. You gave life your all. You lived without regrets. Sukuna’s lifespan trumps yours, and yet he lives with every weight he’s ever conjured still boiling under his skin.
He’s spent over a hundred years building himself into an impenetrable wall. The kind of man that doesn’t let his past haunt him. Yet here you are, under his skin like a leech and wrapped around his mind with roots that dig straight for his hearts.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t feel your hand at first, as it slips into his hair. He jolts when at last he feels movement against his head, whipping up to face you. He meets your eyes from barely over the bed, heavily hooded as you regard him with a small smile in spite of yourself.
His shoulders fall as he approaches the side of the bed again, resting his head atop his arms. His lips press into a thin line as he doesn’t just let you reach back out, but leans into your touch against his cheek.
“You know,” you rasp, unsurprisingly coughing. “I was wrong about Kerm, but I wasn’t–” another cough, “wrong about you.”
His brow furrows, a deep scowl overtaking his features. Your words sound startlingly like the kind of thing that one might say when they’re coming to terms with the decisions they made in life, further wrenching his hearts.
“Thanks for trying to help Earth.”
He growls and clicks his displeasure with your words, earning a laugh that feels warm even in sickness. When you quiet down, his muttering is nearly unintelligible. “I don’t care about Earth.”
“I know,” you smile, your thumb trailing down his cheek as one lower eye flutters shut. “I like you too, Sukuna.”
He allows himself the peace of shutting his eyes, kneeling beside your bed with his cheek in your hand until his legs go numb and you pass out again. Pain spikes through his knees when he finally rises and straightens them, sighing as he wearily looks over his experiments again. His gaze passes over a hologram displaying one of his cells idly standing by as he considers what the hell he could possibly be doing wrong when something finally hits him like the full force of a jet engine as something dangerous surges into his chest– hope.
His cells are part of a system. A system capable of sending electromagnetic pulses like thoughts to his cells in order to trigger mutation. Sure, the cells will mutate on their own no matter what you put them through, but could the reason they aren’t accepting your cells be because there’s no system to indicate to his cells that there’s an issue?
He’s been approaching the whole situation under the lens of his cells being anti-pathogens, when in fact they’re closer to mutagens. They aren’t a cure, they would never be accepted as a cure. In fact, he’s willing to wager a bet that you’re right and there is a cure that could be pulled from the Kerm, but he doesn’t have the time to figure that out.
His cells could very well re-write your DNA. They could overwrite important information, they could make you more sick. He doesn’t know. His experiments will never work without a live test subject. But on the flip side, they could save you. They could mutate your cells into something capable of handling Alveolarium. Quite frankly, when both alternatives are death, he’s willing to give it a shot.
He moves across the room quickly, hitting a dial that brings to life a hologram in order to act as a whiteboard. He takes your weight and general body size, measuring the exact quantity of his cells that would need to be injected in order to fight a full system infection without the dose being lethal, or possibly mutating beyond control. Gene therapy is a risky move by all means, but he doesn’t have any other options.
He moves through the lab with ease as he extracts a new sample from his lower arm, moving it in a box to ensure his cells aren’t contaminated. He isolates the cells necessary at a dosage he prays is non-lethal and injects them into a sample of healthy stem cells you provided before you got sick to act as carriers.
With a final check of his calculations, he moves to your bedside, praying the healthy cells trick your body into accepting his cells. Sucking in a breath, he injects the gene therapy, and pulls up a chair to wait.
There’s nothing ceremonious about the wait. Sukuna busies himself by continuing to search for a cure, something you can send to Earth assuming he didn’t rip through the return vessels in his effort to get to you. After every pair of gloves he tosses aside, he always returns to the same chair to wait, resting his head on the edge of your bed.
On the second day when he wakes up with his hair glued to his forehead by sweat and drool dripping down his cheek, he moves to wipe it when he finds his head weighed down. He blinks, unable to see past the arms crossed under his cheek, but when he lifts his gaze just slightly, he finds you’ve shifted for the first time in days. Your hand is settled on the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair.
When he tries to tilt his head, your hand falls away again. You’re still asleep, but the hope in his chest surges.
Your face fills out properly over the next couple of days. He seems to miss your waking hours whenever they do happen on his horribly varied sleep schedule, but your coughing fits begin to die down and your breathing evens out.
It’s almost a week later when you wake up with an ache in your muscles like no other, but relief in your chest. The ceiling should be unfamiliar, but even within your fever dreams, you knew glimpses of him were real. Your head lolls to the side, the bedding beneath you rough in spite of its conformity to your body. Across the room, Sukuna moves around the ship in a frantic bout of quick movements. There’s a crudeness to his movements that doesn’t fit the put-together Simurian you’ve come to know. You catch a glance of the side of his face, noting the dark circles under two eyes that rest in a familiar fashion on his face, while those that sit angled along flesh are simply squinting more than usual.
He yawns, betraying the obvious. There’s a slight tremor to his hand as he uses a pipette to transfer cells. He sets a phial down, his lower arms heavily leaning over his work table. It’s obvious weariness plagues him to his marrow, but he doesn’t stop for a second.
“Sukuna?”
Crash!
In the flurry of his limbs leaving the table as he whips around, he sends an empty flask to the floor. Not a single one of his eyes shifts to follow the mess, frantically flickering around your face as he searches for signs of illness. Rather than the dull look he’s faced for the past week, he finds a gleam that he mentally pockets for later. He moves towards you in slow, lumbering steps like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, before lowering down to a kneel. His skin is deeply calloused, far denser than human skin, as his hands come to rest on your cheeks.
You find yourself biting back a smile as the stoic alien you’ve come to know keeps his intense gaze on you as he nuzzles his nose against you. You may not know Simurian, but you know animals. In some species, that’s a kiss.
“Sukuna?”
He hums.
“Was that a kiss?”
His lips press into a line, nudging his nose slightly against yours again like action is easier than a reply.
“Humans kiss with their lips,” you explain softly.
He doesn’t move immediately, his face a breadth from yours. Something cocky and knowing gleams within his gaze. A laugh bubbles from within your chest but it comes out as a cough, which you attempt to stifle, pulling back momentarily. Sukuna drags you back like he can’t stand the mere thought of distance.
Your laughter subsides quickly as you try hard not to grin.
The stoic Simurian’s breath comes out in an eager puff against your face. “Lips are usually for other things,” he offers with a suggestive tone. But he doesn’t know how to deny you anymore. The corner of his lips quirk up as he surges forward, engulfing you in a claiming kiss. You don’t know what exactly a kiss means for a thousand-year-old being that spends their life with one person when you only live a fraction of his lifespan, but in spite of that you don’t think you mind finding out.
Everything about the kiss is all-encompassing. His smell floods your senses first, the sort of sterile musk that comes with a man working himself to the bone in a lab. His taste doesn’t match it, though. There’s a spice to his taste that isn’t Earthly in nature, but it’s pleasant like a warm herbal tea. It’s intoxicating and addicting all the same, the kind of taste you could get drunk on, should he let you.
His grip doesn’t let up, hands sliding up the base of your scalp as he tips your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands fly up to his collar, curling into the thick material of his muscle-tight shirt for purchase. It’s dizzying, and not just because your head is spinning with the sheer amount of thoughts bouncing around your overactive mind like ping pong balls. His lips move against yours in the kind of rhythm that doesn’t just insinuate passion, but something far deeper. A desperation that can only be conveyed through actions.
You can sense his resistance as you pull back, but you find yourself laughing as your hands splay across his broad chest. “Sukuna,” you tease. “I’m feeling better, but you still need to give my lungs a break.” You laugh airily, chest rising and falling heavily as he refuses to break contact.
The lumbering giant’s shoulders tense for a moment, then relax, his hands gliding down the column of your neck to rest on your shoulders. He takes the opportunity to envelop you in all four arms, grateful to find you’re no longer shivering. You don’t hesitate for even a moment, arms snaking around his neck as you bury your face into his neck.
“How’d you do it?”
He inhales, letting out a breath of relief as he relaxes into your grip in spite of his awkward hunched position over your bedside. “My cells aren’t like yours. They react to neural oscillations and signals sent through electromagnetism. We were trying to use them like anti-pathogens, but they aren’t.”
“They’re mutagens,” you finish the thought in an excited burst, pulling back to face him with those wonder-filled wide eyes he’s come to adore. “You did gene therapy.”
He chuffs proudly, puffing out his chest under your hands. It’s somehow far more endearing up close.
“Wait, oh my god–” You proclaim suddenly like you’ve come to the greatest realization on earth. “Do you think that means I can breathe sulfur? Or– Or maybe I can grow extra arms,” you murmur, wiggling your fingers over his chest.
His expression deadpans. “No.”
“But if you changed my DNA with alien DNA–”
“That’s–” He breathes out a sigh, amused with your overactive imagination and how fast your mouth moves before your mind can catch up. “That’s not how gene therapy works.”
“Bummer,” you pout. It’s clear the word perplexes him as he narrows his eyes, but he cracks a hint of a smile. He gets it regardless.
You let the moment hang, laughing airily as the reality of your last two weeks truly hits you. Sukuna doesn’t handle the situation with the same lightness as you do, pulling you back into his chest and muffling your laughter altogether. You wrap your arms around his torso once more in reassurance. “I’m still here,” you promise.
“Stupid human,” he mutters, his chin dipping over your shoulder as he locks you tightly against him with a squeeze. When you bury your face into his broad chest, he winces, hiding it behind another squeeze as he attempts to ignore the meager injuries left behind by the Kerm. “Stupid, weak human.”
“I know,” you murmur into his chest. “I know. But I’m here now.”
–
The difference between Human and Simurian traditions turns out to be greater than you think. Not in the sort of grand way you might expect, but in the sense that Sukuna doesn’t quite seem to know what to make of being close. Of course, Humanity aims to choose a person for life, but not without trial and error. For Simurians, there’s some sort of instinct. Something Humans don’t possess that has Sukuna uncertain how to navigate the idea of courting you. In particular, while you’re still recovering.
Your pulse increases to a steady waking beat as your lashes flutter open. You’ve gotten accustomed to the strange way the stone bed conforms to your shape, but you have yet to grow accustomed to the way you’re greeted every morning, even a week into your recovery where– by and large– you just have a cough.
You’ve barely roused when Sukuna’s hand is firmly planted on your jaw, tilting your head left and right. “Nngh, Sukuna,” you sigh, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He doesn’t budge, not satisfied until he’s determined that you’re still on a steady road to recovery. His fingers loosen once he lets out a steady breath, his palm sliding down to your cheek. He doesn’t hesitate for so much as a moment to lower himself to his knees and brush his nose against yours. The Simurian nuzzle is something you’ve grown fond to waking up to and even in your half-asleep state, you find yourself unable to hold back a grin.
“You haven’t coughed yet.”
“I just woke up,” you reply groggily, amused.
“You’re better.”
“Getting there,” you chide, staring down at the mountain of a man on his knees for you. Every morning gets easier, and every morning you have a menacing-looking puppy greeting you at your bedside. It makes recovery easier, especially when you’re forced to eat some sort of alien vegetables he cultivated for you upon converting his compost room to a garden as the only food your body won’t reject, alongside nutrients he continues to inject into your bloodstream.
Slowly pushing up to a sitting position, you suppress a cough that comes across as a personal affront to the bulky alien, who stands upright with you. “How did the experiment from last night go?” You query, your vision still mildly blurry from sleep as you look over the holograms opposite you.
“We’re close,” he murmurs, long strides taking him across the room. “Your hypothesis was right. The Kerm cells react to heat, but not too much heat. I was killing them before.”
Rubbing your eyes, you smile. “So we’re close to a cure that we can send back?”
He pauses, facing you. He’d been unwilling to send his own cells back to the very people who sent you to your death, but at your request, he’d continued experimentation for a cure that didn’t require gene therapy. “I don’t understand why you care.”
“There were eight billion Humans, Sukuna.” Your head tilts in sympathy for the fact that he resents a whole species for their treatment of you. “The hundred or so involved in sending me here shouldn’t be responsible for punishing the rest of the species.”
“Punishing,” he repeats the word, though he doesn’t need an explanation when he can use context clues.
Pushing to your feet, you walk on weakened feet to join him, sidling up to his warmth. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you.”
Two eyes flicker down to you, questioning, while the other two evaluate the weakened state of your muscles.
“You’re breathing oxygen.”
“I am.”
“And you risked getting Alveolarium from me.”
He stubbornly looks up. “I did.”
If there’s one thing that remains the same between your species, it would seem it’s embarrassment. Sukuna is over one thousand years old with no partner. You can only assume he never found someone, or prefers solitude. Or, more aptly, preferred. It’s safe to say he doesn’t know how to navigate your healthy return to his life.
As you jovially grin at his side, Sukuna adjusts the temperatures of his experimentations, each by a fraction of a degree, before he turns to face you. The tension in his shoulders has released upon seeing you eagerly facing him with clasped hands. “Yes, human?”
“Can I see the rest of your ship?”
“Not until you’re well.”
“I’m literally fine!”
He crosses both pairs of arms over his built chest. “You coughed.”
“There was something in my throat,” you counter.
His lip curls in haughty frustration. He clicks with intermittent syllables that you’re unable to put together. Missing the word, he goes with the simplest train of thought. “No.”
Stepping towards him, your palms settle over his lower veiny forearms. Your thumbs rub small circles into his tough skin, the hair on his arms noticeably standing on-end. “Please? I promise I’m okay.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “I wanna see how you keep your food, and where you’re growing those turnip things. Oh–! And the bridge, and– Wait, your ship is so big, what else do you even have here? Do you–”
He huffs loudly, but you note that in spite of the scowl pulling his brow down, relief floods his gaze and his lips fluctuate wildly between a frown and smile. It doesn’t take much for him to give in, loosening an arm as he wraps it around your shoulders in an effort to steady you as he leads the way through the ship.
It’s massive beyond anything you could ever comprehend. Metals you’re not even positive exist on Earth line the walls and natural bioluminescent amoebas are used to light long stretches of hall where wasting energy is unnecessary. Light only exists where needed, like bathing a large medical bay with a missing bed and several bottles and boxes thrown astray as though the room was flipped upside down in search of supplies. Your heart surges with something dangerous at the sight, as you know the stoic creature beside you– who doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the mess– did this for you. He tossed aside equipment and tore through supplies in order to keep you alive, who barely lives a fraction of his lifespan.
Hell, he’s almost twice your height and keeps walking at your unsteady and slow pace without so much as a peep. His hand shuffles from your shoulder to your back as he briefly points out a food hall complete with a garden and a large freezer for overgrowth and cured meats. There’s a pungent smell to the room befitting of what was once a compost bay.
“Is this what I’ve been eating?”
He chuffs, lifting a heavy arm to point at what you would otherwise describe as a radish. He states its name in his mother tongue, not bothering to translate given that the syllables thrown in between each click sound painfully like ‘engine’ and he’s heard you use that word before, so it simply doesn’t translate into a word you can both use. You nod your approval as he continues his tour with little fanfare, his hand gliding from your back to your elbow.
“I’m lucky,” he states, “they’re the only plant that will grow in oxygen from what I tried.”
Next, he leads the way through an exercise hall, a gravity converter, and a communications bay. His ship dwarfs yours in every possible way and it’s all intended for just one person. The real enigma, however, is the way his hand keeps shifting on you, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he has you back and you’ve kissed.
“I didn’t think you’d be so awkward,” you blurt out without a care in the world, pleased as you tilt your head to find his expression narrowing just slightly.
“Awkward?” He searches for confirmation despite being able to put the context clues together.
“You keep moving your hand. Seven times now, Sukuna,” you tease, your grin widening.
“I’m guiding you,” he grumbles dismissively.
“I don’t need a hand to guide me through a ship. I’m a good follower.”
His gaze glides to the side, teeth gritting as he clicks his disapproval. “Noisy.”
Laughing, you give him a nudge that pulls his attention back. His usual aloof gaze briefly flickers across your face like he expects signs of sickness before fixing on your chiding grin. “You’re allowed to be nervous, Sukuna.”
“I’m not.” He growls out some sort of curse word in Simurian, continuing on the walk through the ship as he finds the explanation he needs. “I don’t know Human traditions. I don’t know how to move forward.”
You bite back a smile at the sweet admission. “Well, humans are a bit different.” You give him a thoughtful peek from beneath your lashes, catching the way it disengages the tension in his shoulders. “We try to stay partners for life, but we’re complicated. Emotions get in the way, people change–”
“You would separate from your partner in such a short life?” Sukuna sounds utterly shocked at the thought, his nose wrinkling as he stops dead in his tracks. He turns to face you, staring at you like he wants to shake the mere idea from existence by your shoulders.
“We try not to. But sometimes it’s inevitable.” You shrug. “Sometimes you fall out of love with the person you marry or date, or sometimes things change or distance gets in the way–”
“Then you talk about it. Or visit.” His voice comes out clipped with edge. You can’t tell whether he intends it to.
“Our transportation isn’t very advanced. The ship I was in,” you explain, pointing over your shoulder, “it’s the tenth one capable of space travel beyond our own moon.”
The brutish alien’s scowl lessens as something of far greater importance occurs to him suddenly. You allow the silence that stretches on as you recognize his troubled expression. He’s grappling with something he doesn’t know how to address. The ship stands by idly in the moment where Sukuna straightens, settling a pair of hands on his hips while the others cross over his chest. He doesn’t move as he speaks with a flat tone that almost conveys solemnity. “I can take you back. To Earth. Along with the cure, once it’s ready.”
Somewhere between the kiss, the illness, and the acceptance that your fate was to die, you forgot that there was another option. “What if I don’t want to?”
Sukuna’s gaze travels listlessly left and right. It’s clear this is something he’s considered. After all, imprisonment awaits you on Earth regardless of the cure. What point is there in returning? And yet, Simuria would be imprisonment in a roundabout way, too. You can’t breathe the sulfuric gas. He isn’t even confident in your ability to withstand the barometric pressure in one of the suits in his ship.
He doesn’t answer immediately, either pretending something caught his attention by tilting his second ear towards something, or genuinely listening to something. Regardless, he glances aside as he considers your question before proceeding to completely ignore your query. “How do Humans wed?” He mutters, as though the concept that he doesn’t know makes him mad.
“We date first,” you chuckle. “We impress one another. We go out and do fun things together. We give gifts and spend time being intimate. Like, cuddling and kissing. Oh–! And then if things are going well, one person presents the other with a ring with a pretty stone in the middle and if things are right, that person says yes and then they wed and there’s a big ceremony, and then both people get rings, and friends come visit, and–”
Sukuna bends down to your height, nudging your nose once, then kissing you. “What’s a ring?”
Giddily, you can’t help a giggle as he shuts you up without complaint of your noisiness, simply backtracking to the portion of your rambling he doesn’t understand. “It goes around your finger.” Instinctively reaching for his face, your finger traces along the edge of the protruding plate from his face. One of his eyes twitches, but he allows you to do so. “It signifies to humans that you’re in a committed relationship with another human.” Your finger traces the side of his face as he stays bent to your height. “Do Simurians have something like that?”
“Tattoos.”
Your eyes brighten. “Humans do that sometimes in place of wedding rings, too. Basically, you present one ring when you want to get married, and then when you do get married, you get matching tattoos around your fingers instead of matching rings. It’s actually really–”
He kisses you again, that familiar spice of tea flooding your senses pleasantly.
Undeterred, you inquire about Simurian traditions. “What about for you?”
“We simply… Know.”
You pout at the mere thought. “Like love at first sight?” You whisper eagerly.
He nudges your nose, growling his disapproval. “Instinct.” He straightens. “No rings. The date of the ceremony is decided based on when other Simurians are available.”
“Oh right, they’re like holidays.”
He chuffs.
“Were they always, though? You said… I mean, you–”
“There used to be over a thousand of us, yes.” He doesn’t bother skirting around the question. “No, we didn’t always do things this way. We used to be selective.” He sucks in a breath, pushing past the question with little fanfare. “The ceremony has a fire,” he states now that he has the word after some experimentation involving it, “and a ceremonial dance.”
“I can’t picture you dancing,” you giggle.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t. The dancers dance.”
“Of course, of course, my bad,” you grin.
“Then, we braid one anothers’ hair, and an elder tattoos us.”
You smile at the differing culture. “That sounds beautiful.” Your gaze slowly rises to his short, pushed back hair. “Your hair isn’t very long, though.”
“Our hair has to be long enough to braid before Simurians can be wed. Or in some cases, exceptions can be made.”
“So you’d have to grow it out?” When he chuffs, you tilt your head with a grin. “That’s kinda hot.”
Catching the compliment in your tone, Sukuna shifts, a rare smirk crossing his features as he tracks the way your hands rest on your hips.
“Are we talking like a braid in your whole hair or just a small portion?”
“A small portion.”
Your grin widens. “That’s kinda cute. You’d be like a Jedi apprentice! Only, I don’t think it’s fitting to call you an apprentice, you’re more like–”
“Human.” Sukuna’s chiding carries far less annoyance since your recovery. “I don’t know ‘Jedi’.”
“Oh–! Right, yeah, I guess you guys don’t have Star Wars. Well, at least you avoided the sequel trilogy,” you mutter more to yourself than him when he lets out a huff as you turn to explore his ship again. He no longer leads the way, allowing you to explore all on your own, only keeping a hand on you to ensure steadiness as though your dwindling cough might blow you over. At least, that’s what he would tell you if you asked why he insists on keeping a hand on you.
His ship is vast. It could be compared to several acreages where your ship is barely the equivalent of a small apartment. The size is staggering, and you begin to realize exactly what he meant when he said Simurians enjoy having large properties to themselves.
“So, do your instincts just like… line up with the other person?”
“Generally.”
“How do you tell one another that you’re in love?”
Sukuna is silent for so long that you stop at the precipice that leads down into a storage and whip around to face him. He’s scowling at you with that kind of look that has you realizing your bug-based brain has missed a very Human– or in this case, Simurian– social cue.
“We nuzzle.”
You purse your lips as you’re faced with an intensity that’s oddly sweet given the frown it’s accompanied by. It’s not like you haven’t figured out by now that Sukuna is fond of you, but the reality of Humanity and Simurians is that he’ll outlive you. You’ll be nothing more than a distant memory by the time his hair goes gray. Assuming it does that, anyway. That’s not even beginning to address the planetary differences, atmosphere issues and dietary needs amongst other things.
Or the fact that you’ve known him for only a few weeks. Unusual by Human standards to be in talks of marriage, but by Simurian standards, you suppose he’s implying he chose you already. As much as the very Human part of you wants to call him yours, the scientist in you knows only compatibility. He’s a Thorny Devil Stick Insect to your Isopod Cubaris. Everything about the situation is absurd and your brain and your heart are fighting for keeps– Sukuna, or the reality that you should return to Earth and let Sukuna find a Simurian that allows his instincts to kick in.
As you stare blankly at him with pursed lips, he steps closer into your space, examining the way you fiddle with the hem of the hoodie draped over your shoulders. His movement kicks you back into the present.
“O-oh–! The nose, uh– The nose thing? The kiss?”
He huffs, shockingly cross as he averts his gaze. “Yes, the nose thing.”
You swallow hard, the reality of your harshly pounding heart bringing to light every issue you’ve already gone over in your head in spite of the fact that you’ve spent so long craving the touch of this ten foot tall man you have no right to. “Sukuna, I barely live like a thirtieth of your life span.”
The noise he lets out is something between an affirmative chuff that he knows and a grumble of sorts. He lets the moment hang, unsure what to make of it before brushing it off with something too simple. “Instincts,” he grumbles, nearing you again as his face lowers to yours. Without knowledge of dates or Earthly traditions, the most he can do is press his lips to yours. There’s something pleading in it that melts every reservation your brain screams at you.
His lips are never soft, neither in texture nor movement. He’s a being that lumbers around and his strength is beyond obvious. You feel that, too, in the way he aims to claim you, should you let him. When he leaves the ball in your court, you press forward, wrapping your arms around his neck as the kiss deepens.
Your tongue slips against his lips like an invitation that he doesn’t hesitate to grasp as he takes charge again. He still tastes of something with an overall spicy tang that you can’t place, but it’s no less pleasant now than it was the first time. No longer weakened by illness, he takes the opportunity to lift your thighs with his lower arms while his upper arms support your torso as he hoists you up, straightening. His lower hands knead your thighs in what feels like a subconscious manner, thumbs gliding over the stretch marks and scars of a life not yet fully lived.
He stumbles towards the wall, caging you between him and it, the strange coarse texture of the metals that make up his ship cool against the spot where your hoodie’s ridden up. He presses in, his lips moving faster, his body pressed against yours so tightly that you can feel the fact that his stomach mouth is panting.
The things that does to your body should be studied. Just as you grip him tighter, fingers curling into fists in his hair, he pulls back with a strange rigidity to him. “You never– I can still bring you back. To Earth,” he offers through pants in a tone that doesn’t suit his usual clipped and formal one. The uncertainty swimming in his gaze is unbefitting of him.
“Wh–” You look around like someone might be around to share your incredulous stare. “You’re asking that now?”
He swallows hard, the movement betraying his embarrassment. Good to know he’s capable of that, truly. “I want to give you the option.”
“Is it greedy of me to ask for both?”
He tilts his head curiously, something of a clicking noise coming from deep within his throat as he places just enough distance between your faces to take in your expression.
“It would be nice to make sure the cure gets delivered to the right people when we get there,” you admit, “but I’d like to say bye to Shoko and my family.”
He sucks in a breath. “You lost ten years getting here. You would lose another ten returning, and–” his hands dig into your thighs, his shoulders tightening as he calculates distance based on where you identified the Milky Way in your many scientific discussions prior to your illness. “Seven more, at least, on the trip to Simuria.”
Your gaze falls. “Oh.” Leaning back against the cool wall that suddenly feels nice on the back of your head, your fingers curl into Sukuna’s multi-sleeved compression shirt. “So I’d be over fifty,” you murmur. It shakes you to your core, and you lean into Sukuna.
He adjusts his arms to embrace you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is a welcome one of mourning. You had accepted death sealed in a tin can in the void of space. You had accepted death faced with illness, grateful to have met such a wonderful otherworldly being. You had been satisfied knowing you fell for someone, even if it never came to fruition. It had all been enough.
Until Sukuna came barreling through the hull keeping you imprisoned, unwilling to let death be an option.
To say you fell harder would be an understatement. If the option ever presented itself, there was never a question what you would choose. There is no question what you’re choosing.
After an extended period of silence, you lift your head from Sukuna’s shoulder. “The pods aren’t too damaged to make it to Earth?”
He blinks a number of times, questioning your decision-making. “I didn’t damage them.”
“Then… As long as my friends and family know I made it to the cure, that’s enough.”
Slowly, Sukuna sets you back on the ground, a surprising amount of conflict in the way he runs his tongue over his teeth, casting his glance at the makeshift garden whose artificial sun has set.
The low bioluminescence of the hall light glows softly over his features as you watch his expression pull taut. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I am,” he argues, flashing you a glare as he mutters something under his breath in Simurian.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He sucks in a breath, stepping forward as he leans his massive form down to your height. “You’ll be stuck aboard this ship until I can figure out something better.”
“I could use a suit!” You offer gleefully. “Actually, that would be kinda cool if you think about it–” you begin, your mind wandering. “It’ll be kinda like all the movies and shows I watched growing up and then I can come back to my little– no, actually this place is huge– my huge ship, or I guess our huge ship–”
Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you for once, chuffing not in affirmation but amusement. There’s almost a purr to it as you prattle on about how every kid on Earth dreams of being an astronaut and here you are on an alien ship. He casts you a sidelong glance as you make commentary on the hot alien company you’ve found, sidling up to him with a grin as you compliment him.
“Hey, um– Do you wait until marriage?” You query with warmth in your cheeks, sending the conversation in a complete one-eighty.
“For what?”
“Sex.”
Sukuna’s jaw shifts as he regards the small being beside him. “Sex?”
“Um–” Your gaze averts as your cheeks warm further. “Like reproduc–” you pause when you narrowly catch his lip quirking up out of the corner of your eye. “You know what I mean. You’re fucking with me.” You face him with a deadpan expression.
The creature rumbles in amusement. “Noisy human,” he chides. “I’m not having sex with you here. My ship is meant for one. We don’t wait, but this is unsightly.”
“Oh, so now you have decorum?”
Using context clues to put together the meaning of your retort, he straightens. “When have I not?”
“You call me annoying all the time!”
“I call you noisy. And I’m right,” he puffs his chest out as he crosses his arms over his chest as he continues your little tour.
–
The long-awaited day comes far sooner than Sukuna could have imagined. After countless temperature adjustments and endless suggestions from you that may have had him rolling his eyes weeks ago, the fresh Kerm stem cells attack the infected Alveolar cells, curing them.
He straightens, watching the immediate reaction under the duress of an exact temperature, and replicates it once more. Then again. And again.
You’re already watching, on the edge of your seat as you set aside the roasted turnip you were eating. You both wait with bated breath as the fifth experiment comes out as a success.
“It worked,” you breathe, getting to your feet. “You did it.” Disbelief coats your tone, the dimmed lab lighting reflecting off of Sukuna’s gloves as he discards them and steps back, staring at all five successes.
“A cure,” he states. His disbelief is plain, but there’s something far greater woven within the way his fists ball up at his sides and his shoulders rise.
He failed once and his species suffered for it. Maybe it’s not Simuria, but Earth means something to you. And this time, he didn’t fail.
As control weaves itself back into his grasp, he stares down at his hands, sucking in a breath. Blinking as tears prick his waterline, he stays put so as to not reveal his vulnerability to you.
But you’re already bounding towards him, practically whipping yourself around his immovable form to hug him with unmatched ardor. “You did it!” Your whole body trembles with relief at the thought that just maybe Shoko is still out there, and this might save not just her, but your entire home. Your family.
With a sharp inhalation, Sukuna’s arms curl around you, lifting you effortlessly, as he hides his relief in your shoulder. “We did.”
But as you put together instructions for cell breeding and duplication and prepare the cure to be sent to Earth, so too comes the day Sukuna has been dreading.
Staring out the window after sending off the cure, you lean over the control panel, wide-eyed as the stars twinkle back at you. You whip around to face your companion, but your question is met with a solemnity you aren’t expecting. “What now? To Simuria?”
Sukuna’s lips are drawn into a frown. It’s not unbefitting of him, but the dullness of his cerise eyes tells another story.
The pieces fall into place with every ounce of tension in his musculature. The gleam in your eyes burns out like a solar system’s light at the realization that faces you. “You’re gonna destroy the planet.”
Two slanted eyes turn to face you, followed by the two more humanoid ones, his arms crossed over his chest as his heart pangs at your disappointment. He’ll never fault your compassion, but this is something he can’t let go.
“It’s a sacrifice,” he admits. “A few to save many.”
“I know they’re the cause of so much destruction but… do you have to? It feels… wrong. Even if they’re artificial.”
The alien’s voice is a low rumble. “You’re kind, little human. I like that.” The warmth in his compliment echoes over hard stone lining the interior of the bridge. “I flew over the planet’s surface while you recovered,” he explains as he stares down at the stark green gas buildup around the planet that’s been increasing the longer the ship sits just outside of orbit. “There are no other species on the planet. No flora, no fauna. Where there were cities, there are now ruins. Trees are shredded. There’s nothing left. If I leave them, they will evolve. Someday, they will escape, or another unsuspecting species will do what Simuria or Earth did.”
When he puts it like that, you can understand his reasoning. After two hundred years of searching for the Kerm, you can sympathize with his need to follow through.
“This decision doesn’t need to involve you. This would have happened regardless.”
You turn to face him with your arms around your middle, hugging yourself. “I know, but after letting that one go on Earth, I feel like I’m involved now.”
“You had no way of knowing. Then or now,” he excuses your action, something you’re grateful for, as much as you’ll always harbor that guilt and the vision of a creature tearing through a crew.
After a moment of silence as he allows you to grapple with reality, he moves towards the control panel, sliding his finger along a series of sensors as his ship turns to move further from the planet while more systems come to life as he prepares a laser.
The planet looks beautiful from a distance. Pinks and blues scatter the surface, while a gaseous blue-green surrounds the planet. You don’t doubt Sukuna told the truth, but your heart pangs to know that the gorgeous sight will dissipate in mere moments at the hands of someone you care for. Hell, maybe even at your hands, if you think too hard about it.
Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach as the whirring of Sukuna’s ship ramps up, a bright light beginning to form somewhere from the side of the bridge where you can’t see. The brutish alien glides his hand over a few sensors, pressing something with finality before returning to your side. His palm settles along your shoulder, pulling you into him as his chest rises and falls, his own guilt palpable in the air between you.
The whirring of the ship comes to a sharp halt, the laser’s light suddenly brighter than the sight of the sunlit planet itself. Sukuna’s grip on your shoulder tightens as he moves deftly, pulling you face-first into his chest and wrapping you tightly in all four arms to prevent you from seeing the blast. With one hand on the back of your head, he prevents you from turning your head.
Even in your peripherals, you see the light. You shut your eyes tight, Sukuna’s grip on you increasing as the blast goes off. Some part of you expects to hear something, forgetting that space is a vacuum, and you’re met with nothing. But nothing is worse. An entire species eradicated, and you’re met with nothing.
Sukuna’s heart pounds hard as he watches the planet splinter. His curse to live with, but never your burden to bear. He won’t let it be. He holds you tight until the planet’s remains are little more than debris floating every which way. You’re far enough away that whatever else was blasted into space isn’t visible, and for that, he’s grateful.
He holds you so long that he isn’t sure whether it’s for him, or for you.
“It’s done,” he murmurs, allowing you at last to look out over the wreckage as his ship’s whirring slowly winds down.
“They won’t hurt anyone else,” you murmur as your brow tents when you look over the wreckage of stone and crystal that floats where Methalon–as Sukuna referred to it– once was.
“Let’s hope that’s true,” he murmurs in return, his body hunching over as he drops his face to your head, eyes shutting tightly.
–
It’s a wonder you make it to Simuria at all. Not because of any extenuating circumstances, but because you have so many questions and queries and noisy impulses that Sukuna seems to perpetually scowl at you. On equal grounds, however, you catch him with a longing stare when you least expect it.
In the midst of a full explanation on the reproduction of Scorpions. When you’re desperately trying to yank a Simurian radish’s roots from the ground while it protests you, sweat dripping down your spine. Even when you’re sifting through the remnants of your belongings from Earth. He trails after you with nothing short of zealous loyalty.
When you arrive on Simuria, you’re trapped on the ship as you expected, only able to experience the planet from the bridge’s window. Still, it’s more than you ever could have hoped. Not unlike Methalon, Simuria is primarily crystalline in nature with petrified trees growing crooked from mountains. You’re able to expand your diet to more vegetables, supplementing your vitamins with injections that Sukuna is damn-near overbearing about.
“Sukuna, I can do it myself!” You try to insist as he nuzzles you, intermittent with kisses.
“It’s my job to take care of you,” he insists into your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin to distract you before pulling back to inject your daily supplement into your thigh while you’re distracted.
“You’re a menace!” You insist through giggles, and the injection becomes nothing more than an afterthought.
Still stoic, you see his warmth within that familiar four-eyed gaze. “You chose me without instincts,” he points out in a teasing manner, pride held within his straightened back. “Now come.”
Rolling your eyes at his shockingly witty retort as he gets too good at your language, you let him lead the way through the ship until you reach the exit door. You’ve only seen the planet’s surface through glass as he promised you an oxygen tank to withstand his atmosphere someday. It had been taking so long that you figured he ran into a snag, but as you stand at the bay and watch his hand glide along the sensors, you realize just how foolish you had been.
For the first time, the bay opens up and you find yourself instinctively trying to search for a way to protect yourself from the sulfur.
“Sukuna, I–”
“Give me your trust, ange.” He holds your bicep as you begin to back away, his gaze insistent.
Ange. The syllables that, intermittent with clicks and growls, make up the word ‘angel’ in Simurian, and french–the language of romance– and his favorite nickname for you. He had explained that when he takes you to meet the rest of his kind, it would be helpful for you to understand more of his language, and that if you paid attention to– and spoke– in only the syllables of the words, you would largely be able to communicate with his kind without issue. The clicks and growls come out of necessity of Simurians having broadly low voices and living in craters. The second ears and extra sounds in each word allow them to communicate from longer distances without the necessity for the syllables, but the same is true for communicating without the clicks. The syllables can also stand, mostly, on their own.
Your jaw tightens as you stop resisting his grip, allowing him to lead you through a small bay door where you’ve often seen him leave through the pressurized chamber. When he leads the way through it, there’s shockingly no change in barometric pressure. Or oxygen.
Off to the side of the ship where you aren’t able to see from the bridge, Sukuna has built out a massive domed biome with oxygen production within, allowing you to touch the surface for the first time. Your lips part as your feet scuff over the crystal-threaded dirt beneath your shoes.
You take small steps at first, glancing to the left where petrified trees protrude from a cliffside within the barrier of the biome, hanging over the mild seafoam that coastal waves leave behind. You tread towards the beach, your shoes sinking into the sand as you take in the smell of the salt water, your mouth still agape at how massive the space is.
To your right is a cavern that you know to be partially artificial, Sukuna’s home held within. You turn to face him, the shock of it all pinning you in place, when you’re met with another surprise.
He’s not down on his knees, but in his hand is a ring crafted from metal with a gorgeous off-pink crystal in the center, clearly carefully procured. It’s simultaneously gorgeous and obvious. The jewel matches his hair. It’s romantic, but it’s claiming too, something you’ve realized of Sukuna over the months that you’ve resided within his ship.
Your hand raises to cover your lips as you stare down at it. “Are you…?”
He runs a hand through his locks. “My hair’s not long enough yet for a ceremony,” he states, the strands falling through his fingers, “but I think your traditions are different.”
“I–” You breathe, staring down at the stone. It’s not like you didn’t know this would all happen in time, but to wrap your brain around being proposed to by an alien who made a barometric dome of oxygen for you is still a feat. Slowly, you reach for the gorgeous stone. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
His brow scrunches as though there was no need for an answer and he already knew such a thing, but he hands the ring over regardless, watching as you slide it down your ring finger with a gorgeous grin.
“This is beautiful, Sukuna,” you breathe.
He chuffs pridefully, four palms finding their place along your body– two on your hips and two your waist. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, his fingers kneading your skin as he nuzzles you hard. His hooked nose rubs against yours before he dips down to kiss you passionately.
Given that kissing in its Simurian form is so different from Humanity’s version, it’s almost unfair just how good he is at it. Your body goes warm as you grip the Simurian robes he’s begun wearing now that he’s home.
Kisses with Sukuna are never slow and sweet. There’s intention behind every swipe of his tongue as he invades your mouth, pleasantly flooding your mouth not with the usual herbal tea you’ve come to expect, but something more minty, like there was thought behind this kiss that makes you smile into it.
He swallows your smile as he deepens the kiss, tilting your head up. There was a point where you were convinced you would die alone in the darkness of a welded ship without feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin again, and by some miracle, the very man who held your life in his hands now holds your heart instead.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushing your waist softly, he inhales, long and deep. “It isn’t Earth,” he concedes, a rare vulnerability within his baritone voice. “But I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Reaching for his cheeks, your thumb brushes the plating along the side of his face. “Sukuna, this is everything I could have hoped for.” You smile softly, turning around in his grip to stare out at the ocean as you shed your shoes and wriggle your toes in the sand, his hands never once leaving you. “I could live here for a lifetime.”
“Good,” his chest rumbles behind you as he chuckles, watching the tide swim ashore to your feet. “Because you very well might, ange.”
You grin up at him, wading further into the warm water. The planet is so much warmer than Earth due to the heavily gaseous atmosphere that the water isn’t cold like much of Earth’s oceans, pleasant around your ankles. “I’m kinda like Sandy Cheeks, if you think about it.”
“What?” Sukuna’s nose wrinkles, perplexed.
You laugh heartily, staring down at the stone around your finger. “Don’t worry about it.”
–
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“You,” your fiancé heartily purrs, “look like my dinner for tonight.”
The worst part is that you can see the maw on his stomach grinning from under his white robes.
You whack his arm softly, earning a playful chuff in reply as he looks you up and down, already mentally undressing you of the traditional Simurian wedding gown that Sukuna had an elder Simurian make for you, giving your measurements and no further details as he perplexed the poor elder on just who his bride-to-be might be.
The robes drape over your shoulders elegantly, the pale green accents of the off-white robes complimenting your traditional makeup. The sweet young (in Simurian years, anyway) woman doing your makeup and using traditional natural skin dyes hadn’t stopped gushing the entire time about Sukuna finding a mate, something you had picked up through broken understanding of their language.
You had even caught on that as it would turn out, he was the only Simurian adult who lacked a mate of those remaining.
“Have you picked out your tattoos yet?” She excitedly inquires, sure to slow her speech down so you can piece together what you can.
In extremely broken Simurian, you reply, “Yes! He chose design and I chose placement.”
She squeals in excitement, going on to tell you about how a Simurian named Dura recently took up tattooing, and you two would be his first wedding tattoos. There’s a certain solemnity in knowing that, with dwindling numbers, you very well may be his last, too.
Your nerves hit hard as you grow closer to emerging from Sukuna’s home where you’ve been prepping.
“If you’re still worried,” Sukuna offers as the young woman heads off to prepare herself for the ceremony, “just remember you and I are the only ones that can breathe oxygen. They’ll all be in suits.”
You’re pretty sure he just told you to picture them all in their underwear essentially, but it helps ease some nerves regardless.
“You’ve got a point,” you breathe out a sigh of relief before sucking in a breath. “Remind me how this goes again?”
Sukuna steps towards you, lowering himself to a knee to speak with you. His hand raises, his fingers gliding along your palm as he takes a moment to stare at your palms pressed together. To think that glass once separated you feels like another reality now. His gaze moves from your hands to your eyes as he intertwines your fingers. “You will wait in a tent by the beach as I am readied,” he explains, referring to his own traditional makeup that needs to be applied, his hair shaggy and a complete mess now that it’s much longer and ready to be braided. “Dabura is to wed us, as he’s my closest ally. He’ll come get you. There will be a ceremony with dancers and a large bonfire, then Dura will tattoo us.”
“And then?” You chew on your lower lip eagerly.
“Then,” he nears you, his fingers delicately brushing your robes. “The night is ours.”
You let out a breath, biting back a smile at the thought given that you had chosen to wait to have sex after all when it took so long to get you out of the ship.
“Are you nervous?” He gruffs, tilting your chin with a calloused hand.
“For the sex, or the wedding?”
“Either.”
It takes you a moment to consider the thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Both.”
“No one can understand your language. If you need something, just say so. I’ll be here the whole time.”
“You know, you never would have had me thinking you were so sweet when we first met.”
His brow twitches, his gaze averting. “I’m not.”
Stubborn.
“Noisy.”
Your eyes narrow. “Just curious, can you hear my thoughts?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
The night carries out as he promised. Seventy eight Simurians gather from far and wide, of tribes from a bygone era, of all ages and appearances. A fire is stoked and dancers do what you’re sure was once a much more elegant dance without the added bulk of spacesuits beneath traditional outfits.
The Simurians are kind to you, regardless of your broken ability to speak their language. They pick up on the occasional word in your language too, not unlike Sukuna.
Once the grand part of the ceremony is over, the rest of the Simurians take their seats on the beachside surrounding you and Sukuna as you both take small portions of your hair and braid them for one another. Your husband’s fingers are surprisingly deft, and upon finishing the braid, he gets the rest of his hair cut back down to his preferred length. Once the ceremony is complete, you’re met with cheers as Dabura declares you officially wed.
The horned alien is somehow more aloof than your husband, and the largely disinterested looks he shoots everyone you come to realize is his neutral. Were you not surrounded by far more boastful Simurians, you might even think they’re all like this.
Following the cheers of the ceremony, as things begin to quiet down, you’re approached by a Simurian with long, flowing white hair tucked into his spacesuit. He has a friendly look about him as he grins at you. “Dura,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.
Your brow raises at the realization he’s given you his name in your language, keen to the fact that your ability to speak is broken. Sukuna seems to respect that, taking a step back from the protective shadow he’s been all night with so many people so close to you, wary that someone might disprove his choice to wed a Human. You shake Dura’s hand in turn, offering your name as though he hasn’t been hearing it all night.
“Have you chosen a design?” He asks in his mother tongue.
He speaks slowly, allowing you to keep up. “Sukuna chose design, I chose– um–” your brow furrows as you attempt to place the syllables for the word in Simurian.
“Placement?” Dura steps in.
In a harsh tone, Sukuna steps forward, his lip curled into a snarl. “My wife is talking,” he snaps, the growls and clicks far more bitter than you’re used to hearing.
Dura’s hands raise. “I was just helping with words, Sukuna,” he smiles easily, waving the white flag before anything breaks out amongst the Simurians still lingering from the ceremony. “I wasn’t interrupting.”
You exchange a sympathetic glance with Dura, setting a hand on your husband’s arm. “It’s okay, Sukuna,” you murmur. “I just didn’t know the word, he was helping,” you agree.
Your husband’s shoulders fall slowly into something less aggressive, his gaze immovable as it glues itself to Dura. The tension between the two men is brief, before Sukuna gives into your sweet touch and softens, describing the design and placement to Dura. The white-haired man proceeds to prepare a table for you, sanitizing everything and pulling out what, by Earth’s standards, would be traditional handpoke tattoo materials.
Once ready, Sukuna goes first. The design is small, two zigzags mirroring one another with a simple tear in the center right where you chose– on the ring finger. He’s completely still throughout the process without any complaint, and you find yourself embarrassed when you wince at the first tap of the stone tool. Dura does what he can to distract you, attempting to speak with you– though at you is probably more apt given how broken your Simurian is. Still, you’re proud of yourself for your proficiency with the language and your ability to sit through the tattoo, which isn’t so bad once the first few punctures are through.
Once it’s complete, you hold your hand up to Sukuna’s, comparing the ink to one another with a bright smile before Dura bandages them. Your husband leans down to nuzzle and then kiss you, succinct but meaningful.
As the night winds down and the attendees begin to take their leave in ships of varying sizes, you sit by the entrance to your now-shared home with Sukuna. The stars twinkle overhead as you marvel at how different they are from Earth’s. In spite of everything, you stare out at the same vast expanse of space as your family back home does. You wish they could see that you got married. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your chin on them as you stare up at the sky, only able to wonder.
A bulky shadow leans over you after saying his goodbyes to Dabura and shutting the dome for the final time of the night. He blocks your view of the stars, pulling your attention to his ever-intense gaze. His chest rises and falls evenly as he regards you fondly. “I’m sure that was a lot.” Sukuna doesn’t often apologize, and you’re fairly sure it’s what he intends when he speaks.
“I liked meeting everyone,” you shake your head, relaxing as you lean back on your splayed palms. “I just wish my friends back home could see.”
“See how well the robes compliment you?” He comments in a smooth tone, although his expression remains unchanged.
You scoff, shaking your head. “The ring. The tattoo. That I’m married. Here, Simuria. All of it, really.”
Sukuna’s fond smirk fades as the moment hangs. The waves washing ashore have an ambient white noise that barely manages to hide his small sigh. “I’m sorry,” he starts, kneeling down to your level in an act that reminds you just how big he is. “But Humanity doesn’t deserve my ange.”
You let out a breath through your nose, offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks, baby.”
It took him a moment to get used to that nickname, but now he fondly chuffs. “But,” he tacks on, a little more chipper than you’re accustomed to. “I do have something for you, too.”
“For me? Is that something we were supposed to do?” You worry. “Oh god, I didn’t get you anything– I don’t even know what I would–”
“Always so noisy,” he jeers, growling out what you recognize as a Simurian word for ‘mouthy’ even as he offers his hand to help you to your feet.
“Hey!” You smack him playfully, earning a grin as he casts a glance at you, his gaze dipping down to the portion of your leg that protrudes from your robes as he helps you up.
He’s quiet as he leads the way into your shared home, strings of lights and domed bulbs decorating the walls at your request given that your then-fiancé lived largely in the dark aside from bioluminescence, much like his ship.
It seems to be the Simurian version of when men just put a chair and a TV in a room and call that decorating. Despite living in a cliffside, the rest of the house is well-decorated, just not well lit. It isn’t largely personal by any means, something you hope to change with art and photos, but at least you can say he does have furniture.
When you reach your bedroom, the most expansive room in the house, decorated with plants and a small bug-like creature you found within the dome that you’ve been studying– to Sukuna’s dismay– he reaches within a closet and pulls out a large box. Blinking as you stare down at what you recognize as a device, you slowly approach the box as he sets it atop the bed that you requested he make plush, rather than the conforming stone he was accustomed to. With a glide of his thumb, a hologram comes to light.
“What is it?” You ask your engineer husband, nothing immediately giving it away as the light displays nothing.
“Your species uses frequencies to speak from long distances on Earth, right?”
You straighten, staring at the brute in disbelief as he continues fiddling with the machine. “Sukuna, you didn’t.”
It’s all you can manage as you watch Sukuna fiddle with a dial, tapping his nail along the smooth surface of the machine as he makes calculations to figure out how many parsecs the signal will need to travel and at what speed in order to allow you to speak to your friend in real time. Once he’s finished fiddling with it, he turns back to you like this is just another day, handing you what, effectively, looks like an old phone hooked up to the box.
“You use numbers, right?” He chuffs for the latter portion of the sentence, completely ignoring your slack-jawed expression.
“I don’t– I can’t– You did all of this for–”
“Ange.” He chuffs, nuzzling your nose as he pulls you close. “Dial the number.”
A lump sits at the back of your throat, but no amount of swallowing will rid the feeling as you stare at your husband. Tears prick your eyes as slowly you find yourself needing to set the device down in shaky hands, curling into his chest as warm tears trail your cheeks. “You did this for me?” Your voice is hardly a whisper, frail in its delivery into his chest as your makeup inevitably stains his white robes.
“Obviously,” he clicks in his mother tongue, positive you know the meaning.
“You didn’t have to,” you sniffle, muffled. “I brought a bug into our room and I know you think I’m loud–”
“Human,” he growls, his voice clipped as he pulls back. The ceremonial red makeup streaking across his forehead and nose has smeared with the day’s activities, a sheen of sweat over his skin as he lowers himself to your height, holding your cheeks. “You are loud. You are noisy. And you are my wife. I want you to be those and more.”
“Even the bugs?”
A pair of eyes swivels across the room to the beetle-esque creature in a large glass enclosure. A grumble begins in his chest. “I’m less fond of those,” he admits. “But, yes.”
You smile. Lopsided, but genuine. “At least you’re honest.”
“Put in the number for your friend.”
Given that it’s not common to memorize numbers anymore, you’ve never been more grateful in your entire life that you actually know Shoko’s off the top of your head. Your fingers betray your disbelief by trembling as you turn back to the remote of sorts that he gave you, typing Shoko’s number with no regard for what time it might be. It rings once, twice, three times, and a final fourth before your friend picks up.
“Hello?”
Your voice breaks into something between a sob and a gasp the moment you hear her. She sounds older. There’s a rasp to her voice that betrays the weariness of her trade, but she also sounds well. Not sick. Alive. “Sho?” You breathe her nickname in sheer incredulity.
The shuffling on the other end is immediate, a flurry of static as you can practically imagine her flailing out of whatever chair or bed she was slumped over in. “You’re alive?” More static follows, a distraught shout for someone, then, frantically, “oh my god, I thought you were dead, or– I mean after the cure got here, I just had to assume you had taken the drug and I just– where are you? Can you facetime or something?”
It brings a smile to your face to hear your friend again, tears continuing to silently trail down your face in disbelief as tremors ripple through your muscles like waves. You laugh airily at just how much she sounds like you, her mouth at least ten steps ahead of her brain. Turning to Sukuna, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “Sukuna? Is there a way to connect to video?”
Standing idly behind you, his gaze lowers to the glimmer of fresh tear trails, his adam’s apple bobbing as he steps forward. He lowers himself to nuzzle your nose first, undoubtedly wiping tears along his own cheek, before fiddling with the box. “What frequency are your videos run on?”
Shoko is practically vibrating on the other end of the line. “Oh my god, who is that?”
“I don’t think Facetime uses frequencies, I think it’s on like… internet. Or LTE, or something.”
Sukuna hums, though he doesn’t seem confident.
“Google says two point four gHz to five gHz!” Shoko much more helpfully adds on the other side.
“Tell Google that helps,” he gruffs as he fiddles with frequencies until the blank hologram gains static.
There’s a brief silence on the other end as Shoko attempts to process how strange that sentence comes across to someone on Earth, but she doesn’t have time to question it when at last a video is displayed for each of you.
It’s clear when the video connects that life has been harsh in far different ways on each of you. Neither of you are the spry twenty-five year olds finishing up degrees and putting out papers that put you at the top of your fields at young ages. Smile lines adorn the corners of her mouth and her eyes have an ever-lidded look to them that only time and exhaustion could bring about. To your surprise, you recognize another acquaintance in the background in Utahime Iori, Shoko’s biggest crush at the time and a big rock on her ring finger.
A wide smile crosses your face and if she were right in front of you, you would surge forward to hug Shoko. Utahime, too.
Shoko’s gaze flicks around your surroundings as she holds up her phone. “Where the hell are you?” She queries as Sukuna rises from where he was fiddling with the long distance radio, popping into the frame behind you.
“Simuria. It’s gorgeous, and the people are so kind, you would love it here.”
“What’s on your face?”
“Oh–! Right, it’s ceremonial makeup,” you explain as you hold up your ring finger to display both your engagement ring and wedding tattoo. “I got married like two hours ago,” you giggle, bubbly.
The sight has your husband closing in on you, unable to stand so far apart when the very sound of your happiness draws him in like a moth to a flame.
With her jaw already on the floor at the revelation of your marriage, she can hardly contain her next question. “Who is that?” Shoko exclaims again, her image a blur as she nearly drops the phone at the sight of your husband.
“This,” you hold a hand out to the brutish alien, “is my husband. Sukuna, this is Shoko.”
It’s not often that Sukuna greets others in your mother tongue, so as he leans into frame, revealing four arms and four eyes, he simply waves at your gawking friend.
“Nice to meet you!” She starts, before it devolves into that scientific disbelief programmed into her brain. “He’s– I mean–” Shoko shakes her head incredulously as she attempts to make sense of the situation. “Aliens are real,” she mutters to herself. “Not just beetle things, either.”
“I feel like you’re really breezing over the four arms and eyes part here,” Utahime comments, surprisingly calm given the situation. You were never particularly close, but the way she evaluates you both seems to anchor your best friend. “Also hey,” she greets you by name with an easy smile. “We’re married too.”
Before you can even congratulate them as well, Shoko is already continuing, too many things to catch up on in too little time. “Honestly after CRM-12, nothing comes as much of a shock.” It comes as an observation more than any kind of blame as she evaluates your towering husband behind you. When he hums, you note that his more talkative personality may be reserved for you only.
“Congratulations, by the way! Wait– Sho, did the cure get there?”
“THE CURE!” She cries out suddenly. You grin through a laugh as everything hits you both at once, over ten years to catch up on. “Girl, yes. You saved– I don’t know, billions of people. And you didn’t even need to send any of those fuckass beetle things back. The company was pissed at first, but I swear they didn’t actually want a cure.”
“They still spread the cure out though, right?”
“They didn’t have a choice. One of the pods landed with NASA. We got lucky.”
“Thank god. I was worried about that.”
“Wait, speaking of beetles–” The hologram flashes and flutters as Shoko moves about the room, a clicking noise followed by something snapping and at last the camera faces her again. “Look!”
You stare in disbelief at the Stag Beetle on her fingers. Sukuna curiously leans forward.
“There’s no way in hell Spike survived this long.”
“Meet Spike Thirteen!” She grins as the stag’s antennae reach for her phone, its mandibles curiously snapping together.
Barking a laugh, you lean back into Sukuna’s warmth. Under the dim lighting of the strung up bulbs, he relaxes into your touch as he instinctively reaches for your waist. “Thirteen makes way more sense.”
Changing the subject again with so many things she wants to go over, Shoko sets Spike on her shoulder. “Are you able to come visit?”
You knew the question was inevitable. The one you were dreading hearing, for there’s no easy way to say it. “I can’t. We’re about seven years apart. I’d be almost sixty by the time we get home.”
There’s a brief somber silence, but it surprises you when Shoko smiles, genuine and kind. “Home.” She repeats the sentiment. “Never thought you’d find one. I think I’m okay with that, knowing that you found a home.”
Your vagabond tendencies make her sentiment make sense, and a tender smile graces your features as Sukuna’s remaining two hands find your hips, like he’s grounding himself in his own home. “Yeah. I hope you did, too.”
“Yeahh, Hime and I are doing pretty well,” she agrees, mirroring the sentiment that perhaps home can be unconventional. For you, an alien in a dome (and just one little bug in a tank), and for her, a person.
“Good. That makes me happy,” you murmur softly.
Shoko’s lips part and it’s clear she has further questions and ten years’ worth of stories to fill you in on, but she shuts them with a smile. “I should let you enjoy your wedding night.” She sits back, Utahime’s hand barely in frame as it rests on Shoko’s shoulder, opposite Spike Thirteen. “Can we talk again?”
You swivel towards Sukuna for confirmation. He shrugs. “I built it for you. Use it as you wish.”
