My blog is small right now so making this feels a little weird but I liking organizing things which includes this I guess.
About me Ი︵𐑼
Hiii! You guys can call me Madi, Mad Dawg, Bbg, or anything really. I'm 22 & go by she/her.
I love writing, reading, and drawing. I read and write about the same subjects usually (whatever my hyper fixation is for that time period). I have ADHD so don't be surprised if some of my work includes that.
My boundaries ✎ᝰ.
I don’t post NSFW content, just a personal preference. If you’re looking for that, this might not be the right place. Some things might imply/be suggestive, but everything is closed-door.
I don't use 'y/n' so fear not! Unless stated otherwise, most of my work is gen. I don't specify physical apearance of reader ever! (unless I start making OC's but I will state that if I do). If im missing anything lmk.
I love talking to people so please interact with my blogs or send me asks!
skincare pt.2 + Simon to the rescue + curiosity killed the puppy + domesticated (begrudgingly) + you have to pay
POLY 141 x reader
1. Breath
↳ ADHD!reader
Kid fics
1. Monster Hunter
↳ fluff, Simon Riley & kid reader, dad!simon
JJK fics:
Ryomen Sukuna
1. Throttling Nerves → Biker!Sukuna
part 1 + part 2 + part 3
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
This is still under construction but posting it anyways bc I won't be done with it anytime soon. still trying to figure out if I should tag the fandoms I write for.
I LOVE GAANG SMM!! And yes, Suki is part of gaang. I can’t stand the suki under representation. I love my queen sm. ALL CREDITS TO THE ARTIST!! @schwesterchiz in Insta
(dark poly 141 x single pregnant reader, very rushed)
You don’t know when they first appeared in your life. Maybe it was the day at the grocery store when your feet ached, your belly heavy with the weight of your unborn child, and a stranger- a man too broad, too still, lingering in the same aisle as you- offered to load your bags into the car. Maybe it was when you were late getting home from work, the weight of exhaustion pulling at your limbs, and a burly man with sharp, blue eyes and a thick Scottish brogue insisted on walking you to your door, just to “make sure ye got in safe, bonnie.”
Or maybe it was before that, when your landlord suddenly decided not to raise the rent, when the lights in your apartment stopped flickering despite you never calling maintenance.
You don’t know when it started.
But by the time you notice them, it’s too late.
They come in pieces, never all at once. Maybe that’s why your focus never quite catches them when it should’ve.
Johnny is the easiest to trust. He’s warm, friendly, a constant presence that doesn’t seem out of place- until you look back and realize you don’t remember ever properly speaking to him for the first time. He’s always just there, standing behind you in line at the pharmacy, offering to carry your bags when you struggle. He calls you “bonnie” and clicks his tongue when he sees the exhaustion on your face.
“You’re pushin’ yourself too hard, lass.” His voice is teasing, but there’s something firm beneath it, much like his hands on your shoulders. “Should be restin’.”
Then there’s Kyle. He’s the one who keeps showing up at the diner you work at, at first just another regular, but then a fixture in your days. He leaves tips that are too big and stays long after he’s finished his food, asking you questions- small, harmless things.
“How far along are you?”
“Got any family around?”
“You shouldn’t be on your feet all day. You got someone looking after you, love?”
There’s concern in his voice. It feels nice, being cared for, so you don’t let yourself worry about why he asks so many questions.
But you don’t notice the way his eyes track you when you move. The way he listens too closely, storing away every detail you give him.
Simon is a shadow. A presence you feel but never see too clearly. When your apartment door’s lock sticks one night, it’s mysteriously fixed by morning. When your feet swell too much for your shoes, a new, comfortable pair appears in a package at your door- no return address. When you wake up in the middle of the night, you think you hear movement outside your window, but when you check, there’s nothing there.
He introduces himself to you once, silently joining your side when a group of young men had attempted to follow you. You’d been to grateful to consider that he had been following you, as well. And thus, that had been your first meeting as far as you were aware.
And then there’s John. He comes last, when you’re already too exhausted to question why they’re all suddenly in your life.
“You shouldn’t be working like this,” he tells you one night when he shows up at the diner, sitting in your section like he belongs there. He watches you, steady and unshakable, like he’s waiting for you to break. “Not in your condition.”
“My condition?” you scoff, but you’re too tired to be indignant.
“You’re pregnant,” he says simply. “You need to rest.”
You want to rest.
But there’s rent to pay. Bills. A baby coming soon, and no one else to help.
Except, suddenly, there is someone. Maybe more than one person, even if you don’t notice the changes at first because they start so small.
Johnny shows up when you’re struggling with your bags, even when you don’t remember telling him where you’d be. Kyle appears at your work just when you need an extra hand. John tells you he has “connections” when your hours get cut and suddenly, your landlord is more lenient about late payments.
When your doctor’s office calls to confirm your next prenatal appointment, the receptionist mentions your “husband” already checked in about your test results.
You don’t have a husband.
But when you try to ask for details, the woman on the phone just laughs. “Oh, don’t worry- he said everything’s fine. Had a lovely Mancunian accent! You’ve got yourself quite a lovely man, mrs.”
You never get a name, and you don’t know what to do about your suspicions.
And you don’t notice the cameras.
Not when Johnny pulls you into a hug, his hands lingering a little too long on your back. Not when Kyle helps you rearrange your furniture, brushing his fingers against the edges of your walls. Not when John “fixes” your heater, or when Simon sits silently in the corner after he’s given you a teddy bear for your little bean, its eyes beady and gleaming.
But they’re there. Tiny, black dots tucked into the corners of your home. A microphone nestled near the nightstand. A wire running under the couch.
They see you.
They always see you.
You wake up one night to the sound of your apartment door unlocking.
Fear grips you instantly, but before you can move, a voice rumbles in the darkness.
“Shh. It’s just me.”
John. How-?
