DAN HENG/GN!READER ☆ It was a restart for him; but there you were, he thought—as if nothing had ever changed.
series masterlist ♡ ao3 ver. ♡ next ch.
We were in a field of flowers.
And I loved you.
The air feels different outside.
Dan Heng crosses past the metal bars of his cell and there it is, he thinks. The sun; the sky; the world. There is light and there is expanse and, most terrifyingly of all, there is freedom. His steps are unbound, his wrists hanging loosely at his side.
“You may never return to the Luofu again,” his sentence declares. “Leave, traitor.”
And so he did. And he wandered, and he walked, steps unbound and wrists hanging loosely at his side. What purpose is there for a man devoid of a home? For a man whose unbound steps and loose wrists are constantly monitored, for a man whose freedom is nothing more than a new sentence beyond his old cage?
The universe is vast. Too vast, for a small man such as himself. Where there was once a sky in the brief glimpse he took of the Luofu, it now was replaced with the limitless horizon of space. Dan Heng looks out the window and there it is, he thinks. The darkness; the stars; the vacuum.
The universe is vast. Dan Heng steps off the ship he boarded and finds himself on a strange port, an intersection between various buses and planes and peculiar objects floating throughout the cosmos.
Some machines come to a halt; some people exit; some people enter; Dan Heng stands amidst it all and he wanders. And he wonders. And he feels a piercing glare that follows after his unbound steps and his too-loose wrists.
A train horn blares all throughout the cosmos, the pinnacle of interstellar travel coming to a screeching halt at the port, sending smaller ships flying to and fro. Guiltless, the train withstands the various complaints from passerby, remaining unyielding as it blares its horn once more.
The pinnacle of interstellar travel? Dan Heng thinks again, brows furrowed. More like the pinnacle of hazardous travel.
Before he can turn around and resume his aimless wandering, a person’s hand rests on his shoulder. Dan Heng pictures Cloud-Piercer materializing in his hands, the sharpness of jade and the strength of stone, the feeling of shackles on his ankles and wrists becoming palpable once more. Not again. Not like this.
He readies himself to fight and his muscles tense and he turns around, spear in hand, sharpened edge aimed towards the person who—
“Hello to you, too,” a woman with red hair says, far too casually for someone who has a spear nearly kissing her neck. “Are you perhaps interested in becoming a member of the Astral Express?”
We were in a field of flowers.
And I loved you.
His first thought was: “The Astral what now?”
His second thought was: “That hazardous train from earlier?”
His third thought, which found his lips, was: “What?”
“Where’s your next stop?” she asks.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Dan Heng replies, just barely lowering his spear.
“Then, would you like to board our Express?”
Silence. The woman continues anyway. “We’re retracing our previous journey. There’s so much to see all over again. We need a guard, and an archiver.”
Silence. The woman continues anyway. “You can get off any time once you’ve made up your mind on where to go.”
Silence. Then, Dan Heng’s lips part, and he feels the dryness of his throat crackle, crumbling to give way to the brevity of acceptance. There’s something for him to do. He can leave anytime.
“Alright.”
The woman just smiles. “I’m Himeko, navigator of the Astral Express. And you?”
“Dan Heng.”
“I suppose you won’t be needing this, then,” Himeko remarks, haphazardly tossing a flyer to the side. Just before it floats away, Dan Heng catches a glimpse of its atrocious writing, filled with illegible swirls and pretentious loops that nobody needs.
“JOB APPLICATION FORM!” he barely makes out, squinting. “NEED A…. UH……… WE’LL TAKE ANYONE!”
Dan Heng’s gaze returns to Himeko, whose back faces him, long, red hair cascading forth as she steps towards the Express. It’s too late to go back now. Dan Heng mentally prepares himself for whatever cruel form of interstellar travel he’s going to encounter next—but then he follows after her, through the train doors, stepping off the grounds of the port and onto the floating pinnacle of travel.
And it’s normal.
“Holy shit!” someone yells from down the hall. Dan Heng feels goosebumps rippling all throughout his skin, his hands reaching for Cloud Piercer once more. But Himeko raises her hand and an older man with brown hair, who’s sitting comfortably on the couch, just sighs.
“Everyone, evacuate!”
Dan Heng is ready to leave.
“Ignore that,” Himeko says, glancing over her shoulder.
“You found someone?” the older man says from the couch, index finger reaching up to press the frame of his glasses against the bridge of his nose. Warm, amber eyes meet his own; Dan Heng stiffens.
“I did.”
“Everyone, prepare yourselves!”
Dan Heng should’ve left.
A thunderous boom ricochets throughout the Express, and a grey rabbit with a conductor’s hat just stomps their foot against the ground, seething.
“Why, I oughta!” the rabbit starts, winding up their arms comically, as if they were ready to pummel somebody.
“Sorry about that, Dan Heng,” Himeko then says, not looking sorry at all. “We have a couple of characters on board.”
Dan Heng, wondering if he can decide to depart from this Express now, just raises a brow. Despite not saying anything, the only thought that resounds throughout the racing speeds of his mind is: Only a couple?
“It’s nice to meet you. Dan Heng, was it?” the older man asks, holding a hand out. “I’m Welt Yang. Feel free to reach out whenever you need anything.”
Wordlessly, Dan Heng shakes his hand, the feeling unfamiliar. His too-loose wrists and too-calloused hands feel strange in the palm of weathered skin, shrinking under the all-knowing gaze of a man whose eyes seem to read the stars. While Himeko has an air of competence, Welt seems as if he is omniscient.
Dan Heng supposes that he won’t be here long.
“You saw our conductor just now, Pom-Pom,” Himeko explains, gesturing in the direction where the rabbit went off. “We also have a fourth member.”
Dan Heng grimaces slightly. “The one in charge of the explosion?”
Welt just nods, exasperated. “The one in charge of the explosion.”
“You’ll meet them later,” Himeko states. Frankly, Dan Heng doesn’t want to.
He supposes he won’t be here long.
After the introductions, Welt and Himeko, later joined by Pom-Pom—whose furious expression from before quickly mellows out upon noticing the newcomer’s presence—guide Dan Heng around the Express, introducing him to various cars and compartments. Then, they take him to the Data Bank. It’s an unused room, each surface lined with dust, lit only by the dim screen which showcases the universe.
“This is what we’d like you to manage,” Himeko says, arms crossed. “But, there’s another room that you can stay in. It’s just down the hall.”
“I’m alright,” Dan Heng replies. “I’ll stay here.”
Welt hums. “Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Then,” Himeko gestures towards the room vaguely. “It’s yours. Would you like any furniture?”
“I’m alright.”
“What about a bed?”
Dan Heng stares at the space, thinking such a luxury is more than enough, anyway.
“I’m alright.”
“I’ll give you a sleeping bag, then,” Himeko states, leaving no room for objections. Dan Heng obliges; he won’t be here for long, anyway.
As the members of the Express file slowly out of the archives—now his room—Dan Heng takes a moment to observe his new living quarters. It’s warmer than a prison cell; he supposes that’s to be expected.
There’s a desk (his index finger traces slowly over the oak wood, leaving remnants of himself in the sea of dust), and there’s a chair (it’s lined with a velvet material, its bright red starkly contrasting the natural golden light of the room), and there are shelves (his gaze drifts across the endless array of books and archives, vesting fragments of the universe).
Footsteps. Dan Heng’s senses are keenly attuned to his surroundings, and instinctively, he feels the material of Cloud Piercer under his fingertips, the jade feeling more familiar than the oak he just traced.
Footsteps. They aren’t like any other member of the Express—Himeko’s steps are poised, Welt’s are certain, Pom-Pom’s are Pom-Pom’s—and this, he thinks, feels clumsy. The owner’s gait is uneven and they’re stumbling to and fro, the clacking of metals and glass accompanying their uncoordinated feet.
He turns around, Cloud Piercer ready to manifest, muscles feeling tense, ready to run or fight or do whatever it is that fugitives must, but then he catches a glimpse of a figure passing by his newly-received room and he thinks he’s encountered something far worse.
Like wings beating home.
You.
We were in a field of flowers.
Dragon scales part the fields.
Turquoise on flax; wheat bends in accordance to the dragon’s will, his tail brushing against the rolling grains, yet to be harvested by their owner. The sun. He approaches the cabin on the hill, its wooden color blending into the rest of the landscape, perfectly still.
Water traces the ground, muddying his shoes. He continues on. Just outside the cabin is a figure, hunched forward, hands reaching towards the earth they adore. Sweat trickles down the side of their face and the dragon’s steps quicken. Turquoise on flax.
“Guiying,” he calls, voice adorned with wings, beating home. The dragon’s will has always been to be here. The figure glances up, head tilting slightly to the side. The dragon’s will has been fulfilled. Like wings beating home.
“Dan Feng,” Guiying says, smiling still. Dan Feng wonders if they could look that way forever. The dragon’s treasure.
“How long have you been out here?” he asks, crouching forward, tail instinctively circling around their feet. Turquoise on flax; like wings beating home.
They just shrug. “Couple minutes?”
Dan Feng steals an unconvinced glance at the sweat that perspirates on their forehead, the heat which radiates from their skin. His eyes return to theirs soon after; they do not like to be separated for long. Turquoise on flax; like wings beating home.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, hand reaching for theirs, pinky fingers intertwined as if they were held by red strings. “It’s getting warm.”
The dragon’s will has always been to be here. Guiying looks up and there it is, Dan Feng thinks. Turquoise on flax; wings beating home; red strings and red heat and red pinkies. Home.
Someone has possessed your body, and your soul is nowhere to be found.
Dan Heng swears he'll find you again. No matter what it takes.
dan heng ♡ gn!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, lore inaccuracies (i pulled this out of my ass), body possession, body swapping, identity vagueness
notes: Dude i love this trope
"Tell me," Dan Heng mutters, his tone low, the tip of his spear pointed towards your throat, jade kissing your skin when you swallow thickly. "Where did [Name] go?"
"What're you talking about?" you reply, hands held up to the sides of your head, a nervous smile encroaching onto your lips. Your back meets the metal of the Parlor Car's walls, your smile parting ever-so slightly to gasp for air, breaths haggard, as Dan Heng presses you further, his expression unfeeling.
"Don't lie to me," he states, the calmness eerie. "You are not [Name]."
"How's that even possible?" you reason, managing to tilt your head slightly, eyes crinkling as your smile widens.
For a moment, Dan Heng's resolve stutters. It's true that your face is the same; from the curl of your lips, to the bridge of your nose, to the scars and moles which line your skin—your well-loved face, those well-loved features.
But it's not. Dan Heng looks at you again and Cloud-Piercer steadies, unwavering, the blunt end pressing fully against the bob of your throat as your mouth hangs slightly agape, eyes craning down as if to gauge just how sharp the weapon really is.
How audacious, is all Dan Heng thinks, brows furrowing. To claim their identity when you cannot even judge the spear which I've told them so much about.
The curl of your lips, though the same in shape, does not resume its natural form when you smile. The crinkle of your eyes, though perfect in imitation, does not contain the natural mirth that enraptures your features.
To think anyone would even dare to mimic a fraction of the sublime—Cloud-Piercer digs closer into your skin, the possessor's eyes widening, lips shrinking to reveal the most fervent of frowns, its shape not suiting your features—how utterly foolish.
"Answer me," Dan Heng states again. "Where did they go?"
"Hah!" you then exclaim, the sound not fitting your voice, its melody infuriating despite its timber belonging to your chords. "You'd have better luck giving up. This body is mine, you mutt!"
Fury, though wildly impulsive, is something that Dan Heng submits to whenever he feels its phantom looming over his shoulder, its mouth widening, capturing him within the hinge of its jaws. Fury allows him to act, without the burden of thoughts, without the second-guessings of whether regret will follow.
Fury is his. There's someone in your body, claiming it as their own, and Dan Heng feels the mouth of fury swallow, he feels the esophagus, he feels the stomach acid as he fizzles in the bile.
He feels the grit of his own teeth as his jaw tightens, his brows furrowing to the point of wrinkling his nose, his figure hunched forward as he presses Cloud-Piercer's blunt end so violently into your throat that you start gasping for air, unable to breathe.
(And, despite it all, he's careful not to draw blood. He's careful to avoid the wounds which haven't healed fully, he's careful to avoid your lower neck, as you've mentioned how sensitive you are there. This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.)
The doors to the Parlor Car slam open, and Dan Heng feels his figure part from yours, his dominant hand held back by the arms of another, the frantic cacophony of voices as you're subdued by Stelle and Himeko, March watching from afar, Welt behind him.
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.
Dan Heng looks at you, and he does not recognize the entity which stares back at him. A possessor; a fraud; a thief. Something stole your body—but more than that, because Dan Heng couldn't care less about what sort of appearance you take, where your moles form, where your scars lie.
The crinkle of a joyful eye is unmistakable, the cadence of words are unique to each person, the syntax, the choices, the mannerisms of an identity. Dan Heng knows you to be a creature without regrets, to smile wildly, unabashed, teeth and all. He knows you to tilt your head when you speak, to use crude language that is common, not outdated, lousy terms such as "mutt."
Dan Heng knows you. And even when someone wears your eyes, and even when someone smiles with your lips, and even when someone speaks with your voice, he knows.
Something stole your body.
And where are you?
You're pretty.
Dan Heng has thought that ever since you stepped foot on the Express. He thought that the sofas seemed to reinvent themselves under your gaze, he thought that space must've shrunk away when your eyes sweeped over it, through the window, perceiving each freckled star. It felt as if this universe shifted in accordance to your examination, as if its worth amounted to how much time was spent beheld within the center of your pupils, sublime.
And when you smiled, Dan Heng thought you to be even prettier.
You smiled in such a way that felt as though you lived anew, as though joy alone was enough to rid this guilty world of its sins. Despite being the Express's newest member at the time, you quickly settled in, joining each game night with a striking resolve, creating inside jokes with the Stelle and March, laughing at things that made no sense.
And you were there for Belobog, for the Luofu, for Penacony, for Amphoreus. Throughout it all, you remained as you were: euphoric, unabashed, free. Sublime.
You're pretty.
From behind the makeshift prison which Himeko had crafted from bars made of steel, Dan Heng stares. Your hand tightens around the material, unable to reach fully through the crevice, expression sullied by a violent frown. Bottom lip jutted out, a sound leaves your lips, not too far removed from a growl.
You were pretty.
Dan Heng stares at you, whose countenance is devoid of any bliss, whose laughter remains humorless, whose gaze never once trickles towards the window, to look at the space which you oh-so adored.
But not like this.
"You possessed this body," Welt states. "And where was your original form?"
"As if I need to tell you anything," you spit.
"If you value your life, then I suggest you do," Dan Heng snaps, readying Cloud-Piercer once more. Himeko raises her hand, arm separating his figure from yours, an extra layer added to the prison cell which you wallow in, unmoved.
Then, you laugh.
How disgusting, is all Dan Heng thinks.
This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.
"How hilarious!" you exclaim, laughing still, the sound disturbing, lacking humor and humanity and anything that serves to anchor you to this world, to liken you to the sublime, to make even space shy away. "To think you're threatening me! If you kill me, where will the original soul land?!"
Dan Heng's eyes grow wide, and he lurches forward, Cloud-Piercer stabbing past a crevice in the prison, slamming through the other side, your figure barely missing the impact.
"The original soul," he seethes, "where is it?"
You laugh again.
When you looked at the universe, it reinvented itself depending on the worth you had assigned it, how long each star existed within your gaze, how wide your smile became after perceiving each constellation, each striking comet.
He remains at the window of the Parlor Car for a long while, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracing over each freckled star, its shape lining the face of space. He wonders which one made you the happiest, which one was so beautiful it could make even the personification of radiance a witness.
When he's not in the Parlor Car, lost in his stupor, he's at the Data Bank, sifting frantically through the archives, desperate to determine what exactly is possessing your body.
Depending on what it is, maybe he can finally satiate the bloodlust which tugs at his hands.
A knock on his door. Dan Heng doesn't look up; he sifts through another array of pages before saying, "Come in."
It's Welt. Upon entering, he closes the door behind him, and Dan Heng tears his gaze from the archives to spare a glance at the man, his expression taking the shape of vague relief.
"Dan Heng," Welt says, hand coming to push his glasses further up his nose. "I believe [Name]'s possessor is a form of miasma which stems from the Luofu. It only makes sense, considering they had gone there the day before their possession began."
"But the only question now is," Welt continues, "what exactly is the type of miasma, and where has [Name]'s soul gone now?"
Dan Heng slams the archives shut, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk, brows furrowed so vehemently.
"Luofu possession either forces the host's soul back within their body, or ousts them into a new, soulless body."
"So, [Name] could still be in there?"
"Unlikely. Usually, if that were the case, the original host could manage to occupy the body at the same time as the possessor. In this case, however, it seems as though as the possessor has full autonomy over [Name]'s body."
This is your body.
This is, and will always be, your body.
"So, they've possessed a soulless body. The dead, then?" Welt remarks, quick as ever.
Dan Heng nods.
"I'm leaving," he states, grabbing his spear, damn near sprinting towards the helm, desperate to return to the source, the ship which he once belonged to, yet now exists merely as a past that serves to push him forward.
The future; it must have you.
Dan Heng likes you.
But maybe like is too light of a word, unable to bear the weight of which only a creature so hopelessly devoted could hold. Dan Heng adores you.
He adores you in such a way that has familiarized him with all of your habits; the tap of your fingers against glass, the way you save your favorite bites for last, the raise of your hand whenever you laugh.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that renders him unable to part his gaze from your smile in pictures, the way you seem to have a signature pose, the way you are so wholly and completely radiant. It's sublime. You're sublime.
("Want this photo, Dan Heng?" March asked, handing him a polaroid, its frame depicting only one subject. You.
(He grimaced slightly. Was he so obvious?
(Before he could say anything, March waved her hand dismissively, knowing that he'd decline the offer yet want it anyway. "Just have it!" she said, mischievous. "And I better get credits when you get together!")
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that he himself doesn't quite know when or how or why it began, or exists; it just does, and that fact alone is enough.
He boards the Luofu. The moon hangs in the freckled sky, and Dan Heng revisits the sight once more, wondering how it looks through your eyes, wondering if, in this way, your gazes will meet again, lost in space's vast face.
Then, he looks forward.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that feels as though he knows you better than himself. He knows your favorite foods, your favorite drinks, your favorite spots. He knows you love bustling environments, but also, that you like people watching from comfortable spots, content with the silence, wind kissing your skin.
There's a hill. On top, is a bench, shaded from the moonlight by the leaves of a blossoming tree. In its tender embrace is a figure, slumped, head tilted towards the sky.
Just a silhouette is enough.
Dan Heng races towards the pinnacle, the sublime, the wonder.
"[Name]!" he calls, even before reaching the top, even before his eyes can behold the sight of his beheld, even before your habits find him, your manners familiar. The silhouette is enough. The crane of your gaze towards the sky, the universe shifting in accordance to your perception, its worth assigned based on the mirth that enraptures your features, irrevocable, is enough.
You turn towards him, finger tapping on the wooden plank of the bench, head tilting to the side, mouth hanging slightly agape.
"Dan Heng?" you reply, disbelieving. "Dan Heng, how are you—"
Cloud-Piercer dissipates, his hands free, arms outstretched, engulfing you within its grasp as he feels your figure press against his, your body devoid of any warmth, its previous owner gone. But it doesn't matter to Dan Heng, what form you take, where your moles are, where your scars form. All that matters is this soul is yours. His soul is yours.
He breathes, most desperately, most fervently, most ardently. Dan Heng presses you closer to him, as if afraid you'll leave him, as if your soul could disappear again—but what difference would that make? Dan Heng will find you, new face and all, and he will love you again.
"[Name]," he says again, barely above a whisper. "[Name], I was so worried..."
Your name is proof of identity. And, when his lips cradle the syllables, and when its sweet sound echoes throughout the air, Dan Heng cannot help but say it again. He says your name just to say it, to solidify this identity, to put more of you in the world, to exist, the sublime, the irrevocable, the unabashed!
Briefly, his figure parts from yours, his hands on your shoulders still, gaze tracing over your new, yet well-loved, face. He examines you for any injuries, unable to contain the frantic race of his heart, now reunited with his beloved.
"[Name], someone stole—"
"I know," you reply, smiling still, eyes crinkling, joy finding you despite the circumstance. "I'll get it back, you know. That shit's not free!"
Dan Heng, for the first time since your possession, finds it in himself to spare the most subtle of smiles.
In the end, the solution was much simpler than anticipated.
Upon re-entering the Express, you found yourself in front of, well, yourself. And you stared at the image of your figure confined within a prison cell, the sight sending a shiver down your spine. Is this foreshadowing?
"For miasma cases such as this, it says that just a touch is enough to swap souls, so long as the one with the foreign body desires it. In this case, [Name], it's you," Welt explains, beckoning you towards the cage.
You snort. "Damn."
Despite your possessor's vehement attempt at swatting you away, and curling back into the cage which they had once so desperately tried to escape, you manage to graze your finger against theirs, the world spinning immediately after. Hazy, you feel yourself falling back, and a pair of arms manage to catch you before the pain of the ground hits—but then, you wake up, now behind bars.
The arms, which once served to stop you from falling, now drop your possessor's form to the ground.
And, soon after, a spear pierces the body's chest.
Nobody says anything. Except for you, however, with an uninspiring, "Ooh... That looked like it hurt."
Dan Heng, paying no mind to Cloud-Piercer's spot in the body's newfound cavity, is quick to slam the prison open, his hand outstretched, callused and all, as he helps you up, his expression unreadable save for the slight melt of his irises, the relief which sweeps over his lips.
Click! A camera goes off. You wince at the light, and Dan Heng sighs.
"March," he mutters. The girl in question makes no effort to say anything.
"March," Stelle calls, before throwing up finger guns, "give me that photo!"
"Stelle..." Dan Heng mutters, in a tone quite similar to the one he just used to utter March's name. But then, your laugh resounds throughout the Express, the sound satiating the emptiness which pervaded so thickly in your absence, and Dan Heng can't help but turn towards you, pupils finding their place, beheld reunited with the beholder.
Again and again, even though we know love's landscape [Masterlist]
Levi Ackerman/ Reader | Reincarnation!AU | Explicit | Multi-chapter
AO3
SUMMARY:
Levi remembered on his seventh birthday: a lifetime of grime, corpses, and titans —a lifetime by your side.
He chokes on yearning and grief as he searches for you.
On his twenty-seventh birthday, Levi finds you. You don’t remember.
CONTENTS:
Afab!Reader – Reincarnation!AU – Modern!AU – Canon Compliant– Emotional Hurt/Comfort – Angst with a Happy Ending – Fluff – Smut – Christmas – Birthdays – Flashbacks – Soft Levi Ackerman – Childhood Friend Levi Ackerman
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This was written for LeviWeek24’s day one (Prompt is “Happy Birthday Levi”). It was originally supposed to be a one shot, but it got out of control. So out of control that this ended up being a 6-chapter fic. I didn’t even get to write the fics I had outlined for the other days — they might become extremely late entries, depending on how hard the new year hits me.
Anyway, this is a Reincarnation!AU that alternates between the reencounter of Levi and the reader (written in present tense) and the birthdays Levi spent with the reader on their first life (written in past tense). Hope you enjoy it!
As always, all comments (thoughtful analysis, keysmashes, concrit, emojis) are welcomed <3
INDEX:
Chapter I: If your eyes looked up and met mine one more time (6.5k words) | AO3
Levi people-watches every day after work. He perches himself in any downtown restaurant with outside tables and searches for your face on the streets.
Chapter II: And I felt the taste of you bubble up inside me (5.5k words) | AO3
There’s a blatant hope for his appreciation in your questions. Levi doesn’t know how to explain to you that he’s spent his last ten birthdays hoping to see this exact curve of your neck as you lean towards the table and lay your cheek on the back of your hand.
Chapter III: And we've both done it all a hundred times before (7.2k words) | AO3
Glimpses of a past life appear in your mind with little flourish. In those moments, you speak with the same tone you use to speak about Levi’s kids, or about your imbecile of a boss, or about the shitty hard chairs you sit on while waiting for Levi to finish therapy.
Chapter IV: Let's step into the dark; once we're in, I'll know my way around | AO3
He wanted you so much back then. And he fucking wants you now. He wants you undone and radiant under him during rainy mornings. And he wants your sighed moans against his skin. And your folded clothes in his hamper, and his shampoo on your hair. He wants you curled next to him on the slow afternoons after work when he’s assessing the fingerpainted damage on his backpack.
