itadori yuji who wants to be more than friends with you 𖹭
it didn't take anyone to be einstein to figure out how close you and yuji were. from a far distance, people could already judge how inseparable your duo was.
wherever you went, yuji was following closely behind like a puppy. and wherever he went, you made sure to always stay on call with him. they always said you two acted like siblings—bickering nonstop, annoying each other, and sharing everything.
his spiderman hoodie, long gone, you've made it yours.. and you're already wearing it! your snacks weren't safe from yuji either, you always caught him half-way through the bag by then.
but it was unhinged to the bone how much yuji didn't want your relationship with him to be seen that way. he hated when people chalked it up to just bestfriends, then teased you together with megumi! and maybe, that was the truth. you didn't see him the same way. and if he confessed now, he would risk losing the friendship over his dumb feelings.
yuji wanted to be with you all the time. not in a friendly manner. he wanted to hold your hand without hesitating over what you thought about him. he wanted to hug you—take you in his arms, and trail kisses all over your body to show you he didn't want to be just friends. he hated it when you were insecure of yourself. yuji saw you as the prettiest girl in his eyes! but jennifer lawrence—
no, fuck that, he decides one day. damn, when he saw you, he couldn't get you off his mind for hours. you looked so damn good in his clothes. not even jennifer lawrence could make him feel like this, and everyone knows he's down bad for her! you were officially the hottest woman to itadori yuji.
he'd make such a good boyfriend. he knows of it.
and only if you saw it that way.
“do you ever get tired of people calling us siblings?” you huff, your eyes flickering over to yuji who's actually watching the movie.
it's been on your mind since forever.
“nah. do you?” yuji's lying, and you can tell.
“stop lying to me.”
“i'm not!” he grits his teeth, twiddling with his thumbs as your glare gets more intense with each passing second. should he tell you the truth? won't you be weirded out? he'll jump out of the balcony to escape in horror and humiliation if you do!
after a long pause and battling with his uncertainty, yuji makes the bold decision to go big or go home. he'll confess to you right now—he can worry about what happens next.
“... okay fine, i do. i hate it every time. idon'twantustobefriends! i want more. and it's fine with me if you don't see me the same way.” he scrambles, his words coming out a blur with how quick he said them.
for a while, the room goes silent. the movie's noise plays in the background, but it feels like the world had just stopped for the two of you only.
then comes a giggle. a soft one. yuji's ears tingled upon hearing it, you sounded so adorable. it was familiar; the same one you'd give him when he was acting like a loser.
“you're such a dork, itadori yuji. and such a coward.”
before he could even defend himself, you crawled on top of him—your lips finding the corner of his mouth. a light peck, then it turns into a bunch. your lip gloss doesn't stain much, but yuji can feel every mark you left on his face. his hands settle on your waist to keep you steady, blushing profusely from your swarm of kisses.
finally, yuji takes the initiative to kiss you. properly this time.
his tongue dances with yours gently, letting you take the lead despite him wanting to do so. he nips your lower lip softly, a faint moan escaping in between the kiss.
yuji could taste the cherries on your tongue you snacked on earlier before all this, groaning in delight when you lean in further, closing the proximity between you and him. a thin, wet thread connected itself when you pulled away to breathe—then broke immediately when yuji carefully tugged you for more.
his hand explored every sentiment of your body, tracing the parts where you were insecure about, making sure to give them extra love when he touched you. how could you not see your own beauty?
when you ultimately manage to get away from your kiss-obsessed, ‘bestfriend’ yuji, you look at him in the eyes, panting and giggling.
“.. did you bring a condom, yuu?”
there were no more bestfriends. just two people in a room who'll decide what they are in the morning.
synopsis: When his rut ends, Adrian has to face his new reality. As Chris starts preparing him to return to his life, and to see you again, it's a lot harder than he thought it would be.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics, alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, talk about ruts/heats, hurt/comfort (Adrian is a sad boy who has trouble with change), mutual pining
word count: 6.4k
notes: I got a lot of questions after the last chapter about when the next part was coming - I will be updating this every Tuesday!! As always thank you to @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for listening to me ramble about this story and being there to bounce ideas off of <3 also I might have taken some liberties with the s1 canon timeline for backstory purposes just walk with me here
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven
Three days later—the first day that Adrian wakes up feeling refreshed instead of writhing in a pool of his own sweat—he nearly cries tears of relief.
He’s been confined to the trailer for a full week now, cycling between phases of fever, insomnia, irritability, and oversensitivity. And beneath it all, the constant, overwhelming, unbearable arousal.
Seven days of torture. Seven days of chugging Gatorade, seven days of sweating through the bedsheets, seven days of wanting you.
The wanting you hasn’t stopped, but he’s not sure it ever will. That’s not a symptom of his rut, that’s just a symptom of his existence.
But the rest of it—the rest of it is gone. The end is in sight. His mind feels clearer than it has in what seems like years.
Adrian decides to get dressed, clean himself up. To make himself feel more like a human again, less like an animal controlled by his biological impulses. When he hops in the shower and washes the sweat and the grime and the grossness away, he comes out feeling like a new person entirely.
As he dries off afterward and slowly starts to get dressed, he’s reminded, quite literally, that he is a new person entirely. He’s not the same as he was seven days ago. He’s an Alpha now, and he catalogs the physical changes to his body with simultaneously growing curiosity and irritation.
He just barely manages to squeeze his legs into his jeans. They’re way too tight around the muscle of his thighs, and he knows instinctively that if he tried to sit down in them the seam would split. Chris would laugh his ass off and he would never hear the end of it. He sighs, peels them back off, and swaps them out for some stretchier sweatpants. Even those show off his ankles in a way they didn't before. He got taller. An inch, maybe two. He might even be as tall as Chris now.
His shirt, too, is more form-fitting when he wrangles it on, clinging to his skin in a way that's terribly uncomfortable, biceps straining under the too-tight sleeves. Part of him is pleased—he’s constantly putting effort into his body, and it’s nice to have muscles to prove it, but the other part of him is just pissed off.
“Fuck,” he mutters as he strips off the shirt and reaches for a hoodie that used to be oversized, but now fits him pretty normally.
He’s gonna need to replace his entire wardrobe. He can’t live like this. It’s a sensory nightmare. He has no idea how Chris functions in that tight-ass Peacemaker costume. He would be fucking miserable.
Given how different he feels, Adrian is almost afraid to go look in the bathroom mirror and see how different he looks, but when he does, he’s relieved that it’s just him. His face. Silver glasses, green eyes, the tiny mole on his cheek. He’s a little scruffy, which is weird. He doesn’t usually grow this much facial hair this quickly, but…he’s got more testosterone, now, doesn’t he? He scrubs his hand across his chin, feeling the scratchy, prickly hairs against his palm, and he frowns. He doesn’t like it.
He digs around under the sink until he finds an unopened pack of razors and a half-used bottle of shaving cream and takes care of it, nicking his jaw twice in the process. He growls, annoyed, and then hums, because the growling is new, too. The sound surprises him, a low rumbling in the back of his throat. It’s the first time he’s made the noise when he’s fully aware of himself, not in some protective, panicked haze where his body is telling him he needs to protect you.
Clean, dressed, and freshly shaved, Adrian kind of, sort of, feels like himself again. When he comes out of the bedroom, Chris is sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. His best friend raises an eyebrow and sits back in his chair, observing.
“None of my fucking clothes fit,” Adrian complains, taking out a frying pan and starting to make himself some scrambled eggs. “Economos brought me that bag I keep in my locker in the office. All of it fit me this time last week, and now it’s all too tight, and I look like I stole my sweatpants from Judomaster.”
“I was wondering about that,” Chris says thoughtfully. “If you’d still get the growth spurt. Even though you’re, well, already grown. But I’m glad you’re wearing clothes. And you’re hungry. That’s a good sign.”
“I think it’s over,” Adrian says. “I feel good. I feel clean, and not horny. In fact, I never want to touch my dick again. It’s a fucking miracle if there is any cum left in my body, actually—”
Chris makes a face. “Yeah, okay, I get it, bro. I’m eating.”
Adrian wants to ask if he can see you, now, since he’s feeling better. But he doesn’t want to push it. Doesn’t want to seem too eager, in case that sends the wrong signal, gives Chris the wrong idea that maybe he’s still a little too desperate to see you.
Technically, he supposes, he doesn’t actually need permission from Chris or Emilia anymore. But out of respect for them, he’ll wait. Whatever Chris says, he’ll obey. It’s like he told them the other day—he’s not interested in being a macho Alpha dickhead who doesn’t listen to his friends, who starts his own pack and makes his own rules. He’s not interested in being a leader. If all he’ll be is your Alpha, he is more than okay with that.
But god, is he itching out of his skin to claim that title as soon as he can. He is tired of waiting. He wants to talk to you. He wants to see you. He wants to just be in your fucking vicinity.
“Can I talk to her?” he asks, trying and failing to be casual as he dumps his scrambled eggs on an empty plate. His hands are shaking, not because he’s holding himself back, but because—he’s nervous. Chris’s face softens. “Please? If—if my rut is done—”
“I think…” Chris considers. “I think you can try a phone call. And that will be a good test for it.” He digs into his pocket and hands over Adrian’s cellphone, which he’d confiscated a few days ago. Adrian smiles with relief, wide and bright, excited just to hear your voice.
“But,” Chris adds, “I also think we should probably wait things out an extra day or two before you actually see her in person, just to be safe. Like I told you the other night. It’s not even just about keeping you under control. It’s about not accidentally triggering a heat for her while she’s still recovering.”
Adrian doesn’t care how long he has to wait, as long as he can hear your voice. “Okay.” He shovels his scrambled eggs in his mouth. They’re still hot; he nearly burns his tongue. But the sooner he finishes eating, the sooner he gets to talk to you.
“I’ll call Emilia and let her know what’s up,” Chris says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Adrian pauses inhaling his breakfast to look up at Chris. He swallows. “Thank you,” he says, maybe the most serious, genuine thing he’s ever said to his friend. “I don’t think I’ve said it yet. But—this past week—I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t have you. So—”
Chris rolls his eyes. “Don’t get all fucking sappy on me. Save it for your girlfriend.”