Your heart is pounding, but he sounds calm. Steady. You hear the door click shut, hear his boots move across your floor, even when you wheeze in fear and press your back against the headboard of your bed.
“You forgot to lock up again.” He says, a quiet reprimand. He was always telling you to do that, but-
“I- I don’t think I did-“
“You did,” he assures you. “Anyone could’ve walked in.”
Like him.
There’s a shift in the air, something heavy settling between you. You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your belly, eyes teary from fright even if he is calm.
John exhales softly, and his face softens. Then, a warm hand rests over yours, heavy and possessive.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs. “Let us take care of you.”
The words settle into you like a brand, curling around your ribs.
You should say no. Demand what the fuck is going on, why is he here, why them-
Been thinking about reader being price's kid, deep in the rebellious phase after nineteen years of shitty parenting...
Of course you're out doing dangerous shit. Hanging around in shitty bars and looking for all the wrong attention. Or maybe you're looking for your dad's attention. For him to finally fucking show up for once in your life.
Instead you get ghost driving next to you at a snails pace while you walk down pavement with probably-blood stained into the cracks.
"C'mon kid, get in. It's fuckin' freezing innit." He grumbles, much too used to this by now "I'll take you back to mine. Have you eaten?"
You only put up the act of ignoring him a few moments longer, you both know how it will end.
He doesn't comment on the alcohol on your breath, but he does hand you a bottle of water with a "if yer plannin' to hurl, do so out the window."
Ghosts apartment is more familiar to you than your own home. You have a designated place on the shoe rack, and your blanket and pillow is already folded and ready on the sofa. You try to remember if you have designated blankets in your dad's house, if you take up space when he isnt around to witness it.
Ghost helps you out of your shoes and socks, dutifully leaves to make a vitamin drink when he gives you pajamas to change into. One of his old shirts from recruitment days and a pair of your comfiest sleep pants.
You remember ghost telling you all the stupid stories from his early days. Dad would never do that, too busy focusing on the present or not deeming you important enough. At least you have ghost.
...when you half-asleep-half-drunkenly mumble "goodnight, dad." He can't possibly ignore the tight feeling in his chest.
thinking about john price who knows just how to help you when you're upset and overwhelmed...
cw: autistic!gn!reader (author is autistic), briefly implied autistic!price if you squint, hurt/comfort (mostly comfort), this is very self-indulgent
You’re trying not to freak out– you swear you are.
You can’t find your headphones. You’re aware of how ridiculous that sounds to the average person, but unfortunately, you’re not the average person.
You’ve had them for years now and never go anywhere without them. They were costly, but the noise-cancelling features were well worth every penny. You put them in the same place every time you take them off, and yet, they aren’t there.
You’ve looked in every possible spot twice and even the impossible ones– like the microwave– yet, nothing.
Your head is throbbing, and your chest feels so tight it’s hard to breathe. Tears well in the corner of your eyes as you desperately try not to cry.
John’s going to be home any minute now. The last thing you want is for him to have to deal with you like this.
You need to regulate, you know that, but all you can focus on is the fact that you can’t find them. You can’t afford another pair right now, you bitterly think as you shine your flashlight under the couch for the fifth time.
It’s stupid, getting this worked up over some plastic and wires. Normal people don’t cry over these things, and the tears rolling down your cheeks are just another harsh reminder that you aren’t normal.
You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even realize John’s home until he’s standing right behind you. You pull yourself out from under the couch.
You should stand up, eagerly greet your boyfriend with a smile and a kiss. Instead, you curl up in a ball with your back pressed against the couch.
“Everything okay, lovie?” he asks, but by the soft tone he gives you, you’re willing to bet he’s already guessed the answer.
You want to speak– you try to speak– but all that comes out is a broken sob and a headshake. Your nails dig into your hands as you resist the urge to shake them.
“Oh, sweetheart, ‘m sorry. Why don’t we take a moment, then you can try and tell me what’s wrong. Can I hold you?” He waits for your nod in approval before meeting you on the floor.
He doesn’t have to ask what you need at that moment; he’s been through enough of them with you to know. He pulls you into his lap, his arms squeezing tight around your waist.
The pressure is nice. It gives you something to focus on other than the pit in your stomach and the buzzing noise filling the room. “It’s alright, love, I got you,” he mumbles as you bury your head into his shoulder.
He starts to rock back and forth, the motion soothing. You slowly take in a deep breath, the scent of him calming your nerves. He always smells the same, regardless of whether he’s wearing cologne: leather, cigar smoke, and a faint hint of coffee.
In and out. In and out, you repeat to yourself. The longer you sit with him, the easier it gets to think: to just exist. You exhale one final time before pulling away from him.
He stops his movements, looking at you without having to look you in the eyes. “Think you can tell me what’s wrong?” he whispers, hand brushing gently against your jaw.
“It’s stupid,” you mutter, embarrassed.
A stern frown makes its way onto his face. “If it upsets you, it’s not stupid, sweetheart.” He insists.
You close your eyes and focus on the feeling of his rough fingertips on your skin. “I lost my headphones. I’ve looked everywhere, I can’t track them, and I can’t afford another pair.”
You sniffle, no longer crying but still a little teary-eyed. “I don’t know what to do,” you admit.
You’re not expecting him to fix it– you'd never ask that of him– but he does anyway. “Just give me a minute, love,” he says, gently pulling you off his lap.
Your eyes trail his figure as he walks into your shared bedroom. You aren’t sure when you started biting at your fingers, but you become painfully aware of it when the skin starts to sting.
When John returns, he sits across from you on the floor– something you feel a little guilty about. You know it’s got to bother his back.
He does that little smile he does when he’s nervous– the one that makes his eyes crinkle up. He removes his hands from behind his back to reveal a white box before placing it in your hand.
You blink at him before cautiously grabbing it. Your eyes scan the package, and your mouth falls open at the realization. It’s the same brand and model– hell, even the color is the same.