Chapter V: I can still smell the fire, though I know it's long died out | AO3
Levi’s been dreaming of scorched, trampled earth. He doesn’t know how to explain it to you; he doesn’t want to.
Chapter VI: I can still smell the fire, though I know it's long died out | AO3
Levi’s been dreaming of scorched, trampled earth. He doesn’t know how to explain it to you; he doesn’t want to.
summary: between sleepless nights, bruised hands, and captain levi’s relentless attention, the line between self-preservation and self-destruction begins to blur. captain levi watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. the problem is that you can’t stop watching him back.
content warning(s): age difference, power imbalance, loss of innocence, mildly dubious consent, canon-typical violence, circa season 1 of aot, aged up recruits, slight eren yeager/reader, not so slowburn, eventual explicit sexual content.
chapter specific warnings: levi centered chapter. mentions of death/dying, me bending canon to my will, crying, heartbreak, levi back to being an ass, reminiscing, memories of sexual encounters.
author's note: lowkey pouring salt in the wound..... mb.
Predictability, to many, was a cage.
It had no detail, it had no room for things to change for the worse or for the better. It simply existed. A string that fell perfectly in place before circling in the same pattern it had already mapped over, and over, and over again.
Levi had always found comfort in it.
It meant fewer mistakes, it meant fewer deaths and it meant that every single part of his life had a place where it belonged. There was no deviation — only structure. Living in the Underground for so long had him believe that he would never be able to change who he was fundamentally as a person, that was, until he woke up one moment in the Survey Corps and he had become a person who liked the structure instead of the chaos.
He would wake up in the morning before dawn. Drink tea before many in headquarters woke up. Training. Briefings. Cleaning. Expeditions. Sleep. Another day would come and he would do it all over again. It was . . . clean. Succinct. Comfortable in knowing what tomorrow would bring him, the absence of surprise.
Levi would never admit it to himself, but he did prefer different parts of his predictable days more than others.
Training new recruits was not one of them.
There was something so irritating about seeing these recruits fresh out of basic and having to shine their rough edges into something that at least resembled a competent soldier. They were so loud and reckless it made him want to pull his hair out if he spent too much time with them, and it never changed. Every single class believed that they would defy the stereotype, every class believed that they would be able to be the exception to the horrific percentage of casualty rates in the Scouts.
They would laugh at one another during breaks, boast about how many Titans they would kill, and spoke about the future with an ease that made him sick.
Levi kept his distance from others because it made things like commanding easier. Caring had a funny way of overcomplicating things, it clouded judgement and it made things reckless. The Survey Corps demanded sacrifices from everyone, and Levi had learned to make his sacrifices before anyone else could make them for him. He didn’t have to deal with the caring if he was already so far away from it that he could barely remember what the feeling of caring felt like. Yes, he did care about people, people who stayed. There wasn’t room for anything else. He wouldn’t make room.
It worked, a foolproof plan.
Until the one hundred and fourth Scout Regiment.
There were always a few specific ‘stand out’ cadets that were all the same. One recruit would always think that they were stronger than all the others, one who would never stop talking, and the handful of ones that would be dead before winter. It was cruel, but accurate. There was no point in learning names of cadets that would be dead after their first expedition, so he knew to learn them afterwards for the people who were still alive.
Attachment was a thing that Levi didn’t like or particularly do well. People came and they went, whether that was by force or if it was from their own volition. It was all the same.
The first time that Levi noticed you, it wasn’t because you were the strongest or because you were some underdog everyone underestimated.
It was because, for some godforsaken reason, you would not stop looking at him.
He assumed that it was mere curiosity. Levi was used to the stares of wide eyed recruits that knew of his reputation of being humanity’s strongest soldier, which he hated due to the fact that it made him seem like some type of saint. Most eventually got over it and they only saw him as Captain Levi.
You didn’t.
You weren’t obvious about it and you would always look away the moment his head turned to look at you. You would immediately become very interested in the ground below your boots or whatever conversation your fellow cadets were engaging in beside you. You always spent your time around Eren Yeager and that wide eyed blonde with the bowl cut.
It was irritatingly transparent.
He didn’t particularly care until about the third week when he realized it wasn’t just some type of fascination in your gaze. Fascination tended to fade the more time you spent with a person or a group, but yours just grew worse. It became so predictable he wondered if you were aware you were doing it.
It became a thing for him. He’d walk through the hallways, walk through the training grounds, through the mess halls and see if you would look at him. And, like always, you would. On the very rare occasion that you didn’t, he would find himself looking a second time. Somewhere along the way he would look for you first, his eyes drifting along a group of cadets gathered around a table or together on the training ground.
There wasn’t even anything remarkable for you to look at, which may have been the most annoying part. He was just Levi at the end of the day, just a Captain of the Survey Corps, a soldier like everyone else.
So . . . why?
The day was hot, scalding in a way that made his head hurt. He was watching the cadets train, mostly just observing today, letting them do their own way and find their own footwork with fighting. There was never a time that these cadets would need to learn hand to hand combat, but it was just in case.
You were with your usual crowd, sparring with Eren and you were holding your training sword so wrong. It was abysmal by his standards, it bothered him inexplicably. Someone should have noticed and corrected it weeks ago so you didn’t train this entire time with the wrong grip, and he was too proud of himself to admit that he was the one that should have corrected it.
Everyone was beginning to tire, it had been a long day and dinner was just about to start, but he couldn’t stop himself from walking towards your group.
Levi shot a glance at two cadets who were sitting cross-legged in the grass. One of them was muttering some apology for accidentally hitting her too hard. He recognized them only because the girl had a reputation for eating way too much food and the other was always stuck to her side like glue. He stopped a few feet away, mouth twitching in disapproval.
“That’s really interesting, he said in a flat tone. “I don’t remember dismissing any of you.”
He was ready for the excuses before they came, he knew that one of you was going to make up some type of excuse for insolence.
“We’ve been training for over three hours,” Eren muttered under his breath. Levi knew that Eren didn’t want him to hear that half-assed excuse. Complaining after drills was a rite of passage for new recruits and every single class had a loudmouth that was convinced they knew more than their Captain. Either that or no one had the balls to put them in their place before he would. Eren Yeager almost fit the role perfectly if he wasn’t so important.
“And somehow you still can’t fight for shit.”
His eyes landed on you, seeing the way you bit your cheek to try and stop a smile that threatened to cross your face.
“You think that’s funny?”
“No, sir.”
Levi hummed, he didn’t believe you. First you had the audacity to stare at him for the past two weeks thinking that he wouldn’t notice and now you thought that him trying to impose order was funny. “You’re holding it wrong,” he noted, feeling the need to knock you down a few pegs just so that he could feel somewhat in control of the . . . whatever it was that he thought was going on with you.
Your fingers instinctively tightened around the grip of the base. “I—”
Levi wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t. “In real combat you would lose two fingers trying to catch it once it falls out of your grip,” he said in a bored tone. “If you weren’t already impaled by the enemy.” Sure, it was rude of him, though it was better than the alternative — you dying.
He watched heat rise to your face. It was satisfying. Levi held his hand out with the plan of showing you how to hold the sword correctly, but you only stared at him, taking a few moments before placing the wooden sword into his steady hand.
Your fingers brushed his. His attention didn’t linger on it.
Instead, he weighed the sword in his hand, turning it once in between his fingers. The balance was unremarkable, it was the same dulled steel sword that many years of recruits had used to abuse the same training equipment. It wasn’t the blade that interested him, it was the way you had held it.
Levi loosened the tension in his wrist until the sword became an extension of his arm, practiced over years of training that he had been provided. It was natural.
“There,” he stated, moving a bit closer to you. “You’re compensating too much with your wrist. You’ll never get a proper slash on a Titan holding it like that.” His eyes flicked toward you. “You’re better off standing in front of one and letting it eat you.”
“I wasn’t that bad,” you muttered.
Levi looked up, not expecting you to be defensive about it. Most of the recruits he dealt with would respond in embarrassment, make some excuse about why they had done it incorrectly. You seemed to take a different approach. You argued.
It was refreshing to him, though he’d never admit it.
“No,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He wanted to leave it there, to give you a little bit of mercy. However, he saw the corners of your mouth twinge up in the very beginning of a smile. “You were worse.”
Before hearing your half assed excuse, he handed the sword back to you. You looked as though you were going to protest, instead, you adjusted your grip exactly the way that he’d shown you. At least you were as good at listening as you were with being defensive.
He turned to leave, dismissing the interaction from his mind.
Or at least, he very well tried to.
The rest of the day went by in the same blur it always did. He had a meeting with Erwin after dinner, a late night briefing about some scattered Titan formations to the south that they would need to send a group in to investigate. His routine settled back into that perfect predictability, every hour slipping by without having to think about anything else. He busied the rest of the evening with sorting through the cleaning supplies that had somehow found their way into the wrong cupboards.
By the time he finished, it was late. Late enough that most of the people in headquarters would be asleep. Lanterns were dimmed, footsteps were nonexistent in the corridors so silence was able to reclaim the halls until morning. Levi hadn’t been particularly good at sleeping, the Underground had beaten that habit out of him years ago. Sleep for him was always light and fragmented, waking up at the slightest sound from behind his door.
So, like most nights, he made another cup of tea.
It wasn’t as hot outside now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, the moon taking its place just above the treeline. Despite the faint light, it was dark out here in the woods, Levi could barely see past the first set of trees in the distance as he sat alone on the stone steps. The porcelain of his cup was warm on the rim where he placed his fingertips, steam curling lazily into his palm before emitting into the cool air.
It had barely cooled when one of the other doors creaked open.
You.
Slowly, you stepped outside, letting the door fall shut behind you. Your shoulders were slightly hunched over and you didn’t notice him, standing there beneath the moonlight. Despite wanting to tell you to go back to sleep immediately, Levi merely watched. You looked . . . different here, quieter. You didn’t look like the same recruit who had argued with him earlier about sword grips, you simply looked like a person. A person who tilted their head toward the sky like the stars would have some type of answer to a question you hadn’t asked out loud.
Levi took another sip of tea, feeling the way the wind shifted that sent a chill up his spine.
You shivered.
The sleeves of your shirt did practically nothing to shield you from the unexpected coolness of the night.
“You’re going to freeze to death standing out here.”
The words left his mouth before he had any time to think about them. Raw and unfiltered. Normally, he would have let you have some peace to yourself, perhaps you needed it. But he was concerned. It wasn’t a good feeling to have, it felt wrong in his chest, a sticky thing that refused to scrub off of him. You turned to him then, crossing your arms against your chest. Defiant as ever.
“You’re useless to me if you get yourself sick.”
He just couldn’t stop talking.
“I’ll survive a little cold air,” you answered.
Levi let out a sound that was half agreement and half dismissal. “You recruits are all stubborn in the exact same way. You’ve barely spent any time out of here and you think you can survive it.”
He could see the defensiveness in your frame before you said anything.
“I survived Trost.”
Of course.
“If I hadn’t come and protected you and your friends while you tried to pull Yeager out of that Titan, you would have died. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
A beat passed. And then another. For a moment, Levi wondered if he had gone too far. He didn’t care, or rather he shouldn’t care about hurting your feelings. You were a recruit, it was good to try and mold you into a soldier so that you didn’t die when it came time for another expedition. But the way you looked at him, it tugged at something. Whether it was his brain or his heart, he didn’t know.
“I know that,” you answered.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Levi stood from his spot, leaving the still warm teacup on the steps. He stretched his legs for a moment before walking towards you. He wondered if you could see the bags under his eyes, or the way that he held himself with less composure than when he was on duty. Did you see the same person as when you stared at him during the day? Did you . . . like the person he was when he wasn’t working? From the looks of it, you didn’t. You took steps away from him as he neared.
He was doing a very, very poor job of trying to make you see that he was only trying to help you with his comments.
“You say that,” he replied, “but you throw yourself into training like you’re trying to prove something. You overextend your swings, you ignore openings, and you stop thinking when your emotions get involved. If you want to survive more than a week when we go on our expeditions, you need to start thinking like a soldier instead of a scared little girl. Or maybe you just have a death wish. Is that what you want?”
Levi watched you carefully, seeing the anger spread all across your face. “You’re angry.”
“No shit.”
The answer almost made him smile. You admitted that you were scared, it was honest. He liked honesty, he could respect it. There was courage in being truthful, courage that he wasn’t sure you had until now.
“You need to figure out what you want,” he said. “Then you’ll become a good soldier.”
It sounded rehearsed, but it wasn’t. He hadn’t ever given this much advice to a recruit before, not even his fellow officers. Levi closed the little distance between the two of you and you didn’t step back. You were glaring at him with some irritation, yet you stayed exactly where you were. He found himself studying your face far longer than what would be deemed necessary.
His eyes traced the curve of your cheekbone and he tried to convince himself he was just noting your bone structure, which was a very stupid excuse. He watched the slight rise and fall of your breathing, the stubborn lift of your chin. You kept complete eye contact with him, his heartbeat quickened.
“If that’s the key to becoming a good soldier,” you asked quietly. “Then you must have gotten what you want, right, Captain?”
Levi’s throat tightened. It landed harder than he had expected it to, and the more he thought about it the more he felt himself leaning towards a spiral. It wasn’t clever, you weren’t trying to be insulting. It was just honest. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t even entirely sure if he knew what he wanted, and here he was, trying to tell you to. Levi thought back to the Underground, to the countless numbers of people he’s seen die in the past five years, the choices he’s had to make that were unfair to almost everyone.
“No.”
Could you hear the waver in his voice?
Your expression changed. You did.
This was wrong, he needed out of this conversation. He felt sick. He was letting you get too much into his head. “Go back to bed,” he said, pulling away from your stare. “Before I write you up.”
Levi waited until he heard your footsteps long gone in headquarters before he let out a shaky breath. His tea had gone cold.
He felt like he was on fire.
Levi tried to tell himself that asking you to help with the reports in the library was just an excuse to make sure you still had brain function over the fall you had with him two weeks ago. He was worried about you, he didn’t feel like admitting it to anyone or himself. It was weird not seeing you on the training grounds, not feeling your gaze before he followed it to its source. Levi hadn’t expected it to go this far.
His hand came up towards your face, eyes glancing into yours to sense any hesitation. And slowly, he placed it on your cheek, the soft skin of it made him shiver. It felt wrong to touch you with such rough, calloused hands. Hands that had killed more than caressed. He didn’t deserve to touch you with these hands and yet he indulged. It would only be for a small moment. Levi traced the faint line from the accident, frowning a small bit as he saw the beginnings of a scar starting to form. You didn’t deserve it. He should’ve seen you coming in the trees before this happened. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.
Levi allowed his finger to curl, indulging just a bit more while you stared at him. “You’ll scar,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.
“That bothers you?”
It should have been an easy question for him to answer. Every soldier accumulated them, he had more than he could count littered along his body. This one reminded him exactly how he should have protected you more. He should have seen you in the trees or responded better to your switch in position. Instead he failed you, trying to make up for it by stopping you from falling onto the ground and allowing you to fall on him instead.
“No,” he answered. It didn’t bother him for the reasons you probably assumed. It didn’t make you any less beautiful, it was just a reminder that he’d failed to protect you.
He’d indulged in too much of you for him to handle, so he started to pull away to put the respectful distance that was customary for a Captain and recruit. But then your hand closed around his wrist and he froze. It was so delicate against his skin, you weren’t strong enough to actually stop him. You had simply reached for him.
People didn’t touch him like this, people rarely touched him at all.
You touched him because you didn’t want him to leave. You were warm and alive, if he leaned close enough into it he could feel your pulse quickening.
“Careful.”
It wasn’t a warning for you, it was a plea. If you didn’t stop he wasn’t sure what he would do, if he allowed himself to get this close to you, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
What if you left? Then what would he do?
Levi inhaled through his nose, trying to force his pulse to something that resembled normal. But you kept looking at him with that same impossible expression. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that, it was getting harder and harder for him to pretend not to notice. If you kept doing this he would start to look for you more than he already did.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured. “Eventually you’ll get yourself into trouble.”
It wasn’t true in the slightest. You weren’t the one who was in trouble. He was.
Levi failed himself over and over again when it came to you.
He was taking things from you that he would never be able to give back.
You’re going to be the death of me.
It was perhaps the most honest thing he had said to you thus far. You were going to be the death of him. Levi couldn’t stop when it came to you. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it felt like to kiss you, to hear those helpless moans fall from your lips that night in the tent while the rest of the world disappeared, coaxing you through the pleasure that only he was giving to you. You had looked at him so trusting afterwards, willing to do anything he asked and he couldn’t bring himself to.
You trusted him to know what he was doing and to know when to stop when it was too much. You placed all your trust in him, your Captain, and he had repaid it by crossing every single line he had spent countless years drawing around himself. Guilt should have plagued him for it, he should feel evil and rotten enough to force himself back behind those walls.
It only made him want you more. Levi wanted you enough that it followed him into every part of his life. The headquarters, briefings, the library where he often found solitude, the place where he drank tea late at night. In his tent where he would spend nights on the expedition in peaceful, blissful silence. If he let his mind wander for too long it circled back to you. You had woven yourself into this perfect, predictable routine he created for himself.
And you didn’t know. You didn’t know you were inside his chest like a disease he had willingly let himself contract. He wouldn’t let you, he couldn’t let you. He had too much baggage, he didn’t know how to deal with things like attachment the way he’d seen others do before. It didn’t feel like that. It felt deafening, too much for him to handle. Levi couldn’t build his life around something he knew he couldn’t afford to lose.
Levi’s whole squad died right before his eyes only days ago, reduced to bodies that had been pushed out of carts to speed up the horses in retreat. Petra, Eld, Oluo, Gunther. He couldn’t say the names out loud for fear it would make it harder for him to move on. They all went into that forest by his command and none of them had left it alive, casualties in an eventual report he would have to oversee. To the Survey Corps, they were just numbers, not people. He almost wished that he didn’t know any of them and hadn't handpicked them all for his specific squad.
No. That wasn’t true or fair to them.
Losing them was the unbearable part, knowing them had been a privilege.
He’d failed them regardless.
Everyone he allowed to get even the tiniest bit close to him ended up as corpses.
So what did that mean for you?
Levi hated hurting you the way that he was in this cramped room. If he cared less he wouldn’t have given you a reason for avoiding you, he would’ve simply done it. But you deserved an explanation, deserved to hear from him directly that he couldn’t continue this with you. This would be good for you, you would spend time thinking about your friends and expeditions than him. You wouldn’t be burdened with the trust you gave him, he could go back to being your Captain and you would move on.
Every word he spoke landed where he had intended it to despite something inside of him demanding he stops every time your expression fell apart and you looked closer to crying. Levi owed it to you to end it cleanly, to let you hate him now before you learned to do it all by yourself.
“You’re a recruit,” Levi continued. “And I’m your Captain. This ends here, you understand?”
It tasted like ash in his mouth. It was too measured, too clinical for his liking.
“So,” your voice caught in your throat. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
It was a lie. It wasn’t it. It would never be just it. Levi needed to push forward before he lost his composure.
“What about the library?” Don’t. “The tent?” Please let it go. “The other night before the expedition?”
“I remember.” Of course he did. That was the whole point. He remembered the exact pressure of your fingers against his skin that he had replayed in his head countless times before he went to sleep. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the softness of your cheek when he held it, or the silky strands of your hair he had threaded his fingers through.
“You — you kissed me back,” you whispered. “You touched me, you told me—”
“I know what happened. It won’t happen again.” There was still time for him to go back, to tell you he didn’t mean it. That he was scared of someone getting close to him the way you were threatening to. He could tell you that he avoided you not because he regretted touching you but because he would want to do it over and over again with no regards to how the real world worked.
“It was a lapse in judgement.”
Something broke behind your eyes then, he could see it settle. Levi should have felt relieved that he finally had the balls to say it, to make you hate him enough to go back to your life before everything that happened. His stomach twisted enough to make him believe he was going to throw up. He watched in horror as your shoulders trembled, breathing unevenly and eyes watering up.
Levi used every nerve in his body to stop himself from reaching out despite every instinct telling him to wipe away the tears before they fell.
“It wasn’t anything.”
“Okay.”
The door fell shut behind you with a definitive click. Silence filled the space as he counted to ten, then twenty, then sixty, as if he expected for you to walk back through that door and demand more answers. Then he would be able to convince himself that he had been too cruel and he could try and take it all back, to make you trust him again, to make you smile and laugh the way you had with him before.
Levi leaned against one of the chairs, hand coming up to his forehead while the other braced against the back of a desk tucked to one side of the room. The door stayed in his peripheral, there was no movement behind it. You weren’t coming back, he had properly sent you away.
summary: between sleepless nights, bruised hands, and captain levi’s relentless attention, the line between self-preservation and self-destruction begins to blur. captain levi watches you like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. the problem is that you can’t stop watching him back.
content warning(s): age difference, power imbalance, loss of innocence, mildly dubious consent, canon-typical violence, circa season 1 of aot, aged up recruits, slight eren yeager/reader, not so slowburn, eventual explicit sexual content.
chapter specific warnings: mentions of death/dying, me bending canon to my will, crying, heartbreak, levi back to being an ass.
author's note: im really sorry in advance guys. but the good news is that the next chapter will be very long again.
Eighty seven dead.
Eighty seven Survey Corps members who were no longer here with the living hung over everyone's head on the ride back to Karanese. The wagons that had been filled to the brim with bodies were only half full now, the rest of them scattered through the fields in between Wall Maria and Wall Rose in an attempt to run away from all of the abnormal Titans that descended upon them in the wake of the Female Titan’s scream.
No one spoke on the ride back, even the horses seemed to run quieter the closer they got to the District. Whether everyone was too exhausted or grief stricken to stop them from speaking, you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure what was settling in your chest either, just a longing feeling for this Expedition to finally be over.
Glancing over to your right, you watched one of the carts with green-cloaked bodies bump along the road. Every once in a while the wheels would catch a rock and you watched them shift, exposing the messy pile of broken bones and scattered blood along pale skin. One of the arms of a soldier fell loosely beneath a cloak, making you wince and turn your head back to stare forward.
You realized you couldn’t even picture eighty seven faces, the number too large to have your brain properly understand the sheer magnitude of how many people the Corps had lost today. As the walls of Karanese began to emerge from the horizon, you tightened your fingers against the reins. Too many people had ridden through the gates and would never ride through them again.
Ahead of you, Eren was laying unconscious in one of the carts with the injured. To his right, Levi rode along with his horse, posture rigid in the saddle. His green cloak stirred occasionally in the wind, allowing for you to see the contours of his face from underneath the hood. You’d heard murmuring that the whole Levi Squad had been killed in order to protect Eren from the Female Titan, and even then it wasn’t enough to stop her from almost capturing him entirely.
If he was mourning, Levi wasn’t showing it. His shoulders never slumped, his hands didn’t shake. A cool mask of indifference in the face of losing those deemed closest to him, those that he had personally handpicked to work underneath him. An entire squad had been erased before the sun set. Even through the numbness you couldn’t stop thinking about him from the night before. At the time, the way that Levi had looked at you and the way he spoke to you had felt like the most important thing in the world.
Now it felt impossibly small and stupid. It felt selfish.
The people of Karanese watched over the line of soldiers, a few commenting that the mission had failed while the others saw the solemn faces of the Scouts and wondered just how much loss had occurred. You looked over to Eren, a few portions of his body wrapped in bandages, dried blood staining his uniform. Every once in a while he would stir, like he was going to wake up. But he never did, his body exhausted from shifting into his Titan form.
“Taxpayer money at it again,” someone from the crowd complained loudly.
Another sighed. “And they still expect us to send our children into the military when all they do is bring back bodies.”
You wanted to pull your cloak over your entire body to shy away from the whispering scrutiny from the eyes of the public. It was one of those silent caveats that came with being a Scout. Civilians would never understand what it was like to be in your shoes, all they would see is the wreckage, the carnage, the body bags that came back with the group after expeditions. To the public, all the Scouts did was get themselves killed. They would never know what it was like outside of the walls, where things were unpredictable and plans never went as perfectly as everyone wanted.
A part of you wondered what would happen if you snapped back at them. Would they scrutinize you then once they saw how tired you were of losing comrades every single day? Would they look at you with pity or concern?