Your hand finds his, threading your fingers through the thick ones resting on your waist. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon, Sho.”
“You too,” she can’t help her grin as the line cuts out.
Leaning back into Sukuna, you bask in the thrill of seeing your closest friend again. It doesn’t quite compare to your old dinner and ice cream outings where you claimed dessert was for your second stomach and nearly threw up when that proved to not be the case, but it’s more than you could ever have expected. The lumbering form of your husband leans down slowly, nuzzling your neck from behind. His hooked nose nudges your chin. “Happy, ange?”
“Than I ever thought I could be,” you murmur, tilting your head as you allow him access to the sensitive skin of your neck. There’s a level of harshness to just how much he grinds his face into your neck, earning a giggle as he pulls you closer with ease.
“My wife deserves nothing less.” His lower arms anchor you to his chest as his upper hands trail delicately along the green accents of your robe. One hand dips between your breasts, resting on the tie around your waist. In Simurian, he mutters, “may I make you mine?” against the warm skin of your neck.
A shiver runs stark up your spine as you nod. He sets the transmitter aside, effortlessly lifting you onto the plush of the bed.
“I don’t know how you ever had sex on those stone beds,” you comment breathily as Sukuna parts your legs with a knee.
“My skin is denser,” he replies between nips and licks at your skin. “You’re weak.”
“Yet you married me.”
“Weak and noisy.”
“Whatever you say,” you hum when his lower palms press your hips into the mattress, his torso slipping between your thighs. It comes as a shock when he’s wet on his abdomen and you’re damn sure you’re not the reason. You instinctively search for the cause to find his stomach maw must be drooling under his own robes, more emotive than your husband is himself.
Eager to feel him, your hands slip to the tie of his robes where he leans over you, pulling one end until they hang loosely from his shoulders, revealing a toothy smile along his stomach. The maw’s grin widens, his tongue slipping from within teeth so jagged one would almost think your husband were a predator, not that he eats rocks. Along with his drooling maw, you discover something far more debauched that you had yet to come across.
Simurians don’t typically wear undergarments during wedding ceremonies given that it’s typical to give oneself to the other following the ceremony, hence why the party left at a reasonable hour.
So why on Earth– or in this case, Simuria– does this man have two massive dicks?
“Why do you have two?” You query in bewilderment as he deftly unties your robes.
His expression twists as he lifts his gaze to you, searching for an explanation to your perplexity in the fact that–
“Why don’t you?”
“Why would I need two?”
He points to his two throbbing dicks, each with a black band around the base. “Two,” he states plainly.
“Yeah, I–” You chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I see that you have two dicks, Sukuna.” Covering your face as you can’t help laughing, you shake your head from behind your palms. “But why?”
“Twice the pleasure,” he states, letting out a throaty noise that you recognize as Simurian for ‘duh’. “Where’s your second one?”
“I don’t– Humans don’t have a second one, Sukuna!”
He hums, something of a grumble. “We’ll make it work.”
Left staring straight through your husband as he moves on while you’re still caught up on him having two dicks, on top of the fact that he’s almost twice your size, he returns to his musings. His nose trails the length of your neck, nudging your robes aside and kissing along the red dyes used to mark you for the ceremony, leaving new marks in their place.
“Gorgeous,” he clicks and purrs in his mother tongue, slipping his hands beneath the ceremonial garments as he pulls your mind to the present. Slipping your arms from the sleeves, you let your hands run along the tattoos that wrap over his shoulders, reveling in the way his rough skin still seems to get a rise from your touch, goose bumps following your fingers’ trail. Ten feet of alien bulk and a tiny human still brings him to his knees.
You let out a gasp as drool from his stomach drips to your abdomen, trailing down to your thighs, warm and wet. If he wasn’t already obvious with how hard he is, his stomach mouth gives him away entirely.
“You’re soft,” he comments, the words slipping from his lips like an idle thought unintended to be spoken. A large tongue swipes from the bottom of your slit to your clit, the sensation sending shivers up your spine as you breathe in a soft gasp.
The room is already warm with the anticipation of arousal, the musky smell of the night’s earlier activities pungent around you. Your husband drinks in the way your back arches for him when he gets a taste of you, a languid pace to his movements as he crawls further over you in spite of his eagerness. Once he realizes he has something, he’s not quick to let it go. The size difference between you allows him to lap at your entrance with his second mouth while he delves his tongue between your lips. Your fingers curl into his shoulders as your nails leave stark half-moons in their wake.
When he adjusts the way in which he laps at your dripping pussy, the flat of his tongue puts pressure on your clit as you realize that his tongue has a mildly rough texture as though it’s intended for your pleasure. Your back arches once more, separating your kiss. One pair of hands drives your hips further into the mattress, while the other pair steadies your cheeks, allowing him to swallow your moans once more.
It’s downright euphoric the way he uses his tongue to work you to the edge so quickly. You want to chalk it up to being over ten years since you’ve felt this sensation, but the only thing to blame here is him. Not unlike your language, he’s learning your body. Fast.
“Hah- fuck–” You breathe when he finally lets up for air, his chest heaving as you cling to him for purchase. “Don’t stop, Kuna.”
His chest rumbles as he lowers himself to one pair of forearms, continuing to knead the plush of your hips with the other pair. His fingers run along the imperfections of your skin, committing each and every stretch mark, scar, and beauty mark to memory without so much as pulling his gaze from your expression.
He drags his massive tongue slower against your clit, the barbed texture pulling you closer and closer to the edge and leaving you breathless altogether. Blood roars in your ears as he slows his pace to keep you right where he wants you, crimson irises mere rings as his blown pupils watch whimpers pour from your slacked jaw.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, his nose nudging your cheek where makeup has already smudged. “At my mercy and begging me not to stop.”
“That’s because you have a superiority complex,” you mutter even through the haze, still mouthy at the worst of times.
His tongue pulls back, your head lifting in disappointment just in time to watch his stomach maw nip at your inner thigh. You yelp, clinging tighter to his shoulders as you undoubtedly leave behind marks. “I like you noisy during sex, but not mouthy,” he coyly remarks.
“You’re such a–” You sharply gasp when his tongue returns to your clit with another long drawn out stripe up your slit.
“Don’t be smart,” he chides in Simurian, although he speaks so fast he’s positive you don’t catch it. Your head’s already in the clouds, thrown back into the mattress as you cling to him for purchase when at last he gives you what you want.
Adding to the pressure of his tongue, he finally throws you over the edge with shorter, faster licks. Stars encroach on your vision, your nails digging into his tough skin as he nuzzles your chin affectionately while your body twitches with each jolt of static to your abdomen that could damn well be slowing time and you would never know.
When your vision begins to even out, you shift against your husband, suddenly very aware of just how much drool and cum has collectively pooled between your thighs. Your movement rouses his attention as he lifts his head to inspect you. The bliss lighting up your features has his chest puffing out, that stupid prideful and boastful purr that you’ve grown fond of rumbling his chest.
Your lips part as you catch your breath, pulling him back into your shoulder. He doesn’t protest, nuzzling into you so hard you might think he wanted to live there.
“I love you too, Sukuna.”
He lifts his head, his slanted eyes curiously narrowing. “Is that how humans express partnership?”
You smile as he picks apart your traditions so scientifically. “It’s one way,” you murmur softly, tracing a finger along his cheek. His left eyes flutter shut, only opening when your nails rake through his hair.
He chuffs his approval, returning his attention at last to your body with kisses to your breasts. He shifts you up the bed, spreading your legs over his thighs as he sits between them. His cocks are heavy against your stomach, twitching, and equally slick with his own drool and your cum.
As he leans over you, kissing you once more with ease given his extra height. Two thick digits gather the mix of cum and drool, bringing it to his mouth. He runs his tongue along his lips, bringing his wet fingers down to your core. Regardless of species, he clearly knows better than to try sex without adequately working you open for him. You’re small and he has no intention of hurting his wife.
One finger eases in without any friction, the saliva coating it acting as a natural lubricant. The second is met with little resistance too, and he uses the opportunity to pump them slowly. He moves his fingers not like a human might, but as though he’s searching. Like he knows, biologically, that you derive pleasure from a specific point. And god, does he find it. Your hips buck for him as he locates your g-spot, a devious smirk curling on his lips. Your nails rake down his back with each slow pump of his fingers, your arms trembling as you cling to him.
A third finger swipes up the amalgamation of drool and cum and slowly he slips it in to the first knuckle. He watches your shoulders tense, allowing you to pull him closer until your chests are slick with one anothers’ sweat. Your walls don’t clamp so tightly around his fingers as you adjust and slowly, he slides the third one in to the knuckle.
The stretch of three fingers from your massive husband is immense as-is. You both know he isn’t fitting the second of his dicks in you, but he seems satisfied regardless as he watches your expression with blown pupils.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you breathe as he works you open slowly but surely, picking up the pace until he’s got you damn-near at the edge again.
He hums, pulling his fingers away with a wet squelch just as your nails dig into his skin. “Keep that feeling going for me, ange.”
When he lines himself up with you, a shudder rocks your body. He’s always been big. From this angle, he looks massive and his cocks are no different. The upper cock is heavy as it rests atop your abdomen, leaking pre-cum and coated in saliva all the same, both of you equally a mess. When he pushes in the tip, you suck in a breath, a hand flying to his chest to stop him from pressing in too quickly.
He hisses at how tight you are, the size difference more apparent than ever. Swallowing hard, all four eyes turn their attention to you. “Relax, baby,” he coos, his voice dropping an octave as he uses your preferred pet name for him on you. Anything to allow you to anchor yourself. His gruff attitude flips on a dime, with no intention of causing you anything but pleasure and the knowledge that it’s not only been a long time, but you aren’t the same species.
He wets his thumb with his mouth, bringing it down to your clit to massage small circles into it. Your lashes flutter, the muscles in your arms slackening as the pain of the stretch twists into ecstasy, searing and hot. His body runs so warm that the sensation of him stretching you open all the while warming you up is nothing short of heady and intoxicating. Slowly, he sinks in past the black band around his cock until he reaches the hilt, heavy balls resting against your ass.
Your walls convulse, still short of an orgasm but grappling with his size, until they finally let up and he shifts his hips slightly, testing how you react. You throw your head back in a searing moan as you grab his shoulders again, the kind that rips from straight in your chest and to your surprise, your husband groans in response. “Fuck, that’s it,” he gruffs with a pleasureful lilt to his tone. He’s only ever heard you curse twice, but it seems he got the gist of its meaning quickly.
He pulls out to the tip, his breath hot on your sweat-slicked chest, gliding back in swiftly, though he watches you carefully. When he’s met only with a louder moan and your hands raking down his back, he takes the opportunity to dive in.
His hips rock slow at first, speeding up as he chases both of your highs. He keeps one finger perpetually on your clit, moving in calculated circles in spite of the fact that his hips now snap into you. Moans, pants, and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fill the air as the scent of sex fills the room.
Your head is too hazy to look, but you’re fairly sure his stomach’s tongue is pleasuring his upper cock, if the feeling of pressure on your abdomen is anything to go off of. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and just as his hands ball into fists in the sheets where they rest on either side of your head, both begin twitching. A heavy load of cum fills your pussy and coats your stomach all at once. He doesn’t stop once they begin jerking, chasing your orgasm and riding his own out.
The sensation of his cum filling you is enough to push you over the edge moments later like glass shattering as it rocks your body in ways you’ve never experienced before. You cling to him as your vision goes black, the world around you fading into an afterthought when all you can think of is your massive husband, hunched over and finally having stopped his movement. All four of his arms hold him upright and in one unsteady movement, he lowers himself to his forearms.
Both of your chests heave as you ride the highs, eyes lidded when he nuzzles the crown of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, a hint of a question to the statement, as though he isn’t positive that he’s using it correctly.
Through pants, you chuckle at his uncertainty, lifting your hands from his back to the nape of his neck. “I love you too.”
He slowly pulls himself from within you, rolling to the side so as not to crush you. As you come back down, you give yourself a onceover, blinking at the mess along your stomach and thighs and coating the sheets.
“Sukuna, there’s drool everywhere.”
“That’s your fault,” he grumbles, eyes shut as he lays to your left.
“Literally how?”
With no words in your language for the matter, he replies in his mother tongue. “You feel too good.”
You can’t help a smile, but you do take the opportunity to turn and curl into him, coating him in every fluid you’ve shared.
“Mm,” he hums as you intertwine your legs, your head resting on his bicep. “You might be right.”
“Just a little bit.”
“I’ll clean us up,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle the crown of your head. “Just give me one more moment of this.”
–
The tides are low as you sit with your bare feet in the wet sand. The water scarcely reaches your toes, coming up to your husband’s calves as he naps in the sun, a hat laid over his head. He stirs every so often as you read a Simurian romance novel with your legs thrown over him, the written text coming easier to you these days.
The couple in the novel are so young– relative to the species– that it has you feeling wistful for days long past.
“Sukuna?”
You know he’s awake, having recently adjusted his hat. His chest rises and falls in a content sigh before he chuffs.
“What will you do when I’m gone?” You wonder about your husband, a species that mates for life.
He moves lazily as he sits up, hunching over you to parse what you’re reading. When it isn’t of interest to him, he adjusts the hat back over his head to block the sun. “I’ll mourn you.” He stares out across the ocean of the dome he’s grown into a much larger space over the years. “But I’ll celebrate your life, too.”
The thought brings a smile to your face in spite of the somber tone of your conversation. “Will you take care of my bugs?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
You shrug. “Yeah, a little.”
He sighs. “Not the ones that sting. I don’t like them.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought of them. “But the rest, yes. I like the ones with extra legs.”
“Yeah, the tarantula-looking ones are pretty cool,” you agree, leaning back into his chest.
His gaze softens as he looks over your features. You’ve aged beautifully over the past several years of marriage, and he knows your reservations about the difference in your species’ lifespans, but he knows something else, too.
Your aging has slowed to a near-halt. At around forty in Human years, your body stopped showing the signs of age that you so often describe. He’s more than positive that you haven’t noticed, but every minute change in your features is something he categorizes mentally.
It was never on purpose, but by the will of some God, whether Human or Simurian, his injected cells have slowed your aging. He isn’t sure if he’s gained a lifetime with you, or simply a few more years, but he considers the action the sort of thing you might call star-crossed. Like the gene therapy that saved your life acted as a string of fate too, bonding you together not just for your life, but several Human lifetimes.
One pair of arms holds him up as he leans back on them, the other pair sliding around your waist as he pulls you closer, the feeling of your bare skin familiar and comforting to the lumbering man. His fingers curl into your skin as he watches you happily turn a page, content with his reply. His gaze lingers on the ink on your ring finger that matches his.
However many lifetimes it may be that you’re blessed with, he knows he’ll cherish each and every one.
☾⋆ a/n ; okay so i watched phm and between that, iron lung, and alien earth, i got alien sukuna brainworms. i didn't anticipate it being like 38k 💀 i hope you enjoyed though!! this one was a lot of fun and i'm proud of how it turned out. you may also notice a difference between the tumblr and ao3/wattpad versions of this fic which is because i found tumblr's post limit (1000 paragraphs) and had to do some quick combining/editing. forgive me for any strange pacing on this piece in the tumblr version <3
i also wanna take the time to thank you all for the patience while i deal with some medical issues, i promise my regular series should be coming back soon <33
☾⋆ taglist ; @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @sukunas-one-n-only-peach @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo
𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫 ◞ 𝐬 strawberry ⧽ vanilla ⧽ chocolate
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 40k
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 farmer armin 〆 black fem reader 〆 black fem oc
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥 dark content . fauxcest . ddlg . porn with plot . eventual established polyamorous relationship . childhood friends to lovers . strangers to lovers . childhood abuse mentions , not very explicit . age gap . heavy pet name usage . love confessions . lots of feelings . reader has pubes ℘ a big clit ! fingering . oral sex . filmed during sex . dad kink . ass eating . cum swallowing .
⠀⠀ : ¨·.·¨ :ㅤ
⠀ ⠀ `· .⠀ 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 𝓅𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 . . . plz heed warningzzz ! ! i don’t want anybody surprised by the contents of this fic n decidin 2 lose their minds in m inbox , tanku . hv fun . dis fic took me so long </3 i wuz inspired 2 write dis by a friend who gave me da idea 2 pair dad armin wif two precious lil girlz ♥︎ . everybody say thanku 2 dem ! minors do not interact ! ! ! !
July has the best sunsets.
That’s what Armin thinks.
Cerulean skies are free from cloud wisps, no indication of a mean storm that usually chase after the notes of spring with lengthy streaks of peach, gold, and pink that bleed onto the straight lined horizon during the calm hours of six pm to seven. They appear as though they’ve been hand brushed by someone who was particularly lazy today, strokes long and uneven, albeit beautiful even so.
Staring out at it behind dark tinted sunglasses with one hand wrapped around the base of his steering wheel and the other outstretched outside of the opened window to idly ash his cigarette, Armin soon pulls the burning stick up to his lips to pull in a slow drag.
Missouri.
The dirt road ahead of him stretches for what looks like miles. Flanked on either side of his rolling truck and tilted towards the fading rays of the sun are fields of tall grass and blades of it dance within the gaps of the decades old, wooden fencing when the back wind of his truck forces them to as he zips by. The air smells like hay, dust, and heat as paper bags toppled to their brim with groceries rattle within the bed of his old, dark green ‘72 Ford 250. And from the speakers, over the rumbling engine, drawls a smooth, yacht rock tune — Minnie Riperton’s Take a Little Trip.
His black leathered cowboy hat is tipped low and his sunglasses shield his eyes but the strong line of his scruffy jaw, slope of his nose, and creases of crows feet reveal to most that this is a man used to long, tiring days working underneath the sun. His hands are beefy and calloused, dusted with wispy blond hairs that runs along the backs of them all the way up to the knuckle. They’re strong and steady as one of them continues gripping at the wheel while the other brings his cig up towards two, pink, faintly chapped lips for another drag, this one shorter than the previous.
Languidly, he hums along to Minnie’s melodies as he pulls it away, drapes his arm back out of the window and spots a faint dot way out where nearly the sky and land touch.
It immediately catches his attention because it’s odd.
He’s driven this same road nearly twice every other day for the past eight years. Most people know that this stretch of dirt, as quiet and predictable it may be, sometimes features nothing but the occasional wandering, hungry mutt or tumbleweed. A person is a rarity out here.
Armin’s gaze lingers on that speck as he eases his toe from off the gas pedal just a bit. The closer he gets, the larger that dot grows until it morphs around the silhouette of a person, a girl.
You’re small against the backdrop of the melting sky — nearly get swallowed up by the grass that line the fencing you walk beside. On your back bounces a pink, daisy printed backpack whose straps you hold between your fists as you keep your head lowered while you walk to occasionally kick at a small pebble with a sneaker. Armin’s eyebrows push in.
“What in the god damned hell . . .”
The sight doesn’t sit right. Evening’s nearing, he still has about a fifteen minute drive so he could truly only imagine just how long that’d be in your steps, not to mention, before the road splits off to his acreage of land, first is Mr. Beauregard’s and God knows what the man and his group of slick tongued, dirt fingered farmhands would do to you if they got their hands on you. Armin’s jaw clicks at the simple thought. Folks around here drive, they don’t walk. Especially not this far from town.
Flicking his cigarette out of the window, he lets the wheels of his truck roll him just a little bit closer. He’s sure you hear him but you don’t look up. Head down, you keep on walking — right foot then left, slow and steady. Up close, even with you not looking directly at him, Armin can tell that you’re young. Your hair sits in a big puff atop of your head and sunlight catches on the sweated out, intricate swirls of your edges that are now lifting at your hairline. Yeah, he can’t leave you out here on your own. Not you. With a small sigh through his nose, he eases up just alongside of you to gruffly call out through his opened passenger window, “. . You lost, lil’ miss?”
Head still lowered, you keep walking and don’t respond.
Armin can’t be too mad at that. Who knows what kind of man you think he is — some stranger slowing his truck down next to a young lady walking down a quiet road. Ain’t a nice picture.
Still.
You just keep moving, toe of a sneaker lightly kicking a fair sized pebble some feet ahead of you as if it were the only thing keeping your attention.
The engine of Armin’s truck rumbles on before he blows out a breath, rolls the vehicle forward some, then angles the front end of it right into your path. You hardly even notice. Nearly almost run into the passenger door before you look up to find yourself standing right in front of it.
You’re frowning when you lift your chin. Your eyes are big and brown, bordered with long, thick, pretty lashes that any other lassie you meet around here would probably kill for. Nevertheless, seconds pass and not a word is said. You stare at him as if he were something strange that just rolled into your view, like something you knew not to trust yet.
“Y’got somewhere ya headed?”
Your grip tightens around the straps of your backpack as you take a tiny step back. “. . . Town, sir.”
Pretty, little voice. It fits you. However, Armin knows you’re lying to him. A thick, blond brow lifts beneath the brim of his hat to show his skepticism, “Town’s in the other direction.”
You press your lips together in a firm line, shifting your gaze behind him to take in the vast, empty fields on each side of you. Silence stretches again, only broken by the buzzing of mosquitos and flies. Armin takes in the sweat that glistens at your collarbones that are exposed beneath the tight, blue and white gingham patterned tank top you wear that also sticks to your stomach from the heat. One look up at your face again and he sees the exhaustion that sheathes your features, not from walking in this blazing warmth, but just in general . . . you’re tired.
His thumb taps against his steering wheel a few times as if he were deciding something before he drawls out, “Look, I ain’t gon’ grill you ‘bout it. Ain’t my business, but if you keep walkin’ this way, you bound to run into Beauregard’s land ‘fore long. An’ them boys he keep around ain’t particularly a nice bunch.”
You start to chew on the inside of your cheek as a flicker of worry sparks within the depths of your eyes. Yeah, you’re not from here. It’s obvious due to the fact that everyone who’s actually from this town or even only one or two over knows just how those boys are.
“Hop in.”
“ ‘m okay.”
Armin shrugs, “I ain’t say you weren’t.” His tone reveals that it isn’t something he’ll ask again. “. . . My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Do me the favor, please.”
You debate it over in your brain as your eyes scan the interior of his truck. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. A glass bottle of flat coke held in the single cup holder underneath the old radio and some fresh cigarette butts decorate the dash, but other than that, the seat is clean and nothing on the floor.
The handle creaks when you finally pull the door open. Armin watches you slowly take your backpack off, brush some dust off of your bottom, then use the roof handle to climb in, take a seat and slam the door behind yourself.
With a rough sigh, he uses the stick to put his Ford back in reverse and return back to the road. One glance over, “. . Seatbelt, please an’ thank you.”
“O-Oh.”
With fumbling fingers, you reach behind yourself to grab it, stretch it over your abdomen then click the buckle into place. Armin gives a single nod, thumb resuming a slow tap on the wheel, “Your name, miss?”
The question sags within the interior of his truck and settles between the hum of the engine and rattling of a loose item in the glove department. Outside, across the skies, pink and gold are deepening into a navy blue. You nibble on your bottom lip, staring at your folded hands that sit atop of your backpack which rests on your lap and for a moment, one may think you’re ignoring him.
Then, you tell him. Soft and timidly as if you were afraid.
“Hm.” He hums and tests it quietly on his tongue to commit it to his memory. “Armin.”
Minnie Riperton’s voice continues to float through the small speakers of the truck, sweet and dreamy as you begin to glance out of the window at the rear view mirror to watch the road disappear behind you both. Your unease is palpable — sits in between you and him as if it were another passenger. It makes Armin shift a bit in his seat as he continues staring straight forward out of the windshield. He’s not a grimy man. Never has been, never will be. He was brought up with respect for God, women, less fortunate, then animals, in that order. Making ladies uncomfortable, especially pretty, little ones like you, unnerves him a bit, he’ll be honest, disregarding him being a man not usually moved by shit else.
“. . You from ‘round here?”
Head shake. His attempt at easing the ever growing tension is smashed into pieces.
He thought so.
A tensed minute passes however you soon build up the courage to ask, small and quiet, “Do you got a farm o-or somethin’, sir?”
“Mhm.”
“. . . What kind?”
Armin breathes out a slow breath through his nose while lazily flipping his blinker before turning down a curve, “Bit a’everythin. Uh, some sugarcane. Corn. Couple barns. Got some chickens, goats, cows, and three horses . . . that ‘bout covers it.”
You blink a few times, “Oh,” you whisper. Just picturing yourself taking care of all that is enough to send your head in a tizzy. “ ‘s a lot.”
“Damn straight.”
“You jus’ . . take care of all that by yourself?”
He shrugs one shoulder, “Mostly. I got some help at home.”
My lil girl will have my hind if I left you out here all night. Your lips round in understanding as his previous words clicks into place within your brain, “Your daughter?”
It’s faint, extremely faint, but a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “She likes helpin’ out sometimes. I let ‘er . . . helps get all that damn energy out, I find.”
He notices that at the mention of her, you seem to disarm a bit. Your shoulders loosen up and hands relax from squeezing the other in your lap as his truck splits down the more tougher road once it forks. The dirt has been roughly paved and rolled over with tractor tires and bigger pebbles. You guys are nearly there, that, you realize. You can feel it. The fencing changes first — they’re more clean and paralleled as opposed to the old, shabby ones on the road leaving white vinyl to glisten beneath the setting sun. Miles of greenery span out into the beautiful landscape of sloping mountains as the truck keeps on carrying you out. Then suddenly, the greenery is cut by rows and rows of corn stalks that seem to stand tall like soldiers in formation with their green and gold leaves waving you hello.
A breeze drifts along your nose, scented of fertilizer and warm soil.
Afterwards, abruptly, following a firmer press of the gas to force the truck higher up a small hill is a farmhouse. It’s a large, two storied structure with a wide, wrap around porch hugged around it, decorated with a swaying porch swing, few rocking chairs scattered along the edges, hanging plants, and clusters of potted flowers near the small staircase that leads up to the front door. Atop of the house stands a stone chimney which light smoke curls from, indicating someone’s cooking inside.
“Geez . . .”
You’re amazed.
About fifty feet away from the house, on its right is a wide, sloping barn with a rusted, yellow tractor parked near its doors. Its large tires are still caked in fresh mud from the fields. Beside the barn is a chicken coop where soft clucks of a few hens conversations echo, sometimes punctuated by a low, drawn out ‘moo’ from a cow inside the barn. Further out, three horses walk along a fenced off paddock and then the acreage never seems to end. It seems to span out further and further until you can see the field of sugarcane and goats peppered on low hills as they chew on weeds and brush. Fences crisscross like veins, meticulous and orderly, some electric, some piped, few wooden. Even from your seat in the truck, you can tell that there’s structure here, regulation . . . plenty of peace, too.
Everything has its place, its purpose.
Grass isn’t grown wild or bleached dry. Animals aren’t wandering loose. Gates are locked and shut. Fields straight lined and planted with little to no gaps. There’s some discipline to it all, too.
It’s obvious that whoever runs this land has had his fair share in hard work and making sure that things are exactly how they’re meant to be.
When the engine cuts, Armin leans back in his seat with a sigh. It sounds tired but . . also threaded with notes of comfort. Like, he’s finally made it home.
Without the rumbling, the sounds of the farm are a little bit louder now — stomps of horse hooves as they graze, rustle of corn, and chicken clucks.
Then . . . the quick padding of footsteps inside the house.
“Brace yer’self, lil miss,” Armin mumbles as he opens his door. “She can be excitable.”
You hear his boots his the gravel, heavy and sure, therefore quickly, you open your door to hop out as well. The evening air feels humid and thick, scented of hay and sunbaked soil. You’re just rounding the front of the truck when Armin unhooks the tailgate to gather paper bags of groceries into his broad chest.
Then, the screen door is pushed open with a creak and a girl steps out onto the steps, seemingly your age, barefoot and small, wearing a pretty, dandelion yellow sundress whose hemming skims up against her upper thighs when a soft breeze catches on it. Tight, coiled curls spill down her back, full, dark, and shining with health as she pauses upon seeing you with a small hand on the porch staircase’s banister. She’d been smiling, though it goes a little frayed when she meets your eye.
At first, it’s casual. Just some curiosity as she tilts her head.
Then she takes a step lower and something on her face crosses between disbelief and confusion. You blink, once, twice, letting your irises catch on the deep dimple that craters into her cheek . . . the monolids framed around her big, brown eyes . . and curls that frame her face like a lion’s mane.
You’ve seen this face before.
Years ago. Younger.
Your heart lurches in your throat as your next inhale shudders. The name slips out before you can reel it back in, “. . . J-Jubie?”
She goes completely still, as if her world has been completely shifted on its axis and for a long moment, neither of you say anything, only stare.
“꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . . .?”
As if saying your name confirms it all, she slaps her hands over her plump lips and widens her hands with an, “Oh my God.”
Her voice is softer than you remember. Quieter, too. But it’s her. Uncaring of the gravel biting within the soles of her bare feet, she inches closer to you as her eyes wildly flick over the features of your face and body, searching, taking in every detail as though she’s trying to piece back a memory that was torn into shreds. “It’s you, oh my God.”
And as if magnet particles were swimming in your blood, distance closes and your bodies collide together for a sudden, bone crushing hug. Air leaves your lungs as her arms wrap around the back of your neck, yours around her waist, as you both squeeze like you’re afraid the other will seize to exist within the next moment. “J-Jubie?” You’re in utter disbelief as you bury your face into her shoulder, finding that somehow, she still even smells the same . . . like warm oats and roses. “Y-You left, I thought . . thought I’d n-never see you again.”
You feel her shoulders shudder as her fingernails bite into your skin.
For just a split second, those memories between ages six to thirteen arrive — the bike rides to school, scraped knees covered in hello kitty bandages, whispered secrets at sleepovers, pinky promises underneath the apparatus — and flood your brain. The years between then and now suddenly feel short, like they were just yesterday.
Behind you both, you hear the rustling of paper bags.
Armin doesn’t say much when you both finally pull away with tear glistening eyes and trembling fingers. But he sees it . . . the history radiating off of you both. It's evident in the way you both whisper one another's names, how you squeezed each other tight enough to cut off the other's airflow. He studies it for a moment, carefully before gently clearing his throat.“Alright, now. These bags gon’ burst if we all keep standin’ here.”
Warmth spreads beneath Jubie’s soft, light brown skin, a bright coral shade that spreads across her nose. “Oh — yeah. C’mon.”
Without a second thought, she’s reaching for your hand to interlace her fingers between the spaces of yours, just like she’s done a thousand times before and then begins tugging you towards the porch stairs. Armin trails a few steps behind, eyes taking in the picture behind his sunglasses, “. . . Hm.”
She never lets it go as the two of you move together, steps a little shaky and uneven, due to the fact that neither of you can stop glancing at the other with shy smiles still painted in disbelief playing on your lips. This close, you can see her better. Her skin glows beneath the warm, bright bulb of the porch light and a fair dusting of beauty marks pepper the middle of her forehead, down to her nose, and cheeks. The mole that dots the edge of her upper, heart shaped lip, on the left side is still prominent. You’d always thought it made her look so pretty . . majestic even. And, she is. She’s grown to be . . . stunning, you find. With her sundress shifting softly across her thick thighs and skin moisturized with body butter that makes her soft to the touch.
And she keeps looking at you, too.
No longer quick glances, but full on staring like she’s trying to catalogue every inch of you into her brain.
Your face. Your puff. The lace that trims along the edges of the little, jean shorts you wear. Your heart thuds beneath her attention.
“You’re so pretty,” she suddenly blurts out with a cute laugh of marvel following her words. The sudden compliment makes you cover your mouth to hide your shy, wide smile at the sight of her dimples.
“You are, too.”
She ducks her head, curls slipping over her shoulder as her blush deepens until her face is nearly the shade of a ripe cherry.
“The door, baby.”
Jubie startles again, once more forgetting about the towering, six foot four man behind you both that holds five bags of groceries in his arms and goes to open the screen door then main. The hinges creak as warm air from inside the house smacks you all in the face, scented of caramelized onions, herbs, and something savory warming in the oven. When you step inside, you aren’t surprised to find the interior to be just as big as the outside. The foyer is pretty long with a coat rack hanging right beside the door, and boots, sandals, and flats stacked neatly on a rack near it too.
And as Armin steps around you two to presumably head for the kitchen, some hanging, framed pictures that hang on the walls on either side of it catch your eye. Most of scenery or animals, though one stands out from the rest . . . Jubie and Armin standing beside his truck, her with a big, dimpled grin, engulfed back to chest within his beefy arms and him, handsomely stoic faced.
Something clicks.
Jubie notices which one that catches your attention then smiles and nervously tucks a curl behind her ear that seems to be covered in more piercings than you recall. “ ‘s been me and him for a good while now.”
“Oh,” your lips round in understanding. “. . That’s sweet, Jubie.”
The nickname makes her intertwine her hands and pull them to her chest. Her voice is breathy and her tone is full of sweet awe when she says, “You still call me that.”
You let out a soft, shy laugh and look down at your shoes, “U-Uhm, yeah. You’ve always been Jubie to me.”
“Hmm,” she’s still smiling though it goes a little wary upon her mumbling, “I thought . . I thought if we ever s-saw each other again, you’d like . . run the other way.”
Her words make something in your chest grow dark. They make you feel like the air has been punched out of you in disbelief. “No. Gosh, no. Why?”
She hesitates, bites down on her bottom lip and looks down at her hand as she starts to rub at her knuckles. “For jus’ . . leavin’ you. Without sayin’ goodbye. I thought you’d be angry with me.”
For a moment, the air prickles with all the words unsaid you’ve both been meaning to express to one another after all these years if you ever saw each other. You’re pouting a little when you utter, “I mean . . I was . . . and for a long time, but . . I think I missed you, more than I was angry.”
Something crumples along the pretty features of her face, something crossed between tearful, soft, and soothed, “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“You gonna keep ‘er standin' in the foyer all night, doll?”
The bass sitting within Armin’s voice makes the both of you jump. Jubie huffs a small snicker, “Dang it. Sorry, c’mon.”
Somehow, the farmhouse opens up wider the deeper inside you walk. To the right is the living room as soon as you emerge from the foyer. A thick woven rug, occasionally stamped with a muddy boot print stretches along the dark wooden flooring beneath a large glass coffee table where a small platter of hard candies and a half burnt candle, scented of cashmere and vanilla, sit within the middle of. A record player has its own little corner near a shelf of vinyls about as tall as the both of you, spines worn from use and titles fading. Facing the stone fireplace is a large, soft L shaped sofa and a worn out armchair that’s been overstuffed and seemingly claimed by one person.
Likely Armin.
A faded pair of black work gloves and glass of lemonade with the ice cubes melting in it rest on the little table near the arm of it as though they’d been recently forgotten about proves so.
Jubie takes you to the open spaced kitchen. It’s bigger than the living room with its own door and screen that leads to the back of the house. Armin stands with his back facing you both, stacking some cans in the pantry. His hat has been tossed onto the table, revealing a mop of thick, sun-dark blond waves slightly dampened with sweat that stop near the nape of his neck.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears you two. Piercing blue eyes catch you, calm and measuring. They linger on yours long enough to make something in your throat knot before shifting to Jubie. “Gonna tell me how you girls know each other?”
His voice is low and sprinkled in a thick southern drawl, not full of suspicion, but just . . observance, like he simply just wants to know. Jubie shifts her weight to lightly bump her hip against yours. You bite down on a small smile. “We grew up together.”
Armin turns to face you, “In what way.”
“We were neighbors since we were six.”
A slow whistle slips out past his lips, “. . ‘s that right?”
“Mhm.”
“Y’never mentioned her, why?”
Jubie’s lips curl to the side as she pauses for a moment, “. . ‘Cause I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.”
The honesty lands in your chest similar to a knife being stabbed into a cutting board. You’d thought the same. Spent so many nights fighting to remember the features of her face if you were to see her again, so many diary entries featuring her name with the ink smudged and paper dotted in your salty tears.
The thought makes you shaky.
Armin studies you both, deep, blue eyes shifting between your faces as though he’s piecing together something unsaid before he shuts the pantry door to walk over to the sink. “Best friends, I assume.”
“Bestest friends.”
“Mmm.”
The quiet rush of running water fills the kitchen as he washes his hands. When he’s done, he shakes them out, once, before folding his arms and leaning back against the large, farmhouse sink. “You got a place you headed?”
The question is innocent but his stare is back on you again. You find it immobilizing, not to mention, how handsome he is underneath the warm, overhead lighting, standing only some feet away is enough to make your knees feel like jelly. Up close, free from his hat and sunglasses, he looks older than you first thought, too. In a way that only sharpens his rugged features in the best way possible. The small wrinkles of crows feet and rough shadow decorating his jaw makes him look seasoned. Cultivated. You pause, “U-Uhm, not . . really, sir. No.”
His eyes squint, just barely. “. . Not really.”
You look down at the kitchen flooring, “I was jus’ walking.” Your voice somehow becomes even softer upon revealing it, like saying it out loud makes it sound more senseless than it had in your brain.
You feel Jubie’s arm interlock with yours, “What?" Her voice is breathless come the new information you reveal. "You was walking out there?”
You nod while watching her eyebrows pull together, showcasing her concern. “That’s miles, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
“I-I know.”
Armin exhales through his nose while straightening himself back out, “Alright, take a seat. You hungry?”
The last meal you ate was nearly twenty six hours ago, you feel like you can eat an entire bison. “Yes, sir.”
He gestures to one of the seats that surround a large, wooden, oval shaped dining room table. Four seats facing each other, one at the head. No need to question who occupies that one. “Sit.” He says it this time with a bit more firmness, leaving no room for refusal or question.
Swiftly complying, you take one of the seats next to the head and let your backpack fall off of your arm to the floor against the leg of the chair. Armin grabs a lone dish rag hanging off of the oven’s door to open it and use one strong hand to grab the heavy pan from inside and let it fall against the counter with a solid thunk as steam rises from the contents inside. The scent of something savory wafts against your nose not long after and your stomach responds with a deep grumble. You watch Jubie stand on her tiptoes to grab three plates from a cabinet, hand them over to him, then walk to the fridge whose doors were embellished in colorful letter magnets, a few blurry landscape photos, and a chart . . . dotted with sparkling, star shaped stickers. You're unable to get a good look at what the chart specifically tracks because after producing a glass pitcher of lemonade from inside of it, Jubie’s closing the door back shut leaving it out of your immediate eye sight
Within a mere minute, the table is full and a plate toppled with a thick slice of cheesy, meat filled casserole, scoop of mixed vegetables, and a golden, buttered roll is sat down in front of you. For some strange reason, you find yourself wanting to cry. The scents of everything is rich, homey. You suppose Jubie’s presence only intensifies the feeling. Everything about her feels familiar, like a memory that’s been tucked away for years, nearly a decade, has been flattened back open and pressed straight.
The soft way she says your name, like she’s a bit shy to even mumble it, the cute cadence of her voice, the dimples that cave into the soft skin of her cheeks whenever she smiles at you as though she’s unable to grasp the fact that you’re really here, seated at the table, sharing a meal with her and Armin.
You both haven’t been reunited for more than fifteen minutes . . . however, the feeling of something old and dear slipping quietly back into place is hard to shake.
Neither of you really notice Armin’s observance of you both come him taking his seat at the head of the table. The minute that first bite of casserole hits your tongue has your shoulders loosening. You pull the fork from between your lips slow, letting the flavor sit there on it for a second before beginning to chew, eyes downcast on your plate.
You’ve been hungry for so long.
“You still eat so slow,” Jubie suddenly mumbles.
When you look up at her across the table, she’s smiling into her glass of lemonade prior to taking a sip.
You swallow your mouthful, “I do?”
“Mhm . . . little bites.”
“Makes it—“
“—last longer.”
A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of your soft lips before you mutter, “Shush.”
Quietly, Armin observes with his eyes drawn to the both of you, watching how you slightly lean closer to the table when speaking to Jubie, how both your voices stay soft as if you were sharing secrets instead of talking about vegetables and what your favorite kinds are now. The two of your hands reach for a napkin at the same time, and come your fingers colliding, you’re quickly pulling yours away, mumbling for her to go first.
History is threaded between you two. Deep and thorough.
Years of it.
It shows in how Jubie silently piles two more buttered rolls on your plate and how you don’t fight her about it.
Two girls. Barely grown.
The tension that was sitting in your shoulders — Armin could see it from nearly a mile away from where you were walking alongside that road, it remained there as you stood in front of his passenger door, debating on taking the ride, and even as you sat there in his seat, however now . . .
Now it's entirely gone.
He studies how you reach for your glass of lemonade with a little more purpose, how your shoulders rest, no longer curled inwards as though you were preparing for someone, anyone, to run you off, your hands are no longer balled into little, tensed fists within your lap neither. There resides something new within Jubie, too. Having been with her nearly three years now, Armin's familiarized himself with her tells. He can read the girl like a well worn book — spine cracked, ink fading, and pages softened at the edges — everything about her has been memorized by heart. Those exact tells of a small head tilt when she's watching you look away before saying something and the intense gaze of her eyes as you smile reveals that she's excited . . captivated . . curious.
He'd be blowing out smoke if he said he wasn't either.
"You said you don't have anywhere you're headin' tonight . ." Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip, eyes wide and brows softened as she looks into your own. "Y-You can sleep here . . . I mean, i-if you want. Right?" Looking over to Armin for his grace, you follow her stare to watch the man slowly cross his arms over his strong chest while leaning back within his chair.
"Ain't no sense in sendin' 'er back out there this late."
When a big, bright smile overcomes Jubie’s soft lips, you're quick to rectify, "I promise I w-won't impose. I'll do m'best to be gone by sunrise—"
"—Nonsense," slowly, he rolls his tongue across the inside of his cheek, taking heed of the exhaustion that takes physical form beneath your eyes. When you reach up to rub one with the heel of your small palm, he glances down at your plate then at Jubie’s. The both of you have already ate a good amount so he goes on to roughly utter, "You look just 'bout ready to fall over."
You do your best to straighten up, " 'm okay."
"No you ain't."
Armin jerks his chin towards the hall before speaking to Jubie, "Want you to give 'er the grand tour, show 'er the guest room. Come back down then me an' you can work on this kitchen together."
Doused in excitement and slight nerves, Jubie’s mono-lidded eyes widen before she nods, stands, and grabs your wrist. "C'mon, lemme show you."
Rising from your chair, you grab the back strap of your backpack as powder blue eyes watches the both of you move. Armin's jaw is tight, nonetheless, relaxed as he commits the picture to his memory — the bounce in Jubie’s steps, the heaviness in yours, how the two of your fingers brush against one another's as you walk beside each other. The distant feeling of this making sense crosses his mind. Jubie’s shy. Always has been since he was first introduced to her by Mrs. Loretta Bellflower, co owner of one of the best diner's these here parts have heard about, Loretta's Kitchen. She'd been a waitress there, only for a mere, few weeks before Loretta pulled Armin to the side as he was exiting the diner with his styrofoam plate in hand, heavy with three pieces of chicken fried steak, grits, and eggs.
"The girl is lost, mista Arlert," Loretta had told him with sympathy swimming within the dark pools of her eyes. She'd explained to him that Jubie’d used to be a shoe shiner for the town's parlor before Loretta's husband got her out of that, finding the job all too demeaning for a young thing like her. "I suppose now that's prob'ly why she was a shoeshiner. She's good with her hands, that's for damn sure, but she won't talk to anybody. Barely even talks to me. I can't have a waitress workin' here that can't speak."
Armin'd sucked his teeth, "Whaddya askin' me, Missus Loretta."
". . . Maybe she'd be better on the farm with you—"
"—Awe, nah—"
Loretta's gaze had turned sharp, "—You can't keep managin' all them damn acres by y'self, Armin. Gon' run y'self dry. I'm tellin' ya, she's good with her hands. I watched the girl fix a dishwasher under ten minutes. Jus' give 'er a chance."
One look at her through the diner's window and Armin had immediately sensed that there was more to the tiny, quiet thing standing behind the bar counter. He watched her stack about a dozen plates in her hands like it was nothing, noticed how she mouthed the words of a customer's order back to herself when she thought no one was watching. Yeah, she was shy, definitely — barely made eye contact with Armin for the first time after the two of them'd been working together after nearly five weeks — but there was also something else to it. She was careful . . observant . . cautious.
Watching her guide you through the hall, a hand on your bicep, careful not to jostle you too much however with just enough pressure to sweetly nudge you forward, it's obvious to many that, although small, Jubie is fiercely protective of who and what she cares about. This, the two of you, makes sense because after only having been around you for about an hour and a half now, Armin can tell that you're just as shy. And like Jubie, it's clear that you happened to stumble across this little town in Missouri unintentionally.
Whether destiny brought you here or not, Armin knows one thing is for certain: you're not walking back out of their lives tonight. Not when the weariness settled so deep within your bones makes your vulnerability as obvious as the nose on your face and surely not while Jubie’s here. Armin doesn't even think she'd let you.
"Down there is Armin's office. Boring stuff. Farm paperwork."
He watches from his position still seated at the table as you both slowly round the staircase. You listen closely, sometimes tilting your head as Jubie explains all of the quirks of their home — the cute, little reading nook beside the mud room's door, how this closet is stacked with spare pillows and blankets, and that bathroom has a window that can never fully close shut so it gets really cold in there during the winter. Obediently, you follow her around, nodding most times, before occasionally asking a small question with both hesitation and wonder coating the cadence of your voice. In turn, Jubie patiently answers them all — there's a certain rhythm to you both. Quiet and intimate.
"Send 'er to bed, sweetheart," Armin calls out when you're both finally upstairs.
"Okay!" Jubie’s voice quiets back down when speaking to you, "Guess I'll show you the rest tomorrow. This is the guest room."
When she opens the door, the faint scent of lavender and warm wood greets you both. The room is small, cozy with a pillow topped queen sized bed centered against the far wall beside a window. Its frame is made entirely out of hardwood and catches your attention first. A thick quilt, hand stitched in muted patterns printed with fern leaves and suns, covers the entire mattress and adds a rustic charm. In front of the bed, against its own wall is a simple dresser made of the same wood of the headboard. A small ceramic lamp with its shade decorated with hopping hares sits on top of it.
There's an old chair sitting in front of the long, narrow window near the foot of the bed as well and holds a thin blanket that's been draped over the back of it. The air feels calm . . safe, almost as if its been waiting for you.
"I think I have . . ." Jubie never finishes her sentence because after sliding open one of the dresser's drawers and shuffling through it for a moment, she produces a thin, pink pair of shorts and loose t shirt, about two sizes bigger than your regular. "Here. You can keep them too, if you want."
"Oh," tenderly, you take them with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Jubie."
She watches you slowly walk over to the bed to take a seat and instantly, your body sinks into the mattress, making her suddenly giggle, "Okay, yeah. You're super tired. I'll leave you be." Stepping within the doorway, for a second, she hesitates and lingers within it to watch you rub your hand over the material of the quilt, finding it to be much softer than it appeared.
"Uhm . ."
When your eyes snap back up to hers, fingers still delicately tracing the scalloped stitching, she closes her mouth then gives a small shake of her head, leaving her curls crushing up against her mole dotted cheeks as she does. "We'll see you in the mornin', 'kay? . . Gnight."
Still smiling, you nod while clutching the fabric of the t shirt and shorts in your hand, "Okay. Sleep well."
She lingers for a bit longer, just enough to give you a final warm glance before she fully exits while softly shutting the door behind herself. The faint click of the latch fastening makes you sigh and fall back against the pillows. You allow the weight of the day to melt within your bones as the strange comfort being here, near Jubie . . near Armin, underneath their roof, become a gentle reminder that you're fed and safe. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, after you've gotten undressed and into the pajamas Jubie had given you then bury yourself beneath the quilt in bed, you think that you can hear the distant mutter of their voices downstairs, nonetheless, exhaustion overtakes you, leaving the world to darken.
・・・・・
Sunlight streams in through lacy, white curtains the next morning which paints the guest room in shades of amber.
And sweet scents of yeast and wood waft about the farmhouse as you stir beneath the comforter that's somehow gotten itself tangled around your limbs. Your eyelids are heavy with sticky remnants of tears that cling on tight to the wisps of your lashes as you fight to open them. Nightmares. They've been reoccurring since the day you turned eight. And while some nights are better than others, waking up only once from them has become a victory . . some are worse. Last night'd been moderate. Only three times did you gasp yourself conscious, only to find yourself here in this room, on Armin's farm, with him and Jubie only two rooms away . . . and the thought of them had been calming enough to lull you back into a slumber each time.
One look at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed and upon reading 10:37 am, the time makes you sit up slowly while rubbing your hands over your face, trying your best to fight off the drowsiness that still stubbornly lingers through your veins while fishing through your backpack for your toothbrush.
You didn't mean to sleep so late. You're not even supposed to still be here.
After brushing your teeth in the tiny guest bathroom across the hall from the bedroom, peeling your pajamas off and sliding into the only other outfit your bag holds, which is another pair of shorts, this pair a bubblegum pink, with a flowy white top, you're quick to redo your hair, and make your way downstairs where Al Green's Let's Stay Together drifts from an old, radio speaker and meets you halfway towards the kitchen.
The warm smell of biscuits and sausage makes your tummy rumble. And standing in front of the stove, in a pair of dark denim overalls, tiny strapless crop top, and boots is Jubie. She hums softly to the song while standing on her tip toes to grab a specific biscuit from off the pan with a pair of steel tongs. Her head of curls are pulled up today in a large ponytail with a claw clip. The sight of her makes something in your chest constrict. Bathed within the morning sun, she somehow looks even prettier.
At the sound of your footsteps, she turns her head, eyes widening just for a moment before a big, bright smile overtakes her glossy lips, "Mornin'."
"Good morning," your cheeks feel warm as you walk over to the table. "I . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake up so late."
You take a seat as she slides a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage on over to you, " 's okay, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ," her voice is soft while she walks over to the fridge. "We don't mind. We hope you slept well."
We.
Your eyes scan the kitchen and hallway as your ears tune in more intensely for a sound of a gruff, deep Mississippi drawl or grumble, but nothing. You gather that he must be out working. "Oh." Jubie’s setting a cold jar of grape jelly beside your plate alongside a pitcher of what appears to be fresh squeezed apple juice. "Y-Yeah, I slept fine."
You can feel her staring at you as she takes the seat beside you today with a biscuit held between her fingers. You only manage to take a bite of your sausage link and chew three times before she's suddenly giving a small gasp, ". . You still have those nightmares?"
Instincts scream at you to deny her claim so you do, "No. I don't, I swear—"
"—Don't lie," she's coo'ing in soft consolation while scooting closer to the edge of her seat to somehow get a better look at your face now that you won't make eye contact. "See? You're still tired."
The pout she wears only makes you want to do the same. "Jubie, 'm fine—"
"—You are not." Her voice is soft but there remains a certain layer of firmness that makes your chest grow tight. One of her hands reach out, and her fingers hesitate before she ultimately decides to touch your forearm. ". . You're clammy. You were sweatin' in your sleep . . . You're worn out, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ ."
"That's okay—"
The huff of a man clearing his throat from debris breaks the conversation in two. Both of your heads lift to watch Armin walk down the hall with the screen door slamming shut behind him. The closer he gets, the more you tense. When he's standing within the arched threshold of the kitchen, large, stocky frame nearly spanning from edge to edge, you can hardly swallow your last bite of biscuit. He has on another cowboy hat today, this one a deep, chocolate brown, some spots of it well worn where his fingers have gripped it too much over the years. He looks at you two girls while pulling off of his work gloves slowly. "Mornin', lil miss," He soon mumbles while walking closer to the table. "Sleep alright?"
The biscuit is forced down your esophagus by your tongue, "Y-Yes sir."
Jubie doesn't say much but you can feel some disappointment radiating off of her in small waves.
Licking your lips, you suddenly stand which takes the both of them by slight surprise. Armin's hand finds a grip on one of the chairs' back while Jubie straightens her spine, "Thank you both for allowin' me to spend the night, I really appreciate it."
When you grab your bag, Jubie’s bolting up on her feet. "W . . Wait. Where are you goin'?"
". . 'm not sure yet, but—"
"—You don't have to leave so soon," she gently interrupts with the springs of her hair bouncing slightly as she takes a step closer your way. "C'mon, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ . Please? You jus' woke up, ain't even had a chance to breathe yet. Eat . . . S-Stay a little longer."
You won't lie. A large part of you is startled by the insistence layered beneath her tone. Her words aren't demanding, but there's a small edge — one she's only ever used with you. Tenderness intertwined tightly with tenacious care. And it's always been hard to deny her when she looks at you like that. Feline shaped eyes somehow wide and full of hope with her dimples forming in the soft dough of her cheeks.
You nibble on your bottom lip, "I—"
Armin's voice cuts through, deep and quiet, "Jubie’s jus' worried about ya', 's all. And she's got a point, too. Ain't no shame in stayin' till y'ready to move. You must've been walkin' a long time yesterday."
His words land heavy within you all. Part of you still wants to protest. You never want to be that person who overstays their welcome. But, your body feels like lead. The muscles of your calves still strain, shoulders ache, and spine feels taut — you're tired.
Jubie doesn't give you a chance to make a decision. Quickly, she interlocks her arm within yours to lead you towards the hall, "C'mon. I'll show you the rest of the house and then I'll give you a tour of the farm. You'll love it, I promise. The animals love meetin' new people. I think you'll like Junebug the most . . ."
・・・・・
Somehow, in some way, Armin’s farm is more beautiful than it appears.
After the rest of the house tour is completed, Jubie’s leading you out of the back door first, down a smooth, dirt path. The late morning air is warm and carries the scent of damp earth and hay as you silently follow behind her while twisting at the small, gold bracelet encircled around your wrist. Your eyes dart about, taking in the world around you that appears both wild yet meticulously cared for. The barns are first — both sets of doors wide open as if they were welcoming you two in. Pointing up at the hayloft of the bigger one, Jubie spins on her heels with a sweet giggle, “I like to nap up there sometimes. ‘s peaceful.”
You can picture her, curled up on a cushion, eyes closed, lips parted as sparkles of dust dance within the golden beams of sunlight squeezing in through the barn’s narrow slats. She takes you to the chicken coop after where the hens cluck hello and pick at the feed she holds out in her palm. You smile with your hands interlocked in front of your lips, amazed at how calm she is surrounded by nearly a dozen of them. “They’re sweet, but not as sweet as m’Junebug.” Junebug turns out to be a young goat. Happily he bleats while nudging into her touch as the three of you stand within a field of bright, green grass. You can’t help but to kneel and give him a soft pet which he responds sweetly too — a louder bleat, turns away from Jubie and pushes more into your hand.
Showing you the horses is next. They graze about a wide fenced paddock beside the barn and she points towards the more leaner one with a shiny, chestnut colored coat and dark mane. “Sonnet’s mine.” The other is more broad through the chest, strong, with a deeper, chocolate tone. “That’s Claude. Armin’s. He’s . . . mean and stubborn, only ever listens to Armin, but he’s loyal.”
As if to prove a point, Claude gives a small wuffle while continuing to chew on a handful of hay like the interaction with you both is barely worth his time. You can’t help but softly snicker. “He’s handsome.”
Jubie giggles, “Yeah, he is . . . such a meanie though.”
Further down the paddock is a third horse. You can tell he’s younger than the other two almost immediately. Body not quite proportioned yet, with long legs and a little less muscular than Claude. He seems strong, even so. Anyone looking at him can see that he’ll grow into a lot of power.
“That’s Samson,” Jubie murmurs with a soft smile as you both walk a little closer to him. “Armin brought him home, like . . eight months ago. Someone was sellin’ him for dirt cheap ‘cause he’s too erratic for work.”
He takes a few, curious steps closer to the fence. His golden coat shines like honey beneath the sunlight as he breathes a warm puff of air towards you while lowering his head over the rail. Hesitatingly, you reach out . . and he doesn’t flinch when your fingertips brush over the long bridge of his nose. “Hi Samson,” you whisper. “He’s so sweet.” Erratic. You don’t see it one bit as he nudges his face into your hand for another loving stroke.
Jubie’s wearing a wide grin while flicking her eyes between you both, “Maybe he’s found his rider, finally.”
The corn field, sugarcanes, then beyond them, nestled between rolling hills of green is a small forest. Jubie tells you that a creek runs through it, shallow but beautiful, and while staring off at it, you feel the gravitating pull — knowing that it promises hidden nooks and sweet solitude when needed. When you both make it back towards the house, she casually calls your attention to the two, long rows of clothesline strung between strong posts. Your eyes denote the fabrics gently swaying on a breeze. Soft cottons and linens, in between them, some daintier, frilly, and threaded with bows and lace. Warmth floods your cheeks as you quickly look away towards Armin’s plaid flannels and sun faded jeans. What’s more interesting are the stuffed animals, clipped by their ears as they also swing softly in the wind — a plush, white bunny, chubby, pink pig, and classic soft brown teddy bear. “Armin’s up usually super early in the mornin’,” Jubie softly says when you’re both entering the house’s back door again. “Usually five, four if he got enough sleep. He feeds everybody, makes sure that they have fresh water, makes a round through the fields to also make sure nobody or nothin’ got in durin’ the night.
“Then, he usually heads down the hill to check the mailbox, talk t’a few of our neighbors if he’s in the mood. Makes a cup of coffee, reads the paper, sits out on the porch and smokes after he’s done. He don’t talk much in them moments but . . if y’ever happen to wake up with him then jus’ . . watch. You’ll find that it’s nice.”
