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 á˛ď¸ľđź
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 âá°.
I donât post NSFW content, just a personal preference. If youâre 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!
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.
Thinking about dog shifter!reader who, when little, would lie in your mothers lap during slow evenings and simply enjoy the peace she brought you
Of course, that was back when you were a pup, small and soft and easy to love.
Nowadays, you're nothing anyone wants to cuddle. A giant anatolian shepherd, you can remember clearly the day your mom told you the weight was too much, and you'd simply have to curl by her feet. Age has changed you just as war has.
No one wants to hold you, too big and awkward to fit in anyone's lap.
That is, until you meet ghost, your new lieutenant. A giant of a man, even in your human form he easily outclasses you. Of course, ghost has worked with plenty of shifters before, killed plenty too, he knows exactly how to read your body language.
Meaning it almost takes you off guard after a bad mission when he drops a heavy hand on the back of your neck like he's scruffing a pup, grunting "with me, runt."
"Go on, shift." He orders you in the recroom he just locked that you're pretty sure he shouldn't have keys for. Maybe you see him a bit as a pack leader, so you shift without asking why.
Only for him to bodily haul you onto his lap, entire couch sagging with the weight of you both. He doesn't groan about how big you are, or how your claws dig into his jeans.
He only cards two hands into your fur and gently scratches until you let your mind really sink into it.
Because for ghost, you aren't too big. Your ugly parts, your neevous habits, all of you. He can handle it if you'd just let him.
Mascara ran down your cheeks as simon gave you a tissue.
''..A-and that prick stood me up!! Simon, he..he dumped me...''
He rubbed a hand over your back, trying to keep you calm.
''...do you think if I was prettier he'd like me..?''
Simon was baffled , how could you not see your beauty? wasn't it obvious?Â
''Love, dont say those things. Your fine the way you are.''
You sniffled. ''But what if I'm not? ''
''Then...you just dodged a bullet. Listen, most men are like that, and guess what? you were kind enough to give him a chance, and he struck out. He had a change and he lost. If he was the one, he would've treated you better.''
You wiped your cheek with your palm, smearing the ink further.Â
''Right...I-I'm a baddie, I dont need him to waste my t-time any anyway!''
''Atta' girl. You are a queen, dont lower your standards for scum like him.''
He helped you clean up your face, giving your nose a gentle kiss.Â
''If he wont treat you like queen, someone else will, Alright? Maybe lay off the dating apps for a while.''
Someone else as in himself...
He was honestly relieved to see you listening, that way he didn't have any competition, he would surely sweep you off your feet before anyone else had a chance.Â
He was dominating this competition and you were the prize he'd just won
ââ .⌠apologizing after yelling at your warrior husband sukuna in front of his men (oops) â§.*
"'kuna."
your husband said nothing. he merely continued to brush his horse down, barely acknowledging your presence behind him. your fingers fidgeted with your sleeve, nervous and guilty.
only an hour ago, you had argued with him openly in front of his men over something trivial. it should've occurred to you that something was wrong when he didn't even say a word in response. he only let you rant as he stood silent, jaw tightening. when you were done, you had just stormed off without giving him a chance to reply.
as your anger subsided, you had started to realize how he must have felt. being a formidable warrior with a fearsome reputation, sukuna never once showed a hint of weakness except with you. he had always been intimidating, terrifying, powerful. and there you were, undermining him with just an indignant lecture and no care at all for who he was with.
sukuna always met your fire with just as much ferocity. deep down, he loved to fight with you because he knew you could take whatever you dished out. the two of you would row it out until it ended in begrudging apologies and laughter while tangling under your sheets.
yet now, he didn't even deign to look at you. it hurt more than you could admit.
"'kuna, please," you pleaded softly, fingers brushing the muscles of his back. "truly i didn't mean to lose my temper, i'm sorry."
without him even turning, you knew the face he was making. eyes shut, teeth grinding, refusing to meet your eyes despite how much he might have wanted to. you didn't back down. a pout pulled your lips as your voice turned exaggeratedly plaintive.
"if i have offended my lord husband in any way, i wish to repent." your arms came around his torso, cheek resting against him. "it wasn't my place to speak to you that way," you murmured, coy, docile, so unlike yourself that sukuna would've laughed any other day. "i'll suffer any punishment you see fit."
still, he didn't move, though his hands almost paused, then tightened on the brush, resuming. you could feel his resolve breaking bit by bit, and you latched on to it.