It didn’t matter. What was done was done. There was no way to erase the past, there was no way to erase the dead. Screaming at civilians wouldn’t do anything, it would only cause more distrust.
So you continued to do as you were told — staying silent, listening to the hooves of your horse clammer against the stone paths.
You let them talk, you let them wonder about what happened out there.
The formation slowly led to a stop near a courtyard outside the Garrison headquarters while stablehands walked over to take reins from Scouts, expressions changing when they looked at the wagons that held the bodies. You slid off of your house, knees nearly buckling. “I’ve got her,” the stablehand near you muttered, but you barely acknowledged them while you stretched out your legs.
Soldiers who were injured got off of the wagons first. While some of them were able to climb down with their own strength, others required assistance. It was a mess of broken ribs, sprained ankles, and bandaged wounds. Medics hurried with stretchers, lifting the more serious cases onto them before disappearing into headquarters. Eren was among them, his body limp as two medics eased him onto a white canvas stretcher. His arms and torso were wrapped with bandages, a pink stain coating them from dried blood.
You took a step towards him, but a Military Police officer moved into your path before you could.
“We’ll take it from here,” the man said with finality, making you stop to stare at Eren while he was ushered in.
“Where are you taking him?” You asked, barely glancing at the officer to watch Eren leave through the doorway.
He adjusted his rifle before looking at you again, expression unreadable. “Med eval first.”
“And then?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It’s not your problem to worry about, Cadet.”
You wanted to say something else, to demand answers for what they were planning to do with him, but your attention turned as you heard someone call your name. Turning around, you saw Armin and Jean standing near one of the wagons with the dead.
Armin waved his hand. “Section Commander Hange said that we have to unload . . .” He hesitated, looking over at the pile of bodies in front of him. “. . . them. So we can start preparing graves. Can you help?”
You swallowed, walking closer to the wagon. The white canvas had already been pulled back from a few, pale hands resting against one another where bodies had shifted, green cloaks torn in some places. They looked almost peaceful, laying there with their eyes fluttered shut like they were asleep. Jean already climbed into the wagon, hands reaching for the closest of the bodies. The boy couldn’t have been much older than you, but you didn’t recognize him. He must’ve been from the previous cadet corps or the one before. There was dirt smudged along his face mixed with maroon colored blood that was beginning to brown from oxidation.
When you reached beneath his shoulders to drag him out, you paused when you felt coldness underneath your fingertips. No sign of life, no rushing blood or scattered heartbeat. Just . . . cold. Your fingers tightened against the fabric of his green cloak and you lifted, stumbling a bit when the boy felt heavier than you expected.
Armin and you walked over to the temporary row of stretchers and you both laid him down carefully, as if there was any chance that he could somehow still feel it.
There were still dozens of bodies to round up and you knew that you would mourn every single one of them, regardless of if you knew them or not.
Two days passed before the Survey Corps made their way to Stohess in order to bargain with the Military Police about what to do with Eren after he had been turned over into custody of the government. Stohess was almost ten times more luxurious than Karanese had been with its bustling streets filled with merchants, military police walking up and down the pavements, and church bells ringing in the distance somewhere deeper into the district.
It was a nice change after the past few days of burying the dead, being briefed on what was next, and doing inventory of what supplies were left after the expedition. Every single waking hour was filled with something to do, allowing you less time to think about anything else. You were grateful for it, at least this way you didn’t have to think about the bodies you had unloaded or the wails of the injured soldiers.
There hadn’t been any time to speak to Levi, or at least, not the way that you would like to. A few offhand comments here and there directed at your friends or commands during the day, but nothing substantial. You’d mostly just seen him in passing, walking into meetings or across courtyards, or speaking with other veteran scouts. There were some times that you considered walking over there or going to his room during the later hours, but you didn’t. Perhaps it was because you felt as though you would be walking on eggshells after the passing of his entire squad, or perhaps it was because you were scared that he would push you away.
It wasn’t as though he was ignoring you, he was just . . . indifferent. There were no subtle glances your way that told you silently that he was still thinking about you. Levi would answer if you spoke and he would acknowledge your salutes all with detached professionalism he gave to every other recruit.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” you said to Mikasa, sitting down next to her in the mess hall. “They’re not going to execute him, Commander Erwin and Captain Levi won’t let that happen.”
Everyone was nervous about what was going on with Eren. First he had been allowed to join the Scouts as a possible advantage towards Titans, and now he was on the brink of almost being executed again. The words you spoke felt more confident than how you really felt. You weren’t sure that it was going to be alright. No one would be straightforward with their answers regarding him.
Mikasa looked up from her bowl that was still untouched in front of her. “You really believe that?”
“Yes,” you said, ignoring the hesitation in your voice. It wasn’t an entire lie, you did trust Erwin and Levi, neither of them seemed interested in Eren being executed. “They fought too hard to keep him alive the first time he was arrested by the government.”
Jean let out a laugh. “He’s too stubborn to kill anyways. The sneaky little bastard is probably already thinking of ways to break out.”
You pushed your food around your plate, too focused on worrying about Eren and Levi to contribute any more to the conversation. You were tired even though you hadn’t done much today, as you were all being treated like guests in Stohess while the military tried to determine the next course of action. It wasn’t the physical fatigue that you were used to, the one that settled into your muscles and made you ache externally. It was something quieter than that, an internal ache that only got worse with every hour that you spent eating, sleeping, and speculating about the future. The sun was setting outside and all you could think about was going to bed to try and have a better day tomorrow.
With a quiet sigh, you finally set your fork down onto your plate, standing up. “I’m going to go to my room,” you said, walking away before anyone could question you. Nobody stopped you.
The hallway outside of the hall was cooler, the sounds of conversation fading behind the heavy wooden doors that swung shut behind you. You were only halfway down the hall before someone rounded the corner — Levi.
As his eyes met yours, he stopped in his footsteps and so did you. His eyes looked tired, hair slightly disheveled as though he had been running his hands through it all day. It was the first time that the two of you had been alone since Karanese and it was also the first time that he had really looked at you since then.
“Captain,” you said quietly, standing awkwardly underneath the lamp light.
Levi gave a short nod your way. “Cadet.”
Then he started to walk again, past your shoulder so close that you felt the air shift. His footsteps echoed behind you. Your stomach sank with the realization that he wasn’t going to say anything else, he wasn’t going to turn around and say something to you that finally acknowledged the simmering tension.
So, as you had many times before with him, you turned. “Levi.”
His footsteps halted, looking over his shoulder. Levi glanced around the hallway and then towards the mess hall doors, calculating if anyone was going to pass by. Without a word, he walked towards you and reached for your wrist. It wasn’t rough, but commanding enough for you to follow him instead of pulling away. Levi guided you to one of the nearby empty offices, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind him. You heard the click of the lock as Levi let go of your wrist.
Levi put distance between you, several feet, giving you the indication that this wasn’t an attempt to get you alone to be close. It was to make sure that no one heard what the two of you were talking about. He stared at the floor, so uncharacteristic of who he was, like he was shying away from your gaze. Your head bowed, trying to catch his eyes again before he looked back up again, face stoic. “You can’t call me that,” he said, voice quiet with almost a hint of waver.
You cocked your head to the side. “What?”
“In public, my name. You can’t.”
“I—”
“You’re a recruit,” he pushed, voice devoid of that wavering you picked up on before. It was controlled and careful, the voice of a superior officer. “You address me as Captain.”
You folded your arms across your chest, feeling small under his gaze. Silence settled between the both of you, a heavy silence that left no room to beat around the bush, there was only one reason why this conversation was really happening. It was the same reason that the two of you couldn’t have it in the hallway to be overheard.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, words impossibly small.
Levi closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. When he opened them again, there wasn’t anger, only exhaustion. As though this talk had been weighing on him heavily too. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because what has happened shouldn’t have happened.”
It felt like a smack in the face in the way that he said it. A glass shard stabbing you right in the chest, rigid and piercing. You stared at him, seeing nothing but a blank stare now, eyes towards you with his jaw tightened.
“You’re a recruit,” Levi continued without giving you a chance to say anything. “And I’m your Captain. This ends here, you understand?”
The room felt too small as you tried to think of the correct words to convey what you were feeling. The air had thickened to such a degree from his first sentence to his last, every single breath you too began to scrape against your lungs. You had, somewhere deep inside yourself, prepared yourself for distance. The day after the library you had expected that he would pretend nothing happened forever, but it wasn’t the case. He decided to end whatever this was after it had already gotten too complicated.
Levi had already taken things from you and now he was trying to give them back. The moments shared were reduced to something so trivial as a common mistake.
“So,” your voice caught in your throat, forcing you to clear it. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“What about the library?” You asked, grasping at straws. His cold and indifferent face didn’t change. “The tent?” Nothing. “The other night before the expedition?”
Levi blinked, the words somehow meaningless to him.
You continued. “You told me that you couldn’t stop thinking about me. You told me that you dreamed of me.”
“I remember.”
His answer shattered you because he was admitting that he remembered everything. Your hands on him, his hands on you, the way you looked at him, the way he showed cracks of his true self. And yet he still stood there, rejecting you, rejecting this. Like it was easy for him, as simple as telling a noisy recruit off, like you were a nuisance.
It was the absence of any emotion that began to undo you. If he had shouted, perhaps it would have been easier, you could have shouted back. If he looked angry, you would be able to convince yourself that the anger was more towards himself than you. But this was empty, it was measured, leaving you with nowhere to go — cornered.
“You — you kissed me back,” you whispered. “You touched me, you told me—”
“I know what happened. It won’t happen again. It was a lapse in judgement.”
You suddenly realized why people said that heartbreak and rejections hurt. It wasn’t poetic or beautiful, it was sickening in a way that felt as though your body no longer fit around your own heart. It was nauseating, the feeling of your chest being ripped open, ribs flared and bared for anyone to take a piece out. Your whole body began to shake, eyes stinging. Lapse in judgement. You blinked and you felt tears well up in your eyes.
Please not here you tried to reason with yourself, desperately trying to keep the tears where they were instead of pouring out. You didn’t want to cry in front of him, you didn’t want him to get the satisfaction that his words were hurting you in the way he wanted them to.
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re lying. I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not.”
When the first tear finally escaped your clutches, you barely noticed it landing onto the stone floor. Another followed, and then another. Embarrassment flowered through you so violently for a moment it eclipsed the hurt, but it was short-lived. What was even worse was that Levi didn’t reach out for you, he didn’t comfort you. He didn’t move, standing there and letting you fall apart in front of him, an inconvenience.
“So that’s all that it was then?”
“It wasn’t anything.”
You wiped your face with the sleeve of your shirt, trying to combat the tears as they came. You waited for anything, for something that told you he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
Nothing.
“Okay,” you said after a while. You nodded once, not to him, but to yourself. The heartbreak you felt began to shift into something else entirely, something akin to grief. If this was what he wanted and this was all it had ever been, there was no reason for you to fight any longer for some hidden truth if there truly wasn’t one.
You barely looked at him then, hand reaching for the lock on the door.
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, angst
← Week Thirty One · Postscript
Masterlist · ao3
note: the postscript below contains ending notes and spoilers for the final chapter of thursdays, so please read week thirty one first.
if you're here, it means you survived the angst. thank you for staying with these two idiots until the very end. this one's for you.
the moments below are little snapshots from different days—sometimes weeks, sometimes months apart
Not Thursday, late morning
Halfway down the fourth aisle, you realise you’ve already passed the place you meant to check. It’s the usual chaos of having a mental grocery list and a wandering eye that you were captivated by an absurdly bright display of imported cookies. You slow, then stop entirely just to turn in place one, then again. A small, puzzled frown creases your forehead as you look all around the brightly lit store. Eventually, you have to admit to yourself that you’ve lost him somewhere between the soft drinks and the canned goods.
The initial irritation quickly gives way to amused curiosity. The store isn’t massive, and that’s the thing. And he, despite his normally calm exterior, has a way of filling space even when doing nothing at all. He’s definitely not a man who blends into the background, so he should be easy to spot. The fact that he isn’t is what makes it entertaining.
Resigning yourself to a short search, you walk past the dried pasta and the various bags and boxes of baking supplies. You scan the rows of products you aren’t even interested in and finally find him at the far end of the sauces and condiments aisle.
He’s crouched low to the floor, absolutely out of scale with the shelves around him, and that sight pulls a wide, fond smile out of you. One of his forearms is resting on his knee, while the other hand holds a glass jar close to his face. His head is slightly bowed as he reads the tiny print on the label with the same intense concentration he would give to a mechanical diagnosis.
Walking up behind him, you lift your hand and slip your fingers into his hair at the crown of his head. You scratch gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly through strands, and Sukuna, without needing to look up or turn, instinctively leans into the touch as his body recognises you before his eyes even need to confirm your presence.
“Couldn’t find you,” you murmur simply.
“Sorry,” he answers in a low rumble, still absorbed in studying the label. “Been here for a while. I’m trying to find one without parsley or coriander so the kid won’t complain for once. It’s harder than it should be.”
The current jar returns to the shelf, and he picks up another, turning it over quickly to read the ingredients list before setting it back down with an audible sigh of exasperation.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, but it doesn’t carry past the aisle, as your fingers idly move against his scalp.
“How about I make the sauce from scratch? It’ll be faster than reading every single label in this aisle.”
That does it. He tips his head back to look up at you, lifting his eyes first, then his chin, and his features soften. The corner of his mouth curls in a small, easy smile that makes your heart flutter.
“That’s a good deal. I’ll grab the canned tomatoes, then.”
“Oh, by the way, look what I have,” you add, shifting your weight and turning a bit so he can see the cardboard box tucked under your other arm. “They had a few tins of your nut mix in the back. Took all of them.”
“Life saver,” he murmurs, and the genuine relief in his voice is something you find absolutely charming. A short, happy chuckle slips out of you.
Apparently, he tends to become slightly unbearable in the garage if he can’t munch on his almonds and macadamias when the clients are particularly trying or manage to piss him off. It’s his small, crunchy shield against the world.
After you drop the tins into the basket, he stands up smoothly, lifting it from the floor. He takes a few steps ahead towards the large display of tomatoes, glancing at you over his shoulder. He points at the cans, then raises two fingers in the air in a silent question.
“Three. If we make a big batch, you’ll have lunch for work tomorrow, too,” you say, and he nods, putting the cans into the basket. “Need anything else?”
With an eager nod, he leans down and presses a quick, hard kiss to your lips. You giggle brightly, caught off guard, and tug lightly on the fabric of his shirt to pull him down for one more peck.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes bright as he pulls back, already turning away. “One last thing, and done.”
You walk through the store together, drifting between aisles without rushing, and somewhere along the way, his hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours, and he gives a light squeeze.
Sukuna stops in the frozen aisle, releases your hand, and reaches into one of the wide freezers, digging inside with a frown. Finally, he straightens with a small, triumphant smile, holding up a tub of chocolate chip ice cream.
“Wanna split this?”
The sight of the box brings the memory neatly back to that first Thursday evening, sitting together on the tailgate of his Jeep, sharing a tub of exactly the same flavour, and you beam at him.
“Absolutely.”
After paying, he gathers the bags in one arm, and once you’re outside the store, his free arm comes around your shoulders, pulling you firmly into his side. He plants a kiss on the top of your head, and your own arm goes around his waist, snuggling into the warmth of his body.
After both of you get into the Jeep and the groceries are dropped onto the back seat, he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. A few minutes into the drive, without taking his eyes off the road, his left hand slides over the console to rest on your thigh. It stays there for the entire drive, except for the brief moments when he has to change gear.
Not Thursday, sometime in the afternoon
“Hey,” you say softly into the phone when he picks up on the second ring. The late afternoon light is fading through the window of your parents' dining room, casting long shadows across the walls.
“Hey,” he answers in that low rumble of his. “You won’t believe it. I actually wrapped up early today."
“Oh?” You settle deeper into the slightly stiff but surprisingly comfortable wooden chair, adjusting the cushion beneath you. “Miracles do happen, then. I was sure you’d be pulling an all-nighter with that engine you were wrestling with.”
A soft huff of amusement reaches you through the line. “Let’s call it that way. Actually, Jin called. He’s got some last-minute paperwork to handle at home, something about taxes, I think. Asked if he could drop Yuji off for a few hours. Said he needs the quiet.”
“Cool uncle duty?” you tease, but the mere thought of him with his nephew immediately warms your voice.
“Yeah,” he replies, and you can hear the fondness he never even tries to hide where the kid is concerned. “He’s excited. Apparently, he’s got a new colouring book—a dinosaur one, this time—and wants to tell me all about it.”
You laugh brightly, and the sound echoes lightly in the quiet room. “A very serious matter, indeed. Okay, so you boys have fun. Call me later when he's gone? Or text, if you’re too tired.”
There’s a brief moment of silence on his end, a pause that stretches and makes you wonder what’s on his mind, like he’s lining something up, before deciding to let it out.
“Hey,” he says instead.
“Mm?”
“I was thinking,” he continues, and his voice turns softer, losing that edge of casual banter. “Wanna sit with us?”
You freeze, your hand tightening around the phone, and a bright, nervous joy immediately bubbles up inside you, startling in its intensity. You’ve only been dating Sukuna for a short time, and you know how important Jin and his son are to him. Meeting Yuji, even casually, feels like a monumental step.
“With you and Yuji?” you ask, just to be sure you heard it right.
“Yeah. Figured it was time.”
“Oh—yes, I’d love that,” you answer, and your bright and slightly overwhelmed smile widens, stretching your cheeks until they hurt, even though he can’t see your shock and delight. Before he can say something else, however, you gently add, “If Jin’s okay with it, of course. I don’t want to step on anything.”
“He’s fine with it,” Sukuna says quickly, confirming your suspicion that he’d thought this through. “I already asked.”
“Okay then. Should I bring something?”
“Just yourself,” he murmurs, and you can hear the poorly masked excitement in his tone. “Yuji has enough chaos for both of us. Just come by whenever you’re ready.”
⸻
For a moment after you arrive, you hesitate on the doormat. Weeks ago, Sukuna made it explicitly clear that there’s no need for a formal knock, and you should just walk straight in, but today feels different. You lift your hand and gently tap your knuckles on the wooden door twice as a quick courtesy knock before turning the handle and stepping inside.
Sukuna always leaves the door unlocked when he knows you are on your way, and you usually go straight in, but knowing Yuji is there, you want to give your boyfriend a proper heads-up and avoid startling the kid.
A moment later, Sukuna appears, framed by the hallway light, casting a warm, yellow glow around him. He looks impossibly good, somehow softer and more domestic than the man you had been used to for months in that grocery store, dressed in a faded, dark tee and well-worn sweatpants. As soon as his eyes land on you, they go still, then trace a slow path from your eyes down to your mouth. He quickly covers the short distance between you, and one of his hands finds your jaw, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. He leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your lips.
"Hi," he murmurs right against your mouth, and without waiting for a reply, kisses you again.
The second one is deeper, slower, and undeniably more insistent. His hand slides from your jaw, up the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair to keep you exactly where you are.
When the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours as you laugh softly, a little breathless, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him—tobacco, vanilla, and oil, so uniquely Sukuna.
“Hi,” you echo, just as quietly, pulling back only enough to see his eyes. “I missed you too.”
It is only then that you remember the bag dangling from your wrist. You lift it slightly as he finally steps back, allowing you to enter fully. His eyes immediately drop to the bag, attentive as ever, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows.
"What's that?" he asks, reaching out without hesitation to take it from you.
"I know you said I don’t need to bring anything," you begin, slipping off your boots and placing them neatly beside his by the door. "But... I thought we could cook dinner. If you didn’t already have something planned."
For a brief moment, he looks genuinely surprised, and the hardness around his eyes softens considerably.
"I didn’t," he says, and his voice is much softer, more relaxed than earlier on the phone. "That’s... yeah. That’s good."
He leans down again, pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to your temple, and you smile at him, feeling the warmth spreading through you.
"I figured Yuji might be hungry."
As if summoned by the very mention of his name, a sudden sound of small, fast footsteps thunders down the hallway, accompanied by an excited voice already mid-sentence, the words spilling out too fast to be clearly understood.
“Uncle Kuna you said she was coming and I didn’t believe you because you always say things and then they don’t happen and you promised and—”
Yuji skids to a stop right in front of you, wide-eyed, with a huge grin already stretching across his face, and a missing front tooth only adds to his overwhelming charm. Sukuna’s hand comes down and ruffles the boy’s messy, pink hair, with just a bit more force than is necessary, but Yuji doesn’t even flinch.
"Yuji," Sukuna says, and the usual sharp tone softening into something almost unrecognisable when he speaks to his nephew. "Remember what we talked about?"
The boy straightens instantly, quickly wiping his hand on his pants, suddenly very serious about the responsibility he’d been given.
“Hi,” he says, sticking his hand toward you. “I’m Yuji.”
You chuckle softly, amused by his sincerity, and gently shake his small hand. "Hi, Yuji. I’m—" you tell him your name, and he nods, accepting the information. Without warning, he grabs your hand surprisingly hard and begins dragging you towards the living room with the determination of a small, unstoppable bulldozer.
"Uncle Kuna said you might come and then you did and look look look look," he insists, pulling you along.
"Okay, okay, what am I looking at?" you ask, giggling as you willingly allow yourself to be led.
Sukuna watches the two of you go, shaking his head at his nephew’s energy and chuckling quietly to himself. He locks the front door and heads to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
Yuji plonks himself on the floor in front of a sprawling mess of crayons, markers, and paper, starting his narrative as soon as he sits down, and talks nonstop from that moment on.
"This is a dinosaur but it’s also a truck and it has fire powers and this one is uncle Kuna but stronger. He’s got four arms, look.” He gestures widely at a particularly colourful stick figure with an additional set of limbs.
You sit down beside him, crossing your legs and leaning in to inspect the drawing with appropriate seriousness. "Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility for one dinosaur."
"It’s important," he informs you solemnly, nodding his head with the wisdom of a five year old. "He protects things."
Sukuna snorts quietly from behind you, reappearing from the kitchen. "That so?"
Yuji nods vigorously, bouncing slightly. "He does. And you don’t because you’re bad at magic."
"That’s not true," Sukuna replies flatly, his smile instantly gone. There’s a faint flicker of genuine offence in his tone. "I’m excellent at magic."
“You are not,” the boy says with conviction, shaking his head. “You don’t even have fire. Dad says so. He says you’re boring.”
Sukuna mumbles something low under his breath, and you’re pretty sure it involves a colourful suggestion about kicking Jin’s ass when he comes to pick up his son later that evening.
“I literally work with engines. That’s magic,” he deadpans after clearing his throat loudly.
“But not fire,” Yuji insists, pointing a stubby finger at the drawing of a dinosaur. “Engine is… car.”
You bite your lip, your shoulders shaking slightly as you fight to stifle a laugh. The kid beams, clearly sensing he’d won the argument, and reaches for another drawing, already moving on. Sukuna scoffs, but you can hear the smile hidden in the sound even without looking at him.
“He’s right,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at him with amusement in your eyes. “Different skill set.”
Sukuna clicks his tongue in mock annoyance but lets it go, moving closer to settle down on the rug near both of you. Just then, Haru pads silently into the room, flicking his tail lazily from side to side. He stops right beside you, immediately demanding attention by shoving his head forcefully into your hand, purring like a tiny engine.
"Oh," you murmur, your fingers sinking into his soft black fur. "There you are, handsome."
“He likes you,” Yuji declares, oblivious to the fact that you’ve been in this house many times already and have woken up with Haru sleeping on your pillow on several occasions. "That means you can stay."
Sukuna exhales through his nose, amused. “Good to know. I’ll make a note of the cat’s approval.”
“Yeah, imagine if he didn’t. You’d have to break up with me,” you giggle, looking at your boyfriend, who simply shakes his head at you.
He reaches out, his hand resting lightly on your knee, and the faint curve of his mouth confirms he’d never do such a thing, Haru’s opinion notwithstanding.
⸻
"Dinner?" you ask a little while later, looking up from Yuji’s colouring page to meet Sukuna’s eyes.
He just offers his usual nod and walks over to where you sit with his nephew. Without a word of warning, he swoops down and scoops Yuji up, his hands under the boy’s armpits. The kid lets out a surprised, delighted squeak before erupting into bright laughter as he is carried towards the kitchen and gently set down on the high counter.