“Couple months ago, I noticed how you bring 'em everywhere. One thing the military taught me was to always be prepared. I figured it’d be handy to have a second pair, yeah?”
Tears fill your eyes as you laugh in shock. “You did that for me?”
He tilts his head and just gives you a knowing smile, “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, pulling you into his embrace. “Proud of you for working through it. Letting me comfort you– telling me what was wrong.”
“Thank you, John,” you whisper as you nuzzle your head against his chest. Your eyes are slowly blinking as your body feels heavy.
“Must be knackered, huh, love? Why don’t we take a quick kip, yeah?” It’s more of a suggestion than a question, but you nod against him anyway.
He pulls you up, gently guiding you to the bedroom. You set the headphones down on the nightstand, and when you turn around, he’s wearing his softest pajamas.
You glance at the clothes in his hands for you. You give him a small smile when you notice it’s some you’ve worn a million times– they’ll feel familiar against your skin.
You lift your hips up and nearly sigh in relief when he tugs the scratchy denim off your legs. If it were anyone else changing you like this, you’d feel patronized, belittled, but with John, it’s different. He doesn’t just pretend to understand because he doesn’t have to– he knows firsthand what it’s like.
The shirt he chose is loose on your frame, a nice contrast from the fitted top you had on earlier. You realize in that moment just how well he knows you– it makes you appreciate him even more.
He crawls into bed and pulls you against him. His arm wraps around you, intertwining your fingers together.
You tug upwards, pressing a gentle kiss to his hand covering yours before letting it fall back against your waist. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, for always being so patient with me,” you whisper.
“You never have to thank me for that, sweetheart, I love you– every part of you.” His words feel like a vow– because they are– because he means them.
Even though he would never trade your relationship for anything, the day Rugby!Simon proposed was not his proudest moment.
Put him in front of a thousand flashing cameras that will have his face plastered on every global sports news outlet and the most intense thing he'll feel is a simmering irritation. But the feeling of that little black box sitting in his hand makes his vision start to vignette if he thinks about it too much.
(It's so small, sitting in his hand, the ring inside even smaller. Yet the weight of it, the image of it on your hand, is immeasurable.)
The day he finally decides to ask you was the product of months of agonizing over it. Should he just hand the box to you? Just ask, not even include the ring? Fuck if he knows. He never thought he'd get this far, never thought he'd find you in any lifetime let alone this one.
He's not sure he actually makes a decision, but he finds himself picking a random day on one of the morning walks you take together when the weather allows.
Simon has been so caught up in his head that he doesn't realize how weird he's been acting all day, weirder than usual at least. He especially doesn't notice the worried looks you've been shooting him.
He's spoken maybe one complete sentence all morning and has maybe blinked twice, his mind fully anchored on the black box shoved in the recesses of his pocket.
He walks beside you rigid as an ironing board, marching like he's going to war. Eventually, you hover your hand over his arm, slowing to a stop.
"Si, are you oka--"
"I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore."
Silence.
"W-what?" He can barely hear you over his pulse thundering in his ears. It's the tone of your voice that truly reaches him. Small, a little scared. It churns his gut even more and there is a moment when he's genuinely concerned he might actually hurl.
"No. I mean--" He curses so low under his breath all you hear is him growling like a dog at himself.
He turns his back to you, hands fumbling in his jacket pocket. The box gets stuck and he's there flailing around, nearly ripping his jacket trying to get the bastard thing out.
And when he turns back around, sees your precious face, sees the woman whose side he never wants to leave, he drops to his knees.
Not the one. Both of them.
He doesn't realize.
Simon opens the box so fast he nearly tears the lid clean off. The ring that has been haunting him for months glinting from the cushion inside. He looks up at you with his huge brown eyes, more anxiety in them than you've ever seen. His dry throat clicks when he swallows. His mouth opens and all he can get out is:
"Please?"
Looking back on it, Simon has absolutely no idea why you agreed to marry him after that display. But every day he sees that ring on your finger, sees the one tattooed on his, he is overcome with the certainty that he'd go through every pain and misery in his life all over again if it meant that he could call you his wife.
♡ sukuna finds his little nephews trying to look like him, with you responsible for it !
sukuna knows something is off the second he steps through the door. he shuts it behind him, keys jingling softly, eyes narrowing as he shrugs off his jacket.
“i’m home,” he calls out. “why’s it so—”
he stops.
there you are, frozen in the middle of the living room like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, and around you, yuji and choso are still busying themselves with their own markers.
both grinning, and all three of you covered in marker. black marker. lines streak across your arms and faces— a little messy, uneven, but unmistakably patterned after sukuna’s tattoos.
“…what,” he says, confused.
“look!” yuji beams, throwing his arms out. “we look like you, uncle kuna!”
choso nods proudly, pointing to his cheek where a slightly wobbly version of sukuna’s tattoos curve under his eye.
“yuji helped me do that one!”
sukuna steps forward, crouching down to take a closer look. one of the lines is way too thick, another smudged where choso clearly moved too soon.
“they’re cool, right?” yuji insists.
sukuna looks at you as you’re trying to surpress a smile, and that’s when his eyes narrow further.
“…and you let them do that?”
you hold your hands up immediately. “okay, listen—”
“not to mention,” he interrupts, gesturing at you. “you joined in.”
yuji puffs up. “but you also have them!”
“mine are permanent. and not done by someone who clearly can’t draw a straight line.”
you cross your arms. “they just wanted to be like you.”
sukuna clicks his tongue, looking away briefly before rolling his eyes. “…then why are you covered in them too?”
“it looked like fun..”
“bathroom,” he orders, jerking his head toward the hallway. “both of you. wash it off before it stains.”
“aww—” yuji starts.
“now.”
they scramble, but choso pauses on the way, looking back.