"yell at me, curse me, scold me, do whatever you'd like to me," you walked around to face him, stood between his horse and his broad chest. you looked up at him through your lashes, then hugged him again as his whole body tensed up, still acting like you weren't there.
"just please, look at me again. i can't bear being apart from you."
after a few moments of tense silence, sukuna cursed under his breath and suddenly moved. strong arms wrapped around you in a crushing embrace, bringing you closer to him, and you hid a triumphant yet relieved smile.
"you provoke me, over and over again," he began, growling. "and the second i turn away from you, you cling like a vine." his fingers grabbed your face and forced it upwards as he glared down at you. "spoiled brat."
"will you forgive me?" you asked, voice muffled as he squished your cheeks. he let out an exasperated huff.
"let's see how i feel once i give you the punishment you so sweetly asked for," he pinched your ear and suppressed a smirk, making you whine. you didn't move away from him, though, content to be right where you were. and you suspected your husband was, too. no matter how mad he got, he was always weak for you in the end.
a/n: tysm for 200 followers !! im in disbelief â§.*
he looks down in shame. and ryomen sukuna is never ashamed of anything heâs done, and heâs done a lot of shit.
âthat asshole was putting his hands on youâ he huffs and looks at your chest instead of your eyes âso yes, againâ youâve never looked this visibly annoyed, and what was scaring him even more is how calm your voice was.
âlook at me, not my tits ryomenâ you narrow your eyes, he immediately looks up âyes maâamâ you grab his collar and the security turns a blind eye(heâs been getting on their nerves also)
âwhen I say no stupid shit, that means no-â you give him a hard slap â-jail, got it?â he just nods his face didnât even budge, of course you donât intend to harm your husband and youâre not abusive. sometimes with ryomen sukuna you literally need to smack some sense into him.
âyes maâamâ he nods again, âcan you bail me now?â you roll your eyes âim not picking you up again, call chosoâ ryomens eyebrows knit together in annoyance âbut i want you to pick me upâ if anyone didnât know any better, heâs whining for you to pick him up.
âno ryoâ he tilts his head and subconsciously pouts then leans in âcmon woman, stop being a bratâ his words have no bite, but when you smile he scowls.
you take a deep sigh and close your eyes, âlast timeâ âi promise babyâ he smirks.
you both know this definitely isnât the first, nor the last.
ps. ok pinky promise this is the last drabble after this ima finish two more request than boxer choso is comingđ taglist : : @in-aa @chewiebee @applelite @crybabylulu @yassifie-d @ai-no-tegami @silverwfern @oksukuna
my masterlist
Šonlyfanfictions donât steal my work i spend a lot of time on every single thing i make, i hardly have the brainpower to make it lol. no ai thank you.
I LOVE GAANG SMM!! And yes, Suki is part of gaang. I canât 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 donât 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 âmake sure ye got in safe, bonnie.â
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 donât know when it started.
But by the time you notice them, itâs too late.
They come in pieces, never all at once. Maybe thatâs why your focus never quite catches them when it shouldâve.
Johnny is the easiest to trust. Heâs warm, friendly, a constant presence that doesnât seem out of place- until you look back and realize you donât remember ever properly speaking to him for the first time. Heâs always just there, standing behind you in line at the pharmacy, offering to carry your bags when you struggle. He calls you âbonnieâ and clicks his tongue when he sees the exhaustion on your face.
âYouâre pushinâ yourself too hard, lass.â His voice is teasing, but thereâs something firm beneath it, much like his hands on your shoulders. âShould be restinâ.â
Then thereâs Kyle. Heâs 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 heâs finished his food, asking you questions- small, harmless things.
âHow far along are you?â
âGot any family around?â
âYou shouldnât be on your feet all day. You got someone looking after you, love?â
Thereâs concern in his voice. It feels nice, being cared for, so you donât let yourself worry about why he asks so many questions.
But you donât 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 doorâs lock sticks one night, itâs 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, thereâs nothing there.
He introduces himself to you once, silently joining your side when a group of young men had attempted to follow you. Youâd 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 thereâs John. He comes last, when youâre already too exhausted to question why theyâre all suddenly in your life.
âYou shouldnât be working like this,â 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 heâs waiting for you to break. âNot in your condition.â
âMy condition?â you scoff, but youâre too tired to be indignant.