"Sit," Sukuna instructs calmly, keeping one hand resting lightly at Yuji’s side to keep him balanced. "Hands to yourself. We don’t want flour on the ceiling this time."
Yuji leans back slightly on his palms, swinging his legs lightly against the cabinet, and a wide, genuine grin stretches across his face as he gazes up at the ceiling lights.
“I’m sitting,” he confirms, and he almost sounds compliant.
“We’re making oyakodon,” you tell Yuji, and his head snaps down, eyes immediately wide with excitement.
“That’s the egg one, right?” he asks quickly, listing the ingredients on his fingers. “With the chicken and the rice and—uncle Kuna you make the rice really good—the rice is the best part!”
“The rice cooker does most of the work,” Sukuna mutters, but a faint, pleased curve touches the corner of his mouth.
When you gesture toward the appliance, he moves to plug it in. Next, you ask him to handle the chicken thighs. He nods, reaching for a knife and the cutting board. Meanwhile, you turn to the stove to start the broth, pouring the dashi into the pot and immediately stirring with a wooden spoon.
Yuji, however, becomes a one-person commentary track, a nonstop stream of thoughts, observations, and questions, narrating everything you do and refusing to take even a single breath. He’s practically vibrating with curiosity and energy.
“Are you stirring because it has to mix or because it’ll burn and did you know one time I burned toast and it smelled really bad and the smoke alarm went off and dad got mad but I didn’t mean to—”
“Yuji,” Sukuna says, remarkably patiently, slicing neatly through a piece of chicken. “Inside voice.”
“I am using my inside voice,” Yuji insists loudly, leaning over the counter to make his point, and you press your lips together, fighting the urge to laugh openly at the volume of his ‘inside voice.’
The broth warms gently on the stove, beginning to steam, and Yuji continues his narration, detailing every step as if he’s afraid something might happen if he stops talking.
“Now it’s bubbling,” he declares, leaning closer, peering into the pot. “Now it’s not bubbling as much. Is it supposed to bubble like that or is that a bad bubble. Uncle Kuna one time the pot bubbled over and it made a mess and water went everywhere and—”
“That was because you turned the heat up,” Sukuna cuts in.
“I was helping! I wanted it to cook faster!” Yuji protests instantly, voicing his wounded pride.
“You were not,” Sukuna says flatly, though there is absolutely no heat or irritation in his voice.
He continues cutting the chicken into small pieces, and Yuji leans in, craning his neck dangerously close to the cutting board, completely unfazed by the sight of the sharp blade.
“Why do you cut it like that?”
“So it cooks right,” Sukuna answers. “And so you don’t choke on it.”
“I don’t choke,” Yuji declares immediately with certainty, as if he hadn’t choked on a piece of gummy candy just the day before, scaring his father into a brief state of panic.
“You absolutely choke,” Sukuna replies flatly.
You add soy sauce, mirin, and a spoonful of sugar to the broth, tasting it once, then again, frowning as you consider the flavour.
“Needs a bit more,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
It’s then that Sukuna steps closer, holding out a second, smaller cutting board with a neat pile of sliced onion directly in front of you, surprising you because you don’t even know when he started on the onion.
“Here,” he murmurs.
You take the board from him and slide the vegetable into the pot, stirring slowly as it sinks into the warm broth, and the steam rises, warm against your face.
Sukuna stays right there, sliding his arms around your waist and settling his large hands flat and against your stomach. He leans in, and his mouth hovers just beside your ear.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the sound is so quiet and deep it’s almost completely swallowed by the gentle simmering of the pot.
Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected intimacy. You turn your head, tilting it up slightly to meet his lips with yours in a soft, brief peck that lingers for just a few seconds before you pull back with a smile playing on your face.
“EW! EW! I saw that!” Yuji shouts, slapping both hands over his eyes, but peeks through his fingers anyway. “That’s gross! Why are you doing that with your mouths?!”
Sukuna exhales through his nose, completely unimpressed by the dramatics. “Because we can.”
“That’s STILL gross!” Yuji whines, kicking his foot on the cabinet. “You made a noise! I heard it! It was like slurp!”
You press your lips together, trying not to giggle, your shoulders shaking. “It wasn’t a slurp, Yuji. It was just a kiss.”
“But it was sticky!” he insists, deeply offended. “Kissing is sticky! Like when peanut butter gets stuck in my mouth!" He lowers his hands and squints suspiciously. “…Are you going to get a baby now?”
You choke on a laugh, and Sukuna watches the performance with a slight twitch in his jaw. His amusement is fading, slowly giving way to a thin thread of pure impatience.
“Are you finished, brat?”
“NO!” Yuji kicks his foot on the cupboard door again. “I’m going to tell dad you’re doing weird mouth stuff.”
Sukuna sighs, letting out a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. He reluctantly lets go of you to reach into the cabinet and takes out a small piece of chocolate, holding it out to the boy.
“Take it and stop talking, or I will put you to bed now.”
Yuji’s hands drop immediately. “Dark chocolate?” he whispers, and his earlier outrage vanishes as if it had never existed.
“Yes,” Sukuna confirms, jiggling the square slightly. “One piece. Now.”
You return to the stove as Sukuna adds the diced chicken to the simmering broth, and the kitchen quickly fills with an amazing, savoury smell of cooking food. Yuji swings his legs again, slowly sucking on the piece of dark chocolate to make it last longer, while Haru wanders in, weaving lazily between your legs before hopping onto the sun-warmed windowsill to supervise.
“Kitty,” Yuji whispers loudly.
Haru flicks an ear and ignores him completely.
⸻
Yuji is halfway through a monologue involving a dog, a spaceship, and this strange rock thing that he keeps saying is “definitely a volcano, uncle Kuna, look!” when the doorbell interrupts his animated storytelling.
The boy rolls off the couch with a huge, over-the-top sigh.
“That’s dad,” he announces cheerfully, which belies his earlier performance, sprinting towards the hallway with surprising speed for a child his size.
Sukuna, who has been listening with detached amusement, rises silently and follows, closing the distance between them quickly. By the time the muffled sound of the front door opening reaches the living room, a chorus of overlapping voices—Yuji’s high-pitched chatter and a deeper, familiar rumble—echoes in the entryway.
A moment later, Jin enters the living room with Yuji, clutching firmly to his father’s leg and carrying on with his story at an impressive, full speed.
Jin looks… paradoxically, exactly like Sukuna and yet not at all. The resemblance is undeniable, with the same bone structure and the identical imposing height. But where Sukuna’s looks sharp and heavy, Jin’s is lighter, markedly easier, like the edges have been sanded down or softened by the wide smile he seems to wear as naturally as a favourite jacket. Almost like he possesses a warmth that Sukuna often keeps heavily guarded.
His eyes are a shade lighter and noticeably less intense than his twin’s crimson, and almost immediately they flick curiously towards you. He takes you in with an assessing and genuinely interested look, and Sukuna steps slightly closer to your side without realising he’s done it.
“This is—” Sukuna begins, his voice low and gravelly, but suddenly stops himself. He realises he has never needed to formally introduce you to anyone before. Instead, he opts for the simplest approach: just saying your name, with a tone that makes it clear that is all the introduction you need.
You offer Jin a genuine smile and step forward to bridge the small gap between you. “Hi. It’s really nice to finally meet you, Jin. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jin returns the smile easily, and a palpable, genuine warmth radiates from his expression.
“Likewise,” he replies. “I’ve heard… bits and pieces myself. All good ones, of course.” His eyes briefly flick toward Sukuna, shining with a teasing amusement and brotherly mischief, but he’s clever enough not to elaborate on the ‘bits and pieces,’ leaving Sukuna to merely narrow his eyes slightly.
Yuji, apparently never one to let an opportunity for truth-telling pass, tugs insistently on Jin’s sleeve.
“She made dinner,” he announces loudly, tilting his head back to look at his dad. “And uncle Kuna helped and they kissed and it was gross, dad.”
“That’s enough, brat,” he mutters, his voice strained, as he presses a large hand firmly over the kid’s mouth.
Jin throws his head back and laughs loudly, a bright, unrestrained sound that echoes easily through the living room. It’s a sharp, joyful contrast to Sukuna’s usual low chuckle.
You tilt your head, glancing toward Jin. “Did you eat already, on the way back? We honestly made far too much.”
He hesitates, clearly defaulting to the ingrained polite refusal, but the smell coming from the kitchen is too tempting, and he ends up shaking his head.
“It’s ready to go. If you’re hungry, I can heat a bowl up for you in two minutes,” you add quickly, gesturing towards the kitchen.
Jin looks from you to Sukuna, eyebrows lifting just a fraction, and a silent, entirely unspoken conversation seems to pass between the two brothers
“Sure,” he says finally. “That would be great, thank you.”
Sukuna passes behind you on his way to the tea cabinet, leaning down instinctively, and his lips brush the very crown of your head in a quick, gentle peck. You barely notice the touch; you have become so thoroughly used to his constant, small touches. Since you first showed up at his door, it feels as though you both are starving, making up for months of withheld physical contact.
“You want tea?” Sukuna asks Jin, reaching for the kettle.
“Yeah,” his brother answers, his eyes following you curiously as you move efficiently through the kitchen space.
As you portion the food into a bowl and slide it into the microwave, Sukuna brushes past you again to get the cups, and his fingers lightly graze your forearm. You lift your head to look at him, smiling brightly. He returns it with a curve of his lips before moving on, completely at ease and completely himself.
Jin watches all of it from where he’s leaning casually against the wall, still managing to keep Yuji from launching himself onto the tabletop. He isn’t exactly staring, more like… taking it all in: how Sukuna appears more relaxed and the usual tension he often carries is completely absent; how naturally he initiates physical contact; and, most importantly, how effortlessly he smiles whenever you are near.
The microwave chimes its short beep, and you pull the hot bowl out, setting it gently on the small dining table for Jin.
“Careful, it’s hot,” you warn.
“Thank you,” Jin replies, pulling out the chair and settling into it with a tired sigh that speaks volumes about a long, exhausting day.
Sukuna sets a steaming cup of tea down for you, then another for Jin. As he passes behind you to get his own mug, his hand rests briefly on your lower back. Jin’s warm smile deepens just a little bit more as he sees that.
There’s no need for him to say anything about the change, because whatever version of his brother is standing in front of him now, it’s so much different from the one he has known for a long, long time.
And that difference makes him genuinely, deeply happy.
Not Thursday, late evening
Your phone is propped against a heavy ceramic bowl on the small table in your rented apartment, angled just right so you can watch him with ease while you eat your takeout pork katsu. His is balanced somewhere on the counter in his kitchen, and the camera catches him from the side as he moves between the stove and the sink. Despite the five-hour drive separating you, the familiar, often-cluttered space around him feels oddly and comfortingly close.
“So,” you begin, smiling as you lift another crisp bite with your chopsticks, “we spent most of today trying to decipher the client’s design guidelines.”
He glances toward the screen with a quiet huff without stopping the stirring of his pasta sauce.
“That bad?”
“That bad,” you confirm, laughing lightly under your breath. “It was like someone took five different opinions, already conflicting opinions, filtered them through three people who don’t know how to explain things, and then wrote them down in bullet points that all flat out contradicted each other.”
He takes the pan off the heat and reaches for a large plate. “Sounds familiar,” he mutters.
“I swear. We kept rereading the same paragraph, trying to figure out if they want something minimal, bold, playful, serious, or futuristic. Finally, at one point, someone just deadpanned, ‘What if it’s all of those?’ and the three of us just stared at each other in defeat.”
“And then?” he prompts, spooning the sauce over a mountain of fresh pasta.
“And then,” you say, grinning wider, “we did the obvious thing and made a list of questions. Like, actual, clear questions. And got on a call with the client.”
He finally looks over properly, interest flickering across his face. “Let me guess. It made sense immediately.”
“Immediately,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Turns out they knew exactly what they wanted all along. Clean layout, strong contrast, nothing fancy. Half an hour into the call and we’re all sitting there, looking at each other, like… oh. That’s it.”
He shakes his head as he moves to the table with his plate, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So the problem wasn’t the work.”
“Nope,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair. “Just the translation layer between people who think they’re saying something smart and people who have to actually build the thing.”
“That tracks.”
You take another bite of your katsu, still smiling. “Honestly, it was kind of fun once we figured it out. There’s something satisfying about untangling a mess and realising it was never that complicated to begin with.”
“Sounds like you had a good day, all things considered,” he murmurs, his eyes soft and slightly half-lidded as he looks directly at you on his screen.
It’s one of Sukuna’s favourite things about your life now—that your work hasn't left you defeated and exhausted for months now, and that you talk about it with such a different energy than when he first met you. Even if this means you’re five hours away from him for three days a week.
“I did,” you say simply, and you mean it. “Amazing. Thirty minutes of actually talking to the right people, and suddenly everything makes sense.”
He exhales through his nose, and a sharp chuckle escapes his lips. “Must be nice.”
You raise an eyebrow, picking up on the shift in his tone. “What?”
He glances down at his plate, then back at the phone, and his expression turns momentarily sour. “I spent half the afternoon undoing a mess that could’ve been avoided if someone had just listened to the instructions the first time.”
“That sounds ominous. What happened?” you ask, with a grin, already intrigued.
“It was Yuji,” he says flatly, like that explains the scale of the destruction. “Jin dropped him off at the garage today.”
Your eyes light up immediately. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, shaking his head, but the severe expression is already softening into an unwilling smile. “So the kid told me he wanted to help. He had his little tool belt and everything.”
“Of course he did.”
“He lasted about five minutes,” Sukuna continues, sounding both resigned and faintly amused at the same time, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling. “Then he picked up a tray with about forty bolts and washers on it, tripped over absolutely nothing, and sent them flying everywhere.”
You laugh louder, covering your mouth with your hand. “Everywhere?”
“Everywhere,” he repeats with emphasis, leaning closer to the phone. “Under the workbench, under the big lift, behind the compressor. I spent fifteen minutes on my hands and knees looking for one stupid washer while he kept bringing me bolts from a drawer, asking if it was that one. Or that one. Or maybe that one.”
“And was it ever that one?” you tease, shaking from laughter.
“Not once,” he says, taking a large bite of pasta. “And I’m pretty sure he brought the same one at least twice.”
“Please tell me you didn’t lose any.”
“I didn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But I did lose my patience.”
“So what did you do?”
He exhales through his nose, and a quiet laugh slips out of him again, deeper this time. “I put him on my shoulders. Figured if he couldn’t reach anything, he couldn’t ‘help’ either.”
“Did it work?”
“Mostly. I gave him two small wrenches, and every few minutes he tapped my head and handed me one, and I had to pretend to use it, give it a serious nod, and give it back.”
You close your eyes with a broad smile, imagining the hilarious and absolutely absurd scene of your huge boyfriend giving a small boy a piggyback ride while diagnosing engine issues.
“I wish I could see that. It must’ve been so adorable!”
“And at the end of the day, I finished cleaning up the last of the bolts with him narrating the entire process,” Sukuna adds. “Apparently, I was doing it wrong, but he couldn’t explain how to do it right.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you say, with fake, over-the-top sympathy, “You poor, poor, long-suffering man.”
“Fortunately, he fell asleep in the car on the way back,” he says, softer, letting genuine affection show through. “I dropped him off at Jin’s because he called he was already back from whatever shit he was doing.”
Sukuna complains constantly about Yuji, the chaos he causes, and the noise he makes, but whenever you see them together, or even when he just recounts the small, silly details like this, his expression and his voice become unquestionably gentler. It’s obvious how much those afternoons mean to him and how effortlessly he shares that softness with the kid without any hesitation.
“Hey,” you say after a moment. “My parents called earlier.”
His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
“They want us to come over for dinner on Saturday,” you continue, setting the empty takeout box aside.
He doesn’t look up right away, just hums in acknowledgement, chewing slowly. “Okay. What time?”
“Four. Early dinner, you know, their usual.”
He just nods, and you beam at him again.
“Dad’s gonna be thrilled. He’s been complaining that I came alone last week, you know,” you add with a laugh. “Couldn’t accept that I had a day off and you were stuck at work.”
He clears his throat, keeping his eyes at his plate for a second before taking a bite, but you recognise the small tell immediately. Your dad adores him, treats him like family without caveats. Even if Sukuna never puts it into words, you know how much that acceptance means to him.
“Tell him I’ll bring something,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes again.
For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, watching each other exist, letting the quiet stretch, content in the simple fact that this, too, is part of what you’ve built.
“So,” he starts at some point, and one of his hands lifts to run along the back of his neck, “you’re back in two days, right?”
“Mhm. Wednesday evening.” You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “What? Miss me already?”
He tips his head slightly, pretending to seriously consider the question. “Maybe,” he finally allows, the corner of his mouth twitching.
You squint at him, intentionally exaggerated, and he rolls his eyes before breaking into a genuine, deep chuckle. It’s low, deep, and absolutely unguarded, and ever since you met him, it’s been your favourite sound in the entire world.
“I love you, angel,” he murmurs, looking at your eyes through the screen.
“Love you too, Ryo,” you reply softly. “I’m gonna head for the shower in a minute, and later call Yuki. She’s been bombarding me with texts since morning, so…”
“New boyfriend?” He rolls his eyes again at the mention of your friend's dramatic love life, but a smile doesn’t leave his face, and you nod. “Okay. Call me tomorrow before work, then?”
“Like always,” you promise, leaning closer to your phone to blow him a kiss.
After a moment, you end the call, and the screen goes dark. Before you even walk the few steps to the kitchen to put the empty takeout box in the bin, your phone lights up again with a text from him.
“We should introduce her to Choso. I’m tired of hearing about this one.”
Not Thursday, midday
You park halfway along the street when a childish giggle escapes you, overwhelmed by excitement, because you got back a day and a half earlier than expected and didn't tell a soul, especially not him.
The garage door is half-open, and when you step inside, the air instantly thickens around you, heavy with the scent of motor oil, gasoline, and burnt rubber. For a long moment, you simply stand there, letting your eyes adjust to the sharp lighting, and the sound of clacking metal guides your gaze to the centre of the floor.
He’s beneath a car slightly hoisted on a lift, with only his legs and the hem of his grease-stained work pants visible. One arm is extended above his head, muscles tensing slightly as he slowly turns a torque wrench.
A surge of uncontrollable affection floods over you, and you softly clear your throat, immediately wishing you hadn’t made that sound so early. But you’re unable to stop the wide, silly grin that has plastered itself across your face now that your boyfriend is so close.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” you call out, pitching your voice a little higher and trying to add a hint of real uncertainty to your tone. “I… I think my car broke down on the street.”
You need to clamp a hand over your mouth as the sudden, violent shake of suppressed laughter threatens to ruin everything when you receive the typical, automatic response from a mechanic and not the slightly rough, familiar greeting from your boyfriend.
“What’s it doing?” Sukuna’s voice is muffled but deep, carrying clearly from beneath the vehicle.
The words are followed by the faint metallic click of a tool being set aside. There’s a brief, noticeable pause, where you sense your voice has finally registered in his mind, and you can almost feel the moment his brain attempts to process the familiarity of the sound. But then, he sharply shakes his head to dismiss the thought. It sounded like you, but that’s impossible. You are, after all, three hundred and fifty kilometres away, so it must be exhaustion playing tricks.
His boots push against the concrete, and a second later, Sukuna rolls out from under the car on the creeper. He's absently wiping the grime from his fingers with a rag, his mind still miles away as he mentally prepares to handle an unexpected client and diagnose a problem that doesn’t, in fact, exist.
Finally, he looks up. The rag stops, forgotten, in his hand. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, lock onto you and simply stay there. You watch, absolutely amused, as his brain bluescreens in real time. The professional mask he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a look of complete and utter confusion, as nothing he's seeing makes sense with what he expected.
You're standing smack in the middle of his messy garage, but you're not messy. You're wearing the nice, fitted outfit you wore to the office, your hair is still neatly pulled back, and a huge, silly and triumphant grin is plastered across your face.
Sukuna stares at you like he's running a serious diagnostic and asking himself countless questions. Is she real? Am I this tired? Did I huff too much engine cleaner? Your shoulders start shaking slightly as you watch the slow, painful process of him working it out.
Before he can even fully process the fact that you are here, you’re crossing the garage floor, closing the distance quickly. You reach him, grab the collar of his work shirt to tug him down, and stand on your toes to crash your lips into his.
His body reacts instantly, purely on reflex, bypassing his shocked brain. His hands shoot up, eager to pull you in and hold you close against him, as they always do, the way they need to now that you’re back.
Then they stop mid-motion.
You feel the restraint and the internal battle in him when his grease-blackened palms hover just short of your face, fingers splayed out, but not touching. He exhales a deep, shuddering breath against your mouth, angling himself back slightly so his shirt doesn't brush against your clean blouse and stain it.
“I’m filthy,” he murmurs, breathing heavily.
You laugh softly into his lips, absolutely not surprised that his first thought is to protect your clothes.
“I don’t care,” you answer, and you mean it with every fibre of your being, trying to press your body closer to his anyway.
But Sukuna does care. He stops you, gently gripping your wrists and holding them trapped against his chest instead of allowing you to wrap your arms around him, and his forehead dips toward yours, stopping just shy of contact.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he murmurs again, but his voice drops lower now, gravelly and hoarse with genuine need. “There’s absolutely nothing in this world I’d like more than hauling you flush against me, angel.”
And with that, he leans down properly, kissing you deeper and with such intensity that makes him groan into it. Then, he steps away, breaking the kiss with a sigh of frustration.
“Wait,” he mutters, walking towards the sink at the side of the garage to scrub his hands. The water is still running dark when he calls out over his shoulder, “You’re early.”
You lean against the edge of the metal workbench, watching him and his determination with which he scrubs the grime from his skin. You’re almost certain you’ve never seen anything more absurdly, endearingly him in your entire life.
“Yeah,” you answer, smiling at him. “Thought I’d get a second opinion on my catastrophic engine failure.”
Sukuna lets out a deep chuckle, drying his hands. Afterwards, he reaches for a stack of clean, neatly folded work shirts he keeps on a high shelf, takes one out and pulls it quickly over the one he already has on.
“You are ridiculous,” you say with an eye roll, though you can’t hide the affection in your voice. It’s absolutely adorable how much effort he puts in to keep your nice clothes clean.
When he comes back to you, he doesn’t hesitate. His palms cup your face fully, thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones before they slide down to rest on your waist. He pulls you with him as he walks backwards toward the couch nestled in the corner of the garage, right next to his dad’s old Mazda.
When his ankles touch the cushions, he drops to sit, and you fall onto him, laughing breathlessly. He adjusts his hold instantly, lifting you so you can straddle him fully.
“Now,” he rasps in that gravelly, hoarse voice, while his eyes darken and hungrily rake over your face. “Where were we?”
His hands come up, one finding the small of your back to keep you close, the other grabbing the back of your neck. And this time, it’s him, with no restraint and no hesitation, crushing his lips into yours.
notes: okay. now we’re really at the end of the journey. like i said before—this chapter wasn’t planned. it’s only here because of, and thanks to, all of you. i hope it managed to heal your hearts a little after all the angst i dragged you through.
let me say it once more: thank you for following the journey of these two idiots and their stupid routine. as you can see, they no longer see each other only on thursdays. they got their happy ending and get to live a long life together.
thank you for loving them as much as i did.
and you, my amazing readers… i hope to see you again soon in sukuna’s pov of thursdays.
ps i’ve been crying for over an hour because this is actually over.
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, angst
← Week Thirty One · Postscript
Masterlist · ao3
note: the postscript below contains ending notes and spoilers for the final chapter of thursdays, so please read week thirty one first.
if you're here, it means you survived the angst. thank you for staying with these two idiots until the very end. this one's for you.
the moments below are little snapshots from different days—sometimes weeks, sometimes months apart
Not Thursday, late morning
Halfway down the fourth aisle, you realise you’ve already passed the place you meant to check. It’s the usual chaos of having a mental grocery list and a wandering eye that you were captivated by an absurdly bright display of imported cookies. You slow, then stop entirely just to turn in place one, then again. A small, puzzled frown creases your forehead as you look all around the brightly lit store. Eventually, you have to admit to yourself that you’ve lost him somewhere between the soft drinks and the canned goods.
The initial irritation quickly gives way to amused curiosity. The store isn’t massive, and that’s the thing. And he, despite his normally calm exterior, has a way of filling space even when doing nothing at all. He’s definitely not a man who blends into the background, so he should be easy to spot. The fact that he isn’t is what makes it entertaining.