Adrian flushes red. “She’s not my—I mean, I want her to be—fuck.”
Chris steps out of the room, ruffling Adrian’s hair on the way out. He smiles to himself and powers on his phone.
As soon as it connects to service, it buzzes dozens of times in a row. His brow furrows, then his heart skips a beat when he realizes they’re text messages, all from you, that you’ve been sending over the last week, even when you knew he didn’t have his phone and he wouldn’t receive them.
Watching a documentary on animal planet. Did you know there’s a species of jellyfish that’s technically immortal?
I wish I was with you
John just said something SO incorrect about Pokemon you would have spontaneously combusted if you were here to hear it
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
He wants to cry. You’ve been thinking about him. You’ve been missing him.
You don’t have to miss him anymore. He clicks a button and the phone starts ringing.
“Adrian?” you answer almost immediately, your voice hushed, hopeful.
“It’s me,” he says.
“Hi,” you say, still whispering.
“You don’t have to whisper,” he says. “I think—I think it’s over. I think—”
“You—you’re better?” you say, your voice rising. “Can I come—”
“Not yet,” Adrian says gently. “One or two more days, Chris said, just to be extra safe. But we can talk, now. If you want.”
“I want,” you say quickly. “I really, really want. I missed you.”
“I know. I just saw your texts,” he says, grinning. “I missed you, too.” His smile falters a bit before he continues worriedly. “You’re not—Chris said that you coming around here, being near me, it could have—triggered your heat? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “I’m not due for a while, now, and with the injury, I’m taking temporary suppressants, just in case.”
“Good,” Adrian says, relieved, but there’s still anxiety clawing at his insides, still a million questions he needs to ask you, a million things he needs to say.
“Besides,” you continue. “I’ve been thinking a lot over the last couple days, and—I think we crossed that bridge a long time ago. I’m pretty sure you triggered my heat early, like, two years ago, when we first met.”
Adrian’s brain short circuits. “I did—what?”
“I wasn’t due for my heat that week,” you say. “I’m normally pretty regular. I thought it was weird at the time. Chalked it up to the stress of all the butterfly shit. But I’m thinking now that it was because of you. That my body recognized…” You trail off, the unspoken words hovering.
“You mean—that couple days when you disappeared, after Goff—” Adrian can’t even speak the words. The idea that all this time, even if your mind didn’t know, your body did. That you’ve been—waiting for him. His heart clenches.
“Yeah.”
“I felt so weird that week,” Adrian remembers. “I kept asking everyone where you were while you were gone. Emilia kept asking me why I cared, and I didn’t know what to tell her. I was so antsy, and anxious about it, and I couldn’t figure out why. And horny, fuck. I had a threesome with Chris!”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Like I said. Weird week.” You laugh on the other end of the line, and Adrian smiles at the sound. Then he sobers up a bit. “I know—I know we have a lot to talk about—”
“Later,” you say softly. “We have time, Ade. We don’t have to do the hard stuff right away. You’re probably fucking exhausted. We can just—do you have your Switch with you? If you don’t I can ask John to bring it over. And we can just play video games? Like we did before any of this happened?”
Adrian’s throat feels tight. He hears what you’re trying to tell him. Everything has changed, but also—nothing has changed, not the things that are truly important. You’re still you. He’s still him.
“That sounds really, really nice,” he says, his voice thick.
The last morning before Adrian is going to see you again, Chris wakes him up bright and early and tosses him the mask of the Vigilante suit. Adrian looks at it curiously.
“We’re going out,” Chris says. “To the woods. One last chance to shoot up some appliances and get out the last of any lingering aggression. You were kind of a lot yesterday.”
Adrian reluctantly has to admit that Chris is right. He’d spent a few calm hours playing Animal Crossing with you, just chatting, carefully dancing around sensitive subjects like Alpha presentations and feelings. Then Chris and John had hopped online too for a round of Mario Party. Adrian had gotten a little (a lot) worked up when Chris stole all of his stars.
“Probably a good idea,” Adrian mutters. He thumbs nervously at the edge of the Vigilante mask. “But—I never cleaned the suit. After the mission. I can’t—” He’s been a little preoccupied this week. Just the thought of putting the Vigilante suit on, stained with your dried blood, makes him feel sick to his stomach.
“Ads took care of it,” Chris says, and Adrian sighs with relief, making a mental note to thank her later.
“Okay,” he says.
But when Chris tosses him the Vigilante suit, and Adrian goes to put it on—it doesn’t fit. Just like the rest of his clothes.
Adrian has held strong for nine days now. He has rolled with the punches, taken every hit with gritted teeth, focused on the light at the end of the tunnel and endured.
He watched you get shot. His entire biology altered itself. He endured his first miserable rut. He has lived with this terrible anxiety about how the pack dynamics are going to change, holding onto hope that everything is going to be fine, because he trusts his friends, and he cares about you, and he knows, at the end of the day, that those are the things that really matter.
All the change has been hard but manageable. But now—the Vigilante suit doesn’t fit him the same. And that is the thing that finally breaks him.
Adrian doesn’t realize he’s crying at first. He’s just clutching the material in his hands, shaking, sliding to sit down on the floor at the end of the bed. He hugs it to his chest, hitching with silent sobs.
This suit means something to him. It means everything to him. He has poured literal blood, sweat, and tears into this fabric, into every stitch, molded it to fit him perfectly, to serve exactly the purposes he needs, and—all that work, all that time, is gone. He needs to totally redo it. Start over from scratch.
And until it’s done—he can’t be Vigilante.
When Chris pokes his head in to see if Adrian is ready to go, and he sees his friend in a sobbing heap on the floor, he instantly backtracks into the hallway.
He calls you.
“Hey, Chris,” you say. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Chris says quietly. “He’s upset. I don’t know why he’s crying. But I know I’m not the one who can talk him off whatever ledge he’s standing on. So I’m gonna hand him the phone and let you fix your boyfriend.”
The word boyfriend makes your heart skip, but you don’t acknowledge it. Now is not the time to sort out labels.
“He’s not broken,” you finally say after a quiet moment. Adrian is one of the strongest people you know. He just feels things, so fucking strongly, and he’s really, really good at hiding it. You’ve only seen him cry once before, when Chris left for the alternate universe, and even then, he almost instantly bounced back once the team had a plan to get him back.
“Okay, okay, just—fucking talk to him, okay?”
Chris is panicking a little. He’s been working on managing and processing his own emotions, recently, but when other people have big feelings around him, it still throws him off. He’s only just started learning how to cope with his own emotional breakdowns. Adrian having an emotional breakdown is entirely another story.
“Are you sure I can’t just come over?” you ask, pleading.
Chris hesitates. “You shouldn’t. I want to take him out today to get out the last of his aggression. You heard him yesterday, I thought he was gonna kill me over that fucking video game.”
“Okay, fine,” you say, even though you’re frustrated. “Then just give him the fucking phone and let me talk to him.”
Chris walks slowly back into the bedroom, where Adrian is still on the floor sniffling, tears streaking down his cheeks. He slowly holds out the phone.
Adrian shakes his head. “I don’t want her to know—” Then he sees you’re already on the other end of the line, and he looks up to shoot Chris a look of betrayal. Still, he takes the phone, and Chris leaves, the bedroom door falling shut behind him. Adrian clears his throat and tries to put on a fake smile before he speaks. “Hi.”
“What’s the matter, baby?” you ask softly.
You’ve never called him that before. He wants you to call him that all the time. He never wants to hear you say his name ever again, only sweet, sappy pet names that melt his heart. And maybe, one day, Alpha.
“Nothing,” Adrian lies through his teeth, even as his cheeks flush. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Everything is fine.”
“Everything is not fine,” you say. “I’m honestly surprised you’ve held out for this long. So don’t lie to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you. Let me support you. That’s what—” You pause. “That’s what we do for each other.”
Adrian’s heart constricts. He takes a shaky breath, one hand running over the material of the suit in his lap.
“The Vigilante suit,” he chokes out. “It doesn’t fit me anymore. My body is different now. None of my clothes fit right. I can—I can deal with that. I can replace my wardrobe, I don’t give a fuck. But this—” His voice cracks. “This—”
“It’s something you’ve worked really hard on, for a long, long time,” you finish for him, when he loses the words himself. “And you feel like you can’t be Vigilante without the suit?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, wiping at his face.
“You are still Vigilante,” you remind him. “Nothing is going to change that. You could go out there in your underwear and you’d still be Vigilante. Though I don’t recommend it. Not enough armor, you’d probably get stabbed.”
Adrian laughs through his tears.
“Do you remember what happened when you blew yourself up with that fucking grenade when you faced off with the White Dragon?” you continue. “You gave me a fucking heart attack that day, by the way. But your suit was shredded to pieces, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Adrian says. “But I fixed it.”
“How many times have you fixed that thing?” you ask him. “How many times have you patched up a stab wound or a bullet hole, or replaced a fabric panel entirely, or polished a scuff or a burn mark in the armor?”
“I do that after every mission,” Adrian says, confused. “You’ve seen me do that. You help me do that, all the time.”
“Exactly, Adrian,” you say softly. “You’re constantly replacing pieces. This is just—that on a bigger scale. And I’ll help you with it just like I’ve helped you with all the rest. We’ll take the pieces of the suit that we can. The buckles and the holsters and the zippers, whatever we can salvage. And we’ll use them to make you a new one. One that fits you as you are now.”
“You’ll rebuild the suit with me?”
“I’m already online ordering materials,” you say, and he does, in fact, hear you clicking away at a computer mouse. “I know you like the kevlar fabric in black. How many yards should I get, a dozen? That way you’ll have some extra for future repairs. And you use silicone for the base of the armor?”
“Yeah,” he says, taken aback that you remember. “In—”
“In black, and white, and the medium teal, because the first teal is too light, and the other one is too dark,” you finish. “I know. Do you need to replace the helmet too? Should I order a size up? Eh, I’ll wait on that til we can take your actual measurements, just to be safe. But I’ll put a rush on the rest of the order so we can get started as soon as possible, okay? Vigilante will be back on the streets before you know it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Listen to me, Adrian. Even if the Vigilante suit disintegrated into ash and you could never rebuild another one, it wouldn’t matter. Because Vigilante is not the suit. Vigilante is you.”