âYouâre pregnant,â he says simply. âYou need to rest.â
You want to rest.
But thereâs 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 donât notice the changes at first because they start so small.
Johnny shows up when youâre struggling with your bags, even when you donât remember telling him where youâd be. Kyle appears at your work just when you need an extra hand. John tells you he has âconnectionsâ when your hours get cut and suddenly, your landlord is more lenient about late payments.
When your doctorâs office calls to confirm your next prenatal appointment, the receptionist mentions your âhusbandâ already checked in about your test results.
You donât have a husband.
But when you try to ask for details, the woman on the phone just laughs. âOh, donât worry- he said everythingâs fine. Had a lovely Mancunian accent! Youâve got yourself quite a lovely man, mrs.â
You never get a name, and you donât know what to do about your suspicions.
And you donât 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 âfixesâ your heater, or when Simon sits silently in the corner after heâs given you a teddy bear for your little bean, its eyes beady and gleaming.
But theyâre 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.
âShh. Itâs just me.â
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.
âYou forgot to lock up again.â He says, a quiet reprimand. He was always telling you to do that, but-
âI- I donât think I did-â
âYou did,â he assures you. âAnyone couldâve walked in.â
Like him.
Thereâs 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.
âYou donât have to do this alone,â he murmurs. âLet us take care of you.â
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
Youâre trying not to freak outâ you swear you are.Â
You canât find your headphones. Youâre aware of how ridiculous that sounds to the average person, but unfortunately, youâre not the average person.Â
Youâve 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 arenât there.Â
Youâve looked in every possible spot twice and even the impossible onesâ like the microwaveâ yet, nothing. Â
Your head is throbbing, and your chest feels so tight itâs hard to breathe. Tears well in the corner of your eyes as you desperately try not to cry.Â
Johnâs going to be home any minute now. The last thing you want is for him to have to deal with you like this.Â
You need to regulate, you know that, but all you can focus on is the fact that you canât find them. You canât afford another pair right now, you bitterly think as you shine your flashlight under the couch for the fifth time.Â
Itâs stupid, getting this worked up over some plastic and wires. Normal people donât cry over these things, and the tears rolling down your cheeks are just another harsh reminder that you arenât normal.Â
Youâre so lost in your thoughts that you donât even realize Johnâs home until heâs standing right behind you. You pull yourself out from under the couch.Â
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.
âEverything okay, lovie?â he asks, but by the soft tone he gives you, youâre willing to bet heâs already guessed the answer.Â
You want to speakâ you try to speakâ 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.
âOh, sweetheart, âm sorry. Why donât we take a moment, then you can try and tell me whatâs wrong. Can I hold you?â He waits for your nod in approval before meeting you on the floor.Â
He doesnât have to ask what you need at that moment; heâs been through enough of them with you to know. He pulls you into his lap, his arms squeezing tight around your waist.Â
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. âItâs alright, love, I got you,â he mumbles as you bury your head into his shoulder.Â
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 heâs wearing cologne: leather, cigar smoke, and a faint hint of coffee.Â
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.Â
He stops his movements, looking at you without having to look you in the eyes. âThink you can tell me whatâs wrong?â he whispers, hand brushing gently against your jaw.Â
âItâs stupid,â you mutter, embarrassed.Â
A stern frown makes its way onto his face. âIf it upsets you, itâs not stupid, sweetheart.â He insists.Â
You close your eyes and focus on the feeling of his rough fingertips on your skin. âI lost my headphones. Iâve looked everywhere, I canât track them, and I canât afford another pair.âÂ
You sniffle, no longer crying but still a little teary-eyed. âI donât know what to do,â you admit.Â
Youâre not expecting him to fix itâ you'd never ask that of himâ but he does anyway. âJust give me a minute, love,â he says, gently pulling you off his lap.Â
Your eyes trail his figure as he walks into your shared bedroom. You arenât sure when you started biting at your fingers, but you become painfully aware of it when the skin starts to sting.Â
When John returns, he sits across from you on the floorâ something you feel a little guilty about. You know itâs got to bother his back.