“can you draw them on us next time?”
sukuna gives him a look, and they disappear, whispering to each other like that answer isn’t final.
you’re about to go as well, but sukuna turns his attention back to you.
“you’re staying here,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping. “tryna be like me, huh?”
“mh-hmm.”
“yeah?” he says, amused. “tryna turn them into mini-me’s?”
“they basically are,” you defend. “and they kept asking about your tattoos, and i just—”
“and you just thought, ‘why not let them draw all over themselves?’”
you shrug. “it made them happy.”
he stops right in front of you now.
“you’re lucky it washes off,” he mutters.
“…they adore you, y‘know.” your smile softens slightly. “and you’re not as upset as you pretend to be.”
he leans down just enough so his eyes lock with yours, something sharp but amused flickering underneath.
“…tch, now i’d love to know the real reason you’re covered in black marker as well,” he says.
“i just really like your tattoos..”
finally a smirk tugs at his lips, his hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb tracing over the black pattern and smudging it slightly in the process.
“i do like these on you,” he murmurs. “careful. i might return the favor.”
your eyebrow lifts. “oh?”
his gaze drops briefly, to your arms, then back to your face.
“wouldn’t be hard,” he adds. “it’s what i do for a living, after all.”
you laugh under your breath. “are you offering to tattoo on me?”
a smirk tugs at his mouth as his gaze drops, flicking from your shoulders to your chest and back up.
“what about the tattoos beneath?” he asks quietly. “wanna replicate those, too? how about i—”
from the bathroom, yuji’s voice rings out. “it’s not coming off fast enough—”
sukuna straightens instantly, irritation snapping back into place.
“scrub harder!” he barks.
then, quieter, to you—
“…we’ll finish this conversation later.”
you can only imagine what that means.
⸝⸝ if you enjoyed this, consider checking out the masterlist for this series. ♡
you managed to gulp down a little bit of water after the show, your trembling hands show that you‘ve been depriving yourself of what makes you be yourself on stage. or used to.
you‘ve been off coke for 2 weeks now.
"i 'aven‘t dealt with my alcoholic father only to fall in love with a crackie rockstar."
that‘s what he said to you.
that‘s what made you cry.
that‘s what made you quit.
the hollows in your cheeks had flattened out, the bags under the eyes decreased. the bed was no more a place of staring at the moving ceiling, but more a place to rest with the man you loved most.
a knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts.
"yeah?"
the door opened, and a person you only saw for a split second dropped a package wrapped in black tape before it closed again.
you stepped closer to it.
and that‘s where your memory ended.
you wane up back in the tour bus, in your bunk. the curtains are closed. an almost empty beer bottle had spilled over the covers of your bed. great.
as you get up and out of the bunk to get an ibuprofen, you hear heavy steps. probably just a bandmate of yours wearing plateaus.
you go to the medicine cabinet, grabbing two ibuprofen. the last ones in the box, so you throw the empty box away. at the sink, you fill up a glass of water and chug down the pills. as you turn around, you run into a solid wall of muscle.
"oh-"
"what the hell were ya thinkin'?"
"what?"
"y‘heard me."
"i… don‘t remember what happened."
he obviously doesn‘t believe you. "fine. you relapsed."
"…"
the hum of the buses motor isn‘t helping you think clearly.
"i… remember there was a package in my room."
"it was almost 1/4s empty by the time i got there."
"what?"
"you could‘ve overdosed. could‘ve died."
"…"
"it went so well for 2 weeks. and now…"
"i won‘t do it again, okay-"
"i‘ve heard that enough from everyone in my life. tell me somethin‘ different tha'll change my mind."
"simon, i know… i know that you‘ve been around junkies all your life, okay? i- i‘ll… i just… don‘t wanna let go of you… if- if i do it again, then you get to leave. no begging, no crying. just acceptance, then that‘s my fault.
"so this isn‘t just your fault?"
"that‘s not-"
"sounded like it to me."
"i… i don‘t wanna guilt-trap you…"
"why?"
"if you go, it‘s only gonna get worse. i don‘t care what you do, o-okay? if you put me in rehab or if you‘re secretly a vampire and suck my coke-riddled blood out of-…"
he wasn‘t amused at your joke.
"sorry."
"i‘m not letting you out of my sight again. after this godforsaken tour, we‘re doing rehab. at home. these facilities don‘t work. they don‘t know ya like i do. you‘re just a file to them."
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—but now they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
The gaming room is bathed in a glow from a standing lamp near you and the dual monitors where Sukuna is currently locked in. You’re tucked into the oversized armchair he’d bought so you’d be within arm’s reach while he played, your legs curled beneath you, and a thick paperback propped open against your knees. It’s quiet, save for the clack of his mechanical keyboard and the muffled sounds of gunfire and boys yelling leaking from his headset.
Right now, Sukuna’s in the lobby, looking absolutely bored as he waits for the next match to load. Mindlessly, you lean forward, holding the book open in front of you. You aren’t really thinking about it when your hand reaches out to his arm.
At this point, you don’t even have to look to know where the armbands or the circles on his shoulder are. You’ve traced the dark lines of his tattoos without a second thought a thousand times before, so now, your index finger finds the lower band easily. It brushes it slowly, and your eyes never leave the page of your book.
The plot is so interesting that you genuinely don’t notice the match starts or even the sudden clicks of his mouse or keys. Maybe it’s because the room is usually filled with his barking orders, complaints about the lag, gravelly snarls to the team, or exasperated, drawn-out, “Get on the point, Satoru!” But today, Sukuna’s uncharacteristically silent. He hasn’t toggled his mic once.
Your hand moves to your book to turn the page, but rather than settling back on the armrest, it flies back to his arm almost immediately. It wanders upward slowly over his bicep, which flexes subtly under your touch, until it reaches his shoulder. There, your fingertips begin gently tracing the inked circles.