Resigning yourself to a short search, you walk past the dried pasta and the various bags and boxes of baking supplies. You scan the rows of products you aren’t even interested in and finally find him at the far end of the sauces and condiments aisle.
He’s crouched low to the floor, absolutely out of scale with the shelves around him, and that sight pulls a wide, fond smile out of you. One of his forearms is resting on his knee, while the other hand holds a glass jar close to his face. His head is slightly bowed as he reads the tiny print on the label with the same intense concentration he would give to a mechanical diagnosis.
Walking up behind him, you lift your hand and slip your fingers into his hair at the crown of his head. You scratch gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly through strands, and Sukuna, without needing to look up or turn, instinctively leans into the touch as his body recognises you before his eyes even need to confirm your presence.
“Couldn’t find you,” you murmur simply.
“Sorry,” he answers in a low rumble, still absorbed in studying the label. “Been here for a while. I’m trying to find one without parsley or coriander so the kid won’t complain for once. It’s harder than it should be.”
The current jar returns to the shelf, and he picks up another, turning it over quickly to read the ingredients list before setting it back down with an audible sigh of exasperation.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, but it doesn’t carry past the aisle, as your fingers idly move against his scalp.
“How about I make the sauce from scratch? It’ll be faster than reading every single label in this aisle.”
That does it. He tips his head back to look up at you, lifting his eyes first, then his chin, and his features soften. The corner of his mouth curls in a small, easy smile that makes your heart flutter.
“That’s a good deal. I’ll grab the canned tomatoes, then.”
“Oh, by the way, look what I have,” you add, shifting your weight and turning a bit so he can see the cardboard box tucked under your other arm. “They had a few tins of your nut mix in the back. Took all of them.”
“Life saver,” he murmurs, and the genuine relief in his voice is something you find absolutely charming. A short, happy chuckle slips out of you.
Apparently, he tends to become slightly unbearable in the garage if he can’t munch on his almonds and macadamias when the clients are particularly trying or manage to piss him off. It’s his small, crunchy shield against the world.
After you drop the tins into the basket, he stands up smoothly, lifting it from the floor. He takes a few steps ahead towards the large display of tomatoes, glancing at you over his shoulder. He points at the cans, then raises two fingers in the air in a silent question.
“Three. If we make a big batch, you’ll have lunch for work tomorrow, too,” you say, and he nods, putting the cans into the basket. “Need anything else?”
With an eager nod, he leans down and presses a quick, hard kiss to your lips. You giggle brightly, caught off guard, and tug lightly on the fabric of his shirt to pull him down for one more peck.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes bright as he pulls back, already turning away. “One last thing, and done.”
You walk through the store together, drifting between aisles without rushing, and somewhere along the way, his hand finds yours, his fingers threading through yours, and he gives a light squeeze.
Sukuna stops in the frozen aisle, releases your hand, and reaches into one of the wide freezers, digging inside with a frown. Finally, he straightens with a small, triumphant smile, holding up a tub of chocolate chip ice cream.
“Wanna split this?”
The sight of the box brings the memory neatly back to that first Thursday evening, sitting together on the tailgate of his Jeep, sharing a tub of exactly the same flavour, and you beam at him.
“Absolutely.”
After paying, he gathers the bags in one arm, and once you’re outside the store, his free arm comes around your shoulders, pulling you firmly into his side. He plants a kiss on the top of your head, and your own arm goes around his waist, snuggling into the warmth of his body.
After both of you get into the Jeep and the groceries are dropped onto the back seat, he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. A few minutes into the drive, without taking his eyes off the road, his left hand slides over the console to rest on your thigh. It stays there for the entire drive, except for the brief moments when he has to change gear.
Not Thursday, sometime in the afternoon
“Hey,” you say softly into the phone when he picks up on the second ring. The late afternoon light is fading through the window of your parents' dining room, casting long shadows across the walls.
“Hey,” he answers in that low rumble of his. “You won’t believe it. I actually wrapped up early today."
“Oh?” You settle deeper into the slightly stiff but surprisingly comfortable wooden chair, adjusting the cushion beneath you. “Miracles do happen, then. I was sure you’d be pulling an all-nighter with that engine you were wrestling with.”
A soft huff of amusement reaches you through the line. “Let’s call it that way. Actually, Jin called. He’s got some last-minute paperwork to handle at home, something about taxes, I think. Asked if he could drop Yuji off for a few hours. Said he needs the quiet.”
“Cool uncle duty?” you tease, but the mere thought of him with his nephew immediately warms your voice.
“Yeah,” he replies, and you can hear the fondness he never even tries to hide where the kid is concerned. “He’s excited. Apparently, he’s got a new colouring book—a dinosaur one, this time—and wants to tell me all about it.”
You laugh brightly, and the sound echoes lightly in the quiet room. “A very serious matter, indeed. Okay, so you boys have fun. Call me later when he's gone? Or text, if you’re too tired.”
There’s a brief moment of silence on his end, a pause that stretches and makes you wonder what’s on his mind, like he’s lining something up, before deciding to let it out.
“Hey,” he says instead.
“Mm?”
“I was thinking,” he continues, and his voice turns softer, losing that edge of casual banter. “Wanna sit with us?”
You freeze, your hand tightening around the phone, and a bright, nervous joy immediately bubbles up inside you, startling in its intensity. You’ve only been dating Sukuna for a short time, and you know how important Jin and his son are to him. Meeting Yuji, even casually, feels like a monumental step.
“With you and Yuji?” you ask, just to be sure you heard it right.
“Yeah. Figured it was time.”
“Oh—yes, I’d love that,” you answer, and your bright and slightly overwhelmed smile widens, stretching your cheeks until they hurt, even though he can’t see your shock and delight. Before he can say something else, however, you gently add, “If Jin’s okay with it, of course. I don’t want to step on anything.”
“He’s fine with it,” Sukuna says quickly, confirming your suspicion that he’d thought this through. “I already asked.”
“Okay then. Should I bring something?”
“Just yourself,” he murmurs, and you can hear the poorly masked excitement in his tone. “Yuji has enough chaos for both of us. Just come by whenever you’re ready.”
⸻
For a moment after you arrive, you hesitate on the doormat. Weeks ago, Sukuna made it explicitly clear that there’s no need for a formal knock, and you should just walk straight in, but today feels different. You lift your hand and gently tap your knuckles on the wooden door twice as a quick courtesy knock before turning the handle and stepping inside.
Sukuna always leaves the door unlocked when he knows you are on your way, and you usually go straight in, but knowing Yuji is there, you want to give your boyfriend a proper heads-up and avoid startling the kid.
A moment later, Sukuna appears, framed by the hallway light, casting a warm, yellow glow around him. He looks impossibly good, somehow softer and more domestic than the man you had been used to for months in that grocery store, dressed in a faded, dark tee and well-worn sweatpants. As soon as his eyes land on you, they go still, then trace a slow path from your eyes down to your mouth. He quickly covers the short distance between you, and one of his hands finds your jaw, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. He leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your lips.
"Hi," he murmurs right against your mouth, and without waiting for a reply, kisses you again.
The second one is deeper, slower, and undeniably more insistent. His hand slides from your jaw, up the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair to keep you exactly where you are.
When the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against yours as you laugh softly, a little breathless, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him—tobacco, vanilla, and oil, so uniquely Sukuna.
“Hi,” you echo, just as quietly, pulling back only enough to see his eyes. “I missed you too.”
It is only then that you remember the bag dangling from your wrist. You lift it slightly as he finally steps back, allowing you to enter fully. His eyes immediately drop to the bag, attentive as ever, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows.
"What's that?" he asks, reaching out without hesitation to take it from you.
"I know you said I don’t need to bring anything," you begin, slipping off your boots and placing them neatly beside his by the door. "But... I thought we could cook dinner. If you didn’t already have something planned."
For a brief moment, he looks genuinely surprised, and the hardness around his eyes softens considerably.
"I didn’t," he says, and his voice is much softer, more relaxed than earlier on the phone. "That’s... yeah. That’s good."
He leans down again, pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to your temple, and you smile at him, feeling the warmth spreading through you.
"I figured Yuji might be hungry."
As if summoned by the very mention of his name, a sudden sound of small, fast footsteps thunders down the hallway, accompanied by an excited voice already mid-sentence, the words spilling out too fast to be clearly understood.
“Uncle Kuna you said she was coming and I didn’t believe you because you always say things and then they don’t happen and you promised and—”
Yuji skids to a stop right in front of you, wide-eyed, with a huge grin already stretching across his face, and a missing front tooth only adds to his overwhelming charm. Sukuna’s hand comes down and ruffles the boy’s messy, pink hair, with just a bit more force than is necessary, but Yuji doesn’t even flinch.
"Yuji," Sukuna says, and the usual sharp tone softening into something almost unrecognisable when he speaks to his nephew. "Remember what we talked about?"
The boy straightens instantly, quickly wiping his hand on his pants, suddenly very serious about the responsibility he’d been given.
“Hi,” he says, sticking his hand toward you. “I’m Yuji.”
You chuckle softly, amused by his sincerity, and gently shake his small hand. "Hi, Yuji. I’m—" you tell him your name, and he nods, accepting the information. Without warning, he grabs your hand surprisingly hard and begins dragging you towards the living room with the determination of a small, unstoppable bulldozer.
"Uncle Kuna said you might come and then you did and look look look look," he insists, pulling you along.
"Okay, okay, what am I looking at?" you ask, giggling as you willingly allow yourself to be led.
Sukuna watches the two of you go, shaking his head at his nephew’s energy and chuckling quietly to himself. He locks the front door and heads to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
Yuji plonks himself on the floor in front of a sprawling mess of crayons, markers, and paper, starting his narrative as soon as he sits down, and talks nonstop from that moment on.
"This is a dinosaur but it’s also a truck and it has fire powers and this one is uncle Kuna but stronger. He’s got four arms, look.” He gestures widely at a particularly colourful stick figure with an additional set of limbs.
You sit down beside him, crossing your legs and leaning in to inspect the drawing with appropriate seriousness. "Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility for one dinosaur."
"It’s important," he informs you solemnly, nodding his head with the wisdom of a five year old. "He protects things."
Sukuna snorts quietly from behind you, reappearing from the kitchen. "That so?"
Yuji nods vigorously, bouncing slightly. "He does. And you don’t because you’re bad at magic."
"That’s not true," Sukuna replies flatly, his smile instantly gone. There’s a faint flicker of genuine offence in his tone. "I’m excellent at magic."
“You are not,” the boy says with conviction, shaking his head. “You don’t even have fire. Dad says so. He says you’re boring.”
Sukuna mumbles something low under his breath, and you’re pretty sure it involves a colourful suggestion about kicking Jin’s ass when he comes to pick up his son later that evening.
“I literally work with engines. That’s magic,” he deadpans after clearing his throat loudly.
“But not fire,” Yuji insists, pointing a stubby finger at the drawing of a dinosaur. “Engine is… car.”
You bite your lip, your shoulders shaking slightly as you fight to stifle a laugh. The kid beams, clearly sensing he’d won the argument, and reaches for another drawing, already moving on. Sukuna scoffs, but you can hear the smile hidden in the sound even without looking at him.
“He’s right,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at him with amusement in your eyes. “Different skill set.”
Sukuna clicks his tongue in mock annoyance but lets it go, moving closer to settle down on the rug near both of you. Just then, Haru pads silently into the room, flicking his tail lazily from side to side. He stops right beside you, immediately demanding attention by shoving his head forcefully into your hand, purring like a tiny engine.
"Oh," you murmur, your fingers sinking into his soft black fur. "There you are, handsome."
“He likes you,” Yuji declares, oblivious to the fact that you’ve been in this house many times already and have woken up with Haru sleeping on your pillow on several occasions. "That means you can stay."
Sukuna exhales through his nose, amused. “Good to know. I’ll make a note of the cat’s approval.”
“Yeah, imagine if he didn’t. You’d have to break up with me,” you giggle, looking at your boyfriend, who simply shakes his head at you.
He reaches out, his hand resting lightly on your knee, and the faint curve of his mouth confirms he’d never do such a thing, Haru’s opinion notwithstanding.
⸻
"Dinner?" you ask a little while later, looking up from Yuji’s colouring page to meet Sukuna’s eyes.
He just offers his usual nod and walks over to where you sit with his nephew. Without a word of warning, he swoops down and scoops Yuji up, his hands under the boy’s armpits. The kid lets out a surprised, delighted squeak before erupting into bright laughter as he is carried towards the kitchen and gently set down on the high counter.
"Sit," Sukuna instructs calmly, keeping one hand resting lightly at Yuji’s side to keep him balanced. "Hands to yourself. We don’t want flour on the ceiling this time."
Yuji leans back slightly on his palms, swinging his legs lightly against the cabinet, and a wide, genuine grin stretches across his face as he gazes up at the ceiling lights.
“I’m sitting,” he confirms, and he almost sounds compliant.
“We’re making oyakodon,” you tell Yuji, and his head snaps down, eyes immediately wide with excitement.
“That’s the egg one, right?” he asks quickly, listing the ingredients on his fingers. “With the chicken and the rice and—uncle Kuna you make the rice really good—the rice is the best part!”
“The rice cooker does most of the work,” Sukuna mutters, but a faint, pleased curve touches the corner of his mouth.
When you gesture toward the appliance, he moves to plug it in. Next, you ask him to handle the chicken thighs. He nods, reaching for a knife and the cutting board. Meanwhile, you turn to the stove to start the broth, pouring the dashi into the pot and immediately stirring with a wooden spoon.
Yuji, however, becomes a one-person commentary track, a nonstop stream of thoughts, observations, and questions, narrating everything you do and refusing to take even a single breath. He’s practically vibrating with curiosity and energy.
“Are you stirring because it has to mix or because it’ll burn and did you know one time I burned toast and it smelled really bad and the smoke alarm went off and dad got mad but I didn’t mean to—”
“Yuji,” Sukuna says, remarkably patiently, slicing neatly through a piece of chicken. “Inside voice.”
“I am using my inside voice,” Yuji insists loudly, leaning over the counter to make his point, and you press your lips together, fighting the urge to laugh openly at the volume of his ‘inside voice.’
The broth warms gently on the stove, beginning to steam, and Yuji continues his narration, detailing every step as if he’s afraid something might happen if he stops talking.
“Now it’s bubbling,” he declares, leaning closer, peering into the pot. “Now it’s not bubbling as much. Is it supposed to bubble like that or is that a bad bubble. Uncle Kuna one time the pot bubbled over and it made a mess and water went everywhere and—”
“That was because you turned the heat up,” Sukuna cuts in.
“I was helping! I wanted it to cook faster!” Yuji protests instantly, voicing his wounded pride.
“You were not,” Sukuna says flatly, though there is absolutely no heat or irritation in his voice.
He continues cutting the chicken into small pieces, and Yuji leans in, craning his neck dangerously close to the cutting board, completely unfazed by the sight of the sharp blade.
“Why do you cut it like that?”
“So it cooks right,” Sukuna answers. “And so you don’t choke on it.”
“I don’t choke,” Yuji declares immediately with certainty, as if he hadn’t choked on a piece of gummy candy just the day before, scaring his father into a brief state of panic.
“You absolutely choke,” Sukuna replies flatly.
You add soy sauce, mirin, and a spoonful of sugar to the broth, tasting it once, then again, frowning as you consider the flavour.
“Needs a bit more,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
It’s then that Sukuna steps closer, holding out a second, smaller cutting board with a neat pile of sliced onion directly in front of you, surprising you because you don’t even know when he started on the onion.
“Here,” he murmurs.
You take the board from him and slide the vegetable into the pot, stirring slowly as it sinks into the warm broth, and the steam rises, warm against your face.
Sukuna stays right there, sliding his arms around your waist and settling his large hands flat and against your stomach. He leans in, and his mouth hovers just beside your ear.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the sound is so quiet and deep it’s almost completely swallowed by the gentle simmering of the pot.
Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected intimacy. You turn your head, tilting it up slightly to meet his lips with yours in a soft, brief peck that lingers for just a few seconds before you pull back with a smile playing on your face.
“EW! EW! I saw that!” Yuji shouts, slapping both hands over his eyes, but peeks through his fingers anyway. “That’s gross! Why are you doing that with your mouths?!”
Sukuna exhales through his nose, completely unimpressed by the dramatics. “Because we can.”
“That’s STILL gross!” Yuji whines, kicking his foot on the cabinet. “You made a noise! I heard it! It was like slurp!”
You press your lips together, trying not to giggle, your shoulders shaking. “It wasn’t a slurp, Yuji. It was just a kiss.”
“But it was sticky!” he insists, deeply offended. “Kissing is sticky! Like when peanut butter gets stuck in my mouth!" He lowers his hands and squints suspiciously. “…Are you going to get a baby now?”
You choke on a laugh, and Sukuna watches the performance with a slight twitch in his jaw. His amusement is fading, slowly giving way to a thin thread of pure impatience.
“Are you finished, brat?”
“NO!” Yuji kicks his foot on the cupboard door again. “I’m going to tell dad you’re doing weird mouth stuff.”
Sukuna sighs, letting out a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. He reluctantly lets go of you to reach into the cabinet and takes out a small piece of chocolate, holding it out to the boy.
“Take it and stop talking, or I will put you to bed now.”
Yuji’s hands drop immediately. “Dark chocolate?” he whispers, and his earlier outrage vanishes as if it had never existed.
“Yes,” Sukuna confirms, jiggling the square slightly. “One piece. Now.”
You return to the stove as Sukuna adds the diced chicken to the simmering broth, and the kitchen quickly fills with an amazing, savoury smell of cooking food. Yuji swings his legs again, slowly sucking on the piece of dark chocolate to make it last longer, while Haru wanders in, weaving lazily between your legs before hopping onto the sun-warmed windowsill to supervise.
“Kitty,” Yuji whispers loudly.
Haru flicks an ear and ignores him completely.
⸻
Yuji is halfway through a monologue involving a dog, a spaceship, and this strange rock thing that he keeps saying is “definitely a volcano, uncle Kuna, look!” when the doorbell interrupts his animated storytelling.
The boy rolls off the couch with a huge, over-the-top sigh.
“That’s dad,” he announces cheerfully, which belies his earlier performance, sprinting towards the hallway with surprising speed for a child his size.
Sukuna, who has been listening with detached amusement, rises silently and follows, closing the distance between them quickly. By the time the muffled sound of the front door opening reaches the living room, a chorus of overlapping voices—Yuji’s high-pitched chatter and a deeper, familiar rumble—echoes in the entryway.
A moment later, Jin enters the living room with Yuji, clutching firmly to his father’s leg and carrying on with his story at an impressive, full speed.
Jin looks… paradoxically, exactly like Sukuna and yet not at all. The resemblance is undeniable, with the same bone structure and the identical imposing height. But where Sukuna’s looks sharp and heavy, Jin’s is lighter, markedly easier, like the edges have been sanded down or softened by the wide smile he seems to wear as naturally as a favourite jacket. Almost like he possesses a warmth that Sukuna often keeps heavily guarded.
His eyes are a shade lighter and noticeably less intense than his twin’s crimson, and almost immediately they flick curiously towards you. He takes you in with an assessing and genuinely interested look, and Sukuna steps slightly closer to your side without realising he’s done it.
“This is—” Sukuna begins, his voice low and gravelly, but suddenly stops himself. He realises he has never needed to formally introduce you to anyone before. Instead, he opts for the simplest approach: just saying your name, with a tone that makes it clear that is all the introduction you need.
You offer Jin a genuine smile and step forward to bridge the small gap between you. “Hi. It’s really nice to finally meet you, Jin. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jin returns the smile easily, and a palpable, genuine warmth radiates from his expression.
“Likewise,” he replies. “I’ve heard… bits and pieces myself. All good ones, of course.” His eyes briefly flick toward Sukuna, shining with a teasing amusement and brotherly mischief, but he’s clever enough not to elaborate on the ‘bits and pieces,’ leaving Sukuna to merely narrow his eyes slightly.
Yuji, apparently never one to let an opportunity for truth-telling pass, tugs insistently on Jin’s sleeve.
“She made dinner,” he announces loudly, tilting his head back to look at his dad. “And uncle Kuna helped and they kissed and it was gross, dad.”
“That’s enough, brat,” he mutters, his voice strained, as he presses a large hand firmly over the kid’s mouth.
Jin throws his head back and laughs loudly, a bright, unrestrained sound that echoes easily through the living room. It’s a sharp, joyful contrast to Sukuna’s usual low chuckle.
You tilt your head, glancing toward Jin. “Did you eat already, on the way back? We honestly made far too much.”
He hesitates, clearly defaulting to the ingrained polite refusal, but the smell coming from the kitchen is too tempting, and he ends up shaking his head.
“It’s ready to go. If you’re hungry, I can heat a bowl up for you in two minutes,” you add quickly, gesturing towards the kitchen.
Jin looks from you to Sukuna, eyebrows lifting just a fraction, and a silent, entirely unspoken conversation seems to pass between the two brothers
“Sure,” he says finally. “That would be great, thank you.”
Sukuna passes behind you on his way to the tea cabinet, leaning down instinctively, and his lips brush the very crown of your head in a quick, gentle peck. You barely notice the touch; you have become so thoroughly used to his constant, small touches. Since you first showed up at his door, it feels as though you both are starving, making up for months of withheld physical contact.
“You want tea?” Sukuna asks Jin, reaching for the kettle.
“Yeah,” his brother answers, his eyes following you curiously as you move efficiently through the kitchen space.
As you portion the food into a bowl and slide it into the microwave, Sukuna brushes past you again to get the cups, and his fingers lightly graze your forearm. You lift your head to look at him, smiling brightly. He returns it with a curve of his lips before moving on, completely at ease and completely himself.
Jin watches all of it from where he’s leaning casually against the wall, still managing to keep Yuji from launching himself onto the tabletop. He isn’t exactly staring, more like… taking it all in: how Sukuna appears more relaxed and the usual tension he often carries is completely absent; how naturally he initiates physical contact; and, most importantly, how effortlessly he smiles whenever you are near.
The microwave chimes its short beep, and you pull the hot bowl out, setting it gently on the small dining table for Jin.
“Careful, it’s hot,” you warn.
“Thank you,” Jin replies, pulling out the chair and settling into it with a tired sigh that speaks volumes about a long, exhausting day.
Sukuna sets a steaming cup of tea down for you, then another for Jin. As he passes behind you to get his own mug, his hand rests briefly on your lower back. Jin’s warm smile deepens just a little bit more as he sees that.
There’s no need for him to say anything about the change, because whatever version of his brother is standing in front of him now, it’s so much different from the one he has known for a long, long time.
And that difference makes him genuinely, deeply happy.
Not Thursday, late evening
Your phone is propped against a heavy ceramic bowl on the small table in your rented apartment, angled just right so you can watch him with ease while you eat your takeout pork katsu. His is balanced somewhere on the counter in his kitchen, and the camera catches him from the side as he moves between the stove and the sink. Despite the five-hour drive separating you, the familiar, often-cluttered space around him feels oddly and comfortingly close.
“So,” you begin, smiling as you lift another crisp bite with your chopsticks, “we spent most of today trying to decipher the client’s design guidelines.”
He glances toward the screen with a quiet huff without stopping the stirring of his pasta sauce.
“That bad?”
“That bad,” you confirm, laughing lightly under your breath. “It was like someone took five different opinions, already conflicting opinions, filtered them through three people who don’t know how to explain things, and then wrote them down in bullet points that all flat out contradicted each other.”
He takes the pan off the heat and reaches for a large plate. “Sounds familiar,” he mutters.
“I swear. We kept rereading the same paragraph, trying to figure out if they want something minimal, bold, playful, serious, or futuristic. Finally, at one point, someone just deadpanned, ‘What if it’s all of those?’ and the three of us just stared at each other in defeat.”
“And then?” he prompts, spooning the sauce over a mountain of fresh pasta.
“And then,” you say, grinning wider, “we did the obvious thing and made a list of questions. Like, actual, clear questions. And got on a call with the client.”
He finally looks over properly, interest flickering across his face. “Let me guess. It made sense immediately.”
“Immediately,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Turns out they knew exactly what they wanted all along. Clean layout, strong contrast, nothing fancy. Half an hour into the call and we’re all sitting there, looking at each other, like… oh. That’s it.”