He does that little smile he does when heâs nervousâ 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. Â
You blink at him before cautiously grabbing it. Your eyes scan the package, and your mouth falls open at the realization. Itâs the same brand and modelâ hell, even the color is the same.Â
âCouple months ago, I noticed how you bring 'em everywhere. One thing the military taught me was to always be prepared. I figured itâd be handy to have a second pair, yeah?âÂ
Tears fill your eyes as you laugh in shock. âYou did that for me?âÂ
He tilts his head and just gives you a knowing smile, âIâd do anything for you, sweetheart,â he says, pulling you into his embrace. âProud of you for working through it. Letting me comfort youâ telling me what was wrong.â
âThank you, John,â you whisper as you nuzzle your head against his chest. Your eyes are slowly blinking as your body feels heavy.Â
âMust be knackered, huh, love? Why donât we take a quick kip, yeah?â Itâs more of a suggestion than a question, but you nod against him anyway.Â
He pulls you up, gently guiding you to the bedroom. You set the headphones down on the nightstand, and when you turn around, heâs wearing his softest pajamas.
You glance at the clothes in his hands for you. You give him a small smile when you notice itâs some youâve worn a million timesâ theyâll feel familiar against your skin.Â
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, youâd feel patronized, belittled, but with John, itâs different. He doesnât just pretend to understand because he doesnât have toâ he knows firsthand what itâs like.Â
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 youâ it makes you appreciate him even more.Â
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. âThank you for taking such good care of me, for always being so patient with me,â you whisper. Â
âYou never have to thank me for that, sweetheart, I love youâ every part of you.â His words feel like a vowâ because they areâ because he means them.Â
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.
âiâm home,â he calls out. âwhyâs it soââ
he stops.
there you are, frozen in the middle of the living room like youâve been caught doing something you shouldnât, 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 facesâ a little messy, uneven, but unmistakably patterned after sukunaâs tattoos.
ââŚwhat,â he says, confused.
âlook!â yuji beams, throwing his arms out. âwe look like you, uncle kuna!â
choso nods proudly, pointing to his cheek where a slightly wobbly version of sukunaâs tattoos curve under his eye.
âyuji helped me do that one!â
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.
âtheyâre cool, right?â yuji insists.
sukuna looks at you as youâre trying to surpress a smile, and thatâs when his eyes narrow further.
ââŚand you let them do that?â
you hold your hands up immediately. âokay, listenââ
ânot to mention,â he interrupts, gesturing at you. âyou joined in.â
yuji puffs up. âbut you also have them!â
âmine are permanent. and not done by someone who clearly canât draw a straight line.â
you cross your arms. âthey just wanted to be like you.â
sukuna clicks his tongue, looking away briefly before rolling his eyes. ââŚthen why are you covered in them too?â
âit looked like fun..â
âbathroom,â he orders, jerking his head toward the hallway. âboth of you. wash it off before it stains.â
âawwââ yuji starts.
ânow.â
they scramble, but choso pauses on the way, looking back.
âcan you draw them on us next time?â
sukuna gives him a look, and they disappear, whispering to each other like that answer isnât final.
youâre about to go as well, but sukuna turns his attention back to you.
âyouâre staying here,â he says, stepping closer, voice dropping. âtryna be like me, huh?â
âmh-hmm.â
âyeah?â he says, amused. âtryna turn them into mini-meâs?â
âthey basically are,â you defend. âand they kept asking about your tattoos, and i justââ
âand you just thought, âwhy not let them draw all over themselves?ââ
you shrug. âit made them happy.â
he stops right in front of you now.
âyouâre lucky it washes off,â he mutters.
ââŚthey adore you, yâknow.â your smile softens slightly. âand youâre not as upset as you pretend to be.â
he leans down just enough so his eyes lock with yours, something sharp but amused flickering underneath.
ââŚtch, now iâd love to know the real reason youâre covered in black marker as well,â he says.
âi just really like your tattoos..â
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.
âi do like these on you,â he murmurs. âcareful. i might return the favor.â
your eyebrow lifts. âoh?â
his gaze drops briefly, to your arms, then back to your face.
âwouldnât be hard,â he adds. âitâs what i do for a living, after all.â
you laugh under your breath. âare you offering to tattoo on me?â
a smirk tugs at his mouth as his gaze drops, flicking from your shoulders to your chest and back up.
âwhat about the tattoos beneath?â he asks quietly. âwanna replicate those, too? how about iââ
from the bathroom, yujiâs voice rings out. âitâs not coming off fast enoughââ
sukuna straightens instantly, irritation snapping back into place.
âscrub harder!â he barks.
then, quieter, to youâ
ââŚweâll finish this conversation later.â
you can only imagine what that means.
