summary: sukuna can't stand his gaming rival, he hates the way you always beat him, hates the way you're never affected by his words and most of all he hates how desperately he wants you
a/n: I was crazy into cs:go when I was a teenager so this is in honor of that hehe
Pro gamer!Sukuna who’s been playing games for as long as he could remember, his parents completely unbothered that their six year old was loading up Call of Duty on his dad’s Xbox whenever he got the chance.
And as he grew up he got more experience on countless games until he finally settled on CS:GO as his favourite, logging on every evening after school throughout his teenage years, climbing up the ranks and becoming well known in the community.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who is probably the most toxic player you could imagine, always cursing out his teammates when they make a stupid play or fail to live up to his ridiculous expectations. But people put up with him because he’s the best, if he’s on your team then you’re sure to win, and that makes the verbal abuse worth it.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who is accustomed to people making allowances for him, with other players anxiously backing down when he barks orders at them. So he’s caught off guard when he enters a game and finds a teammate completely unwilling to put up with his shit - and a woman no less. You refuse to follow any of his commands, telling him to shut the fuck up when he starts mansplaining to you how to use the weapon you’d just picked.
He tries not to let it bother him too much, you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing, you’ll learn your place once you see just how good he is. But to his surprise, he finds that you’re also extremely good at the game, making smart plays left, right and centre, your reaction time good enough to rival his.
And that really pisses him off, because who are you to come in here and encroach upon his territory, with your sweet little voice that had your teammates rallying to you instead of him.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who tries not to think about you too much after that. It wasn’t too hard - between getting an offer on a top pro team and the fact that he didn’t encounter you in another matchmaking game for weeks after that, the encounter practically fell from his mind. He was just too busy with other things.
But at his first in-person competition all of his frustration came flooding back, because at his introduction to the opposing team he encountered you in the flesh. He’d recognise that sweet voice anywhere, not to mention the fact that your username was printed on your jersey plain as day. It pissed him off to see just how pretty you were, hating the way that his heart picked up as you smiled at him, shaking his hand and asking what his name was like you didn’t remember him.
He hissed at you that you’d met online before, and you simply shrugged your shoulders and said that you’d played thousands of games and couldn’t remember every single one. Although, the shit-eating grin on your face said differently.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who decided at that moment that he needed to crush you, to utterly destroy you until your confidence was so thoroughly decimated that you’d quit gaming altogether.
And yet, he found that you were not such an easy nut to crack. Your team was strong, you were strong, and time after time you’d get the better of him. It would always end with Sukuna raging at his teammates, imploring them to do better while you were staring at him with that smug little grin of yours, eyes filled with a pity that made him want to kill you.
Well, it also made his cock harden, but he didn’t like to think about that side of things too much.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who would celebrate twice as hard whenever he found a victory over your team, always hoping that you’d be crushed when he’d go to shake your hand afterwards, only to find you smiling at him, completely unbothered, congratulating him like he was some sort of child who had managed to write a sentence for the first time.
Somehow it always took away from his victory, never quite feeling that satisfaction that he felt he was owed, meanwhile any loss would have him ripping his hair out and being consumed with hatred for you for weeks on end.
What right did you have to impact his mind so significantly?
Pro gamer!Sukuna who figured that he should maybe just fling himself off a bridge when his coach announced that you would be joining their team. Your contract was up at your previous organisation and you were looking for a new challenge - considering that you were one of the hottest prospects on the market, it only made sense that Sukuna’s team would want you.
And his other teammates were so happy to have you, always doing their best to impress you because you were a girl who played games and they were a bunch of nerds, having you around was probably like some kind of wet dream to them. As if you’d ever be interested - it was clear to Sukuna that you didn’t care about that sort of thing, you were too focussed on being the best to waste your time dating some loser.