“You—you are—” Adrian says. He can’t find the words, his throat feels tight. “You are perfect. How are you so perfect?”
“I just pay attention to you,” you say, a little shy. “You feel a little better, now?”
“I do,” he says, looking down at the Vigilante suit. Ten minutes ago, he was devastated. Now, instead, he’s—excited? Rebuilding the suit is the perfect excuse to spend more time with you.
You’re quiet for a minute. “I’m really glad I get to see you tomorrow.”
“Me too,” he says. It doesn’t feel like enough to explain the intensity of the longing he’s felt over the last week, but he’s never been good with words.
“Go have fun with Chris, okay?” you say. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Won’t be soon enough,” he says. He’s been so fucking patient, but he is so tired of waiting. “I just really want to hug you. I miss your hugs.”
“You can have all the hugs you want, tomorrow,” you tell him. “I promise.”
Twenty minutes later, Chris tosses Adrian the car keys. They’re both wearing their plain clothes. Chris changed out of his Peacemaker costume to make Adrian feel better about the Vigilante suit situation, which he appreciates.
It’s also the first time he’s been back behind the wheel of the Vigilante-mobile. He’s missed it. The simple act of driving his car is one more thing that helps him feel like himself again, and with the windows rolled down, enjoying the fresh air, he feels like he can breathe, no longer suffocated in a stuffy room that stinks of sex.
As they trek through the trees toward the clearing in the woods, Chris stops and turns around for a second, then turns back and continues walking.
“What?” Adrian says, because his best friend is clearly thinking about something.
“You sure she’s your mate?” Chris asks after a moment, a little seriously. “That’s not something to enter into lightly.”
“I know,” Adrian says, quiet, just as serious. “And I know we’re kind of operating on an assumption. Based on—what set off my presentation, and the research that Ads and John did. But—” He thinks about you, and that alone is enough to set his heart racing. “I’ve wanted her for years, Chris, and I thought I would never be able to have her. This is my chance.”
“I’m just saying. If you mark her—she’s your responsibility for life.”
“I know that.” Adrian frowns. Does Chris think he can’t handle it? That he won’t be a good enough Alpha for you?
“It’s one thing to fuck her. It’s another to claim her as yours.”
Adrian grits his teeth at the way Chris talks about you like a fucking object to own instead of a person. Is this bullshit Alpha talk that Adrian only gets to hear now that he’s inducted into some special club?
“You sound like Gut,” Adrian says, disgusted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Chris says calmly. “I just want you to be sure you know what you’re getting into, and be one hundred percent certain. You’ve only been an Alpha for like a week.”
“She is mine,” Adrian says. “And I am hers. I would—I would want her to mark me back. I know that’s not the norm. That most Alphas mark their Omegas, but don’t take a mark in return. But I would want her to mark me. She deserves a partnership, not some asshole Alpha who just wants to fucking own her—”
“Jesus, she’s already got you wrapped around her fucking finger,” Chris laughs. Adrian growls. He holds his hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m just saying, that’s a lot. And if you wanted to, you know, explore the world of other Omegas that are available to you, before making that commitment, I don’t think anyone would blame you. I mean, she doesn’t even need to know.”
Chris is laughing, walking several feet ahead of him, and Adrian stops in his tracks, his blood boiling. Because—where the fuck is this coming from?
“I don’t want any other Omegas,” Adrian says fiercely. “I only want her.”
“God knows she’s fucked a few Alphas in her time,” Chris continues, like he didn’t even hear what Adrian said. “Gotta get through those heats somehow, am I right? Never came to me and Emilia for help, but we wouldn’t have said no—talk about a threesome—”
Adrian snaps. The next thing he knows, he’s tackling Chris to the ground.
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” he rages, throwing a punch that hits his best friend square in the jaw.
Chris says nothing, just smiles and punches right back, landing a blow to Adrian’s side that knocks the wind out of him. Still, Adrian doesn’t let up, just keeps pummeling him.
The two men roll around on the forest floor, half-wrestling, half-boxing, landing messy blows with their fists and their knees and their feet wherever they can reach, until they’re panting, gasping for breath. Hot rage and adrenaline rushes through Adrian’s veins.
Eventually, Chris finally manages to pin Adrian to the ground, an arm against his throat, a knee on his chest, and he laughs, again, which just pisses Adrian off even more. He would say something about it if he wasn’t heaving, trying to catch his breath, struggling against Chris’s hold.
“See, this,” Chris says, trying to catch his own breath, “is exactly what you are not going to do when you go back out into society tomorrow, right?”
He smiles, and there’s blood in his teeth from the very first punch Adrian landed directly to his mouth.
Adrian’s mouth falls open. “You—you—”
“Baited you on purpose?” Chris says. “Yeah. I did. Because I knew you would snap, and you needed to release the last bit of that pent-up aggression, and I can take it. Are you done now?”
Adrian stops struggling. “Fuck,” he says, his head slumping back into the dirt.
“Sometimes, people are going to say stupid shit about your mate,” Chris says. “And you cannot just assault them. In broad daylight, at least. Do whatever you want as Vigilante. But when you’re just Adrian, you gotta keep cool.”
“Point taken,” Adrian mutters.
“While we’re on the subject,” Chris says pleasantly, “I understand why it happened. You had literally just presented and your mate was hurt. But if you ever growl at Emilia again, the next time I shoot you, it won’t be with a tranquilizer dart. Got it?”
Adrian nods. “Got it.”
“Come on,” Chris says, standing up and holding out a hand. Adrian takes it, letting Chris help him up. “Let’s go blow some shit up. Then we’re meeting up with John at the store to buy you a nice new outfit to make a good impression on your girl tomorrow.”
Adrian smiles. His girl. He likes the sound of that.
At the store, Adrian is a fucking nervous wreck. He’s instantly overwhelmed by all of the choices, which puzzles Chris and John, who were expecting him to make a beeline for the long-sleeved polos, shove a handful of them in the cart, and call it a day.
“I don’t know what to buy,” he says nervously.
“Clothes,” John laughs. “You know, pants? Shirts? Things made out of fabric that cover your naked body? Underwear, if you need that? Is your dick the same size? You know what, I instantly regretted asking that. Please do not tell me, I don’t want to know.”
“It’s a little bigger,” Chris answers for him.
“Why do you know that?” John sputters.
“We had a threesome once.”
“Of course you fucking did.”
Adrian looks at a red leather jacket on a rack. “Should I try this on?”
“Why the fuck would you try that on?” Chris asks.
“It is not your style,” John agrees.
“Respectfully, Economos, you know nothing about style,” Chris says. “There is a raccoon on your shirt.”
“Fuck you—”
“Well, do I need to change my style?” Adrian interrupts their arguing with his internal crisis. “Do I need to—”
John’s face softens when he realizes what the problem is. “Adrian, Alphas don’t have a secret dress code. You can wear whatever you want. Whatever you like and feel comfortable in is fine.”
“I know,” Adrian says. “But I want her to like it.”
“She likes you the way you are. Dad jeans and all. So just stick with your usual, okay?”
“Okay,” Adrian says, still sounding a little hesitant, but things go a bit faster after that, the cart piling high with new sneakers, jeans, and shirts. Still, he holds up every single shirt he finds and asks, “Do you think she would like this one?”
“Yes,” Chris says after the dozenth time, losing his patience a bit. He is not a caretaker, and after a week of this, he’s reaching his wit’s end. He is more than ready to pass Adrian off into your more capable hands tomorrow. “God, you are fucking anxious today. Do we need to go back into the woods and have another fist fight?”
“You guys had a fist fight?” John exclaims.
“No,” Adrian says. “We don’t need to have another fist fight. I'm just—nervous, I guess.” He rubs the soft fabric of another new shirt between his fingers. It’s your favorite color. He knows you’ll like it. He adds it to the growing pile in the cart.
“Normally, I’d say you need to get laid, and you do, but that’s obviously not the solution here,” Chris muses. “You up for a beer?”
Adrian thinks for a minute. “Yeah. Yeah, I could drink.”
So they check out, and half an hour later, they’re sitting at a hightop table at a bar, beers in hand.
“Cheers,” Chris says.
“What are we cheers-ing?” Adrian asks.
“You,” Chris says. “I know the last week fucking sucked for you. But it’s over now. And things are only going up from here.”
At that, Adrian smiles, and the three men clink their bottles together. Chris chugs half of his down almost immediately, and Adrian suspects that this was less about helping him ease his own nerves and more about Chris unwinding after this week.
“It was scary,” John says. “That first day. When we didn’t know what was happening. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Adrian swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That I scared you.”
John furrows his brow, and opens his mouth to respond, but Adrian keeps talking, rambling, because now that he’s clear-headed, he needs to get this out. To make sure his friends don’t hate him.
“I understand if you guys are mad at me,” he says quickly. “I don’t even remember, really, that first night. What happened, or what I did. I just know I was…feral, ish. I don’t want you guys to be, like, afraid of me. I can take that from anyone else. The whole fucking world can be afraid of Vigilante, I don’t give a shit, but I don’t want—you, or Ads—”
“We’re not,” John interrupts. “We weren’t afraid of you, Adrian, we were afraid for you.”
“Oh,” Adrian says, because that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Okay.”
“Enough of the sappy shit,” Chris says. “What did I say? Save it for your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend yet—”
“Yet.” Chris rolls his eyes. “You know what? Go get me another beer. You owe me beers for life, actually, after this week.”
Adrian grins. “If that’s what you want as payment,” he says, and he pushes back his stool and heads up to the bar to grab another round.
As he sits and waits for the bartender’s attention, someone sidles up next to him.
“Hey, hot stuff,” says a female voice. When he turns to his right, there’s an Omega right next to him. He glances around. She is definitely talking to him, but he still points at himself and checks.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” she giggles. “What’s your name?” Then she puts her hand on his shoulder, and he tenses.
“Please don’t touch me,” he says, brushing her hand away from him as carefully as he can. He takes a step back, too, frowning.
She flutters her eyelashes. “Why not? You know, I’m in preheat, I’m just looking for someone to help me out the next couple days. You wouldn’t be interested in that?”
Adrian could not be less interested in that.