You both have stopped in the hall, next to the stairwell. She stands on the second step, arms on the banister, chin resting on them. The tour’d been long, you have no doubt that she’s a little bit winded because you are too. Her words make you hesitate. She speaks like there’s a chance that ever could happen.
“After that, he’s usually patchin up the barns, fixin’ fences, checkin’ irrigation an’ stuff. He’s always busy, always movin’. But he always has an eye out and his ears open too. He’s amazin’.”
The way her voice drifts off on a sweet tilt makes your heart thud a little harder in your chest. Hearing her talk about him is sweet. It reminds you that this is their life. This home, this farm — it’s all something that’s been built, long before you winded up on their porch. Before you can say anything else, Jubie perks up with her eyes wide, “Ooh, hold on a second — I gotta, uhm, I gotta pee.”
You listen to her boots scamper upstairs which leaves you still standing there beside the banister. For a moment, you don’t move. You gather in a long, deep breath through your nose then blow it out of your mouth. Nine years.
Nine years and Jubie has managed to build a safe, secure life.
A life you’re only peeking your head in to admire before you exit again. Your eyes slowly scale along the dark walls, framed photos, and soft hum of the whirling ceiling fan in the living room. Jubie’s touch is everywhere — in some of the vinyls by artists you know she’s always loved that play peekaboo between the others, the cute, worn sandals lined beside the door, and hand stitched, decor pillows that have been attentively placed in a specific order on the couch. As much as you see her in the home, you see Armin as well. The wallet and truck keys tossed carelessly on a side table, messy notebooks full of quickly scrawled measurements and sketches of some barn renovations prove so.
The delicate scent of tobacco smoke carries the weight of him too. All of the tiny imperfections and purposeful placements tell stories of a man and girl in love and maintaining a sweet, peaceful life together.
Maybe you should leave now. Maybe it’s better to before your yearning gets worse. Whether said yearning is in regards to the stability and calmness that’s maintained here, their life, or something even deeper — you shake your head before your brain starts to spiral.
You walk to the door, bend to grab your bag from beside it, push a hand out on the screen and step outside.
Soft, healthy grass brush against your ankles as you track your way across the yard towards the driveway after hopping off of the porch. Distantly, you think about the route you saw Armin drive to get here. Maybe there will be a rest stop somewhere out there if you start walking now.
Nevertheless, you don’t make it far.
Near the parked truck, leaned against the fence with a boot on the lower post behind him, Armin slowly wraps a long, tattered rope around his palm. The material of his gloves creak between each completed loop as ice blue eyes watch you from beneath the shadow of his hat that’s been pulled a little bit lower on his forehead. You’re whispering something to yourself, something he can’t really hear.
“Headin ‘ out already?”
His voice makes you startle and freeze about ten feet away from the truck within that field of grass. He watches your hands tighten around the should straps of your backpack. “U-Uhm,” your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the breeze. “Yeah.”
You watch him finish that last loop of the rope around his hand before he rings the completed pile of it on one of the fence’s wooden posts. He straightens out then, starts to take his gloves off, “. . Does Jubie know that?”
A twist in your gut tells you not to lie to him, so you don’t. “No, sir.”
He hums, walking over to you slow while snatching the other glove off, “Yeah,” he inhales a breath, reaches behind him to shove them in his back pocket. “Funny thing about boltin’ . . folks usually do it before settlin’ in.”Armin looks down at the picture you make when he’s standing about two feet away from you. Posture slumped over, big, brown eyes locked somewhere on his chest to avoid his own. “House this big, only two people livin’ in it . . . plenty a’room f’a third pair of boots by the door,” a sharp, blue eyed gaze flicks across the pretty features of your face. “You ain’t exactly crowdin’ nobody.”
Your eyes fall down to your shoes before you slowly begin to rock from left to right on them, “. . ‘s not that simple,” is your mumbled reply.
“Most things ain’t, lil lady.”
For a moment, you two stand there, bathed in silence. You listen to the wind whistle against your ears, feeling Armin’s unmoving gaze locked on every little movement you make. Your brain fights to compartmentalize his words. Stay . . . It’s while you’re asking yourself ‘why should you?’ when the house’s front, screen door suddenly is pushed open. You hear the swift pats of bare feet slapping against the porch steps before they’re moving across the grass.
“What’re you doin . . .”
Jubie’s voice is soft, but hearing it still makes something in your heart pang.
Halfway, you turn to look at her taking in how she stands about six feet away with her arm hugged across her stomach, eyes wide as she stares into your own before they flick towards Armin then back at you. She looks scared . . confused, taken aback. All three. Especially upon noticing the backpack you carry. Quieter, she asks, “You leavin’?”
You swallow. Standing between them both makes you feel like you’ve been caught in the middle of something that wasn’t even supposed to be disturbed. “. . I feel like ‘ve stayed for too long already, Jules.”
Owlishly, she blinks at that, “Stayed too long?”
Armin knows not to interrupt. He folds his arms while taking in the picture of two girls standing a few yards apart on his field. One frozen, nearly halfway gone, the other who’s appearance and voice makes it seem as though the ground is halfway close to crumbling beneath her feet without warning. He watches Jubie take two steps forward, “B-But you jus’ got here yesterday. That ain’t too long.”
“I jus’,” you’re looking down at your feet again while moving some grass around with one. “I don’t wanna get used to this, that’s all.”
Your words hang between the three of you — dense and honest.
“This is your life. Your home. And I jus’ . . showed up outta nowhere—“
Jubie’s lips are beginning to pull with a frown, “—You didn’t jus’ show up. You found me.”
“Jubie—“
“—Did I s-say or do somethin’ wrong?”
“No,” is quickly said as you shake your head. “You didn’t. Cross m’heart.” She didn’t.
“Then why are you runnin’?”
That word makes you tense, “ ‘m not runnin’.”
Armin drags out a quiet, dry hum that reveals to you he doesn’t quite believe that either.
Jubie steps all the way forward until only about two are left between you both. Her eyes are searching yours for something when she says, “I used to sleep over at your house every weekend . . .” Memories of you both laying side by side on your tiny, twin sized mattress snap through your brain — nuzzled up against each other for warmth as you whispered into the dark, long after your bedtimes. The hum of your old box fan and venom filled spats drifting from underneath the crack of your door from your parents’ room acting as a backdrop. “We used to make plans at lunch about runnin’ away . . to somewhere safe. This is safe. Here with Armin is safe. Jus’ stay.” She’s reaching for your backpack strap to slowly begin to peel it off of your shoulder. “I can show you the creek—“
You’re pulling yourself away with a soft, nervous smile pulling at your lips, “I jus’ don’t wanna overstay, Jubie.”
Armin finds himself staring at it. That warbled smile . . . before his eyes shift down to the new, exposed skin of your back through your top where an old splotch of blue and purple decorate the soft, brown skin near the bone of your shoulder. It’s pure coincidence that when the pieces align, you end up mumbling, “I h-have people lookin’ for me.” Your voice is thin. “I think he’s still tryin’ to find me.”
Jubie blinks, “. . . What do you mean?”
Armin hums, eyes fixed on that bruise for a second longer before he utters, “That so.”
“I left about . . eight days ago now,” you reply, voice quiet.
“Boyfriend?” Jubie asks.
“Barely.”
Armin’s tone remains calm yet you can still hear that something beneath it has shifted when he questions, “That fella the one that put that color on your shoulder?”
Instinctively, you reach to touch it while those big, brown eyes flutter up to his in shock. The question isn’t harsh . . just unexpected. A deep frown overtakes Jubie’s lips as the familiar sheen of tears begin to gloss the surface of her eyes, “. . He hurt you?” Her voice cracks. “W-Why didn’t you tell me?”
You don’t know what to say, so you don’t utter a word. Denying their claims would be foolish when it’s obvious what’s going on. Jubie could always read your flimsy, little tells anyhow.
Armin exhales slowly through his nose, hands settling on his hips as he looks out towards the sloping, dirt road behind you. His eyes cling onto the landscape as though he’s measuring the distance . . like he’s imagining someone stupid enough to come slugging up here. “Been alone this whole time?”
After a few seconds, you give a timid nod.
He scratches slowly at the scruff of his jaw before saying one, simple word, “Alright.”
It’s in the manner of how he says it which makes you and Jubie look up at him. Like something’s been decided.
You opt to take a chance by taking one step back as your nervous systems still screams at you to bolt however, before your foot can even settle completely in the grass, pinning, blue eyes settle on yours beneath the shadow of his hat brim. Silently, he shakes his head. Don’t. “Somebody comes sniffin’ around here lookin’ for a girl who don’t wanna be found, they gonna have a real hard time doin’ so.”
Something cracks opens within your chest, something akin to hope — a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time. It spills over into places that have been dark within you for years.
“Ain’t many folks daft enough to come pokin’ ‘round on my land uninvited anyhow.”
His statement isn’t loud. Doesn’t need to be. He doesn’t ask neither. His boots crush over loose pebbles as he starts his trek towards his truck, “Sandwiches for you girls’ll be ready in an hour.” He opens the driver door. “. . Take ya’ over to the creek afterwards.”
The realization settles in slowly. For both you and Jubie. He isn’t asking, he isn’t offering. You’ve been decided for and he’s making room.
You hear Jubie breathe out a shaky breath. When you look at her, she’s covering a big smile with trembling fingers. You can practically feel the happiness beaming off of her and waves. “. .You hear that?”
Your heart thuds against your chest.
“You’re stayin’.”
Disbelief cradles your voice as you weakly ask, “. . I am?”
“Uh huh,” she mumbles while inching closer to you. A sweet pout overtakes your lips. This feeling . . .
It’s strange and unfamiliar. But it’s warm and overpowering, too. For so long, you’ve been feeling displaced. Never stopping long enough to keep a fulfilling connection with anyone — always moving. Always running. And now here you are. Standing here on the massive acres of a quiet farm in rural Missouri while your childhood best friend gazes at you as if she’d just received something precious back that she lost years ago. Your eyes drift towards Armin’s truck when you hear the engine purr to life. He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to. He knows what and who will be waiting for him when he gets back.
“C’mere.” Jubie’s gently squeezing your hand before tugging you back towards the house. “Let’s go get you settled in.”
・・・・・
When the sun has finally settled beneath the horizon, the moon hangs high within the sky, and dinner has been made, served, and ate, Jubie finds herself seated on the kitchen counter. The farm is quiet. The house is too.
You retired off to bed early — finished eating, took a long shower, then let the guest bedroom door close behind you with a soft click. Jubie had done the same. Only instead of slipping off to bed, she’d tip toe downstairs, around the banister, down the hall, to head to the kitchen where she’d found her lover pouring a glass half full of whisky with two ice cubes in it. He’s still the only one dressed, only now, without his hat. Jubie can’t help but admire him as he takes a gulp to the head — tilting his own back with the strong etch of his jaw flexing as he clamps his mouth closed, swallows, then breathes out a slow, deep breath after.
She picks at the frayed hem of one of his old wife beaters she’s stolen for the night as neither of them speak for a while. Serenity. That’s what Armin brings. Being with him has taught her what quiet is supposed to feel like when it isn’t dangerous — not the kind that makes her listen for footsteps creeping towards her door or the kind that culminates into something horrible happening next.
Just sweet silence. Heavy in the best way.
Jubie lets her eyes drag up the strong line of his body slowly. It’s what she always does when she thinks he isn’t looking.
But Armin feels it. He knows. He always does.
His steps toward her are unhurried and slow. He’s taking another sip from his glass when he stops directly in front of her. While swallowing, the ice clinks softly as he lowers his hand then utters, “You shouldn’t be up.”
Jubie hums, “I know.”
“Mm.”
The wind whistles outside, in between the wooden chimes hanging from a hook near the kitchen’s back door. “. . Thank you, Papa” she soon says while her fingers tug at the shirt hem again. “For lettin’ her stay.”
Armin’s hand falls flat upon the counter near her hip. “Ain’t nothin’ I had to think too much about.” He reads the softness that sits on her pretty, feline like features, not surprised to watch her soon say, “She feels . . more fragile.”
It’s a conversation that’s been waiting to happen. Armin knows that Jubie’s been watching you like a hawk for he has too. That’s why he doesn’t deny it.
He nods, once. Slowly. “She does.”
Jubie’s lips scrunch to the side as her eyes flick quickly from side to side behind Armin as if her thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind. “She kept sayin’ that she doesn’t wanna overstay . . . ‘s like she’s waitin’ to get told to leave or something.”
Armin exhales slowly through his nose, looks down at his glass, before pulling it towards his lips, “She remind me a’you.”
Jubie blinks and refocuses her sight back to him. “. . Me?”
“Mhm. Shy . . . Cautious. Too soft for a world that don’t care if ya’ soft or not.”
He says it like it’s not an observation but recognition. A pause settles between them again as Jubie takes it in.
“World eats up girls like that,” He continues on a gruff drawl. “Quiet ones. Sweet ones. The ones that don’t raise hell when they should . . . and I don’t like watchin’ it happen.”
His words land heavily. It makes her breathe out a small, shaky breath which makes his arm loop around her waist to tug her closer to him. “We have a lotta history, Pa,” she mewls with her eyes fixed on a button of his flannel that she fiddles with. “Me and her . . we grew up together. And her parents . . . weren’t good to her. Like, ever. Was always fightin’, always loud, only paid her attention when they had to. I’d go to her house sometimes just so that she wouldn’t be alone. Sometimes she came to mine, but it was always durin’ the day ‘cause I didn’t want her around . . when m’stepdad . . .” She suddenly stops, swallows, and shakes her head. Armin sets his glass down.
“Hey,” he drags out lowly. “ ‘s okay, lil one.”
“ ‘m sorry—“
Armin’s fitting the bottom of her jaw between the web of his index and thumb to pull her face up for deep, slow pecks to her lips. That apology dies on her tongue because it isn’t needed. The sound of the sets of them meeting then pulling away are sticky and loud within the calmness of the kitchen. He doesn’t want her to think about it. And truth be told, he doesn’t want to think about it. The rage he’s susceptible to feeling each time he’s reminded of what his girl has gone through is enough to have Armin seeing red behind his eyes.
The anger crawling up his spine is something old yet violent however he inhales slowly while pulling away, brushing his forehead against hers to force the feeling back down where it belongs. Because Jubie deserves calm more than she deserves vengeance.
“None a’that was your fault,” he mumbles, eyes closed while breathing her in. “. . Understand me? Don’t apologize for nothin’ like that.”
He feels her faint nod, “I know.”
But the frailty that underlines her tone tells him that knowing and believing are two different things. He tilts his head down once more, brushing a smaller kiss against that pretty mole that sits upon the line of her upper lip, near her cupids bow.
“I never wanted her t’see that part of my life back then,” she says. “She used to ask me to sleep over sometimes . . and I used t’make a bunch of excuses . . she probably knew I was lying.”
Jubie nods with a sad frown pulling at her lips before her gaze drifts out towards the hall. “I liked bein’ there for her . . more than she knew. She always had these nightmares. Real bad ones. Would wake up breathin’ like she ran a mile . . sometimes I’d wake up to her sobbin’ in ‘er sleep and I’d make her listen to m’heartbeat jus’ to calm ‘er down.”
Armin pictures that — a younger Jubie and you. Two small girls crammed side by side on a tiny mattress somewhere in a house that never felt safe enough. Jubie’s little arms wrapped around you with your face pressed against her chest as the two of you breathed together. He imagines you clutching her shirt in your sleep. Jubie coo’ing against your bonnet until your crying stopped. His jaw tightens.
“. . That right?”
Jubie’s fingers pick at his flannel again, “She used to say that m’house felt calmer. And I mean . . it wasn’t. Not really. But our days were quieter. My momma would be sleepin’ off whatever she drank the night before, brother out ditchin’ with his no good friends, and uhm, he’d be at work so . .” she huffs a quiet, timid breath. “For a few hours, me and her could pretend that our lives were normal.”
Deep, blue eyes study her face. “Sometimes that’s enough.”
Jubie processes that while looking down at her small, nimble fingers, “. . Yeah. It was.”Quieter, she whispers, “. . . I want her to stay, Dad.” The words come out as though she’s been dying to finally say them. She sounds exhausted. “F-Feels like if she leaves . . I won’t ever see her again. Again.”
“I know, honeybee,” Armin leans in to press a long kiss against her forehead. “I know.”
And upstairs, the quiet guest room echos with your deep, sleeping breaths — completely unaware to the two people downstairs are already quietly deciding on molding their lives to fit you in it.
・・・・・
Learning to live with Armin and Jubie on the farm is quieter than you expected.
Not an empty, aching quiet. Just . . . steady.
Out here, the silence breathes — sweet and peaceful so at first, you simply wait for it. A slammed door or harsh curse so that you can bolt first thing. But neither happens. Mornings start early . . mostly for Armin, that is. Usually, he’s waking up before the sun . . his footsteps heavy and slow as he lugs himself around the bedroom. Sometimes you hear the pipes groan as he gets a shower going. He’s always in there for about fifteen minutes tops before their bedroom door is opening. What’s odd . . is sometimes you can hear his footsteps stop for a split second before he walks downstairs.
Near your door. Like he’s listening for your breathing through the walls — checking to see if you’re still here.
You suppose that whenever he’s satisfied with whatever it is he’s doing, he then carries on down the staircase.
Jubie’s different in the mornings.
Quieter, softer. She’s up about an hour later. Hour and a half is she stayed up longer the night before. On a rare morning when the both of you happen to open your doors at the same time, you found her standing at the top of the staircase, preparing to walk down. Her curvy, little frame sheathed by a thin nightgown as she held a stuffed bunny within the crook of her elbow. Its fur curly, worn soft, and eggshell white with beady black eyes and a pink, triangular shaped nose. Sticking out of her silk, baby blue bonnet were her curls as she rubbed her eye with a fist.
Something about the sight had made your heart stutter on its next beat. During the days, Jubie’s shy. She’s shy yet giggly and spirited and vibrant. During the nights she becomes quieter, a little more reflective as though she’s sorting through pieces of the day and things she doesn’t yet know how to say out loud. But the mornings, you think the mornings house your favorite version of Jubie.
“Mornin’,” she had smiled softly. Mole dotted lips, bleary brown eyes, and dimples. You swallowed, “Gmorning.”
She always asks . . . “You sleep okay?”
“Mhm. I t-think so.”
And then she always studies you for a few seconds — you suppose to make sure that you aren’t lying to her. It’s when your stay with them inches into nearly eight later when you gently ask Jubie, “Do you think that I can help out with the farm, too . . ?”
She’d been curled up on the couch, knitting a blanket with that same, familiar bunny tucked in close beside her folded knees. You learned that its, her, name was Babs. “I dunno,” her lips quirked up with a small, cute smile as she kept her eyes focused on her swift moving fingers. “You’d have to ask Armin.”
Armin.
“Oh.” Suddenly your body feels like an olive being held up on only two toothpicks. That. You picked up on it, instantly — how she says his name like it’s both a boundary and permission slip. Jubie’s aware that Armin intimidates you. She knows without you having to say it. Your sentences so far have been curt when speaking to him and eye contact is barely made. When the two of you happen to be in a room alone, you’re quick to suddenly dismiss yourself up to your own or outside to sit upon the porch. It bothers Jubie a bit, she’ll be honest.
That’s why she glances up at you to softly say, “He’s not mean, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Jus’ particular. Especially ‘bout the farm. ‘Bout things bein’ done right.”
You shake your head quickly with the lie already sitting on your tongue, “I don’t think he’s mean.”
Jubie’s head tilts. She doesn’t say much, only gives a look that rather reveals her true, obvious thought before softly sighing and leaning bank further against the couch cushions while pulling Babs closer to her chest. “He’ll say yes.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” she hums. “He watches you a lot.”
That single sentence makes your heart drop in a way you can’t fully explain as she continues with, “Not in a bad way . . jus’ . .” softly, “his way.”
Your fingers pull at the hem of the loose nightshirt you still wear as you shift your foot to curl your toes over the top of your opposite one. You’re not sure the statement comforts you. Intuitively, you turn your head to look out towards the living room’s entry, down the hall, thinking that Armin might just appear from inside the walls at the sheer mention of his name. Jubie giggles softly, “He’s not inside.”
Shyly, you stammer, “I wasn’t—“
“—He checks on you too. In the early mornings sometimes.”
Your heart skips as you go to softly press your lips together at the confirmation of your thoughts being true. Jubie’s only glancing at you now as she works her needles a bit slower. “He doesn’t . . think I notice, I guess,” she continues quietly. Beneath her tone reads fondness — like she’s been wanting to say this for quite a little bit now. “But I do.”
You think about those heavy footsteps and how still the house goes in between those long pauses. “W-Why?”
“He wants to be careful, I think,” she says. The answer feels incomplete, as though there’s more to it but Jubie decides to leave it there for now. You’re made to stand there with your mind silently racing as the distant crunch of boots against dirt and pebbles grows closer and closer towards the front door. They make it towards the end of the trail and up the porch steps before the screen door is being pulled open with a creak and the front is pushed.
Armin steps inside the house carrying the scent of sun warmed leather, grass, and something like gasoline with him when he slowly exits the foyer to stand there within the living room’s large, curved threshold. A cream, suede cowboy hat’s brim shadows his eyes for a split second before he knocks it up to really get a look at you two girls. Jubie curled up on the couch, you standing beside the arm of it like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Arctic blue eyes settle on you as he slowly pulls off one of his gloves, finger by finger, to then hold in his hand while reaching his new, bare one towards his back pocket.
“Was thinkin’ me and you girls head off into town,” he mumbles while opening a box of marlboros to pull a stick out with practiced ease without looking at his hands. “Two a’you can’t share a wardrobe forever.”
Gently, Jubie gasps as her face instantly brightens, “Shoppin’?”
“Mhm,” he pulls it to his lips along with a hand cupped around the flame emitting from the valve of a gold zippo held between his fingers. “Truck. Outside. Fi’teen minutes.”
He begins the trek down the hall towards his office near the back of the house and you can’t help but let your stare linger on the wide span of his shoulders stretching the black fabric of a nicely fitted button down whose sleeves have been pulled halfway up the strong line of his arms dusted in dark blond hair. Built like an ox. You’ve heard the saying before but have never seen someone who fit it until him. The attractive taper off his waist is more pronounced due to a brown, leather belt being pulled through the loops of his tailored levis that hug the firm shape of his glutes.
You like the way he walks.
Not particularly lazy when it comes to his speed, just . . unhurried. A quiet kind of saunter. There’s heavy weight transferred into each long stride of his legs as his hips naturally sway — not in an exaggerated way. It’s a movement that’s simply hard not to notice when the person’s wearing well fitted denim. When he suddenly turns his head over his shoulder to look at you, your gaze clashes with his, causing you to lightly startle.
On a low drawl he says,“Got you some boots too, sweetheart. By the front door.” Before he’s opening his office door to step inside then close it behind himself.
When he’s gone, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.
And twenty minutes later, per his instructions, you and Jubie are seated upon the cracked vinyl of his Ford’s bench seat, you in the middle, Jubie passenger, as four wheels roll you all closer and closer to town. Your toes slowly wiggle within your new boots as tall rows of wheat lazily sway as Armin drives with one of his hands resting high on the wheel and his other arm hanging out of the window. Ever so often you feel his gaze, covered by his black tinted, aviator sunglasses, drift towards your face within the rear view mirror. Not long enough to completely be a stare, not short enough to be only a glance either.
You listen to Jubie softly hum along to the music he plays as she walks her pretty, manicured fingers up and down the length of your palm that she holds in her lap out of boredom. Whenever the truck hits a small bump in the road, it subtly knocks the three of your bodies against each other though no one makes an effort to adjust or even acknowledge. You recognize when town is getting closer because about fifteen minutes later, Armin’s pulling his Ford over the gravel of an old gas station before he parks by a pump.
“Ol’ girl needs gas.”
Jubie perks up beside you, “May I go pay, please? They have those caramel apple suckers I like here.”
Armin cuts his eyes towards the little convenience store, spotting not another soul but the cashier inside before he’s slipping a fifty dollar bill from his thick, rubber banded wallet and into the small palm of Jubie’s hand.
“Twenty five on one. Don’t wander.”
When Jubie reaches for the door handle without responding to his words, interestingly enough, Armin’s voice has to grow softer for her to suddenly tense and pause to look at him. “Hey,” he hums, eyes piercing through hers through the lenses of his shades. “You say what? Yes . .”
Jubie nibbles on her bottom lip then quietly, “Yes, sir. I won’t wander. Pinkie promise.”
“That’s right,” he mumbles then juts his chin towards the store. “Go on now.”
Jubie’s opening the door and giving a small hop to land on her feet from the high risen truck. You swallow, watching her cutely skip towards the doors, cocoa butter scented curls bouncing behind her. Then you realize . . .
It’s just you and him.
The world feels smaller now. And he doesn’t move right away. The thumb on the wheel begins to lightly tap at it as the both of you stare out of the windshield listening to the door jingles when she disappears inside. When everything else goes quiet, you listen to him inhale a small breath and squeeze your hands into fists come his incoming question, “You always watch her like that?”
Your mouth dries, “. . L-Like what?”
The side of his mouth dips to respond with an expression saying ‘Who knows?’ “Like she might float away if you don’t.”
Your chin dips close to your chest. “I jus’ . .” you pause, trying to look for words to say but find them all inadequate to describe your feelings. “I don’t know . . .”
Silence settles for a little bit. You feel him turn his head an inch to look at you. “. . Y’nervous ‘round me?”
The question makes you instinctively shake your head, “No, sir.”
He waits. And you feel it — the ever growing pressure of someone who knows that you’re not telling the full truth.
You remain staring at your hands. “. . Jus’ a little.”
A small breath is puffed through his nose — not a sound of amusement, something more like recognition. “Tell me why.”
“You’re . .” once more, your brain scrambles while trying to search for the correct word — the perfect one that describes the sheer density that caves into your chest each time you happen to meet his eye. “Y-You’re really big.”
The minute the sentence leaves your mouth, you want to disappear into the seats.
Armin’s hums, expression remaining even, “Big.”
Delicately, almost weakly, you nod.
“Can’t help that,” he says with a small twitch of his lips.
“I didn’t mean—“
“—Y’aint got to apologize.” He watches your lips close as you go to give a small sigh and slump against the seat. “Up. Spine straight.” Without having to be told again, you straighten the length of your upper body. “You scare easily, lil miss.”
Your lips pull down into a frown, “I do not.”
“You do. An’ it ain’t necessarily a bad thing.” He turns his head back towards the windshield with a small suck to his teeth. “Means you pay attention.”
Studying his magnificent side profile for a moment, you recall Jubie’s words. ‘He watches you a lot. Not in a bad way . . jus . . his way.’ Unable to keep the words bottled down when they start to climb up your throat, you find yourself softly blurting out, “Do I make you nervous?” Maybe that’s why he’s always watching you, why every morning he stands by your door to listen for you. Maybe you unnerve him. Maybe this gives you an opening, an excuse, to leave.
However, your question seems to surprise him. Only for a millisecond. His thumb taps against the steering wheel, slow and contemplative. “No.”
Something in your gut flips from the quickness of his answer.
“. . No?”
A tinted gaze is turned and angled back down towards you. Calmly, he replies, “. . Naw. Ain’t nervous,” he drawls, steady and unrushed. His voice is gruff — raspy. It makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “I know what t’do with nervous things.”
The door bell jingles again as Jubie comes skipping past it while holding a handful of green wrapped lollipops. You feel his eyes slowly scan the features of your face before he’s shifting in his seat to push open the driver’s door and climb out. The truck rocks slightly when his boots his the gravel and proudly, as Armin’s unscrewing the cap from the gas chamber, she’s sliding into the seat beside you while announcing, “I got six! Hm.” She gives you one.
Inhaling a small, trembling breath, you pull the wrapper off to lay the oval shaped candy against your tongue. Sharp yet sweet. It makes the glands of your saliva water as you go to suck on it — green apple lollipops have always been yours and Jubie’s favorite candy. She’d already been suckling on hers while walking to the car, now that she’s seated with the door closed, she goes to pull hers free from her lips while looking at you before murmuring, “What’s wrong? . . You look nervous.”
You blink a few times before pulling yours away too, “‘m okay.”
Her head tilts, “Did you and Armin talk?”
“N-Not really.”
“Mmm.”
You look out of the rear view mirror.
He stands with one hand holding the pump, the other’s arm resting on the ledge of the truck bed. The beaming afternoon sun catches on the brim of his hat which obscures the upper half of his face — you can really only see the scruff of his jaw and lips. He looks calm . . . entirely unbothered. ‘I know what t’do with nervous things.’ It feels like out of a dozen cocoons, butterflies have erupted and made a home within your stomach. Jubie’s eyes are big and full of sweet innocence when she asks, “Did he say somethin’ you ain’t like?” upon following your gaze.
Quite the opposite. “. . N-Not that.”
“What he say?”
“That I scare easily.”
You watch a big smile creep up her soft, glossy lips. “Well . .” she giggles. “You do. You always have.”
“You do, too.” The pout you now wear is precious.
She’s giggling while leaning in to bump her shoulder against yours, “He didn’t mean that in a bad way, lovey . . I think all it means,” you find that she makes a cute pondering expression — eyes shift downward as her cheeks puff up as she scrunches her lips to the side. “I think it means that he likes that you pay attention.”
The both of you look at him.
The pump is pulled from the chamber after the tank tops it all off to the brim before a heavy clunk is heard. He returns the nozzle back to its cradle then takes his time twisting the cap back on. For a moment, he just stands there after that, looking out across the road while reaching into his back pocket — this time, for a small pack of gum. He’s thinking about something. Silently, you watch him unwrap a stick without looking at it to then fold it once between his fingers to then press upon his tongue. Then his head turns. He’s looking at you both.
Quickly, you turn your own back forward and pop your lollipop back in your mouth. Jubie grins, watching him start to walk back over. “You girls got everything you needed?” He asks after opening the driver’s door. Jubie chirps a soft, “Mhm!”
You simply nod.
The truck dips with his weight once he slides in beside you. “Alright then.”
・・・・・
The town of Cotter’s Mill only has a population of five hundred and eighty two. It’s a small dot on the map, located some miles away from Marlow River with mountains bordering it that seem to roll on forever. Most people pass through it without meaning to and there’s only about four conjoined roads that cut through the middle of town. You hear how Armin’s truck rumbles as it rolls down the main stretch. You and Jubie gaze at the old, tall brick buildings passing by — Cotter’s Feed & Supply, Dahlia’s Cafe, followed by a barber shop then hardware store. You watch Jubie press her finger against the window, “There’s Missus Loretta’s diner. I used to work there when I first got here. She serves peach cobbler on Saturdays.”
Your lips wrap around a coo as you picture it — Jubie in a cute, waitress uniform with a notepad and pen in hand as she jots down orders. “You used to work there?”
Armin hums as Jubie nods. “Yeah . .” she says as her eyes glaze over in melancholy. Softer, she finishes with, “I didn’t like it that much though.”
Watching a few people walking on the sidewalk lift their heads to glance at the vehicle you’re all in, you’re a bit surprised to see Armin lazily lift two of his fingers from off of the steering wheel to greet a few. Jubie’s voice is now a whisper when she tells you, “Everybody knows him.”
Cotter’s Mill General.
The engine rumbles to a still when the truck is parked out front. “Oh!” Jubie’s eyes are wide. “They got new skirts and dresses last week—”
“—Hold it,” Armin calmly cuts through. Her hand freezes on the door handle and both of you give him your attention. “Need you both to stay where I can keep an eye on you when we get in there, alright?”
You nod, “Mhm.”
“We will.”
When he’s satisfied with your answers, he climbs out first. You watch him round the front to the passenger door, jaw flexing as he slowly chews on his gum to then open the passenger’s. Jubie hops out first, waits for you to do the same, then takes your hand to gleefully pull you in the direction of the store’s doors. A bell jingles when you both walk inside. The AC has been cranked up high. You can smell cotton fabric, wood polish, and lemon scented floor cleaner as your eyes scan the place. It’s bigger than how the outside makes it appear. Full of racks and racks of clothing near the front of the store while shelves of household goods and items are assembled towards the back. Lining the walls are shelves full of boots and shoes as well.
Not a lot of people roam the inside. A mother and daughter here, elderly woman there, and a lone farmhand scratching his head while staring at the two dozen pair of work boots while trying to decide which he prefers.
It’s quiet, comfortably quiet, with only an old radio on the cashier’s counter breaking through the silence to play 54 Ultra’s I’m Hooked. The man standing behind the counter looks up over his newspaper through thin, wiry glasses before he’s dropping his hands to give a smile, “Well I’ll be,” he folds the paper. “Haven’t seen you two in a while.”
Armin stands behind you and Jubie, his stature easily towering over the both of yours as he gives a chin tilt, “Joseph.”
Joseph does the same, “Mister Arlert,” then his eyes slide down to Jubie. “How y’doin’, Miss Jubilee?”
She coyly smiles, “Hi, Joseph, ‘m doin’ swell, thank you.”
Then his gaze lands on you — curious and friendly. You squeeze Jubie’s hand a little bit tighter. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
Instinctively, you glance up, but Armin doesn’t step forward. He looks down at you through his sunglasses with his jaw still slowly working on that piece of gum. His voice is low yet soft when he says, “Go on. Introduce y’self, sweetheart.”
Something in the way he says so, cool and certain, makes your shoulders ease. Joseph’s obviously good in his book, so he’ll be good in yours too. “. . Hi,” you gently say. “ ‘m ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Miss ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱. Name’s Joseph.”
Armin gives a squeeze to Jubie’s waist. “I’ll be up front right here.”
She immediately lights up with a soft squeak, as if she’s been waiting to hear those exact words all day and starts to pull you in the direction of the racks. “I always find the cutest stuff in this area right here — ooh, see?”
She holds a thick, brown knitted cardigan up to your chest and you glance at the tag. “J-Jules, that’s expensive.”
She pouts, “So?”
“I can’t really let Armin buy me a whole, new wardrobe—“
“—He’d tell you that you aren’t lettin’ him do nothin’,” she pulls out a hanger holding a pink, polka dotted, lace trimmed top and pushes it into your hands without question. “He already decided.”
Gently frowning, you look down at the clothes already starting to pile up in your arms. Jubie’s eyes soften. She knows what you’re thinking about. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you deserve nice things.” The words hit you hard. “You always have.”
The next half hour passes by in a blur of babydoll dresses, gingham tops, tiny, jean shorts, overalls, and airy, short sleeved blouses. You end up with an armful before Jubie’s leading you to the dressing room, not too far away from the cashier’s counter, so that you both can get a look at how it all fits on you. From his position, leaning on a support beam with his arms folded while softly talking to Joseph, Armin has taken off of his glasses and holds them in one of his hands. Every now and again, you saw him watching you and Jubie maneuver through the racks — his stare piercing yet soft. The dressing room’s door is directly in his line of sight now. Therefore, when you emerge from it while dressed in a cute, red and white, sleeveless, gingham patterned romper, you’re able to catch the way he suddenly halts mid sentence while talking to Joseph.
The fabric is a snug fit. The hem sits a bit higher than clothes you’re used to wearing, however, you’re not uncomfortable with it . . just slightly more exposed than you’re used to. The bodice of it clings at your waist before slightly, barely, flaring out at your hips.
And for a second, you simply stand there . . unsure of how to stand or what to even do with your hands.
“I dunno, Jubie. Is it too short?”
She’s quiet now, too. You watch her eyes trace down your bosom, hips, thighs, and legs before she slowly drags them back up while inching a little closer to you, “No,” she murmurs quietly.
Her sharp stare makes you swallow as she steps closer to softly take you by the hips. You understand to give a small turn, feeling her eyes track every slight movement.
“Wow,” She mumbles when your back is facing her. Pauses.“. . Geez, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
“W-What?” You turn your head over your shoulder, feeling jittery with nerves. “ ‘s it that bad?”
She exhales a small breath through her nose then you both are facing each other again. Quietly, shyly, she shakes her head, “No. You jus’ . . You look so pretty.”
Oh.
Your cheeks warm.
But before you can even respond, you feel something shift. When Armin pushed himself off of leaning against that beam? You don’t know. Nevertheless, the linoleum beneath his boots creak as he stops a couple feet away from you and Jubie with his gaze flicking over you — once, twice. It’s a stare of focus, only slightly hazed over with something darker. His voice sounds lower when he utters, “. . . Turn around again.”
Your breath catches.
Jubie glances between the two of you while biting down on a small smile like she’s trying not to make this into something bigger than what is.
Slowly, you obey.
Then for a moment, no one speaks. Armin’s eyes follow you closely, waiting until you’re facing him again before he breathes out a breath through his nose.
“Mm.”
That’s all he gives afterwards and you don’t know how to take that. His fingers flex around his glasses as Teddy tilts her head with her own held behind her back, “Looks pretty huh, Papa.”
Papa.
He doesn’t look away from you for a beat. “Yeah,” he simply responds. “Get it.”
Then he’s taking a step back and already turning back towards Joseph as though this slight exchange has been filed away into something fairly normal. With your brain still reeling, you watch Jubie lift her chin with a proud smile and half lidded eyes, “See?” she hums. “Told you.”
Another half hour later, after trying on basically everything plus finding three pair of new shoes, another pair of boots, satin mary janes, and bow adorned flats, the three of you watch Joseph ring everything up at the counter. Guilt chips away at your conscience, watching the total rise well into the three digits. He hasn’t even made a dent into the pile sitting in front of him yet. You glance up at Armin, finding him patiently standing a step behind you and Jubie with his hands on his hips. He’d been staring at the shelf of stuffed animals and novelties behind the front counter before his eyes suddenly shift downward for a second to meet your stare.
You quickly look away.
“Alright.” Joseph tells him the total and you turn towards Jubie.
“I can put some stuff back—“
“—Mm mm. Look.” The both of you watch Armin pull out his worn down, brown, leather wallet again. Casually, he peels off a small stack of hundreds and places them into Joseph’s hand without much of a thought given.
“I’ll meet you two in the truck, hm?” he hums while sliding it back into his pocket. “Say goodbye to Joseph.”
“See you later, Joseph,” Jubie smiles with a wave. “Thank you.”
He smiles, “Pleasure’s all mine, Jubilee. And it was mighty fine to meet you too, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
Respectfully, you wave goodbye, “Thank you.” and follow Jubie out of the front door, leaving Armin inside. You think about the reasons why he’d be staying in, if it’s anything bad regarding you, but, shockingly enough, only seconds after you and Jubie are situated in your seats, he’s pushing open the door with one arm full of paper bags and the other’s hand holding a stuffed lamb.
Its fur is curly, soft, and the color of muted cream. Your chest tightens the second you see it, already knowing that it was purchased for Jubie.
And after placing the bags within the trunk bed, he’s climbing it to surprisingly hold it out towards you. “For you.”
Your eyes widen, “Me?”
“Jubie has Babs. Figured you needed your own. Saw you glancin’ at it, too.”
You hadn’t even realized you were. Slowly, you reach out to take the lamb from his hand finding that the fur has warmed within his hold. You run your fingers across it as a soft smile pulls up the corners of your lips. Shes pretty. Black, beady eyes, floppy ears, and a small, stitched smile. Armin’s hand had dwarfed her completely, on your lap, her size is nearly the length of your wrist up a little ways past your elbow.
“Thank you . .” you bite down on your bottom lip, eyes wide and glistening when you look into his. “so much.”
Armin hums, “Wun’t nothin’, doll.” He hands over a paper wrapped bundle to Jubie, making her gasp. “And for you.”
Unwrapping the twine carefully, she soon emits a small squeal upon seeing what lies inside, “Eek!” A pair of small, gold hoops that dangle precious, vintage hearts. “Oh my gosh — thank you, thank you, thank you, Pa.”
It’s when you’re all back on the road, headed towards the farm when you let yourself relax. Really relax. Jubie hums along to the music again while admiring the new earrings now dangling from her ears in the side view mirror. You sit beside her quietly, fingers rubbing at the ear of the new friend in your lap, finding a sense of comfort in the repetition as calmness swathes over your usual overactive nervous system. For once in your life, you feel good. Nothing’s screaming at you to bolt or hide or cry. Then you feel Jubie’s fingers on your forearm. They slide down your skin until she’s able to press her palm flat against your own to then slowly, naturally, fit her small fingers between the spaces of yours.
You blush.
“What are you gonna name her?”
“Uhm,” you hesitate then shrug. “. . I dunno.”
You look at Armin. His gaze remains steady on the road as you timidly ask, “Do you have a name for her?”
There’s a brief pause. Jubie’s thumbs stroke across your knuckles while the both of you wait for his answer. He clicks his tongue after a while, “Lily.”
“Lily?” you look down at the stuffed animal as he nods.
“She seems like a Lily.”
Jubie smiles, “Lily and Babs. I like it.”
Lily. You smooth your fingers over the fur between her ears as the road curves towards the familiar stretch leading to the farm. “Hi, Lily.”
・・・・・
A month passes by.
Slowly.
You’re granted permission to work on the farm alongside Armin and Jubie the next day after being gifted your new boots. It’s honest work . . gives you purpose. Neither you or Jubie do as much work as Armin, but it’s enough to have you winded by noon. The two of you alternate days doing certain duties. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays, you feed the chickens and collect their eggs. Jubie does so on the others, though the two of you often end up helping one another anyway, giggling quietly when one of the hens peck at one of your boots or hands to make the other hiss in irritation.
Armin also has you and her brushing out the horses’ manes in the afternoons. It’s a chore that requires a lot of patience. Very meticulous. Jubie talks to them softly all the while she does so, tells you that it’s nice to tell them her secrets and you should try. You gravitate towards Samson, naturally . . finding him all too sweet and take her advice. Gently, you like to mumble to him about your day — little thoughts and small fragments of things you aren’t too sure of where to put sometimes. Some days, when he’s really busy, Armin sends you both out to refill the water troughs. It takes the two of you together to drag the hose out far enough, due to the rubber being so heavy and both your sets of hands being too small, to get the water in the basins.
Sweeping up the barn aisles, pulling weeds, milking the cows, and herding up the goats — doing it all with Jubie is the best. You’re reminded of your times as kids again — shared laughter and quiet teamwork. Only this time, something new is threaded within it all . . structure and stability. Something neither of you truly had back then. That chart stuck to the refrigerator with sparkling stickers dotted all over it? Armin placed another one, decorated with your name on top of the paper, written in his beautiful, olden cursive-like handwriting next to it. The feeling had been so robust — seeing that pink, glittery, star shaped sticker next to each chore you’d done . . the first time had rendered you still. Completely immobile while reaching for the handle to grab the pitcher of milk one morning.
Armin, standing with his coffee mug in hand and a burning cig between his fingers caught your stare, “Helps keep things in order,” he mumbled while lifting the mug up to his lips, eyes penetrating. “Lil girls need . . .” He paused for a moment. “Structure.”
You hadn’t known how to really reply, so you only nodded.
You don’t know when he adds the stickers to the chart and you don’t try to catch him, but nearly every night you find your eyes drifting to it as you all eat dinner. Sometimes, when it’s just Jubie and you alone, sitting on the porch, she’ll nudge you with her shoulder, “We’re doin’ good, huh?”
You are. You both really are.
You catch the things he says to Jubie in passing sometimes. Each word gruff, drawled in his thick Mississippi accent, “C’mere, pumpkin’. Lemme get a look at’cha.” “Slow down, baby. It ain’t a race.” “Who wanted those goats . . . Naw, tell me — Right. Right. It was you. Go fetch ‘em.”
They all make your stomach flip.
Armin exudes an air you’ve never been around before. All the men you’ve happened to know in your life have all been somewhat the same. If they weren’t liars, they were lazy, and if they weren’t physically hurting you, they were disappearing on you instead. Eventually, they’ve all slipped out of your life the minute something became inconvenient. Whether your feelings became too much or if they figured they’d be better off somewhere else. None of them have ever felt steady.
There’s something gentle laced beneath the firmness of Armin. He never raises his voice. Not with Jubie. Not with you. When he speaks, the world seems to know to listen.
Sometimes he even says things like that to you, too.
“Finish your food ‘fore it gets cold.”
“Get your jacket, sweetheart. Mornin’s chilly today.”
“Mm-mm. Sit up straight, shoulders back. There you go.”
Each sentence invokes a warm fuzz beneath your chest. Even more so when he’s speaking to both you and Jubie at once, “You two stick together out there.”
“You girls eat yet?”
“ C’mon now. Y’all bet not make me repeat myself.”
Little moments like that stack up over the weeks. You’ve realized somewhere down the line that it’s simply natural for him. Being authoritative, that pillar of stability and quiet control that catalyzes everything to lean against him. The farm, the animals . . Jubie. You think about one, certain evening.
You hadn’t mean to eavesdrop . . it’d just been something that happened. You’d been walking up the back trail from the creek — lately, you’ve been finding yourself spending time near it to pick up an old hobby, journaling. Back when you were younger, you’d do it often. It helped you sort through things. Your feelings and thoughts that were much too tangled to be spoken out loud.
You saw the kitchen’s back door was propped open . . something they do when they know you’re out, however that night, you heard it — Jubie’s voice drifting out into the warm, mid August air. It’d been different than usual, still sweet and gentle as always, though . . warbly. Pitched only slightly higher, too. Armin never interrupted her as she spoke. You watched him lean against the sink with his buff arms folded as she stood in front of him already showered with her bonnet on and in a pretty, pj set. Their size difference was stark — that’s what you remembered most. She only barely reached the middle of his chest.
So that’s how you look standing next to him too?
When she was done speaking, there’d been a calm pause. Then, finally Armin said something. “Alright.”
A beat.
“An’ what do you want Dad to do about that, hm?”
The word had made you completely halt in your steps towards the porch. Dad. There wasn’t a smile on neither of their faces. It wasn’t said jokingly or even casually. It was said as if it was always meant to be there. You recall the way Jubie sniffled and shuffled on her feet.
“You don’t get to stand here in front of me and act like you ain’t do nothin’, Jubilee,” Armin’s voice was calm and contained yet she still gave a small, barely visible flinch at the sound of her full name leaving his lips. “I know you better than that, you know yer’self better than that. Now get on up them stairs—“
“—B-But—“
“—Hey.” Not loud. Just firm. He straightened himself up prior to leaning forward. The air settles around them both.“You had your say. I listened.” His fingers grabbed her chin to pull her face up to his. “It’s your turn to listen to me.”
Her shoulders had dropped before she sniffled again. No more back talk. You heard her mumble a small, “Yes, sir,” before slowly turning to walk out into the hall.
Maybe you should have moved then — continued up the porch steps or rather even walked around the house to enter through the front door in efforts to be less inconspicuous. But, you remained standing there, doe eyed and stuck, watching Armin remain in front of the counter like nothing had changed at all. That’s what glued itself to your psyche. The naturalness of the conversation.
Then, shockingly, after settling himself back leaning against it with a low sigh, he turned his head towards the back screen door. “You can gon’ head and come on in now, missy.”
Your heart drops.
He doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see you when you pull open the screen door and slowly step inside. He just looks at you — icy blue eyes evaluating the pink and cream striped tube top with matching fold-over shorts you wear down to the dirty Reeboks on your feet then the lace trimmed journal clutched between your little fingers. “. . Enjoyed y’self out there?”
A small pause before you end up nodding.
“Nothin’ bite on ya’, right? Put on that repellant like I asked?”
“Mhm,” one more nod. “No bites.”
He hums. You watch his eyes trail again, somehow even slower this time. His stare drags across your bare collarbones, to the slope of your shoulders, down to the gold bracelet on your wrist. “ ‘m thinkin’ about breakfast for dinner, what d’ya say, dollface . .” Then they slowly drag back up into your own.
The surface of your cheeks warm as you clutch your journal a little bit tighter. “French toast.”
A thick, blond brow raises as he folds him arms, prior to reaching up to scratch at the scruff of his jaw. “Probably . . . but I thought we were workin’ on manners, me and you. Sounds more like a demand.”
You hiccup on a breath, “Oh.” Armin could tell that you’ve gotten so used to being quiet and staying out of the way that whenever you do get the chance to use your words, most of your sentences are curt, short, and to the point. Not a lot of ‘please’s or ‘can I’s. He doesn’t like that too much. He watches you nibble on your bottom lip, words seemingly dancing on your tongue before you softly ask, “May we have french toast?”
“Better.”
He notices how your shoulders relax. Pushing himself off of leaning upon the counter, Armin brushes past you to close the wooden door, lock it, then open the pantry. “You been down by that creek a good while today. Go wash up.”
Your sneakers scuff against the floor as you go to head towards the hall, “Yes, sir.”
However, the conversation you just happened to overhear replays in your mind — Jubie’s soft, whimpery voice echos the loudest, therefore you halt. “Uhm . .”
“Hm?” Armin murmurs with his back towards you while untwisting the plastic around a loaf of bread.
“. . Did Jubie do somethin’ wrong?”
You watch him pause. For a moment, you anticipate him simply brushing you off, maybe even blatantly ignoring your question entirely to continue sending you off upstairs. You’re unready to hear him huff a sound, though — something akin to a small chuckle. “Naw,” he quietly replies. “Not nothin’ wrong. Jus’ somethin’ I told her not to.”
You linger in the doorway with your fingers clutched around the frame of it. “Was it bad?”
“She’ll live,” he responds while opening the fridge to grab a basket full of brown and white eggs, followed by a carton of milk. “Girl jus’ needs remindin’ sometimes. Ain’t gotta like or understand my rules but they will be respected.”
The crack of an egg shell against the rim of a porcelain bowl forces you on your way, but you can hear it as you walk upstairs . . . the words he didn’t say.
And that goes for the both a’ya.
・・・・・
While scrubbing your skin clean free from the smell of creek water and grass with strawberries and cream scented body wash beneath the firm pressured beads of water pouring from the head of the shower, the word Dad slowly finds its way looping throughout your usual thoughts. It’s not something you misheard, you know that. There’s a weird feeling stirring in your gut. Something crossed between inquisition and something else you can’t quite name. When you picture the scene again — Armin standing there, big arms folded, voice low and steady as Jubie sniffled in front of him . . your chest tightens a little. You don’t know why.
You’ve never seen Jubie like that before. You’ve never seen her stand so small in front of someone . . never seen it . . fit so naturally either. You think about what if it were you . . moreso, what if it were you standing beside her, meek and soft too, listening to Armin’s low, gruff voice drawl out his words, coated in a certain type of patience that makes his disappointment feel all the more worse. His gaze moving between the two of you.
Your heart skips.
You blow out a heavy breath and turn the shower knob with a little more force than needed to cut it off. No, is what you tell yourself. You can’t. You won’t.
Cool air wafts against your skin when you open the bathroom door after wrapping a fluffy, white towel around your body. You’re prepared to simply cross the short distance to your room to continue your nightly routine when you see it . . . Armin and Jubie’s bedroom door left slightly ajar. Wide eyed, you blink softly at it. You shouldn’t. You know it. But you walk on over and carefully push it open anyway.
It creaks when you do.
The room smells like fresh laundry detergent and, interestingly enough, pipe tobacco. It’s bigger than the one you occupy, completed with three, long rectangular windows behind their large, king sized farmhouse bed that’s layered with quilts and half a dozen pillows where Jubie lies on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles and swaying in the air. She’s rubbing one of Babs’ floppy ears between her small, nimble fingers, deep pout on her lips before looking up to see you. Instantly, her eyes widen.
“Oh,” quickly, she pushes herself up to take a seat upon her butt. “I t-thought you were Armin.”
“Sorry,” you mutter as you slowly step inside. “I wanted to check on you. Uhm . . he’s makin’ french toast.”
Steam still emits off of your skin in pale clouds as Jubie’s eyes flicker over your face before down at the towel wrapped around your body. “Come sit,” she whispers with two soft pats to the cushiony comforter she sits upon. Hesitating, you eventually walk over to do so. She’s been making you more nervous lately, you don’t understand it. “So,” your eyes are big and unguarded when you gently ask, “Why’d you get in trouble?”
You watch her hesitate. Then surprisingly, a deep coral shade starts to blossom beneath the light brown skin of her dimpled cheeks. “It’s kinda dumb,” she mumbles back.
You give a little smile and head shake. “No, tell me.”
Jubie shakes hers too, “No, no . . he jus’ . . caught me doin’ somethin’, takin’ somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”
“Ohhh,” slowly, you nod. “. . So, you got sent upstairs.”
“Mhm,” she’s reverted back to looking back down at Babs before her voice gets a little quieter. “Sometimes I’d jus’ rather deal with the spankins.”
The words dwindle . . soft yet impactful. It makes your breath hitch at the sheer picture of it . . Jubie bent over a short gate, outside probably, with one of her cute, polka dotted sundresses flipped up to expose the soft cheeks of her plump, heart shaped butt. Armin’s palm, his belt, or a switch, cracking down on them, left then right . . turning them that same coral shade of the blush painted across her face, then red, maybe even a soft mauve if pushed to that point.
“Oh my gosh — No, I mean . .—“ Jubie must have realized what she said. But quickly, softly, you interrupt, “ ‘s okay.” Your voice is quieter than expected. It swiftly makes Jubie’s words die out upon her tongue, leaving her to simply stare at you.
It’s a different stare.
One you’ve never seen from her. She’s staring at you the way one would daydream — sleek, cat like monolids relaxed yet . . dazed over . . . like she’s thinking about something. It’s heavy for you, thus, you look away with your cheeks burning warm to take a better look around their room. Wallpaper the color of neutral brown with vintage flowers printed all over it invokes a sort of cozy feeling within you. More landscape paintings and a few framed pictures cover it. You spot Jubie’s vanity flushed against the wall between the closet and bathroom door, surface dotted with glass bottles of perfumes, hair care items, and cosmetics. A large wooden dresser’s top holds a small, ceramic tray filled with rings, next to it is an opened music box that showcases her necklaces and earrings.
A box of cigarettes and a lamp sits on Armin’s nightstand, a packet of candy on Jubie’s. There’s a softness to everything. More specifically, a small corner, not too far from the bed, beside the large bookcase. It catches your eye because the circular, fuzzy, pink rug there stands out a bit more compared to the neutrals of the rest of the room. Closer, you look to see a large basket of plush toys, the small stack of children’s books on the lower shelf, the few toys.
“I get small sometimes . . . most times . .” Jubie utters when she follows your stare. Quickly, you look back at her, unable to feel like you’ve walked in on something far too intimate now. “That’s all.”
“Oh,” is all you can breathe out.
The sentence had been six words long but . . somehow it completes the puzzle that’s been quietly forming in your brain since you stepped foot over their front door’s threshold. Jubie’s softness, the way Armin handles her, it all settles into place. “. . You call him Dad?”
Slowly, she nods as her fingers fidget with her nightshirt now, “Sometimes . . He takes care of me in that way, too.”
The gentle honesty makes your stomach flip. You’re nodding softly when you whisper, “That’s good, Jubie.”
She glances up at you then. She seems part relieved and part . . enamored. “You’ve always understood me.”
You can’t help giggling, “You’ve always understood me too, silly.”
For a moment neither of you say much else. You’ve come to realize that you two are seated pretty close. Her soft, painted toes brush up against your thigh when she slowly wiggles them while letting eyes drift down from your own to the curve of your neck. Heart thudding, you watch her lean in closer to you, eyes halfway closed to then breathe in through her nose, “. . . You smell like strawberries.”
You take the chance of leaning in too. It leaves only a sliver of space between your bodies at this point when you shyly angle your nose for the pocket of her neck. “You smell like . . roses.”
Softly, she giggles, her breath soft and warm against your cheek, “Really?”
“Mhm.”
The air between you both prickles with emotion when you pull back to look into her eyes once more. She’s staring at you . . in that way again — that faraway kind of stare. Timidly, you smile, “. . . Hi.”
Her lips quirk, “. . Hi, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱.”
Then, without saying much else, she leans forward.
She doesn’t press her lips against yours . . not yet. Softly, she brushes them across the plump petals of your own, slow and uncertain as if she were feeling the moment out, feeling you out before taking the chance. Instantaneously, your hands fly to her knees to squeeze at them in quivering shock, needing to steady yourself. The both of your breathing grows shaky. “You’re so pretty,” Jubie mumbles, her voice barely even a pitch louder than the droning hum of the ceiling fan whirling away up above. The compliment gives you enough confidence to tentatively take the chance at pecking hers. She gasps softly at the small contact, “C-Can I . . ?”
In the same instance, you both deepen the kiss.
Jubie’s hands lift to delicately cup your face as your grip remains tightened at her knees before it slowly softens once your lips begin to move with a sweet kind of eagerness that makes your heart flutter in your chest.
The pace isn’t rushed. Not at all. It’s just a slow pressure as you both try to figure out the rhythm together. You feel her mouth part open wider when you tilt your head, the angle shifting just enough to make your noses brush against one another’s. The scent of her fills your senses, mixing well with the sweet, clean scent of your showered skin . . it feels intimate as your soft, plush lips move against each other in slow, graceful harmony.
Distantly, you find this to be releasing. You think Jubie does, too — you feel it when she sighs into your mouth before pushing in closer to you. Because, in a way, Jubie’s always been pretty . . she’s always made your heart thud . . she’s always made you feel things you never quite knew how to properly explain. And when the both of you finally pull apart and you see the emotion swimming deep within the dark browns of her eyes, you realize that maybe you’ve always done the same to her.