Not that he cared about who you dated anyway.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who couldn’t work with you effectively at all, with the two of you in one constant ongoing feud over everything. In the game, he’d outright refuse to listen to your commands, despite you being appointed as the in-game leader, considering that you were the best strategist of the five players. When he’d throw his tantrums you’d just ignore him and build the strategy around the others, telling him that he could join in once he’d managed to get a grip on his feelings.
Outside of the game was even worse.
The five of you had to spend a lot of time together with all the travelling that you had to do to attend events, and Sukuna couldn’t stand being in close proximity with you all the time. He’d argue with you over every opinion you shared, putting down all of your likes and ideas, picking on whatever food you ate, doing his best to make sure that he was making your life a misery.
And everytime you’d just shrug and grin and look so unaffected and it made his blood boil. Why could you get under his skin via your mere existence while he couldn’t get under yours with all the effort in the world?
And, why did he even fucking care so much?
Pro gamer!Sukuna who ends up feeling sick at the first major that you guys attend as a team, hating all of the attention you were receiving from players at big organisations. After the event he watched you giggle and bat your eyelashes up at Gojo Satoru, whose team won that weekend’s competition, and he couldn’t help the burning anger rising in his chest, wondering what the fuck was so great about that blue-eyed freak.
He left early that night, spending the evening alone in his hotel room with the image of you and Gojo constantly popping up in his mind. He kept wondering if Gojo took you back to his hotel room, if you’re squirming and moaning beneath that bastard while Sukuna was lying here alone.
Because as much as you pissed him off, all he could think about was how much he’d like to turn those annoying words of yours into moans, have you crying beneath him and see if you could still keep your composure then.
He definitely didn’t want Gojo to be the one doing it.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who became even more antagonistic towards you after that, going out of his way to make life as difficult as possible for you, desperate for some kind of a reaction beyond total disinterest. And that’s when he finally turned to taking rash action.
Pissed off by you giving him nothing, making his mind a living hell while you skipped around like you were living your best life, he decided that he needed to do something. And that involved showing up at your hotel room in the middle of the night during a competition, red eyes frustrated as he straight up asked you why you were so dead set on ruining his life.
Pro gamer!Sukuna whose eyes widened as you giggled softly and asked what the hell he was talking about. In your eyes you hadn’t been doing anything to ruin his life, quite the opposite - you’d assumed that the two of you had been flirting.
All of his attempts to put you down and drive you mad had amounted to nothing because you thought that it was just some game. And as much as he wanted to call you stupid for that he couldn’t deny the way that he was getting hard at you staring up at him all expectantly like you were.
It was making sense to him now why you bothered him so much. He’d never felt the need to focus on someone before like he had with you, and it was evident that he might’ve been channeling his emotion into the wrong thing.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who doesn’t say anything else, crashing his lips into yours and pushing you roughly back into the hotel room, refusing to release you until he has you on the bed beneath him, his bigger body pressing you down.
Your eyes are blown wide but you don’t push him away, desperately leaning forward for more as he breaks the kiss, small hands gripping tightly at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, and who is he to deny you?
Pro gamer!Sukuna who isn’t gentle as he rips off your pajamas, accepting the fact that he wants you but unwilling to yet let go of all of the built up anger and frustration that he’d accumulated over the last year or so, and he was going to make sure you felt it. Pinching at your nipples harshly, biting your shoulders, and landing hard spanks on your thighs had you whining and whimpering under him and he loved it, desperate to hear more of that and less of your complaining.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who has you in every position imaginable that night, starting with you underneath him before moving you onto all fours, and then prone bone, and then even getting you in a full nelson in front of a mirror so that you can watch yourself come undone on his cock.
It's messy and it's desperate - a year’s worth of tension being resolved and he couldn’t imagine anything better.