“No,” he says.
She pouts. “But you’re so fucking hot,” she says. “I could show you a good time.”
She reaches for his sleeve again, and he clenches his jaw. He can feel himself flushing with anger, that this random woman has the audacity to touch him without his permission, when the only person he ever wants to touch him is you.
“I have an Omega,” he says firmly. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
He moves quickly to the other end of the bar, gets Chris his beer, and stomps back over to his friends, slamming the bottle onto the table.
“What the fuck was that?” Chris says. “With that lady?”
“She wanted me to fuck her,” Adrian says bluntly, a little pissy. “She touched me when I didn’t ask her to, and I told her to fuck off. Now I can smell her on my shirt, and I desperately need to go home and shower it off because her scent is all wrong. Drink your fucking beer.”
Chris takes a sip of it, then sets it down on the table. “You sure you don’t need to punch me in the face again?”
Adrian thinks about it. “Would you mind?”
Adrian is only a little bit tipsy by the time he gets back to the trailer, still on edge even though he and Chris had another friendly fight in the parking lot. He stumbles into the bathroom to clean himself up. When he looks in the mirror, he winces. He looks like shit, he thinks, as he presses at the bruise on his cheekbone. It will be gone by tomorrow morning, but it hurts like a bitch right now.
And he still smells her, that random Omega girl, on his clothes. She really must have been in preheat, because her scent is so fucking strong, and she barely fucking touched him, all things considered. But the fact that he’s coming off his own rut, his first rut, probably isn’t helping.
He turns the shower on as hot as it will go and scrubs himself off until his skin is raw and red, until every trace of her is gone. It’s not enough. Sure, it fixes part of the problem, but really—really want he wants is to smell like you. So he dries off as quickly as he can and falls into bed, cuddled up with the blanket you’d given him in the care package. He buries his nose in it and whines. It’s been a couple days, and your scent is still there, but it’s faint. Too faint. It smells mostly like him now.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He reaches for his phone and checks the time.
It’s not that late. You might pick up. And yeah, he’s going to see you in eight hours, but fucking sue him, he wants to hear your voice now.
“Adrian?” you answer, probably confused because you just talked to him earlier today, and he sighs, some kind of relief washing over him just at the sound.
“Hi,” he says, a little pathetically. “I miss you.”
You don’t laugh at him, like he expects. You just quietly say, “I miss you too.” He can hear the smile in your voice. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I just—tonight—” He swallows. “Chris and John took me shopping.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not just the Vigilante suit. None of my fucking clothes fit anymore.”
“You’re telling me that you, Chris, and John went clothes shopping together?” Now you are laughing. “I would have gone with you, baby.”
“I probably should have gone with you. They are so fucking judgy! And I spent the entire time worrying about whether you would like everything anyway, and I wouldn’t have had that problem if you just picked it all out,” Adrian says. “Fuck. I could have just got, like, one outfit for tomorrow and waited.”
“As long as you’re comfortable in your new clothes, I promise you I will like them,” you reassure him. You pause. “You’re rambling a lot. You’re nervous.”
“Fuck,” Adrian says, because of course you would notice. “Yeah. I guess I am. I don’t know if I’m nervous or just…on edge. We went out for drinks tonight. Chris thought I should try being around other people. Just as a test run. Some Omega hit on me at the bar. She touched my shoulder. It took me like, half an hour to scrub the scent of her off in the shower.”
“Somebody hit on you?” you repeat, jealousy roaring up in your chest. “Who? Where? I swear to god I will—”
“Some random girl,” Adrian says. “It was terrible.” He pauses, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I just wanted her to be you. And now I’m back in bed and I wanted to make myself smell like you again but it’s been a couple days and the blanket doesn’t smell like you anymore and—”
“Hey,” you interrupt softly. “It’s okay, Ade. You’re okay. I’ll bring you something new tomorrow, okay? A blanket or a scarf or something?”
“I don’t need a blanket or a scarf,” he says. “I just want—I just want you.”
“I know,” you say softly. “That’s all I want too.” You fall silent for a moment. “I wish I was there tonight. I would have told that random bitch to fuck right off.”
“I told her to leave me the fuck alone, because…I have an Omega already.”
Adrian says it quietly, cautiously, like a question. And you answer him like it is one, a smile in your voice that settles some of his anxiety about seeing you in the morning.
synopsis: Adrian struggles through his first rut. You struggle with the fact that you can't be there for him when he needs you.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics, alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, talk about ruts/knotting, SMUT (male masturbation, sex toys, pillow humping), brief talk about dubcon (overcoming instinct + other consent discussions common to omegaverse but nothing happens!), Chris being the ultimate BFF fr but all of the 11th Street Kids are being supportive friends and we love them
word count: 6.6k
notes: I've been calling the scene at the end of this chapter the 'romeo and juliet' moment when I talk to @snowyathena and @embeanwrites please enjoy :))))
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven
The first day is agony. Adrian tosses and turns, too hot, too cold, impossibly turned on. He tries to sleep it off, and he can’t even do that—he’s too wired with desire. It floods his body like an electric rush that comes in unpredictable waves.
“It’s not a gunshot wound,” Chris says. “It doesn’t work like that. A rut isn’t something to heal from. It’s just a biological process.”
“Goddamnit,” Adrian mutters.
“Nothing’s gonna stop it,” Chris tells him, sympathetic but firm. “It’s gotta work its way through your system.”
Adrian hears the front door open, and his hands start twitching, ready to form into fists.
“Don’t get all territorial,” Chris says. “It’s just Economos.”
John pokes his head in the door and spots Adrian, stripped down to his underwear, soaked with sweat. He instantly averts his eyes from Adrian’s raging hard-on. “Jesus fuck. How do I get roped into this shit. It’s too fucking weird.” He just barely stops himself from gagging.
“Get it together, dude,” Chris says. “Why does weird shit make you gag? What is weird about this? It’s biology!”
“He was a Beta forty-eight hours ago,” John cries. “I don’t appreciate the glaring reminder that nothing in our universe is constant!”
Chris rolls his eyes and takes a plastic bag from John, tossing it onto the mattress next to Adrian.
“What the fuck is that?” Adrian asks.
“I sent John to buy you some toys,” Chris says.
“You’re welcome, by the way. The guy at the store looked at me like a weirdo for buying Alpha sex toys when I am very obviously not an Alpha. And on that note, I am out of here. Enjoy your masturbation-fest,” John says, and he bolts.
“Sex toys?” Adrian says weakly.
“You don’t have an Omega. You need to knot something,” Chris says.
Adrian groans. “Fuck. No—Idon’twantto—” He feels weird, and gross, and terrible, and the idea of using some toy makes him feel dirty. Guilty.
Because he knows he’ll get caught up. He’ll start thinking about you.
“It will make you feel better,” Chris says. “It might make it end faster, if you do. Just—look at the shit. Use it, don’t use it, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll be on the other side of the house, pretending I can’t smell exactly what the fuck is going on over here. For the record, I am solidifying best friend status for life right now.”
Chris shuts the bedroom door, leaving Adrian alone.
Adrian holds out for another twenty minutes, writhing in misery, the sheets grating against his over-sensitive skin, until he caves and reaches for the bag, despairing. He cracks open the first package and pauses.
“...funny smiley man?” he mumbles, confused. An instructional booklet falls out of the cardboard box and into his lap. His eyes skim over it, and he flushes scarlet red when he realizes what it’s really for. “Fuck.”
He chucks the fleshlight across the room. He doesn’t want that plastic silicone bullshit. He wants—he wants you. He turns over, face down on the mattress, and screams into a pillow, a loud, hoarse roar, barely muffled by the cushion. He just barely stops himself from ripping it apart with his bare hands and sending fluff flying everywhere.
Adrian whines, a few desperate, frustrated tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He can’t stop the way his hips roll against the mattress, the strangled groan that escapes his throat, because fuck, he needs to get off sofuckingbad. He feels so needy he’s choking on it.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” he whimpers, shoving the pillow down with a swift, harsh movement between his legs so his cock has something to move against. Adrian gasps in air as he humps the cushion with frenzied thrusts, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh god.”
“Ah—” he hisses. It takes less than a minute to climax, cum spilling everywhere, leaving him a throbbing, quivering mess. He collapses, exhausted, but the ache is still there, his cock is still painfully hard, he stillwantsyoustillneedsyoustill—
He tries not to think about you. He can’t help himself. He imagines your pretty eyes looking up at him, your wide smile laughing at a dumb joke he told you, your hand wrapping around him, squeezing, as he reaches down with his own hand to take care of it himself, gripping his length tightly in his fist, fucking into his hand. Pretending he’s fucking into you.
It goes on for hours, the torment. The blinding, restless need. Every time he comes, panting your name, he feels a terrible pang of guilt, but he can’t bring himself to care, because the thought of you is the only thing that brings him any kind of relief.
“Hey, Adrian.”
Adrian takes a deep breath and ignores the way his heartbeat quickens just at the sound of your voice.
“Hi,” he says, his throat tight.
“How are you feeling?” you ask. Adrian tries not to groan as a bolt of pain shoots through him. It’s the next day, and he finally felt well enough to call you. He doesn’t want to ruin it by making you worry about him.
“I’m okay,” he says through gritted teeth.
“You’re a bad liar.”
He huffs a laugh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He can feel himself starting to get hard, for the dozenth time that day, and he tries to will his erection away so he can just talk to you like a normal person.
“I am okay,” he insists, and deflects, refocusing the conversation on you. “How are you feeling? You’re the one who got shot three days ago.”
“Better,” you say mildly. “As better as I can be. I’ve been up and walking around. I went to pee all by myself today, aren’t you proud of me?”
Adrian smiles. “So proud of you.”
“Are you really okay?” you ask again. “Do you need anything?”
The way you speak to him, all soft and concerned, sends another bolt of arousal shooting down his spine. “Yeah. I’m just—really, really fucking horny. It’s actually ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry,” you say genuinely. “I know you’re usually not even that into sex. It must be weird, to have all your thoughts be focused on it.”