For a while, neither of you speak.
But something anew has blossomed.
Downstairs, the faint clatter of a pot causes your heads to turn towards the door. “He’s probably almost done,” Jubie says with color flourishing up to her cheeks again.
You nod, but you don’t move. She doesn’t either. Instead, her hand slowly pushes across the quilt to gently lace her index finger around yours. Her touch makes you close your eyes and sigh. “. . You should go put on your pjs.”
Right.
“Yeah.” Slowly, you stand to adjust the towel around your body. “ ‘ll come get you when dinner’s ready, okay?”
Jubie nods, “Yeah.”
・・・・・
One would think you and Jubie’s friendship would grow awkward after that. She’s in a relationship, you know that. She’s in love with Armin, Armin’s in love with her, you know that . . however, interestingly enough, you both become somehow even more in tuned to one another — like a new undercurrent beneath your already strong baseline has been established. Farm duties are still completed, for the most part, together. But it’s not just that anymore.
When the both of you sit on the couch during the evening for a period of relaxation with a cute cartoon or an old, 60s romantic film playing on the television screen, Jubie’s legs are naturally draping over your lap. You rub your fingers against her soft calves as you two quietly speak and giggle. She does your hair one day — washes it in the kitchen sink, detangles, finger curls each coil and zigzags a part down the middle to give you two, big, cute puffs. The whole ordeal took about three hours, however you never once felt restless.
Instead, you sat patiently on a chair she sat out on the porch, feeling her fingers weaving softly through your hair while watching Armin push bales of hay across the field. You start to recognize the subtle signs Jubie shows when she’s slipping a little bit smaller now, too. How her voice softens, how she grows a little more quieter, and needy. It takes a lot of self restraint in you to not want to follow her there. Each time it happens, there’s a small part of you that wants to let go — sink into that same sweet softness and stop thinking so hard about everything, about everyone, about those bad memories.
But, you don’t.
You watch her sit on the porch, legs criss crossed as she carefully colors in a butterfly within a page of a coloring book with an array of about fifty crayons beside her thigh, watch her doodle cute drawings on the slab of concrete out near the back field with fat pieces of pastel chalk whose dye gets all over her legs, arms and face, nap on the hayloft with Babs after a particular long day, and fall into Armin when that same sweet softness gets to be all consuming.
Armin.
You try not to freak out too much when you find his icy blue stare lingering on the way you and Jubie hold hands while walking to the barn to brush the horses or when the two of you are doing anything else together for that matter. He knows. You know that he knows, you just aren’t too sure if he knows the sheer extent of what he knows. It drives you crazy.
He hasn’t said anything.
He won’t say anything . . . not yet.
But you catch him looking, really looking at the two of you now, and each time it happens, you’re quick to drop Jubie’s hand or straighten your posture or add some type of distance between the two of you . . out of respect. There’d been a particular, blazing hot afternoon where you and Jubie had been playing with the hose — both of you dressed in tiny, denim daisy dukes, tied tops, barefoot, and sparkly eyed. You both were screaming and giggling, fighting to pull the hose out of the other’s hand, chasing each other across the bright green field and spraying each other until you were completely soaked.
And he just stood there off by his truck with one arm hooked over the bed of it, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.
Watching.
You saw it in the way his eyes trailed after you both beneath his hat, how the corner of his mouth slightly twitched as if he were storing the sight for something private to remember later on. It’s not just that neither. You and Jubie would be lazing together on the couch before you suddenly feel that familiar feeling of prickles crawling across the back of your neck. You’d look behind you to see him leaning against the archway, arms folded, studying the two of you like he’s trying to work out the last few letters of a crossword that’s already ninety percent completed.
It makes you nervous . . definitely.
However . . . you’ve come to realize that something else within your heart, mind, and soul has started to happen. Your feelings for Jubie deepen more and more by the day. You find yourself noticing the shape of her smile a bit too much, needy for the warmth of her lithe body against yours when you’re in bed, and feel the way butterflies flutter about your stomach when she stares at you for a beat longer than usual. Surely, what you feel for her no longer walks the line of platonic.
And then there’s Armin.
If it’s guilt you feel when you find yourself thinking about Jubie while around him, it’s pure shame when you catch yourself thinking about him, admiring him when she’s standing right beside you.
It’s difficult to try to ignore the way he moves about the farm, about life. The weight behind each of his steps, broad swell of his biceps when he bends his arms to snatch off his work gloves, the calm, deep croon of his voice when he’s speaking to you or Jubie or giving instructions. And it’s unfortunate to realize, but ignoring doesn’t stop the feelings from growing.
When you catch him reclined back in his chair, Jubie fast asleep on his lap, as he nurses a glass of whisky and watches a court show, you’re aware of his stare dragging on over to you sitting curled up on the sofa with Lily clutched between your fingers like a lifeline. Not cold or even inquiring, but . . thoughtful. Like, he’s thinking about something. Taking note of something.
Heat crawls up your spine and blossoms across your face each time you catch that look because the actual truth of the matter is, your feelings for Armin and Jubie are separate, nonetheless, they grow side by side, inching up your heart to tighten around it like a noose.
It becomes difficult to sleep most nights because of them.
But tonight’s just one of those nights where you’ve found yourself drained. Mentally, physically, emotionally, so after eating and showering, you shut your door, climb into bed and pass out. Then the nightmare comes — this one the most terrifying one you’ve experienced in a long time. It all seems to happen in quick bursts. You discovering Armin and Jubie standing out by the barn one early morning, the two of them hesitating for a second before telling you that they didn’t mean for things to get so confusing, that it’s best if you leave and found your own slice of happiness. Suddenly the farmhouse wasn’t the farmhouse, but your tiny, two bedroom duplex you grew up in. Doors slamming, screams echoing, your chest cracks open.
That awful feeling of not belonging anywhere, like you’re always too much — it spans over your entire body, leaving your eyes to suddenly burst open as your chest quickly rises and falls.
Your fingers are trembling when you lift them to your face only to pull them back and see the salt traced wetness glistening faintly against the pads of them through the bright moonlight spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, you don’t move. You remain lying there, fighting to even out your fast, quivering breaths as a deep hollow caves itself within your heart . . . remnants that some of these dreams can’t help but leave behind. Squeezing your eyes shut before pressing the heels of your palms against them, you try to forget about it.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
But you still see it — Jubie stepping behind Armin, Armin’s gruff voice telling you that you’ll be alright. Unthinking, you push your quilt from off of your body to swing your legs over and press your feet against the cool, hardwood. The house is completely silent, you’re aware that the two of them may be sleeping, therefore, you try your best to be as silent as possible upon opening your door and slipping past their own for the staircase. Some water and fresh air, that’s all you need. You’ll calm down in no time.
However, you’re halfway down the hall to the kitchen when you notice that the amber glow of the stove light is on. You pause halfway and look behind you at the front door, only to see it still closed and locked — same way it’s been since six o clock when Armin called you and Jubie in for the evening. Carefully, you round the kitchen doorway’s corner to see him . . . standing in front of the stove, broad back facing you, as he stirs something in a small sauce pan with a wooden spoon.
Your barefoot touching the tile of the kitchen is loud enough to have him look over his shoulder to see you standing there, dressed in a butter yellow, thin strapped babydoll slip. You’re wide eyed as you go to subconsciously cross your arms over your tummy, even as your chest still rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths and your cheeks are sticky with dried tears.
Armin’s gaze lingers on the picture you make before he asks, “Feelin’ alright?”
He wears a pair of plaid, navy and red pajama pants and white undershirt. His hair’s loose tonight in a way you’ve never seen — dirty blond waves fluffy and sticking up this way and that. You inch towards the table, “J-Jus’ a bad dream.”
“Mmm,” he hums while turning back forward and clicking off the burner. “I heard you cryin’.”
Your eyes grow a bit bigger, “Really? — Oh, I’m . . I’m sorry.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”
You watch him open a cabinet. His fingers had paused while reaching for a plain, pink ceramic mug before he extends his arm further in to pull free a thicker, plastic one from behind it — clear with cute strawberries printed all over it. One of those that you have to manually open with the push of a button on the lid that pops a straw out. Outside, you hear the faint chirping of crickets and the hum of cicadas as he unscrews the top, lifts the pan off of the oven, and slowly pours in the milk that’s been warmed until it nearly touches the brim.
Each step is slow and unhurried as he walks over to you while twisting the lid back on. When he stops in front of you, you’re left simply standing there, head lifted to watch him look back down at you, eyes heavy lidded, “. . Drink it ‘fore it cools.”
Delicately, you take the cup from his hands, your fingers brushing against one another’s for a split second. The warmth of the milk immediately seeps against your palms. You take a small, tentative sip, surprised to taste vanilla and a splash of cinnamon against your tongue.
“M’grandmother used to make me this ‘fore bed sometimes,” he mutters with his eyes fastened on your lips wrapped around that jumbo straw. “. . Tell me about the dream.”
You swallow and pull it away as the sharp feeling of embarrassment crawls its fingers up your spine, “ ‘s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
You pause as your eyes fall to his chest while looking for the right words. Silence feels long and heavy until you break it with, “I dreamt . . that you and Jubie sent me away.”
You don’t look up at him again, but you hear him inhale a breath through his nose. “ ‘s that right.”
Slowly, you nod. Your voice is quieter when you say, “Told you it was stupid.”
“Ain’t stupid. You jus’ scared you don’t belong here wit’ us, that’s all.”
You didn’t say that part out loud, however, somehow he gets it. Glancing up at him, you notice that he hasn’t pulled his ardent, blue gaze away from your face. He doesn’t make a move to add some distance between your bodies neither, no, he remains standing only about a step and a half away from you with his arms folded. “Shouldn’t bother stressin’ yer’self with matters like that, sweetheart. You ain’t goin’ anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”
The certainty traced beneath his words are absolute. They make you shiver. One nudge beneath the bottom of your cup from him and you’re understanding that he wants you to drink some more.
“Atta girl,” he mumbles. The praise slips in casually, almost an absentminded thing it sounds like, yet something in you blooms all the more.
Eyes drifting downward, Armin takes in your still quivering fingers, strap of your babydoll hanging off of your shoulder . . . such a pretty thing you are, it’s downright criminal. “You an’ Jubie . . . the two a’ya remind me a lot of each other,” he hums, low and thoughtful. “Both sweet as sugar. Real soft hearts. Carryin’ the same kinda hurt.”
Your stomach flips, listening to him speak like he’s been plagued with this conception for a while now. “You girls get that same kinda look, too.”
“What look?”
“Dazed,” he answers back, voice quiet but matter-of-fact. “Doe eyed . . . Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”
As you stand there, heart racing and shocked, Armin scratches at his scruff. “Don’t know why you girls do that . . man like me has always been more than capable of takin’ care’a things like that.”
You hadn’t realized that you were that obvious. You hadn’t realized that he noticed. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . .” you can’t find the words.
“You ain’t gotta hide that part a’ya is all I’m sayin’,” Armin finishes as his voice dips slightly deeper. “It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”
Blinking, you watch him take a couple steps away to reach up and flick off the stovetop light. For a moment, it leaves the both of you enshrouded in nothing but the moonlight pouring in through the windows. You feel him staring at you, even as he starts on his way towards the hall, “C’mon.”
“Hm?”
“Back upstairs. You shouldn’t be by y’self after a dream like that.”
Oh.
“I-I’ll be o—“
He’s shaking his head after a quick suckle to his canine tooth, “Nah, nah. I don’t wanna hear that. Honey bee’s already sleep, we got plenty a’room for you. C’mon.”
You’re aware that he isn’t really giving you a choice. Still, you waver. He’s already halfway down the hall when he stops then glances back at you over his shoulder. Leaving your half full cup on the table, your feet move on their own. As he leads you throughout the house, towards the staircase, you can’t help but take in how different he looks at night opposed to day. Still solid, still steady, just . . slightly softer around the edges. He smells like soap and smoke.
Their bedroom door is already cracked open when his palm pushes it wider. You’re thumbing with your fingers, looking up at him for permission when your foot crosses the threshold. He’s right. Jubie’s asleep. You spot her immediately, curled beneath the comforters, curls spilling from her silk scarf upon her pillow as she sleeps with her lips parted and fists curled beneath her cheek.
She looks small. At ease.
The sight makes you smile a bit. “I don’t wanna wake her,” you whisper softly to Armin as he nudges you on closer with his fingers on your hips.
“She’ll be okay. Jus’ climb in.”
You move slowly as you climb onto the mattress like you’re afraid you might break something. Heart fluttering, you lift the cover to slide in beside Jubie, not surprised to watch her eyebrows furrow in her sleep before she slowly stirs awake.
She blinks, bleary eyes focusing on you laying your head on the same pillow beneath her head. It takes her a longer couple of seconds, but once fully conscious, a small, sleepy smile overtakes her lips, “. . Hi.”
Your responding smile is shy, “Hi.”
Her voice is lighter yet still thick with sleep, “Bad dream?”
“. . Yeah.”
She doesn’t ask anymore questions. Instantly, she scoots closer, draping one arm lazily over your waist while nuzzling her face into your shoulder. The position is nostalgic. Instincts let you tuck your face into her own, close your eyes and breathe. “ ‘s okay,” Jubie sleepily murmurs. “ ‘ll make you waffles in the mornin’.”
Seated at the edge of the bed, Armin watches the whole thing. A quiet exhale leaves him as his stare moves between how naturally the two of you curl into each other, like pieces of a puzzle. He noticed down there in the kitchen how your body had been tensed tight, full of leftover fear and panic from that nightmare, however now, the warmth of Jubie seems to be easing it all away.
Slow and careful, he shifts forward, feeling the mattress dip as he settles in behind Jubie, not surprised to feel her relax against him, even in her sleep, like she’s done a thousand times before. Armin’s arm lifts, settling it across her waist which only nudges you closer to her. And without waking, your fingers search, slow and twitchy, until they catch on Armin’s fingers. You wrap your hand around his middle and ring, squeezing on them softly.
Armin doesn’t react. If anything, his thumb moves to stroke careful brushes across your inner wrist.
There’s no separation between the three of you. Just warmth, comfort, and quiet.
Eyes blinking for just a couple seconds longer, he takes in the scene with a quiet shake of his head. The two of you are going to be the death of him.
・・・・・
“You wanna have a picnic out in the backyard? . . Jus’ you and me?”
Jubie had asked you the question about an hour ago. It’s been a couple days since your whole nightmare ordeal and nothing has changed — neither for better or worse. Life with them goes on about the same but you think about Armin’s words more than anything.
”You ain’t going anywhere. Jubie and I both know that.”
”Like y’close to slippin’ back into somethin’ small but you keep fightin’ it.”
”It don’t bother me none. I take care of what’s mine.”
Part of you doesn’t really know what to do with the feelings they invoke inside of you. They don’t feel like a threat . . . but they don’t feel light either. Had he meant to insinuate that you’re . . his? Does that mean, in some sort of twisted way that he’s yours? Is Jubie yours, too? It’s all sort of confusing. It doesn’t help that he seemingly doesn’t care to explain neither.
It feels good to sunbathe on a quilt within the mid October sun nonetheless. The leaves are starting to brown, same with the grass. Humidity is switched out for a cool, refreshing breeze. Some of the bugs are retiring back from which they came after their short lived summer. Both you and Jubie are barefoot in flowy, pretty sundresses. You watch her unpack the little, wicker basket she’d brought from the kitchen, seeing that its contents included a few, plastic wrapped sandwiches, platter of fruit, and a couple juice boxes.
You listen to her softly hum a tune to herself as she arranges everything neatly. “Hungry?”
“Mmm,” you shrug and fold your legs butterfly style. “Not super. Think ‘m jus’ snack hungry.”
“Eat some,” she coaxes with gestures to the fruit. She takes a fat piece of a pineapple spear and bites into it first. You take your chance with a couple of cold, green grapes.
And for a while, you both sit there within the calm, farm silence, listening to the wind, cows, and horses sing.
“You ever gonna give me a peek . .?”
Looking over at Jubie, you find that her eyes are stuck on your journal that lays between the space of your legs. Your words have always flowed best when you’re out in fresh air — it’s why you brought it outside with you today. Cheeks warm, you sway from left to right on your butt, “I dunnooo . .” you softly say. “Mostly jus’ poems in here . . and some sad thoughts.”
“Yeah?” her lips pout. “Do you feel sad often?”
The question stumps you for a second. Reason being, when asked this six months ago, you would’ve told her that you’ve only ever felt sad for the majority of your life so far. However, as of late . . “Not really. I’ve been okay.”
“Good, that makes me happy.”
Another comfortable silence. You finish your handful of grapes, look around you, then ask, “. . I never got to ask you how you got here . . . or why you left Georgia.” You’ve always wondered. For weeks and months and years. Why she suddenly up and left, why she never told you . . or took you with her.
Jubie squints up at the sun, nose cutely wrinkled, “Jus’ got tired of it . .” she retorts after a moment. “Of him, you know? ‘Member I told you about m’auntie in Tennessee?” When you nod, Jubie does too. “Well, she always told me her door was open for me. She hated m’mom . . for good reason, obviously. I managed to hitchhike my way to her old trailer park, lived with her ‘til I was eighteen, then I left there too. She was good to me but, stayin’ there jus’ wasn’t the life for me, I could feel it. So somehow, after some more hitchhikin’ . . I ended up here, got a lil gig as a shoe shiner in town, lived in a motel for a bit, eventually took up that waitress job, then . .” Her lips curl up. “Armin came.”
“Oh,” you thumb with the pages of your journal. Jubie leans in closer to you, “How’d you get here?”
“I left home when I was sixteen,” you gently reply, unsurprised to watch her lips pop open in awe. “Yeah . . . Got put in foster care not too long after you left, hopped around from home to home until I ended up a few cities away from here. I lived in a few motels too, before I met this . . guy when I turned twenty.” Jubie notices how you start to fidget and scratch at your shoulder. Whatever memories that are currently flying through your brain aren’t any good ones. “Stayed with him for two years until I finally decided to buy a random bus ticket and get away from ‘im.”
Softly, Jubie hums. Her eyes slowly scan your face before she reaches to interlace her fingers within the spaces of yours. “And that random bus ticket landed you here . . .”
“Isn’t that insane?”
The two of you giggle. It’s a shared laugh full of disbelief on how all the pieces managed to fall into place the way that they did. “Tell me . .” you look away to the blanket, nibble on your bottom lip then look back up at Jubie. She can’t help but notice how bashful you seem now. “Tell me how you and Armin . . how you guys came to be.”
Jubie grins, peers down at your conjoined hands then squeezes yours. “Well . . .” she cutely drags. “I guess you can say I had a teensie crush on him for weeks before the two of us even talked. He used to come to the diner all the time and order the same thing — country fried steak, eggs, and a coffee. Comes up to me one day and tells me that he’s takin’ me to his farm, that he needs some help so . . I go. I worked with him for about . . a month before he jus, drove me to m’motel one night, grabbed all m’stuff, then basically moved me in.”
Your eyebrows lift, “Jus’ like that?”
Jubie nods, once and firm, “Crazy, isn’t he? . . Well, I thought so. I dunno. I lived in the room you’re stayin’ in for a couple a’months. And for a while, we were jus’ . . farmer and his lil farmhand, I guess.”
She suddenly trails off yet doesn’t continue. You watch her cheeks burn bright as she continues to smile while playing with your fingers. Bending your neck, you try to meet her eye again, “And then?”
She covers her face, “Then I let him slide his fingers down m’knickers on the porch one night.”
You gasp. Jubie squeaks.
“I jus’ . . let him. I wanted him to,” she pouts as you begin to giggle. “That next mornin’, I got real shy and curt with him. But he asked if I felt safe here, with him, I told him yes, then he said good, because he didn’t have plans on lettin’ me leave.”
You’re still softly laughing as you cover your smile with a few fingers, “That’s . . . really romantic, I think.”
Jubie huffs through her nose, “I think so too.”
“How does he make you feel?”
She doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, she looks out into the distance at the barn while the wind dances through her long, dark curls that are a bit more frizzy today. You like it like this. “So good,” she finally sighs back. “He sees me . . for me. Understands me. He takes care of me like no one has before.”
Your chest warms, watching her turn back to face you. Her expression shifts into one much softer yet . . elfish. You don’t know how to read it until she whispers, “How does he make you feel?”
Your smile fades as the thudding of your heart picks up. “Me? . . .” You wonder if you should just book it for the house, if she would catch you. “Uhm, good . .? Yeah, good. He’s . . . nicer than I thought.”
“Mm, yeah?” Jubie’s eyebrows lift as you nod. “. . . Such a liar.”
“What?”
She’s smirking now. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”
Swallowing, you shake your head, “ ‘m . . ‘m not lyin’ about anythin’ Jubie—“
“—Yes, you are.”
“I’m not—“
“—Yes, you areee-eeee,” she falls back onto the blanket, leaving you to sit there while feeling like your heart is going to come coughing up your throat. She rests her interlocked fingers upon the surface of her tummy, still smiling while gazing up at you with those sharp, almond eyes that always felt like they could read into your soul. “. . He likes you, too . . . A lot. More than I think you know.”
Your eyes drop to your hands as you begin to shake your head. “No. That doesn’t make any sense, Jules.”
She scoffs a soft laugh of shock, “And why not? You don’t think that you’re likeable?”
“I t-think that he’s in a relationship . . with you.”
She’s quickly sitting up again, this time, closer to you. “Back when I first left . . I thought about you a lot. I’d lie awake sometimes wonderin’ what you were doin’, if you were okay.” Your throat tightens as you continue to trace the lace around the cover of your journal with your finger. “I always hoped you got out, too. Was like, a dream come true to see you again that day, I almost didn’t believe it.”
You glance up just in time to see that her eyes have fallen to your lips. When they snap back up into yours, they’re warm and bright . . full of so much emotion when she simply says, “I adore you.”
The words come out delicately — like she’s placing something small and precious between the two of you.
Your lips part but not a word slips from between them. You feel stuck.
A soft smile she wears as Jubie goes on to say, “I always did. Since we were six.” The wind picks up, blowing both your curls across your cheeks. “And lately . . . uhm. I t-think things have been feelin’ different for me.”
You hear your blood rushing through your ears. “D-Different how?”
“I jus’ notice things now. Little things.”
“. . Yeah?”
“Mhm,” she traces her finger in shy circles upon your knee. “Like, how you look when you’re concentratin’ on somethin’. Or when you whisper stuff you wanna ask me or Armin to yourself first before you do. How cute you look when you’re full and sleepy.”
Heat slowly crawls up your face.
You watch her scoot a bit closer to mumble, “You feel it too, don’t you?”
“I . . d-don’t know what I feel.”
“ ‘s okay.” Her voice is gentle and reassuring and something in you absolutely caves upon the realization of Jubie not being scared of this . . of you. Therefore, before your nerves start to over activate themselves again, you suddenly lean forward to press your lips against hers.
The moment is soft again. Warm. You feel how Jubie freezes in shock for a second until it all settles in. She returns the kiss slowly with a soft sigh as you push deeper, a little less careful, feeling her hands slide up your thighs to the dip of your waist. You pull her closer by the neckline of her dress, tongue swiping against the seam of her lips to taste pineapple as she tilts her head, opens her mouth, and welcomes it in.
The tiny, breathy sound you make shoots right through Jubie and down to the bud of her clit. Closer, she pulls you until she lands on her back, you above her with your hands cradling her face as the kiss grows more eager, warmer, sloppier. Neither of you barely notice the world around you at this point until,
Clap!
The sharp sound of the screen door slamming forces you both away from one another to see Armin standing there, arm resting on one of the porch beams as he watches . . quietly. It seems he must’ve been there for a couple seconds longer than what either of you may think because his posture is settled — shoulders relaxed beneath his fitted flannel and hat brim raised to get a better look at two girls kissing on a blanket in his backyard.
Your stomach drops. You feel how still Jubie grows beneath you.
Even from feet away, you feel his his gaze slowly drift from you . . back to Jubie . . then back to you again.
Nobody says anything for a long while. Then he pushes off the frame and says, “Get y’selves situated then meet me in the living room. Five minutes.”
And with that, he turns and carries himself back on in the house.
“. . . Jubie . .”
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
You scramble upright first while smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress. A million thoughts race throughout your brain — most of them including you being sent away. “I-Is he mad? Do you think he’s mad?”
Jubie realizes exactly what you’re thinking. Slowly sitting up, she presses her hand against your chest, “No, no. Jus’ breathe, lovie. Okay? It’ll be okay.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, together, the two of you work on gathering the blanket and scattered food, working in nervous silence. You follow behind her across the grass, up the porch, and inside the house. Its okay. Jubie said it’ll be okay so it’s okay. You repeat the mantra to yourself the entire walk down the hall towards the living room, trying to keep your hands from trembling to much upon finally seeing him, standing beside the mantle with a glass of ice water tilted at his lips. His hat is off . . seemed to be tossed upon the couch, leaving his waves loose and free.
You and Jubie stand there quietly, within the archway, watching him slowly take the glass of water to the head . . slow and easy, bit by bit until it’s completely gone. And with a languid, deep breath released from his chest after swallowing, he firmly sits the cup upon the mantle with a thick clunk. Silence stretches . . . He doesn’t look angry. It eases your worries a bit.
“Two a’you girls feel like explainin’?”
Your throat feels like it’s being squeezed between someone’s fingers. Looking down at your feet, you shuffle back and forth on them while hearing Jubie speak, “W-We didn’t mean—“
His voice cuts in, calm but blunt, “—How long’s this been goin’ on?”
She shakes her head quickly, “Not long, Papa, I promise. We jus’ . . kissed once before . . like, t-three weeks ago now.”
One of his eyebrows lift, “Three weeks.”
Timidly, Jubie nods. Studying her, Armin tries to catch tale of a lie however, upon finding himself unable to, he looks at you. You remain quietly standing beside her, head bowed, and fidgeting with your fingers like you’ve just been caught with your fingers inside his cookie jar.
“Mm,” he rubs his tongue against his cheek with his hands on his hips. “. . You ain’t tell me about no kiss.”
“I t-told you about the other stuff.”
“About your feelins for ‘er, yes, but you left that other part out.”
“I thought . . you’d be mad at me . . .”
“Mad,” is spoken candidly like he’s thinking about that specific word.
Slowly, you pick your head up the longer their conversation continues. Other stuff? Feelings? Upon you glancing at Jubie, you’re able to discern that now is not a good time to ask her about it. For a moment, Armin’s quiet again. He just stands there with his icy blue gaze slowly moving between the two of you as he works his jaw back and forth. “C’mere. Both a’you.”
Jubie immediately obeys. You slowly follow — bare feet soft against the rug as the both of you find yourselves standing directly in front of his large stature, letting Armin continue to survey you as though he’s finally clicked the last lock into place. “. . I’ve been watchin’ the two a’you.”
When your gaze falls again, you suddenly feel a rough hand beneath your chin, forcing your chin back into place. Armin’s voice is gruff when he demands, “Eyes up.”
You gulp. He drops his hand.
“You mean a lot to Jubilee here,” he begins softly with a simple tilt of his head in her direction. “And you’ve grown to mean a lot to me, too.” Your breath hitches. “Now, I’m gonna explain how this here situation’s gone work and I ain ’t interested in hearin’ any slick talk from either a’you, understand me?”
You and Jubie nod with little ‘yes sir’s mumbled.
Armin nods once. “Alright, now. From this day forward, I take care a’both you girls.” His voice is low and steady. “That means you live here,” he turns towards you. “With us. Ain’t no runnin’, ain’t no leavin’. I also expect you to listen when I tell ya’ somethin’.”
Quickly, you nod.
He folds his arms, sated. “You two look after each other. An’ I know you’ve already been doin’ that, I ain’t gotta worry about it too much, but from here on out . . you both might as well be sisters. One a’you gets upset, the other bet not ignore it. An’ if the two a’you start fussin’ or carryin’ on about somethin’, I’ll handle it. I don’t tolerate poison under my roof.”
Second by second, you feel something inside of you loosening. Rules, stability, structure. Somehow it feels like solid ground has been finally placed beneath your feet.
“The three of us look after each other. That’s the only way this gon’ work . . hm?”
Shyly, you nod. Jubie does the same with a small, “Mhm.”
Content with your answers, Armin’s big hand reaches out, cups the back of Jubie’s head then brings her closer to press a rough, scratchy kiss against her forehead. “Need you t’go check on Sam, Sonnet, and Claude f’me.”
“. . . Pa—“
“—Gone. I need to talk to ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱ f’a moment then we’ll come and get you in a bit, baby girl.”
Theres no harshness to his tone, he speaks like it’s a quiet promise. Wordlessly, upon realizing she’s not going to walk herself, he spins then nudges her towards the front door with a few fingers to her hip. Jubie hesitates as big, brown eyes flicker between the two of you, flashing some reluctance but mostly full of trust. Therefore, she gives you a small nod and reassuring smile, You’ll be okay, before she’s continuing on her way outside. You and Armin listen to the door creak before it slams closed and her footsteps get fainter and fainter the further she gets.
Suddenly, the house is silent.
He doesn’t move for a moment. He simply stands there, watching you. The weight of his attention makes you want to burrow deep down in a hole somewhere.
“Lemme see those eyes.”
He lifts your chin again, hand loosely clutched beneath your jaw. You’re forced to peer up into his as your chin wobbles, thinking that what you’re going to read in them would be disgust or anger. Nonetheless, you don’t see that . . there’s something deeper swimming in them, something steady and tender. His thumb strokes over your cheek, you breathe out a shaky breath of content. “Couple things I ain’t say while Jubie was standin’ here.”
Your body somehow grows more tensed, Armin notices.
“Relax, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ bad, I promise,” he mumbles. “You gotta know this, though. Need this to stick to that hyperactive brain a’yours. You’re safe here. The two a’ya belong here. Yeah?”
Softly, you nod. Your voice is small when you mewl, “ Y-Yeah.”
His gaze lingers on your face as his thumb continues to slowly stroke your cheek. His touch renders you calm. “Alright, now. Secondly . . you don’t go lettin’ anybody else get ideas about you. Some of these fellas out here . . don’t entertain ‘im. No wanderin’ off wit’ ‘im. Don’t go thinkin’ you owe anybody outside’a this house a damn thing.”
“Okay,” once more, you nod.
Armin’s expression softens a bit — eyebrows relax, eyes grow slightly more gentle. “. . You know why?”
This time, you slowly shake your head.
“ ‘Cause you’re mine.”
There’s some possession underlying his tone, definitely, but mostly . . devotion. Like that word mine means something kept safe and close more than just owned . . . only slightly.
“Both you girls are . . And the two a’you are each other’s.”
Armin watches the way your breath catches, how your shoulders ease. You’re doing so good — listening to him. He appreciates that. “Last thing . .” His hand slides away, down to your chest. Your face grows warm at the feel of his wide, calloused palm pressing flat up against it, directly over your pounding heart. “This right here belongs to this one here,” He removes it to tap two fingers against his own. “And that one out there.”
A big, shy smile can’t help spreading across your lips. The slightest smirk pulls at Armin’s.
“Don’t act surprised. Been seein’ it for a while now.” He saw it the minute Jubie stepped her foot off the porch to meet you halfway for that first hug. Now, when you started looking that same way at him? Armin isn’t too sure but he thinks it happened some time after that drive into town . . when he purchased Lily for you. All these feelings inside of you, they’ve been brewing for too long on a body wound tight . . akin to a shaken can of pop. He’s hoping that you finally let go . . finally allow him to take care of you the way a little thing like you should be. “C’mere.”
Like he did Jubie, you hiccup a little when he slowly pulls you in to press a kiss against the center of your forehead. Oh. Something inside of you absolutely brightens. You’re trembling a little when he pulls away.
── .✦ summary || Before we had Toji 'I love my wife' Fushiguro, there was Toji 'I love my girlfriend' Zenin...
── .✦ overall content & warnings || MDNI. wc. 16k. a bit of angst-- Toji and Reader's childhood. mentions of child abuse. friends to lovers. roomates. Toji is sweet and awkward the whole time. so much fluff. first kiss. first love. sexual tension. Reader and Toji are inexperienced. sexual content. making out. dryhumping. vaginal fingering. period cramp relief (he's a good friend like that). handjob. mutual masturbation.
── .✦ author's note || omg, I've been sitting on this one for a while, debating if I should post or not. There was supposed to be a part two (it's called Shadow Puppets for a reason, i swear), but I haven't even started on it. Anyway, if sweet, awkward, inexperienced Toji isn't your thing, this one prob isn't for you. But if that's up your alley, I hope you enjoy <3
The Zenin Clan’s property sat on a large plot of land, spanning miles upon miles of rich farmland, with the closest city being an hour's commute to Kyoto– and that’s only if you were lucky enough to have a car to use. Public transportation never reached this area, and your family lacked the funds to own a car, which meant you were stuck in place, like the stagnant air you breathed in your tiny home, all while knowing how well the Zenin Clan prospered.
To say you were bitter was an understatement, but you knew better than to think that they had a life you truly wanted.
When you were younger, you would sneak away from your home, travel through a strip of trees and a thin creek to observe them in the back gardens of their estate. You always wondered why the women were forced to walk a few paces behind the men, and why everyone moved around with perfectly straight posture like they had a stick lodged up their asses. Your mother told you it’s how proper folk held themselves, but if being proper meant carrying around a holier-than-thou mentality, you weren’t interested.
Aside from being unfamiliar with their status, you really had no reason to dislike them. They’d never done anything to you. In fact, you were sure they didn’t even know you were there, always perched on the wooden fence, watching them from between the cedar trees. The branches always kept you hidden, so as long as no one ventured this far away from the gardens, you knew you’d be safe.
And you got away with it for a while– for years, to be exact. It became your secret hobby, observing the notorious Zenins like they were animals in a zoo. And in some cases, they acted as such. Aggressive, possessive, always fighting for dominance with each other while forcing the women to maintain the home and watch after the kids. They bred like rabbits, you noticed. You thought that maybe they needed a new hobby of their own.
Your parents told you to keep your distance from them, though they had no idea that you liked to sneak off and get as close to the family as you could. If they had, you’d no doubt be punished for your idiocy. Even as a child, you knew your parents had a good reason for ordering you to stay away from the Zenins, but it wasn’t until you saw the true extent of how cruel they could be that you finally understood it for yourself.
Aggressiveness, fighting for dominance– those weren’t things the adult men reserved for use against each other. No, they involved the children, too, not only forcing them to fight for their entertainment, but retaliating against them as well.
But why? What was the purpose? As an eight-year-old little girl, you couldn’t figure it out; it confused you. Your parents were strict at times, doling out punishments as they saw fit, but… never to this extent.
The boy running through the garden looked terrified, glancing over his shoulder as the other chased him down. The one in front tried his best not to trample the flowers, yet the one behind him didn’t seem to give it another thought as he ruined them. Both of their yukatas were smudged with dirt, even ripped in a few places, too. It was evident by just their appearance alone that they had been doing this for a while, only now deciding to bring it outside.
While trying to mitigate flower damage, the boy ended up tripping, and just as quickly, he turned over to defend himself from the other, muttering, “Jinichi, I never-” A harsh kick to his ribs had the boy groaning and curling in on himself. “Whatever Ogi said isn’t true-”
“No?” Jinichi questioned in monotone and laid another kick to his ribs. “Hear that, Uncle? Toji says you’re a liar.”
A man who you hadn’t noticed stepped into view, spectating the debacle with a critical glance. The boy– Toji, as you learned– shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Ogi’s. “I didn’t say you’re a liar, but whoever told you that I-”
Before you could blink, the man moved so quickly, pressing to Toji’s mouth the end of a long cane he was toting around. The boy fell silent, eyeing the wooden stick with a bit of fear.
“Are you calling my attendants liars, then?” Ogi never gave Toji the chance to answer before he handed off the cane to the other boy and said, “You may continue as we’ve practiced. I trust that you won’t kill him, but don’t be gentle either. The conniving runt isn’t worthy of your mercy after what he’s done to you.”
As the man stalked off in the opposite direction, heading back toward the house, you watched Jinichi reaffirm his grip on the cane with a determined look on his face. Toji used his arms to pull himself backward, but not far enough that the tip of the wooden rod couldn’t ram right into his face when Jinichi finally swung for him.
You gasped a quiet sound, heart thumping faster and faster in your chest when you heard his pained groan. He angled his face toward the other, scared but not backing down. Blood dripped from his temple, down his reddened, battered cheek to fall off his jaw– the sight of it made you feel sick. To the other side of Toji’s face, Jinichi gave him a matching wound, then stood back to assess his work.
He twirled the cane with a precise, practiced move, gruffly offering, “I’ll make it quick if you just confess.”
With the back of his hand, Toji wiped away the blood that had dripped into his eye, smearing it down his face. “We’ve been brothers for ten years now. How long do you think that lie is going to work on me?”
His brother didn’t respond and instead swung the cane for his side, hitting his target with a loud cracking sound. The noise that left Toji was painful, calling to you like a cry for help, yet you were frozen. Never in your life had you witnessed such violence. You gripped the fence just a bit tighter, noticing then how shaky your hands were.
Toji rolled onto his stomach, curling into himself to protect his injury, but in doing so, he was risking his back to an attack. When Jinichi took the opportunity, whipping the cane across his spine, you had to bite your own tongue to stop from making a noise. The boy fell flat on his front with a cry of agony, sobbing, “I didn’t do it, Jinichi. I haven’t been in your room since the last time you caught me, I swear.”
“I don’t believe you,” his brother insisted, taking the cane to his back again, and then once more. A redness began seeping into the white yukata Toji wore. “Uncle Ogi wouldn’t lie-”
“Uncle Ogi,” Toji began, voice lifting a few decibels, “does whatever the hell he wants to keep himself entertained, and if you think for one second that doesn’t apply to you, then you’re an idiot.”
Even you knew that for a boy in Toji’s position, saying something like that wasn’t the right move. Unsurprisingly, it earned him three more lashes before his brother managed to snap the cane in half. While the boy writhed on the ground, Jinichi inspected the jagged end of the broken wood, contemplating something before tossing it away, only to bend down and grab Toji by the back of his yukata.
The boy groaned in pain, pleading for him to stop, and fighting against Jinichi with what strength he had left, which wasn’t much. He dragged him across the yard, ripping up what flowers hadn’t been destroyed during their chase, and dropped him on the edge of the koi pond.
If you felt sick before just to see them fighting, it was nothing compared to the churning in your stomach to see his brother step over Toji’s body and stand above him. All too quickly, Jinichi guided Toji’s head to the water and held him under. He fought against his brother, digging his nails into his ankles to draw blood, yet Jinichi never stopped.
If he kept going, Toji would surely die.
Somehow, some way, you defied your own fear in that moment, and in the next, your hands were pushing at Jinichi’s back with such a force that he toppled forward, into the pond. How you managed to cross the field so quickly, you weren’t sure– running was never your strong suit, but then again, you’d never tried while hopped up on so much adrenaline.
You lowered yourself beside Toji, careful not to touch his back or move him in a way that might cause him pain. Though, really, it wouldn’t have mattered after the beating he had taken. Deeming his shoulders safe, you grabbed him there, helping to bring him off the ground until he could balance himself on shaky arms.
Jinichi broke the surface of the pond while Toji worked on catching his breath, keeping his head cast down as the water droplets fell from soaked tufts of his black hair. The clear water took on a reddish hue as it rinsed the blood from his face. He spat out what collected in his mouth, heaving in deep breaths.
“Didn’t go in your room,” he muttered, spitting out more bloody water. You assumed he thought you to be his brother, hence his rambling, but Jinichi was actually standing on the other side of the pond, staring at you with a bewildered expression. “Ogi is a liar. Not me.”
You reached down, placing your hand over the back of his own. “I believe you.”
The heavy breathing stalled instantly, Toji going stalk still when he heard your voice– one that doesn’t sound like his brother’s at all. Clearly, you had startled him, but that was something you could apologize for later, after you dealt with the Zenin across the pond, who had yet to move.
“You could have killed him, you know? What is the matter with you?” you snapped with enough bite that Jinichi flinched and took a step back. Then another, and another, until he fully turned around to run into the house. You watched him go with a disapproving shake of your head before giving your attention to the one who needed it the most. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t respond to you, but he did move, shakily pulling his hand out from beneath yours. When he pressed it into the dirt, he tried to push himself to stand. He stumbled around a bit, but managed it eventually. There were a few seconds when you both were unmoving, still reeling and trying to adjust to what just happened.
Then, Toji spoke. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You stood, too, taking a moment to dust off your yukata and smooth it out straight. “I know, but he was hurting you.”
He never once spared you a glance, keeping his eyes cast away as he moved on the same path as his brother. The most you received from the interaction was a few words that sounded a lot like a threat.
“You should leave before they hurt you, too.”
You took a few hurried steps toward him, latching onto his wrist to make him stop. “But what about you. Your back is-”
“I know you like to watch us,” he interjected, shaking off your touch. “You sit on the fence. You think no one can see you through the branches, but I can. So I know that you know what happens to girls here.”
Only then did you start to feel scared. After all, you had just been caught. If your parents found out, they’d be pissed, but worse was whatever the notorious Zenins might do to you for such an offense.
With nothing else to say, nothing for you to deny, you apologized.
“I’m sorry.” It came out as a whisper, barely loud enough for you to even hear it. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
Sensing your fear, Toji turned around. He didn’t smile, his face seemingly stuck in a flat expression, but the look in his eyes changed. It was a subtle difference, but one that you noticed. Toji blinked a few times before saying, “I don’t mind. You’re not hurting anything. Besides, I know what it’s like to be somewhere you’re not supposed to be. I go into my brother’s room all the time.”
A quiet gasp passed your lips, causing a smile to form on Toji’s mouth. You could tell that with the amount of pain he was in, it was forced, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“As long as you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you. Okay?”
You swallowed thickly, giving a firm, singular nod. “Okay.”
Slowly, his smile fell. “You should go now.”
“But what about your back? It’s bad– you’re bleeding-”
“I’ll be fine. They’re nothing but a few scratches.”
But they weren’t just a few scratches; they were deep, seeping wounds that Toji felt throb in time with his heartbeat while he watched you walk away, making sure you made it back between the cedar trees before letting go of the pained whimpers he had been holding back. The boy stumbled into the home before being swept up by one of the attendants to have his injuries assessed. Just as the woman finished cleaning the wound, the shoji door slammed open to allow Ogi to enter.
He didn’t speak– neither of them did. It wasn’t needed, for they both knew what was in store for Toji. He wasn’t only in trouble for his fight with his brother, but also for letting you walk away. While he had talked with you, he felt their eyes stabbing into his back, waiting for Toji to make the right move, yet he didn’t.
And for that, he would be punished along with you, though you weren’t aware of that yet.
“What did you do?” your mother hissed quietly, dragging you out of your room and into the living area, which you noticed was taken up by a few familiar faces– Zenins, to be exact.
Jinichi sat between two men, stoic, just as you remembered him to be. The one on his left, Ogi, and the one on his right was someone you’d never seen before. Though with a mustache like that, you doubted that you’d ever be able to forget him. Naobito was his name, as you had soon learned just after your mother forced you into a deep, respectful bow.
The conversation didn’t come as a surprise to you; you had screwed up, got caught by this powerful family, and were now about to reap the consequences of your actions. However, the action they were accusing you of wasn’t trespassing, as you had assumed it to be. Instead, it was something they must’ve manifested in their minds. In other words, it was a lie.
“It seems there was an altercation a few days ago. Your child stepped onto our property and tried to drown our Jinichi,” Ogi spat, earning the room two horrified gasps from your parents.
Unable to help yourself, you were quick to argue, “I never did that!”
“You didn’t push him into the koi pond?” A tense silence fell over the room as you slumped back down, trying to come up with something to defend yourself, yet you had nothing. You had, in fact, pushed the boy into the pond, though you weren’t trying to drown him.
You brokenly sputtered, “H-He was the one trying to drown someone. He held Toji’s head under the water-”
“Why would he do that to his own brother, hm? Jinichi, you love Toji-kun, don’t you?”
“Very much,” Jinichi replied, meeting your stare unyieldingly. “I would never try to hurt my own flesh and blood.”
“Then why did you whip his back with that cane? You made him bleed.”
It didn’t matter what you said; no one believed you, not even your parents. They brushed it off on you, spending too much time in the sun that day, confusing brotherly roughhousing for an attack, but you knew better.
Your parents promised them that a proper punishment would be doled out, and the Zenins warned them against letting you wander too far again, for they wouldn’t be so lenient next time. You were spanked for your crimes that night, sent to bed with a sore behind and an empty stomach, with a long list of chores for you to complete the next day.
You gave it a few months before curiosity got the better of you and led you back up the hill toward the gardens of the Zenin property, only this time, there was a tall privacy fence in place. You paced the perimeter of it, running your fingers along the sturdy, wooden grooves until boredom struck, and you retreated back to your own home.
Months continued, turning into years.
Sometimes you’d venture up the hill just to have a walk through the woods when you needed to clear your mind. And sometimes you found yourself lingering a little too long near the fence, just listening to what went on on the other side. Maybe that was creepy, but as always, you were just curious. You lived so close to the Zenins– everyone in the area knew them, everyone talked about them, and you were lucky enough to be within walking distance of their home.
Besides, what else was there to do? Your little farmhouse could only keep you entertained for so long, and it had since run out of inspiration– about ten years ago, actually. Life in your childhood home was boring, stale, so… dull. So, yes, you indulged your curiosities every once in a while, prying into the lavish life of the Zenins, even if it would end up getting you in trouble.
Autumn had struck, the leaves were dying, but the sun reflecting off of them cast an orange hue in the air. All life had been stunted, it seemed, save for the green moss growing on the wooden fence. You ran your finger over it, picking off some sprigs and letting them sprinkle to the ground. The wind carried a chill, rustling the dead leaves, but the scent it brought was a nice one. You wondered if the city smelled just like this, and you found yourself hoping it did, for it would be the only thing you’d miss about your home if you ever moved away.
You ventured further away that day, straying too far from the normal path, which you would need to take to get home. The distance made you feel a little giddy, and the uncharted territory felt fun. You wondered why you hadn’t done it sooner, until you were reminded of why– staying on the normal path ensured a quick escape back to your home, should you ever get caught stalking the Zenin’s property again.
And, unfortunately, you had just been caught. You were sure of it the second you locked stares with familiar green eyes that were perched at the very top of the fence. While yours widened in shock, his remained the same– dull, almost lifeless, yet you knew he was seeing you because they followed your movements, unblinkingly.
You weren’t sure what to say as you looked up at him, wondering how he took on such a relaxed, nonchalant position while balancing on top of a tall privacy fence. It scaled taller than your own house and would definitely ensure a few broken bones if you were to fall, though he seemed to be at ease.
“You usually don’t come down this far,” he said, breaking the silence with a voice that was far deeper than you remembered. Granted, it’s been years, so you suppose it checks out.
“You were watching me?”
“Only sometimes,” he offered with a shrug, standing to his feet on top of the fence.
“Hey,” you gasped, “be careful!”
But he was already moving, jumping from the top of the fence and catching himself on a thick branch of a tree. He let himself dangle there for a moment before dropping to his feet, landing with grace right in front of you. And as he stood to his full height, you were made aware that his voice was not the only thing that changed about him, but his body, too; most notably, a wicked scar on his upper lip. Part of you wanted to ask about its origins, but another part of you knew better than to pry for that information– it seemed personal.
“That’s really dangerous! A fall from that height could have broken a bone!”
“But I caught myself on the tree,” he argued playfully.
“And if you hadn’t?”
He glanced up at the fence, gauging its height before shrugging. “I’d reckon I’d still be fine. I’ve fallen from higher places.”
You held a chastising finger at him, muttering, “That’s bad. Very bad.”
“M’not a dog, so don’t scold me like one.” He rolled his eyes, though he didn’t sound too irritated. “Anyway, what are you still doing coming up here? Ain’t you tired of looking at the same old fence yet?”
“No. The area is nice and peaceful.”
“And it isn’t nice and peaceful on your own property?”
With a tilt of your head, you asked, “Why does it feel like you’re trying to make me go home?”
“Maybe I just don’t like you being this close to my home. If you were smart, you wouldn’t like being this close either. Especially, after what happened last time.”
“You still remember that?”
“‘Course, I do. And probably just as vividly as you do, too,” he scoffed. “You shouldn’t come this close anymore. You’re just gonna get in trouble again if you get caught.”
You placed a hand on your hip, entirely unthreatened. “Are you going to snitch on me?”
He exhaled a quiet laugh. “No. So long as you stay on your side of the creek from now on, I’ll have no reason to.”
“Hmm…” You dropped your hand from your hip to cross your arms. “Well, I’m not going unless you come with me. I’ll need an escort back.”
“An escort?”
“Yes,” you stated firmly. “As you know, I’ve never been this far from my usual path. Who knows if I’ll be able to find my way back, rather than wandering further onto your property?”
He chuckled, bewildered by your suggestion. “Need me to hold your hand, too?”
“Yes, actually.” You held it out for him to take, making him lose his grin. He eyed your extended palm, watching as you flexed it, wordlessly prompting him to grab it, yet he didn’t. “Come on. We don’t have all day, do we?”
His eyes slid up to meet yours. “But I was only kidding-”
“I wasn’t.”
Toji’s lips parted to spew some kind of excuse, but nothing came out, and his mouth closed, opening once more to bite out, “Fine.”
Hesitantly, he grabbed your hand, taking it in a tight fist. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, but it did startle you a little, especially when he tugged you to follow him. With a huff, you wrangled him back and forced him to take your hand properly.
“Never held someone’s hand before or something?” you asked, interlocking your fingers. You let your connected hands fall between you. “There we go. That’s how you do it.”
When you looked back up, he was glaring down at your hands, confused more than angry. And when he started pulling you away again, you didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears were starting to turn red.
“You want to be friends?” Toji questioned you one night, brows furrowing deeply as he pointed to himself. “With me?”
You frowned, thinking back on the week you both had, where you’d meet every evening at the creek to hang out, wondering if you’d read the situation incorrectly– weren’t you two getting along? Or was he really just coming here out of some obligation?
“Why wouldn’t I want to be friends with you? You’re cool.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course, I do.”
His confusion was palpable as he questioned again, “Really?”
You scoffed and reached over to flick his cheek. He reeled away with a surprised hiss, rubbing the growing red mark. “You’re cool, Toji. How many times do I have to say it?”
His hand went still on his face as he stared at you, probably trying to figure out if you were being genuine or not. Finally, he dropped his hand. “Okay. Yeah, sure. We can be friends. If you want.”
When silence ensued, inching toward something awkward, you reached forward and poked his cheek. “Hey. Don’t be all weird now. That’s not cool at all.”
With a smushed cheek, he mumbled, “I’m not being weird.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
“Good.” You dropped your hand with a satisfied smile and relaxed back on the ground, closing your eyes and paying no mind to the crunch of the leaves below your head. “Lay down, too.”
You didn’t see him move, but you heard the leaves crunch as he relaxed beside you, just close enough to barely brush your shoulders together.
After a few minutes of quiet autumn breezes, he asked, “You really think I’m cool?”
“Toji, the fact that you keep asking is making it weird.”
In only a few months, the two of you had grown close. No longer were you two just friends; you were best friends.
Even as the season chilled into winter, you two would still frequently meet at the creek, though when the snow started falling, your hangouts were often cut short due to the cold, and sometimes, you didn’t meet at all.
But that was fine; you missed him, of course, but you knew that he didn’t want you trekking through the snow, just like you didn’t want him to do that either.
Toward the end of that year, a winter storm blew in. He told you the week before it happened that you shouldn’t meet at the creek. And you agreed with him, with the exception being the evening of his birthday, of course. He implored that it was fine, that you didn’t need to risk your health and safety for such a stupid reason, but you insisted, and finally, he relented. Toji promised to meet you out there on his birthday.
Yet, as you stood at the creek on the 31st of December, bundled up and shivering, you realized Toji might’ve forgotten– which was fine. It was his 16th birthday, after all, and he was probably busy with family obligations.
Okay, it hurt a little bit that he forgot, but you tried your best not to let it get to you. You only wanted to give him the gift you made for him– granted, it was a silly gift, but you thought he’d appreciate it.
But it was fine. You could always give it to him another time.
You retreated back to your house, stopping just inside the door to peel your many layers off. You snuck past the living room, where your parents were bringing in the new year with their friends, playing card games, drinking, eating, laughing. You crossed your fingers, hoping they didn’t stop to ask why you were back so soon. As far as they were concerned, you were going out with a friend– a friend who was a girl you met at school, and not an infamous Zenin boy, who you were forbidden from talking to.
Once you made it to your room undetected, you changed into your pajamas, turned on quiet music, and started working on the project you left behind a few hours ago: a half-knitted sweater. Well, half was an overstatement; you’d barely finished one of the sleeves. Knitting wasn’t your strong suit, and it wasn’t all that fun, but it kept your hands busy.
Entirely immersed in your work, you were almost dead to the world, which is why when your bedroom window was abruptly pushed open, you screamed–
Until you realized it was only Toji, with a finger to his lips, telling you to be quiet. Quickly, you slapped your hand over your mouth, and your other over your racing heart. You both stayed silent, listening for your parents' concerned questions, but the loud chatter of them with their friends let you know they hadn’t heard a thing.
Only then did you speak, and it was to harshly whisper, “Jesus! You scared me!”
“I was throwing pebbles at your window for five minutes. Should’ve known you were… knitting?” He waved a confused hand at the mess of tan yarn in your lap. “Since when have you known how to do that?”
“Since two weeks ago, but that’s not important. What are you doing here?”
He drew his eyes away from your lap. “You didn’t wait for me at the creek.”
“I did. For two hours. Figured you were busy with your party or something, but it’s no big deal. You didn’t have to come all the way down here on your birthday. I could’ve given you your gift later.” You placed your yarn and knitting needles aside to slide off your bed and retrieve his present.
When you stood in front of him, holding a small box behind your back, he eyed you suspiciously. “You got me a gift?”
“Of course, I got you a gift. It’s your birthday. Now, close your eyes.” He cocked a brow, hesitating until you snapped, “Close them. Now.”
And he did.
Once you placed the gift box in his hand, you added, “It’s nothing crazy. You might even think it’s stupid-”
“What? No, I– shut up, you didn’t-” Your brows furrowed, and he instantly backpedaled. “Sorry. Don’t shut up. That’s not– I just-”
“Open the damn box, Toji.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled the lid away, placing it on your nightstand before reaching in to grab the gift. Between his two fingers, he held up the woven tendril of green strands, inspecting it with a frown. “A bracelet?”
You nodded and held up your own wrist, displaying the one you made for yourself. “A friendship bracelet.”
“Oh,” he murmured, still looking it over with curiosity.
Your stomach started to churn with nerves, which led to you blurting out, “I told you it wasn’t anything crazy, I said it was stupid-” His eyes flicked to yours, widening just enough as you continued, “You’re probably used to the fancy stuff– gold and silver and diamonds, which is fine. I mean, your family is loaded, so that’s to be expected. Just give that back, I’m sorry-”
When you went to grab it, he jerked it out of your reach. “No way. It’s mine.”
“It’s stupid, Toji.”
“It’s not stupid at all. It’s cool.” You slowly dropped your hands. “I’ve never had a friendship bracelet before; no one has ever… you really made this for me?”
“Well, yeah. And for me, too.” His eyes slid to your wrist, and he took your hand, bringing you closer so he could look at yours, too. The contact brought warmth to your face. “You like them?”
“Mhm, I do. You did a good job on them.”
“Thank you.” The warmth on your face only got hotter, but the praise was nice. “Do you want me to help you put yours on? They can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”
He lowered your hand back to your side and handed his bracelet to you, offering you his wrist next. After securing it, you glanced at his face, taking note of the small smile that was on his mouth as he ran his finger over the woven pattern.
“Thank you. For the gift.”
The slight nervousness in your chest faded, and you smiled, too. “You’re welcome! I was really hoping you’d like it! I wasn’t sure what else to get you. I know you probably have everything you could ever want already.”
“...almost everything.”
“Hm?”
You tilted your head in question, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at the clock on your nightstand, then looked back at you.
“My family is doing fireworks for the New Year.”
Your eyes lit up with excitement. “I love fireworks!”
“Wanna go watch them?” he asked. “The roof would be the perfect spot.”
“The roof? Like, the roof of my house?” When he nodded, you asked, “How are we supposed to get up there?”
He slipped out of his coat, handing it to you, then moved toward the open window. As you slid your arms into the warmth, sufficiently wrapping yourself up in it, he inched outside, far enough that it worried you.
“Hey, Toji, that’s not safe. You could fall-”
But your warning was too late. He somehow managed to pull himself off the windowsill using the gutter of your house, and then proceeded to defy gravity by vaulting onto the roof. Naturally, you were concerned and rushed over to the window, only when you peered up at the roof, he leaned over the edge and offered you his hand.
“You’re insane if you think I’m doing that.”
“Come on,” he tutted teasingly. “Don’t be a chicken.”
“You could drop me.”
“I swear, I won’t. And if I do, I’d be down there to catch you before you hit the ground.”
Your eyes widened, head shaking in disbelief. “What? You think you’re a superhero, or something?”