Sukuna’s breath hitches with a sharp catch in his throat. On the screen, his crosshair drifts lazily to the left, missing the headshot he could usually make in his sleep. An enemy player swings around the corner, and before Sukuna can even move, his character collapses to the ground.
[X] killed you with the Desert Eagle.
He lets out a long, heavy exhale, his right hand goes completely limp on the desk, and he lets his head fall back against the headrest. The expression on his face settles into pure, defeated surrender. His crimson eyes half-close, and his jaw relaxes as he leans his weight back into the palm of your hand.
“Brat,” he rasps, but it's more of a soft, tired sigh of begrudging acceptance than a complaint.
You blink, finally pulling your gaze away from your book to see the deathcam in front of him. “Oh. Did you die? I thought you were still waiting in the lobby.”
Sukuna turns his head toward you, his dark eyes looking at you with a mix of genuine frustration and a helpless sort of adoration that belies his anger.
“I was holding the long angle,” he mutters. “My ranked just took a dive into the dirt because you can't keep your hands off me for one round. Hope you’re happy with yourself.”
You can’t suppress the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, noticing how he’s still leaning into you, his entire posture surrendered to your touch. His voice deepening into a purr doesn’t help at all.
“Should I stop then? I honestly didn't realize...”
With a quiet, dismissive scoff, he reaches up and draws your hand closer to his face, pressing a lingering, rough kiss to your knuckles. Then he presses your fingers more firmly against the tattoo he’d just been defending.
“You stop, and I’m going to have a much bigger problem than a lost round,” Sukuna rasps. He lets out another frustrated huff, glancing back at the monitor, where the text chat is already blowing up with his friends losing their minds over him throwing the round. “You’re the reason my stats are dropping, woman. You’re a goddamn distraction, you know that?”
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, though you don't sound sorry at all as you start tracing the lines again.
“Uh-huh,” he grumbles, closing his eyes and settling deeper into the headrest as your fingers resume their path across his skin. “Whatever. Just keep your hand where it is. I’ll tell Satoru I’m having some ‘technical difficulties.’ He’s stupid enough to believe it.”
“What the fuck, Simon?” you’re hissing out, trying to turn your head and look him in the eye when you give him the fiercest glare you can muster. His large hand moves from the scuff of your neck to the back of your head, holding you in place.
“Don’t try. You’ll strain your neck,” he says evenly.
“Strain my neck my ass, Simon you’re fucking lying on top of me,” you snap back, snarling as you try to break free. In return, he presses down more of his weight down on you, effectively rendering you immobile.
“Are you finished?” he says in that same unbothered tone of voice.
“Go fuck yourself,” you say, squirming fruitlessly under his grip.
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter and does not budge one inch, except to put his face beside your ear and whisper, “Stay still, darling.”
Eventually, you wear yourself out somehow and stop struggling. He’ll get tired eventually. You will outstubborn the stubborn bastard.
Except… once you start to make yourself comfy, it feels… nice. It’s soothing, to have a warm, solid weigh against you. In spite of what you told yourself, you feel you muscles start to relax, the sharp edges of your nerves smoothening out.
“That’s it,” he says. “There’s my girl. Being so good for me.”
A warm feeling blooms in your chest, and you hum, pleased. He noses the side of your neck.
You don’t even know what you were on edge about. Why does that matter anyways, when you can be good for him like this?
ᢉ𐭩 fem!reader, little yuji is shy around you, sukuna’s gf
“behave, brat. don’t crawl all over her when she’s here.” ryomen looks at an excited yuji, who’s bouncing off the walls in the living room.
“i’m excited! i wanna see her, i wanna see her! when’s she coming over?” he shouts, referring to you, his older brother’s girlfriend.
right as yuji asks, the doorbell rings, and he runs while shouting, “she’s here, she’s—“
on the porch, you hear muffled yelling inside from a high-pitched voice, most likely from sukuna’s little brother yuji. quietly, you tap your floor against the wood and hum to yourself, when the door opens with a click.
and the picture is a sight to see. sukuna’s hand lies on the door handle, and the other on a pink tuft of hair belonging to little yuji.
the boy’s cheeks pinken as you look at him and crouch down to his level, “hi there, i’m your brother’s girlfriend! i’ve heard a lot about you, you’re yuji, right?”
his eyes widen and he nods, “i’m… i’m yuji…” his voice quieter than usual.
ryomen’s eyebrow raises in confusion. normally his brother would be running around and asking guests questions, especially when first getting to know them, but he’s acting different.
but when his thoughts gather, and the thought renders in his mind, he scoffs with a smile and ruffles yuji’s hair.
the rest of the time is filled with you asking yuji questions as he shyly answers and hides behind sukuna, but occasionally he’ll peek out from behind and look at you with big, curious eyes.
and eventually, he puts a hand over his mouth to cover it, to try and whisper to sukuna, “she’s too pretty for you…”
sukuna’s head whips around, “what?!” as you cackle at the boy’s audacity, then he turns to you, “and what are you laughing at?!”
“it’s true though! she’s pretty and funny, and you’re… you’re big and mean!” yuji’s eyebrows furrow with determination, and sukuna rolls his eyes and lightly flicks his forehead, “i’m better!” he says while his hand cups his forehead.
“i’m an amazing boyfriend to her, brat.” sukuna pokes at his brother’s chubby cheeks, trying to aggravate him more.
you smile, “you are.”
the room becomes quieter, and ryomen places a small, soft kiss on your lips. his hand reaches out to yours and he holds it, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.
but yuji crawls across his lap, onto yours. he rests his head on your shoulder, unpleased with how little attention he’s getting.
your eyes widen as it’s a switch from how he’s been acting for most of your visit, but you give in and rub your hand down his small back, and he wraps his tiny arms around your neck.
you don’t see the small smirk he sends to sukuna, and how his tongue sticks out as his eyebrows furrow.
sukuna notices.
gosh, yuji’s such a brat.
thought this was cute soo yeah
yuji’s really young so maybe a kindergartener and has a cute little crush on reader! sukuna catches it but obvi reader does not reciprocate yuji’s feelings, ryo’s her bf :)
baby!yuji acting like his Uncle Sukuna to protect you from flirts
≈ 898 words
masterlist
"VROOOM VROOOM!" Yuji squealed, his tiny, dimpled hands gripping the shopping cart as if it were a steering wheel while he sat inside it.