“It is a little weird to be thinking about sex all day. I don’t like not being in control of my body. Being ruled by my biology like this. But—” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Nervous, because he’s about to say something incredibly vulnerable, and he might regret it. “I think about you all the time already, so that’s not really that different from normal.” The admission hangs in the air for less than a second before he panics, backtracks, and rambles on. “I mean—because I see you every day, right? So like, obviously, I think about you, you’re my friend, I’m thinking friend thoughts!”
You’re silent for a moment, and he waits, terrified.
“I think about you all the time, too,” you whisper. “Even—even before all of this.”
Adrian’s heart swells, so much that it feels like it takes up his entire chest, compressing his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
“You thought about me?” he says, his tone hushed. “Like—what do you—”
“I mean,” you say nervously, “I just—you’re my best friend. You get me. You’ve always made me laugh, and never thought less of me because I’m an Omega—”
“I never would,” Adrian says fiercely. His blood runs hot at the thought of anyone thinking of you as lesser, thinking of you as anything other than—than perfect.
But then—no one else should be thinking of you at all. You’re his. They can’t fucking have you.
“I know you wouldn’t. So…of course I’d imagined it, Adrian. What it would be like, if you were an Alpha. The two of us.”
You imagined it. You thought about him the same way he thought about you.
The realization is almost too much. Adrian’s sweating, now—it’s dripping down his face, and he wipes at his forehead. His breath hitches, goosebumps trail across his arms, tension coils in his abdomen, he is so fucking hard. God, he wants you, he wants you now.
“Iwantyousobad,” he says tightly, the words coming out in a rush before he can stop them. “Fuck—I—I have to go—”
He hangs up the phone and tosses it to the floor, then grips the arms of the chair he’s sitting in, doubling over in pain.
“What the fuck is going on?” Chris says, poking his head into the room. “I told you specifically not to have phone sex. It doesn’t help! It never helps! What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“We didn’t,” Adrian says. “She just—she just said something nice to me. Fuck.”
Chris sighs. “You hopeless dumbass.”
“Please, Emilia, please, he needs me,” you beg. You’re not above dropping to your knees and clasping your hands together, but you’d rather avoid it. You’re still nursing three bullet wounds that hurt like a bitch, even though you’d told Adrian you were fine.
“I will call Chris,” Emilia says calmly. “I will find out why the phone call cut out. But you are not going over there, do you understand me? Ads, keep an eye on her.”
Emilia steps into the other room, her phone already pressed to her ear. Adebayo steps up next to you, wraps her arms around you, and you return her tight hug.
“Adrian is okay,” Ads says quietly. “He has been shot and stabbed and—hell, electrocuted in the balls by an alien. This is not the thing that’s going to kill him.”
You take a shaky breath. “I feel sick to my stomach thinking about him, lying there all alone, while I’m here, and—I can’t even fucking do anything. I need to do something.” It’s wired into you, to take care of the other members of your pack, and this—this instinct is even stronger than usual, because he’s not just another member of the pack. He’s yours, and he wants you, he needs you.
Emilia steps back into the room, and you look at her expectantly.
“He’s okay,” she reports.
“Let me talk to him,” you say immediately, detangling yourself from Ads, but your heart sinks when Emilia shakes her head slowly, looking apologetic.
“He’s not up for talking right now,” she says gently. “And…Chris said it was the phone call, that set it off. His fever rose, his pain got worse. He thinks it might make Adrian unwell, if you keep talking. For him to keep hearing your voice, but not actually be with you.”
You try to swallow past the massive lump in your throat. “I can’t even talk to him?”
“When his rut is over—”
You burst into tears. Ads pulls you back into her embrace, shushing you softly.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
Emilia places a hand on your back, rubbing gently. “Hey. How about we put together a little care package for him, huh? Some Gatorade, some snacks he likes. You can scent up a blanket for him. Give him the pillow you’ve been sleeping on at night. I think he would like that.”
You hiccup and wipe the hot tears from your cheeks. “Sour watermelon gummies.”
“Huh?”
“He likes sour watermelon gummies,” you sniffle. “And his favorite flavor of Gatorade is the blue one. Not the dark blue one, the light blue one. It matches his Vigilante suit. He fucking hates the other one. He wishes it was the teal one, he got so excited when it dropped, but then he tried it and it tasted fucking disgusting, he complained about it for like four days—”
“Okay,” Emilia smiles. “How about you and Ads go to the store, then? Get out of the house a bit. It will be good for you, but don’t strain yourself. I don’t want to have to redo any stitches. Just a quick trip. Deal?”
“Deal,” you agree, with a wet, tiny smile.
The next morning, Emilia and John swing by the trailer with the cardboard box you’d put together, every bit packed with care. Every sour watermelon candy you could find in the store, blue Gatorades, a tiny teal teddy bear that was near the checkout counter that made you think of him. You slept with it that night so it was doused in your scent, just like the blanket and pillow tucked into the bottom of the box.
John carries the box inside so Emilia’s Alpha scent doesn’t leech onto anything or mingle with yours. The last thing they want is to set off an aggressive episode. Emilia carries a separate bag, with a bottle of the strongest whiskey she could find, for Chris.
“Hey,” she says, lingering on the outskirts of the property. Chris comes to meet her, presses a kiss to her cheek. He hasn’t seen his own partner in a few days, since this whole mess started. “Is he gonna freak if I come inside?”
“No,” Chris says. “I told him you were coming. He’s prepared for it. And I think we all need to have a talk, anyway, while he’s in a bit of a lull.”
Emilia takes his hand, and they walk inside, shoulder to shoulder, and Adrian doesn’t even look up—he’s elbow deep in the care package. Hugging the teal teddy bear close to his heart, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. They watch as he buries his face in the fabric, and he visibly calms, breathes easier.
Emilia subtly snaps a picture for you. Something to help you breathe easier, too.
“There’s a pillow in there, too,” she says. “For you to sleep on tonight.”
Adrian’s eyes go glassy. He swallows. “Tell her—tell her—” He cuts himself off when he sees the carefully folded note tucked between bags of candy and homemade cookies. His hands shake as he unfolds it. If he were standing, his knees would buckle just at the sight of your handwriting, familiar from the stupid little notes you would pass him in the Checkmate office.
I miss you. Take care of yourself. 💙
He traces the heart with his thumb and stares at it for a long, long moment.
“If I write something back—”
“Yes, I will give it to her,” Emilia says.
“Pen and paper, I need pen and paper,” Adrian says, scrambling to his feet. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders flutters behind him like a superhero cape as he rushes toward the kitchen.
“This is really happening, huh?” John muses. “The two of them.”
“Looks like it, Econogoat,” Chris says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Mind giving us a minute to talk with him?”
“I’m heading back to her apartment anyway,” John says. “Ads and I have been trying to distract her as much as we can. Hopefully this is all over soon.”
“Thanks, John,” Emilia says.
Adrian comes back with a hastily written note. “Wait! Please—give this to her, please—”
“On it,” John says. “Feel better, dude.” Then he heads out.
Adrian slumps, a little, after he goes, the little boost of energy from your communication draining quickly. Emilia sees the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.
“You look like shit,” she says fondly.
“Yeah,” Adrian says, slowly sitting down on the couch. “I feel like shit. But I don’t give a shit about me. Is she okay?”
Emilia is surprised by the determined clarity with which he looks at her, but maybe she shouldn’t be. Adrian’s always had laser-focus when it comes to the things that really matter to him. And for an Alpha—nothing could ever matter more than their mate. While you two might not be mated yet…it’s clear as day. It’s coming down the line.
So she tells him the truth.
“It was touch-and-go for a minute,” Emilia says. “She lost a lot of blood. But she is going to be okay, as long as she does what she’s supposed to. Takes her meds, doesn’t strain herself. She’s more worried about you than she is about herself, at the moment.”
“That seems to be a recurring theme,” Chris mutters, crossing his arms.
“I don’t want her to worry,” Adrian says. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Emilia says. “You’re a fucking disaster. Your entire life changed basically overnight.”
Adrian swallows, nervous, as he looks up at the two Alphas in front of him. “My…entire life?”
They both look at him with furrowed brows. “Um…yes?” Chris says. “You’re an Alpha now?”
“I know,” he whispers. “I guess—I mean—what I’m saying—”
“Spit it out, Chase,” Emilia says.
“Can I still be a part of your pack?” Adrian blurts. One hand clutches at the edges of the blanket you gave him, pulling it tighter around himself, seeking comfort. The other fiddles with the paper note you’d written him. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact with either of them.
Because what if they say no? What if he’s just lost the only real family he’s ever had?
Chris and Emilia, meanwhile, are stunned.
“Adrian,” Chris says. “Of course you’re still a part of the pack. Why would you not be part of the pack?”
“Most packs only have one Alpha,” Adrian says quietly. “We already have two. I’d be a third. I don’t—I don’t want to be in charge, or take power from you, or—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Emilia says firmly, and Adrian’s shoulders fall away from his ears, just a little bit. “You’re an Alpha, now, but you’re still you, Adrian.”
“Not every Alpha is a pack Alpha,” Chris says. “You don’t need to do that. You just need to be her Alpha.”
“That’s all I want,” he says. “I want her. And I want to stay.”
“Well, you’ll have to ask her, first,” Emilia says pointedly, looking between both boys, a pointed reminder that you have your own autonomy, even though she knows you want Adrian just as badly as he wants you. “But nobody wants to see you go. You’re an 11th Street Kid. That’s that.”
“Okay,” Adrian agrees, clearly relieved. Chris claps him on the back.
“I’m gonna head back now,” Emilia says. “I’ll let her know how you’re doing. Hang in there, okay? Just a couple more days, and this will all be over.”
Adrian nods. The note you wrote him crinkles as he clenches it in his fist.
It’s been five days since Adrian’s rut started. Almost a full week.
You’re growing more impatient by the hour. Emilia, Ads, and John have been hovering.
You haven’t spoken to Adrian in days. All you have is messages passed through Chris, or Emilia, because they’re still afraid that the sound of your voice would make things worse for him.
You’ve been staring at the picture Emilia took the other day for hours before bed every night, falling asleep to the sight of it. You know every little detail by heart—the wrinkles by his eyes, because he’s smiling, just a little, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. Adrian wrapped up in your blanket, eyes closed with pleasure as he inhales your scent.