He shakes his head as he moves to the table with his plate, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So the problem wasn’t the work.”
“Nope,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair. “Just the translation layer between people who think they’re saying something smart and people who have to actually build the thing.”
“That tracks.”
You take another bite of your katsu, still smiling. “Honestly, it was kind of fun once we figured it out. There’s something satisfying about untangling a mess and realising it was never that complicated to begin with.”
“Sounds like you had a good day, all things considered,” he murmurs, his eyes soft and slightly half-lidded as he looks directly at you on his screen.
It’s one of Sukuna’s favourite things about your life now—that your work hasn't left you defeated and exhausted for months now, and that you talk about it with such a different energy than when he first met you. Even if this means you’re five hours away from him for three days a week.
“I did,” you say simply, and you mean it. “Amazing. Thirty minutes of actually talking to the right people, and suddenly everything makes sense.”
He exhales through his nose, and a sharp chuckle escapes his lips. “Must be nice.”
You raise an eyebrow, picking up on the shift in his tone. “What?”
He glances down at his plate, then back at the phone, and his expression turns momentarily sour. “I spent half the afternoon undoing a mess that could’ve been avoided if someone had just listened to the instructions the first time.”
“That sounds ominous. What happened?” you ask, with a grin, already intrigued.
“It was Yuji,” he says flatly, like that explains the scale of the destruction. “Jin dropped him off at the garage today.”
Your eyes light up immediately. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, shaking his head, but the severe expression is already softening into an unwilling smile. “So the kid told me he wanted to help. He had his little tool belt and everything.”
“Of course he did.”
“He lasted about five minutes,” Sukuna continues, sounding both resigned and faintly amused at the same time, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling. “Then he picked up a tray with about forty bolts and washers on it, tripped over absolutely nothing, and sent them flying everywhere.”
You laugh louder, covering your mouth with your hand. “Everywhere?”
“Everywhere,” he repeats with emphasis, leaning closer to the phone. “Under the workbench, under the big lift, behind the compressor. I spent fifteen minutes on my hands and knees looking for one stupid washer while he kept bringing me bolts from a drawer, asking if it was that one. Or that one. Or maybe that one.”
“And was it ever that one?” you tease, shaking from laughter.
“Not once,” he says, taking a large bite of pasta. “And I’m pretty sure he brought the same one at least twice.”
“Please tell me you didn’t lose any.”
“I didn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But I did lose my patience.”
“So what did you do?”
He exhales through his nose, and a quiet laugh slips out of him again, deeper this time. “I put him on my shoulders. Figured if he couldn’t reach anything, he couldn’t ‘help’ either.”
“Did it work?”
“Mostly. I gave him two small wrenches, and every few minutes he tapped my head and handed me one, and I had to pretend to use it, give it a serious nod, and give it back.”
You close your eyes with a broad smile, imagining the hilarious and absolutely absurd scene of your huge boyfriend giving a small boy a piggyback ride while diagnosing engine issues.
“I wish I could see that. It must’ve been so adorable!”
“And at the end of the day, I finished cleaning up the last of the bolts with him narrating the entire process,” Sukuna adds. “Apparently, I was doing it wrong, but he couldn’t explain how to do it right.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you say, with fake, over-the-top sympathy, “You poor, poor, long-suffering man.”
“Fortunately, he fell asleep in the car on the way back,” he says, softer, letting genuine affection show through. “I dropped him off at Jin’s because he called he was already back from whatever shit he was doing.”
Sukuna complains constantly about Yuji, the chaos he causes, and the noise he makes, but whenever you see them together, or even when he just recounts the small, silly details like this, his expression and his voice become unquestionably gentler. It’s obvious how much those afternoons mean to him and how effortlessly he shares that softness with the kid without any hesitation.
“Hey,” you say after a moment. “My parents called earlier.”
His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
“They want us to come over for dinner on Saturday,” you continue, setting the empty takeout box aside.
He doesn’t look up right away, just hums in acknowledgement, chewing slowly. “Okay. What time?”
“Four. Early dinner, you know, their usual.”
He just nods, and you beam at him again.
“Dad’s gonna be thrilled. He’s been complaining that I came alone last week, you know,” you add with a laugh. “Couldn’t accept that I had a day off and you were stuck at work.”
He clears his throat, keeping his eyes at his plate for a second before taking a bite, but you recognise the small tell immediately. Your dad adores him, treats him like family without caveats. Even if Sukuna never puts it into words, you know how much that acceptance means to him.
“Tell him I’ll bring something,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes again.
For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, watching each other exist, letting the quiet stretch, content in the simple fact that this, too, is part of what you’ve built.
“So,” he starts at some point, and one of his hands lifts to run along the back of his neck, “you’re back in two days, right?”
“Mhm. Wednesday evening.” You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “What? Miss me already?”
He tips his head slightly, pretending to seriously consider the question. “Maybe,” he finally allows, the corner of his mouth twitching.
You squint at him, intentionally exaggerated, and he rolls his eyes before breaking into a genuine, deep chuckle. It’s low, deep, and absolutely unguarded, and ever since you met him, it’s been your favourite sound in the entire world.
“I love you, angel,” he murmurs, looking at your eyes through the screen.
“Love you too, Ryo,” you reply softly. “I’m gonna head for the shower in a minute, and later call Yuki. She’s been bombarding me with texts since morning, so…”
“New boyfriend?” He rolls his eyes again at the mention of your friend's dramatic love life, but a smile doesn’t leave his face, and you nod. “Okay. Call me tomorrow before work, then?”
“Like always,” you promise, leaning closer to your phone to blow him a kiss.
After a moment, you end the call, and the screen goes dark. Before you even walk the few steps to the kitchen to put the empty takeout box in the bin, your phone lights up again with a text from him.
“We should introduce her to Choso. I’m tired of hearing about this one.”
Not Thursday, midday
You park halfway along the street when a childish giggle escapes you, overwhelmed by excitement, because you got back a day and a half earlier than expected and didn't tell a soul, especially not him.
The garage door is half-open, and when you step inside, the air instantly thickens around you, heavy with the scent of motor oil, gasoline, and burnt rubber. For a long moment, you simply stand there, letting your eyes adjust to the sharp lighting, and the sound of clacking metal guides your gaze to the centre of the floor.
He’s beneath a car slightly hoisted on a lift, with only his legs and the hem of his grease-stained work pants visible. One arm is extended above his head, muscles tensing slightly as he slowly turns a torque wrench.
A surge of uncontrollable affection floods over you, and you softly clear your throat, immediately wishing you hadn’t made that sound so early. But you’re unable to stop the wide, silly grin that has plastered itself across your face now that your boyfriend is so close.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” you call out, pitching your voice a little higher and trying to add a hint of real uncertainty to your tone. “I… I think my car broke down on the street.”
You need to clamp a hand over your mouth as the sudden, violent shake of suppressed laughter threatens to ruin everything when you receive the typical, automatic response from a mechanic and not the slightly rough, familiar greeting from your boyfriend.
“What’s it doing?” Sukuna’s voice is muffled but deep, carrying clearly from beneath the vehicle.
The words are followed by the faint metallic click of a tool being set aside. There’s a brief, noticeable pause, where you sense your voice has finally registered in his mind, and you can almost feel the moment his brain attempts to process the familiarity of the sound. But then, he sharply shakes his head to dismiss the thought. It sounded like you, but that’s impossible. You are, after all, three hundred and fifty kilometres away, so it must be exhaustion playing tricks.
His boots push against the concrete, and a second later, Sukuna rolls out from under the car on the creeper. He's absently wiping the grime from his fingers with a rag, his mind still miles away as he mentally prepares to handle an unexpected client and diagnose a problem that doesn’t, in fact, exist.
Finally, he looks up. The rag stops, forgotten, in his hand. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, lock onto you and simply stay there. You watch, absolutely amused, as his brain bluescreens in real time. The professional mask he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a look of complete and utter confusion, as nothing he's seeing makes sense with what he expected.
You're standing smack in the middle of his messy garage, but you're not messy. You're wearing the nice, fitted outfit you wore to the office, your hair is still neatly pulled back, and a huge, silly and triumphant grin is plastered across your face.
Sukuna stares at you like he's running a serious diagnostic and asking himself countless questions. Is she real? Am I this tired? Did I huff too much engine cleaner? Your shoulders start shaking slightly as you watch the slow, painful process of him working it out.
Before he can even fully process the fact that you are here, you’re crossing the garage floor, closing the distance quickly. You reach him, grab the collar of his work shirt to tug him down, and stand on your toes to crash your lips into his.
His body reacts instantly, purely on reflex, bypassing his shocked brain. His hands shoot up, eager to pull you in and hold you close against him, as they always do, the way they need to now that you’re back.
Then they stop mid-motion.
You feel the restraint and the internal battle in him when his grease-blackened palms hover just short of your face, fingers splayed out, but not touching. He exhales a deep, shuddering breath against your mouth, angling himself back slightly so his shirt doesn't brush against your clean blouse and stain it.
“I’m filthy,” he murmurs, breathing heavily.
You laugh softly into his lips, absolutely not surprised that his first thought is to protect your clothes.
“I don’t care,” you answer, and you mean it with every fibre of your being, trying to press your body closer to his anyway.
But Sukuna does care. He stops you, gently gripping your wrists and holding them trapped against his chest instead of allowing you to wrap your arms around him, and his forehead dips toward yours, stopping just shy of contact.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he murmurs again, but his voice drops lower now, gravelly and hoarse with genuine need. “There’s absolutely nothing in this world I’d like more than hauling you flush against me, angel.”
And with that, he leans down properly, kissing you deeper and with such intensity that makes him groan into it. Then, he steps away, breaking the kiss with a sigh of frustration.
“Wait,” he mutters, walking towards the sink at the side of the garage to scrub his hands. The water is still running dark when he calls out over his shoulder, “You’re early.”
You lean against the edge of the metal workbench, watching him and his determination with which he scrubs the grime from his skin. You’re almost certain you’ve never seen anything more absurdly, endearingly him in your entire life.
“Yeah,” you answer, smiling at him. “Thought I’d get a second opinion on my catastrophic engine failure.”
Sukuna lets out a deep chuckle, drying his hands. Afterwards, he reaches for a stack of clean, neatly folded work shirts he keeps on a high shelf, takes one out and pulls it quickly over the one he already has on.
“You are ridiculous,” you say with an eye roll, though you can’t hide the affection in your voice. It’s absolutely adorable how much effort he puts in to keep your nice clothes clean.
When he comes back to you, he doesn’t hesitate. His palms cup your face fully, thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones before they slide down to rest on your waist. He pulls you with him as he walks backwards toward the couch nestled in the corner of the garage, right next to his dad’s old Mazda.
When his ankles touch the cushions, he drops to sit, and you fall onto him, laughing breathlessly. He adjusts his hold instantly, lifting you so you can straddle him fully.
“Now,” he rasps in that gravelly, hoarse voice, while his eyes darken and hungrily rake over your face. “Where were we?”
His hands come up, one finding the small of your back to keep you close, the other grabbing the back of your neck. And this time, it’s him, with no restraint and no hesitation, crushing his lips into yours.
notes: okay. now we’re really at the end of the journey. like i said before—this chapter wasn’t planned. it’s only here because of, and thanks to, all of you. i hope it managed to heal your hearts a little after all the angst i dragged you through.
let me say it once more: thank you for following the journey of these two idiots and their stupid routine. as you can see, they no longer see each other only on thursdays. they got their happy ending and get to live a long life together.
thank you for loving them as much as i did.
and you, my amazing readers… i hope to see you again soon in sukuna’s pov of thursdays.
ps i’ve been crying for over an hour because this is actually over.
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, minimal dialogue, subtle yearning, emotional restraint, angst
← Week Thirty · Week Thirty One
Masterlist · ao3
Thursday, 9:00 p.m.
The week begins seemingly ordinary. You receive your first major assignment for an actual, real client, marking the end of the adjustment period. Although it’s more responsibility, there’s no real pressure because the deadline is actually reasonable. More importantly, it doesn’t give you the anxiety it might have once. You approach it calmly, break it into smaller, manageable tasks, take detailed notes, and start working. If anything, this proves that you made the right decision.
However, professional success doesn’t make daily life easier. Outside of work, days feel heavier.
Every night, the same single thought circles quietly in the background: maybe next Thursday. It’s there when you cook and when you sit on the couch mindlessly scrolling through your phone. It’s the reason you go to bed early, as staying awake feels pointless, like a waste of hours spent waiting for a day that could change everything. The emotional spirals are gone. You no longer cry, rage or feel that terrible, overwhelming sense of doom. You just… wait. And with each passing night without change, waiting itself becomes increasingly unbearable.
By Monday, that fragile hope feels thinner.
By Tuesday, you catch yourself actively resenting it.
By Wednesday, you’re tired of constantly convincing yourself that two weeks of coming back, waiting in your car, and forcing yourself into the store should mean something. You did everything you were ‘supposed’ to do. You were brave in quiet, humiliating ways that no one else ever saw. And still, he hasn’t shown up.
Thursday comes with that exhaustion already pressing down on your chest.
During the daily meeting, your manager announces that Fridays will now be a permanent home-office day for the whole team. It’s framed as a practical choice, meant to make everyone’s lives easier. You nod in agreement with your colleagues, politely thank her, but the news doesn't bring the relief or happiness you expected. Instead, it removes the last small obstacle—the final logistical excuse you could have used to delay or talk yourself out of going back completely. Now, there’s nothing left to hide behind.
When five comes, there is no familiar sense of urgency. You shut down your laptop slowly, as if stretching out the last moments of your workday might somehow alter the inevitable trajectory of the evening. You stay behind as your team leaves, staring at the dark screen of your monitor, realising that returning no longer brings the same anticipation as last week, when you still had hope. Now, it simply feels like a task to quell your wandering thoughts.
When you start the engine, the typical anxious rush to leave the parking lot is gone. You sit there, hands on the steering wheel, feeling already exhausted. Tonight isn't about searching for him anymore but about proving something to yourself, even if that proof is going to hurt.
Throughout the drive, you're fully aware of what tonight is. You’ve known waking up this morning and realised you were too tired of trying. The last two weeks have left a lasting mark—the waiting, the quiet disappointment, the humiliation of hoping for something that never appears.
Fortunately, the traffic on the main artery doesn’t give you space for a full spiral. It slows down, stops, then crawls forward again, and you somewhat accept the delays with a bleak outlook. Each red light buys you a few more seconds of pretending you’re not driving toward proof. Yet, deep down, you know better than to fool yourself into thinking this time will be different.
As you approach the familiar streets, your chest tightens, already bracing for the impact of a blow you already know is coming. When you pull into the parking lot, your eyes sweep towards the far end out of habit, but the absence of the familiar car doesn’t shock you anymore.
After carefully parking the car, you give yourself a moment with your hands resting uselessly in your lap. The clock reads 9:15. Though you’re late, it hardly feels like it matters now. A sense of dread settles in your stomach as you finally grasp the door handle and muster the courage to step out.
“This is the last try.” Your voice is dry when the words leave your mouth, because you know, with absolute certainty, that you won’t survive doing this again.
Inside, you start by not choosing a direction. You simply walk, drifting through aisles, with cart wheels spinning faintly against the tile floor, your hands lightly gripping the handle just to hold onto something.
There’s nothing specific you’re searching for.
You pass shelves that you know by heart, and the store feels both the same and entirely unfamiliar, like a place you’ve memorised but no longer belong to. Time seems to slow down as minutes slip away, and you let them because stopping would mean facing the reality of why you’re here.
You circle slowly, letting yourself wander the long way around, down aisles you don’t need, past products you don’t want, convincing yourself that as long as you're inside, it still counts as trying. Each lap feels like a silent test, as if every time you pass the front registers, it's another opportunity for the doors to open in front of you and for the night to finish differently than you've already expected.
But the longer you stay, the more crushing the reality becomes. This is what proof feels like.
The dread gradually builds and then suddenly erupts. It lodges in your chest as a tight, persistent knot that grows more intense with each passing minute. You knew this was coming. Still, knowing doesn’t blunt the impact when it actually happens.
Your eyes betray you, with your vision blurring slightly, forcing you to blink repeatedly and glance down at a random shelf, pretending to read a label when in reality you’re trying not to fall apart in the middle of the store.
Standing there empty-handed feels like giving up too soon, so you force yourself to grab a few things, anything at all. Snacks. They’re simple, comforting, and easy to justify without much thought. For your parents, the old, habitual lie forms in your mind automatically, even as your fingers tremble as you reach for the packaging.
Then the harsh, humourless clarity cuts through the pretence. Who are you kidding? This is for you, for later, for when the night completes its slow work of destroying you and leaves you alone with the wreckage.
By the time you reach the registers, your attempt to hold back has failed. Tears slip free, hot and uncontrollable. You keep your head down, concentrating only on the transaction, as you clutch the small plastic bag with movements that feel detached from you, like you’re watching yourself from outside your own body. You turn quickly towards the exit, determined to get out before anyone notices or you break down any further.
“You’re the Thursday girl, right?”
The gentle and entirely unexpected voice stops you mid-step. Frozen, your heart pounds so loudly and so hard it takes your breath. For a moment, turning around seems impossible, and you’re unsure whether you’re even still standing. When you finally force yourself to look, it’s at a clerk two stations away, who’s watching you with cautious recognition and a mix of carefulness and sympathy in their face.
“He left something,” he says softly, as if he’s worried about startling you, then walks over, extends his hand, and offers a plain white envelope.
Your mind seems unable to process what’s happening. You stare at the paper in his hand, as if it might disappear if you acknowledge it. The world narrows to just the gap between you and that outstretched hand. The clerk gently asks if you’re alright, and that’s what finally jolts you to move. You nod weakly, not very convincing, and grasp the envelope with shaking fingers, barely managing a muffled thank you.
Your eyes drop to the paper only when you’re already turned. Scrawled across the front, in clear handwriting:
To Red,
if you ever come back.
— Sukuna
You stop short once again.
“Sukuna,” you whisper instinctively, the unfamiliar sound feeling strangely natural in your mouth, as if it has always been part of you. The sudden realisation strikes you sharply and almost absurdly, and a broken laugh nearly escapes from your chest.
You have no idea if the clerk heard it, because you bolt for the exit, tears blurring everything as you rush through the doors, clutching the envelope tightly, afraid it might vanish if you loosen your grip. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you finally hold something that could change everything.
Reaching the car, you move quickly, unlock the door and drop into the seat before your brain has a chance to catch up. The small bag of snacks is tossed onto the passenger seat and forgotten the second it leaves your hand. You don’t even think about the trunk. You couldn’t put this any farther away from you if you tried.
You sit there with the envelope in your hands, elbows braced against your thighs, breathing shallowly as if too much air might tear something. The parking lot now feels painfully loud, with engines roaring, carts banging, and distant laughter, all of it too loud for this fragile moment.
A scorching, impatient urge pulses beneath your skin, demanding to rip it open and tear straight through the paper, consequences be damned. It's an instinct, but you resist it. Instead, your trembling fingers hesitate at the edge, then carefully slide underneath the flap, easing it open with a surprising gentleness you didn’t know you possessed.
Suddenly, everything centres on his handwriting. Even before you fully pull the paper free, his careful effort is clear. The envelope shows no signs of creasing or haste; the letters are evenly spaced and seem to be written slowly, as if he was afraid of making a mistake.
Inside, there’s only a single piece of paper, folded once. You take a deep breath and unfold it, staring down at the stark black ink. An address. That’s all. No explanation, no instructions, no signature, not even a single word of greeting—only a clearly written location.
A sharp, unfamiliar sensation tightens your chest. It’s not disappointment, as that would be too simple. Relief doesn’t quite fit, and neither does fear. It’s the realisation that he didn’t leave words because words could be misunderstood. This, however, is precise and intentional.
You lower the paper into your lap and only then notice how badly your hands are shaking, the tremor completely out of proportion to the thin sheet. You pull out your phone, enter the address into the maps app, and watch the route appear. Twenty minutes. Close enough to feel unreal, yet far enough to give your already frayed nerves time to spiral.
There’s no point in sitting and overthinking, so you start the engine and pull out of the parking lot with the store shrinking in your rearview mirror as the road opens up ahead of you. The drive is a blur of speed and light, streetlights streaking past, and your thoughts catch themselves in a frustrating, useless loop: What if you misread this? What if you’ve fundamentally misunderstood his intention? What if you’re already too late again?
The GPS leads you to a peaceful residential street filled with modest houses. Porch lights emit a soft yellow glow, creating a calm, homely atmosphere that contrasts with the fluttering in your chest. You slow down, then carefully brake, pulling over to the side of the road. You check the address on the paper, then double-check the house number, even a third time, just to be sure. This is it. This must be the place.
As you turn off the engine, the silence presses in immediately. The house is ordinary, and nothing about it stands out. To your dismay, no light shines through the windows, no shadow moves behind the curtains, and the most damning observation of all: there is no Jeep in the driveway. There’s no sign of him waiting just on the other side of the door. Of course he isn’t.
You sit there for a moment longer, your heart still pounding quickly and irregularly, out of sync with the quiet street around you. This was never going to be easy. Whatever happens next was never going to meet you halfway.
Eventually, you gather the courage to get out of the car with the envelope clutched in your hand. You turn to face the house and, without looking back, lock the car, then immediately lock it two more times as doubt creeps in about whether you actually did it.
You try to calculate the distance in your head, in a desperate attempt to make the walk manageable, because your feet feel glued to the ground beside the car. How many steps? Sixteen, you decide. Choosing this small, arbitrary number to meet makes everything less overwhelming, and with that, you start moving.
The first step is a lurch, a sudden, awkward release of tension in your body. The second step is slightly smoother, forcing a mechanical rhythm to take over. You’re trying to walk normally, but every muscle feels foreign and resistant.
On the third step, you instinctively wipe your palms on the rough denim of your jeans before realising they are damp and slick with cold sweat. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it aches.
On the seventh step, your hand lifts towards your shoulder to adjust the strap of your bag, and you abruptly stop with a quick, sharp jolt of panic when your fingers can’t feel one.
On the tenth step, your anxiety shifts its focus. You pause briefly to frantically smooth the dark wool of your coat, even though there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it—no creases or flaws that require fixing.
On the twelfth step, a petty wave of doubt washes over you. You realise your initial sixteen step count was off, as the door suddenly looks closer than it should. You hesitate, your left foot suspended mid-air, uncertain whether to take smaller, more cautious steps to stretch the distance and reach your planned count, or to allow yourself to be wrong. Ultimately, you choose the latter, pushing the small internal failure aside.
On the fourteenth step, you find yourself directly in front of the door, and the proximity is startling. You stop completely, taking shallow breaths, your chest feeling tight and constrained.
The house is unnervingly quiet, dark except for the faint glow of streetlight across the front steps. Up close, it looks even smaller than it did from the car, unremarkable in every way. The envelope, which is your reason for being here, is damp at its edges from being squeezed so tightly, but it stays in your hand because you don’t know what else to do with it. Letting go feels impossible, like dropping the only proof you have that this isn’t a mistake.
You lift your hand towards the door, but halt halfway with fingers hovering centimetres from the wood. The position feels awkward, your arm hanging in the air and your shoulder tightening as seconds seem to stretch endlessly, making the moment feel like eternity. A minute drags by, possibly more, and then your own thoughts erupt loudly, breaking the silence. This is ridiculous. This is exactly how you end up humiliated.
The fear strikes suddenly, constricting your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you instinctively step back, taking two steps towards the relative safety of the car. Your heart pounds as if retreating could still shield you from whatever comes next.
That backward movement snaps a critical part loose inside you. A fierce, almost purely angry thought cuts through the rising panic before it can fully take over. Don’t be a coward. You didn’t come this far just to run. The words are harsh, free of self-pity, and necessary, leaving no room for negotiation. Before your brain can come up with another argument, you pivot, approach the door swiftly and knock.
The sound is far louder than you expected, and it echoes sharply in the quiet of the neighbourhood. A searing wave of regret flashes through you at the force you used, leaving you frozen, listening. Nothing happens. The silence stretches, long and empty, causing your shoulders to tense and your chest to cave in with a familiar feeling of disappointment. As time drags on, your mind rushes to fill the gap with every negative conclusion it knows how to reach: he’s not here, you misjudged, this was never meant for tonight.