You leaned your weight into the handle, making a dramatic turn as the wheels squeaked in a drift, sending Yuji into a fit of breathless giggles. Every time someone passed by, Yuji chirped, waving so hard his whole little body rocked as he greeted every stranger.
"Oh, what a little sweetheart," an elderly woman cooed. Yuji gave her a toothy grin, his cheeks puffing out until his eyes crinkled into happy crescents. He lived for the praise, wiggling his little toes inside his sneakers.
Turning into the snacks aisle, you spotted the bag of chips Sukuna liked on the top shelf. You reached up, toes barely touching the ground, when a tall shadow loomed over you, and a man reached over, grabbing the bag for you.
"Here you go," he said, handing it to you with a lingering look. He leaned against the shelf directly in front of you, his eyes travelling over you in a way that made your skin prickle with discomfort.
‘Thank you,’ you said, voice tight as you placed the bag into the cart and continued moving ahead in the aisle.
"Is this your kid? He’s a cute little guy," the man said, falling into step beside the cart. His voice dropped into a cheesy, flirtatious tone.” You're way too pretty to be wandering these aisles all by yourself doing the heavy lifting."
You kept your eyes fixed forward, pointedly ignoring him. Beside you, the giggling stopped. Yuji went dead silent. He stood up in the cart, planting his feet firmly. His tiny arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted back with a chillingly familiar expression. He narrowed his eyes, looking down his nose at the man with pure disdain.
"No," Yuji said, his voice lacking its usual toddler pitch, a tone that resembled his uncle’s arrogance. "You can’t have her."
The man blinked, looking from the small child to you, his brows furrowing. "Uh, kid, I’m just talkin-"
"She belongs to my Unckuna," Yuji interrupted, his lip curling into a tiny, fierce scowl. He clicked his tongue, “Go away, brat."
The man’s face flushed a deep red. He looked at the toddler, who looked ready to pounce on him. At first, he giggled nervously, but then looked at you, who was watching the little boy with quiet pride. He hurried away, muttering something about “weird families”.
As soon as the man disappeared, Yuji’s shoulders slumped, and his eyes grew wide and watery, leaving behind a little boy who suddenly looked very small. He reached his arms up high, his fingers wiggling for a hug.
You scooped him out of the cart instantly, holding his warm, trembling body against your chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"Are you okay?" he whimpered, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulled back just enough to hold your face with his chubby hands, his expression frantic with worry, "Was I brave? You're not gon leave me right?"
Your heart squeezed with so much affection it almost hurt. You peppered his face with kisses until he started to giggle and squirm. "You were the bravest boy in the whole world, Yuji. I would never leave you. Thank you for protecting me."
Yuji let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, head dropping onto your shoulder as he had just lifted a mountain. " ‘M tired now," he murmured. “Being brave is hard.”
The front door had barely clicked shut when Yuji scrambled out of your arms.
"UNCKUNA UNCKUNA! I SAVED AUNTIE FROM A BIG BOOGER”
Sukuna was in the bedroom with a pile of laundry on the bed when he looked up, watching a pink-haired blob charging at him. Yuji skidded to a halt in front of him and immediately launched into acting, puffing his chest out.
"There was a big booger, A big one! He was talking to Auntie and being ‘noying! I had to use my scary face that you taught me."
Sukuna leaned against the dresser, his eyes shifting to you, eyebrows raised in a silent question. You leaned against the doorframe, smiling and nodding. "And what did you tell the booger?" Sukuna asked, his voice a low, amused rumble.
Yuji stopped, planted his feet wide, crossed his arms, tilted his head, and held the deadliest scowl a toddler could muster. "I told him he was a brat! I told him Auntie belongs to you and to go away!"
A slow smirk spread across Sukuna’s face. He reached down, hooking his hands under Yuji’s arms and hoisting him high into the air before settling him on his forearm.
"Is that so?" Sukuna’s gaze moved to you, filled with a possessive pride that made your heart skip. He ruffled Yuji’s hair roughly yet affectionately. "That’s my boy. You did well, brat. You’re a natural."
Yuji chirped with joy, throwing his arms around Sukuna’s neck, while Sukuna reached out his free hand, fingers tangling with yours to pull you into his side. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped into a low rumble. “You okay?’ he asked. When you nodded, leaning your head against his shoulder with a sigh of content, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he murmured, grip tightening.
notes:
a lil happiness after the angst
divider: @uzmacchiato
simon wasn't one for pick-up lines. everyone told you as much in case you end up in a headlock with broken neck as result.
he came everyday at the shop, nervously placed his order without looking at anyone except straying his gaze just when you're handing him the unnamed coffee cup and then he would come by again the next day; same time, always on your shift.
and when you exchanged your shifts then it was purely coincidental that simon came making a second round for coffee just as unbothered and stiff and grudgy
huh, you wanted to see him smile or say something that wasn't keep the change.
“don't...this is scary.” your friend told you as much, with an ominous glance to where simon's bike made a stop outside as always on time.
“it might cheer him up though, c'mon.” you grinned—fixing the stupid collar—and greeting him with a big smile. “what would you like?”
simon perked, a physical spark in his ears and mouth. he stood like a brick for a moment because this was the first time you said anything to him. everyone had told you previously not to bother him and you did, they also told you not to mess up his coffee—always the same, and you did.