He’d gifted you with something in return, no matter how little, the note he’d written you in return laced with his scent, saturating the paper. It’s crinkled and creased from you clutching it in your fist. You haven’t put it down since you read it.
I miss you too. You have no idea how much. Thank you for the candy, even if I wish I could have you instead. 💙💙💙
(Like—to hug you! Not to eat you! Unless you wanted that!)
(Not in a cannibal way. In a sexy way.)
He’d even tried to doodle a little merman. It looks terrible; Adrian is not an artist by any means. But it’s so—him. It makes you smile every time you look at it.
Adrian, meanwhile, was somehow simultaneously antsy from being stuck inside and fucking exhausted from his raging libido. Despite that exhaustion, he was restlessly pacing so much that Chris had taken him out into the woods.
“I had to let him loose in the clearing yesterday to blow shit up and burn off some energy,” Chris tells you. “And then I had to turn around every time his sex drive spiked and he needed to jack off into the trees. I’m telling you, I deserve the Best Best Friend of the Universe Award.”
Your cheeks flush with heat as you hear Chris talking so dispassionately about Adrian’s symptoms. You just talked to Adrian the other day about the fact that he doesn’t even like sex that much, and it breaks your heart to know that he’s just—at the mercy of his body like this. You can’t stop thinking about how much pain he must be in, how uncomfortable he must be, how much he must be suffering, all while knowing you could alleviate it. Not even just by fucking him. By just—being there.
“If you would just let me go over there—”
“No,” Emilia says from the hallway. She doesn’t even stop what she’s doing, just walks by your bedroom and says it sharply, like a drive-by gunshot. She’s been staying in your apartment with you. She says it’s to take care of you, help you out around the house while you’re healing, but you’re also fairly certain that she’s there to make sure you stay put.
“Absolutely not,” Chris says. “You can keep asking, and I’m gonna keep saying no. It’s for your own good.” He pauses. You hear Adrian talking in the background, and your heart palpitates. “Adrian wants to know how you’re feeling.”
You sigh. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “No signs of infection, no swelling. I’m still icing the wounds. But Em cleared me to shower tonight, so I finally feel clean for the first time since it all happened.”
You listen as Chris relays the information.
“He says that’s good,” Chris says. “And to keep taking care of yourself, and he’ll see you soon.”
“Okay,” you say, your throat tight. There are more words on the tip of your tongue, but it’s way, way too soon to say them, and you’ll be damned if Adrian hears it through Chris before he hears it from you. “Goodnight. Tell him to get some sleep. For me.”
“Will do. Goodnight.”
The phone beeps as the call ends, and you look out your bedroom window. It’s starting to get dark. You pad down the hall to the spare bedroom and knock on the doorframe. Emilia looks up from scrolling on her phone. She sighs when she sees your face.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you want to be with him right now. Do you want to do something to get your mind off it? Watch a movie? Play a video game?”
That she’s even offering tells you that you must look truly miserable, because Emilia doesn’t really like movies or video games. But she’s willing to try, for you. Still, you shake your head.
“I’m just gonna turn in early, I think,” you say. “Maybe make some tea. Read for a bit. But maybe tomorrow? Me, you, and Ads can go get pedicures or something?”
“Okay,” she says softly. “Goodnight. Don’t forget your painkillers.”
“I won’t. Goodnight.”
You close your door and turn off the lights, but you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with worry.
Five days. A typical rut lasts for four. Sometimes they run longer, when presentation initially manifests, and Ads told you earlier it might be even longer, for Adrian.
“It’s been building up since he was a kid,” she explained. “From what I’ve read online, from other people who have presented late in life, I’d expect him to be out of commission for at least a week.”
At least a week. At least a couple more days of Adrian suffering. While you lay here in your bed, he is across town, laying in his own bed, feverish, in pain. In pain that you can soothe.
You sit up. You look at the bedroom door, closed. You look through the bedroom window, at the fire escape.
You pop an extra painkiller and get out of bed.
Adrian is woken from a sweaty, miserable half-sleep by a tapping on the window. His eyes squint open, first, but he can’t make anything out in the dark. He assumes it was a bird, maybe Eagly taking a late-night flight. But then the tapping sounds again, and he sits up, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand to squint through the dark.
Then he breathes in, deep, and his heart feels like it might rabbit out of his bare chest, it’s beating so fast. He nearly falls on his face as he scrambles to untangle himself from the sheets. He’s dripping with sweat, breathing fast and heavy as he throws the window open, and then the scent hits him full-force.
You.
He says your name, barely daring to hope. His voice cracks.
“I’m here,” you whisper. He looks down, and there you are, tucked up against the side of the trailer, a fluffy cardigan wrapped around you to shield you from the cool night air. One hand reaches up toward him, and he almost laughs with disbelief, stopping himself at the last second only because Chris might wake up, and if he hears you, sees you, scents you, he’ll make you go away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, even as he reaches back for you. He’s been dreaming about you for days, in a feverish haze. For all he knows, this is a fucking hallucination. But then your hand makes contact with his, your soft fingers against his calloused palm, and his breath hitches, because you’re real, really here. His eyes go wide with awe.
He doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He throws himself out the window, and he’s so out of it that any sense of grace he might have on a normal day disappears, and instead of landing on his feet, he ends up in a heap on the ground.
“Adrian,” you fret, carefully dropping to your knees beside him, mindful of your injuries.
“Youshouldn’tbehere,” he says again, almost hysterical. He inhales again, craving it, a lungful of your scent, and he frowns with concern when it’s tinged, a little bit wrong, like it was on the day when everything went wrong. Blood. “You’re still hurt. Are you—are you in pain? You—you shouldn’t be out of bed, did you drive yourself here? You’re going to rip your stitches—”
He just barely stops himself from reaching for the hem of your shirt to see your injuries for himself. He doesn’t trust himself to undress you right now. He might not stop. His hands clench into fists, trembling with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.
You, meanwhile, are soaking in his scent. It’s rolling off him in waves, thick and strong—forest trees, smoky gunpowder, the lingering muskiness of sweat and sex. You feel your body responding to him, wetness pooling between your thighs, and almost have trouble resisting, yourself. But you need to be the strong one, right now. For him.
“I’m okay,” you say, your voice soft, quiet. Then you reach for him, your hands cupping his cheeks, and Adrian presses himself further into your touch, eyes closing. Tension drains from his shoulders, but you frown. He feels warm to the touch, too warm. “You’re burning up.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles, incoherent, shivering as you brush his sweaty curls away from his forehead and pluck away the dead leaves that stuck to him when he fell. He puts his hands on top of yours, keeping them held on his face. “Feels nice.”
“I don’t like that they won’t let me see you,” you say, frustrated. “I can—I can help.”
“You are helping,” Adrian says hoarsely. “Ah—fuck.” He lets out a pained grunt, clutching his abdomen, and he slumps against the outside wall of the trailer, right beneath the window. “The care package, and the blanket that smells like you, and the updates to Chris so that I know you’re getting better—they are helping. I don’t want anything more from you, not now. Not when it could hurt you.”
“I know,” you say, but there are tears of frustration welling up in your eyes, because it kills you to see him like this. “I just—I hate this.”
“No,” he says. “Don’t cry, baby. Please, don’t cry. I don’t think I can take it.”
Your face goes hot at the pet name, but you don’t think Adrian even realizes what he’s said. He just holds out an arm, and you sit, carefully, on the ground beside him, settling yourself against his side. When you look up at him, his eyes are closed, his head tilted back to rest against the wall. He’s still shivering, still sweating, but there’s a tiny smile on his face, because you’re here.
You lean your own head to the side, an invitation. He tucks his face right into your neck, his nose pressed against your pulse point. It’s so much better than the blanket. He inhales, long and deep—the scent of you, right from the source, mingling with his. Like it’s supposed to, he thinks.
He wants more. He wants to feel your bare skin against his, wants to pull you into his lap and hold you. He feels his dick twitch at the thought, and thinks to himself, don’t ruin the moment, Adrian, you horny idiot. He’s stronger than his hormones, he’s more than animal instinct.
He still can’t stop himself from licking a long stripe up your neck, marking his territory. You tilt your head further, let him keep going, flattening his tongue against your skin, leaving behind a warm, glistening line of saliva.
“That tickles,” you giggle, and he smiles against you, happy he made you laugh. His tongue darts out one last time, licking right behind your ear, and you turn your head. Your noses bump together.
This—just being next to you. Breathing the same air as you. That’s enough. It’s more than enough. But he knows it won’t last.
“Chris is gonna scent you any second,” he whispers sadly. “We don’t have long.”
“I know,” you say. “I just had to see you. I couldn’t sleep, knowing you were here all alone. Hurting.”
“I can take it,” he says, his voice hoarse, but firm. His hand comes up to cup your face. “I can take it, because I know that you’re waiting for me at the end of it. When I got tortured by Goff, no one even got me a sweet treat afterward. So already, this is a thousand times better.”
You laugh, and Adrian smiles. But it doesn’t last long, his arm around your shoulder tightening for an instant, before he’s scrambling to his feet, snarling up above you.
Chris is sticking his head out of the open window, looking incredibly pissed.
“What the fuck!” Chris shouts. “Adrian—get your ass inside right now. And you—what the hell were you thinking?”
Adrian knows, logically, it’s just Chris. Chris who wants the best for both of you. It’s not as visceral as the reaction he had when you first got hurt, but there’s still something primal about it, the protective, possessive sense that roars up inside him, the need to protectwhat’smine. You are still hurt, and you are still his. And Chris is going to make you leave. Take you away from him, even if not for himself.
“You’re lucky you showed up during a lull. If his libido was spiked right now, he might not have been able to stop himself,” Chris rants. “He could have seriously hurt you. It might not feel like it, but Emilia and I are trying to protect you. Both of you. Get the hell out of here. I would call Emilia to come get you, but it would really set him off if he saw another Alpha take you from him.”
Adrian is shaking, growling, and you get to your feet, slow and careful, reaching for his hand, entwining your fingers.
“Adrian,” you say softly, soothing. “It’s okay. It’s Chris. He’s your best friend. We knew this was going to happen. That I wouldn’t be able to stay. It’s going to be okay.” You reach up with your other hand, pushing your fingers through his hair, scratching your fingernails against his scalp.