He pumped copious amounts of cum into you, mocking you each time tears started to drip down your cheeks because it just felt too good, clinging to him like a lifeline as you let him use and abuse you in ways that he’d been dreaming of longer than he’d like to admit.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who realises that he needs to stop when he has you on his lap after hours of fucking, your eyes drooping, your fingers no longer able to physically hold onto him as he bounces you lazily on his cock. Finishing inside you one more time he pulls out and spends some time cleaning you up with a wet cloth before tucking you up in bed, his arms wrapped around you protectively as you drift off to sleep.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who is faced with surprise from his teammates the next day when they find him to be completely compliant and obedient, no more fighting and biting back, no more misdirected anger, just him agreeing with whatever you wanted him to do in a low contented purr.
But they all quickly became aware of just what had calmed their angry teammate down at the next competition, the thin walls at the cheap hotel you were staying at making it abundantly clear how he was spending all of his energy now that he was done yelling at them all the time.
Pro gamer!Sukuna who thinks that maybe he likes having a rival.
After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.
Everything was so much weird.
When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.
You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.
But the real shock came twenty minutes later.
The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.
You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.
"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.
You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.
"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.
Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.
When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.
"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"
You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."
The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.
"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.
"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.
"And do you know where you are right now?"
"A hospital?"
"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."
You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign
So you were married.
"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."
The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."
You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.
"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.
The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.
"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.
"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.
To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.
"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."
You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.
An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.
You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.
"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.
"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.
"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.
"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."
"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"
"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."
He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.
"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."
He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.
Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.
"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.
'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.
"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.
It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.
You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.
"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.
He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.
"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."
You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.
"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."
"Okay" you hummed softly.
His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."
You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.
"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"
His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.
"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.
He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.
"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"
"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"
"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.
"Why?"
"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."
You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."
The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.
"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."
"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.
Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."
A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.
Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.
Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.
When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.
And then, there was Sukuna.
Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.
To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.
He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much
His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.
At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.
The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.
Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.
"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.
"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."
The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"
You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."
You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.
"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.
"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."
You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.
"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.
The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.
As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.
Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.
Crash!
The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.
You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.
You froze.
Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.
Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.
You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.
Pink hair.
The backyard.
The jazz music.
The napkin.
A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.
The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.
When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.
"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.
You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.
But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.
As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.
"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.
Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.
Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.
"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."
Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.
"I fucking love you" he whispers
(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)
“where are we?” you slur lazily, body leaning against your boyfriend for support. one of his hands is wrapped around your hip and the other one slams his bedroom door shut. “thought we’d go t’yours.” you pout.
and logan has to do his best to not bark out a laugh. a breathy laugh bubbles out of his throat. you’re funny when you’re drunk. he wipes a stray lock of hair out of your face. “we are at mine, baby.” he mumbles, eyes glistening. “c’mon. i’ll remove your make up.”
he walks you over to his soft bed. the one you lay in almost everyday. you immediately melt into a sleepy puddle of limbs. “give me a kiss first, johnny.”
you tip yourself up on your elbows, glossy lips puckered up. logan is too down bad for you, because he immediately indulges in your request and pushes his soft lips to yours.
the kiss is dramatic. you dramatically moan into his mouth, your lips smacking against his. it’s not a fluid kiss, it’s mouthy and swirly, but logan makes it work with a stable hand cupping your chin to coordinate you.
“happy now?” logan questions, pulling back. you let yourself fall back on the duvet, his smell lingering on the sheets. your eyes flutter shut.
“yes,” you reply, “you’re a really good kisser. now we can sleep. maybe i can sleep with you.” you giggle, mischievous grin on your face.
“oh— does your boyfriend know?” logan pulls back, plucking the micellair water from the night stand, faux-shocked expression on his face.
you burst out a laugh, hoisting your legs up from laughing too hard: “you are my boyfriend, silly!”
logan laughs that gentle laugh when he lightly traces the cotton pads over your skin. he hums in approval. “i’m a lucky guy, my love.”
he continues to clean your pretty face up. sleep is at the verge of conquering you, but before it pulls you under, you ask: “can i wear your shirt to bed?”