“the regular?” you tried.
simon nodded, then opened his mouth closing it again. “ah...yes, the regular.”
since it was a new dawn of new beginnings, you made his drink just he liked but smiled around the words and asked him. “So, what's your—”
“Simon.”
while you already knew his name from the card, but it was nice to hear him say it. he sounded exactly like he looked—but more fucking sexy.
You looped the 'o' towards 'n' feeling at once very much about improving handwriting. “Actually...” fuck, you couldn't believe you were doing this, “Uhm, you look like my first husband.”
simon's whole face shifted so much that you got anxious the way his eyes shone. Nerves popped out on his thick neck, and his arms flexed massively when he put hands in his leather jacket.
He stared, and you shockingly placed the coffee cup losing all your whimsy at once.
“So ya’ ere married.” simon said, all resigned and heavy and mysteriously dangerous.
“NO!” you explained, “Its a...it's a pickup line. I say 'oh woah you look like my first husband' and then you say 'oh how many husbands you got?' and then say I say haha, I never got married.”
You felt wild and erratic, feeling three heartbeat in one thumb, breathing hard then you swallowed, “Got it?”
it was a moment later that you realised this was how it must feel looking at the sun and not getting torn; simon smiled. a soft curl of his lips, a light trinkling around his iris, warm glow settling on his cheeks—impossiblily maddening, but a smile.
“how many husbands do you have?” he asked, very sincerely for an ordeal of playful pickup lines would allow.
all breath was knocked out of you, left with giddy anticipation and confetti, “I..I have never been married.”
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ a feared, sleep-deprived sukuna shows up to the library just to take care of you, only to end up being the one who melts into your arms instead.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, established relationship, college!au, sukuna is a menace (publicly) but a loser (privately), back hugs, acts of service, soft kisses, big scary man reduced to putty.
the library was supposed to be neutral ground.
that's what everyone agreed on, at least. the massive, radiant-lit study hall on the third floor of the student union existed in a strange little bubble of collective silence, where people from every corner of campus could huddle over their laptops without having to acknowledge each other.
it was functional — boring, even — it was the kind of place where the most exciting thing that could happen was someone accidentally crinkling a chip bag too loudly.
which is why, when ryomen sukuna walked through the doors, twenty pairs of eyes snapped up at once.
he didn't look at any of them, he didn't need to; his presence alone was enough to suck the air out of the room — all six foot something of him, broad shoulders straining against the worn black fabric of his hoodie, tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing into his jawline like dark vines. his face was all sharp angles and quiet menace, the kind of face that belonged on a wanted poster or a magazine cover, depending on how brave you were feeling. most people weren't feeling brave.
sukuna was holding a pink hydro flask.
no one dared to comment on it, not when he was scanning the room with those heavy-lidded crimson eyes, jaw set in its usual resting position that hovered somewhere between bored and actively hostile. a girl in the corner actually pulled her knees up to her chest, like she was trying to make herself smaller, and a guy two tables over dropped his pen and decided, very wisely, to just leave it there.
then sukuna's entire face changed.
it wasn't really dramatic; sukuna’s expression didn't soften so much as it unclenched — the tension bleeding out of his brow, the hard line of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile but was definitely adjacent to one. his shoulders dropped half an inch, and his eyes, still sharp but suddenly warm in a way that felt almost illegal to witness, landed on a table near the window; you.
you didn't look up right away.
you were absently chewing on the end of your highlighter, eyebrows pinched together as you stared down at what looked like a truly offensive amount of organic chemistry notes. your hair was piled into a messy bun that was already escaping in several directions, and you'd stolen one of sukuna’s hoodies once again — the gray one with the ripped cuff, which he'd specifically told you not to steal because it was his favorite, which meant you'd worn it approximately four times in the past week.
sukuna crossed the room in seven long strides, ignoring the way people practically threw themselves out of his path. by the time he reached your table, the hydro flask was already extended toward you, bumping gently against your elbow.
you finally looked up, and your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.
"hi, baby," you said with the cutest smile.
your voice was so casual, so utterly unbothered, like you weren't currently being stared at by half the library, like the six-foot-four tattooed menace looming over you was just a random guy, just your guy.
"you forgot this," sukuna said.
and his voice — god, his voice. it was still that same low, gravelly rumble that made freshman cross the street to avoid walking past him, but there was something else underneath it now; something softer, almost shy, if shy was a word that could ever apply to ryomen sukuna. the boy set the pink hydro flask down next to your elbow, and his long fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.
"you always forget it. your head's gonna dry up and fall off one of these days."
you laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that came from your chest, easy and warm.
"that's not how dehydration works."
"you don't know that. you're not a doctor."
sukuna was already pulling out the chair next to you, the metal legs scraping against the floor in a way that made several people wince; he didn't seem to notice, or care, sukuna dropped into the seat like he belonged there, which he did, because he'd been sitting in that exact chair every tuesday and thursday for the past four months, ever since you'd declared this your official study spot.
"i'm pre-med," you reminded him, twisting the cap off the hydro flask and taking a long sip.
water dripped down your chin, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, completely unselfconscious. sukuna watched you do it with an intensity that should have been unsettling but somehow just looked like devotion.
"pre-med isn't med," he said, but his heart wasn't in it.
sukuna’s heart was somewhere in the vicinity of your pinky finger, which was suddenly very close to his hand on the table. he stared at it for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if touching it would make him seem desperate.
( he was desperate. he was always desperate. but he had a reputation to maintain, or whatever. )
"did you eat?" you asked with a little smile, capping the bottle and setting it aside.
your knee knocked against his under the table — deliberately, sukuna knew, because you always did that when you wanted his attention. like you didn't already have all of it, constantly, every single second of every single day.
"yeah."
"liar."
sukuna looked away.
"i had a protein bar."