The waiting continues well past what feels reasonable, until hope becomes brittle and painful. Your breath shortens as the crushing sense of failure creeps back. You swallow, your throat dry and tight with anxiety, and knock again—this time with less force but more determination, driven by sheer desperation. Please just let this be over. The plea sits heavy in your mind as your hand drops back to your side in resignation.
A faint light flickers somewhere deeper inside the house, off to the side rather than near the door, casting a warm glow in the darkness. You go completely still, barely daring to breathe. Unhurried footsteps follow, growing closer with each second. They come to a stop just on the other side of the door, close enough that you can sense rather than see someone’s presence. Your heart, already an unruly thing, begins to pound with such force it feels completely unmanageable, threatening to burst from your chest.
A metallic click echoes as a key turns in the lock, followed by a heavier thunk as the deadbolt slides open, and then the door swings open.
For a disorienting moment, nothing makes sense. Sukuna stands barefoot on the threshold, framed by the house’s dim interior, dressed plainly in a black tee and loose grey sweatpants. His faded pink hair is wildly dishevelled, sticking out in all directions as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly and then simply forgotten to tame it.
It takes your brain a second too long to match the image with the version of him you’ve been holding onto for weeks, the Sukuna who only ever existed in parking lots, half-lit grocery aisles, and the charged quiet between carefully chosen sentences.
This version is solid and painfully real in a way memory never manages to be. He’s so close that even the tiniest details register in flashes, like the subtle shadow of stubble on his jaw or how his broad shoulders are held just a bit too stiff, as if he paused only because the door was in the way.
Neither of you speaks. You just stare at each other, both clearly stuck in the same moment, trapped in the effort of confirming that what you’re seeing is real and not something your minds invented in a particularly cruel joke.
Sukuna’s brows briefly furrow as recognition dawns, creating a sharp, reflexive crease between them, and your attention snaps to the tattoo at the centre of his forehead. You don’t remember it this detailed and alive… your memory had blurred the lines on his face, softening them to make him survivable from a distance. Up close, everything is like it should be. The markings sit exactly where they should, sharp against his skin, moving as he breathes. They’re undeniably real.
His gaze, fixed on your eyes this whole time, drops to the envelope clenched in your hand. You watch his eyes linger there before a subtle change passes across his face as recognition dawns. It’s a sudden, sharp intake of emotion, immediately followed by the breaking loose of something vital. When he finally meets your gaze again, the look in his eyes is completely different.
He steps forward cautiously, genuinely afraid you'll run away if he moves too fast or startles you. Now, he’s close enough that you can feel his warmth, a tangible heat cutting through the cool night air. His hands rise towards your face, hovering in the space between you for a suspended half second, as if offering you one final chance to stop him, even now.
When you don’t move away, his fingertips brush along the edge of your jaw first, sending a slight shiver straight down your spine. Then his calloused hands lift higher, cupping your cheeks fully and gently tilting your head up, sweeping up his thumbs to rest just below your eyes with more tenderness than you were prepared for. The texture of his skin is rough against yours, his touch warm, and the contact alone is enough to make your entire body ache as the weeks of self-imposed restraint and distance break down entirely, all at once.
For a long moment, he just holds you like that, studying your face in complete silence, and his crimson eyes roam hungrily from the curve of your mouth to your lashes, and then to the gentle curve of your brows. You feel the slight tremor he’s trying to hide when his breath hitches once, then again, as if he still doesn’t quite trust that you’re truly there, real, within reach.
Sukuna leans down, breathing unevenly, his forehead nearly touching yours, but his eyes still search your face with a frantic desperation, memorising every detail all over again or needing proof you won't disappear. Your body freezes, overwhelmed by the closeness and the certainty in his grip.
When instinct takes over, and you lean into his touch, he finally closes the last gap between you, pressing his lips into yours, and the intensity of the kiss steals the air right out of your lungs. It's not rushed or hesitant, but his mouth covers yours with such raw, unrestrained need that your knees feel dangerously weak. Your hands jump slightly, like your entire body needs to catch up with the reality of what’s happening.
He doesn’t have to pull you closer as you instinctively step into him. One hand rises to grip his bicep for support, while the other curls around the base of his neck, fingers sinking into the soft hair.
The moment your fingers touch his skin, a low, guttural groan vibrates deep in his chest and spills into your mouth. He presses his lips more firmly against yours, deepening the kiss as tongues brush cautiously at first and then meet with a fierce hunger he has been holding back for months. It’s more intense than anything you imagined, fueled by months of restraint, deep longing, and held-back desire.
He finally pulls back slightly, his forehead resting heavily against yours, with warm, uneven breath against your lips. His hands remain firm on your jaw, as if he still hasn’t fully convinced himself that you are really here.
“Don’t leave again,” Sukuna says, and his voice is nothing more than a rasp—low, deep, and thick with emotions he clearly no longer hides.
The sound of it hits you harder than the kiss did. You’d forgotten how his voice sounds when it’s stripped down to its bare register, when he hasn’t spoken much that day or at all. It sinks deep in your chest, spreading warmth outward, causing your hands to reflexively curl against him.
Three simple words, and your body reacts instantly before your mind can keep up. You lean in and kiss him again, slower this time, softer, your lips moving against his with confidence that’s both frightening, fresh, and absolutely right all at once. It doesn’t last long, and you pull back slightly to catch your breath.
“I don’t plan to.” Your voice is softer than his as you speak, the decision already made deep inside you before you even fully recognise it. You are fully aware of the cost of your words, and you’re saying them anyway.
A hint of relief softens his expression as a visible wave passes over his features, as if he’s been holding his breath for weeks and just now realises he can finally breathe again. As he reaches for you once more, his touch is different, carrying a clear purpose.
Sukuna doesn’t just kiss you; his hand presses confidently at the small of your back, pulling you inside while keeping his lips on yours. He guides you over the threshold into the warmth of his home, never breaking contact.
His hands slide up your body again, one moving to the back of your neck, fitting the curve of your jaw, and the other slipping into your hair to hold you steady as the kiss gets hungrier. You feel his chest muscles flex against yours with every staggered breath, his shoulders instinctively box you in, and his body wraps around you as if this, and you, was exactly where he'd been dying to be.
You lift your chin confidently, and he accepts the invitation immediately. His tongue brushes against yours, and this time, your knees nearly buckle with the intensity of it and the sensation sinking deep into your stomach and igniting like fire. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left between your bodies, beside the heat, quick breaths, and the absolute need. Everything shrinks down to the taste of him, the smell of the familiar mix of tobacco, vanilla, and oil, and your heart pounding against his chest.
The moment shatters when something warm and impossibly soft presses insistently against your legs, weaving a distracting pattern around your ankles. It’s a small, demanding presence that makes you pull away from the kiss, and both of you glance down at the same time.
A fluffy tuxedo cat stands there, lazily flicking its tail from side to side, with emerald eyes that regard both of you with a proud, entitled expression. It first nuzzles against Sukuna’s legs, then turns to rub its soft, velvety head against your shins, purring loudly, as if this sudden, affectionate interruption was an entirely normal part of your reunion.
Sukuna lets out a quiet chuckle, a low, resonant rumble that resonates between you, so familiar, missed, and so deeply longed for that it makes your chest ache with an almost painful warmth.
“That’s Haru,” he says as the lingering tension from the kiss eases into a gentler expression on his face, and the name leaves his mouth like a soft, amused exhale that eases the hard edges of his voice.
You quickly shrug off your coat and fold it over one arm before crouching, unable to resist the cat’s irresistible but adorable presence. Your fingers glide through its soft, dense fur as it leans heavily into your touch and puts its front paws on your thigh, already kneading it with tiny, sharp claws.
“Hi, Haru,” you murmur, scratching him behind the ears. “I’ve heard about you, you know?”
The comfort of being with Sukuna, this small, domestic absurdity unexpectedly cutting through the tension, makes you let out a genuine, shaky laugh. You introduce yourself to the cat, telling it your name, and then look up at the man with a wide smile.
As you straighten, the levity drains from the moment. Sukuna is watching you intensely, making your throat tighten all over again. He doesn’t smile, but the darkness in his eyes is softened by something calmer and more serious.
He carefully repeats your name aloud, keeping your eyes fixed on yours, and the sound feels oddly perfect on his lips as he tests the syllables. You nod, unable to hide your smile, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest as you hear your name spoken by him.
“I missed you, Sukuna.” Your voice is gentle and tender as you’re testing his too, now that he’s actually standing before you.
Hearing his own name leave your lips for the first time, spoken with such warmth, makes him close his eyes briefly and take a deep breath. When they open again, the softness is gone, replaced by a darker, more intense gaze.
The need in him is back all at once, and he kisses you again so hard you gasp into his mouth. One hand gently cups your cheek, thumb pressing warmly and steadily against your cheekbone, while the other reaches back without looking, finds the door's edge, and closes it with a final, decisive thud.
With the weight of his body still pressed to yours, the truth sinks in with a clarity that makes your vision blur with happy tears. You realise you weren’t the only one waiting. You never were.
And something in your chest finally releases; the waiting, the trying, the effort, the quiet humiliation of hoping all melt away in an instant.
notes: thank you all for following the journey of two idiots, their routine and their stupid unspoken rules. and especially thank you to those of you who stayed even when thursdays got heavy and angsty. i know the change wasn’t easy, so it means a lot that you didn’t give up on them. i hope you enjoyed the ending.
worry not: this is not the end.
i actually wrote one additional chapter that wasn’t part of the original plan. i finished writing thursdays over two months ago, but after reading your reactions to the angsty chapters and seeing how much they hurt, i wanted to add something more. it’s a small extra piece that i wrote recently, and it’s there because of you.
The link to it is below and in the masterlist, named postscript.
and there will be a series written from sukuna’s pov, because i want to show you why he acted the way he did, why he said what he said, and what was going on on his side of the story. i built his entire backstory when i was writing thursdays, so it’s all there—it just needs to be shaped into a story of its own.
i've been working on it for some time now, but i want to take my time with it and do it properly, so it might need a little polishing before it sees the light of day. and i think you’re going to like what’s waiting there.
i’m also considering an “after thursdays” series to explore what happens after the reader shows up at sukuna’s door, but that one isn’t set in stone yet. it’s something i’m thinking about, not a promise.
please let me know if you'd like to be tagged for either.
anyway. here's the important part:
this fic started as a way to deal with my own overwhelming work situation, which is why the reader’s work problems and stress mirrored mine so closely. and no, i didn’t get a new job or a sudden offer, unfortunately.
thank you for being with me through weeks of absolute exhaustion and burnout, when i didn’t really have the energy to explain how bad it was anymore, and when i honestly didn't have much left except this story. i'm not magically better now, and i still feel empty, but writing this fic helped more than i can put into words.
and all of you did too. every message, every comment, every note saying this fic felt comforting, soft, slow, or peaceful helped more than you probably realise. each one healed my heart a little bit, and i’m incredibly grateful for that. so, thank you.
and to anyone who saw themselves in the reader because of work, overload, stress, or exhaustion, i’m keeping my fingers crossed for you. i really hope it gets better for you like it did for her.
this series is dedicated to everyone whose work makes them utterly miserable.
what you know - post-series oneshot
the six-year old comedian
❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [completed series]
❝ a collection of what you would consider the funniest moments interacting with your boyfriend's youngest brother. from ducks to mosquitos and mall fountains to strange sculptures, you treasure the moments that make you laugh. ❞
❦ cw ; mdni. takes place after the events of what you know. crack. family fluff. established relationship. mentions of vomit.
❦ words ; 6.4k.
main masterlist || series masterlist
The world is easier these days with you by Sukuna’s side. His patience has been drawn out and his frustrations quell more soundly. Choso is more open, and Yuji– well, truthfully not much has changed, but Sukuna has grown to appreciate the kid’s ability to be accidentally hilarious. He still doesn’t like being the subject of the joke, which he so often is, but now that he operates on much higher averages of sleep, he’s come to appreciate his little brother’s rambunctiousness far more.
There are days where he probably shouldn’t laugh, but someday he’s sure Yuji will look back on it and laugh too.
“Gimme some, gimme some, gimme some, gimme–” Yuji holds his hands out to the eldest brother at the edge of the pond, the warm breeze ruffling his hair as he pushes up onto the tips of his toes.
“Hold on, hold on, brat.” Sukuna holds a bag of peas well out of reach of the grubby hands reaching for it. When the boy jumps expectantly, unrelenting, Sukuna clicks his tongue. Your poor boyfriend may have more patience these days, but Yuji still knows just how to push his luck. “Stop, Yu.”
“I wanna give some to the ducks!” He insists at the eldest’s feet.
The scowl on Sukuna’s face is unmatched, still completely typical of him as his brother pushes his buttons. You could step in, but Yuji is truthfully good with manners when it counts and you’re fairly sure he’s prodding at Sukuna because he knows he can get away with it.
While Sukuna may only admit from time to time that Yuji’s funny, you’ll admit it any day.
And Choso at your side is smiling at the sight too, so who are you not to let them be brothers?
Huffing out a sigh, Sukuna finally manages to open the bag, which draws a few avian onlookers at their feet. A mallard with gorgeous green head feathers quacks as it shakes its tail of water and makes its way to the two brothers.
Momentarily distracted, Yuji’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ as he stares at the bird. He reaches his hand out, but for as brave as the bird is, it’s still a bird. It turns on its heel to slip away, but Yuji is undeterred as his insistence with Sukuna intensifies. “Kuna they want the peas, pleaaaase can I have some!”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He hisses, his brows drawn together as he twists the bag so as not to drop the remaining peas. Holding both the bag and the fistful of peas intended for Yuji over the little boy’s head, he fixes him with a hardened frown. “Yuji. I’m not givin’ you shit until you calm down.”
The little boy pouts, his arms falling to his sides as he stares up at his older brother pleadingly. “Pleaseeee, Kuna?”
“You done bein’ a brat?”
The little boy nods adamantly. A lie, and everyone knows it, but Sukuna relents regardless.
“Hold out your hands.”
Obeying his older brother’s instructions, Yuji cups his hands to hold the pile of peas. Satisfied that he finally gets to feed the ducks, he turns to the small gathering of feathered creatures. Three ducks have already figured out food is incoming and keep a reasonable distance as they approach. Yuji fiddles with the peas before ultimately deciding to hold out the end of his shirt and dump them in there so he can pass them out one at a time.
The first few ducks are relatively patient and their happy quacks have you grinning as Sukuna leaves Yuji be so that he can distribute peas to you and Choso next. The sheer amount of ducks piling up on the late spring pond shore has you all gleeful as the older of the two kids makes his way to his little brother, kneeling down to begin feeding the ducks.
“Dunno where he gets that shit from, but it drives me crazy sometimes,” Sukuna mutters as he reaches your side, his arm brushing your shoulder.
Withholding your smirk to the best of your ability, you shrug as you take a handful of peas for yourself, tossing some to a duck with a tuft of feathers sticking out atop its head. “Yeah, who knows.”
The teasing lilt to your tone has your boyfriend pinning you in place with a side eye, but it only serves to make your laughter finally boil over. You let out a joyful yelp as Sukua uses his free hand to try to catch you by the waist, but you barely manage to slip out of his grasp. Stumbling a short distance away, you turn to face him with a grin that disarms him as all tension drains from his expression. It slips away like rain over the river’s bank.
His scowl softens into something reverent as he watches you keel over. He tries to keep a knit in his brow, something to disprove anyone if they were to say he’s down bad, but anyone can see the truth. He rolls his eyes, turning back towards his little brothers in an effort to keep his casual disposition.
They’ve amassed quite the crowd of feathered friends, all joyously quacking as peas are tossed at them. Yuji laughs heartily and holds his palm out as they greedily eat what’s left in his hand. With none left, the youngest brother tries to push through the crowd, but at his short height, he can’t step over or through them.
Completely stuck and out of peas– unbeknownst to the ducks– the crowd begins to narrow in on Yuji. So much so, that they even separate him just enough from Choso that the little boy begins to panic. Beaks are at his hands and knees, pecking at him for more food, and the little boy’s face twists from excitement to the beginnings of a full-blown meltdown.
He tries backing away, but there are more ducks behind him, his lip wobbling as he holds his hands out and tries to shuffle through the crowd. Tears brim his eyes, and sobs break out when one of the ducks flaps its wings in the midst of the crowd.
Sukuna, watching Choso dust his hands off and step through the ducks as best as he can, quickly whips his head towards Yuji at the sound of sobs.
Unfortunately for the youngest, Sukuna chose to be a brother first today, and a parent second.
… and the sight of thirty harmless ducks all chasing after Yuji is hilarious.
Sukuna snickers at the sight, moving after the boy with the casualty of someone who knows there’s no real trouble as he pulls out his phone. Your head whips around just as fast, but when your boyfriend doesn’t do anything, you shoot him a disapproving frown and chase after Yuji.
“What?” He calls from behind his phone’s camera as you move past him. “He’s fine. He’ll think it’s funny someday.”
As you still move past him to save his little brother, he sighs and moves into action. His long legs carry him ahead of you, where he scoops Yuji up and pulls him from under his shoulders, over the ducks, and carries him to a bench. The little boy stands sobbing with arms hanging at his sides and feathers sticking to his pants.
Finding your boyfriend’s side, you lightly smack his arm to convey your feelings. He huffs, but pulls the youngest into his chest. “You’re good, Yu. The ducks won’t hurt you, they just thought you had more food.”
“They chaseeeed meeee,” he sobs, ruining Sukuna’s black muscle tee as his words are muffled into it.
You nudge your boyfriend again when he runs his tongue along his lower lip, a telltale sign that he’s doing what he can not to laugh. His narrowed gaze briefly shoots to you, but he relents. “But they didn’t hurt you, right?”
Yuji pulls back slightly, sniffling as he stares up at his brother. “No.”
“‘Cause you’re big and strong, right?”
“Just like your brother,” you chime in at Sukuna’s side.
Yuji’s sobs subside as he glances at you, then back to the oldest brother. Choso has quietly found his way to your side as well, watching everything go down. With a sniffle, Yuji finally finds his footing, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Just like Kuna,” he echoes the sentiment, nodding. It’s the one thing that never fails to bring Yuji back to the present, continuing to think the world of his older brothers.
He holds his hands out expectantly for you to pull him into your arms. As much as he’s getting too big for you to carry for long periods, you can’t say no to the sweet kid. You hoist him up onto your hip, giving him a tight hug as you carry him back to the pond where the ducks have dissipated.
“You’re mean sometimes still,” you hear Choso behind you, earning a click of Sukuna’s tongue.
“None of you have a sense of humor.”
Still, Choso manages to get an apology out of Sukuna– as measly as it is– who then makes his way over to you and Yuji at the pond’s shore, ruffling the youngest’s hair as he kisses the crown of your head.
“Sorry,” he murmurs in your ear.
Someday, though, you all will look back on this moment and laugh.
Though, there are times when Sukuna definitely shouldn’t laugh. No matter how funny things are.
But really, who are you to judge him when you can’t keep a straight face either?
Ever since starting the first grade, Yuji has been complaining non-stop about his teacher. Now to some degree, you can understand why the little boy might struggle. After all, it’s the first time he’s been in a classroom setting that’s a bit more true-to-form than Kindergarten, his attention span isn’t phenomenal, and he’s a chatterbox.
The problem here being that his teacher actually is somewhat unreasonable.
She has rules that you can’t begin to make sense of. The kids aren’t allowed any toys in the classroom, which has been an issue for Yuji who still struggles with sharing here and there. They aren’t allowed to wear shorts, even on hot days. They aren’t allowed to stay inside for lunch, even on particularly cold days. They need their journals signed daily to assure the teacher their parents know what they studied in class.
But most peculiarly of all, they’re only allowed to use the washroom once during the morning and once during the afternoon.
Which is how you and Sukuna end up seated across from the principal in the middle of work for you both. Why both of you? Incompetence, Sukuna had grumbled out. When he didn’t pick up, they left a message, then called you. Now, here you both are.
The room smells of old paper and some sort of solvent– ink, you figure, based on the sheer amount of fountain pens the middle-aged woman has at the edge of her desk. A portrait of the school’s founder hangs slightly off-kilter behind her head as she sits across from you with clasped hands. She seems relatively comfortable seated across from you, but your boyfriend keeps catching glances.
You’ve noticed that a lot more since you began dating. Being a startlingly tall guy with tattoos and pink hair and a glare that could kill tends to do that.
Yuji is ushered in shortly, taking a seat in a third chair they’ve dragged up, one of the orange plastic ones typical of an elementary school. There’s no remorse in his expression– in fact, he bears a very similar scowl to the one your boyfriend has. You have to fight a smile at the sight of the two pink-haired scoundrels with the same expression.
“Can we get on with this?” Sukuna gruffs from beside you, manspreading unashamedly as he leans back in the chair. He glances at his little brother with obvious frustration, but reserves judgement until he’s heard what warranted both of you leaving work.
The principal, undoubtedly not thrilled to be seated against your grumpy and intimidating boyfriend yet again, offers a sympathetic smile, her lips pressed tightly together. “I apologize for the intrusion to your day Mr. Sukuna,” she turns to you, addressing you by last name as well. “Yuji here has gotten himself into a bit of trouble with his teacher,” she begins, leaning forward over the grand wooden desk. It’s the kind of furniture that has you questioning whether the school budget is being used appropriately, but now’s not exactly the time.
Sukuna tosses a narrowed gaze at Yuji, who crosses his arms over his chest obstinately.
“Yuji’s teacher has a number of rules the students must follow in order to keep the large classroom size under control,” she explains. “To ensure she can keep an eye on all thirty kids, she only allows them to use the washroom once during the morning, and once in the afternoon.”
“What?” Sukuna’s lip curls in sheer disbelief.
“Ryo,” you keep your voice low with reassurance. He grimaces, but allows the principal to continue.
“Regardless of your thoughts on the rules,” the principal continues with a grateful smile in your direction. “Yuji caused a bit of a stir among the students.”
Still nothing unusual about that. Although, when you cast a glance in Yuji’s direction, you note that he’s far more pallid than usual. You also had expected him to pipe in by now with his own version of the story. Something is clearly off.
“He had already used his hall pass early this afternoon, and asked to use the washroom again. When his teacher did not allow him, he repeatedly raised his hand to ask, and after five disruptions, he chose to walk out and yell at her.”
You suck in a breath, sighing at the fact that there’s no winning here when you know Yuji shouldn’t have yelled, but his teacher isn’t in the right to begin with.
“That’s not even what happened,” Yuji grumbles under his breath at your side, sounding more and more like his older brother by the moment.
Sukuna, at wit’s end, waves his hand towards Yuji like this situation is all a waste of time and bringing one of you– let alone both of you– has him clinging to his last shred of patience. “What happened, Yu?” He pushes, unimpressed by the whole situation.
“I don’t feel good,” he starts. Sukuna sits up a modicum, wishing they had started with that. “My tummy hurts and I needed to pee again,” he pouts. “She said no every time I asked.”
“So you yelled?” Sukuna frowns, unimpressed by the situation in general, but on the same page as the little boy.
Yuji’s gaze glides to the side, avoiding all three adults in the room. “I asked her again. She kept saying no, so I told her I would pee my pants.”
You exchange a glance with Sukuna, whose entire view on the situation has changed as the obvious humor in a six-year-old yelling about peeing at his desk has you both contorting your faces in an effort not to smile at his expense when his stomach hurts. You bring a hand up to your lips in hopes of covering up your contorted expression.
“She told me I was lying, so I left.”
“What did you say when you left, Yuji?” The principal pushes as though she expects the teacher to somehow still be in the right, given the obvious shift in perspective Yuji’s side of the story brings.
“She asked me where I was going so I turned around and yelled. I said um– I said–” He sits upright somewhat, mimicking the original moment. “I have to PEE!” He holds his stomach now, staring back down at the floor. “Then I left.”
Sukuna brings a hand up over his mouth while you distract yourself with motivational posters on the wall. A snort breaks through Sukuna’s composure, but he recovers quickly. He clears his throat, scratching at the stubble along his chin. Thank god he’s handling it. You can feel the laughter in your damn throat.
Sukuna turns his attention to the little boy. “How’re you feeling now, Yu?”
“Bad,” he whines.
“Alright. I’ll take you home.” He turns towards you, flushed with the effort to not burst into laughter after Yuji’s impression. “You go back to work, princess.”