He snorted. “Definitely not, but I trust myself enough not to let you fall.”
“You can trust yourself all you want, but I’m the one who needs to trust you right now. And I definitely do not.”
He clicked his tongue. “You should.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you mean a lot to me, and I’d never suggest anything that would get you hurt.” You stared at his hand again, watching him flex it open. “Come on. You made me a friendship bracelet and everything. You have to trust me at least a little bit, right?”
“Toji-”
“And it’s my birthday, so you kinda have to do everything I say.”
Your lips pressed into a flat line as you eyed the distance from your window to the ground.
“Damn you.”
With a groan, you grabbed his hand, squeezed your eyes shut, and braced for the ground, but the fall didn’t come; Toji lifted you onto the roof as if you weighed nothing, letting you stumble right onto his lap. You gripped the fabric on his shoulders, peering behind you and over the edge of the roof– such a long way down.
“You’re very bold, you know that?”
He chuckled and pulled you off his lap, placing you beside him. “One day, you’ll finally trust me.”
“Maybe so, but that day is not today. You’ll have to prove yourself a few more times.” You moved closer to his side, noticing his thin, long-sleeved shirt. “Hey, aren’t you cold?”
“I’m fine, really-” You slid back onto his lap, sitting back toward his knees so it wasn’t entirely inappropriate. “Really, I’m not-”
“Do you want to catch a cold? No, you don’t. So put your arms in here.” You opened the jacket, shivering as the cold air chilled you through your pajamas. “Hurry before all the warm air gets out.”
Sounding flustered, he muttered, “Where am I supposed to-” You grabbed his arms, led them inside the jacket, and wrapped them around your waist. “Oh.”
“Isn’t that better?”
You heard him swallow before humming, “Mhm.”
He relaxed into your touch after a few moments and even pulled you forward to get closer. Despite your initial thoughts, straddling his lap this closely didn’t feel inappropriate at all. It felt comforting and safe, like you wouldn’t mind staying there for the rest of your life.
The fireworks started a little while later, lighting up the sky with bright flashes of vibrant colors. Both of you watched them in contented silence– it was nice. Really nice, even.
“You know, these are really good fireworks, but have you seen the ones they do in Osaka. For the summer festival?”
“No. Have you?”
You giggled, “No, but I saw them on TV last year. They’re super cool. We should go sometime.”
Through the sound of the distant explosions, you heard your parents and their friends count down from ten, and when the clock hit midnight, you didn’t hesitate to press your lips to Toji’s cheek. It wasn’t much, a gentle peck at most, but it was something that meant so much to both of you.
Though at the time, neither of you was truly aware of the significance.
“Happy New Year,” you whispered when you pulled back to rest your cheek on his shoulder.
You weren’t sure if he said it back.
If he did, you definitely couldn’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing through your head.
Toji moved off the Zenin property a few months after he turned 18. He came to see you when he could, but after being cut off from his family’s funds, he was stuck working a few part-time jobs, barely giving him any time off. You pretended it didn’t bother you too badly, but the reality of it was that without Toji there to keep you company, the place felt small and lonely. You were going stir-crazy, and the subtle comments from your parents, suggesting that you look for a place, were grating on your nerves.
Which is why when Toji came to pick you up the night of your 18th birthday, you slumped down in his car with a box of items. He eyed them suspiciously, gaze flicking to you and your pleading look. Hesitantly, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Mind if I stay with you for a few days?”
He blinked a few times, inhaling deeply to ask, “Um, like… starting tonight?” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth when you nodded. “I’ve only got one bedroom. And it’s not on the nice side of town either.”
“Toji, if you don’t want me to stay, just say so-”
“No! That’s not it,” he rushed to say, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s just that… it’s kind of a shitty place, and I’m messy, and you’re not gonna like it.”
Catching sight of his reddening cheeks, you offered a soft smile. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It can’t be that bad. Besides, it’s just for a few days. I trust you to take care of me for a few days. And since it’s a one-bedroom, I can take the couch.”
“Well, I don’t have a couch. When I left the estate, I only brought a few changes of clothes, and the new place didn’t come furnished.”
“So, where do you sleep?”
The answer to that question: the fucking floor.
“Toji,” you sighed, taking a look around the bare space that was somehow messy, despite being almost empty. “You couldn’t have grabbed a futon before you left the estate?”
“Was kinda in a rush,” he sheepishly said. “Figured I’d get whatever I needed when I had time, but… sort of short on that, too. Plus, s’not like anyone else lives with me anyway, so it doesn’t bother me.” When you cast him a cool look, he winced. “Well, it bothers me now that you’re here.”
You let your eyes slip around the room. A dirty old rug, a basket of unfolded clothes, a foldable, metal chair, a scratched-up side table he probably picked up for free on the side of the road, and a gun– wait-
“What is that for?!” You pointed at the weapon, and Toji followed your direction until he, too, spotted it. Quickly, he grabbed the gun and slipped it behind him, tucking it into his waistband as if that would magically erase the last two seconds from your mind. “Toji.”
“What? It’s a bad part of town, I told you already.”
“So, you have a gun, to do what with? Shoot people?”
He blinked a few times, lips parting in surprise before he forced them closed, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No. I would never.” He eyed your unimpressed glare, offering up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I swear.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, frown deepening before you dismissed it, muttering, “You better not. It would piss me off.”
Toji let out a sigh of relief and moved aside, letting you venture deeper into the apartment. He let you explore, not that there was much of that to be done anyway. You found the bathroom– small and dingy– the kitchen was just the same. And when you were finished, you stood in front of him again, hand on your hip.
“You were right. This place is shitty.” You gave the room another glance. “I’m not leaving until it’s at least somewhat suitable.”
“What?”
“What?” you countered, directing your stare at him. “You can’t live like this.”
“Yes, I can. I’ve been doing it for months now.”
“Well, I can’t live like this,” you argued, catching the way confusion flickered in his eyes.
“You?”
“Me.” With a lazy wave of your hand, you explained, “My parents not-so-subtly suggested that I move out.”
Toji’s face slackened. “They kicked you out.”
“No, they suggested it was time for me to get my own place since I’m an adult now, so I thought I’d stay with you until I find an apartment. Just a few days.”
Toji cocked a brow. “You think you’re going to find a nice apartment to move into in just a few days?” When you nodded, he asked, “With what money?” With pursed lips, you shrugged, bringing him to sigh, “You’re not going to find a place in just a few days with no money.”
“Why not? You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t? We’re in your apartment right now-” It clicked for you then. “This isn’t your apartment, is it?”
“It is.” He swallowed. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
He chewed on his bottom lip. “Well, not officially.”
“You’re squatting here,” you surmised, making him wince again.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t the most ideal situation, but you couldn’t be mad at Toji for it. It wasn’t like he expected you to throw yourself and all of your problems into his lap. However, that didn’t mean you could continue letting him live this way, squatting or not.
You let out a huff and rubbed at your eyes, feeling tired already. “Okay. It’s fine. We can just… figure it out tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You need a place to live– a real place that is your own– and so do I, so we can start looking tomorrow. Or better yet, I can start looking tomorrow, since you’re keen on living in squalor. But once I find a place, you’re moving in with me. No more of… this.” You motioned to the space around you. “Now, is there anything else you wanna tell me? You’re technically homeless, are you jobless, too?”
“No. I… work.”
His tone was hesitant– less than trustworthy now that you’ve seen all of this.
“Is it ethical?” He didn’t answer, but he did look guilty, and you had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay,” you sighed again. “Last question, do you have enough money to buy dinner? I’m broke.”
You moved into a new apartment only a few weeks after leaving your house. It wasn’t much better than the previous place, but at least it was in a better part of town.
You quickly found out that living with Toji wasn’t bad at all. You both respected each other’s privacy and kept communication open to voice concerns about your living arrangement. When you had friends over, you made sure to keep out of Toji’s way, and he kept out of yours. However, he never brought people over– you suspected he didn’t have any friends other than you, but there were a few times you overheard him talking on the phone to someone named Shiu.
The bills were split equally, with you handing over your share to Toji, so he could pay them off with the landlord. At first, your friend insisted that he could cover the expenses, but you wouldn’t let that slide– you couldn’t just live with him and not contribute; this was a shared space.
You each had your own bedroom, which was sort of a moot point, as Toji so rarely slept in his room, often opting to crash on the couch when he’d come back from work instead. He usually stayed out all night and slept all day, and while that concerned you, you didn’t bring up what his job consisted of again– ignorance is bliss, and all that.
Well, as it turns out, ignorance is bliss until you’re forced to see first-hand the very thing you’d been turning a blind eye to.
You had left work early that day, not feeling the greatest after having just gotten over a cold. You attempted to tough it out since your job wasn’t really grueling at all– the little antique shop didn’t get that much business, which left you sitting at the counter, bored out of your mind as you worked through your puzzle book. But after listening to you sniffle and groan one too many times, your boss sent you home with strict orders to rest up.
With a headache pounding behind your eyes and a grumbling stomach that was practically begging for something warm, you relented. Miso soup, a bit of knitting, and a nap sounded heavenly. But when you stepped into your apartment, you quickly realized that a relaxing afternoon was not in store for you.
The first clue was the trail of red droplets staining your rug, leading you toward the kitchen. The next clue was the bloodied wrap and towels lying on the floor, and next, pieces from the first aid kit strewn across the counter, as if someone had messily searched for what they needed and left the mess behind.
You weren’t dumb. You knew what all of this was, what it meant, and who had caused it. And all of that was proved correct when you found him in the bathroom, standing and leaning back against the sink, shirt pulled up his torso and held secure in his mouth, as he sewed up the large, seeping gash in his abdomen.
Time froze for a moment.
You stared at him; he stared back. Both of you were equally as shocked as the other.
And then he opened his mouth, his shirt falling to cover the wound as he broke the silence to ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I– um…” You continued to stare at his torso, even if you couldn’t see the marred skin anymore. “Came home early. Wasn’t feeling well.” You raised a shaky hand, pointing at his abdomen. “What happened?”
“Just had a little accident. Nothing to worry about.”
Your bottom lip quivered from the stress. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Not lying, it’s really nothing.” The guilt on his face only worsened. “Please, don’t cry. I’m fine-”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I swear-”
Neither of you had realized you crossed the bathroom until you stood right in front of him, holding a tight hand over his mouth to make him shut up. His eyes widened, but he didn’t try to push you away. With your other hand, you pulled his shirt back up to inspect the wound.
“Wh-Who did that to you?” You removed your hand so he could answer, yet the most you got was a choked-back groan. “Answer me-”
“I don’t know. You think he gave me his name before he shoved a knife in my side?”
You felt tears roll down your cheeks when you blinked, which Toji wiped away with his knuckle, muttering, “It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not-”
“It is,” he insisted, pulling his shirt out of your hand to cover the wound again. “Trust me. Please.”
Doing so was a mistake– you knew that.
But you couldn’t help it. You did trust him.
So, when he asked you to forget about it, when he told you that it wouldn’t happen again, you believed him.
You trusted his promise to you, knowing that it was empty.
You knew that it would happen again, but you also knew that when the next time came around, you wouldn’t be there to see it.
Toji would make sure of it.
“How’d you get that scar on your lip?” you asked him one evening after years of wanting to know its backstory. Originally, you thought it might be too personal, but with a few drinks in your system, the question came out easily.
Thankfully, Toji didn’t seem to mind it either. He nursed his nth beer bottle in one hand, the other resting behind you on the back of the couch as you both watched some stupid TV show you’d heard about from your friends. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answered, “I tripped and fell. Smacked my face off the wall.”
“Mm. Seems pretty tame compared to the other scars on your body. I thought that one would be more… significant, you know?”
“Significant…” he mused, leaning forward to set his bottle on the coffee table, dragging back with him a new one. “I think you mean dramatic.”
You shrugged. “Maybe.”
As he twisted off the bottle cap, he chuckled. “Okay. What if I said that my family threw me into this special room? And that this room was filled with things that want to hurt you, but they’re invisible.”
“Like ghosts?”
“Mhm, like ghosts. And what if I said that these ghosts are how I got this scar? Would that be significant and dramatic enough for you?”
Your nose crinkled. “That would be too much, actually. Ghosts aren’t real. And your family sucks, but… they’re not that cruel, are they?”
He snorted. “You tell me. You stalked our backyard for years.”
“Yeah, but I never saw anyone get dragged into any haunted dungeon.”
“Right,” he mused, bringing the bottle to his lips. “A haunted dungeon isn’t very realistic. The walking into a wall thing makes way more sense.”
You squinted at him as if that would help decipher what he was trying to say. “You’re being weird tonight.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” You leaned into his side, soaking up the warmth.
Minutes later, his arm inched off the back of the couch to rest over your shoulders. When his arm dipped lower behind you, his hand splayed against your waist, you tried to pretend like it didn’t bother you much.
But the reality of it left you with heated cheeks and a heartbeat that was too fast to be normal.
It was only in this moment that you realized the feelings you harbored for your friend strayed far past platonic.
The revelation of your new feelings was nearly debilitating. No longer could you talk to Toji for longer than five minutes without stuttering over your words or blushing like an idiot. If he noticed, he never pointed it out– thankfully, and in turn, you never pointed out when he was flustered either, which happened more often than you’d think. It used to be over the little things, like a simple hug, an accidental touch of hands, or when he’d let you borrow his jacket because you were too stubborn to grab your own, even after he told you it was cold outside.
But things escalated, much like they always do.
You were running late that morning. All you needed was your work outfit, which you’d forgotten to grab from the dryer before taking your shower because again, you were running late, leaving you in a frazzled state. You did remember your underwear, though– lucky you.
Your washer and dryer unit occupied a small alcove in the hallway beside the bathroom. Depending on where you stood in the kitchen, you would be able to see down the same hallway.
With this knowledge in mind, you made sure to call Toji’s name before you stepped out of the bathroom, just to make sure he had enough time to cover his eyes.
When you received no response from him, you hurriedly rushed to the dryer, holding an arm to your bare chest for coverage. Bent at the waist, you filtered through the mess of dried clothes to find your outfit, freezing in place when you heard his sharp intake of air. You stood straight just in time to see him pulling his earbuds from his ears and turning around.
“Jesus,” Toji breathed, “Warn a guy next time.”
“I called your name.”
“Apparently not fucking loud enough since I just had to see your tits.”
“Oh, like that’s such a bother,” you scoffed, bending over to look for your clothes again.
“It is a bother. It’s going to bother me for the rest of the day now. Maybe even the rest of the week.”
“I had them covered with my hand!”
“Barely!”
You snorted, mumbling, “God, you act as if you’ve never seen boobs before.”
“I haven’t. Not in person anyway, and definitely not yours-”
“Wait.”
“What?”
You slammed the dryer door shut, clothing in your arms, and stood straight to face him, though he couldn’t see you with his back turned to you. “You’ve never seen boobs?”
“Not in person,” he reiterated tersely. “I mean, I used to have this magazine-”
“Stop. I don’t need to know that.”
“Okay, so…”
“Are you a virgin then?”
Redness crept up the back of his neck as he defensively said, “So are you.”
“How do you know?”
“Maybe because we’re from the middle of bumfuck nowhere, so unless you managed to screw one of my cousins without me knowing about it, you’re still a virgin, too.”
“I could’ve brought someone over here, you know? It’s not like you’re here during the night that much anyway. How would you have known?”
Toji’s shoulders tensed.
Suddenly, you didn’t feel like arguing anymore. It was stupid to begin with. Now, you were just poking the bear and wasting time when you’re already late for work.
Lowly, he asked, “Have you had someone over?”
“No. Not for that.”
“Good. Don’t. Ever.”
Your frowned. “Why not?”
“Because this is our apartment, meaning it’s my place just as much as it’s yours. How would you like it if I brought over a woman you didn’t know, and I didn’t run it past you first?”
“I don’t know.”
You hated the idea, actually. Loathed it, even.
“Okay, well, I do know that if I catch some man in here, it’s going to piss me off. So, just… just tell me, or something. I’ll make sure I’m not here, and you can let me know when he’s gone.”
“Or we could just-”
You cut yourself off before that word vomit could spew from your mouth. But the beginning part was already out there. Toji heard you.
“We could just, what?”
Fuck. We could just fuck. Each other. Together.
But you were smart enough to know why saying that would be idiotic.
“Nothing! I didn’t mean to say that! And I’m late for work! So, I have to finish getting ready!”
You trapped yourself in the bathroom after that, making sure that you heard Toji’s bedroom door shut before even thinking of leaving for work for the day. You had wasted an extra half hour in the bathroom, so by the time you made it to work, almost an hour late, to say your boss was less than enthused would be an understatement.
The realization of your crush on Toji, paired with the acknowledgement of just how attractive this man was, was a lethal combination for your sanity. You tried your best not to let it bother you, and for the most part, you had succeeded. But there were moments where you couldn’t help it– you would end up flustered beyond the normal amount, and having him watch you stutter your way through some half-assed explanation as to why you were suddenly going shy on him only made it worse.
Thankfully, he never picked on you for it– not excessively, at least. Most of the time, it was a subtle acknowledgement that he noticed you acting timid, and then he’d allow you to escape from the situation with the small bits of your dignity that you had left– a simple kindness, really. It was the least he could do, or so you thought.
However, there were times when your friend wasn’t feeling very merciful at all.
You had been sitting on the couch, knitting away with a blank mind, when you heard him call out your name from the hallway.
“Yeah?” you responded, not even looking up from your knitting needles.
“Remember that shirt I let you borrow last week?”
One of his work shirts that you had taken to sleep in that night. You were feeling bloated, and your tight pajamas weren’t the least bit comfortable.
“Uh huh.”
“And do you remember when I said not to dry it?”
Your hands went still as you thought back on the interaction you’d had with him a few days ago– did he tell you not to dry the shirt?
“Uhh-” You looked up when a shadow fell over you, wide eyes settling on Toji’s exposed abdomen, which the shirt– the very tight, very small shirt– didn’t cover. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he retorted. “You ruined it.”
“Ruined? I wouldn’t say that.” When you finally managed to drag your eyes up to his face, you were met with an amused look. It was only then that you realized your mistake– openly checking out your best friend. It brought a scorching heat to your face. “That’s not– I didn’t– what I meant– I just-”
No mercy wasn’t granted then.
Toji let you stutter it out, watching you nearly combust in front of him with a grin on his face.
You just barely managed to collect yourself enough to choke out, “It doesn’t look bad. Really. It’s… fine.”
“Just fine?” he pried for more, knowing you were too embarrassed to realize it for yourself.
“It’s good. Really good. Great, even.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Yeah.” You swallowed thickly and forced your shaky hands to start knitting again.
“Well, if that’s the case, maybe I should just wear it to work then. Since it’s not as bad as I think it is.”
“Oh, you should. You definitely should.”
You pretended you didn’t hear his quiet laughter as he grabbed his zip-up hoodie from the front door. He slid on his shoes and grabbed his keys.
“I’ll be back later than usual. Probably after midnight.”
“Mhm. Okay.”
“You know who to call if you need me, right?”
“For sure.”
You heard his laughter one last time before he stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Once you were alone, you dropped your knitting needles and covered your face, letting the mortification creep in while muttering, “Oh, my god,” into your palms.
You weren’t the only one getting flustered in that apartment. Toji had his fair share of moments, too, and you ate each one up like it was candy.
Like the time you were cutting his hair and flashed your chest on accident.
Or the time when you were bent over in the kitchen, cleaning out one of the lower cabinets, and he happened to walk in behind you.
Or when the electricity in your apartment had cut out during winter, and you asked for cuddles to keep yourself warm.
All of these moments were innocent– mostly innocent, at least.
The only time it wasn’t completely innocent was the day you asked to kiss him.
It was out of the blue, a spur-of-the-moment type of deal– you were feeling impulsive and curious, and Toji was just there, oblivious to the thoughts going through your head as you approached him in the kitchen.
With a light tap on his shoulder, he briefly glanced back at you and smiled before returning to the task of restocking the first-aid kit– something that happened quite frequently.
“Need something?”
“Possibly.”
He hummed, “Well, if it’s a plain, boring bandage you’re looking for, I hate to disappoint.” He reached into the drug-store bag on the counter, pulling out a box of themed bandages. “They only had pink princess ones, so-”
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“Something from the cabinet then? Just gimme a second, and I’ll move out of your way-”
“Toji.”
Hearing your tone, he paused and then set down the first-aid items to turn and face you. When you stayed quiet, his brows raised in concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asked cautiously.
“Nothing’s wrong. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it depends on how you take this.” Your short explanation seemed to only concern him more. “I just… well, I wanted to talk to you about something. And if you’re not okay with it, that’s completely fine. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, or upset, or– or… ruin our friendship– I don’t want you to hate me, or think I’m weird, or crazy-”
“Did you do something bad?” he interjected, placing a hand on your shoulder. “If you did, it’s okay. Just tell me what happened, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Huh?”
“You look guilty. If you killed someone, just let me know where the body is, and I-”
“Toji, I– no! That’s not-!”
“Then you need someone taken care of? All I need to know is what they look like-”
“No! No one is dead, no one is dying!”
He raised his voice just a little to ask, “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?!”
“Like you need me to do something for you. Whatever it is, I can get it done. You don’t have to be afraid to ask. I won’t be mad at you-”
“A kiss! I was going to ask for a kiss!”
There. It was out in the open for the universe to mock you for.
You wanted to kiss Toji.
And now he knew that you wanted to kiss him, too.
The silence that ensued was terrifying.
The bewildered eye contact might’ve been worse.
“I– um…” He laughed nervously. “What?”
You took it back. The silence and eye contact were the least of your worries.
“A kiss, Toji. You kiss me.” You pointed between yourself and him. “Unless you don’t want to-”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Well, you didn’t say much of anything, actually.” While you stood there, watching such a redness bloom over his cheeks, you sighed, “I’m only curious. I’m twenty and have no idea what it’s like.”
“And you think I do?”
“I– no? I guess not. Look, it doesn’t have to mean anything. If you’re saving it for someone else, that’s fine. Just say so. Or if you don’t want to do that with me, I understand. I just thought that since we’re friends, it would be easier to do it together. More comfortable and stuff.”
You watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “No, that uh– that makes sense. We should… do that.”
You smiled, trying your best to be as comforting as possible, but really, you were freaking out on the inside. You’re sure Toji was feeling the same, though he was less subtle about it than you were.
“Okay. Go on,” you prompted.
“Go on and do what?”
Your face slackened. “Kiss me, stupid.”
“S-Sure.”
You couldn’t remember the last time you heard him stutter– if he’s ever even done it before. You also pretended not to notice him not-so-subtly wipe his palms off on his pants.
To help, you took the initiative of wrapping your arms around his neck to reel him in closer, letting him almost stumble into you and place his hands on your waist to steady himself. You felt the tips of his fingers sink into your skin, and you swore you could see his heartbeat in his chest.
“You seem nervous,” you lilted, hoping to lighten the mood, but it didn’t. Not for Toji, anyway; he was still just staring at your mouth.
And then, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
You snorted, “Really? I didn’t know.”
His green eyes flicked to yours. “It’s gonna be bad.”
You shrugged. “Probably, but I’m not expecting fireworks or anything, okay? If it’s the worst thing ever, then who cares? It’s not like there’s anyone here besides us, and I’m not going to judge you for a bad kiss. But if it’ll make you feel better, I can close my eyes.”
He nodded, entirely serious. “Okay. Do that.”
“I was joking, Toji.”
“I wasn’t.”
You giggled, “Fine. I’ll close them.”
You felt him lean in closer. You felt the lightest bit of breath brush over your face. You felt his hands tighten on your waist.
You felt his lips against your cheek.
With a small grin, unable to help yourself, you mumbled, “You needed me to close my eyes for that?”
And then you felt his lips press against your own.
It took you a moment to realize it for yourself, to process that this was it, you were kissing him. And once you came to terms with it, you kissed him back. Soft and slow, timid almost, like you were both too shy to push for something more.
But that was okay; this pace was perfect. As a matter of fact, the whole thing was perfect.
When you parted from one another, you forced your eyes to open and were lucky enough to witness the deepest blush known to man covering Toji’s face.
“Oh.” You stifled your laugh behind your hand. “Your cheeks are so red.”
“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you forward with the hands on your hips, only to press his face into your shoulder.
“It’s okay,” you cooed condescendingly. “No need to be embarrassed.”
“You’re the worst.”
You sighed in content, leaning into him for a sloppy sort of hug. “It was a good kiss, though.”
“Really?”
“Really.” You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “I liked it a lot.”
“Me, too,” he said quietly, voice muffled in your shoulder. Just barely, he leaned back to ask, “Can I– can we, um… do it again?”
You wrote it off as practice; it’s what kept your friendship intact, to make sure that the kisses, while intimate, would never damage what you already had together. And after a few months, you were certain your plan was flawless. A few pecks here and there– in the morning, before bed, random ones throughout the day if you were feeling confident enough; it was nothing crazy, but it was nice.
The kisses also seemed to be a gateway to be more… touchy-feely. Of course, the touches weren’t inappropriate in the slightest. Cuddling on the couch, leaning into his side in the checkout line at the supermarket, holding his hand as you walked around the block, it was all so innocent.
The kisses couldn’t change the fact that he was still your best friend.
They could, however, make you question why you two were still only friends after everything you’ve done together, but you didn’t like to think about that part very often.
You were sprawled out on the couch, legs resting over his thighs as you flipped through the channels. You’d been at it for ten minutes, and you’re sure Toji was getting tired of your indecisiveness. If you were being honest, so were you. With a sigh, you swung your legs off his lap and tossed the remote down beside him.
“You pick something while I’m gone.”
He clicked his tongue and grabbed your arms as you passed him. “Where are you going?”
“I gotta pee. Let go.”
And he did let go.
Right after tugging you back down onto the couch just to be annoying.
“Ass,” you cursed without any real heat, getting up once more and only making it as far as you did last time before he pulled you back again. This time, he brought you down for a kiss, a quick one.
“I can pick whatever I want?” he asked so nicely, sliding his grip on your arm down to your hand.
It caught you off guard– the sweetness of it.
“Huh?”
“On TV,” he amended, moving your hand, pressing the tips of his fingers to yours.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”
“Really?”
He traced the tip of his finger up the inside of your wrist while waiting for your answer.
“Really.”
The look in his eyes when you said that turned into something smug, knocking you out of your stupor.
You realized your mistake then.
“Wait, no. It’s Saturday.”
“It is Saturday.” Toji grinned and let go of you completely to grab the remote. “Which means the horse races are on all day-”
“No!” you protested, launching over him to grab the remote, forgetting entirely about your full bladder. “Horse racing is sooo boring!”
“Come on now, it’s so cool.”
You writhed in his lap, fighting for the remote that was always just out of reach. “You don’t even bet on them! What’s the point?!”
“I bet on them. Mentally.”
“Oh, my god, you’re twenty-one. Stop acting like such an old man-”
His movements were always too fast for you. There was no way for you to get the remote out of his hands unless you caught him off guard, which you had learned wasn’t that difficult.
With a hand on his jaw, you angled his face enough to lean forward and kiss him. You didn’t wait to slip your tongue into his mouth the first chance you had, knowing that would only throw him off even more. And your plan worked well.
Seconds after you kissed him, he was kissing you back, pulling on your waist to situate you over his lap. You let him think you had no other intentions with the kiss, allowing him to slide his hand to your hip and squeeze just enough to feel it. Though he still held onto that remote with his other hand.
Feeling a bit daring, and maybe curious, too, you rolled your hips forward against his slowly. His mouth went just the slightest bit slack on yours, and he groaned when you moved against him again.
From beside you, you heard the remote hit the couch cushion, followed by his hand settling on your hip, sliding down to guide you to move again. You felt him getting hard between your legs– this was nothing new for you. There were many times when you were simply kissing that you accidentally brushed against it.
This, however, was intentional.
You let him do it again and again until you were sure he was so caught up in you that he forgot about the horse races completely. Once you were certain he was distracted, you pulled back, grabbed the remote, and slid off his lap to stand in front of him.
“No,” he whined, leaning his head back and covering his face with both hands. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Especially when your best friend was going to subject you to horse racing torture.”
“It’s interesting! And you promised!”
You clicked your tongue and tossed the remote into his lap. “Fine. But my favorite show comes on at two, and we’re watching it. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels.
You gave the top of his head a few pats.
“Good boy.”
As you made your way to the bathroom, you didn’t notice the way his face warmed at those two words.
The kissing was good. It was great, even.
But it wasn’t satiating that urge, which left you outrageously horny.
It usually wasn’t an issue. Toji wasn’t there most nights, so you were free to do whatever you needed to without the fear of being overheard.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Toji’s job– whatever that was– didn’t require him at the moment, which meant he'd been there for three days and three nights, giving you no time at all to get the job done yourself. And to top it off, PMS was kicking your ass with the cramps, so there were no orgasms to help with that, nor did you have your heating pad because it finally kicked the bucket.
“I can go get you more pain relievers. It wouldn’t take that long,” Toji offered from the threshold of your room. He had come to check on you after you disappeared just before dinner, finding you on your bed, curled up on your side to hold your stomach.
“It’s fine. They aren’t the worst. They’re just making me tired and nauseous.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“Mm, you can lie down with me. We can take a nap.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Alright.”
Cuddling on the couch wasn’t a new concept. Lying down in a bed together definitely was.
He didn’t even get underneath the blanket, and made sure he kept a couple of inches of distance between you to maintain some friendly boundary. But boundaries be damned– consensually, of course.
“You can come closer if you want to,” you said, looking back at him to see that he was staring at the ceiling, his hands folded on his stomach. “You know I don’t bite.”
“Just… trying to be respectful,” he defended lightly, moving closer until his shoulder brushed your back.
“I appreciate that, but come closer. Like how we do it on the couch.” It took a moment, but you finally felt the bed shift behind you, and then his hand was sliding over your waist, pulling your back to his chest. You let out a sigh, wriggling back to get even closer. “This is nice.”
“Mm, it is.”
His thumb stroked your waist, right at the bottom hem of your shirt. The sound of his breathing was light, comforting in a way. Had your guts not been trying to rip your insides apart with cramps, you almost could have enjoyed the moment.
When you sucked in a breath on a particularly sharp cramp, the tips of his fingers dug just a bit deeper into your side, a show of his concern.
It was cute. You appreciated it.
But you wanted more.
Taking his hand, you guided it to your lower abdomen, letting it slip under your shirt to settle on your skin.
“Can you hold me right there? Is that okay?”
His face leaned into your shoulder, warm cheek pressed to your neck. “If it helps you, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you.”
Rather than replying verbally, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
And that contact was great.
For all of five minutes before your hips twitched, arousal was building between your legs, and all from a simple, innocent touch.
You squeezed your thighs together, squirming a bit in search of friction. If only you could slip your hand between your legs to grind against your fist, you’d be fine.
But Toji would definitely notice that.
You tried to keep the squirming to a minimum; you didn’t want him to take his hand away.
“I know you don’t mean it,” Toji finally choked out, trailing off as your writhing slackened. “You’re moving around...”
“S-Sorry, it’s just…” With no excuse, you added, “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he mumbled, probably growing tired in the warm, dim room, just like you were. “It’s just frustrating for me, too.”
“Sorry,” you said again, and stopped moving.
That is, until another cramp had you tensing up, and that hand on your lower stomach smoothed over your skin, just barely dipping into the waistband on your shorts before settling in the right spot again. You couldn’t help it; your thighs squeezed, and you squirmed.
“Baby-”
“I-” You swallowed down the whine building in the back of your throat before reaching back for his cock. He jerked at the feeling, thrusting toward you with a choked groan. Slowly, you tilted your hips back, pressing against him before cautiously asking, “Can we? Just this once?”
You couldn’t see his face, but you knew it had to be beet red. But teasing him about his inexperience wasn’t what you wanted to do at that moment. What you wanted was to get off, to stop the cramps for at least a little while, and to sleep.
A tired, nervous chuckle vibrated against your shoulder blade as he pulled his hand away, tilting his hips away from you. “Um, I don’t know how to do… that-”
You drew back, the sting of rejection prickling all over. “Sorry. You’re right, that’s a lot-”
“Don’t be sorry. I want to help, but I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t… want to screw it up.”
“O-Okay.”
Awkward silence gathered quickly in the room.
“Can we try something else?” he asked quietly, reaching out for you again.
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
His hand trailed out from behind your legs, moving to your hip to give it a gentle nudge– not to push you away, just to tilt them in a way that he had more access to your ass. He grabbed the waistband of your shorts, stopping to ask, “Can I take these off?”
You swallowed thickly, still feeling confused, but you nodded anyway. Toji helped you out of them, tossing the pair aside and situating you again. You were nearly lying on your stomach, but with your hips still propped on your side. You grabbed your pillow, pressing your face into it to hide your embarrassment– you’d never been this bare in front of anyone, let alone Toji.
And he was still right behind you, holding himself up on his side while running his other hand up and down your bare thigh. His touch disappeared for a moment before coming back with two wet fingers swiping up and down your slit. You tensed, gasping quietly as he leaned his forehead onto your shoulder, groaning under his breath, “fuck me.”
“T-Toji.”
“Can I?” He traced his fingers over your entrance. “Right here?”
“Please,” you begged, “please, please, please-” He started with one, pressing inside before drawing back out to add the second, reaching so much deeper than your fingers ever would. With a whine, you brought one of your hands between your legs to play with your clit, circling it slowly to match the pace of his fingers. “Yes, fuck…”
You felt his heavy breaths against your shoulder; he was getting himself worked up, too, despite receiving not a single touch in return. He wasn’t even grinding against you, but just the sounds he was making clued you in that he was feeling good, too.
It was cute how easily you affected him, but this didn’t occur to you in the moment.
You arched your back just enough to prop your ass up more, taking his fingers in an angle that was just a bit deeper. The movement must’ve flared a little insecurity in him because he stopped to ask, “Is this okay?”
You barely managed a nod and slurred into the pillow, “M-Mhm. S’good, Toji.”
He hummed, pleased with your response, and lowered his face to your neck again.
After so long in your position, your hand began to cramp, but with you being so desperate for an orgasm, you needed something more.
“Can you talk to me?”
“Um, about what?”
“I-I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly, suddenly very self-aware of your predicament and really nervous about it. “Anything. Your voice. It sounds nice.”
You heard him groan behind you, felt his exhale brush over your shoulder, creating goosebumps in its path. And then, against your skin, he mumbled something that you couldn’t hear.
“What?” Your fingers on your clit slowed.
He anxiously laughed, and then a little louder, repeated, “Can’t talk– I mean, I shouldn’t…”
Your brows furrowed, confusion sinking in. “What do you-”
“I just… I don’t know what I would say– sorry-”
You smiled into the pillow. “It’s okay. Can you kiss me instead?” And then to specify, “My neck. It’s sensitive. Feels nice.”
Toji followed through with your request, pressing his lips to the side of your throat, gently sucking and nipping his way to just below your ear. Your limbs softened, insides going gooey.
The second you really started sinking into the moment, your pussy tightening around his fingers, pressing your ass back into his hand for more, you felt his shuddering breath on your neck and then his teeth sinking in just a bit deeper than before. You tensed, whimpering out a soft sound, clenching your thighs together when it stirred up butterflies.
Having obviously felt it, Toji snickered quietly and jokingly muttered over the bite, “Freak.”
You couldn’t help it– his voice, his breath hitting the wet indents his teeth left behind– you moaned, clenching around his fingers once again. As if realizing just the effect his voice had on you, the playfulness in him receded with a whispering, “Oh.”
“Oh?” you shakily questioned.
“You just…” He pulled his fingers out just enough to thrust them back in, which was a different feeling entirely than the gentle internal petting he had been doing.
You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth, taking it between your teeth when he did it again, and then again. The sound of your arousal wasn’t very subtle– Toji practically stopped breathing when he pressed them inside again, listening to the slick noise.
He groaned and moved his hand quicker, just to hear how wet you were.
You weren’t sure if he knew what he was doing, other than mapping you out and learning from the moment, but his innocent exploration of your body was getting you off.
Quickly. Very quickly.
You arched into it, pressing your ass up to take his fingers, while you angled your face into the pillow. Maybe it was to hide or to stifle any sounds that would knock him out of the moment.
Or maybe it was to save yourself from spontaneously combusting– because, holy shit, your best friend was fingering the fuck out of you and it felt otherworldly, but also, holy shit, this was Toji, your best friend.
“So fucking wet,” he breathed, “Feels so good, baby. You feel amazing.”
Your eyes widened, and you froze, because, again, this was your best friend. Your best friend, who now knows what your wet pussy feels like. Your best friend who thinks you feel amazing inside.
“T-Toji,” you stammered, using both hands to grab at the bedding.
He seemed to realize the situation for himself, too, and immediately pulled his hand away from you, apologies instantly falling from his lips.
“S-Sorry, I didn’t-” During his rambling, you flipped onto your back to face him. The abrupt movement and close, face-to-face proximity had him reeling back, but before he got too far, you fisted the front of his shirt to drag him back. He winced away from you, as if you might hit him. “That was too far, I know-”
“Toji-”
“M’sorry. I won’t say those things again-”
To make him shut up, you kissed him. Hard.
He gasped and hesitantly kissed you back for all of two seconds before you pulled away just enough to speak. Your tongue traced over your bottom lip, swiping up your combined saliva. He followed the action with his eyes, nearly panting.
“You didn’t have to stop.”
His lips parted to take in a breath, his brows furrowed in confusion, and he looked at you as though you were speaking a different language. “What?”
Rather than saying anything else, you gently guided his hand back down between your legs. You even pressed his two middle fingers to your entrance, just barely pushing the tips of them inside. Still, he didn’t move– even if your gesture was an obvious invitation.
“Toji,” you began, bucking up into his hand. “I want you to keep going.”
You couldn’t blame him for his hesitation– he was just as new at this as you were; he was just as scared to fuck up, too. But in this moment, the only thing that could ruin anything was if he pulled away and didn’t finish what he started.
You leaned in, tracing your lips over his own, hoping he’d just kiss you.
“Please, Toji.”
The redness on his cheeks flared, but rather than succumbing to his nervousness, he endured it. Without the kiss, he pressed his fingers inside, watching your face with widened pupils as if searching for anything that would tell him to stop. But he could search for as long as he wanted; he’d never find anything on your face that said you didn’t want this.
“Yes,” you cooed, dragging your fingers through his hair. “Just like before– it was good. You were doing so well.”
It took only a few pumps of his fingers inside of you before the heat of the moment caught back up to both of you. With you practically panting against his mouth, he groaned and finally– finally– kissed you again.
The angle of his fingers, with you now on your back, was so much better than before; the curl of them now inching so close to something new, something you’d never felt on yourself. And all it took was you spreading your legs just a bit more for him to find it.
All at once, you tensed up, gripping his hair tighter, moaning loudly into his mouth.
“Again,” you keened, “do that again.”
He listened without hesitation, pressing right into that spot– pressing right into it every single time.
You broke away from his mouth with a sharp gasp and propped yourself up on your elbows to watch his hand between your legs. The way his forearm flexed, the way his palm was glistening with your arousal, the way he was watching it happen with you–
“Fuck, Toji. T-That feels so f-fucking good.”
“Does it, baby?”
And the way he said that– it wasn’t insecure, it wasn’t hesitant or apprehensive. It was sarcastic, borderline condescending, but in the best way possible. It was confident, smug, like he knew he was making you feel good, and fuck, he really was.
You dragged your hand down between your legs, rubbing your fingers over your clit, and that combination was so mind-numbingly good.
The realization that you were going to come– that Toji was about to make you come on his fingers– was jarring, but at the same time, it’s like this was what you had been waiting for for so long.
“So tight,” he murmured, more so to himself than you, but you heard it. And then he asked, “Are you close?”
“M-Mhm. Please, please-”
“Please?” You felt his grin against your neck. “I should be saying that to you; show me, please.”
You were practically writhing, right there at the edge, and despite that, you brokenly giggled, “You wanna see me come?”
“God, yes.” You felt his hips shift toward you, wishing desperately to grind against your thigh, but unable to reach you. “Fuck, please show me. Please.”
Your head tilted back lazily, letting you take in more air for those gasps and cries and whines that you couldn’t help.
When your breathing turned into short, quick pants, and your thighs started to twitch, hips bucking for more, eyes daring to roll back in your skull, finally, your orgasm washed over you, brutally good and unrelenting. You clamped down around his fingers, thighs closing shut on his hand and your own as you rode out the blissful feeling.
Somewhere in that moment, you pulled Toji in, eagerly slotting your mouth right over his, and he responded just the same, kissing you hard until the orgasm faded, leaving behind only the residual beads of dopamine and oxytocin that flooded your brain. Your legs parted, and you drew your hand back, using it to hold onto his shoulders to keep him anchored at your side.
His lips slowed, but the heat never wavered; the tension was still there. When you broke for air, he moved the tentative kisses down your jaw to your neck, gently fingering you in slow strokes to coax you back down from the high.
You panted, squinting and blinking in the dim room, thinking nothing but holy shit, you just did that. And then you felt his hips shift beside you, a subtle and probably subconscious grind of his cock against the inside of his pants to ease the tightness.
“Thank you,” you whispered to him, all while staring at the bulge in his pants.
“Mm,” he hummed over your pulse, soaking up his own dose of endorphins– the oxytocin he was definitely drowning in from just being this close to you. You wondered if he somehow felt high just like you, even without the orgasm.
And speaking of his lack of orgasm.
You pulled him over you, which was surprisingly easy given how pliant he was. Thankfully, his bones were entirely made of jelly, so he still kept himself from crushing you. He pulled his fingers from between your legs, pressing that hand into the bed to hold himself up. While guiding his mouth back to your own, you trailed a hand down his torso to tug at his waistband.
Instantly, he tensed and grabbed your wrist, pulling it away. He parted from your lips to ask, “What are you doing?”
“You’re hard.”
You weren’t sure if he assumed you just hadn’t noticed, like he hadn’t been rutting it against you the whole time, but he flushed at your words.
“Sorry.”
You grinned. “Don’t be sorry. Just… can I return the favor?”
His eyes widened. “Oh. You don’t have to-”
“Toji,” you huffed, a borderline scold, “I want to. If you’ll let me.”
After everything that just transpired, he still hesitated in his answer. “Okay. Yeah. If you want, just…”
While waiting for him to finish, you brought your hand back down to his waistband, but before slipping inside, you prompted, “Just, what?”
“Uh… just don’t expect me to last that long.” You held a straight face for as long as you could before you broke out into a series of giggles, earning his groan. “It’s not funny.”
“Hm.” You kissed him once, leaning back just enough to mumble, “It’s a little funny,” before kissing him again.
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of his pants, slowly pushing them down, along with his boxers, until his cock sprang free. It dipped low with its weight, tapping your stomach. You pulled back from his mouth to look between your bodies at him, which he let you do for all of five seconds before he pressed you down, blocking your view of his cock.
“Don’t stare.”
“I just wanted to see really quickly.” Your lips twisted, holding back a grin. You reached down to wrap your hand around him. “You’re pretty big.”
His pupils dilated more as he sputtered for a response to that, but you didn’t give him the chance to form words before you stroked the entire length of him. And when he finally found something to say, it was a groaning, “God– yes,” as he leaned his face into the crook of your neck.
You bit back a smile. “Is this good?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good enough to make you come?”
He chuckled, then rasped, “Fuck, you could probably make me come by just breathing on it.”
You snorted. “That easy, huh?”
“You have no idea, baby.”
You knew you had to be doing something right because the precum dripping from his tip coated your hand; it was plenty to keep the friction to a minimum.
He pressed a hand to your waist, just to slide over your skin, squeezing at the soft curve of your hip. It slipped underneath your shirt, trailing up the side of your ribs, stopping right at the swell of your breast before retreating. You only let him do it once more before slowing your hand on his cock and asking, “Do you want to see them?”
“Hm?” He raised up from your neck. You pulled your shirt up to your chin, letting him get a look at your bare chest. “O-Oh.” His cock twitched in your hand, so you started stroking him again, just to hear another, softer, “o-oh…”
It was cute.
“You can–uh… touch them. If you want. Just be easy; they’re sore. You know, ‘cause of PMS and stuff–” The man gave you no time to process it; quicker than you could fathom a human being ever moving, he had moved down your body and taken one of your nipples into his mouth, making you gasp out in surprise. “O-Okay, yeah. That’s… good.”
You couldn’t reach his cock anymore, but apparently, you didn’t need to. With one hand between his own legs, he started jerking himself off while mouthing at your tits.
Unsure of what to do with your hands, you propped yourself up on one elbow and carded your fingers through his hair, gently pulling on the strands to bring him closer. His eyes closed, and he exhaled a shaky moan, clearly getting off on the hair-playing. “Fuck,” he cursed when he pulled back, only to switch to the other.
When he accidentally sucked just a bit too hard, you jerked beneath him, giving his hair a harsh pull, and scolding, “Easy.”
And Toji faltered, looking up at you, eyes laden with so much lust. He listened, slackening his tongue to soft, wet caresses, but still watching your face to make sure what he was doing was okay.
To spare him the worry, you smiled, nodding and brushing your fingers through the hair that hung over his forehead. “Good, Toji. Much better.”
His eyes widened just a bit, cheeks flushing red, his movements slowing for only a moment before he abruptly pulled back. He looked down at himself, stroking his cock faster, breathing harder. The hand he was holding himself up with fisted the bedding so hard, you almost wondered if he could rip it that way.
And then you felt it, hot ropes of cum hitting your bare stomach, pooling over your abdomen. He groaned, a guttural sound, something so sexy and primal that it had arousal flaring between your legs again. As his hand started to stop, you noticed the tension in his shoulders, which were barely moving as he breathed.
Before he could start to overthink– because you knew that was bound to happen with him– you placed both your hands on the sides of his face and forced him to look at you.
There was the usual flush to his cheeks, and his eyes were still blown wide, but there was a new lax look to his features that you really liked. You thumbed at his swollen lip, feeling yourself smile as you asked, “You okay?”
His breathing stopped when his eyes flicked to your mouth. And then, he snapped out of it, clearing his throat. “Yeah. M’good.”
“You sure?”
He nodded and pressed forward, claiming your mouth once more. During the series of kisses, when both of you were still coming down, trying to get comfortable, you felt his hand slide through the cooling cum on your stomach, making him reel back.
“Shit. Sorry.” He was already pulling himself off the bed, tugging up his pants. “I’ll go get something-”
“Don’t bother,” you quipped, pulling your shirt off over your head. You messily wiped off your stomach before tossing it away. “Now, get back here. We’re supposed to be napping.”
He gaped at you, mouth wide open. Toji was quick to point out the obvious. “You’re naked.”
“Yes. But is it anything you haven’t already seen and/or jizzed on? No. So, get into bed.”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t say jizz.”
“Toji.”
He relented then. “Fine.”
author's note: First, I want to thank everyone who sent me messages and asks during my break-- you all are so sweet. There were quite a few, so I won't respond to each one, but just know I truly appreciated them <3!
Second, there was supposed to be a part two to this, but I don't know that I'll get around to writing it, nor do I think that anyone would want to read it anyway. It's canon compliant, so... we know how that ends. But if I cut it off right here, no one has to be sad, and it's a happy ending :)
And third, updating of any kind will be kinda slow for me right now as I work on other projects, so I really appreciate your patience. It means the world to me <3!! If you're interested in the other things I'm working on, they're on my ao3-- they are not x reader fics, but they are JJK, so please keep that in mind :)
zuko fucking into you slowly from behind while he’s curled over you and has you in a headlock . . . your mind is hazy and you’re drooling all over his big fuckin meaty ass bicep . . . & he just looks down at you all adoringly ‘cause you’re his pretty baby
hey hey!! if its not too much of a bother could we get a full fic based off of the story described in the 4some fic w reader and the double ended toy (^_^)v
Kirara and her favourite game(s)૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა
18+, minors dni
cw: smut, reader is a Kashimo freak(aren’t we all?), penetration, double-ended dildo, light humiliation, mention of light exhibitionism, praise, mean!Kirara
note: (referenced fic here) this has been requested many times so here you gooo
“Heh, stop squirming,” Kirara giggles, as if she isn’t currently making you present your cute butt to her, chubby pussy on full display.
She holds a translucent, ruby red, double-ended dildo in her hand and rubs it teasingly against your nervous cunt, folds already slick from arousal. The other end is going to go into her, of course, but first, she needs to prepare you by getting you used to the feeling.
“Gosh, you’re so brave. We’re gonna be so full. This toy is going to be inside you, riiiight,” she rubs her palm against your fluttering tummy, “here.”
She smiles to herself, one of those stupid grins when she knows she’s about to be mean and you’ll like it.
“Tell me about that old man again, okay?”
One of Kirara’s favourite pastimes is making fun of your obsessions in a sweet way. Having you talk about Kashimo will make you wetter, easier to handle. Plus, it’s just so funny how flustered you get over a long-dead man. You’re such a weirdo. Normal people are into K-pop idols and Hollywood celebrities, maybe mainstream anime protagonists. You, you’re down bad for some ancient sorcerer, only having read about his achievements in withered-away books. There were a few sketches of his appearance, blurred lines and all, it was somehow enough to make you fall in love.
Talk about a hear me out.
“Ngh… he’s, ah—” you mewl, struggling to speak as the intimidating thickness threatens to invade your quivering hole. “He was super strong and nh…”
“Yeah? Strong like how?” Kirara asks, feigning genuine interest. She pushes the toy against your entrance, not yet putting pressure to enter, but just letting you feel the texture against your most private place.
“His cursed energy was s-special, and contact was so painful…” you gasp. “And he was s-so big and scary…”
“Mmm, I bet he was,” Kirara purrs, finally pushing the toy into you slowly. You feel it stretch your hole open, filling you up inch by inch. “Big and scary like this?”
“Haaah—”
“Shh, it’s okay.” Kirara rubs your back soothingly as the toy disappears further inside you. “You’re doing so good taking it like this.”
She kisses your lower back before pulling out slightly and pushing back in rhythmically. “What else?”
“The—the drawings make him look so pretty…”
“Really?” Kirara finds your little hyperfixation adorable. She loves to tease you about it, you’re so cute, such a nasty girl, getting off thinking about brutes that would likely finish you off with three blows. She continues to thrust the toy slowly in and out of your pussy, letting you really feel to the fullness. “What else makes him pretty, baby? Tell me while I stretch you open.”
“Eyes, ah!” Your back arches. Talking about Kashimo automatically makes you picture him. More blood rushes to your already heated-up cheeks. “Pretty lashes…”
Your slurred responses make Kirara giggle softly, her cock starting to twitch at the sight of you falling apart. And the real fun hasn’t even started yet.
“Are you imagining him looking down at you with those eyes while you’re stuffed like this?”
You can only nod in agreement, drool climbing down from your chin to the pillow.
“God, you’re so cute,” Kirara laughs softly, wiping your drool with her thumb before sucking it into her mouth. She starts moving the toy faster now that you’re properly warmed up and distracted by fantasies. “What else do you love about him?”
“He was so passionate a-about ju… jujutsu…” you hiccup. It’s more than just Kashimo being “passionate”; you could go on and on about how he’s one of the few sorcerers who did it for the love of the game, who respected the art of sorcery in a way you do too, how you admire his philosophy…
“You’re such a nerd.” Kirara would tease you even further, maybe bring up occasions when you’ve completely embarrassed yourself publicly, gushing about your crush, even holding your class presentation about him as a second-year. However, the sight of your gradually loosening cunt distracts her. “Fuck, baby, look at that…”
The toy in you slows down as Kirara spreads your folds, inspecting the creamy ring that has formed around your entrance. “You’re so fucking depraved, getting wet for that loser grandpa.”
“Ah, Kirara, you’re so mean.”
“I know, I know,” she hums, pressing a wet kiss to your inner thigh while keeping your folds pried open. She starts moving the dildo inside you again, slow and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch stretching you out. Your juices have started pooling in her palm, making it a bit harder to move the fake penis. “You’re taking it so well, though. I wonder what he’d think, seeing his cute fangirl face down, ass up, little pussy all messy.”
The thought excites and embarrasses you at the same time. Based on what is documented about him, he probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. But it’s still nice to fantasize.
Kirara pushes the toy inside, deep enough that it sits rather steady inside your tight channel, the other end of it hanging down limply, waiting to enter Kirara’s plump butt. “Hold this for me.”
You reach back between your legs, steadying the jittery silicone with your hand, helping line it up for her, while Kirara’s parted legs hook over yours.
“Mmm, good girl.” She shifts her own hips backwards as she starts to lower herself onto the toy and bites her lip as the thick tip begins to spread her cheeks apart, her leaky cock hardening from the overwhelming weight.
You whimper when Kirara sinks back, her butt cheeks pressing against yours. Every small movement makes you aware of how the lubed-up toy slides in and out of both of you, coating the surface with slick from the two ends. The connection is so intimate, satisfying in a nasty way. Whatever Kirara does with her body, you feel it inside of you.
“Fuck, that’s deep,” she breathes out, her long nails digging into the propped-up pillows for leverage. “Feel that? We’re sharing it.”
You make sounds of agreement that come out as pathetic whines, your pussy still occupied with getting used to the occasional push-and-pull motion. Kirara was right, you can feel the invasion right where she said you would.
Filthy, filthy sounds fill the quiet room as you both start giving each other shallow thrusts with arched backs and lots of panting. Like two bitches in heat.
“There we go, fuuuuck,” Kirara cries as her puckered rim clenches around the invasion. She loves the thought of your pussy going through the same rough stretching.
A soft giggle escapes her lips. “I only need to bring up stupid Kashimo and you turn into this horny little slut. Heh, so cute.”
Your poor pussy is a mess, and those words are not making it any better. You’re drooling from both ends, indeed thinking about “stupid Kashimo” and what he’d do, seeing you like this. You’re such a pathetic sorcerer :(
“His name comes up and you’re already spreading your legs,” Kirara continues. Her rhythm has changed, becoming a little jerky. Masturbating while fucking herself open on the double-ended dildo, hands stroking her cock lazily, gracefully. “It’s so entertaining, mh…”
You bite down on the pillow under your face, the angle of the toy building pressure somewhere between your bladder and your womb, instead of your cervix.
“Fuck, I almost wish he was alive too, just so I could embarrass you in front of him… wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Stop being meeeean-nuuh…”
“Such a fussy crybaby.” With a deep bucking of her hips, Kirara pushes back completely in a punishing manner, as far as she can go, her chest pressing down against the mattress. Two holes almost touching now but never quite; that would be physically impossible in your position. Still, it’s enough to make you aware of every spot where her jiggly ass flattens against yours.
“Good girl, let it all in,” Kirara slurs out with distinctively less coherent articulation now. She’s chatty, even as her mind is breaking from pleasure. “You know—aah—I’m getting off on this a lot… wanna eat you out in front of your little crush… wanna make you cum in front of him…”
At this point, you’re rubbing your round clit, letting your friend’s dirty words wash over you like you’ve accepted that today’s lewd activities will be all about fucking Kashimo. And really, it’s all your fault, you’re the one always running your mouth, praising him every chance you get.
“Don’t want you to do that,” you protest weakly, mock crying into the pillow with soft sniffles and whines. “Don’t do that, no…”
A wet, airy sound escapes between your ruined folds as the toy’s dull tip punches into you more steadily. “Ngh…”
“Shit, I think Kin-chan is coming,” Kirara mumbles, but neither of you stops. Honestly, you’re too fucked out to register the sounds of distant footsteps.
“Don’t want to pull out,” you cry. It’s funny how bratty some plastic dick has made you. “Kin-chan, go away…”
“He’s not going to, if he sees us like this, heh. Gosh, this is so exciting!”
You can tell from Kirara’s light, breathy tone that she’s not planning on stopping either. Maybe she wants Kinji to catch you two. You wouldn’t put it past her. They’d probably continue teasing you about Kashimo together. Even so, the stretch in your cunt is too good, it burns too well, and so, you continue grinding down, soaking the toy with your juices, approaching the first orgasm of the night.
૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱აall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
cw: 18+ mdni!, black!reader, sexual descriptions, strangers to lovers, shy to debased freak yuta agenda, soft awkward feelings, yuta lovesss reader down, kissing, fingering, pussy eating, p in v amongst other things.
Sweet Dreams ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
The full moons glow pierces through the thin lace curtains of your room. The breeze sweeps through the crack in your opened window as you lie spread out on the soft sheets of your bed. It’s late; just passed midnight and by all means you should be exhausted.The silence passes over you as you toss n turn in your bed; made up of whites, soft pinks, character printed sheets, large perfectly fluffed pillows, plushies to warm the heart, and curtains engulfing the structure.
As you lie in your bed your deep brown skin warm and curls protected in your pink silk bonnet you’re restless. Thighs shifting against each other side to side. It’s so quiet you swear you can hear the ever so soft wet slicking sound of your pussy ringing throughout your room. The delicate floral print of your panties is soaked completely through. You’re needy. You have been for weeks but you’re a good girl- patient. You really do try to hold out but it’s so hard to control yourself when your boyfriend Yuta lies next to you.
He engulfs your bed, his scent clean like fresh laundry mixed with something earthy like warm patchouli and amber. He’s warm- his lashes kiss the apples of his cheeks his hair mused his lips full n a bit swollen from stolen kisses earlier in the night parts open as his chest falls up n down in tandem with his steady breaths. Yuuta’s pretty. real pretty. You’d come to the conclusion some time ago upon seeing him in lecture.