â¸â¸ if you enjoyed this, consider checking out the masterlist for this series. âĄ
you managed to gulp down a little bit of water after the show, your trembling hands show that youâve been depriving yourself of what makes you be yourself on stage. or used to.
youâve been off coke for 2 weeks now.
"i 'avenât dealt with my alcoholic father only to fall in love with a crackie rockstar."
thatâs what he said to you.
thatâs what made you cry.
thatâs 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 thatâs 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?"
"yâheard me."
"i⌠donât remember what happened."
he obviously doesnât believe you. "fine. you relapsed."
"âŚ"
the hum of the buses motor isnât 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 couldâve overdosed. couldâve died."
"âŚ"
"it went so well for 2 weeks. and nowâŚ"
"i wonât do it again, okay-"
"iâve heard that enough from everyone in my life. tell me somethinâ different tha'll change my mind."
"simon, i know⌠i know that youâve been around junkies all your life, okay? i- iâll⌠i just⌠donât wanna let go of you⌠if- if i do it again, then you get to leave. no begging, no crying. just acceptance, then thatâs my fault.
"so this isnât just your fault?"
"thatâs not-"
"sounded like it to me."
"i⌠i donât wanna guilt-trap youâŚ"
"why?"
"if you go, itâs only gonna get worse. i donât care what you do, o-okay? if you put me in rehab or if youâre secretly a vampire and suck my coke-riddled blood out of-âŚ"
he wasnât amused at your joke.
"sorry."
"iâm not letting you out of my sight again. after this godforsaken tour, weâre doing rehab. at home. these facilities donât work. they donât know ya like i do. youâre just a file to them."
Simon Rileyâs never thought that beforeâbut now theyâre barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.Â
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They wonât hurt you, of course, but you donât 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 manâ
Laughter stops him in his tracks.Â
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddlerâs giggling so hard sheâs nearly tippinâ out of her seat as she yanks on Macâs ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.Â
And youâyouâre bent over, one hand holding Capâs paw, the other scratching behind Kiloâs ears.Â
âCute pups,â you say.Â
Cute...what?Â
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.Â
âYou military?âÂ
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. Youâre not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.Â
âMy husband was, too.â Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. âHe did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.â
You donât have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find somethingâanythingâto 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.Â
And thenâit hits him in the chest like a bullet.Â
Youâre all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.Â
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong itâs almost staggering.
âWell,â you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. âHave a good one.â Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. âLieutenant.â
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the âcute pupsâ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.Â
The gaming room is bathed in a glow from a standing lamp near you and the dual monitors where Sukuna is currently locked in. Youâre tucked into the oversized armchair heâd bought so youâd be within armâs reach while he played, your legs curled beneath you, and a thick paperback propped open against your knees. Itâs quiet, save for the clack of his mechanical keyboard and the muffled sounds of gunfire and boys yelling leaking from his headset.
Right now, Sukunaâs 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 arenât really thinking about it when your hand reaches out to his arm.Â
At this point, you donât even have to look to know where the armbands or the circles on his shoulder are. Youâve 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 donât notice the match starts or even the sudden clicks of his mouse or keys. Maybe itâs because the room is usually filled with his barking orders, complaints about the lag, gravelly snarls to the team, or exasperated, drawn-out, âGet on the point, Satoru!â But today, Sukunaâs uncharacteristically silent. He hasnât 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.
Sukunaâs 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.
âBrat,â 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. âOh. Did you die? I thought you were still waiting in the lobby.â
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.
âI was holding the long angle,â he mutters. âMy ranked just took a dive into the dirt because you can't keep your hands off me for one round. Hope youâre happy with yourself.â
You canât suppress the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, noticing how heâs still leaning into you, his entire posture surrendered to your touch. His voice deepening into a purr doesnât help at all.
âShould I stop then? I honestly didn't realize...â
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 heâd just been defending.
âYou stop, and Iâm going to have a much bigger problem than a lost round,â 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. âYouâre the reason my stats are dropping, woman. Youâre a goddamn distraction, you know that?â
âIâm sorry,â you murmur, though you don't sound sorry at all as you start tracing the lines again.
âUh-huh,â he grumbles, closing his eyes and settling deeper into the headrest as your fingers resume their path across his skin. âWhatever. Just keep your hand where it is. Iâll tell Satoru Iâm having some âtechnical difficulties.â Heâs stupid enough to believe it.â
