hockeykuna keeps you from falling apart
read more of him? series masterlist
you shove your hands in your pockets and sit on the bleachers while practice roars around you. the rink smells faintly like cold metal and sweat, sharp and clean at the same time. sticks slap ice in uneven rhythms, players shouting over one another as drills reset again and again. you try to focus on the motion instead of the knot in your stomach.
coming here without warning felt reckless the second you parked outside. you sit outside for a full minute with your phone in your lap, staring at his name, wondering if you should text first but the thought of sitting alone in your apartment with that rejection email still glowing in your inbox had pushed you out to seek for his attention.
he skates past once without noticing you, stick tapping hard against the ice. then again slower when his head lifts to see you, he angles toward the boards and to you.
“sorry i came without heads up,” you say, watching him skate closer before popping his helmet off so you can see his face. pink hair sticks up in damp, uneven spikes where the padding flattened it, darker at the roots with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. his chest rising slow and heavy as he catches his breath. his eyes flick over you in quick check before softening when they land on your face.
“it’s fine. there a problem?”
“is that our code for booty calls now?” he asks, teasing.
showing up at practice like this is not normal for the both of you, he usually just drags you along to watch his games.
heat crawls up your neck, “ryo, i mean like talk, i need a friend to talk to.” your voice comes out soft and tired. and he tilts his head slightly, like he already understands exactly how worn out you are.
“oh okay,” he mutters, then nods toward the tunnel. “give me a few minutes, i’ll go change.”
you shove your hands in your pockets and sit on the bleachers. you wonder why you run to him.
you think about your friends. you could call them, maybe text. but it feels… pointless? they would sympathize. they would rant back. they would tell you that one rejection does not define you. you don’t want that. you don’t want someone telling you to “you're amazing” or “you’ll get it next time” when your chest still feels heavy, like it’s pressing against your ribs.
with sukuna, he doesn’t offer easy platitudes. he makes you feel like the mess you’re carrying is okay. like it belongs somewhere, at least for a little while. you think that’s why you’re here. because maybe, just maybe, if he lets you unload, you won’t feel like you’re drowning by yourself.
he sits with it. he lets you be ugly and bitter and tired without trying to polish it into something productive. he makes space for the mess. you like yourself when you’re with him.
sukuna just simply gets you.
he reappears in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp, duffel slung over one shoulder. “ready? you should’ve called me, i would’ve come over instead.”
“yeah, i know, i just… it was kind of last minute.”
the drive to his place feels quieter than usual. heater humming low, streetlights flashing across the windshield in long streaks of gold. his hand drifts toward yours on the center console and you let your fingers hook around his pinky without looking at him. he squeezes once.
when you get there he kicks off his shoes and tosses you a hoodie. you catch the scent of his cologne, the one you complimented once, warm and spicy against the detergent smell. “change into something comfy.”
you pull it over your head in the bathroom, sleeves swallowing your hands, fabric warm from the dryer. when you come back out he glances up from the stove. “you staying the night?”
“if it’s alright,” you murmur, tugging the oversized hoodie around yourself.
he snorts. “god please do, my girl been blowing me off all week keeps sending me rainchecks.”
“she was probably busy,” you say.
“then if that’s the case, can you tell her to at least tell me,” he mutters, eyebrows knitting.
“i'm telling her right now." he adds quickly, smirk tugging at his mouth, shaking his head like he can’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused.
you pick at the plate. “you cooked too much. are you eating too?”
“yes. this is your portion, then this is mine,” he says, lifting his chopsticks.
“shouldn’t this be yours?” you ask, tilting your head.
“nope. that’s your portion. i heard somewhere that a full stomach equals a happy heart,” he says, smirking.
“bullshit,” you mutter, cheeks warming as you lift a piece to your mouth. he watch, wanting to see whether you'd spit it out or not.
“so… do you like it? my cooking?” he asks, voice casual but curious.
you glance up, caught off guard. “it’s fine. really.”
“really?” he presses, eyebrows lifting, “because i could have sworn you said ‘fine’ last time and it was just code for ‘it’s edible’.”
“shut up,” you roll your eyes, but a small smile appears in your mouth. “okay, it’s good. better than some of the crap i’ve eaten in the dorms.”
he chuckles feeling satisfied, “good. because if you didn’t like it i would’ve made you sit there and eat it all while i stared.” he leans back a little adding, “been trying to cook more because of hockey. gotta get my diet right, you know. also, looked up the recipe for this because you mentioned liking it once. didn’t want to fuck it up.”
after he carries the plates to the sink while you hover by the counter, hoodie sleeves bunched over your hands. the kitchen feels too bright now that the food is gone, too open. he notices before you say anything.
“come on,” he mutters, nodding toward the living room. “couch.”
you follow, dragging your feet a little. he pats the spot beside him, but after a moment you slide sideways onto his lap without thinking, letting your legs curl around his hips. he adjusts automatically, one arm circling your waist, the other resting lightly on the back of the couch.