His head faced down as he multitasked soft black hair falling gently against his forehead- straight strands painting the back of his neck. Facial expression focused the pretty space in between his tamed brows screwed up a bit in effort. The lightest blush painted across his cheeks from the still biting weather outside. Attentively listening to the professor while catching core information. His lithe hand scribbled down notes- hanging on to the professor’s every word. He sat in the middle row and you sat in the row behind him- one seat to the left. It was on that strangely chilly spring day that you noticed him for the first time.
From that point on you developed a slight crush on him. Really just a small crush you totally didn’t look forward to lecture in hopes you could catch small glimpses of his face. Not only that but he was gentle; slow in a way that most others weren’t. His timid nature peaked out when interacting with his fellow students. You could tell how careful he was in his mannerisms, specifically the way he organized his notes. Letters neat, key words highlighted, main points underlined, all with a clean summary to tie it together.
He was quiet and soft spoken. Often averted his eyes, Never spoke to anyone unless spoken to but he paid attention. So much so that he noticed you months before you him. It was like you walked straight out of a fairytale. A picture perfect princess. Deep brown skin, full two toned lips covered in glittery glosses, a softly curved figure with full hips n plump butt always filling out your outfits, pretty nails manicured n decked out in sparkles with various designs. Hair always done up in different styles with cute accessories to match.
He was enamored with you.
He thought you were the prettiest thing to ever grace this earth with your bright exterior and calming aura. You had a way about you that he just couldn’t resist. Outside of lecture- he often saw you with your friends by the fountain gathering between classes or accompanying each other to the dining hall. He watched you more than he cared to admit and to be completely honest Yuta felt like an absolute pervert. He just couldn’t help himself. You were just so beautiful everything about you- he couldn’t help the fact that his cock chubbed at the meer thought of you:(.
the moment yuuji sees tears in your eyes or hears that soft little sniffle from you for the first time, he’s immediately stopping whatever he’s doing. he’ll pull back for a second, his voice steady but filled with that concern, “hey, hey, baby— what’s wrong? you okay?”
but when you whisper that it's not bad, that it’s just bc you feel so good, that it’s a good cry... a switch flips in his head, and it’s not concern anymore
bc yuuji can’t deny how much that turns him on. the thought that he’s making you feel so good that it breaks you a little, makes you vulnerable enough for tears? that’s a new thing for him, and now he’s… intrigued. obsessed
he starts fucking you in positions that he knows are gonna get that reaction out of you. pushes you into that angle where you can’t stop the tears from building. when you squirm under him, when you’re almost pleading for a break but you don’t want to stop…
“you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, “just a little more, baby. wanna see you break for me.”
he loves watching your eyes go glassy, loves hearing the way your breath hitches as your body shakes from overstimulation. loves that tiny sniffle you make when your body doesn’t know what to do with all the sensation
“fuck,” he groans, his hips grinding into you, making you whimper. “so pretty when you cry for me, baby. makes me wanna make you feel even better.”
and then... he leans down. he licks at your tears, before kissing the spot where they fell
he does it like it’s part of the whole experience, like seeing you cry is something he gets off on, in the way that makes him realise how much power he has over you, how much he can make you feel, how deep he can take you emotionally and physically
he’ll keep going after you cum too... until you're begging him to stop, until your voice cracks and you're too spent to even beg anymore. and when he finally does pull out, wiping your tears away, “you did so good, baby,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over your cheek where the tears fell. "i’ll always make you feel that good."
he's obviously started watching porn, but finds himself confused by how different his looks compared to the men in the clips. most are nice and proportionate to their bodies, some long and lithe, some shorter, but none as thick and heavy as his. why are his balls sticking to the inside of his thighs when it gets hot? why is his cock so heavy that he walks slower than other men? he hates it.
when he sees bigger sizes being praised online he figures they don't mean him. because his cock isn't just big, it's heavy, fat, swings when he walks, and takes up all the space in his boxers. he can't even find a sex doll for him to fuck that'll withstand his size. he's torn through all of them.
how is he ever going to be in a relationship?
when you started liking him, choso had forgotten all about the monstrosity in his underwear and got all caught up in your flirtations. he's never had someone as beautiful as you pay so much attention to him. you're one of yuji's friends from college that's staying at their house for the summer. you include him on your outings with yuji, get him little gifts you say reminded you of him, call him pretty and trace his tattoos with your hands... it all has his brain melting into goo. he only remembers that he's a freak when you're sat on the couch with him sitting on the floor between your legs during movie night, and you're scratching his scalp lightly with your fingertips.
the slow, repeated motion has his cock twitching and slowly rising in his pants, giving an especially hard throb when you tug his hair gently and squish your thighs around him. your hole is close enough to his nose for him to smell you, the sweet tangy scent making his mouth water.
he doesn't notice how bad it looks until his cock is fully stood up in his shorts, and he looks down, seeing the huge tent in his trousers and pushes his hands over it, stumbling to his feet. the quick, sudden movements making him dizzy. "i t-think i left my computer on upstairs" he mumbles, pushing down on his cock and praying you can't see how hard he is. you look up at him through long lashes and tilt your head, giving him a look that's disastrously similar to one you'd probably make if you sucked him off has him starting to leak an embarrassing amount.
with a yelp, he rushes upstairs before you can see the mess he's made of himself. he's so disoriented that he accidentally finds himself in the guest room, the one you're currently using, instead of his. and it's heaven. all your little trinkets everywhere, your scent stuck in the room... he dumps himself face first on the bed and buries his face into the pillow you're using, inhaling deeply and starting to hump the mattress through his shorts.
his cock is so swollen, even fatter and more sensitive than normal, and his hip rolls are slow and heavy as he grinds down onto the cushy duvet, inhaling large gusts of your shampoo and lotion from the pillow and imagining he's grinding on you instead. soft, sweet, pretty you. he's so obsessed with you. and you like him too, he knows it... how will he fit his cock in you when the time finally comes for him to fuck you?
"mngh... s-shit-" he groans into the pillow, strings of saliva coating it from his parted lips. he hasn't had feelings like this for another person for as long as he can remember, and imagining you being able to take all of him has his brain completely messed up.
choso pants your name and reaches down to cup his balls through his thin shorts, massaging the heavy mounds as more precum shoots out of his tip and leaks onto your mattress. he wonders if you've touched yourself on this bed too. maybe you touched yourself to him- "oh ff-fuck-" he chokes out, tearing his pants off and grinding his cock raw on your mattress, his fat cock now bare to the cool air of the room and to anyone that could walk in...
"choso, are you in my room? i've been looking for you everywhere! why have you been gone so long? yuji told me to come check on-"
you barge into the room unceremoniously and look at choso rubbing his huge dick on your bed, leaking cum everywhere out of his thick, flushed tip and sniffing your pillow.
"oh my gosh."
he tries to get up quickly, but he's so dazed and his orgasm was ruined and his poor cock hurts so much... he can't stop what he's doing, continuing to hump your bed while looking at you with huge, glossy eyes. "ne- hic- need help, please..." he begs, lips parted as a moan bubbles out of him.
you'd be completely grossed out if this were anyone else in the world sneaking into your room and getting off to you like this, but you know choso. he's so sweet and gentle, and if he got this desperate, you know he must've been wanting you for a long time. you pause by the door. "h-how do you want me to help you?"
he sniffles and pouts up at you. "i wanna do this to you instead..." he says, reaching a hand out for you.
slowly, you approach him, and he makes quick work of tugging you under him. he parts your legs and lines his bare cock up with your clotched hole, starting to grind down on you while panting and looking straight into your eyes.
you gasp at the pleasure erupting through you as he starts to grind down on you. the friction is delicious, and his weight on top of you allows for firmer pressure of your crotches against one another. from this angle, you can look down proper and see if his dick really was as big as it seemed when you got inside, and you gasp at the huge, thick flesh pressing into you.
choso whimpers and frantically kisses you to distract you from gaping at his cock. "please don't look at it," he moans against your mouth, enjoying how good you taste. somehow it's even better than you smell, and he can't resist sliding his tongue past your lips and tangling your tongue with his as he humps you. " 's big and ugly."
he never thought he'd be fortunate enough to do this, but here he is, grinding on and kissing his crush, and all he needed to do was ask. you're nearly distracted by kissing him, but you catch on to his words of insecurity and pull away, panting. "that's not- ah, true, choso. your cock is mnh! nice..."
he perks up, getting overexcited by your praise and moans and squirming. he grabs your hips and tugs off your bottoms, lifting you up and rubbing himself against your naked hole. "yeah?" he pants. "you like it? ugh, 'm so close..."
you mewl each time his wet tip notches partially in your hole then slips out, offering a momentary stretch before he returns to humping you. "c-can i cum on you?" he whines, rubbing you on his dick and maneuvering your body in his big hands. "please... i like you so much, i want you to smell like me-"
"y-yeah... f-fuck, you can put it in me if you want to, too." you gasp as he pushes just a little bit inside again and pulls out, returning to rubbing against you sloppily.
he whines, not wanting to reject your offer, but knowing he'll probably never fit inside you. the thought of stretching you out again and having you cry and squirm on his dick if he buried himself inside you all the way has his vision going white, and his eyes roll as he shoots hot ropes of cream all over your tummy, with you following right after.
as you cum together, choso bends down and kisses you hard once more, dumping his body on yours and practically slurping on your tongue. he's getting all excited again and doesnt notice you grabbing his half-hard cock at the base, starting to slowly push it inside you...
see more in my jjk masterlist
see more in my main masterlist
keep this fic alive by reblogging it and commenting if you loved it!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 33 . 2k wrdz , black fem reader , dominican connie ꒰ he says da n word a couple times ꒱ , music artists connie & reader , strangers to smthn to loverz , reader’z 23 connie’z 25 , slight miscommunication , kinda shy reader + she has a prominent birthmark on her face , lotsaaaaa feelings , pining , controlling connie , pet name usage ꒰ ma , mama , mami , baby , pretty ꒱ , mentions of anxiety , website translated spanish ꒰ sawriiii . ꒱ , fingering , daddy kink ! ! , dirty talk , slight dubcon moment , oral sex ꒰ r -> c ꒱ , squirting . typical yuckiness .
𝜗ϱ 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 𝑜𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝑒 . . . my longest fic 2 date , gulp . if u make it to the end , kudos 2 u . m givin you all of my kissies . back wif a bang i guess . have fun . Minors Do Not Interact !
“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .”
You hum a gentle scale into the head of your microphone while restlessly twirling the drawstring of your sweatpants around your index finger. Your voice is returned back to you through the in-ears, balanced and familiar. Around you, shining down on you, are lights . . big and bright, like stars that have been dragged too close.
“La, la, la, la, la, la, la . . .” Mindlessly, you drag your feet across the two hundred and twenty foot wide stage, walking from one end to the other. Beneath your hums is the soft chatter of the stage crew as they set up mics, run cables, and check for speaker delays. Your manager’s somewhere in the mix, probably on the phone scheduling that magazine interview with allure she’s been fighting to work into a time slot in your never ending docket of events for about a month now. You draw in a deep, slow inhale, look out towards the sea of empty seats . . . then immediately pull your sight away. You try not to linger on it — the fear, that is — you keep your focus on the stage floor instead.
“B-Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper coffee pot. Betty Botter bought some butter and a proper copper co—“
“—꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱!”
The sound of your name being called sparks a sharp current that travels down your spine. You spin on your heels to watch Annie wave you closer towards her position at the east wing of the stage and without thinking, you rush on over.
“Conference meeting in five.” She takes your microphone and hands it over to one of the crew members without sparing them a glance. It’s natural for you to quickly pull out your in-ears and hand them over, too. “You okay like this?” She motions to your outfit — wide legged sweatpants in powder pink, long sleeved leotard nearly the same shade, and Ugg boots. “Because I don’t think we have time to change. This is still kind of last minute.”
You give a soft smile that doesn’t quiet meet your eyes, “ ‘m okay, Annie.”
Your fingers don’t match your words, always the tell tale in revealing your never still, always bubbling anxiety. You twist at the rings that cover nearly each one, continuously ‘round and ‘round, rub and squeeze at your knuckles — all a rhythm to somehow keep your thoughts in one order. Every tiny movement is an anchor as the abhorrent conference meeting you’ve all but known about since last week approaches.
”I know it’s not ideal but the guy is more busy than I expected. I thought the two of you could maybe have a one on one some time last month to become better acquainted but, no hope. You’ll probably meet him at the stadium’s conference meeting in a few days.”
That’s all the warning Annie had given you and for six days, you were left on edge, dreading it, anticipating it, itching for it. You’ve heard his name more times than you’ve heard your own these past couple of months, seen his face in passing on billboards, press photos, and on a walking stranger’s t shirt. One glance around the conference room and the thought is rapid — there’s no hiding from him here.
It’s smaller than you expected. Fluorescents are harsh against the pale walls and dark wood of the large, oval shaped table that twelve, cushioned rolling chairs surround, though only two remain empty. The surface of the table is scattered in paper, diagrams of the stage, laptops, coffee cups, and walkie talkies. About ten others are peppered here and there, leaned against the wall while taking a phone call, shooting a text, or even hovering over the table to point at a paper and discuss something with another. Seeing the familiar faces of the rest of your team calms your racing heart.
You say your gentle hellos and go to take a seat beside your security lead, Reiner. His presence is stabilizing, a familiar tether in the midst of this somewhat controlled chaos. The empty seat beside you feels daunting in a way. You know who it’s for, you know that the meeting between you both is inevitable yet you can’t stop bouncing your leg underneath the table. “He’s late,” Reiner leans over and murmurs close to your ear.
“Oh,” your eyes grow wide and instinctually, you reach for the thin chain you wear that dangles the first initial of your name. “Am I—“
“You are. But there’s a hell of a difference between five minutes and ten.”
Your eyes travel across nearly each face within the room. Most appear unbothered by it, Annie rolls her eyes, the stage manager rubs at the wrinkles in his forehead . . more so out of stress about whatever a production coordinator is quietly mumbling to him than the fact that the tour’s headliner is eleven minutes late to the meeting. You try to focus on what you can, the diagrams and messily scribbled versions of the setlist mostly, however can’t stop your eyes from continuously darting towards the double doors where you hear approaching footsteps.
One of them quickly opens without a knock and you catch eye of a man, about six feet tall, blue eyed, wearing a suit pressed without a wrinkle or line in sight first. He steps in to hold the door open for him, Connie Springer, who’s followed by two more people that you don’t really recognize. He walks with an easy confidence, dressed in a pair of dark washed jeans, stitched with a subtle, swirling pattern all over them and matching hoodless jacket with a clean, white tee underneath. He wears glinting gold jewelry — handful of chains, some rings, and a blue faced watch that all wink hello underneath the artificial, white lighting of the room and your eyes catch on the new design that’s dyed almost all over his token buzzed and bleached head — cheetah print.
The room somehow feels smaller. Your tongue moves against the roof of your mouth, or at least tries to, nonetheless, it’s gone completely dry. He’s there . . he’s here, in all of his disgustingly handsome, six foot four glory and you can barely even move.
You watch him smile faintly at everyone. His manager’s apologizing for their tardiness yet you can barely hear him over the monotonous, loud thuds of your heart. your chest feels tight. instincts scream at you to look away, and you do, however your eyes can’t stop slowly traveling back up to him. He takes his time working throughout the room, shakes a few hands, quietly introduces himself to most of your team until he’s finally a couple steps away from you. Closer, you notice that his eyes are hazel — you see his face almost everywhere but, the intensity of them in person is something else entirely. Every movement he makes feels natural though measured, every glance is purposeful and lands with a quiet command that makes spines straighten.
His attention settles on you.
“Connie, this is—“
“—I know who she is.”
Your acrylic nails dig so far deep into the meat of your palms, you’re sure that they’re a hair away from bursting an artery.
His voice is calm. Brooklyn is woven through his words and you catch the faint inflections in the way he pronounces each one. The chair beside you is pulled back and angled slightly sideways to give himself more breathing room when he settles into his seat. His cologne hits a second later — dark and smooth, like leather, and smoked vanilla — a kind of scent that envelops a person’s senses in only the sweetest way possible. His eyes are scanning the table again, assessing everything and everyone as he leans back, loosely interlocks his fingers on top of his abdomen, and gets comfortable. Then his gaze is back on you, composed yet inquisitive. The air feels heavy.
Your lips are parting in readiness of an introduction.
Not less than a second later, Connie’s tour manager claps her hands and he parts his attention towards her. “Let’s get started!”
The meeting moves quick — transitions, security checkpoints, stage positionings and timing are discussed. Efficient. Straightforward. Both Connie and you listen quietly. You, with your hands politely folded in your lap, Connie, with his head lowered, posture slouched, and ease written into nearly every line of him. When all is said and done, chairs roll against the floors as people break off into smaller clusters, already mid sentence in discussing lighting cues and load times. Your pr agent and choreographer, Anthony, stand, give you goodbyes and assurance that they’re only a phone call away and Reiner lets you know that he’ll be standing outside the door.
The room eventually only leaves you, Annie, the two people connie entered the room with, him, and his manager. The silence feels different. only slightly less tensed, less crowded.
“You good?”
He’s talking to you.
The volume of his voice is somehow even lower than when he first walked in. You don’t strain your ears to listen but it does force you to look at him and give your attention. His focus is settled entirely on you now. He no longer scans the room but you, in his own particular way without even having to break his eyes from your own.
“ ‘m fine.”
His chin dips the slightest bit lower then they squint a bit, not in suspicion but evaluation. “Fine . .” he weighs the word on his own tongue. “. . You been on stages this size before?”
“A few.” You don’t have to hesitate on your answer because it’s the truth. Therefore, again, you say, “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”
The corner of his mouth pulls upward — deliberate and slow. You can’t help glancing down a few times at it, at his teeth. Not veneers, you’d guess that he maybe wore braces in his teen hood because they’re flawless. Barely a gap nor a single chip, and a pearly white. You watch his eyes flick down then back up, it’s quick but not crude . . he’s assessing you like, you assume, he does almost everything else in his life. “Good, good,” a careful nod. “Just makin’ sure my opener ain’t gon’ pass out underneath those lights.”
Something in your tummy flips. His words hang between you both, weighty. My opener. You straighten your posture, squeeze your hands tighter together, “. . You worried about me or your show?”
A pause. You feel Annie shift where she stands a couple feet behind you. Connie’s manager pretends to check his phone.
Your question forces him to suddenly lean forward, forearms on knees which brings him a little closer to you though not entirely within your bubble. The color of his eyes lean more towards the grayish scale of hazel — a ring of dark storm clouds with specks of mahogany and sage caught near the iris. They don't just look at you, they render you almost completely immobile. “Mm, difference?” He gives a small shrug and faint purse of his lips.
There.
A test.
You fight to hold his gaze, and the thing is, you successfully do. And although your eyes are on his, you still think he hears the faintest warble in your voice when you respond with, “I don’t need babysitting.”
Quietly, he studies you for a long second, eyes searching yours for something, then nods once. “Good. I don’t like carryin’ people.”
His words should feel insulting, maybe even dismissive yet they don’t. Instead, they feel like a request. When he stands, you do, too. He’s adjusting the clip of his watch and the expensive cologne you had a whiff of melts into the air around you both. “Can’t wait to see what you do with that thirty, ma.”
He takes the air you breathe when he exits out of the room with his team flanked behind him. Your chest rises and falls in a tremble as you remain silently staring at the now closed door, listening to Annie scoff, “A prick, isn’t he?”
You immediately shake your head, never tearing your eyes away from the knob. The anticipation of it twisting again bubbles beneath your skin. Maybe he left something? Maybe he simply wants to have a longer conversation. “No, no,” your voice is quiet, faraway. “. . He seems nice.”
ׅ ❤︎
The hours leading up to a show have always put a strain on your nervous system.
You told Connie the truth about that — that you’ve performed on stages this size before because you have. Clips of your VMA performance last year still goes viral once a month but, you suppose you lied a little too. You’ve never performed for more than forty thousand people in a stadium, and this one houses sixty.
“Mmm,” you pace back and forth in your dressing room, head bowed and eyes closed as your knuckles massage the bridge of your nose. You hear the murmurings of about fifty thousand conversations outside your door as everyone settles into their seats and the thumping bass of Connie’s artist approved pre show playlist — not too loud, but just enough to keep the room on edge. Ten minutes before a performance, you always request your dressing room to yourself. Ring lights dimmed, door locked, and room quiet, you inhale deep breaths as you slowly walk back and forth, wall to wall, to keep your nerves from jittering too much.
The flowing, dramatic sleeves of your stage fit kisses your skin as you move. Chains suspended along your abdomen, dangling from your custom designed top shimmer beneath the low lighting. You think your heart beats louder than the bass out there.
Suddenly, you stop.
You turn to look at your reflection within a full length mirror, at the glowing undertone of your warm, brown skin that illuminates beneath a thin veil of body oil. An abstract bloom of pigment, slightly lighter than your skin tone, stretches across the full planes of your cheeks and settles over the bridge of your nose. It's not neat, not aesthetic as one would say, but it's you. Took you nearly eight years to stop trying to erase it. Eight years of pressing full coveraged powders into your skin and carefully layering blush over it to better conceal. You blurred yourself into something flat. Dull. Now at age twenty three, you let it breathe most times underneath sheer foundations.
Leaning closer into the bulb framed mirror lets your eyes catch onto the tiny, heart shaped rhinestones that dot the outer corner of your eyes. Gloss gleams across the plushness of your lips and a forty five inched, kinky curly sew in flows down to your knees — one side slick and tucked behind your ear to expose one of your in ear’s with its milky, opalescent surface shifting from a delicate lavender to icy blue like moonlight caught behind glass.
You look pretty.
You feel like someone who’s deserving of being here right now.
A shaky breath puffs out your cheeks then you’re smoothing your hands down your stomach. Your heart still gallops but it’s different now . . you can bear it. “You’re okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “You’ll be perfect.”
Outside your dressing room door, you hear the volume of the playlist lowering and a slower more swelling baseline. One of your first cues.
Then, a knock at your door. “꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, you’re on in five!”
“Okay!”
You straighten your back prior to leaning and grabbing your microphone from off of the vanity. It’s chrome base is cool against your fingers — solid and grounding even, with the body coated in a fine veil of white, crystal shimmer that scatters light similar to a pocketful of stars each time you tilt it. It’s not loud, it sparkles. Purposeful. Custom made exactly how you wanted it. It’s weight is balanced perfectly with the grip sized to your small palm. You even made sure the finish was glossed to its touch to keep the crystals from scraping against your rings.
A microphone has always felt right in your hand, albeit your hairbrush, mop stick, or television remote, the feeling’s never changed. Holding it now feels less like picking something up and more like being returned something that’s always belonged to you.
Therefore, after one last breath, you’re turning, unlocking your door, and quickly pulling it open to let Annie, Reiner, and more of the tech coordinators shuffle you into the back seat of a golf cart to drive you towards the stage.
In the far left wing of the stadium’s custom towering, smiley faced designed stage — his distorted, neon lit trademark — Connie stands. He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. Never has he watched sets from the wings. If his name is on it, he’s either performing or already in an Escalade on the way back to his hotel. Standing still while another commands the room has never felt right to him. Intrusive, even.
But when told that you’re up . . . he had to leave his dressing room from his pre-set work out to come see this. To see you.
As the beat of your opening song swells deeper and deeper, low, dreamy, and patient, he folds his arms, shifts his weight, and clears his throat. He hears the crowd getting louder. The ground of the stage is beginning to sheathe with a thin fog. He tells himself it’s out of simple curiosity. Industry respect, too. Then the spotlights shift from white to a pearlescent pink . .
You walk out and Connie’s brain quiets for what feels like the first time in over a decade.
He’s known about you for a while.
Longer than what most people would suspect maybe. You started off posting covers on Soundcloud seven years ago when you were sixteen. You were anonymous then. Tagging each one underneath the name ‘solstice.’ Connie didn’t hear about you until you were nineteen, but come that first play of your first hit single on the radio about a year and a half ago, he knew.
Your voice alone is flawless, but it wasn’t just that that garnered his attention. You seem to carry a certain type of magnetism that sticks to a person — hovers over them through the shittiest boom box speakers or high end headphones. The way even the smallest notes you produced invoked something in him let Connie know that he needed to protect it, hold it close, make sure the world didn’t swallow it before he got his turn.
That’s why he wasted no time making you the opener of his first stadium tour without even knowing what you looked like.
Barefoot, iridescent make up, highlight high on your cheeks, and brown skin glowing beneath the long, fluidic, liquid white draping of your stage costume, Connie finds himself standing with his fist nearly covering his mouth. His index and thumb loosely curl around his lips as he watches, eyes focused on you flowing through sweetly seductive choreography with his eyebrows lowered.
Your music has always sat between sensual and melancholic. There’s something almost casual in the way you move. There’s not a lot of force or power. You aren’t trying to be sexy, you just are.
Connie takes the chance at looking up at one, out of six, large, led screens above your head. The camera catches at your eyes — though brown, they’ve still managed to darken beneath the lighting. They’re beautiful . . you’re dangerous. He notices how the crowd screams your lyrics back to you, desperate to be heard. Strangers in the front row grabbing onto each other’s arms out of excitement when you glide closer to the edge of the stage, bodies jittering almost frantically. Applause grows more thunderous the more you stay up there.
He exhales a slow breath through his nose . . . quietly nods.
Yeah.
You’re a star.
Not the fragile kind or one that burns out underneath too much pressure. No, you’re here to stay. Right before those lights dim and your last note fades into a reverb, instinctively, you’re turning your head towards the left wing in search of Annie, Anthony, something or someone solid. Nevertheless, your eyes are drawn to where the halo of your spotlight dissolves into shadow — and there he stands just before it, arms folded, as if he'd been rooted there all night.
Was he?
Did he stand there during the entire thirty of your set? For a split second . . you look at him.
He returns your stare with his own and your pulse skips.
There’s a slow, deliberate shift of his jaw and just as briskly, you force your eyes to snap away.
The lights fade back into a warm gold and breathlessly, you’re giving your shy and sweet thanks into your microphone. You don’t look left again. You don’t think that you can. Instead, you bow, turn, and follow your twelve background dancers that usher you behind one of the led towers backstage where he’d been standing.
Subconsciously, you find your eyes darting from here to there as you try to search for him. He’s gone. Your microphone and in ears are taken, then a cold water bottle and towel are shoved in your hands. Where did he go? Faint shreds of disappointment manage to work their way into your previous sphere of proudness. He was here, you know he was . . but he isn’t anymore.
It’s a little upsetting and you aren’t sure as to why. You’ve never needed anyone’s approval before, although Connie’s attention . . his praise, you saw it glowing beneath the storm of his eyes, felt nice. Better than anything you’ve felt before. If you’re honest with yourself, it somehow even felt better than words could describe. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek and preparing to shuffle off towards your dressing room when you hear—
"Good set, ma.”
Low and close.
He’s behind you. You turn but he’s already quickly walking past while adjusting his in ears. Your nose catches onto the notes of his cologne again — this one’s more fresh . . clean. You tip your chin higher to look up at him, but his expression gives you nothing back. It's calm and composed, as a stylist adjusts the swaying, white gold, cuban link chain on top of his chest while another blots his forehead free of any excess oil or sweat before the shine even forms. He doesn't break eye contact you for a second through it all. "You held the silence good,” he continues softer, eyes half lidded when he stares down into your own. Not lazy, not tired . . . focused. “Most people rush it.”
And that’s all. Before you can give a timid thanks or even question him of his time spent watching you, he’s moving towards a ramp downstairs that will lead him below one of the stages where a platform waits to rise him up on within the center of the warped, neon lit face. The skin at the back of your neck prickles with goosebumps. There’s that feeling again . . . of pure, unadulterated elation at the confirmation of him watching. Of him subtly letting you know that he did. You want to scream. You want to turn on your heels, head back to your dressing room, and let the rest of the night blissfully pass. But, you can’t. The soles of your still bare feet remain planted against the smooth flooring beneath you as the entire stadium suddenly goes black.
Everyone knows what that means. The crowd erupts into almost animalistic screams.
There’s a spark of light when a single bass note drops — deep and heavy.
That’s all there is for a a few seconds, silence broken by roars of excitement. Energy pulses throughout the stadium as a square shaped platform rises from beneath the stage, right in the center of the smiley face’s warbled grin. It’s as though come the second his silhouette becomes recognizable, the yells surge louder. You nibble upon the skin of your bottom lip when the platform locks into place with a heavy, metallic thud. Behind him on the screen is glitching surveillance style footage . . . black and white, grainy, and distorted. Staticy lines like old cctv footage snag across the shouting faces of fans packed tight standing within the ‘face’ of the smiley — the pit, as they reach up towards him.
He doesn’t rush.
A camera watches him lift his head and you stare, nearly breathless, as he turns and takes a few slow steps to his right with his chin up to assess people in the high rised seats. He lifts his mic up to his mouth, “Mhmm.”
The beat of his first song of the night plunges.
You feel it in your ribs . . his hunger, his control of it. He moves along the circular edge of the stage now, black timberlands heavy against the floor that glows beneath each step he takes. A black muscle tank beneath a tactical vest clings almost hungrily to the wide, beefy span of his abdomen, dampening with sweat when five minutes hit twenty. The cuban link around his neck catches at every strobe of light and the camera soaks in the glints of dazzling rainbows shining against honeyed skin. Dark tattoos, only a few colored at the wide slope of his biceps and forearms, shift and flex without them even meaning to.
Everything he does is meticulous.
Eyes of grayish hazel scan the pit slowly as he keeps the head of his mic pressed against his lips. They assess . . sometimes selects a person who’s rapping along to each bar for a fierce challenge. Every one of them always ends up exploding, screaming his name, scrambling at the barriers. He never gives a full smile, only ever a knowing smirk or bites one down over his bottom lip.
You swallow.
It’s the restraint, you find. Connie doesn’t chase their screams, he has command over them. For a moment, he appears less like a performer and more like something carved out of the stage itself — industrial, illuminating, untouchable. What begins to settle in your chest, it’s not only commendation . . it’s some wariness, too. He stood here in this very spot and watched you like this. Calculated, quiet, soaking you in the same way you are soaking him in.
Suddenly, the memory of his slow, deliberate jaw shift feels different now. You realize you’ve been watching him this entire time with your arms hugged around yourself, fingers restlessly rubbing at the hip of your flowing skirt.
You inhale a deep breath.
It’s hard to pinpoint what these exact feelings are, but they make you hyper aware. Of everything . . . your posture, your voice, the blood pumping through your veins. Because if he performs like this . . . you’re aware that touring with him won’t just be background noise. You had expectations of you politely opening each concert and slipping off backstage with that much more exposure than the night before. A win-win. However, this isn’t going to be that.
This is going to be pressure, late nights, shared green rooms, and close proximity.
Another inhale — this one shakier. You know yourself well enough to understand one thing: getting too close to Connie holds a lot of risk and won’t have you walking away from him unchanged. This tour . . and the undeniably charged current that flows between the two of you is either going to make you into something bigger than you’ve ever been . . or split you completely in half.
ׅ ❤︎
The official tour announcement drops two days later.
An eight second teaser video of the two of you in your own respective studio sessions — flashes of your frames in a booth, fingers on the sound panel, voices quiet and layered beneath each other’s is posted onto both of your respective’s Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok’s and is viral within ten minutes. Clips of both of your performances circulate, edits pair your songs together, ship you together, you make sure to limit your screen time to a measly two hours a day come stumbling across an account dedicated to only posting said edits.
You don’t need them getting in your head.
Rehearsals are immediate — everyday, between nine am and two pm. The stadium is empty during these hours. No exhilarated screams or constellation of phone flashes shining at you. Just you and your evocative echo. The first one you share with Connie, you keep your distance. It’s easy to.
You make sure to get there about an hour early with Annie, Reiner, Anthony, and your vocal coach and start scales before the light bulbs even warm. Your voice stretched smoothly up into the rafters while stage crews began setting up for another night of spectacle that by the time Connie walks onto the stage — perpetually dressed in oversized sweats, fitted cap, and zip up hoodie thrown over it as if he rolled out of bed and accidentally became famous — you’re already grounded. Already somewhere steady. Somewhere mentally where his intimidation slides off you clean.
It’s always professional.
He stands a few feet away during your run through, fists shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lifts his chin to watch the monitors. Or pretending to. You never look at him long enough to confirm. When passing each other’s crossing marks, it’s a brief orbit of two bodies aware of gravity but scarily mindful of refusing collision. That first show in Los Angeles was hot. Three nights at one stadium means there’s no time to romanticize it, though. Night two is sharper . . cleaner. You know what to expect, what to perfect. You begin to familiarize yourself with the stage underneath your feet which culminates into night three being all about control.
You let yourself sit in a note for a split second longer, take in the applause that crests louder and louder.
Connie had watched your set silently from the wings on all three nights — never smiling, never frowning . . just observing. With his arms folded, shoulders swole, and eyes seemingly stuck on the line of your body and contours of your face. Between these nights, you learn the rhythm of ice baths, vocal steams, and quick debriefs with Annie and the rest of your team in dim, busy hallways. Connie becomes only someone you see in passing.
During the wee hours of the morning, you’d sometimes spot him standing within the middle of a parking lot your two tour buses would claim overnight with a hand shoved down the front of his sweats to keep it warm while the other held a chubby blunt between his fingers. Underneath the rising sun the plush, pink pillows of his lips would pull a long hit from it and smoke’d curl out lazily from them whenever he exhaled. He never paces, never strolls. Merely just . . stands there, staring out at the horizon as though he were waiting for something. He’s an early bird — you learn that. By the time you and your team, as well as his, drag yourselves out towards catering tents or food trucks for breakfast, he’s already showered, new hoodie, cap pulled low over his bleached head.
Coincidentally, sometimes you find the both of you next to each other in line while waiting to grab some food. There’s never any real conversation. You give a soft though tight lipped smile, he always nods subtly back in return. When you pass each other in narrow backstage corridors, it’s a simple glance. brief. Quickly analyzing. Never invasive or rude, solely . . aware.
In between the two days from Los Angeles to San Francisco with no shows planned, Annie mentions a campaign shoot. “Full visual rollout. You and Connie,” she says while pencilling schedules into her calendar on the digital screen of her iPad. “Warehouse downtown.” You don’t ask why it can’t be separate because you know the answer. The morning before San Francisco night one, your black Escalade pulls up to a stretch of industrial buildings that appear abandoned on first glance. Loading docks are rusted at the hinges and bricks darkened with age are covered in moss.
Having been glammed up in your hotel suite, the brittle crunch of gravel beneath the thin high heels you wear makes you feel slightly out of place. Each one of your steps are careful and slow as Annie and Reiner follow closely behind you around a production truck where cables weave out through its opened doors. While walking by, you glance up within its interior, noting the lighting rigs and coiled cords stacked like metal intestines. Inside the warehouse, the dull scents of dust and electricity waft about. Nervously, you rub your lips together as your eyes naturally roll up to scan the almost scarily high ceilings.
Within the center of the room is a lone, steel chair. Around it, long translucent panels drape from the iron beams up above and flow to the floor. They're all sheer and gauzy, some a light cream, others pearly white, suspended at fluctuating angles to create depth. A gentle breeze caused from hidden fans keep them all in light motion, never flat. Some of the bones of the industrial building remain exposed, brick and iron, a sharp edge in the softness. A warm glow from the late morning sun filters in through the skylight. It all feels like something perfectly crossed between mechanical and empyreal.
You swallow, eyes locked on the chair. Senselessly, it intimidates you. Or maybe, it's the air around it that does. One chair that is somehow designed to hold two figures. One floating, one grounded.
You’d been told that the aesthetic for the shoot was 'soft brutalism' — quoted directly from Annie. "Soft lighting in a steel warehouse. Flowing but still." Now, while standing before the entire set design, you can’t help butterflies from swarming your gut at how intimate this all feels.
You take another look around the room — this time, you really look. Just beyond the sweep of fabric, standing near a dome camera tucked off to the side is Connie. He's in a wine red button down, material not glossy or silk, but a high quality cotton that holds structure at his arms though drapes down to stop just barely after his knuckles. Black tailored trousers fall straight down his long legs and right over a pair of wheat colored timbs pulled straight out of a box.
Soft but still . . . sharp. He looks less like a performer today and more like a figure pulled straight from an editorial spread of Harper's Bazaar.
“We’re going to need some touch ups,” Annie’s mumbling while swiveling her head on her shoulders, likely looking for the make up team. “You can head on over there, babe. Just give me a minute.”
You falter but force your legs to begin to carry you closer to that chair. He isn't looking at you . . . not yet at least. His focus is on watching a staff member adjust one of those hanging panels as he stands back, not saying a word.
Suddenly, one of the layers billows out due to a particular harsh wind of a fan which blurs Connie's outline into nothing but a tall, indistinctive blob for a second. When it settles back into place, he's looking directly at you — not scanning the room, not past you, but at you. The beat of your heart begins to thud that much quicker. You pretend not to notice as the director cuts through your path to begin a brisk but polite introduction. "Hey, great, perfect timing," he smiles while offering a hand. "We're keeping this really minimal. Lots of negative space. We want the focus to just be on you both."
Even while offering a gentle smile and affirming nods, you still feel it. His stare. It pierces through you and renders you keenly aware of your own body. Of the way your shoulders sit, the rise and fall of your chest, warmth gathering underneath your skin. Suddenly, every movement you make simply feels exposed. You wonder if you're holding your hands weird, if his attention has found the birthmark that extends across your nose to your cheeks. One glance back towards him and it's confirmed . . . he isn't looking away.
"Alright, I need you and Connie center."
Warm light catches on his button down, deepening the color as he begins to walk fully onto the set. He's wearing two gold chains, thin and delicate, that glint flashes of amber when he moves. On his index finger sits a chunky ring, a warm shine against the olive undertone of his skin. He doesn't rush his steps. Each is measured — timberlands thudding upon the concrete with every one of them. You inhale a breath through your nose as the hum of the warehouse fades into a barely there buzz when he stops a few feet in front of you.
Not close enough to really touch but close enough to where you feel a subtle shift in the air. Upon gathering enough courage, you finally look directly up into his eyes. "First one's simple," the director's saying though you don't really catch the tail-end of it because you notice Connie's eyes drifting.
Slowly. Deliberately. Not crude or in a rush.
From your eyes, to the bridge of your nose . . . lingering for a bit at the marble of your birthmark. Then lower, tracing the line of your jaw, hollow of your collarbones, then they slip down to the bodice of your dress. You're sure he sees the way the muscles beneath the skin of your abdomen tense because, due to the style of it, half of it is exposed.
"I want you standing. Connie, sit."
His attention is snatched away and without a beat missed, he lowers down onto the steel chair without much hassle and leans back against it as you fall into place beside him, letting the director instruct you on what to do with your arms and hands. "Perfect," the director soon mumbles before he's quickly walking away to grab his camera. You watch how Connie's legs naturally fall open, grounded and unbothered. His left hand rests upon his upper thigh, leaving his elbow jutted outward which creates a strong line throughout his frame. To top it off, his head angles just slightly downwards as he fixes a gaze of almost impassiveness towards the lens.
You, at his right side, are more graceful. Your body curves where his straightens — hand upon the back of the chair he sits in. The subtle angle of your stature creates a long, cultivated sweep from your shoulder down to your hip. The contrast between you both is immediate . . it's electrifying.
"Hold it."
No eye contact between you is exchanged but the space where your bodies part feels impossibly deliberate — like a line drawn in chalk neither of you are allowed to step over. From the outside looking in, the pose reads as cool and unperturbed. From the inside, it feels like a line of pressure being stretched taut between two fixed points. You blow out a quiet breath, the sound softer than you expected it to be, after what feels like a dozen shots are captured and you both are able to move again.
Quickly, both of your own separate make up artists rush in. As yours go to dab on a fresher coat of gloss, one adjusts Connie's sleeves and blots at his forehead. His gaze is shifting again, towards you. He barely reacts to the bodies buzzing around you both, barely even blinks. Your make up artists tilts your chin up a higher fraction with her pinkie, "Look up for me." You do, and in doing so, you feign close interest at the skylight up above, admiring the wispy specks of clouds extended over a sky of blue like stretched cotton.
Seconds tick off into long minutes, eventually twenty. Within those twenty minutes, you and Connie are instructed into four more different poses. Between each one, you look over by the monitors where Annie stands. Her eyes jerk back and forth among several computer screens and she sometimes nod at whatever a tech crew tells her. Although stone faced, you've known Annie long enough to recognize that she's ecstatic. The pictures must be coming out better than you think. She can hardly keep still — pacing slightly from left to right, stopping only to listen closer to whatever someone's telling her or point at a screen with a remark.
"Lets close up the space a little," the director says while silently apprising someone to remove the chair from the shot. "Connie, hand at ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱'s waist. Not grabbing, just a light touch."
Your stomach curls into knots immediately.
Carefully, you step into position beside him. You turn lightly towards him when asked and feel the swaying pleats of your asymmetrical, floor length gown brush against his trousers as you do.
"Ready?"
With a manicured finger, you brush a curl from your high, bun updo out of your vision behind your ear before nodding.
His hand finds your waist — not too sudden but surely not hesitant neither. It's a firm, steady placement against your bare back where the curve of your dress remains open which leaves his warm, shockingly soft palm against your own skin. His hand nearly spans from one side of your hip to the other which causes you to become acutely aware of how little space now exists between both of your bodies.
Unfortunately, your body reacts before you can train your brain to ignore it.
Your shoulders tighten, breath catches. The easy pose you were holding quickly hardens.
"Cut," the director softly says. "Loosen up your top half."
With a quick mumble of an apology, you straighten your posture and give a nod. One more time. Again. Connie's hand is at your waist this time. His thumb settles closer to your hip where, subconsciously, he rubs a small circle onto. You try to breathe, nevertheless, you fail. Your spine stiffens. "Relax, babe," Annie's voice cuts through some murmur as the director gives a quick suck to his teeth.
Another nod. You feel Connie's hand shift, not tighter, just more decisive. It reads almost as if he were making sure to ground you in place to steady you up against him. From your peripheral, you watch his face lean in slightly closer against your ear. "Tranquila," he utters, low and quiet. Your hair lifts on its ends at the back of your neck. "I got you."
The words aren't flirtatious. They're said as if it was a simple fact.
Swallowing, you struggle with letting your shoulders fall to trust the stable press of his hand.
The director hums, "Alright, lets do it."
You manage only two shutters of the lens capturing you both before your hip awkwardly juts out wrong. Embarrassment begins to flood through almost every inch of your body. You feel stupid, you feel stupid. You’re wasting time. Why cant you get it together? Closing your eyes, you press your index fingers lightly against your inner eye corners, "I'm sorry," you whisper quickly. "Sorry, everyone."
There's a soft exhale near your ear — sounds almost like a puff of amusement however, it's not mocking. ". . You nervous?"
Opening your eyes, you only manage to glance quickly up into Connie's before shaking your head. "No."
A second passes. Connie soon then sniffs, "Yeah, aight."
When he tries again, when you decide to finally allow his touch to simply settle, your body, bizarrely, molds instead of braces within it. You soften into something natural. You feel his fingers flex at your hip when you do. You take it as a muted form of his approval.
"Threee she is. There we go, you two."
The camera shutters.
Once, twice, thrice.
"Beautiful. Cut. That's a wrap everyone."
The word wrap nestles a weird feeling in your chest. You feel Connie's fingers part from the skin of your waist. One second they're there, the next, they're gone. Though it'd maybe only been a few minutes of his touch being there, the absence of it registers immediately. It feels wrong, almost. You swallow while watching crew members flood in around you both to begin unclipping fabric from the rafters that fall onto the floor in soft waves. Dome cameras go dark, one by one, as your stylist walks over with a comfortable, shin length robe to help you shrug on. The belt is tied with quick fingers as your eyes shift. Connie's already gone. He's on the far side of the warehouse, tossing a hoodie over his red button up, shielding gold beneath the fabric.
You don't want to look. you refuse to.
But, you do anyway.
He's looking at you again, eyes focused while pulling his hood over his freshly bleached head. The dark fabric frames his face, making him appear all the more forbiddingly handsome. The world around you blurs . . . almost as if someone has smeared their thumb across wet paint as noises fade into deadened mumbles — someone laughs over by the monitors while wrapping a long cord around their palm, your stylist says something to you that you can't quite catch.
Neither of you wave. Neither of you even nod.
The rolling door behind Connie opens, leaving golden sunlight to spill into the warehouse. He looks away, turns, steps outside of it, and not a second later does the door slam back shut . . leaving the world around you to sharpen again. Sound rushes back into your ears as someone drops something with a small curse. Your stylist gives a small nudge to your side, eyebrows shooting up her forehead in slight concern, "Hey, you okay?"
Innately, you nod, even if your mind feels elsewhere. "Yeah."
Something has shifted on its axis, that, you know. You tell yourself that it's just work . . that it will always be just work. But, whatever that's been newly strung between you and Connie feels too taut to blatantly ignore.
ׅ ❤︎
San Francisco is much colder than LA.
Fog rolls low over the city in thick clouds, the air is sharp and tinged with notes of salt. Shows are back to back. Thursday, Friday, then Saturday. Annie has informed you that between these seventy two hours are scheduled soundchecks, team meetings, and magazine interviews. All enough to keep your mind busy . . off of him, until she catches you the night after the first concert, in the lobby of the hotel before the both of you are going to part ways for the night. "Look, I know it's kind of sudden but, the label would like a teaser clip of some studio footage to post by tomorrow," her eyes flitter down to where an Apple watch wraps snuggly around her wrist. "Connie already said he's free—"
Your eyes widen and your voice rises an octave from the nervousness beginning to bubble within the pit of your stomach at only the mention of his name, "—Wait, wait. Right now? Are you serious, Annie?—"
"—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But, you two are supposed to have this single released in three weeks time. We have to squeeze it in somewhere—"
"—The night after a show? I want a bubble bath."
She's grabbing you by the hips to spin you back in the direction of which you came which would be the hotel's rotating doors. "Bubble bath after this session, okay? Just an hour and a half max. You can do that for me, right?"
You want to tell her no. You want to dig your heels into the buffed marble of the lobby's floor and refuse to move a single inch, but you don't. Annie's the best. The label you signed to two years ago upon first gaining mainstream traction is a small one — Harborlight House.
It'd been Annie that you had clicked with the most out of the dozens of other managers who entered your dms with offers and promises that made your brain spin and stomach queazy. Annie has shown you genuine protection from the start. She flew out on her own dime after you accepted her meeting request and sat with you at a duck pond with her Ipad and pencil in hand instead of a contract thicker than your head. She asked you about what you wanted to accomplish, didn't flinch when you told her such, what success meant to you, what you didn't want to lose.
You signed with Harborlight House only about a month later.
Not because of the numbers, but for her. She'd been the one to push back when a bigger imprint wanted to rush your EP. She'd also been the one that made sure your masters stayed yours and yours alone.
Therefore, you try to do what she asks of you. Because Annie would never purposely lead you into harm's way. Prime example, after listening to you heave a big, bratty sigh, she puts you in the back of an escalade right beside Reiner and tells him, "You don't leave her side for a single second. Wherever she goes, you go, too."
As the car weaves through downtown traffic, your reflection stares at you through tinted glass — gloss still fresh, new lash set fluffy, stage costume set long gone and instead replaced by a white I Am Gia set printed with pink polka dots. You look okay. You don't completely feel okay, though.
Connie already said he's free.
Annie's words surprise you. You start to twist and pull at your fingers, reminding yourself that this is work. Only work. And it will always be.
The studio Connie's label rented is tucked within a more quieter part of the city — completed with industrial brick, dark, caged windows, and only three floors. You and Reiner have to enter up a narrow staircase that smells like warm dust and coffee to make it up to the second floor where you already hear the thumping bass of a smooth tempo track nearly twelve feet from from the door it's coming from at the end of the hall that's only cracked slightly ajar.
The closer you walk towards it, the slower your steps become.
You've performed in front of thousands and walked red carpets. You've had interviewers try to corner you about your love life, other celeb drama, and politics all in one and yet . . . that nervousness doesn't compare to how you currently feel. You hear Reiner mumble from behind you, "You good?"
" 'm good."
You push open the door.
Warmth hits you first.
Inside, the fairly large room is pleasantly lit with tall, standing lamps, as well as a few Himalayan salt ones that have been deliberately placed around the perimeter of it. The glow reflects against the smooth, exposed brick of the walls. A huge vocal booth sits at the far end of the room, topped with two, wide spanned monitors that display layered tracks in neon lines and glass slabs seals it off from a control panel that spans from almost one side of the room to the other, completed with mixing boards, sliders, and illuminating buttons that brighten then slowly dim as if they'd been breathing.
A dark, leather couch has been pushed against one wall and a low table stands in front of it, covered in cables, water bottles, a laptop, and chinese take out containers.
Connie sits in a rolling chair . . dressed in a pair of oversized, black track pants and a mustard yellow hoodie with the word supreme printed on the back. He had his head bowed and elbows on his knees with his hands interlocked between his legs as he listens closely to the track playing. Though, when you enter the room, he lifts it to look up at you.
He fixes his eyes on you and doesn't look away as the other two producers, both men — one with long locs and another with wavy, blond hair turn to face you. "Aye, right on time," the one with locs gives a smile. "We've been gettin' ready for you."
"Hi," a manicured hand is held up for an apprehensive wave as you step further inside. There's no visible reaction from Connie, no grin or smirk or faux reaction of surprise. Akin to yesterday morning at the photoshoot, he simply just watches you.
As Reiner settles in to stand beside the door against a wall, routinely inspecting with just his eyes and minimal words, you set your bag down upon a couch cushion when Connie eventually speaks, "You made it."
"Yeah," you pretend to dust lint off of your thighs so you don't have to look at him. "Uhm, there was just some traffic."
"Mm," is all he gives. You suspect that he knows that you're lying. You're grateful he doesn't continue to push though. When he stands up from the chair, measured and unhurried, instinctively you straighten your spine. You watch him cross the room in two, long strides to stand diagonally from you, almost near the couch as well. "You good?" That familiar question makes you feel like you're going crazy.
Loosely, you cross your arms over your chest in efforts to somewhat regulate your heart rate, "I'm fine. Why?"
His eyes, greyish and dark, quickly study the features of your face. It takes him only half a second. He hums softly again, " 'm jus' askin'."
You hear the track loop back into the beginning as your lips part . . . though, you say nothing. ". . Uhm," quickly, you turn away and walk towards the booth. The more space, the better. "Should we start?"
The blond haired producer nods. "Lets begin with the hook."
ׅ ❤︎
An hour passes by quickly. You record the hook perfectly after four takes and half of your verse. You'd been told, through the glass panel by one of the producers, that Connie has completed his. He now only has to finish the bridge, but everyone's decided that it can happen another day.
Throughout your time in the booth, Connie sits on the couch behind the two men, leaned comfortably back into the cushions with his fists shoved in his hoodie's pockets. You try not to focus too much on him, nonetheless, he makes it difficult. During the repeated takes of the hook, you couldn't help but notice the minuscule reactions he gave when disliking or approving of something. When you cut a word shorter than he'd like, you supposed, you could see it in the faintest shift of his lips. Never a full frown but just a slight tighten at the corner of them, as though he tasted something not quite right.
When you drifted off into a melodic run, his leg bounced. Once. Approval.
He never says anything. He barely moves, never interrupts. Just listens . . . intently.
You tell yourself to simply focus on you. But, he makes it hard.
"Again," one of the producers says through the speakers of your chunky, over ear headphones. "More air on the front line this time."
You nod. Your voice is smaller when you utter, "Okay," into the microphone after clearing your throat.
With his instructions, you try the harmony once more.
Something in the air shifts. You feel it. It doesn't sound . . . right. On the next run, you gather in a deeper breath to open up your diaphragm. Then arrives a long silence after it. Through the glass, you watch the blond nod his head. The dreadhead leans closer into the board to fiddle with a slider switch. Behind them . . . Connie still lounges, back against the cushion, hands in his pockets, albeit, his jaw has tightened. Not noticeably, but, just barely. You swallow.
"More bigger."
"Smaller run."
"Make it tighter."
By the fifth take, Connie stands. Midway through a note, you quiet and take a step back as though you were preparing for him to storm into the booth and snatch the microphone away from your lips. You're thankful one of the producers has his finger still on the button so that you're able to hear what's going on when his mouth opens. "Nah, nah, nah," Connie's shaking his head and walking closer to the mixing board.
One of them chuckles, "It's alright, man. We're just molding it."
"Mold it without makin' her disappear."
Another silence lugs on, tensed and prickling. ". . It's just direction."
Connie's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, once. He looks up over at you without lifting his head, ". . . You like how that sound, ma?"
You're hesitant. Truth be told, you don't. You've managed to perfect the art of your sound and their direction is wiping it away, note by note. ". . 's fine."
"It ain't fine," he snatches one of his hands out of his pocket to rub at the soft, dark hairs that dust his chin. "Sing it how you did the first time."
You shift, "U-uhm—"
"—Connie, man, this isn't your session—"
His attention doesn't part from yours when he roughly clips, "—Do it."
It's firm and leaves no room for another word. So, you do. It's sweet . . soft though warmly textured . . akin to velvet dragging across the warmth of one's skin. The room quiets after the track suddenly pauses. Connie gives a small nod, jaw shifting. "That." It's quiet. No need for overdone praise. He says it like he knew you had it in you the entire time. Looking down at the producers, his voice is low and edged with something raw when he states, "Now mix it."
You watch as he turns to grab his water bottle and then walks out of the door.
It shuts behind him with a soft click. No slam or any dramatics. He's just . . gone. For a second, no one moves. Eyes shift, but bodies don't. The room feels simultaneously bigger yet tighter now that he's no longer here. The dreadhead clears his throat and fiddles with another slider, as if nothing even happened. "Alright," he mumbles, hoping to lighten the mood. "That take was great."
You remain standing in the booth, blood feeling as though its too hot for your body.
He never raised his voice, he never looked away from you. He told you to do it and you did . . . and it felt . . . so good. You listen to the producers replay the same melodies you just gave. No further direction is given. Eventually, after being waved out of the booth, you walk out noting that the air outside of it feels denser than what it once was. His warmth still resides within the cushions of the couch when you replace his spot. You tell yourself that the quiet ache that throbs in your chest is just relief, nothing more.
A lie.
Your personal phone soon pings from within the confines of your bag with a new message. Sighing, you grab it to fish through tubes of lip gloss, travel sized perfumes, and a lone pair of clean panties to find it buried at the bottom. Annie is expected . . but, instead, it's from an unknown number.
Your heart drops into your ass. No name or contact photo attached, only two simple words.
You stare at it for longer than you'd like to admit. He has your number. How does he have—
Your lips part with the sudden realization of three weeks of touring, rehearsals, and interviews. Of course, he'd been able to get it when he wanted to. But he's using it . . . and now. Another ping.
Your breath catches before you can try to regulate it. The hair on your body stands straight as your head snaps up, thinking that he may be inside the room. You can try to ignore it, pretend that you're busy, but, for some reason, doing that doesn't feel right. He's not asking, not begging, however, he's waiting. Looking at the producers, you watch them softly talk to one another about equilibrium adjustments, barely paying any attention to you, so you stand.
"Uhm, 'm . . g-gonna step out for a minute."
"Alright, no worries."
You watch Reiner's gaze sharpen on you as you move closer to the door. " 's okay," you mutter with a soft hand to his forearm. "I'll be back in a few. You have my location still."
There's some hesitance but he eventually nods, so, slowly, you walk out and down the hall you previously came from. It's just work, you repeat to yourself. Just work. It's only work. Even so, your hands can't stop trembling. You expected him to be outside, as he said, but when you open the door to the stairwell, he's standing halfway down them, arms folded and back leaned against the wall. When he hears the door, he looks up. His face is unreadable. There's no anger or annoyance . . . but something you can't quite pinpoint.
With your hand on the banister, you let the door close behind you with a final slam, leaving you both enclosed within the narrow spine of a room of steps. Silence is loud. The soles of your Uggs press down onto specs of dust and tiny, barely there pebbles as you slowly descend down until you're two steps above him . . close enough to see the small shards of warm green that swim within the grey and brown of his eyes. "You got my number," is what you eventually say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. Is he upset with you?
"Mhm." No apology or explanation given. "You scared of that room?"
No bullshitting around.
Automatically, you shake your head.
"Then why you ain't say nothin'."
He's not asking a question, he's wanting an answer. You look away from him and bend your finger back and forth on the wood of the banister. ". . I didn't wanna make it harder."
He's tilting his head. Not in a puppy-ish way but in a way that feels surgical — as though he's adjusting himself to get a better look at you. "For who."
You're quiet. You keep your eyes on your finger, feeling the pad of it curve into the natural indents of the wood. "For the session."
"Mm, nah, that ain't what I asked."
Your lips roll tightly into your mouth as you suddenly snatch your arms up to fold them across your chest. A sharp exhale through your nose, "For them, I guess."
He's wearing a beanie underneath his hood tonight. His eyebrows are slightly thick. They lift up on his forehead in a bogus manner of incredulity. "For them."
The words drift between you both as if he were tasting the weight of them on his own tongue. ". . And you?" he soon asks.