“Idon’twantyoutogo,” Adrian says in a desperate rush, hands coming to grip your forearms just a little too tightly. You can feel the way he starts trembling, see his pupils dilating, the effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He grits his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“No—not—notsorry,” Adrian says, stumbling over his words. A fresh, powerful wave of his scent washes over you, and Chris gives you a significant look of warning that says he’s gonna lose it any second.
“You need to go,” he says, low and serious. “Before he won’t let you go. Don’t make it harder for him.”
You nod, your hands falling away from Adrian’s face. He makes a sad noise at the loss of your touch, a little whimper from the back of his throat, like a kicked puppy. It breaks your heart.
You bite your lip. You left in a rush, didn’t bring anything but yourself, but—you shrug off your cardigan and wrap it around his neck like a scarf. He presses it against his nose and mouth.
“Thank you,” he breathes.
“I’ll see you soon,” you say softly.
“Soon,” he says, as he reaches up for the windowsill to pull himself back inside.
At the last second, he looks back at you, and before you can stop yourself, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. He whines, an agonized sound at the back of his throat, his knuckles going white as he clutches the windowsill.
“Inside. NOW,” Chris orders. Then he remembers his Alpha voice won’t work on Adrian anymore, so he turns it on you instead. “Go home.”
Adrian growls again, his attention turned on Chris. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that—”
“I wouldn’t have to talk to her like that if you two were thinking with your upstairs brains!”
Chris grabs Adrian by the arms and yanks him back in through the window. Adrian immediately turns around to watch your retreating form, and—he starts to panic.
“No,” he says. “Nonononono—shecan’tleaveshe’smine—letmego—”
Chris immediately tightens his hold on him as Adrian starts to struggle, ready to throw himself back out the window and chase after you. He bares his teeth and snaps at Chris’s forearm.
“No—no biting! Why is that your first reaction to everything!” Chris scolds.
Adrian strains his neck out the window and watches forlornly as you round the corner of the trailer, until he can’t see you anymore. Until he hears your car turn on and tires rolling over gravel as you drive away.
Once you’re gone, he calms down, just a bit, blinking slowly as his clarity returns, breathing heavily. He hadn’t realized how much your proximity was affecting him until you were gone.
“Are you good?” Chris asks.
“I’m—” Adrian says, out of breath, feeling like he’s just run a marathon. “I’m good. I’m not gonna go after her. Sorry. Just—give me a minute.”
“This is why I told you you couldn’t see her,” Chris says seriously. “Now go the fuck back to sleep. I need to fucking call Emilia and make sure she gets put on house arrest, too.”
Even then, Adrian stands at the open window with his eyes closed, breathing in the lingering traces of your scent in the air. Then he realizes it’s on him, on his skin, and he starts to feel the familiar hot itch of arousal.
He’s so buzzed with adrenaline, so drunk on the scent of you, that he has to make himself come four times straight, thinking the whole time about your soft hand holding his, your lips on his cheek. Once he’s finally found relief, he hugs your cardigan to his chest like a stuffed animal, inhales deeply, and falls into the most restful sleep he’s had since the day everything changed.
When you get home that night, Emilia is at the front door waiting for you, leaning in the open doorway with her arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed. You don’t say a word, just brush past her, not in the mood for the lecture.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, catching you by the arm. “You ripped your fucking stitches. I told you—”
You look down at your shirt and see that she’s right. There’s a tiny spot of blood seeping through the fabric.
“Bathroom. Now,” she orders. “So I can fix it.”
You sigh, but do as she says, pulling off your shirt as you make your way to the bathroom and preparing yourself for a thorough tongue lashing. She doesn’t hold back as she pulls out her suture kit and sanitizes the wound that reopened. She won’t even look you in the eye.
“Do you have any idea how bad an idea that was?” Emilia rants as she stitches your skin back together. “I cannot believe you! Stunts like this, I would expect from Adrian, not you. Are you going to be pulling shit like this all the time now?”
“I’m not sorry,” you say thickly. “He needed me. He was burning up, Em. All we did was sit there and talk. And it brought his temperature down, and it made him smile, and I am not sorry.”
Emilia finally meets your eye. “I know you’re not,” she says. You stare right back at her fiercely, feeling tears well up in your eyes, trying so, so hard not to cry.
“You’re on lockdown for the rest of the week. You don’t go anywhere without me or Ads or John. Someone is with you at all times, because I don’t trust you not to pull another stunt.” She’s quiet for a minute before she continues. “I get it. I do. I miss Chris, too.”
You pause, swallow past the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to. You can just go see him?”
“I can, but I shouldn’t,” she says. “Things are already weirdly tense over there because Chris is keeping an eye on Adrian. Alphas don’t like being around other Alphas during their ruts. It’s a little bit different because Chris is his best friend, but if I were there too, for an extended period, it would agitate Adrian. Even the twenty minutes I was there the other day was pushing it. And I want what’s best for him. For you. For everyone. Because you guys are my pack, and I care about you.”
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “I didn’t realize.” You’d been so wrapped up in yourself, in Adrian, that you hadn’t stopped to think about the ways everyone else was being affected by the whole situation.
“It’s okay,” Emilia says. “You’ve had a crazy fucking week. Between the near-death experience and the whole thing with Adrian. But there are other members of this pack, too, who are being affected by all this. We all love you and want what’s best for you. But you need to let us help you. Stop fighting it. Sometimes, you’re right to fight us, and we need to pull our heads out of our asses. But we are right about this particular thing. I know you are used to taking care of the rest of us. But right now, you need to trust the rest of us to take care of you.”
You don’t say anything, just nod as she finishes disinfecting the freshly stitched wound.
“Go to bed,” she orders. “For real this time.”
“Okay,” you agree. As you shuffle past her to the bathroom door, your shirt clutched in your hands, she sniffs the air.
“You smell like him,” she observes.
You smile. “Yeah. I know.”
You’ll smell like him for the rest of your life if you have anything to do with it.
you find a grey hair in SUKUNA'S beautiful pink locs
you run your fingers through sukuna’s soft pink locks, gently ruffling them as he melts further into your hold with every passing second. his arm stays snug around you while the two of you lie tangled on your couch, lazily watching reels from his phone.
that’s when you see it.
“sukuna.”
“hm?” he nudges you lightly when you go quiet, shifting just enough to glance up at you. “what’s up?”
“y-you…” you hesitate, fingers brushing through his hair again. this time a little more focused. “you have a grey hair!” you point at it, eyes wide.
he lets out a quiet huff. “so what?”
“wait— wait! there’s more!” your fingers keep searching, and he groans, tossing his phone aside.
“you done? it’s just a few grey strands. what’s the big deal?”
your expression crumples, nose scrunching in that way he knows too well… cute, but dangerous. his hand comes up instinctively, cupping your cheek.
“what are you crying about now, brat?” the “insult” doesn’t stick, it never did even from the moment he met you.
you don’t answer, just sniffle quietly, and he sighs under his breath before shifting. he maneuvers you down beside him on the too-small couch, half his body hanging off the edge, but he doesn’t care. his arms wrap around you, warm and steady.
“love,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, “you gonna tell me why you’re crying, hm?” his thumbs brush the tears under your eyes.
you sniffle again. “it’s just that… it means you’re getting old…”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “you worried i won’t be as handsome?”
you lightly swat his arm. “never! i’ll just have more competition…” you mumble, embarrassed, and he chuckles into your hair.
“i’m flattered you’re crying over me getting older.”
“when i get a grey, will you cry?” you pout, and his eyes flicker down.
“yes.” he answers without missing a beat.
“is it because i’ll be ugly—”
he bites lightly at the junction of your neck.
“ow— ow! it was a joke!”
he presses a soft kiss over the spot right after, lingering there as he buries his face into your neck. “no. i won’t cry because of that.”
“then what for?”
you feel the warm puff of his breath against your skin as he pulls you closer, arms tightening just a little.
“it’ll just means my dream is coming true…”
he lifts his head, looking at you with so much quiet adoration it makes your chest ache. his eyes soften, almost glassy, like he might cry if he let himself.
“i’ll grow old with you.”
★ yooo i finally got ideas and posted hell yeahhh, it might be shitty but hey at least it's something
mornings in your house are never quiet anymore. not since yuji had learned how to run.
it starts with the sound of small, uneven footsteps padding down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thud of something—usually him—bumping into the wall, the doorframe, or occasionally just… the floor. there’s always a pause after, like he’s deciding whether it hurt enough to cry, and then...
“mama!”
you don’t even get the chance to sit up properly before your bedroom door swings open and a tiny body launches at you with absolutely no hesitation, all warmth and energy and zero sense of self-preservation.
“good morning, baby,” you laugh softly, catching him before he can fully faceplant into you, hands smoothing over his messy hair as he climbs all over you like you’ve been gone for years instead of just asleep.
he giggles, pressing his face into your shoulder, already babbling about something you can’t quite understand yet, words tumbling over each other in half-formed excitement.
from the other side of the bed, there’s a low, unimpressed groan.
“kid’s gonna break his neck one day,” sukuna mutters, voice rough with sleep, one arm thrown lazily over his eyes.
yuji immediately perks up at the sound of his voice. “dada!”
and just like that, he’s climbing over you to get to him, tiny hands grabbing at sukuna’s shirt, knees digging into his side with absolutely no regard for personal space.
sukuna hisses quietly under his breath when a particularly sharp elbow lands somewhere unpleasant, but he doesn’t push him off. doesn’t even try.
instead, his hand comes up automatically, large and steady as it settles at the back of yuji’s shirt to keep him from toppling over.
“watch it,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to it.
yuji just laughs, completely unbothered, and pats sukuna’s face like he’s checking to make sure he’s real. “up,” he demands, very seriously.
sukuna cracks one eye open, staring at him flatly.
“…no.”
yuji frowns. thinks about it, then leans forward and presses his entire weight onto sukuna’s chest.
there’s a pause. “…alright,” sukuna exhales, defeated, dragging a hand down his face as he finally pushes himself up slightly, still half-trapped under a very determined toddler.
you laugh softly from where you’re sitting, watching the whole thing unfold, your heart doing that familiar, warm little twist it always does when you see them together like this.
because sukuna who’s rough around every edge, who speaks in low tones and sharp words, who doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body for anyone else is so… careful with him.
he acts like he’s annoyed, like this is an inconvenience, like he’s only tolerating it out of necessity. but his hands never slip. his grip is always steady.
his eyes, when they rest on yuji for just a second too long, are softer than anything he’d ever admit out loud.