“okay, talk to me. what’s up?” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles along your side.
"right," you take a deep breath, hands fidgeting in his hoodie. “i don’t even know where to start. it’s all… piling up.”
“start wherever you want. i got you,” he says softly.
you swallow. “you remember the internship i was talking about?”
“i didn’t get it,” you murmur, chest tightening.
his jaw tenses. “bullshit.”
“and because i was focused on that, i bombed a few quizzes in calc and chem. the ones i actually know about. also rushed labs been fucking me up, then projects started stacking and i can’t catch up with anything,” you say, voice wobbling. your hands twist in his hoodie, trying to anchor yourself continuing to tell him how stupid you’ve been feeling.
he leans closer, “that’s not you being stupid. that’s you being exhausted.”
“it feels like i’m failing at everything,” you whisper.
“nah,” he mutters, voice low. “you’re just overloaded.”
you glance down at your phone, opening the rejection email again. the screen makes it real, the white light harsh against your tired eyes. “they sent it today,” you say, almost to yourself. “like… here it is. months of essays, interviews, everything, gone.” you tilt the screen toward him.
he reads over your shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line, brow knitting. “it’s okay to feel upset,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours, “it’s okay to be mad.”
“i feel… drained. every day i wake up already exhausted. i reread questions three times and still pick the wrong answer. everyone else seems to have it together while i keep sliding sideways.”
he nods, hand rubbing circles along your side.
your voice shakes, and you take a shaky breath. “and i keep thinking i should be better.”
“hey,” he says, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “look at me. you’re not failing. you’re alive and well, also you’re trying. that’s enough, more than enough.”
you let your forehead drop against his chest, shoulders loosening against him. the hoodie is soft, warm. the couch is wide, his arms around you, steady. for a second, you allow yourself to just be tired and frustrated.
maybe this is why you cling to him.
“crybaby,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple as you realize your cheeks are wet. “it’s okay, it’s good to cry. let it out.”
your hands press against his chest as the tears slide freely, the weight of the day spilling into him. you hadn’t noticed how tight your shoulders were, how much you’d been holding in, until it all came loose against his steady warmth. he hums low, arms tightening around your waist while you sit in his lap, fingers tangled in his hoodie, clinging to him like an anchor.
he kisses along your temple, then your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth. each touch is slow and grounding. your breath catches, shaky, chest pressing into his, heart thudding hard and uneven.
“shit happens,” he murmurs softly, voice rough and low, but you keep your head tucked into his chest, letting yourself be small and messy.
“you’ll be okay,” he says quietly, brushing a hand through your hair, tilting your head slightly so his lips can press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i got you.”
your sobs quiet, but your chest still heaves. he hums again, moving slowly so his lips trace the side of your face, along your jaw, just soft, just enough to calm. you realize you’ve been holding your breath, letting him take it for you, letting him anchor you when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
sukuna believes he’s bad with people but for some reason he can’t explain, he’s extremely good with you.
“feeling okay now?” he murmurs, thumb tracing circles along your side.
“a little,” you shrug, letting your head rest against his shoulder.
“ahh, a little means i failed then,” he teases lightly, voice soft.
“no no, you helped a lot,” you murmur, forehead bumping his chest.
he tilts his head, studying you for a second. “you’re the prettiest when you smile.”
“don’t say things like that,” you murmur, heat creeping up your neck.
“what, it’s true,” he says, smirk tugging at his lips.
“makes things intimate and weird,” you murmur softly.
“but we are intimate,” he shoots back, voice low, teasing. “dude, we literally fuck all the time. that’s not intimate enough for you?”
“that’s not what i meant. also, don’t call me dude,” you snap, but your voice wavers slightly, tired and soft.
“exactly, baby. let me be intimate,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek again. your hands tighten around him.
he shifts slightly so you’re flush against him, lips brushing yours. slow, unhurried, a quiet press of heat and breath.
“thank you for coming to me,” he murmurs between kisses, lips moving over yours, gentle but insistent. your eyes flutter closed, letting yourself sink fully into him. his hand moves to cradle your head.
“i can’t fix everything,” he whispers, voice low and warm against your lips, “and i can’t be everywhere all the time.”
he kisses you again, slow, like he’s holding the words in the motion. when he pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, he adds quietly, “but, i could always be a safety net.”
“you fall, you call me. simple,” he says, brushing your nose with his, lips barely grazing yours before another slow kiss presses against your mouth.
he hums softly as he presses against you, letting the quiet fill the space.
“better than a little now?” he murmurs, pulling you closer.
“…yeah,” you reply softly, finally letting yourself breathe against him.
he kisses the top of your head again. “elite comforter,” he mutters, and for the first time all day, you feel a little lighter, tangled in him, safe, and exactly where you belong.
a/n: im linking poll here when i post it