“Hold on,” the principal stops his process in its tracks with a disgruntled frown. “This behaviour isn’t acceptable and needs to be properly addressed.”
Sukuna, halfway risen with a palm pressed to the armrest, casts you another glance. You shrug, in agreement that this entire situation is ridiculous and more than willing to let Sukuna handle it in whatever way he sees fit.
With your agreement that he’s in the right, he rises to his feet. You’re positive he only does it because he knows he’s imposing when he stands over someone and he’s trying to make a point quickly. “Look, the kid’s not feelin’ well and that rule makes no sense,” he points out. “Just let me take him home and tell his teacher I said he can use the washroom whenever he wants.”
The principal opens her mouth in what you’re certain will be a retort as you rise to your feet, tugging your purse up with you when Sukuna interrupts again.
“If she doesn’t like it, she can suck it up. He’s six,” your boyfriend points out. “He can apologize for yelling, but I’m not making him apologize for something that isn’t a damn issue.” The principal is silent as Sukuna ushers both you and Yuji out with a hand on your lower back and Yuji’s head, respectively. “Don’t waste my time,” he grumbles.
The principal makes one last attempt to save face but it’s futile as the door shuts behind you and her sentence is clipped short.
Sukuna’s hand shifts from your back to the side of your arm opposite him as he pulls you into his embrace. His voice is in your ear as he speaks, low. “Sorry they dragged you here too.”
“I don’t mind,” you lean into his touch, basking in his warmth.
“I was just finishing up that client presentation. They called right before it ended.”
“How’d it go?” You query, peering up at him with intrigue.
“I think the client likes the second batch of logo proofs. I should find out tomorrow.”
Yuji clutches his stomach, moving out of Sukuna’s reach towards your car as he spots it. He rounds it to the side where his car seat is, waiting for help to get buckled in.
You stop just short of the car to face Sukuna. “That’s great, baby!” You push up onto your toes to press a kiss to his chin. His eyes crinkle at the corners as large hands effortlessly find your waist.
“Shit, I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can just picture him turning around and yelling at the teacher,” he smirks.
You barely restrain a smile by biting your lip with a shake of your head. “I’ve been telling you he’s funny!”
“Every time you tell me that, it’s when he’s comparing me to a fucking mammoth.”
You hold your hand out at him like you’re presenting further evidence to your point, fighting a smile.
With an unimpressed but unquestionably warm scoff, he pulls you into his chest by the back of your head. He might play it off like he doesn’t find it funny, but you hear his chest rumble beneath your ear while you laugh into the warmth of his button-up.
When he finally releases the back of your head, your hands rest on his chest while you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “I’m working from home today, so I don’t need to go back to the office. Did you want to head back to your office?”
He sighs, contemplating his reply with a glance at the spot where Yuji is waiting, although he can’t see the boy behind the car. “If you can handle him, then–”
The sound of wretching has him stopping dead in his tracks as you collectively turn to face Yuji. It’s barely a moment before the little boy is dragging himself from behind the car, clutching his stomach with teary eyes. “Daaaad,” he whines, sniffling. “I threw up.”
Sukuna sighs in spite of the way his chest tightens with emotion at the seldom-heard title. “I’ll come home,” he mutters, kissing the top of your head before moving to deal with his sick brother. “C’mon Yu, let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
Then, there are the times where Sukuna won’t laugh, which tends to be the times that have you laughing uncontrollably.
“Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna Kuna–”
“What, Yuji?” Sukuna sighs as the kid practically has his older brother dragging him by the hand through the mall. You can’t even blame the younger Itadori too much, because in fairness your boyfriend is big enough to be a jungle gym.
“Can we go back and get that Sonic backpack?”
“You already have a backpack.”
“Yeah, but not a Sonic one,” the kid points out, standing upright to prove a point to the eldest.
Choso smiles at your side as they bicker ahead of you, but returns to your conversation as you contemplate what his friend might like for her birthday. “She just started to get into makeup,” Choso muses.
“We could check out a few stores,” you agree. “Do you think she’d be more into that than a toy or game? It’s pretty expensive so we might not be able to get a lot for her.”
“She also really wants a Sleep Token hoodie,” he offers, looking to you for price guidance.
You tilt your head from side to side. Her taste in music from what you’ve heard is similar to Choso’s, and his band merchandise doesn’t tend to run cheap. “We could probably either get her the hoodie, or a couple of pieces of makeup.”
The older of the two kids fiddles with his nails as he thinks it over. “Can we look at the hoodie first? Maybe it’s on sale?”
You nod your approval, smiling warmly at the sweet boy’s genuine compassion towards choosing a gift for his best friend. “The store’s just up–”
Splash!
You blink as you point towards the store just ahead, stopping dead in your tracks at the realization that Yuji has just plopped himself straight into the water feature in the center of the mall walkway, which should probably have guard rails but doesn’t.
As a result, your boyfriend– who must have been caught off-guard– has been splashed with water up to his waist, and his little brother is now soaked.
Choso has already turned around as he starts laughing, walking in the other direction to save himself from Sukuna’s wrath. Smoke may as well be coming from his ears at this point, but before the kettle even boils over, you burst into laughter too.
You can’t be sure whether you or Yuji will face his fury first when he faces you with a fiery glare that flickers back to his little brother.
“Yuji,” he hisses, channeling every ounce of anger management he’s ever learned as he drags the little boy from the water. Yuji doesn’t do much in the way of helping, letting his brother drag him as he stares at the water pooling on the ground below him. “What did I say?”
You cover your mouth, moving away to join Choso as you both laugh against the wall, letting the two brothers figure things out on their own.
“I knew that was gonna happen,” Choso chuckles with a wide grin that has you unable to hold back your own laughter.
“Why didn’t you say something?” You nudge him.
Choso fights a smile unsuccessfully. “I thought Kuna had it under control. Did you not see how hard Yuji was pulling against him?”
“I was thinking about Hana’s gift!” You defend yourself.
Choso quietly chuckles at your side as you two laugh at Sukuna’s expense while he scolds Yuji, who is now soaked to his stomach in fountain water. The whole situation is heartwarming, truthfully. A year ago, Choso very well might have shut down at this interaction, because Sukuna would likely have lost his temper and the entire thing would have resulted in a fight.
Now, your boyfriend– although still short-fused– knows what to spend his energy on and what lessons can be learned through a little cold air.
“Now who’s gonna fuckin’ freeze when we go outside, huh?”
Yuji pouts, rambling off another apology as you and Choso approach. “Can I have your jacket?” The little boy pleads.
“Fuck no,” Sukuna frowns, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re gonna learn your lesson.”
Mirroring his older brother’s expression, Yuji refuses to look at him. “You said a bad word.”
“You jumped in a fountain.”
Two peas in a pod, really.
“Come on, we’re going to the car,” Sukuna points back the way you came. “You don’t get to walk around like this.”
Continuing to pout as he trudges away from the three of you, Sukuna glares at you and Choso. Pinned in place by searing red eyes, you would think you might find yourself scared. But your boyfriend isn’t as intimidating as he seems once you break through all the walls and find out how gooey he is underneath.
You bite your lip to stifle your laughter.
“I’m dumping you two in the fountain next if I hear another fuckin’ laugh from either of you,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes further as Choso buries his face in his hoodie.
“Go find the hoodie, I’ll meet you there,” you murmur to Choso, urging the middle brother ahead. Eyeing the soaked side of Sukuna’s pants where water splashed and now drips to the mall floor from the hemmed bottom, you shake your head. “He got you good, huh?”
“At this rate, he’ll give me a fucking heart attack before I’m thirty.”
You can’t help a giggle, but you reach into your pocket for your keys regardless. “Go take him home before you both get a cold. Can you pick Cho and I up in a bit?”
Pressing the heel of his palm into his temple, he sighs. “Yeah. How’s four?”
“That works! I love you, Kuna.” You squeeze his bicep, making a point to avoid the soaked side of his pants.
He huffs. “Love you too, princess.”
For as good as Sukuna has gotten with the kids, you can’t blame him for being frustrated when that’s not even the worst of the times that he finds himself with his head in his hands because Yuji has no regard for others. Or himself, really.
No, the worst of the times? That was during a walk through the local park on a warm summer day. Sukuna had pulled out his skateboard, offering to teach the youngest to skate, while helping to refresh Choso’s memory.
“That’s it, now tilt your feet and lean with the motion to turn!” Your boyfriend calls out to the brunette.
Choso’s tongue sticks out as he tilts his feet forward while the board slows as it takes the corner. He nearly runs off the path into the grass, but recovers just quickly enough that he makes the turn and manages to keep his speed with another push as he manages to straighten out. The young teen’s head whips towards Sukuna for approval, who offers a nod.
“How much did you two board when you were kids?” You query at Sukuna’s side, keeping an eye on Yuji playing with chalk by a nearby bench.
His large palm subconsciously finds your hip, kneading the plush of your skin absently from over your shorts. “Toji n’ I were out daily. Cho came on weekdays usually when Dad was busy. He would skate–” he shrugs, “dunno, an hour or two a week?”
“He’s doing pretty good for only a couple of hours a week like five years ago,” you muse.
“Yeah, but he’s a punk rocker now,” he smirks, “it comes with the territory.”
Humming along with your boyfriend, you watch proudly as Choso doubles back, picking up speed as his confidence increases.
“Do you still want that Green Day board?” You ask as he rolls on past you both.
He slows to a halt, his shoe scuffing the pavement as he drags the board by its front trucks back to where you’re standing. He nods excitedly, a little gleam in his eyes that has you unable to hold back your glee. His birthday is coming up soon enough that you’re more than happy to spoil what his gift may be if it makes the quieter of the kids happy.
Sunlight beats down on you all from high in the sky, a sheen of sweat forming along your spine as the afternoon gets warmer by the minute. The heat is clearly getting to your boyfriend as well, but you can’t deny that the way his muscles gleam under the sun is hot.
You suppose those are tonight thoughts, though.
“Kunaaaa!” Yuji excitedly attracts attention now that the board’s been brought back. “Can you teach me now?”
“Go get your helmet,” Sukuna urges.
With a cheerful exclamation, Choso takes his helmet off to fix his hair, setting it on the bench a short distance away where Yuji grabs his helmet. They exchange some words before Yuji is positioned before you both. You help him with elbow and knee pads while Sukuna adjusts the board’s trucks to accommodate the small boy.
“Try that out, Yu.”
Yuji hops on the board, using his kneeling brother’s shoulders to help balance as the board tilts back and forth. “Is this right?”
“Tilt your feet towards me. Good. Now tilt them back.” With one more minor adjustment, Sukuna has Yuji repeat the motion and nods. “That looks good. Hop off and I’ll make sure the wheels are good.”
The little boy rocks on his heels back and forth while you chat with Choso. He watches the birds and bugs breeze by on the warm day when suddenly his motions stop, a concentrated look coming over his face. He lifts his hand and holds it in the air briefly before shamelessly smacking Sukuna’s cheek. The eldest completely freezes, wide-eyed and incredulous. Before he has a chance to process what just happened, Yuji peels a dead mosquito off Sukuna’s cheek, proudly presenting it to him like a cat presenting a dead mouse.
Still reeling over what just happened, your boyfriend blinks, staring down at the mess of guts that’s now half in Yuji’s hand and half on his cheek, surely. His frustration takes a moment to catch up, just as your laughter does, from where your hands are over your lips in shock at the whole situation.
Letting out a prolonged sigh, Sukuna heavily drags his hand over his features and holds it there. Head still in his hand, he holds out his free hand, allowing the child to dump the dead bug on his palm. “Great. Thanks, brat.” Disbelief, shock, and barely-restrained frustration all coil together into a strange low tone tinged in the kind of weariness that comes from raising a kid like Yuji.
“You’re welcome, Kuna!” He grins, hopping away into the shade to wait while his brother finishes adjustments on the board.
Sukuna, on the other hand, has not recovered from– humiliation? Frustration? Who knows what it should be branded.
Through your stifled laughter, you set a hand on his back where he’s still kneeling, keeled over now. “Kuna?” You breathe between giggles.
“Don’t,” he grumbles, muffled behind his own hand.
When that sends Choso over the edge, the middle brother laughing behind you, Sukuna finally raises his head to glare. “Quit laughing before I agree to chaperone your school dance,” he growls from where he’s kneeling.
Choso bites the inside of his cheek, his face contorted as he does everything in his power not to laugh.
You, on the other hand, don’t care. “You okay, baby?” You ask between airy chuckles.
He huffs, his head hanging again. “I’m fine,” he grumbles through gritted teeth, finally pushing to his feet. The sight of his cheek, slightly red, and noticeably covered in squished bug, has you biting your lip in order to not further humiliate the brute.
“You um, have a little–” you motion to his cheek, coughing to cover up your giggles.
He grunts, lifting the hem of his muscle shirt to wipe his cheek. Your gaze dips for a second, before innocently finding his eyes once again as he looks to you for approval.
“Got it,” you grin.
“Can you just–” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need a moment.” He steps closer to the pond at the center of the park, staring out at the water with a forlorn expression.
Poor guy.
But Sukuna’s most fond Yuji moment? The moment he proudly brings up?
That has to be Yuji’s first really big art project.
All week you’ve been hearing about it. They’re using clay. They’re choosing a subject to sculpt from a magazine and putting together a whole fact board about their subject. Yuji’s putting his entire heart into the project.
As the art show approaches by the day and Yuji continues to hype up how excited he is and tell you all about this creation that he won’t go into detail about, your expectations rise with every conversation.
The school art show has you pridefully holding the young boy’s hand as he drags you to the elementary school doors. Choso is with Hana for the night, and Sukuna trails a short distance behind you with hands thrown into his pockets. It’s no secret that your boyfriend is imposing, all six feet and eleven inches of muscle and scowls lumbering through the halls like a bear among deer, but he’s grown accustomed to the surprised glances he tends to get.
He’s never far behind you however as Yuji drags you through the crowd, passing through the paintings and collages from other classes, until you reach the section where his class put together a number of sculptures.
Now, you do have to remind yourself that they’re six. There’s a range of skill levels for sure, but they’re broadly what you’d expect. Lions with pointy manes made of toothpicks and eyes too big for their heads. Tea pots with spouts that flop. Birds with actual feathers lodged into the clay. Spaghetti that’s terrifyingly orange. An old computer that’s honestly just a beige cube.
It’s all here, and it warms your heart how much effort these kids all put into their projects. Yuji drags you from aisle to aisle, admiring the art as he points out the ones that belong to his friends– a hammer and a popstar.
And finally, towards the end of the second aisle, you come to Yuji’s.
It pulls the air straight from your lungs.
An art board is decorated with various magazine pages and printed photos of his model: a caterpillar with brown coloring. It’s a cute little thing, and you can see why he chose it.
And the sculpture?
For lack of a better word, it’s a brown log. A piece of poop, if you will.
Sukuna coughs behind you, turning around to cough into his elbow. The fit lasts too long as you struggle not to laugh while he leaves you hanging.
You choke on your own spit, a less dramatic coughing fit of sorts. Once you’ve composed yourself, you ruffle Yuji’s hair. “That’s amazing, honey!” You manage, genuinely proud of your own restraint. He grins brightly, peering up at you, before turning his concern to his brother who’s keeled over, catching his breath.
“Is Kuna okay?”
“Don’t worry about him,” you reassure the sweet boy in an effort to divert all attention away. “I think we both just inhaled some dust over here.”
“Oh,” he blinks. “Okay!”
When Sukuna finally stands upright, tears in his eyes, he swallows hard. His voice is a wheeze when he replies. “That’s my favorite project so far, Yu.”
If there’s one thing you can say for sure, it’s that Sukuna’s not lying. There’s genuine joy in his voice as he stares in disbelief at the art project you’ve been hearing about for hours on end this week. Yuji’s masterpiece of a work of art.
And a masterpiece it is.
“You like it?” Yuji beams, bright and excited as he clings to Sukuna’s arm.
“Yeah,” he gruffs through the strain of suppressing laughter, covering the effort up with another cough. You give him a pointed look as he nearly laughs again, nudging his shin with the back of your heel. “I love it, Yu. We’re putting it somewhere special, for sure.”
And of that, Sukuna was also not lying. Long into Yuji’s teens, after Choso has moved out and the signs of age start to show in the tattooed brute’s mellowed mannerisms, it’s still one of Sukuna’s favorite topics. You can’t decide whether he brings it up in the ‘annoying older brother’ kind of way, or the ‘proud father showing off a fish he caught’ kind of way, but at the end of the day Yuji will still groan at the teasing.
At fourteen years old, his friends are coming over for dinner and in preparation, Sukuna does his part.
The caterpillar makes its way to the center of the dining room table, the eldest’s favorite talking piece. It’s long-since cracked and needed minor repairs after many arguments held between the bickering brothers, but at its core it’s still the masterpiece created eight years prior.
Dashing for the sculpture, the youngest is caught in a headlock before he can grab it. “Sukuna, pleaaaaase!” He pulls at his brother’s arm, but it’s to no avail.
“My house, my rules,” Sukuna rebuttals with an amused snort, spinning Yuji away from the table in an effort to defend it. He only releases his little brother once he’s positive he can defend the embarrassing piece of Yuji’s history with his life.
“It’s embarrassing!”
“It’s a work of art,” the eldest declares with a sharp and smug grin that age has never dulled.
Sukuna was right about one more thing, too.
It took many years, but in his teens, Yuji does begin to look back on the duck incident fondly. And the photos? Those had even him laughing.
main masterlist || series masterlist
❦ a/n ; hiiiii everyone!! i missed this fam too much and had so many funny little ideas that i wanted to put together for yuji, the little comedian that he is. i hope you enjoyed this fluffy little tidbit <33
shoutout to the tiktok an anon sent like a year ago that inspired the mall moment, a post that inspired the sculpture, and my elementary school friend who inspired the moment where yuji gets in trouble with his teacher. and the ducks? that's my first memory 😭 (i promise yuji laughed at those photos, I WOULD KNOW)
❦ taglist ; CLOSED. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be removed.
tags: sfw / modenr au / domestic fluff / first time meeting the parents / established relationship / soft levi / teasings
summary: meeting levi’s mother for mother’s day is nerve wracking at first, but kuchel’s warmth quickly makes you feel like family. between homemade food, teasing stories, and quiet moments with levi, the day becomes one filled with love, comfort, and belonging
word count: 1,254k
credit: @strangergraphics for the divider! 💌
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ read on ao3 ⋮ modern au masterlist ⋮ main masterlist
the car ride to kuchel’s apartment had been quiet, but not uncomfortably so. levi’s hand rested on your thigh the entire time, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles against your skin—his silent way of reassuring you. still, your heart hammered louder with every passing streetlight.
“you’re overthinking again,” levi said, voice low as he parked the car.
you let out a shaky laugh, clutching the bouquet of white lilies and pink roses a little tighter. “easy for you to say. this is your mom. this feels… big.”
levi leaned over the console and pressed a firm kiss to your temple. “it is big. that’s why i waited until i knew you were ready. she’s going to love you. now come on, brat. she’s probably been cleaning since dawn.”
the moment you stepped onto the landing, the door opened before levi could even knock.
kuchel ackerman stood there, looking elegant and warm in a soft lavender cardigan over a cream dress. her dark hair was pinned neatly, a few silver strands framing her face. she had the same sharp, observant eyes as levi, but hers sparkled with a gentle kindness that eased some of your nerves instantly.
for a second, everything was still.
then kuchel smiled small, but radiant. “so this is her.”
she stepped forward and pulled you into a full, sincere hug before you could even speak. she smelled like fresh soap, vanilla, and a hint of lemon cleaner. you melted into it almost right away.
“happy mother’s day, ms ackerman,” you whispered against her shoulder.
she pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks, studying your face with open affection. “none of that formal nonsense. kuchel is perfect. you’re even lovelier than levi described and trust me, he’s been bragging for months.”
“ma,” levi muttered behind you, ears turning faintly pink. he was holding the neatly wrapped gift and a box of her favorite dark chocolates.
kuchel clicked her tongue exactly like her son. “don’t ‘ma’ me. come here.” she hugged levi next, squeezing him tight even though he only allowed it for a few seconds before gently patting her back.
“you didn’t have to go all out,” he grumbled.
“i wanted to. it’s not every day my son brings home the woman he’s serious about.” her eyes twinkled as she ushered both of you inside.
the apartment was small but absolutely spotless. floors gleaming, every surface shining, and the delicious scent of home cooked food drifting from the kitchen. you noticed levi’s eyes scanning the room out of pure habit, fingers twitching like he wanted to run a finger along the shelves to check for dust. kuchel caught him too and smirked.
“still can’t help yourself, hm?”
“tch. force of habit.”
you gently bumped his hip with yours, and he relaxed.
lunch unfolded slowly and warmly. kuchel had made levi’s favorites: rich beef stew, perfectly seasoned vegetables, fluffy rice, and a beautiful strawberry shortcake for dessert. you helped carry the dishes while levi set the table with military precision.
“so,” kuchel began once everyone was seated, pouring tea gracefully, “tell me the real story of how you two met. levi’s version was painfully short—something about spilling coffee on him and refusing to let him pay for the shirt.”
you laughed, glancing at levi who was suddenly very focused on his bowl. “it’s mostly true. i bumped into him at a café and spilled coffee everywhere. he looked ready to commit murder, but then he just sighed and said, ‘at least you have good taste in coffee.’”
kuchel’s laughter was light and melodic. “that sounds exactly like him. always so dramatic about stains.”
conversation flowed easily after that. she asked about your job, your hobbies, and how you handled levi’s intense cleaning habits. you told her about waking up at 2 am. to find him reorganizing your spice cabinet “because they were in the wrong alphabetical order.”
“he gets that from me,” kuchel admitted fondly. “when he was little, he used to line up his toys by size and color every single night before bed.”
“ma,” levi warned, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
you grinned. “i would’ve paid money to see that.”
kuchel’s expression grew softer as she looked between the two of you. “he’s always been so serious. protective. but with you… he seems lighter. he smiles more. i can hear it when he calls me now.”
levi’s hand found yours under the table and squeezed. you squeezed back.
after the main course, levi slid the gift across the table. kuchel opened it carefully, revealing the delicate silver bracelet with the tiny teacup charm. her fingers trembled slightly as she fastened it around her wrist.
“it’s beautiful,” she whispered. she looked at you. “you helped him choose this, didn’t you?”
you nodded, cheeks warm. “he wanted it to be perfect for you.”
kuchel reached over and covered both your hands with hers. “thank you. both of you.” her voice softened. “i worried for so long that he’d close himself off completely. but you… you make him want to open up. that means more than you’ll ever know.”
your eyes stung. levi stayed quiet but his grip on your hand tightened protectively.
dessert came with even more stories. kichel shared memories of seven year old levi trying to clean the entire apartment with one sponge, and you told her how patient he’d been when you were overwhelmed at work. levi interjected with dry commentary and the occasional “tch,” but he never stopped the stories. he even let his mom pull out an old photo album, pointing out pictures of tiny levi in an oversized cleaning apron.
later, while Levi insisted on doing all the dishes “you cooked, ma. sit down”, kuchel gently pulled you into the living room.
“he loves you,” she said quietly, watching her son through the doorway. “i’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. like you’re the only clean thing in a dirty world.” she smiled. “thank you for loving him back. for seeing past all the walls he built.”
you swallowed hard. “he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i should be thanking you… for raising someone so incredible.”
kuchel pulled you into another hug, longer and tighter this time. “you’re family now, sweetheart. don’t be a stranger.”
when it was time to leave, the sky had turned a soft dusky orange. kuchel packed leftovers and extra cake for you both, pressing a kiss to your cheek and then to levi’s.
in the hallway, levi slipped his arm around your waist as you walked to the car.
“see?” he murmured. “told you it’d be fine.”
you leaned into him, smiling. “she’s amazing. i can see exactly where you get it from.”
levi stopped under the streetlights, turning you to face him. his expression was serious, but his eyes were warm and unguarded.
“today meant a lot,” he said quietly. “to her. to me.” he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “thank you for coming. for being you.”
you rose on your toes and kissed him softly. “best mother’s day i’ve had in a long time.”
he clicked his tongue, but that rare, small smile curved his lips, the one only you ever got to see. “let’s go home. i still owe you that bath i promised.”
you laughed as he opened the car door for you, heart full and nerves completely gone.
for the first time, the ackerman family felt like yours too.
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