“hungry,” yuji announces, like he’s just made a groundbreaking discovery. sukuna snorts quietly. “course you are.”
you slide out of bed, stretching slightly before walking over, pressing a soft kiss to yuji’s cheek and then, just as easily, to sukuna’s temple. he doesn’t react much, just glances at you briefly, but his hand shifts, resting lightly against your hip as you move past him.
“i’ll make breakfast,” you say, already heading toward the kitchen.
yuji scrambles after you immediately, little feet pattering loudly against the floor, leaving sukuna sitting there for a second longer than necessary. he watches you go, then exhales, pushing himself up with a quiet grunt before following, slower, less chaotic, but just as certain.wq
by the time he reaches the kitchen, yuji is already standing on a chair you pulled up to the counter, watching you with wide, curious eyes as you crack eggs into a bowl.
“help,” he says, reaching for the whisk.
you smile, guiding his small hands carefully. “okay, but gentle, yeah?”
behind you, sukuna leans against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to.
the soft domestic noise, the quiet laughter, the way you bend slightly so yuji can see better, the way he leans into you without thinking—it all settles somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar in a way that would’ve bothered him once.
now, it doesn’t. now it just feels… right.
yuji suddenly turns, spotting him again, face lighting up instantly. “dada! help!”
sukuna huffs, pushing himself off the doorway and stepping forward, large hands easily covering yuji’s smaller ones as he takes over guiding the whisk. “like this,” he mutters, slower than usual, more deliberate.
yuji watches closely, completely fascinated. you watch them both.
for a moment, everything feels still in the best way possible. soft, warm, full in a way that doesn’t need words.
because somehow in all the chaos, in all the sharp edges and rough beginnings you ended up with this.
and sukuna, who never thought he’d want anything like it stands there beside you, one hand steady over your son’s, the other brushing lightly against yours, like he’s not letting either of you go anytime soon.
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
satoru never leaves without properly bidding his wife goodbye ♡
you learned early that loving him means sharing him with the world.
no one really warns you about that part. they talk about danger, about responsibility, about how busy he is. but they don’t talk about the quiet. they don’t talk about how heavy it feels standing in the doorway, watching him leave again.
satoru stands there now, half-turned already, like he belongs more to the outside than he does to this house.
“you’re leaving already?” you ask, even though you already know.
“mm,” he hums. “quick mission. i’ll be back before you even miss me.”
you frown a little. “i already miss you.”
that makes him smile.
he steps closer, like it’s instinct, like there’s something pulling him back just as much as the world pulls him away. his hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek so gently it almost hurts.
“you’re making it hard to leave,” he murmurs.
“good.”
he laughs softly at that, and then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips— it’s warm. familiar. but not nearly long enough.
he pulls back just slightly.
“…one more?” he asks.
you sigh, but your fingers are already gripping his uniform. “you say that every time, but it’s never just one.”
“..please, baby?”
“c’mere.”
and with that he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s got all the time in the world even though you both know he doesn’t.
when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.
“…okay, now i’ll go.”
you don’t let go just yet.
“..toru.”
“mhm?”
“be careful.”
there’s a small pause, barely there, but you feel it.
“always am,” he says, and he squeezes your hand.
“okay, seriously,” he says, not moving. “now i’m going.”
you raise a brow. “are you?”
“…just one more—”
“satoru.”
he grins, completely unashamed. “last one. promise.”
you sigh again, but you lean in anyway— because this is how it always goes.
because every “last kiss” is just him trying to hold onto something soft before he walks back into something dangerous— and you need it as much as he does.
this time, when he pulls away, he actually steps back.
“…i’ll come back to you,” he says, quieter now.
you nod. “you better.”
he lingers for a second longer, like he’s thinking about staying, but he doesn’t, instead he turns toward the door.
“…hey.”
you look up— and even with the blindfold on, you can feel his eyes on you.
“miss me properly, okay?”
you huff out a small laugh. “get out already, so you get it over with faster.”
when he eventually leaves, you can’t help feeling a little lonely— but just as you’re about to walk back, the door swings open.
“i forgot something.”
you blink. “oh? what is it—”
before you can finish, he’s already back in front of you, hands on your face, stealing one more quick kiss, soft and bright and completely necessary for his heart.
“…that,” he says, satisfied.
you look at him. “seriously?”
“can’t help it. just wanna stay home with my pretty wifey.”
he leans in, presses one last, tiny kiss to the tip of your nose this time.
“okay, now i’m really going.”
“c’mon.” you point toward the door. “you’ve got responsibilities.”
after wrapping you into a quick hug, he finally slips out for real.
and this time, when the door closes, you think that maybe waiting for him might not feel so bad after all.
everytime i try to write for someone else it just ends up being gojo anyway…（´∇｀'' )ゞ
A/n: It took me longer than I'd like to admit to get these screen shots for my thing cause Tiktok is a pain.
The first time you see it, you genuinely think it’s a rock.
Not even a nice rock. It wasn't smooth or polished or even remotely symmetrical...just… a lumpy, uneven piece of stone hanging from a leather cord that looks like it lost a fight with a dull knife. One side is thicker than the other, the edges are jagged in places, and there’s a very obvious crack running through what was probably supposed to be the center.
You stare at it.
Then you blink.
Then you look back up at Sokka.
He’s standing there in the middle of your shared apartment in Republic City, shoulders squared like he’s about to go into battle, hands awkwardly shoved behind his back like he doesn’t trust them not to betray him, and his face. His face is so serious it almost makes you laugh.
Almost.
“…what is that?” you ask carefully, tilting your head.
Sokka immediately bristles. “Wow. Okay. Great start. Love the enthusiasm. Really feeling the support here.”
“I’m asking,” you say, stepping closer, squinting at the object in his hand. “Because it looks like something you dug out of the street...."
“It is not from the street,” he snaps, offended. “I went all the way out past the lower ring to find that rock.”
“…you’re not helping your case.”
He huffs, dragging a hand down his face before thrusting it toward you with a kind of stubborn determination. “It’s a betrothal necklace.”
You freeze then suddenly the air shifts, just slightly but it's enough that everything suddenly feels heavier, quieter, more real.
Your gaze drops back down to the necklace in his hand, and this time… you look properly.
Really look.
The uneven carving suddenly makes sense. The shallow grooves, too shallow in some places, too deep in others, form a pattern you don’t recognize at first… until you realize it’s meant to be flames. Crude, messy flames curling around the center.
Fire.
You swallow.“…you made this?” your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
Sokka exhales sharply, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. I mean...obviously. You think I’d buy one? That’s not how it works.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “The guy’s supposed to carve it himself. Tradition.”
You step closer.
Carefully, like approaching something fragile, even though the stone itself is anything but delicate.
“It’s…” you pause, choosing your words very, very carefully. “…very handmade.”
“Wow,” he deadpans. “I’m framing that compliment.”
“I’m serious!” you protest, though a smile tugs at your lips. “It’s just....Sokka, this is terrible craftsmanship.”
“I KNOW,” he blurts, throwing his hands up. “Do you think I don’t know that? I broke three tools, I almost lost a finger, and some old guy tried to charge me extra because I was ‘butchering the art of stone carving.’ I get it, okay? It’s not perfect.”
You’re laughing now, unable to help it, but there’s something warm blooming in your chest, something that makes your eyes sting just a little you had to blink a few times.
Because you can see it.
Every uneven line.
Every mistake.
Every stubborn attempt to keep going anyway.
“You made this,” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” he mutters, glancing away. “Spent like… two weeks on it. Which, for the record, is two weeks of my life I will never get back.”
Your heart squeezes, a few tears slip free.
“And,” he continues, voice dropping just slightly, “you don’t have to take it. I mean...obviously. No pressure. It’s just a thing. A tradition thing. Cultural. Symbolic. Not a big deal.”
You step into his space, close enough that he finally looks at you again.
“It is a big deal,” you say softly.
His breath catches.
You reach out slowly, taking the necklace from his hand. It’s heavier than you expected, rough against your fingers, warm from where he’s been holding it.
“The design,” you murmur, tracing the uneven carvings. “It’s supposed to be fire, right?”
He nods, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I figured… you know. Firebender. Flames. Symbolism. I’m very deep like that.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.“It’s crooked,” you add.
“I know.”
“And uneven.”
“I know.”
“And I think this side is thicker than the other.”
“I—yes, okay, thank you, I’ve noticed—”
“And I love it.”
He stops, completetly still now. “…what?”
You look up at him, smiling softly, eyes bright, tears gathered in the corner. “I love it,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “Because you made it. Because you tried. Because you kept going even when it was hard.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the stone. “Because it’s yours.”
Sokka stares at you like you’ve just hit him with a brick.
Emotion flickers across his face. Shock, disbelief, something softer underneath that he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “…it’s still really ugly,” he says weakly.
“Yeah,” you agree immediately. “It’s awful.”
He lets out a strangled laugh.
You step closer, lifting the cord slightly. “Put it on me.”
His breath hitches, eyes wide watching you.“Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly serious again, searching your face. “Because once I do this isn’t just....this means—”
“I know what it means,” you interrupt gently.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken and then slowly he nods his head.
His hands are careful, so much more careful than you expected from someone who just admitted to nearly losing a finger as he reaches behind your neck, tying the leather cord securely into place. His fingers brush your skin, warm and a little rough, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
When he pulls back, the stone settles against your collarbone.
Heavy.
Real.
Yours.
You glance down at it, then back up at him.
“Well?” he asks, suddenly nervous again. “How does it look?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully.“…like a rock.”
He groans. “I walked right into that.”
You grin, stepping forward and grabbing his tunic, pulling him down just enough to press a quick, firm kiss to his lips.
When you pull back, his brain is very clearly not functioning.
“It looks perfect,” you murmur.
And this time, he believes you as he leans down to pull you in for another kiss.
snowghoul
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