"that's not food."
you were already digging through your backpack, and sukuna watched your hands move with that same quiet intensity, cataloging every small movement; the way your nails were painted a chipped, faded lavender, the way the sleeve of his hoodie kept slipping down over your fingers, the way you bit your lower lip when you were concentrating, just slightly, just enough to make something twist low in his stomach.
you emerged victorious with a granola bar, thrusting it toward him like a peace offering.
"eat."
"i'm not hungry."
"ryomen."
and that was it, that was all it took; just his name, falling out of your mouth in that particular tone — not angry, not nagging, just warm and expectant — and sukuna was reaching for the granola bar like his hands had stopped belonging to him. he tore the wrapper open with his teeth because he was still him, still a little feral around the edges, but he ate it.
every last bite, even though he'd genuinely not been hungry, because you'd asked him to.
you smiled at him, small and pleased, and then you turned back to your notes like that was just a normal interaction, like you hadn't just made the most feared man on campus eat his vegetables, metaphorically speaking.
sukuna watched you for another very, very long moment, and then he did something that made the girl at the next table literally drop her phone.
he rested his chin on your shoulder.
it was such a small thing, such an unconscious thing — the way sukuna leaned into your space, his chest pressing against your back, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck. his eyes fluttered half-closed, and he made a sound that was almost a sigh, something low and content that vibrated through both of you. sukuna’s arms came up to wrap around your waist, loose enough that you could still move, still highlight your notes, but present and anchoring.
"you're heavy," you said.
but you were already leaning back into him, your head tilting to give sukuna better access to your neck, and your hand came up to rest over his, your fingers slotting between his like they'd been made to fit there.
"mmh. you're warm," he mumbled against your skin, and his voice was so soft now, so private, like he'd forgotten there were other people in the room entirely.
sukuna’s thumb slowly traced absent patterns on your hip, over and over, a mindless rhythm that he probably didn't even realize he was doing.
a guy at the table across from them — some lanky kid with a beanie and an aura of misplaced confidence — whispered something to his friend, and sukuna's eyes snapped open; just for a second, just long enough to pin the guy in place with a look that said i heard that, and i will remember your face, and you should probably leave now.
the guy left, and his friend followed, looking vaguely nauseous.
you poked sukuna's hand.
"stop terrorizing the other students."
"he was staring."
"everyone's always staring. you're kind of noticeable."
sukuna made a noise that might have been a grunt of acknowledgment. his grip on your waist tightened slightly, and he pressed his face more firmly into the junction of your neck and shoulder, breathing you in. you smelled like vanilla and coffee and that specific laundry detergent you used, the one that made all your clothes smell like clean linen and something floral he couldn't name.
sukuna had started buying it for his own clothes too, which was embarrassing, but no one had to know that.
"you should study," you said, even as your free hand came up to card through his hair.
pink strands slipped through your fingers, surprisingly soft, and sukuna practically melted against you; his whole body went loose and pliant, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase.
"didn't you say you had a paper due?"
"finished it."
"when?"
"this morning. at four."
you stopped moving your hand.
"sukuna."
"don't start."
"four in the morning?"
"couldn't sleep." he said it like it was nothing, like it wasn't a confession, but you knew him too well to let it slide.
you turned in sukuna’s arms, just enough to look at his face, and what you saw there made your chest ache; dark circles under his eyes, barely visible in the phosphorescent light but definitely there. a certain tightness around his mouth that he only got when he was running on empty.
"baby," you said softly, and his expression flickered, cracked, just a little. "why couldn't you sleep?"
sukuna looked away a second time, jaw working, and his hand naturally found yours under the table, fingers interlacing, squeezing once, hard.
"just didn't. it's fine."
"it's not fine. you need to take care of yourself."
"i take care of myself."
"baby, you eat protein bars for dinner and stay up until four in the morning writing papers you could have written during normal human hours."
you cupped sukuna’s face with your free hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and he leaned into the touch like something starved finally finding warmth.
"that's not taking care of yourself. that's surviving."
sukuna didn't say anything for a long moment, he just looked at you, with those eyes that everyone else found so terrifying.
you'd never understood that.
his eyes were just eyes — intense, sure, and the color was unusual, but all you saw when you looked at him was the person who remembered to bring you water when you studied, the person who carried your groceries even when you insisted you could do it yourself, the person who'd stayed up with you until three in the morning last week, not because you'd asked him to, but because you'd had a terrible nightmare and he'd felt it through the wall between your apartments and had shown up at your door in his boxers with a glass of water and a quiet "you okay?"
"i'm not good at this," sukuna finally said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw around the edges. "the whole... being a person thing. i'm not good at it."
"you're good at it with me."
"yeah?
and there it was — that flicker of vulnerability, there and gone so fast you almost missed it. the reminder that beneath all the tattoos and the resting bitch face and the reputation that preceded him like a shadow, ryomen sukuna was just a guy; a guy who didn't know how to take care of himself but would burn the world down to take care of you, a guy who'd learned how to be soft not because you'd asked him to, but because you'd looked at him like he was already soft and he'd wanted so desperately to live up to that.
"yeah," you said, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and brief. "now put your head down. i'm gonna finish this chapter, and you're gonna nap for twenty minutes."
"i don't nap."
"you do now."
sukuna stared at you for a beat, two beats, and then, with a sigh that was mostly for show, he folded his arms on the table and laid his head down, cheek resting on his forearm, and his other hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb still tracing those absent patterns on your skin.
"twenty minutes," he mumbled, already sounding drowsy. "not a second more."
"whatever you say, baby."
sukuna's eyes drifted closed, and the last thing he saw before sleep pulled him under was you, bent over your notes, highlighter in hand, wearing his hoodie and looking like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
across the library, someone's jaw was still on the floor.
the pink hydro flask sat between them like a promise, condensation beading on its surface, and sukuna — scary, shitty, tattooed sukuna — smiled in his sleep, just a little, because your thumb was tracing patterns back.