You tense. You hate that — when he keeps pulling focus back on you. ". . 's nothin' I can't handle."
Connie nods, slowly. "Mm." Then takes one step higher up towards you. It leaves you both nearly eye to eye for the first time. Something in the air shifts. You keep your focus on him to keep him from noticing your breaths quivering now. "You ain't answer me in there," he says with a soft squint of his eyes.
"I did."
"You said it was fine."
You don't respond because the two of you know that wasn't the question. The hum of the city fills the silence this time around — a few car honks as some whizz by and a faint helicopter.
"You scared of that room?" his first question is repeated.
You shake your head slower this time. ". . . No."
When you lower your chin, he's inclining his neck slightly lower too to find your eyes once more, "Then why you ain't say nothing."
"Connie—" You stop yourself then lift them up towards the ceiling as if the words you want to say are written there. In the end, when you can't find them, you release another sharp breath and meet his eye contact. He's waiting . . patiently. "I didn't wanna make it harder."
He studies you for a longer second. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, "You let them fold you. You let them niggas cut you down smaller every time they asked. Even when you knew you wasn't fuckin' wit' it."
You shift on your feet. "You noticed?"
There's no hesitation when he answers, "Yeah."
"That's weird."
He shrugs, eyes part from yours for the first time though not out of nervousness. It's to make a point when he says, "You in a room. I'm aware." Then they're back on you, steady and unblinking. There's no flirtation . . . for the second time within forty eight hours, he says something that makes your heart skip as if he were citing a traffic rule.
You stare at him this time, trying to read him the way he obviously can read you but, you find it difficult. His face gives little away. It makes you feel exposed, like you're underneath a spotlight. Therefore, you part your glossed covered lips to softly question, "You think I can't handle this stuff?" It isn't defensive . . your voice is quiet. It reads closer to vulnerability. You ask it as if you really want to know.
"I think you can."
"Then what?"
He licks his lips. For a moment, they glisten with his saliva — thick, pink, and smooth with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache right above them. God. "I think you don't like friction, ma."
" 'm not scared of friction."
"Hazme caso, not callin' you scared," He inhales through his nose as his gaze drifts up at the stairs behind you for a brief moment. "When shit rubs you wrong . . you swallow it."
You make a move to deny, "That's not—"
"—It is."
It's firm, but oddly not as harsh as it would've sounded coming from someone else. Looking away again, you can't help the pout that's starting to push at your lips, no matter how hard you try to reel it back in. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me, Connie." More lies beneath your tone than just pettishness. There's a hint of a plea. Why are you looking so hard? Don't name it.
"I'm not." A pause. "I'm jus' watchin'."
The word settles heavily over the conversation. ". . . You think you got me figured out after only three weeks of knowing me?"
"No."
The answer throws a curveball. You expected him to say yes — be cocky about it, because somehow, deep down, you have a feeling that if he doesn't already, he will soon. "I jus' don't like watchin' you bend like that."
Stubbornly, you grumble out, "Wasn't bending."
His honesty unsettles you in almost the sweetest of ways. You're aware of how close the two of you now, only a step separating your bodies. He smells like smoky vanilla again . . . The same scent he wore when you both were introduced to each other, only tonight, tinges of marijuana burn at the edges of it. It clings to the edges of his hoodie and to his fingers when he lifts his hand to adjust his beanie lower over his forehead. "You was. You ain't gotta make shit easy for nobody, especially not in a room where they supposed to be workin' for you."
Your gaze grows sharp, "You would've just argued with them all night, then?"
"Yeah."
"And make it awkward."
"So?"
He doesn't look angry. If anything, he appears resolved. You can't understand him. You don't think you have enough energy in you tonight to even try. ". . Why do you care so much?" The words tumble from your lips before you can try to stop them.
For the first time tonight, his expression shifts prior to him wanting it to. His jaw works once then twice as if he were grinding down the words between his teeth to decide how honest he wants to be. Eventually, he replies, "I don't like seein' you dull yourself."
Unable to help it, you deflect, "You think I'm dull?"
He huffs a quiet breath, nearly amused. His voice is a tinge rougher when he drags his thumb up to his closed eye to rub slowly at the inner corner, "Man, you like twistin' shit, hm."
" 'm not—"
"—You know that ain't what I said."
You watch him lift his hand. He rests it upon the banister, gripping at it, directly next to your hip. He isn't touching you, but he might as well be. "Next time," his voice is gentle and he makes sure to wait until you meet his eye again before continuing. "Don't say it's fine if it ain't."
You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek, working it back and forth while studying him through your lashes, ". . You always this invested in other people's studio sessions?"
The ghost of a smirk pulls at his lips. It softens him in way you've never seen before. "Nah, ma."
Just yours, goes unsaid.
ׅ ❤︎
Week four on the road doesn't arrive loudly, it simply settles.
Somewhere after you and connie's late night conversation on the stairwell in San Francisco — after vanilla scented air scorched with weed and Brooklyn accented mutters — the dynamic of you two shift without either of you naming it. It isn't softer, but . . heavier, and somehow steadier, too. You're in Seattle next for two nights. The first is loud, big. He continues to watch your performances from the wings, arms folded and his head angled down as if he were examining you like architecture. "You owned that shit," he mumbles when you and your dancers shuffle past as the crowd screams for an encore. You pant and smile, with your lungs burning and sweat cooling against your spine, and try not to let yourself grow too shy in front of him because his approval has slowly been becoming something you've been chasing.
You hate that you are, however, can't reel yourself in close enough to stop doing it.
He'll utter things like, "Don't fold." "You know what to do." Close to your temple before shows when everyone's hurrying you to the stage and the stage manager is counting down from thirty — always low, always only meant for you, and you listen. You adjust the way you shine within the spotlight because of him, hold a note longer because you know that he's listening for when you could possibly retreat. His attention is your anchor and accelerator . . what keeps you steady yet lights a match beneath your ribs.
It's after Seattle and Phoenix, in Vegas, when both of your managers tell the two of you that it's crunch time.
The single scheduled to be released next week featuring you both is only eighty percent done. After the show, when everyone's packing up, crowds are bustling towards the exits in efforts to be the first ones out and the projector screen is rolling credits of the stage crews' names in glitching, vhs style — Connie's typical aesthetic — you're carrying a large, puffy tote on your shoulder, dressed in a pair of flared leggings and thin, tight camisole. You walk beside Annie and Anthony, a few of your dancers and Reiner behind you as all of your footsteps tap against cemented stairs to head for the underground parking garage where eight, glossy black Escalades wait — some for your team, others for Connie's.
There's a lot of mutter . . . some laughs, some hugs shared as you all part ways for the night.
Your arms are wrapped tight around the hips of one of your closest dancers as you smooch a big kiss to her cheek, "Get some rest, okay?" you tell her. "Take a bubble bath and add some epsom salt in there, seriously!"
"But it's Vegas — you don't wanna come out with us for a little bit?"
Before you can answer, there's a voice behind you cutting through, "Nah. She gotta work tonight."
It isn't loud. It never has to be. Connie's voice carries differently after a show — lower and more gruff after commanding a stadium of fifty thousand people with that same Brooklyn edge that makes everything sound finalized. The small circle around you instantly shifts as he emerges from the same hall you all came from with his own team.
He's wearing an all black fit . . . fitted tee, baggy jeans, and 'black cat' jordan fours with an opened, oversized jacket covering his tatted arms. His bleached head has been re-dyed tonight with jagged, electric blue lightning bolts cutting through the fade all over. The diamonds within the chains he wears glisten underneath the fluorescents in quick glints.
At the sight of him, you grip the shoulder strap of your tote tighter.
Anthony claps his hands once. "Aye, and that's our cue. Don't be up all night. My crew, let's roll."
A few more hugs are exchanged, promises to text, and some laughter as car doors open then close. You say your goodbyes to Annie last, telling her that you'll keep her updated and see her in the morning, bright and early. It's when most of your teams are already in the cars, leaving you, Connie, Reiner, and two of Connie's own personal guards standing beside the rumbling trucks when you turn to face him with your arms folded. ". . . Not even a drink?"
His slitted eyebrow twitches, "You was thinkin' about goin' for real."
You look away, pouting only slightly. "Only for like, an hour."
You feel it before you see it — his gaze drops. You've taken off all of your make up so you're sure that your birthmark is a little more blatant than usual. His eyes trace the irregular shape of it, akin to an uneven splatter of pale color thrown carelessly over the bridge of your nose, not confusedly or even in curiosity. His eyes map over it it like he's trying to memorize it, before he drags his stare back into yours again. "You tired?"
". . Yeah."
"You wired?"
"Mhm."
"Now imagine you off a drink or two on top of this."
You bristle, unable to help huffing when he opens a back door to one of the trucks. "I was gonna ride by m'self—" He's shaking his head, not even looking at you when he braces a hand against the roof so you won't hit your head and says, "—You ridin' wit' me. C'mon." There's no room for banter or a negotiation. It's already been decided. You pause and look around the emptying parking garage. Reiner leans against a wall, simply watching, while Connie's guards stand beside their own truck.
You try to sound annoyed when you utter, "Seriously?" But your tone betrays you. Comes out a little more meek than wanted.
He's slightly smirking now. "Seriously."
You sigh as you climb in and settle in the seat behind the driver's. Reiner takes the passenger and connie slides in behind it then slams the door shut beside him. It's almost deafeningly quiet inside the car after he does, silence only broken by a sports broadcasting channel that hums along through the speakers with commentators droning on about stats and positions. Vegas nights are warm this time of year. You slide down your window a bit when he does as the truck starts to move, letting the air waft across your bare collarbones. "Are you always so . . . bossy?"
Connie sits with his legs spread and arm thrown over the back of the seat you sit in. He doesn't falter when he replies, "What you think?"
Turns out, he's staying in an airbnb, nestled near the outskirts and rolling hills of Vegas that dulls the busy city noise within its openness. Houses are spaced far enough to feel completely private, gated and secluded with the lights of the strip only a faint gleam in the distance. When the SUV rolls to a smooth stop at the bottom of a wide, arched staircase that leads to a large pivot door made of steel and glass, elegant and sharp, Connie's already pushing his door open and stepping out as if he's been here a million times before — no pause or glance around, just smooth certainty. While he rounds the backside of the car, you take notice of the headlights of another escalade where you assume his security occupy, pulling in behind you all.
"I'll take my post outside the front door right here," Reiner says from over his shoulder with the tilt of his chin to motion to it. "You need something, you call me."
Nodding, you softly retort an "Okay."
Before you can even reach for your door handle, it's opened by Connie. He stands there, warm, bronzy skin painted almost ethereal beneath the silver moonlight. The subtle diamonds in his ear sparkle as he turns his head to motion something to his security before leaning in slightly closer to offer you his palm. "C'mon, ma."
His hand completely dwarfs yours as you lean into his help to jump from the high risen truck. It's warm . . somehow strong . . grounding. "Studio's in the basement," he utters while leading you up the staircase. He doesn't let it go. "Fucked around with it earlier before rehearsals. Shit's nice." You find yourself glancing between the side of his face, to the faint tension settled in the hard line of his jaw and the tiny spider inked right beneath the corner of his left eye, and his hand that still engulfs yours the entire walk up. Your pulse sounds louder within the quiet of the night.
You don't say anything about it. He holds it like it's second nature — to have you tethered to him, that is. It feels like second nature. Your stride adjusts to his longer ones without much hassle and your fingers fit delicately into his palm. You try to swallow your disappointment when he eventually has to let it go though to key in a code to unlock the door and push it open.
Inside is nice. Abstract decor with black marble floors glisten bright enough under recessed lighting to reflect your face back up at you when you look down at it, completed with high ceilings which stretch into clean architectural designs. Somewhere deeper inside, the kitchen you think, gleams soft, ambient lighting that makes you feel warm.
You let Connie lead you down a wide staircase that spirals out into the lower half of the house as both your footsteps echo. He moves like he’s already memorized the layout of the entire home — as if this were just another temporary kingdom he’s occupying for the night. You pass a home theater, two laned bowling alley, and lounge before a glass door opens into the home’s studio. It’s all very indulgent and excessive . . very Vegas. The lighting within the studio is lower, warmer which makes it feel all the more intimate. Connie seems to already have his laptop in here with the track settled over the monitors and ready to go. Everything’s positioned exactly how he wants it, like he knew you’d been walking in here tonight.
“You wanna start?” he asks with a casual shrug off of his jacket. Ink coils across his skin — down his arms, a few on his hands, curling up his neck — mostly black, only a couple red . . one near his forearm, the other on his bicep as if it were intentionally tucked away.
You swallow and shake your head come his question. His eyebrows lift slowly, not in offense but slight curiosity. He seems to wait for a beat, expecting you to change your mind however when you don’t, he doesn’t press or tease you about it, he pivots. “Aight, mama,” he mutters while grabbing the set of headphones off of the mixing board. “I’ll lay mine first.”
Your tote falls onto the empty center table as he pushes the booth’s door open with his shoulder to step inside. Quickly, you realize this will be your first time seeing him record. You've experienced seeing him perform, you've seen him rehearse, but never record. Electricity hums beneath your veins.
He looks unworldly, standing within the center of it with his chin lowered as he scrolls through his phone to presumedly memorize his lyrics. You’re staring — letting your eyes drag across the broad span of his shoulders and biceps, down to the taper of his hips. He’s . . . handsome, but the word falls flat honestly. There’s a reason why his face goes viral every other day, clips of him performing, mid interview, smiling, staring, frowning. He’s conventionally attractive of course, but it’s almost something unreal about him. Up close? It’s something else entirely. He’s a rare case, you think. Like he was carved with precise intention . . by someone who made sure to take their time.
It’s stillness before he starts. He doesn’t pace or fidget, doesn’t rehearse out loud or even mumble to himself. He just stands there, reads it once, twice, maybe three times to lock it in then he powers his phone off, shoves it back into his pocket then looks over at you. No gesture needed, you seem to understand his stare without him having to say a word. You hit a button on the mixing board to let the track smoothly play in.
There’s a strong bass line. The melody floats in a few seconds after, light and almost playful. It’s fun but there’s weight to it. You think the producer did well with encapsulating you and connie’s vibes within it.
You watch his lips part.
Fuck.
His voice slides in smooth, almost lazy, like he’s talking his shit to a homeboy on the sidewalks of Brooklyn instead of recording something that’ll be streamed worldwide. But, it works. His tone carries on the beat instead of chasing it. Your nails dig into the meat of your palms as you stand there behind the chair in front of the mixing board, entirely transfixed.
And an hour and a half passes like that.
With Connie buried in the booth and you curled up within a large, padded spinning chair in front of the sound panel, consistently replaying the track when he wants. You both fall into a rhythm. He's tweaks a word here, switches up his flow there. He ends up recording the bridge three times, trying to decide which one sounds better and it's as you're sitting with a piece of a spicy crab sushi roll held between chopsticks, nearly halfway up to your mouth, courtesy drop off by Connie's security, and listening to him record another line when he cuts himself off mid-bar.
The beat is still playing when he heaves a tired sigh from his nose and pulls off his headphones.
"Fuck, man."
Your eyes are wide and you're midchew when scrambling up to stop the music. The room drops into a silence so thick that it makes it hard for you to swallow. He's irritated. He's not dramatic with it, nonetheless, it's obvious. Maybe only to you. "Somethin's off," he utters. You watch him pull open the booth door and quickly brush out of it as if it's offended him personally. He brushes his hand over his scalp before taking the other chair beside you. "Anda. Go. Do your part."
You cover your mouth to swallow. "Right now?"
"Yeah," his tone is sharp when he replies. He doesn't seem impatient with you, moreso this song and himself. "I wanna hear it with you on there."
Hesitating, you soon give a small nod prior to settling your chopsticks down on a napkin then standing. You smooth out the wrinkles in your flared leggings and tug at your camisole when noticing that it's ridden up above your navel piercing before stepping inside the booth. You feel his stare as you settle the headphones over the dark curls of your flip over sew in, making sure that they aren't pressing down too hard on them or your ears. The mic still sits at his height, so you have to reach up with nimble fingers to adjust it down to your own.
When you inhale a big breath to steady yourself, you catch the familiar traces of his cologne dancing within the enclosed space of the booth. It makes something in your tummy flip. “ ‘m ready.”
You watch him press play. You’re required to only layer some harmonies beneath the bridge he’s working on. Your first ones are clean, supporting, and gentle. Air beneath his gravel. When doing a second layer, you part your mouth open just the tiniest bit wider to fill in some opened space.
Connie leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, and folds his arms over his chest while watching.
He’s never been able to indulge in staring at you. Not properly. When he watches your performances, he’s mostly just listening. In the rare moments he lets his eyes drift, it's always quite professional — keeping an eye out for a wardrobe malfunction or if one of your dancers is too close within your center light. When he passes by you in the halls, while on the way to your hotels or tour buses, it's never enough time to get a real, good look at you.
That doesn't mean he hasn't tried. The photoshoot you both did was half an exception, as well as that first, shared studio session, but this time . . there's no one else in the room. No stylists, sound engineers, or managers. Just you both. so he lets himself look.
You keep your lashes done — full and fluffy with wisps in between that soften your stare. They dust across your cheeks as you keep your eyes closed to really hone in on a note. Your curls spill down your back akin to a halo, resting only an inch away from the curve of your waist. The camisole you wear is thin enough to reveal the intricate lacing of your white bra underneath. Lower, his eyes fall down to the fullness of your hips, thickness of your thighs. God, you really are something.
He knows what you entail.
Letting himself give into you brings a lot of eyes, headlines, and even more questions. He hates all that shit. He's always been about his music, just his music. Sure, yeah, he's entertained the usual, stereotypical distraction people of his profession commonly go for. The occasional instagram model flown out for a weekend here, a single mom he met at an after party who understood discretion there — no strings, no complications, just something to release his stress when the days blur together and the cameras, the fans, the pressure, and the numbers all become too much.
You're like gravity, though. since the start of this tour, Connie's been finding himself thinking about you, on flights, the backseat after a show, in the shower . . . more than he's thought about another person in a long, long time.
Swallowing once, he rubs a hand down his jaw as if he's trying to physically reset himself. He's never been the type to try to fight it though. He'll hold off on whatever his heart, mind, or soul tells him for a while, stall it, test it, tell himself to just wait a bit, but never will he run from it. Because the way he sees it — anything that pulls at him like this deserves to be closely examined, not avoided. When the music settles and you're opening your eyes while pulling off the headphones, eyes wide and plump lips parted, obviously searching for his approval, something in his blood rushes into static. He thinks he may like you . . . a lot.
"Did you like it?" is the first thing you ask when out of the booth.
"Adored it. Shit was perfect." His eyes are focused on the sound waves of the track as he replays it with his own.
You can't help but notice how his jaw moves when listening to himself, though. It grinds slowly, back and forth, revealing his dissatisfaction with it. You step a little bit closer to him. ". . What's wrong?" You hum. "With yours, I mean. What do you hear?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He lets you listen for yourself.
Your harmonies opened up something you didn't hear before. "You're dragging the word at the end on the sixth bar," you soon say. "Sounds really good but a little crowded. If you clip it, the melodies can fill up the space instead."
He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then he rewinds, plays it again, and envisions your input.
". . Damn."
You watch him bite down on a slow, pretty smile. "That's perfect, mama."
"Really?" Your shoulders lift to your ears as you brighten up with a wide grin. You watch him nod and stand, already making his way for the booth.
"You got plans in the morning?"
"Just . . rehearsals, I think."
He's shaking his head with his hand on the booth's door. "Cancel it. I wanna run this again after you sleep on it. Fresh ears matter." A second passes. He licks his lips. "I want you to have breakfast with me, too."
There it is. An opening.
Your eyes go a little wide and you shift on your feet, looking up into the same stormy, hazel eyes that never seem to blink first. ". . . O-oh. Okay."
Something unreadable flickers across his face — something that appears crossed between contentment and contemplation. "I'll pick you up around ten."
ׅ ❤︎
Connie rides with you, his driver, and Reiner again back to your hotel at three in the morning. Vegas' lights still twinkle bright and people walk the strip, dressed in mini skirts and half button ups with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. He doesn't appear as tired as you as he sits beside you, arm thrown over the back of your headrest again. His eyes remain sharp, staring out of the tinted windows at the bustling city. It makes you wonder how many long nights he's pulled like this. How many hours has he stayed up before his body has collapsed from exhaustion. He doesn't seem to mind walking you up to your suite. He stands beside you on the entire elevator ride up, quiet and intense, as always.
"Uhm," you stop in front of the double doors with a keycard in hand and turn to face him. He forgot his jacket. He's still donned in his all black fit, electric blue swimming through warm blond upon his head. "So . ."
"I'll send the track over to the labels around six," he says, not giving the awkwardness time to grow. ". . . I want you to sleep. Cut your phone off."
He says it like an instruction . . . as if your rest has already been accounted for in a plan that you don't know of. Your head tilts, eyes grow softer than usual. Connie's jaw flexes. "You're not gonna sleep, too?"
He shrugs, "I will." When he reads the uncertainty radiating off of you, a slight smirk pulls at his lips. "No te preocupes. I been doin' this for a long time."
You give a sigh, "You should, Connie." His statement doesn't answer for your concerns but you don't think he cares, therefore, you turn to swipe your keycard and push open the door a crack when the machine flashes green. There's something suspended in the air between you two. Not awkward, not particularly dramatic. Just . . . loaded.
"Ten," is the last thing he says. "Get some sleep, for real."
"You'll be able to tell if I don't?" It's a small tease. A little push back against him but you notice his eyes squint. Not in annoyance but assessment.
"Yeah."
"Mm, how?"
He takes one step closer and your pulse skips. The small smile you wore gently fades. "I'll hear it," he replies, voice low. "In your voice."
He doesn't grin when he says it. It's matter of fact, spoken like it's obvious. You try to search his face for exaggeration but there isn't any. You swallow, "Okay." Ten. You keep that little, three lettered word in mind as you finally give him a little wave before stepping inside your room.
Connie watches your door slowly close. He makes sure he hears the latch click into place before he turns and strides back down the hall without looking back. His mind feels like a live wire — buzzing, sparking, and refusing to power off.
Ten.
ׅ ❤︎
Annie's suspicious when you call her at nine am. "Why . . . are you calling me before rehearsals?" she asks. You hear the doubt in her tone and it makes you feel like you're five all over again with your parents asking you if you put glitter all over your pomeranian.
Your cheeks burn as you toe at your suitcase that sits, flopped open in the middle of your hotel room's living area, dressed in only a robe with your bonnet on. " 'm having breakfast . . with Connie . . ."
"Breakfast," she repeats, tone dry. "With Connie . . ."
". . . Mhm . . ."
"What the hell happened in that studio last night, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱? Let me do damage control while I can—"
Your eyes are squeezing closed and your body tenses as you squeak out, "—Nothing! I swear, I swear! Oh my god, Annie!"
"You do not cancel rehearsals over a casual breakfast, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."
Without thinking, you blurt, "But it's not casual!"
The minute the words leave your mouth, you melt onto the floor on your knees beside your suitcase and drop your forehead into your palm. Stupid. You are so stupid.
Annie's quiet . . . in a way that shows that she's slowly processing. "Ah," she soon mutters. "So, it's not casual."
"That's . . n-not what I meant, Annie."
"Then what did you mean."
You groan, "Nothing happened last night. We worked on the song, it was nice. We just, talked a little bit, finished, he dropped me off at the hotel, walked me to my door then left."
"Is he picking you up?"
While fiddling with the tie of your robe, you softly shrug as if she can see you, "I think his security is."
"You're letting his security pick you up."
"He told me it's just to go upstairs to the restaurant. It's private."
She echos a, "Oh, it's private."
"Annie."
You hear her breathe out a sharp sigh. You can already see her in the same position as you. Dressed to the nines in an all black, perfectly tailored pantsuit. Make up already done, blond bob perfectly straightened with her forehead in her palm. You're her proudest achievement and biggest headache sometimes.
". . . You like him," she soon says.
Her words make you still.
. . . Do you?
You haven't really . . thought about it like that. ". . I dunno."
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, please don't lie to me."
You're pouting now, "He jus' . . makes me nervous."
"That is not the same thing and you know it."
A silence stretches on. You keep your mouth shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing at this point. You hear Annie inhale a breath this time. "Okay, you get two hours. Rehearsals aren't canceled, they're postponed. I'll let Anthony and the dancers know. No disappearing, no leaving anywhere without security. Say you understand."
"I understand," a weight feels like it's been removed off of your chest. ". . I think he just wants to talk."
"Men like that don't ever just want to talk."
She makes you swear that you won't do anything career altering before you've had some type of caffeine in your system and after you hang up, you're left to stare at your reflection within the dark tv screen across the room while a big, slow smile subconsciously spreads across your lips and you're left to squeal into a throw pillow as you kick your feet.
ׅ ❤︎
The outfit you choose to wear is something crossed between soft glam and streetwear. A baby blue micro skirt works as your statement piece and an oversized, fleecy, grey hoodie with a sky blue, air brushed background softens it all up. A pair of white, Isabel Marant sneakers maintains that edge you're going for and after doing your own make up and accessorizing with a bag and cute, silver jewelry, you feel ready to go.
Connie's security are two men of very few words. One of them knocks on the door, asks if you're ready, then the both of them keep you sandwiched between them, one in front, one behind, at all times the entire walk to the car. Your stomach is fluttering with butterflies the entire ride over to the restaurant. you wonder which he chose, if he's already ordering, what he'll order.
"Upstairs," the hostess tells you with a nod when you arrive.
More security is waiting at the top of the stairs when a red velvet rope is unhooked to allow you entry. They mutter soft, respectful "Good morning"s before parting to let you walk further in. You already see him, with his back against a wall, seated in a chair with dark sunglasses rested on the table beside a clean, empty plate.
You find the restaurant to be quite beautiful. Exposed brick makes it feel homely while large, tall windows maintain a quiet feel of luxury. Connie's standing when you close the distance between you both. He's wearing a tailored, burgundy quarter zip over black pants and new, wheat timbs. The blue in his hair has been washed out, leaving it only blond. He looks . . . yummy.
"G'mornin'," you softly smile, letting him pull out your chair so that you're able to take a seat.
"Mornin', ma." you watch him take his. He flicks his fingers towards himself a few times then says, "So . . . lemme hear it."
"Hear what?"
"Your voice. I wanna hear it."
You can't help it. A soft, squeaking giggle bursts out of you before you can help it. "Connie, 'm literally talking right now."
He shakes his head once, "Mm-mm. That was a laugh."
Slyly, you roll your eyes, "What am i supposed to say?"
"Anything."
Your fingers fidget with the binded leather of the menu as you try to find a word, ". . . Hi."
"That all you got?"
"You're weird."
He smirks. It makes you blush. "There it is." Just by that, he can tell you slept. You find yourself to be a little scared to ask how, so you don't. But you wonder.
Thankfully, a waiter approaches to fill your glasses with water and ask for orders before a silence stretches on for too long. You listen to Connie's deep, raspy voice reply, "Mangú con los tres golpes. Eggs fried hard, please," and almost as if it were an afterthought he adds, "And a black coffee."
Connie watches the waiter nod, jot it all down, then turn his head towards you. "Uhm, do you have chocolate chip waffles?. . Seriously? Okay, yay, that please? With a side of breakfast potatoes and . . . a peach lemonade."
When told that your orders will be out shortly, then being left alone, Connie reaches for his glass of water. "Chocolate chips?"
He watches your spine straighten. You feel judged. "Yes."
"In the morning."
"Mhm."
After a sip of his water, he sets it back down on its coaster like he has all the time in the world. "That's bold."
"It's breakfast." You're starting to pout. It's cute.
"You always order what you actually want?"
Your head tilts. "What do you mean?"
"Most people order what they think sound grown," he leans back, folds his arms over his chest then lightly shrugs. "Egg whites, dry toast, green juice. Shit like that."
"I order what I like," you respond with another head tilt. He's sure you don't know how cute you look when you do them. ". . So what's mangú?"
He lifts his eyebrows, "¿No lo sabes?" It slips out of him, calm yet measured. It isn't like you haven't heard him speak spanish before . . however, all of those other times were usually instances of him saying something quickly, as though he simply couldn't help it. And, in other cases, while performing. This time feels different. Maybe it's because this time feels slightly more intentional and his question is directed at you.
You've been around enough spanish speakers though to somewhat translate what he asks. Shyly, you shake your head.
He studies you for a second longer then unfolds his arms. "It's basically jus' mashed, green plantains," he says. His voice is lower now, less guarded. "Some people use butter . . some oil. Red onions. Los tres golpes means three hits. Eggs, fried cheese, salami, that's all."
Your tummy growls. A slow smile spreads across his lips as your face burns hot. "That sounds really yummy."
"It is."
"Is it like, a special occasion thing?"
He shakes his head, leaned a little bit more towards you. You've realized you're doing it, too. "Nah, that's regular. That's home."
Home. You imagine a younger Connie, walking the streets of Brooklyn with headphones over his ears and a backpack hanging off of his shoulder. You can see him sitting somewhere loud yet warm with a plate of that in front of him. Your voice is gentle when you ask, "Do you miss it?"
He seems to think about your question. You appreciate that — he never answers anything without reflecting for a second. It's refreshing. "Sometimes."
"Mm," you find that now that you've gotten the both of you in this space right here, you can finally also ask, "Is Connie your real name?"
His eyes are more brown than grey or green today. They're dark and assessing as they search yours as if to decide how much of him you get today. "Why?"
You slightly lift a shoulder then let it drop, "It sounds like it could be, but also like . . it's not."
"It ain't." He's still staring. You hold it for the longest you ever have with him. "It's Constance."
You blink. The room feels quieter now. The both of you are speaking quietly and you aren't sure of when that happened. "Constance?"
He nods. Once. "Yeah."
He watches you study him, like you're trying to fit it on him. ". . . That's pretty."
The sudden compliment makes the both of you still. You, from shock of having said it out loud, Connie, because no one's ever really said that to him without some irony attached to it. His jaw shifts. You watch him slowly lean back while exhaling through his nose, "You real comfortable right now," he says with no real bite.
Another head tilt. You smile real big until your eyes form crescents, "Am I?"
He tries hard not to, but he ends up smirking anyway. His blink is slow when he hums, "Mhm."
Both of your plates arrive not too long after. Yours is set down in front of you first — waffles stacked high with pockets of chocolate melted within the batter and powdered sugar dusted over top with your breakfast potatoes settled on their own separate plate. Cheese still melts over top of them with bacon and chives sprinkled all over.
Connie's is next. His plate is heavy enough to fall onto the table with a thunk. Steam spirals from the mound of mangú, whipped smooth between two fried hard eggs. Salami glimmers with crisped edges and thick, golden slices of queso frito sit along the side of them. His savory versus your sweet.
"You lookin' at mine like you regret somethin'," he mumbles.
"Leave me alone."
Connie watches you carefully pour syrup all over your waffles, gather your knife and fork, then begin to cut them. Come your first bite, you're melting with a happy sigh out through your nose yet your eyes can't help drifting to his plate.
He cuts into his eggs, mixes the golden yolk with the pale mangú with slow, practiced movements then bites.
For a moment, you both are quiet.
". . Can I try?"
Connie's not surprised. He doesn't tease, doesn't mock. "Hm." He pushes his plate a little bit closer to yours with no hesitation. He eyes how your fork moves. You do the same thing he does — plantain with egg, mix them, then you push it past your lips.
Rich warmth coats every inch of your tastebuds. "Oh." With a hand over your mouth to cover it as you chew, your eyebrows furrow in. "Oh my gosh."
Connie doesn't know how to take it, "You like it?"
You're nodding, "It tastes like a dream."
He can't help exhaling a soft laugh. "Fuck. A dream?"
"Mhm . . like . . like something someone makes when they love you." When it's all swallowed down, you're spearing a piece of waffle on your fork then holding it towards him. "Your turn."
For a moment, he simply looks at it then back at you. He never says anything. You expected him to take the fork and slide the piece onto his plate, however it's surprising when he only lowers his head and takes the bite directly from it. Your breath catches. You watch the way his jaw moves, how syrup glistens upon his lips, how he watches you as he chews.
Eventually, he mutters, "It's sweet."
"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy. You're still reeling.
"Yeah."
He swallows as you try to regain your ground. ". . . You really don't like sugar?"
"Not unless I need it."
You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Underneath the table, your foot unwittingly nudges against his, but what's weird is . . . he doesn't move it away. He keeps it there as if he wants you to do it again. The air surrounding the table sparks with electricity — this doesn't feel like just breakfast anymore and you have an inkling that you both know that whatever is unfolding between you isn't just harmless curiosity, but also mutual and deliberate. It's impossible to now pretend that neither of you feel it.
ׅ ❤︎
A week passes by quickly.
And after Vegas is Houston. The city known for its widely diverse culinary and culture brings lots of interviews which means you end up staying for a week. Monday is full of radio interviews. You hop from station to station to promote the new single featuring Connie that's already been hitting ten million streams per day after last friday's release. You answer questions about the tour ("I don't think i've ever had this much fun in my life"), how life is on the road ("It's . . a lot. but, I love it"), and how it's been sharing the stage with someone as big as Connie Springer. Your answer to that one consistently remains the same — "He's someone that I truly do admire. His work ethic is one of a kind and he's taught me a lot. I really do appreciate him for making me apart of something as special as this."
Tuesday becomes your one and only day where no one asks anything of you — no press runs, shoots, or recordings. Just . . . quiet. You sleep it away as though you've been drugged, phone completely powered off, curtains drawn over your hotel room's large windows, and do not disturb sign hung from your doorknob. Your parents call near the night and while facetiming on your Macbook, you watch the two of them make dinner while babbling about the sights you've been seeing, your favorite tour nights so far, and filling them in on your next stops to go.
You leave certain details out . . . ones including stormy, hazel eyes and an aura so brooding that it makes anyone near him want to choke on their own tongue.
Wednesday marks nothing but rehearsals. Anthony has you practicing new choreography with sharper footwork and faster transitions.
He makes you drill the same section over and over again until your lungs feel like they're on fire and sweat trickles down into crevices of your body that you didn't even know was possible. You lose yourself in it though, happily, might you add, because ever since breakfast in Vegas, you've been avoiding him.
You make sure your rehearsal slots are no longer matched up. If his team blocks out the stage from one to three, you suddenly prefer mornings. If a double booked studio session occurs, you're feeding Annie some excuse about how your voice needs rest.
The first day feels like coincidence.
By the second, it's deliberate.
By the third, it's routine.
It all becomes a quiet and careful choreography of its own — enter here, exit there, arrive after he leaves, leave after he arrives. Because truth be told, after that breakfast, after the foot nudge underneath the table, you two talked for three more hours.
The both of you got so lost in conversation, in each other, that by the time one of you realized, both of your teams had been blowing your phones up, wondering what the hell was going on. It was during these conversations that he asked about your life, what made you upload those first couple songs on Soundcloud all those years ago, why you kept going even when nobody was listening yet.
You told him things you don't usually say out loud.
About recording covers underneath the covers in your childhood bedroom because you've always been so painfully shy. About saving money from house cleaning jobs to afford a decent microphone. About how the first time one of your songs cracked twenty thousand plays, you stayed up all night refreshing it just to make sure the numbers weren't a glitch. You even told him how sometimes, it still feels a little bit strange listening to tens of thousands of people screaming your lyrics back to you nearly every night.
And he listened.
Intensely — with his body leaned in close to yours, hands interlocked between his knees underneath the table, dark gaze steady as he sometimes asked a question that proved he was truly listening.
You learned more about him too.
About the songs his mother used to play around the house when he was a boy, all the fights he got into until he hit the age of fifteen, and how he first got signed when he turned twenty. ever so often did spanish slip into his sentences, fast and natural, and nearly every time did you have to timidly pause him to translate.
He'd halt mid sentence, blink once like he forgot you didn't speak it, then do so softly.
Something about the way he spoke — half spanish, half english — voice calm and low like it was the most natural rhythm in the world, kept your attention completely hooked on him even when you tried to force yourself to look away.
At one point in time, while reaching for your glass of lemonade, your hand bumped his. His arm'd been outstretched, hand lazing on the table. He didn't flinch away, same thing with his foot. And for some reason, you decided to let your finger keep put too, and for almost an hour, you both spoke like that — pinkies only sometimes grazing each other's as if you'd been star-crossed lovers at some point in time, destined for each other in some other life.
Your heartbeat had started to pick up a strange pattern. Not fast enough to panic, though not slow enough to be calm neither. You were hyperaware of his hand, his leg brushing against yours every now and again, the way his gaze lingered on your birthmark, how he barely smirked when you laughed.
When you finally walked away from that breakfast, phone buzzing with a dozen missed calls and a weak feeling in your knees, what was once contentment slowly darkened into dread. Because up until that morning, Connie had been just a collaborator. A collaborator that made you nervous sometimes, sure, but after . . . he just . . wasn't that anymore.
Which is exactly why you've been dodging him for so many days now.
You're exhausted by Thursday, sure, but exhaustion helps. It keeps your mind busy and off of him. you told yourself distance will get your mind back right too. No contact, no touching, no words, you'll be fine.
But, then Thursday night happens. You're lying in your hotel bed with an episode of severance playing on the television screen and popping peanut m&ms into your mouth one by one, all of them sorted by color. The reds, greens, oranges, then brown. You save the blues for last because they look prettier.
Suddenly, your phone buzzes. It's a text from Annie.
She sends you a link and right below that is her text — a simple '?'
Instantly, you click on it without reading the preview. The page loads for a while before a tweet is suddenly covering the breadth of your phone screen. It's short . . . blunt. It makes your heart drop as you stare at it for two seconds longer. His fans are in speculation mode. lots of 'who????' 'album bout to go crazy' and 'pls go live's. It's as you’re scrolling through the other thousands of them when another pops up on his feed.
Neither tweet has a name to it but his tone reads sharp to anyone with working sight.
Your stomach feels like it's in a knot. Everything is pointing to them being about you, even when you try to talk yourself out of it that they're not. you quickly lock your phone, shove it underneath your pillow, and breathe out a shaky exhale while trying to focus back on the show. You don't reply to Annie. You don't make a subtweet back. Tomorrow's rehearsals start early in preparation for the show. deep down, you're now aware your little dance around Connie isn't going to last that much longer.
ׅ ❤︎
When morning comes, a nauseating feeling of unease sits within the pit of your gut akin to a dumbbell dropped into wet cement.
At three am, you went ahead and scrolled through Connie's twitter account to assess if he does that often — subtweets. And he doesn't. His feed is clean . . an occasional fan retweet praising his music . . or one from his label promoting a single or album. Sometimes he shares a link to a song he seems to have on repeat (about a year ago, one of them was yours, you tried not to freak out too much about it) or to a cause he donates to. Never does he post anything in reference to what's going on in his personal life which makes his last two more impactful.
He's past the point of patience, you realize. He's noticed your little game and he doesn't like it.
You keep moving anyway.
You rehearse like usual with Anthony and your dancers. Muscle memory takes over while your brain floats on an entirely different realm. Annie works in a wardrobe fitting. You focus on yourself, even while realizing Connie's team starting to pour in one by one, you disregard them. Hours past like that until four o clock ticks off into five — three hours before the show. The stadium starts to empty out, slowly as everyone parts for their routine before it does.
You're grabbing your insulated water bottle and phone from off of the stage floor and zipping up your defined jacket over its matching sports bra you wear while walking through the wings, on your way towards an exit ramp.
Your body is tired, but, in a rare, satisfying way. You're prepared for tonight. Until . .
"Yo."
You completely freeze. You smell him before you see him. Blunt smoke and vanilla. Tentatively, you turn on the heels of your Chanel sneakers to see him standing near the bottom of the stage stairs, leaning against them like he's been there for a while. It's darker down there. He's dressed in a red hoodie with its hood thrown over his head, baggy black jeans, and distressed sneakers with a blunt pinched between his fingers. Its ember glows within the low light he’s enshrouded in.
Smoke lazily curls from the end of it as he motions with his chin, "C'mere."
His eyes, glossy and red, watch you closely. Your own seem to tremble as you go to shake your head.
You hesitate, ". . . I'm good—"
His voice cuts through the nearly empty stadium, calm but edged, "—Stop fuckin' playin' wit' me, ꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱." His words seem to echo, even though he smoothly pushes them out and your chest tightens.
Slowly, reluctantly, you walk down the stairs to meet him at the bottom. The smell of weed is more potent now. Nonetheless, you still think it mixes well with his cologne. Up close, only three steps away from each other, tension is rolling off of him in waves. It makes a knot of stress form within the base of your neck, almost immediately.
Smoke leaves his mouth in a slow stream as he carefully studies your face, "Look at me."
You chew on the inside of your cheek, wavering, before blinking up to stare at him from beneath your lashes.
"How long you gon' do this."
Your throat tightens, "Do what?"
His tone is dry when he replies, "You been duckin' and dodgin’ me all week . . . and now you gon' stand here and act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."
"I haven't been doing anything—"
"—Lie better."
His bluntness hits you with the force of a slap.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Look away. Then sigh. "Connie—"
"—Don't," his voice cuts through as his eyes barely squint. "Don't do that soft shit."
"I've just been busy."
You watch him blink slow, deeply inhale, run a hand down his jaw, then slowly blow it out. "You think I'm stupid?. . ." When you remain quiet, he continues. "Nah, I'm for real. Tell me."
Your heart is starting to beat faster when you respond, "No."
"Then why you actin' like I am?"
" 'm not actin' like anything . . I jus' . . . needed space."
He'd been going to take another hit from his blunt however when you finish your sentence, his hand pauses halfway up towards his mouth and he quietly repeats the word in disbelief, "Space . ." Slowly, he begins to nod. While looking away, he takes the hit, holds it in for a second, then lazily lets the smoke pour from his mouth once more. His eyes are back on you when he resumes speaking, "You've always had space."
"That space was different."
"¿Cómo diferente?"
Your head tilts. His eyes are lazy, almost bored when he slowly bites out,
"How . . . was it . . . different."
Your throat feels tight. You don't know why you have a sudden urge to cry. He’s never been so curt with you. "It's . . . a lot."
"Mm."
"This," you find yourself gesturing between the both of you. "You. You're a lot, Connie."
His gaze suddenly grows sharp, "You scared?"
The question catches you completely off guard. You wouldn't particularly use that word. Rubbing your glossy lips together, you pause, ". . . You're intense."
It shocks you when he suddenly huffs out a short laugh. "Intense."
"It's scary . . you're like," you take in a deep breath and rub your fingers over your eyebrows. "You're getting in my head. I dunno know what to do."
" 's been a week, a whole week of you treatin' me like I'm some fuckin' random," his eyebrows furrow in deep when he asks, "You think I'm takin' you somewhere you don't wanna go?"
You're aware of how immature you may seem now. Spoiled, ungrateful, childish, because from what you’ve heard, Connie hand picked you out of the thousands of other alt-r&b and indie pop artists out there to open his first stadium tour, not anyone else. You're almost shrinking back when you mewl, "That's not what I—"
"—You think I want a version of you that ain't real? Playin’ these stupid ass games? You think I'm playin' with you?"
"What? No." You shake your head quickly as his questions hit you with the force of a thunderclap.
'"Then what?"
"I don't . . 'm not . ." you clamp your mouth shut and look down at your feet. " 've never felt like this before. It's scary."
The confession hangs between you both for a moment. You're terrified of looking back up at his face in fear of what you might find — confusion, disgust, or even amusement. Your voice grows even quieter, borderline a whimper when you say, "You make me feel steady . . it's weird."
His stare is penetrating. You fight to ignore it as you continue with the main thing that’s been plaguing your brain all day.
". . . Then you called me irritating."
For the first time tonight, Connie's mouth twitches with a smirk. He doesn't try to hide it when you eventually look up at him. He simply brings his blunt to his lips again while murmuring, "You saw that, hm?"
"Everybody saw it."
"Good."
Silence takes room again. Connie runs his eyes across you. From the new, tiny ginger boho braids that hang from your scalp down to your knees, your pretty face full of dejection, tits sitting up sweet and full in your bra, to the shoes at your feet. ". . You done runnin'?" he blows the smoke out. " 'Cause i don't chase for long. Tell me you'on want this and I'll back off."
Something in you grows absolutely petrified, because you know he's telling the truth. He will back off and you don’t know if you can handle not having the part of connie that obviously isn’t shown to majority of the world. Some other part of you, more smaller, delights in it. Because, "I do, but if you leave . . ." you rub at your eyebrows again, feeling something in you absolutely shatter. it’s as if a small pin has been shot into glass and something in your chest collapses as your voice grows soft again when you whimper out a watery, "Fuck." You hate this feeling. This is why you've been avoiding him for so long.
Connie doesn't make a move to comfort you. Not yet. "You think I'm somebody that's temporary?"
You don't answer. You remain rubbing at your forehead with your head down, pressing at it as if you can somehow work out your anxiety, and that's when Connie finally moves. He drops his blunt, crushes it beneath his shoe, then pulls you in by the waist to force your head up. Oh. You're pretty when you cry. All watery eyed, pouty lipped, and weak.
"Hm." He wipes your tears away with his thumb, watching you sniffle. "Don't ice me out like that again. Ion play that shit."
There's no yelling. No threat. Just a dark, bolded lined boundary.
You believe him. Completely. Your breathing is shaky when you softly murmur, ". . Okay," with your voice softer than what it's been in what feels like years. Connie takes heed, instantly. Something dark yet sweetly warm settles beneath his eyes. His hand slides a little bit higher up your side, steadying you when you sniffle again. "Look at you, ma," he utters. He watches your eyebrows faintly knit as his thumb catches on the wetness smeared under your bottom lashes. "Whole week you been runnin'," his opposite hand finds a soft grip at the hem of your leggings. "And now you right here."
Before you can let yourself think for long . . .
You stand on your tip toes, curl your arms around the back of his neck, and tug him down to your lips.
For a split second, he doesn't move. Your stomach drops instantly. You think that maybe the move was too much, too fast but then . . his hand at your cheek, slides down to your throat, and suddenly, he's kissing you back. It isn't soft nor hesitant. It's deep . . and possessive. Entirely consuming.
The force of it, pushes you back a step as you gasp, feeling his lips in pursuance of yours.
His mouth moves against yours as though he's been holding it back for days. You quickly lose yourself — hiccuping between the slick sounds of your lips meeting then separating. Your fingers clutch at his hood as your head spins, feeling the web of his hand force your chin up higher in order for his tongue to slowly swathe against the roof of your mouth.
He tastes like weed . . . and dark roast coffee. It's dizzying.
"C-con . . nie."
"Mmm." He pulls away . . slowly, as if he's trying to commit your taste to memory before he does. Your vision feels blurred. You blink once, then twice, before it focuses again. But then he's back and your eyes are fluttering closed once more. His lips are soft and full, tapping at your own for slow pecks as though he's unable to get enough. The press of his body is solid, broad, and warm and you feel it — the quiet demand that you don't pull away. So, you don't. You give in, letting him guide, letting him claim the space he's always wanted you in.
Between warm breaths he murmurs, "You mine now?"
You're in a daze when you mewl back "Mhm," while nodding.
"You gon' let me treat you right?" His voice is gruff though he's almost teasing with something darker lying underneath.
You nod again, "Yeah . ." The admission feels a lot like surrender. He hums low and the sound seems to vibrate through your entire body, settling in your chest and pooling warm within your tummy. Giving into him softens the tension you've been holding onto for weeks. There's no need for anymore words. The confirmation of this not being casual nor fleeting makes everything feels heavy . . and real. You're sleepy, you realize. Your mind hasn't gone this quiet in a long time so you let your arms fall around his abdomen, lean closer into him, and press the side of your face against his stomach.
"See." He holds his hand at your back. "That wasn't so hard."
You're still sniffling and slightly pouting when you whisper back, "It was terrifying."
"I could tell."
". . . What happens now?"
You feel him lean his back against the railing and widen his stance to somehow bring you into him even closer, "You stop actin' like i'm temporary."
Your heartbeat skips. "And you . ." you hum and pause for a second, ". . stop tweeting mean stuff about me."
A chuckle is exhaled through his nose. ". . I ain't mean nothin' by that shit."
"Still mean."
In all fairness, you were irritating him but Connie decides to let you win this one. His hand, the one at your waist, softly squeezes it as a silent give in. He'll chill . . as long as you don't pull away like that ever again.
ׅ ❤︎
Life goes on mostly the same after that.
Or at least, from the outside it does. That same night, you perform with something new buzzing beneath your skin. The stage lights are blinding, the crowd's loud as ever, and you can feel him, still . . . his stare. He watches from the wings, as always, eyes focused, arms folded over his chest and hand cupped over his mouth. You catch his gaze a few times — it almost trips you up but you gather yourself quickly before a camera even notices.
Everything's the same, but . . . different.
When you're off stage, he's there . . most times now, parting from you with a subtle kiss to your temple that a nearby onlooker can almost miss before his set. It makes you giddy all the while. You watch him perform too. Eyes wide and transfixed on the large screens that track his every move and expression.
When shows are over, he's the first one there at the door of your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that same quiet patience he always carries as he waits alongside Reiner for you to gather your belongings. Then he's tossing an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side and directing you out into the private parking garage to help you climb into an escalade with him in tow.
Both of your teams notice . . . no one says anything.
You guess part of the reason why is because Connie's always been a private guy. Not a single soul has ever approached him with a direct question about his personal life, aside from a rare, bold blogger. You like it. Too many questions would mess up you guys' pace, you think. Because truth is — he's never spent a single night with you. Each show it's the same routine, he drives with you to your hotel with his thumb drawing idle circles into the back of your hand as the cities whizz by through tinted windows. Walks you through the lobby, to the elevator where the both of you stand quietly, letting the machine carry you up to the suite. He always swipes your keycard for you when you make it to your door, pushes it open, steps inside and is only in there for about two minutes time.
Within those two minutes, he never really says much because after a low "C'mere" he's always kissing you . . . slow at first, like he's reminding himself to take it easy, then all devouring. His height and weight usually ends up boxing you within a corner, without him seeming to try because one step forward for him is two steps back for you, leaving you surrounded with just him. Hotel hallways have cameras — and Connie knows what you two look like when this happens . . . the soft sounds that can't help slipping out of your mouth when it goes on for too long, your tongues swirling against one another's.
The shit he does to you would have you both front page on every blog site within ten minutes of him leaving to his own room. So, he always pulls away first. "Shower. Phone off. Sleep," he consistently murmurs after he steps back towards the door. It always sounds like something he forces himself to say. Like it physically costs him something to stop.
Sometimes you smile to yourself when he leaves. Sometimes you pout.
Because Connie's never been the one to linger nor does he stand around talking. He gives you, only you, those two minutes and you begin to cherish them.
It's in Miami, a couple weeks after Houston, when the masks slip.
There's an album release party one of your industry friends, Mikasa, throws. Connie happens to also know her. It's on the rooftop of a sky high building. You socialize as needed, sticking with Annie and Kennedy, one of your dancers who's been growing into a close friend. Your dress is tiny, fitted, and red . . entirely backless which shows off the pretty dip of your spine and plush butt sitting up high within it. You feel pretty.
You catch Connie's eye occasionally. He nurses a glass of something dark with two ice cubes in it. whenever he takes a sip, his eyes are searching over the slope of it through the dozens of people For yours. You can't help teasing a bit . . you let your gaze linger on his before you're looking away to refocus on something someone's saying. When someone has to shuffle by to squeeze past you, you smooth your hands down the sides of your dress afterward — pressing out invisible wrinkles, palms tracing your waist slow, to an onlooker, absentmindedly all while knowing your back is in his direct line of sight. Connie's never been one to not be composed, though, even given your little games. Not until the night grows dim. He keeps an eye on you for nearly the entirety, glancing at you giggle, chat with friends, have a shot.
Then suddenly, you're gone.
Everyone's winding down — taking seats on the lounge couches as the music grows softer and alcohol settles into bloodstreams. You'd been standing near the railing with Kennedy, he saw, but now Kennedy's alone and Annie's taking a phone call in the corner. Connie's jaw ticks. What the fuck? Never the type to announce his departure, he simply eases off from a conversation about streaming numbers and touring logistics to head inside the building.
Briskly, his eyes sweep the hall as he walks. Elevator, unmoving. Women taking pictures of themselves in a mirrored panel. He inhales a sharper breath than his last while easing to the restrooms. He takes his chance with the women's by carefully nudging it open just enough to look inside . . . and there you are – sitting on the marble counter with your head bowed, shoulders slumped, and phone held loosely in your hand as a ten second clip constantly replays.
"Aye . ." Connie's moving before he can stop himself.
Your head snaps up.
You've been crying. Your make up isn't completely fucked but the dark shadow that'd been thinly buffed beneath your glossy eyes is smudged now. He goes still when he's standing in front of you, "What happened."
For a moment, you don't answer. Though his face doesn't show it, Connie's stumped. You'd just been laughing and enjoying yourself. He’s at a lost.
Eventually, after swallowing the knot in your throat, you nudge your phone into his hands. A tiktok video is paused on the face of some music critic — white guy, glasses, and scrawny. When connie presses play, he hears it, "She's pretty, don't get me wrong. Dreamy. A gorgeous girl. Music's," his lip twists while his shoulder lifts. "nice. But can she carry a stadium tour alone? I don't think so."
The video sits with two million views and three hundred thousand likes.
Something hard settles beneath Connie's stare. He listens to you sniff as he powers your phone off and places it face down on the counter beside your thigh. " 's so stupid, I know," you hiccup.
The bathroom is quiet aside from your breathing.
" 's . . . it's trending everywhere." You've never been the type to care about stuff like this. However, you can't help but notice that something feels different about it this time around. "It k-keeps popping up on my feeds like it's . . the funniest thing anyone's ever said."
You look away, letting his words bounce around your skull, "Pretty," you bite out weakly. ". . dreamy. I . . . d-dunno if 'm built for this, Connie."
For a moment, Connie takes you in.
Really takes you in. A girl in a red dress, teary eyed, and hurt over a fucking loser making videos in his friend's attic. "Wipe your face, ma," he says it but he's already doing it himself. Grabs you by the chin and dabs your tears away with careful presses of his thumbs. "Why the fuck you lettin' somebody like that get into yo' ear about what you can and can't carry?"
You look away, sad and huffy. ". . Because people listen to him."
"People listen to all types of shit, that don't hold no weight." He doesn't like this . . this feeling of knowing that he can't shut the whole thing down for you. He's unable to reach into the internet and bury the words into a black hole before they get to you. It makes him feel incompetent. Eventually, he sighs through his nose.
"You sold out three nights in LA . . two in Seattle . . two in Houston . . Chicago broke the fuckin' ticket site for a minute. Every crowd knows every lyric you wrote." Your lashes flutter as you look down at his chest where a pair of platinum dogtags hang on a chain. ". . . Pretty," he ultimately sucks his teeth then gives a small squeeze to your thigh. "Yeah . . you are. But that ain't why people show up."
"Mmm." His words feel good.
Slowly, as if shy, you drop your head onto his shoulder. Immediately, Connie's hand is at the back of your neck, grounding you back calm. His voice is quieter when he says, "You don't ever break down in front of the internet. Fuck that shit. You break down here." A kiss to your temple and you mewl. "You cry. I fix it."
His words invoke you to breathe out a small giggle, “. . You make it sound easy.”
His thumb drags slow strokes up and down your nape, inattentively but steady, similar to the way a person would pet a small, shaken kitten until it calms. “It can be.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His hand slowly lowers until it’s settled within the arch of your spine. His touch against your bare skin makes your nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. He presses into it to get you to open up your legs the slightest bit wider so that he can stand closer between them. “You need to forget that internet shit. And remember you got me watchin’ you.”
When your head lifts to look up at him, you take in his expression. It remains the same — always focused, stare always intense, but you watch his gaze drop to your lips for a split second before it flicks back up to your own. “You think I ain’t seen that lil shit you was pullin’ out there?”
“. . Huh?” your lips part as you feign innocence, “What stuff?”
“Mhm. Okay.”
Connie’d let his attention slip. Usually he’s better at keeping an eye peeled out on his surroundings, but you’ve got him in a trance. The bathroom door is suddenly pushed open by a woman, clearly not prepared to see a buff, six foot four man tatted and dark eyed talking to a girl seated on the counter. On instinct, she jumps where she stands which makes you jolt within Connie’s arms. He doesn’t apologize for the scare. “C’mon.” With an arm around your waist, he pulls you down until your heels hit the floor. He’s aware that your relationship has now been the slightest bit compromised but when the two of you are back at the party with your phone powered off in his pocket as he watches you giggle at something Kennedy says from across a crowd of people’s heads, he doesn’t have it in him to truly give a fuck.
ׅ ❤︎
Leg one of Connie's stadium tour ends in New York — as expected.
Madison Square Garden is booked for three nights, an entire weekend, and his famous, smiley faced emblem is displayed at the peak of the Empire State Building and beams out across the skyline as if the city itself is welcoming him home as soon as you all touch down. You recognize the change in Connie immediately. Somehow, he becomes even more quiet, retreats more inward, like a coil pulled into itself.
It's not nerves. Connie's nothing if not scarily calm at all times of the day but there resides something . . heavier about him. You see it when he first climbs the steps to the stage of night one's rehearsals. His hands rest idly at his sides, shoulders relaxed as his eyes dart across the entire span of the stadium, seemingly trying to catalogue each seat into his brain. When it's your turn to practice, he's not too far away, slowly pacing while watching how you execute each note, each step, each everything. As much as his presence has became something almost grounding to you, you think you'll always be just the slightest bit intimidated by him.
You say so when it's just the two of you standing there, on the little taped X's of your marks while the stage crew continues to bustle around the coliseum . . . "You're makin' me nervous."
His face doesn't change much — eyebrows only lift up a bit as he takes your words in. "How?"
"I dunno." Truthfully, you don't. ". . I think . .” Connie watches you look down at your feet which you shuffle from left to right on as your lips twist while you try to find the right words. Everything you do is somehow becoming more and more precious to him, he can’t help but wait patiently as you soon sigh. “I jus' . . wanna be good for you . . . for your city."
For the first time in a while, Connie smiles. It works its way across his lips slow, revealing nearly all of his perfect teeth. It's rare enough that it makes something in you grow tight and warm when you see it. “For my city, huh?” It’s there for a while before it melts off again — always serious, always intense. “You’on gotta worry about that. You always perfect." As your stomach flutters with new butterflies, you go to respond before you're cut off.
"Connie! Run it again from the first drop?"
He doesn't immediately look away from you. He remains staring at your face, examining your current expression before nodding towards the tech crew. "Yeah, let's do it."
A squeeze at your waist, then he's turning you towards the wings, "Go," he mumbles. "I ordered you some lunch. Eat."
You pout, not wanting to part so soon. This past week has been relentless. Both of your schedules have been jam packed, the only times you have been seeing him is during rehearsals, the show, and when he walks you up to your hotel suites. "But 'm not—"
Shaking his head, he's already pushing in his in-ears while clicking his tongue once, "—Didn't ask. I said go eat, ma." There's no edge in his tone but there's no room for arguing either.
He appreciates it when you simply give a nod after a few seconds. He reads it off of you — the restlessness, the nerves. You keep fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and chewing on the inside of your cheek. You need fuel and a nap. So you go.
ׅ ❤︎
The rest of the afternoon is a blur.
A plate of soul food from a spot Connie's frequented since he was a child is delivered to your dressing room, then vocal warm ups, followed by a short nap curled on the couch while the muffled sound of his setlist echoing throughout the stadium lulls you in and out of sleep. It's all well needed after one of your glam girls wakes you up about an hour and a half later with a gentle shake to your hip, "Hey, babe. Sorry. We gotta start gettin' you ready." You feel better than you have in days.
With a big stretch and yawn, you climb off of the couch and immediately into the chair in front of your vanity whose surface is already swimming with cosmetics and hair utensils. "What are we thinkin' for hair today?" She asks while gently fluffing it.
Softly, you blink at her through the mirror then go to touch your forty inch bundles that have been sewed in and dyed a pretty burgundy. "Mm, deep crimps today, please." You want to be at your absolute prettiest, reason obvious.
And as light foundation is buffed into your skin, shadow is pat on your eyelids, and your hair is crimped, you wonder about Connie. You think about the first time you performed at a big show in your hometown, remembering that minutes before you went on stage, you had felt like you wanted to cry. And for the strangest reason too — it'd just been different.
Being in your city surrounded by faces that've possibly gone to the same schools or grocery stores as you, that knew pieces of you felt both strengthening and nerve wracking. Connie's presence lingers within the back of your mind similar to a thick fog. You picture him in his own dressing room, head in his arms, as he tries to ground himself before going on, because even if he doesn't show it, you know that he's nervous.
A strange mix of fear and excitement swirls around you, nevertheless. He's been able to make the most ordinary of things feel electrified and you both are performing at Madison Square Garden. You can hear the buzz, the screams, you feel the anticipation. You know that he's going to kill it and you just hope that he doesn't feel the same pressure that you do.
But once those lights go up and the music swells, everything feels like it's been put in a matrix.
You don't remember seeing Connie at the wings, you barely even remember holding your mic up to your mouth, however, once you're off stage, you're immediately squeezed within a group hug so big that your lungs nearly collapse. "You did so good!" "Oh my fucking God!"
Connie's performance is nearly a streak in the haze, too. You guess it's because of all the adrenaline. Your focus is pinned on just a few things.
Him.
In a black varsity jacket made of wool with cream leather sleeves with his emblem stitched on the back in chenile. The stage lights kept catching on the open faced, diamond grillz that framed the bottom row of his teeth each time he smirked at the crowd and you distantly remember that same moment when he slowly peeled off his jacket, dropped it in the face of the pit, and listened to the crowd scream until nearly all of them were blue in the face.
He'd been slow . . controlled . . intense.
Songs blended together, screams became white noise, lights, fog, sweat, bone rattling bass, then suddenly . . it's all over. There'd been no dramatic goodbye from Connie once it all ended. He had only stood there with beads of sweat dripping down his temples to the swirling ink tatted across his nose. The applause sounded like crash of waves against shore.
With his hands pressed together, he bowed at the waist, mouthing his thank yous.
And just like that, he's lowered beneath the stage and Madison Square Garden night one is completed.
ׅ ❤︎
You're dressed in a pair of fold over micro shorts, a fitted crew neck that's been cut into a crop top with a pair of kitchen shears, slouchy socks, and nike cortezs when Connie finally sees you again for what feels like the first time in hours.
He doesn't shout your name or say anything — you simply open your dressing room door while checking your phone for the time, look up, and he's leaning against the wall as if he'd been there for a while.
"O-Oh."
His jacket is gone now. He wears just a white, distressed tee that stretches over the span of his broad shoulders, a diamond chain, black cargos, and a pair of clean air forces. "C'mere," when said by him, you have a front row peek at the diamonds that also still glisten within his mouth. You let him pull you closer, however, are unable to help trying to peek over his shoulder for the rest of his teem. "Aren't you gonna celebrate with them?"
"Niggas poured champagne all over me," he mumbles with a small kiss to your forehead. "They got their celebration. Ima get mine too."
Giggling, you lean in closer to get a whiff. Yeah. He smells like it. "Did they give you a sip at least?"
"Fuck no."
Connie watches you laugh. Your cheeks go fat at the apples and you smile so big, your eyes get squinty. He smirks. ". . Hm." You watch his reach up towards his neck. You think he's simply going to adjust the chain he wears, albeit, he's taking it completely off to then drape over your own neck. It's heavier than it looks. You immediately look down at the pendent of where platinum dog tags reflect back at you with engravings of his initials, C.S.
". . . Connie—"
"–Leave it. C'mon."
His voice is quiet and firm in a way that makes you clamp your lips shut and let him intertwine his fingers within the spaces of yours to lead you towards the exit ramp for the garage. Your face feels ten degrees warmer than usual as you go to touch the chain, still warm from his own skin. "W-Why are you lettin' me wear it?"
He keeps his eyes forward when he responds, "I'm lettin' you keep it. 's yours now, mama."
Cool, New York air hits your skin as soon as he pushes the door open. And for a moment, everything feels mostly normal until you hear them, until you see them . . . camera flashes.
"Connie! Connie, over here!"
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱, say hi!"
"Look this way!"
You freeze. Connie's security, who you hadn't even known been tailing you both, are quick to step in front of you and him, acting as a barricade against the small cluster of paparazzi that have managed to slip through the blockade separating the garage from the buzzing street. Your first instinct is to step away, turn, and go back to where which you came, however Connie's hand is at your waist, gently pushing you into the opened door of a sprinter as he uses his opposite arm to keep the flashes from completely blinding you as you step up and inside.
You barely have time to even blink before the door slams when you, him, and both his security are in your seats and the SUV is instantly pulling off.
For a second, the only thing heard are your uneven breaths. You think about Annie, your parents, your career. "O-Oh my god."
"꒰ ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ꒱."
Your hands are shaking when you press them to your temples and lower your forehead to your knees, "They got p-pictures, oh my God." The words come out thin and strained as if someone had been physically squeezing them from your chest.
Connie's palm is firm against the back of your neck. Heavy. Stabilizing. It makes your shoulders relax only the tiniest bit as your phone is already begins to buzz where it's held between the hemline of your shorts up against your skin. You can already see the headlines, the comments, the threats, the new intrusion into something that had only existed between you and Connie up until five minutes ago.
"You good," Connie's muttering. His voice is low . . measured. "You gotta breathe, ma."
You whimper, "T-This is bad, Connie."
"It ain't."
You lift your head and your fingers are immediately grabbing your phone. Notifications are already beginning to stack.
"Yo, give me that."
The device keeps vibrating. Two hundred jumps to eight hundred, then a thousand, then fifteen hundred. You don't want it. You don't want to see what they're already saying. With shaking fingers you push it into Connie's awaiting hand, watching him slip his own out from his pocket. He shuts yours off, completely, barely glances at his before doing the same, then shoves them back in. "Mami, you gotta calm down. Seriously."
You're suddenly aware of the city lights zipping by in long ribbons of red, gold, and white, and your anxiety only flares higher. "Where are we going?"
He's pulling at you . . dragging you actually, by the thigh, like he's already decided you need this, until you're seated sideways upon his lap. "Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out." His voice stays calm — almost bored, even. Like the situation happening outside of the car is the least of his worries.
Your breathing slows underneath his touch. Just barely. You don't have it in you to ask another question, so you don't. You let your body fall sideways until your face is tucked against his shoulder. With your new comfort, Connie lets his head fall back upon the seat and for a few minutes, neither of you say anything. You can hear his security's thumbs tap away as they send messages and scroll through feeds on their phones, likely scoping the damage of the new release of pictures.
Connie's hand begins to stroke up and down your back. Slow. Comforting.
Your voice is tiny when you mewl, ". . They're gonna tear me apart." You want to cry. "J-Just for bein' with you."
The words feel strange to say aloud, nonetheless, they're the truth. A man like Connie, with fans all over the globe, with three hundred million Instagram followers and counting, you know you've just stepped into some deep shit. "Pictures ain't the end of the world."
You look down at your shoes. "It feels like it."
Connie nods, "I know. But it ain't."
He sounds so calm, so . . at ease. It confuses you. With a frown, you lift your chin to look up at him, "You're not worried?"
He glances down at you then back out the tinted windows. "I knew this shit was gon' happen eventually."
"You did?"
"Mm." He's quiet for a second longer. " 's not like I was gon' keep you a secret forever anyway."
The sprinter turns off a main road into a gated one after the driver punches in a code on a keypad with his thumb. You're surrounded by tall, brick buildings of old warehouses with glass fronts near the water that have been converted into luxury lofts. The car doesn't stop until it's in front of the largest one with the skyline of New York painted behind it. "C'mon." Connie's pulling open the door and patting your thigh to get you to hop down. You don't have to ask where you are because it's somehow obvious. ". . . Is this . ."
No hesitation. With his arm around your waist, he's steering you into the direction of the glass door entrance, "Yeah. This my place."
The lobby is more of a gallery. Concrete floors are buffed smooth and dark, steel beams stretch across the high ceiling. A long slab of polished, black marble acts as the reception desk where only one woman works with her braids pulled into a high bun and glasses on as she takes a call.
You clutch the strap of your little handbag tighter, watching the doorman greet Connie with a simple head nod.
No conversation. Barely even a pause. Connie nods back and is leading you towards the elevator near the back of a hall. He jams his thumb into a button, they open immediately with a quiet, metallic whisper and it's after you both step inside when he produces a key fob from his back pocket, presses it up against a sensor panel, and the doors close. You barely feel anything when the elevator starts to rise.
You feel like you've drunken four nitro espressos back to back.
When you slowly glance up at him to take him in, you see him simply standing there with his hands in his pockets, face handsome and devoid of any type of expression as he gazes forward. You suppose your stare must have been hard because he suddenly glances back down at you too, "What?"
You shift your eyes back forward, "Nothing."
The elevator slows.
You expected a hallway, or maybe even another lobby, but when the doors open, you've both been transported right within his loft.
You step off first then quickly stop.
The space is gigantic. It stretches across the entire top floor of the building with exposed, dark brown brick running across the length of the room, only sometimes broken by a wall of floor to ceiling windows. He has a view from nearly every angle of the loft. East, West, South, and North.
Dark walnut flooring stretch beneath your feet with a large, abstract rug in cream or charcoal spotted here and there, the pattern similar to brush strokes painted on a canvas. The living area acts as the center piece . . . dipped low away from everything else with a dark, leather sectional — the kind you sink into — facing a wall mounted television screen about as large as a movie theater's. Even the lighting fits in with everything – golden yet dim, painting the space in a vibe that makes your breathing slow.
". . Oh my . . god, Connie."
Your voice echos against the high ceilings.
You hear him drop a set of keys in a shallow, concrete bowl as he walks over to the kitchen, casual yet slow, to open a matte black, fridge door. You continue on your own little tour, finding the space to be too grand to not want to explore. Walking closer to the windows, you spot a balcony that stretches out for what looks like half a mile, wrapping around the exterior of the loft as his own private deck where an infinity pool runs along the edge . . sleek, long, and narrow. You remember his words, 'Somewhere where you can chill the fuck out.' Yeah. One deep inhale and look out at the city, and you find yourself to be almost entirely relaxed.
Here, the world feels quiet.
Like everything and everybody exists somewhere on an entirely different plane.
"You good?"
You turn around to face him. He's taken a seat on the sectional with his shoes off and legs outstretched in front of him. It's the most relaxed you've ever seen him. You watch him lean to grab a blunt and lighter out of an ash tray, shaped in a 'C' and only after lighting it, taking a drag, and realizing you haven't said anything else yet, does Connie simply watch you for a long second before saying, "C'mere."
He watches you slowly walk over and descend the small staircase. Before sitting down, you drop your purse on the center table then take a seat upon a cushion, a few inches away from him. You smell like cherries. Cherries and almonds. And for a while, he lets his eyes take you in. You're pretty, always fucking pretty, but you look especially pretty tonight with your hair still crimped, make up still bringing out the sharp line of your eyes, and your lips glossed. His chain still hangs from your neck. It's so long on you that the dog tags sway against your stomach. "So."
You look away from him, shy as always. ". . So . ."
He lifts his head to blow a stream of smoke out towards the ceiling, "You calm now?"
". . . Yeah."
"You wanna talk?"
"About what?"
"About these pictures circling the 'net now."
Seeing his place for the first time must've completely pulled you out of that headspace because once he brings it up, he watches your shoulders tense and eyes snap closed. The inhale through your nose is sharp. Connie's shaking his head. "Yo . . breathe."
" 'm trying." You sound exhausted when you toe off your shoes to lie entirely back against the other couch cushions with your arms thrown over your face. It leaves your feet in Connie's direction which he grabs with both his hands to pull your legs properly over his thighs while holding his blunt between his lips. ". . What are we gonna do?"
He's quiet for a while.
You almost think he didn't hear you until you drop your arms from your face to look at him to see him staring intensely at the chain that has now came to rest on the mounds of your tits. His stare isn't one of lust, just . . . focus. The intensity swimming within the dark clouds of his hazel eyes makes the hair on your skin stand upright. "If we do this," he utters quietly. "we do it right."
Your voice is gentle when you hum, "Hm?"
He licks his lips, looks away for a second, then takes another hit of his blunt. "I mean, I don't play that embarrassin' each other shit." His voice is quiet but hard. "If you mine, you mine. Simple as that."
Your stomach flutters. You remain silent for a while, before lifting up on your elbows. Your voice sounds almost meek when you mutter back, "So, if I'm yours then . ."
He blows out the smoke. "Then I'm yours, too."
"Oh."
Your little, quiet reply is so small yet so genuine that Connie's eyes can't help promptly flicking back to your face to study it. But, it appears his attention is much too much and abrupt for you because you end up dropping back flat against the cushion to cover your slowly widening smile like you're trying to hide from the moment entirely.
Connie only stares for a while before a breath is exhaled through his nose . . something close to laughter.
"Man, look at you . . ." One of his hands is pulling at your wrist. "Why you hidin' for?"
" 'm not."
He waits until you drop your hands. Only then does he get a better look at your face. He can tell you're blushing, regardless of the brown of your skin hiding it. Something in his chest tightens as he smirks and leans back while beginning to circle his thumb slowly over the smooth, soft skin of your shin. "You fuckin' precious."
"Connie, stop it."
He's chuckling, "Nah, for real. We doin' this shit so that means I gotta know some shit."
You're humming again, sweet and soft as your head tilts, "Know what?"
He leans forward to ash his blunt as his voice grows more gruff when he says, "What you like, what you don't like . . . shit you expect from me."
You gently blink, "Oh . . ." Honestly, you're stuck. Your fingers start to fiddle with his — your — chain as you try to think while Connie eyes you the entire time, quiet and patient, with the slow stroke of his thumb never halting. He watches how you go to say something, part your lips, then snap them back closed like you're indecisive. A small smirk pulls up his lips. "You'on know?"
Cutely, your nose wrinkles. "I do know . . . 's just weird sayin' it."
His head shakes, "Ain't weird." Another hit of his blunt. "You just shy."
When you go to melt away again, he's back pulling at your legs to keep you exactly where you are. " 'm askin' this 'cause I actually give a fuck. I don't want you guessin' and assumin' shit . . . I don't wanna be guessin' and assumin' shit."
Everybody's different. And Connie wants this. He wants you more than he's ever wanted another person in his life.
". . Okay," your voice is delicate as you start to thumb with your fingers on your stomach. "I guess . . . I just like when someone's honest. And . . I don't like feelin' like 'm bothering you."
Impossible, he thinks, but he nods slowly while letting you continue.
Your eyes drift towards one of the windows when you mumble, "I like . . attention. I don't wanna feel like . . 'm too much . . . or too little for you."
"You ain't gotta worry about that wit' me."
You watch him outstretch his arm along the backrest of the couch. "Why not?"
His gaze settles on you, slow and steady. " 'Cause if I didn't wanna deal wit' you, you wouldn't be in my house right now." The blunt is back at his lips.
His answer, his stare, invokes something warm within the pit of your stomach. You've had a front row seat in watching Connie move and you know he's telling the truth. Being someone special, only his exception makes you feel good, you won't lie to yourself. "Okay . ." you're back smiling again and looking away. "Just be consistent with me . . . and sweet to me . . and I'll be okay."
"You easy to please, you know that?"
Your eyes widen in slight surprise, "Really?" You think any other guy would have already been rebutting some stuff and you've barely even said anything.
"Mm," he's rubbing at your shin again, a little higher this time, near your knee. "I jus' want you to get used to talkin' to me."
You bottom lip juts out a little before you can help it, "What do you mean?"
"Means," his eyes flick down to where his thumb rubs before they're back on yours, "you'on ever hold eye contact with me for too long. I don't like it."
Of course he's noticed. " . . 'm sorry." Your tone softens again.
His smirk deepens as he keeps his stare steady, "Ain't nothin' to apologize for . ." He leans forward to ash his blunt again before pulling it back to his lips. "Jus' . . work on it for me."
"Okay."
Higher, his thumb rubs. It's an inch above your knee now, near the inside where your skin gets softer and dimples with faint cellulite. You swallow, fight to ignore it, and go to ask, "Your turn now. What else?"
"I don't fuck with that silent treatment shit," his attention is on the window. The city lights swim within his eyes that appear more murky green tonight. You know that the both of you are thinking about Houston . . you dodging him, avoiding him. You look back at your fingers and rub at the pretty, pink gems studded all over your extra long, jelly white acrylics. "If you mad, tell me. You sad, tell me." He waits until you nod before he resumes, voice hushed but hard. "Ain't gon' be seein' you entertaining nobody else. Smilin' in niggas faces, lettin' em touch you." He takes a longer pull of his blunt while shaking his head. It's as if the thought alone is enough to piss him off.
You shake your head slowly, batting your lashes as your brows furrow, ". . I won't, Connie."
"I know." It's firm, final. No need to get too deep into it because that line's been drawn clear. "And I know you expect the same from me. You don't gotta trip over me doin' shit like that. I like loyalty."
Another nod from you and he does the same.
"You just gotta talk to me, ma," higher, his thumb climbs. It's near the middle of the inside of your thigh now so you break your streak of faux nonchalance to look down at his hand. He continues to talk as if he doesn't realize but you feel it . . . in his stare. He knows what he's doing. "Talk to me . . . 's only so much I can read off you. Lemme in your head . . lemme hear that pretty voice and we'll be all good."
"O . . kay." You breathe and close your eyes, willing the stirring in your gut calm. Your pussy is starting to warm as more of your blood rushes south, straight down to your clit.
Then the room grows really quiet. So quiet to where you can hear the faint splash of the river wading below and hear how the leather beneath his back shifts as Connie leans deeper against the cushion behind him. When you open them, he's staring at you . . . not outside the windows, at the skyline, at your chest, but at your face, like he's analyzing each minuscule expression you make.
His thumb creeps higher.
You inhale again and tighten your fingers around the pillow beneath you. He notices the way he notices everything else but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't quicken his movement, nor does he slow, he just . . watches.
Another quiet pass of his thumb, and it's right there, right at the edge of where your little micro shorts stop above your thigh. Only inches away from your pussy that thumps with the matching beat of your heart. You watch the corner of his mouth lift, just barely. "You think too loud."
You feel it then.
His thumb on your clit, through your shorts and panties and the singular touch is enough for your eyes to flutter close as the slightest, tiniest whimper pushes out your nose. "Mmph."
" 's okay," he mumbles, rolling it 'round and 'round in slow circles. He takes another hit of his blunt, snapping his eyes from your face to his hand to watch your thick thighs slowly begin to part the slightest bit more opened. "Wit' me, you'on gotta worry about me neglectin' this either."
A deep inhale, a shaky exhale. You suddenly clamp your thighs around his wrist which makes him hold his blunt between his tightly folded lips to push one of them back open. Around the joint, he murmurs, "Nah, we don't do that shit over here."
"C-Connie." Your voice breaks around his name.
His thumb is working steady now. Smooth, perfect circles that has your hole clenching around the thin cotton of your panties as if it were trying to pull them inside for some sort of penetration.
"Tranquila," promptly, he pulls his blunt away. "You good, mama. Jus' feel it."
He's watching . . . reading . . . studying. Your breathing, the little furrow in your brows, how you bite at your bottom lip to keep from making too many sounds. You don't masturbate often, it's obvious. You're tightly strung, like your whole body's a knot. Connie wants to work you lax. "Take these off."
His hand is gone.
You bat your eyes open with your chest rising and falling shakily to watch him stub his blunt out. Then he's back. He hooks his hands within the fabric of your shorts and underwear to slowly peel them down your thighs off of your legs. " 'm nervous." It slips past your lips before you can reel it back in, however Connie's already shaking his head before the word fully leaves them.
"Nah, you don't gotta be. You jus' gotta lay here. Let me do what I do."
Still mewling, you let him part your legs open for him to get a good look at what lies in between. Your pussy's pretty — fat and brown and waxed smooth with your lips thick enough to hide your hole away but not your clit. It peeks out from in between them, puffy and slick, begging Connie to keep going, to treat her sweetly. "You so pretty, mama."
A sound seems like it's wrenched out of you when his bare thumb is on it now, doing the same thing he was just doing just seconds ago through your shorts. You're so sensitive. Eyes of stormy hazel watch as you turn your face into your arm you throw up beside your head. He watches you bite down on your bicep as his thumb dips low to tease the puckered entrance of your pussy — working the tip of it just barely in and out to feel you gush around it before it's back at your clit, this time more slick than it was before.
"Told you I was gon' celebrate, ain't I?"
You didn't think he meant this.
"C-Connie," you hiccup and dare yourself to glance down.
His thumb swirling on your bud, his tatted arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. God, he's a dream. He's your dream. You feel his body lower. His lips find your cheek for a soft peck before he's forcing your head out of your arm to push a wet, sloppy kiss on your lips. "Nah," he mumbles into the cavern of your panting mouth. "You can say Daddy . . . or you can call me Papa. I'll let you choose."
Another strangled whimper when his thumb suddenly slides nice and deep inside your pussy til it bottoms out with a nasty squelch. "Mm, both . ." you sniffle back while lifting your hips into his hand. "Wan' both."
He's smiling again. His rare one. The one that shows all his teeth — only tonight, the bottom sparkles with an open faced frame of diamonds. "Puedes tener ambos, mama. Ion judge."
"F-Fuck."
He's pulling his thumb out to trade it for his middle finger. The both of you watch it push in, the glide nice and smooth. Your pussy pushes out a small splatter of wetness that splashes onto his wrist where a black, calfskin strapped, phillipe watch is wrapped around. He doesn't give you time to adjust to it before he's pushing his ring finger along side it. Your eyes roll back into your skull. "U-Unh—"
Connie has never been so honed in yet foggy brained on something, on someone, until now. His lips are parted, forehead pressed against yours as he starts to push his fingers in and out . . sweet and deep, muscles firm. The desire that's slowly been building inside of him for you over the course of these past couple months feels like it's gnawing at all of his patience now, chewing away the part of him that's normally more composed. He thinks about you on stage, at rehearsals, in a booth — pretty and doe eyed. All the times he's felt you staring at him however, each time he'd look back, you'd dart your eyes away . . nervous, like he caught you doing something you weren't supposed to.
"Always so fuckin' shy, huh?" He's pinning your arms up above your head to keep you from hiding your face inside them.
It used to make him smirk to himself.
Now it just makes him want to see how long you can hold his stare before you crack.
"Look at me . . open y'fuckin' eyes . . watch me make this pussy mine."
He rocks his palm up into the swollen bead of your clit, watching you squeak and go to try to snap your legs closed. But, he's between them. You can only lock your thighs around the span of his hips as you hiccup, "—nie . . Connie, p-please."
His forehead is back, pressing up against yours as he inhales your wet, shuddery breaths into his lungs, "I know," he's kissing you – holds your face between his fingers that he squeezes in to make your lips pucker out. "Oh, I know, mami. I know."
That feeling is already creeping in close. Right between your pelvis that makes the soft, pulpy walls of your cunt clench around his fingers and your heart drop. Your pussy is gurgling so loud now that if anyone were to suddenly come up the elevator, just one step inside and they'd know immediately what the sound was. You're so wet. Thick, transparent liquid, texture like syrup, trickles down the crack of your ass to the leather below. It smears against your cheeks, makes Connie's hand dirty.
Another moan — this one weak, broken. You cry like Connie's hurting you but the way your hips jerk . . . one would be confused as to what's truly going on. "Daddy," you whine for him. You squirm beneath the hold his singular hand has both your wrists in as your voice grows weary. "Daddy, please."
"You good," Connie's mumbling, face focused as he tilts his head to get a better look at your walls dragging against his knuckles. "You good, baby," He says it like he swears it. "You just gotta cum."
"Okay," you nod quickly, words going breathy as if you were simply just pleading with him to not make you do that. "Okay, okay . . O . . . kay—"
He twists his fingers in, pulls them out, twists them back in, and buries them til the hilt to massage the pads right into the doughy blob of your gspot.
"Hng." Your back arches up into his chest as your toes curl and cum washes out around his fingers. It gushes down his palm, down to his wrist and in between the cheeks of your ass to the couch. Connie growls out a short, gruff 'Hmm' sound, watching strings of the thick, pearly liquid play between his digits like spider webs each time he pulls them out and stretches them apart. His hand is glossy, from finger to wrist.
"There you go . . There you fuckin' go, ma."
You're shaking . . . hiccuping and twitching, letting him plunge them back inside your little, messy cunt for another thrust, pull them out, plunge them back in, and keep up the rhythm until you're pleading with him, " 's a l-lot . . T-Too much . . Daddy, wait—"
Connie backs off. One last plunge then pull out and he's smacking wet, little slaps against your clit. "Voy a gozar con ella," you hear him mumble. "Messy as fuck. I didn't think you'd get like this."
He pinches your folds together, just to watch your clit bulge at him. It's as though your pussy is a drug. Regardless of him simply staring at it, touching it, tasting it, or playing with it, he can't get enough.
You're teary eyed and brainless, watching him stand, reach behind his neck then peel off his shirt within one fluid motion. Beneath the moonlight, his abs are carved deep within his abdomen, each line catching the light like they were sculpted there by hand. Black ink moves across his skin in hypnotizing swirls, curling over his pecs and sliding down his obliques to disappear beneath his cargos. You can only admire — still foggy brained, thoughts still tangled, watching him press his tongue into his cheek for a moment while staring at you as if he were trying to decide just what to do with you before he's leaning in, sliding his strong arms beneath your back, and pulling you up into him while standing.
Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck, feeling his hands find the plush globes of your ass to hold as he walks you both through the house, pass what feels like a thousand windows, down a long hall, to a set of double doors.
While he opens them, you take the chance to rub your hand down his hair.
It's been growing out a bit, just barely. Tiny, blond curls and roots of black. You like it. It fits him. You listen to him inhale as you scratch your nails down his the back of his neck.
"Mm," he hums, kicking the door shut. Your lips find the arch of it where his shoulder almost begins as he walks. You kiss first, soft and sweet before suckling gently, feeling his muscles ripple beneath your fingers. "Shit feels good."
He tips you backwards until you fall against his plush, pillow top california king mattress that slightly swallows you when you land. "Said you was gon' be mine, right?" He remains standing at your feet. His room has only one wall of windows and it leaves just enough light to trace the outline of his body. "I want you to eat this dick up, then."
At just the mention of it, you're already curling onto your hands and knees to meet him at the edge. "I know it's a lil unfair . ." He eyes your lips as he mumbles, low and dawdling. "But Daddy promises . . . I'll make you cum on my tongue later on tonight, okay?" You're nodding, eyes big and brown when you pull at his zipper. You don't care. For so many nights you've thought about him . . about his hands, his voice, his smile, his eyes. So many lonely hotel nights where you'd punish yourself about it. No touching, no shower head, no pillow humps.
You've thought about what it'd look like.
Fat and short, long and skinny, no veins, lots of them. You didn't know, it drove you fucking crazy. Seeing him the next day always made you feel like a creep.
One push of his hand to the hem of his Tom Ford briefs and it bounces out over the elastic.
For a split moment, you don't even realize you stopped breathing. You can feel heat rushing to your face, your chest, your cunt. Everywhere. Because it's beautiful.
"Mm." A sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh but not . . not one either. "You can touch it, mami."
He watches your lips part. It's as though once given permission, you go ahead and do so — grab him by the base, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm like a dumbbell. You're amazed, almost. Eight inches long, perfect girth with a handful of veins that branch out across his shaft like bolts of lightning to pump blood up to his fat, leaky tip that is the same delicious pink shade of his lips. His balls are heavy when you cup them too . . swollen with so much cum that you think should hurt. But he only breathes, soft and calm at your sweet touches, holding his hands behind his back to let you take your precious time.
"Think it's gon' fit?"
You look up at him while holding his shaft right up against your face.
Connie's eyes grow so dark, you think they're black. Beneath his breath, he whispers, "Oh my fuckin' . ."
He watches you slowly begin to nod. "Yeah," you whisper back. Cute and sweet. "We can make it fit, Daddy."
Oh my fucking God.
A soft kiss to his tip.
Connie watches your plump lips push out in order for you to properly wrap them completely around it so that you're able to suckle out his leaking pre as if his dick was a straw. His eyes grow heavy. You hear his voice in your head, 'Ain't nothin' to apologize for . . Jus' work on it for me.' You keep your gaze locked steadfast on his as you slowly push an inch deeper inside your mouth.
No sounds from him yet. No words. Just . . a scarily intense amount of focus. He slowly brings his bottom lip beneath his teeth, watching you add in another and another.
When you hit six is when he sees it.
Your eyebrows furrow in, nose wrinkles, and your back caves in as you suddenly cough then pull back. "Mmmm . . almost." He's smirking while suddenly palming the back of your head to pull you right back. "Casi, mama. Casi. One more time."
He slowly feeds his cock right back inside your mouth. He hears you whimper around it as he keeps his hand at your head, pushing you lower and lower. When you gag again, he's right there, keeping you down while wrapping his hand around your throat. "Hazme sentir orgulloso," he's mumbling as if he's straining himself to push in deeper. "Lemme see it . . lemme watch my baby swallow my shit, huh?"
You cough, Connie disregards it. He pulls you only halfway off before both his hands, the one at your head and the one at your throat, are pulling you back in. "Yeah . ." He makes a nice rhythm, pulling and pushing, listening to you gag as his jaw falls open at the feel of your warm, little mouth. Your tongue works at the underside, obscenely swirling and slurping as you try your best to keep your cheeks sucked in tight. Spit begins to pool within the corners of your lips. It trickles down your chin as he plants his feet flat to really dig himself in deep. "Fuck, relax your throat . . Y-Yeah . . There you go. Qué niña tan inteligente, hm?"
His tone, dark and heavy, teeters the line of sweet condescension. It makes your pussy pulse and work out a glob of slick that runs straight down your clit to drip between your legs upon his sheets.
It's so good. Letting him stroke his dick in and out of your throat, even while occasionally choking on it, feels so good. Your spit thickens into strings of foam once he lets you go, grabs your hand and makes you wrap it around his base. He doesn't have to say it because you can feel it radiating off of him, Show me what you can do. You're not the most experienced, but what you lack in it is made up entirely in your effort.
Connie watches you pull him out and smack his dripping wet shaft on your lips while panting. He loves that shit. He loves it even more when you loll your tongue out to bounce his tip off of it, over and over. Your eyes are heavy as you stare up at him. You're high off the musk of him. His taste is potent enough to linger at the back of your throat, minutes after having swallowed his precum into your stomach. When you start to stroke him, you use both hands, circling them in opposite directions while focusing on the tip — just the tip. you dig your tongue into the little hole of it while massaging it against the bumpy roof of your mouth.
One of Connie's eyes squint closed as he slowly breathes out a shaky breath, ". . S-Shit . ." His voice is strained thin yet deep. "Just like that, baby. Just like that."
Saliva squishes beneath the spaces of your fingers. You feel them, his balls, gently swaying as you tug at his cock, needy for his cum to be swallowed into your throat. You pop him out of your mouth with a cute sniffle and gasp to get your tongue on them. They're fat enough to only fit in your mouth, one by one so it leaves the left one to receive your care first. You tongue and kiss at it if it were Connie's lips, sweet and messy, feeling his hand at the back of your head to keep you there. "Keep strokin' . . keep pumpin' that fuckin' fist."
You swirl it up and down his length, feeling his hand wrap around yours to coach you through it. He shows you how he likes it — grip tight, extra love at the tip from your thumb. When you switch over to the right, he tells you so, "Love that shit," he utters, words panted out. "Y . . Your tongue, mama. Love it right there."
You purr out a darling sound of happiness.
His eyes drag over your face slow. Taking in what he can see which is only really your nose and eyes. Your pupils are blown wide, you stare back up at him like you love it, too. His balls in your mouth, his dick in your hand, dripping pre down your pretty nails. ". . Ungh, shit." His eyes roll back as his head falls rearward. He's about to cum. You're about to make him cum. Fuck. He thinks about this being regular . . . your pussy wrapped around his fingers, his dick in your throat. Winding down after a show, before a show. He thinks about the soft cheeks of your ass gripped between his fingers, your skin under his teeth, tongue in his mouth . . You both in Greece somewhere, island hopping in Santorini, feeding you strawberries, pumping your stomach full of load after load in a bungalow surrounded by the ocean.
He's pulling you back forward to feed his dick back inside yours.
"S-Stay still," he mumbles quickly. He pumps his fist up and down his shaft, feeling your lips wrap around his tip and you sit there . . waiting for it. "Qué buena tú ere," he huffs. "So good. You so fuckin' good, mama, fuck."
His dick throbs when he cums. It pumps out . . . glob after glob into the warm hollow of your mouth, forcing you to swallow in fear of letting a single drip trickle past your lips. And the face he makes . . .
Every single feature of his goes entirely lax as he groans out a slow, slurred curse that mixes with the syllables of your name. He watches you slowly swallow it before you pull off with an adorable popping sound of your lips. You watch his dick bob in the air, heavy and still hard, rushing with blood at knowing what lies between your thighs. It's while you're blushing and shyly smiling, staring at it as if you've been struck by an arrow from cupid when you squeeze it before murmuring, "I wanna do it again."
Hell no.
Connie's bending at his waist, grabbing you by the face and pushing his tongue inside your mouth. "Nah, nah, nah." He's smiling as your tongue traces over the diamonds sparkling in his mouth while pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed. "We'll worry about that another time, pretty."
"But—"
He's shaking his head, leaning over you with his hands pressed upon the mattress on either side of your head. The moonlight cuts across the bulging slopes of his shoulder muscles as he hovers there, close enough so that you can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto your own. He makes sure you're listening when he quietly says, "—When I tell you some'n, you need to listen, alright?"
You're looking away again, pouting, as you poke your fingers into his skin like you almost want to say no. Connie's waiting for it, anticipating it actually because he's always been able to tell that underneath your timidity reads a wretched, little pup that just wants to test how far she can stretch her leash.
His mouth twitches.
"See. There you go."
You blink up to gaze at him beneath your dark and fluffy lashes, " 'm not doin' anything."
"Mm." With the tip of his cock, he runs it along your soft, fat folds. He watches your mouth fall the slightest bit open as he nudges at your clit with it, swirling it around like he did with his finger. "You get quiet sometimes . . start lookin' away . . try to talk back. I seen you do it to your manager, too."
You whimper when he nudges at your entrance. The crown of his dick is fat enough to already stretch you open and he's barely even given you an inch. You anticipate the rest, needy for it as you bite your lip and look down at his hand that holds his base steady. "It's cute," he mumbles, forcing your eyes back up to his. ". . . But you still need to listen . . You understand me?"
Thoughtlessly, you're nodding while tossing your arms over his shoulders. You just want it. You need him.
"Okay," your legs are moving to wrap around and pull him in closer. "Yeah."
Connie reads straight through it. As much as he doesn't want to, he keeps his dick away from even touching your drippy, little cunt when he says, "Yeah what?"
There it is.
You breathe out a long, wounded whine, throw your head back into the sheets, eyebrows furrow in tight — God, the dramatics. "Yes, I u-understand."
The words come out of you as if they'd been reluctantly dragged from the depths of your pretty soul. Connie's jaw clicks.
You may actually be worse than he thought.
No need to worry though. The blood rushing beneath both of your veins is hot. He's aching for you, you're aching for him. He'll give you a pass this time. But after muttering, "Yeah, we gon' work on fixin' yo' attitude another day, too," beneath his breath, he's pushing his cock within the welcoming walls of your pussy.
You hiccup on your next inhale — sounds like the wind's literally been knocked out of you as he works himself in slow, inch by inch, with his forearms beneath your head, acting as a makeshift pillow to keep you comfortable and lift your face closer to his so that his eyes can drink in your face morphing into one of slight plain.
He's smirking when he whispers, "Tá grande, eh?"
You nod as if you understand, hand flat against his abdomen. You don't push at him but the mere action is enough to piss him off. Patiently, he moves your arm away, not needing the obtrusion from keeping him pushing deep inside or blocking the view of your warm, soft walls literally sucking him in. But, then you're back and you're weakly shoving at him this time and tenderly babbling, "C-Connie . . 's e-enough. N-No more, okay?"
He looks down to gauge your progress. Five inches.
"Nah, you got a little more ways to go, mami."
Impossible. It feels like he's already in your tummy. You shake your head, pushing at him again. "Connie, noo—"
Grabbing you by that same arm, he lifts one of his hands, with your wrist inside of it, to gather your other and pin them both against your stomach. "Lo hacemos caber, 's what you said. So we gon' make it fit." He doesn't need the whining and crying and pleads. One more thrust in and he's buried so deep inside you that he feels something inside absolutely gush out the minute he does. You squeak and he blows out a slow, deep breath while looking down at the picture of your folds split so wide apart that your clit is poking out now, hard and blatant. "Mhmmm."
He watches your eyes grow heavy. He must have hit a button inside you to make your brain shut off because now, you're quiet . . only hiccuping, sucking in shaky breaths, and mewling his name. "You okay," he mumbles with a kiss to your lips. "Shhh . . tranquila, there you go."
He works you open with slow, careful strokes — pulling his hips back then pushing them back forward as if he has all the time in the world. Each push inside has his dick only pulling out more wet than before. You feel so . . . fucking . . good. Connie wouldn't have thought you would — not like this. Words are unable to describe how truly heavenly it feels to have the tight, grooved confines of your pussy working at his dick like this. Molding, kneading, and gripping at it.
"O-Ohh, shit," you quiveringly whimper. You hear it — the faint sounds of your juices trickling out around his shaft as he faithfully begins to thrust. He still has your wrists in his hands though they're unmoving. You feel as though you've been rendered immobile from the sudden onslaught of pleasure that's taken your brain in capture. "Con— . . Fuck . . . Mhmmmm."
When you begin to nod, Connie does too. He lets your wrists go to slip his arms back beneath your head, "Mhmmm," he mimics softly. "What I say?"
Your clit rubs against the faint, coarse mat of his pubes in only the most delicious way. You feel like your head is spinning. You can't respond.
"Lemme stretch this shit out," he mumbles, pulling further back to add more weight within the next thrust. "Jus' lay here and take it. Lemme make this pussy mine, mm?"
Your eyes tightly close as you listen to your skin begin to smack. You want him to. You need him to, you just can't say it because your tongue somehow feels too big for your mouth. Thankfully, Connie seems to understand your nonsensical babbles because after another kiss, this one upon the bridge of your nose where your birthmark stretches across, he lifts himself up on the flats of his palms to start to beat your pussy sore. You fight to keep your legs open, fight to keep from squirting too much of your slick on him, but it's proven one of the most challenging instances of your life when he bends one of them further back into your shoulder to dig in deep.
Tears gloss over your eyes.
You'd have think he was stirring your gspot into battered mush. It's overstimulating in the most weirdest way — you're at a threshold of so much pain and pleasure that you don't know what to do.
A dollop of his spit is cool against your clit once he lets it drip past his lips and onto it which he then uses to rub with his thumb, "You gotta lemme make you feel good, mama," he utters beneath your pitiful sobs and blubbering. "The only way me and you gon' work . . . gotta let me do this."
"O-Okay," you're hiccuping against, sounding absolutely precious as you grip at the sheets beneath you. " 's j-jus' so . . deep, Daddy."
He nods as though he understands, eyebrows pinched in sympathy, "I know, baby . . You takin' it so fuckin' good, though."
It's so loud . . . the skin smacking, the build up of your cream as he churns your slick into goo, you keening out his name. Connie could give less of a fuck about the world outside of you both. Nothing but you matter. Nothing but you and this perfect fucking pussy you have between your legs matter. He pushes his chain out of the way to shove your shirt up and grab a handful of your plump, bouncing tit.
"Hngg — God — Fuck . . please."
Each drag of his dick inside the weeping walls of your pussy is relentless. Pleasure sparks at every nerve of your body as you dig your nails into the skin at his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his skin crest. Everything about him is dizzyingly attractive. "S-So han'some," you slur, unable to help rubbing your hand down the side of his face. You watch his eyes grow sharper as he turns it into your palm to press a kiss against your wrist.
"Mmm, thank you, mama," he groans, burying your scent within his nose. "Y-You so sweet. S-So fuckin' sexy, too."
He refuses to pull out when he wants to change positions. He lowers down, rolls over onto his back and pulls you on top to grab you by the soft, fleshy skin of your ass cheeks to force you to rock your pussy up and down the length of his cock. Oh. He likes this view. You're unable to hide your face away as you keep your hands on his pecs for balance as you let him bounce you as if you weighed nothing but a mere pound.
The skin at the bottom of your thighs tremble with each slap of them against the tops of his own. You feel your ass ricochetting off of his pelvis as your chain swings against his chest. "Pussy's so fuckin' good," Connie growls, lifting you high to slam you back down until you're cutely squeaking with every one. "Look at you . . creamin' on my shit, ma."
You're dangerous. Connie doesn't think you know what you've just done . . . just what you've unleashed inside of him. A man so entirely enraptured with you, that when the thought creeps in, quiet and unwelcomed, of this not working out, he doesn't think he'll be able to go back to normal. His jaw tightens at the mere idea of it. Because Connie's always been good at control – at keeping people within the respectful boundaries of his life, close or far, forgettable and not.
But you . . . you've somehow slipped past his usual lines.
Slow at first. Some glances here, a small smile there, maybe even a wave if you were feeling bold that day.
And now you're here, teary faced and doe eyed, getting your pussy plowed from the bottom by him as you look down at him like he's hung the exact moon tonight in the sky, like he's something bigger than what the world already sees him as, looking at him like he matters so fucking much to you.
How easily you can break him if you choose to . . . and you don't even know it.
His jaw clenches again. His balls draw up tight. He feels you. " 'm cumming, Daddy," you mewl. God, he hopes this is forever.
"Córrete, por favor," he grunts, feeling himself creep closer to that edge for the second time tonight. He needs you to cum. "Please, mami. Do it. Squirt on this shit."
Cream is packed at his base. It sticks to your pussy in thick webs as he forces you to rise and fall on his length until you're there — you're squirting out a sweet, messy stream of liquid that leaves your body with an audible hiss. Connie's not far off when he sees it. Your body shaking on top of his, mouth opened, mind gone. He lets you fall down on his dick with a loud plop as he forces you to keep still when he starts to pump thick, white ropes of his cum deep past the tiny hole of your cervix. "Hng, shit," he groans, forcing you back up . . only to slam you back down again. "Fuck, mama." Again. And again.
You press your hand against his forearm, silently telling him that you've reached your limit.
Your cunt feels like it's been beaten sore. Your make up is completely fucked and you're mentally exhausted. You collapse on top of him and bury your face into his neck with a weepy hiccup. "N-No more."
Connie's catching his breath, feeling the mess of cum beginning to slowly dry between the both of your legs. He doesn't think he have it in him to move you or even move himself. "Okay," he whispers with a kiss to your cheek. "Alright . . . try to close your eyes."
You do. With enough slow rubs to your back and kisses on your shoulder, you slowly fade off into a world of dreams, content within his arms.
ׅ ❤︎
It's in the morning, near eleven am when the both of you power back on your phones.
You nibble at your thumbnail, dressed in one of his hoodies with sleep still swollen in your eyes and standing within the middle of his living area as you scroll through the thousands of notifications that have piled upon your screen. DMs, comments, likes, and shares. You're surprised to open up the comment section on a four pic grid of the infamous paparazzi pictures, climbing with nearly one million likes to see 'fork found in kitchen' 'hope they have 36 babies on you losers' 'somebody hack his icloud and leak the tape.'
There's a few bad ones sure, claiming you slept your way up to the top to be at this point in your career and now hand in hand with Connie Springer . . . but it's easy for you to ignore upon looking up to see a familiar set of stormy hazel eyes already staring at you from the kitchen, waiting for you to power it back off, drop it in his hand, and fall into his embrace.
i’ve managed to write another character && fall absolutely head over heels for him . yay .
Toji ‘I’ll fuck you how I want when I want because I’m old enough to be your father’ Fushiguro.
cw: 18+ mdni, heavy dub-con, degradation, age gap (25 year old reader, 45 year old Toji), extreme humping, cum play, mean!Toji
Toji doesn’t like you.
You two knew each other through Shiu one way or another. And Toji immediately didn’t like you. Didn’t like that you were hanging around older men, didn’t like your laugh, didn’t like how you looked at him either such pretty whiskey brown colored doe eyes, the way you tilted your head when you were confused, how you so beautifully attentively listened and understood, and didn’t like your accidental touch that made his dick harder than it should’ve been as if he’s a fucking teenager again.
You made him feel strange. So the only thing to do was avoid you like the plague.
Very heard thing to do when you and Shiu are also close. And Shiu invited you to Tojis place to hang out but got an emergency call which caused him to leave. That was the huge sign to get out of there then. But Shiu, that idiot, suggested you two hang out. Leaving you two sitting at opposite ends of the couch. Everytime you tried to spark up conversation you’d only get a grunt or grumble in response. You pulled at your shorts that hugged yout ass too perfectly Toji had to squeeze his eyes shut, fiddling with anything you could get your hands on.
You cleared your throat, finally building the courage to look over to the large man beside you, leaned back on the couch. His head resting in his hand on the arm rest, flexing unconsciously, manspreading without a care in the world. “Do you… hate me?”
He only shifts a little, finding it unnecessary to even glance your way, scratching the slight stubble at his chin, “Yeah, probably.”
That didn’t stop him getting you on all fours on the carpet, rolling his pelvis into yours with a filthy ‘smack!’ over and over.
“Is this what you always do, huh? Fuck— Seduce old men in this little ass shorts.”
You mewl a long, ‘noooo’ letting him rock your own hips against his. The sound of fabric the only thing keeping you two of you part. He scuffs, jaw tightening as you feel his pulsing member through his sweatpants.
“Fuckin liar, know you’re fucking soakin down there want me t’ give you all ‘f my cock.”
You hiccup, head bopping up and down as a reply, your fingers reaching behind you to reach Tojis calloused hands that have a vice on your waist, “Wait- wait-“
“Shut. Up.” He grits, hooking a finger into the loop of your shorts and yanking them down in one swift motion, pretty round fat of your ass sends chills down the older man’s spine. Gripping the bare ass and guiding his flushed cock through your cheeks.
He lowly snickers, slowly thrusting his length, wetting your ass and back with pre. Guiding you back against him, “Fuck, who’d be thought you’d look pretty just like this, huh? Nngh- A young thing like you being used like a fuckin flesh light, you like this shit?”
You groan, each harsh motion of you two so sleazy grinding against each other for more friction. Wanting More, more, more every time you shimmy your plump ass against Toji.
“Put it in Toj! Anngh! Want it inside! Mm put it in!”
His heavy calloused hand comes down on your ass, rubbing his brash cockhead against your puckered hole sliding it down the crevice of your ass. “Tch- Greedy fuckin slut. Could get your ass pregnant right fuvkin now if I wanted.” He slaps his mushroom tip against your slobbering mess of a cunt, your hole fluttering for something to grab onto. He snidely laughs, “Lucky ‘m the one who’s got sense right? Old enough to be your god damn father, practically beggin me for a fuckin baby.”
Toji grips your hips hard enough to bruise, the ‘clap, clap, clap’ of your thighs smacking against each other with every swing of his hips. Pulsing red shaft running through your mushy folds, syrupy fluids dripping and squealching with every sloppy thrust.
Your breath hitches, whine out a moan as your back arches, “Fuck, m gonna cum, shit Toji!—“
“Can practically feel that shit,” he growls, laying a hand on the small of yout back, fixing your arch and making you feel every veiny inch of his cock against your gummy pussy. He drawls out like he’s uninterested, but he can’t help but watch yout every move, “Come on mama, do your fuckin worst.”
Your body trembles, struggling to hold yourself up on your forearms as your dripping wet walls spasm around nothing. Your pretty face all screwed up as you let out a porno graphic moan, letting Toji rut through your ass cheeks, squeezing them together and groaning in pleasure as his milky white cum hit the fat of your ass. Making sure you’re fucking soaked from your back to your thighs. Disgusting.
And like some holy grail, you shimmy your ass again as you come down from your eyes, those pretty glossy brown eyes looking back into his, “Can we- hah- one more time Toji?” That damn head tilt, Please?”
“Fuck,” he pants, chiseled and scarred chest rising and falling as he stares down at your filthy state. He can feel his dick starting to rise again, he snarls, another smack to your ass, “You’re so god damn annoying. Needy little shit.”
Groping your flesh in his hands, he murmurs to himself, cock throbbing for more, “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”
a/n: im sorry in advance. I know I’m weird. And also sure you could get pregnant this way too. Ignore the logistics. What did Monaleo say? We not humping!!😭
𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 was obsessed with you. not in the way you'd expect. not in the demanding, or the aggressive or even the outwardly possessive way. it was persistent. dedicated. and worst of all?
loving.
he never quite got over you after the breakup. a year after the shinjuku showdown. you said he changed. he insisted he grew.
“i miss my sweet boy,” you'd said.
“aren't I sweet?” he still smiled like it.
you shook your head. turned away. told him there was something else in his smile. something shifted. an innocence you mourned.
he never quite let you grieve his absence, though. your coffee would be on your desk in the morning. your favourite flowers delivered every other week. you'd find him on your doorstep with takeout and a smile. find him in your apartment cooking, cleaning, making your bed, making things easier for you.
“what're you doing here?” you confronted him. got up in his face. looked at him like he was an irritable nightmare.
and yuta? he just smiled. never a threat. never a warning. looking at you like you were the sweetest dream.
“we're friends, aren't we?” he tilted his head. “that's what you said we were.”
“yeah well—”
“friends take care of each other, don't they?” his head tilted. that flicker of innocence that you lost shimmered in his eyes. ached your heart. flared your mind. because he knew what he was doing.
this wasn't first, nor second year. okkotsu yuta knew how to get under your skin, and he did so with the same smile that stuttered your chest.
he was insistent. promising he'd wait for you. assuring that you just needed time. but then another year went by, then another, and another— and before you knew it? he was twenty three and still delivering your favourite flowers.
it was overwhelming. he claimed love should feel like that. said love should be something that you chased for.
what scared you the most? the way his cursed energy crackled whenever he said it. like it really was his curse onto you.
“you can't chase me forever, okkotsu.” you'd hissed, as he stood in your kitchen. using your ingredients. cooking you dinner.
he didn't even look up. “that's what you think.”
then he turned to you with a spoonful of soup and the flat of his hand brushing beneath your chin to raise it. just slightly. delicately.
he smiled. “now. . . say ah.”
he frustrated you. with his kind smile. with his shifted outlook on life. with the maturity he'd developed when you just weren't looking.
finding someone else was impossible.
going back to him felt like a sentence.
so when you'd snapped, who could blame you?
when you snatched his sword from his very sheath and swiped it through the air. bladed it to his throat. a threat, a shaky promise. with your trembling hands and your snarling lips.
he didn't flinch.
and that's what frustrated you more.
a special grade sorcerer like himself, what could you possibly do?
you saw it in his eyes. he asked the question without even uttering a word. a calm confidence that eased from him in the arch of his brow and the unfaltering look on his face.
he was sure of himself. and even worse: unafraid of death.
truly, not your sweet boy anymore.
no sweetness in the way he stepped closer. no sweetness in his shadow that loomed over you. in the paleness of his neck that pushed closer to his blade.
“you want to kill me?” he asked. drawled, simple. as if asking about the weather, and not his life that was held in hands he clearly still wanted to kiss.
his hand shifted. long fingers curling around the blade. tight. unflinching. he yanked it closer. shoved his neck further. till the steel bit into his skin. into his fingers.
and even while you shook. while you gaped and hesitance faltered your grip— he stood there.
staring into your eyes. into your very soul.
he spoke clear. crystal. calm.
“do it properly, then.”
his face pressed further. digging deeper into the blade if it only meant to be closer to you.
not a blink. not a breath.
just brutal. bloody. devotion.
“kill me,” he breathed. cold lips brushing yours. his own blood dripping from his fingers. “just make sure to curse me a little.”
pervert!kirara who insists that she'll check up on your injuries after you got pretty roughed up when the fighters didn't follow hakari's script like he wanted them to.
pervert!kirara who presses on your wounds just to hear you groan and whine and blanks out for a second imagining that same sound on top of her. or better yet, on your knees.
pervert!kirara who goes shopping with you using hakari's card (which he agrees to, because you did get damaged pretty bad. it's the least he can do for his girls.) and begs you to stay in the changing room with her. you can change together! you don't have turn around or close your eyes! it's just girl stuff <3
pervert!kirara taking out a pair of underwear from one of the shopping bags with the most shit eating grin imaginable and says she thought it would look pretty on herself.
pervert!kirara being so smug when you visibly gape at the fact that her length quite literally flings out because she's rock hard :( you were just so pretty!! she makes no visible attempt to actually put the underwear on. she'll just stain it anyway from the way her tip is leaking out cum.
pervert!kirara talking you into helping her because if she walks out like this everyone will notice that bulge :/ it's the least you can do, really!
pervert!kirara whining and whining as you give her the most mindblowing head she's received in her life. hands bracing herself on the mirror behind her while you give special treatment to her tip, sucking on it and stroking the rest of her length.
pervert!kirara constantly asking you for reassurance. "is my cock pretty?" "do you like it?" "do you want it inside you?" she just feels so dumb and can't help it. besides, you always deepthroat her for a second when she asks like you're agreeing with her.
pervert!kirara not even lasting for 5 minutes :( shooting ropes in your throat that you're sure probably glazed your entire mouth.
pervert!kirara being soooooo blissed out the entire ride back while you're blushing like crazy. you're so sure hakari is going to flame your ass if he ever finds out. and usually, kirara tells him everything. then you look over and she's making a ":3" face while focusing on the road.
pervert!kirara promising to not snitch as long as you keep the tradition going. you won the next fight after the blowjob, so it's really a goodluck charm if you think about it!
pervert!kirara slowly going from bj's to different positions. when you stammer, she just pouts and looks up at you. "you're kin-chan's best fighter. it would be such a shame if he had to bash your head in."
pervert!kirara who never would actually snitch but she reaaaaaaallllyyy needs that effing cookie so she keeps up the facade.
pevert!kirara who knows that you're hers. and she's yours! even if you don't exactly know that.
a/n: i need more solo kirara smut like what is ts bum hakari doing while im tryna shabang my beautiful queen 😭😭