“of course, honey. of course you can.”
eventually you and logan end up tangled under the sheets. you’re wearing one of his old training shirts, his name and number on your back. and some old, oversized basketball shorts.
logan doesn’t really sleep with you like that. of course not. instead, your face is pushed into his neck. you’re knocked-out cold, softly snoring as logan presses a kiss to your knuckles. slowly intertwining your hands before placing them on top the duvet.
a/n: this guy looks so much like the guy i was into during my first year of uni. i have such a hard time not texting him. omgggggg and we're graduating i HAVE to text him right. RIGHT????
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part one here
It becomes a thing. A dangerous, intoxicating, highly combustible thing.
Sneaking around behind the back of your fiercely protective older brother — who also happens to be the captain of Logan’s hockey team — is a recipe for absolute disaster. You both know this. You both know the stakes. If Garrett finds out, the fallout will be apocalyptic.
But neither of you can stop.
It starts with stolen moments. Custodial closets in the Briar University rink after games, the heavy scent of bleach and Zamboni exhaust mixing with the frantic, desperate slide of your mouths. You still attend the games under the pretense of supporting Garrett, cheering loudly from the stands. But Garrett is no longer the only reason you’re there. You’re there to watch number twenty-two fly across the ice.
The locations expand. The cramped, freezing backseat of your Toyota Corolla. The spacious, cologne-scented cab of his pickup. Your dorm room at Northeastern, whenever your roommate is conveniently away visiting family or out partying. Everywhere and anywhere you can find a locked door and ten minutes of privacy.
The only boundary, the one strict, unspoken rule you both adhere to, is the off-campus house Logan shares with Garrett, Dean, and Tucker. That is enemy territory. That is a step too far.
Tonight, however, you have home-ice advantage.
Briar just crushed their out-of-state rivals, and Logan played out of his mind, netting two gorgeous top-shelf goals. He arrived at your dorm an hour later, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, smelling of body wash and the crisp winter air.
Now, the adrenaline has bled out of him, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion in its wake.
You are lying tangled in the sheets of your twin-sized dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on Logan’s bare chest. The room is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Logan’s hand rests on your bare hip, his thumb slowly tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your skin. His heart is beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your ear.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes it dangerously easy to let your guard down.
“You were incredible tonight,” you murmur into the warm skin of his chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his heart.
Logan chuckles, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “I had decent puck luck. And the defense was practically handing me the neutral zone. But thank you. I aim to please.”
“I’m serious,” you say, shifting slightly, pulling yourself up on your elbows so you can look down at his face. His dark hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo against your white pillow. His sharp jawline is relaxed, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “I looked at your stats.”
Logan’s thumb stops moving on your hip. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightens the muscles of his stomach beneath you. “My stats?”
“Your draft year stats,” you clarify, your voice quiet but firm. “Logan, you scored seventy-eight points that season. Your plus-minus was off the charts. You were easily a second-round pick. Maybe third, at worst.”
“Stats don’t mean everything,” Logan deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to distract you. “NBD. No Big Deal.”
“Don’t do the acronym thing,” you warn gently, catching his wrist and pressing his hand flat against the mattress. “Even if you pulled your name from the draft, why hasn’t an NHL team snapped you up as an undrafted free agent? They do it all the time. Guys with half your talent get signed. But you haven’t even gone to a development camp.”
Logan stares up at you, the easy, charming facade completely stripping away, leaving behind a raw, tired vulnerability that breaks your heart. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light.
“Because I can’t,” he says simply.
“Why not?”
Logan sighs, a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of the entire world. He shifts, pulling you down slightly so he can wrap both arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair for a moment before he speaks.
“My dad was supposed to run the family business,” Logan begins, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the dark room. “Logan & Sons. It’s a mechanic shop back home. Been in the family for three generations. But my dad ... he’s not exactly reliable.”
“Garrett said he has a drinking problem,” you offer softly.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Logan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “He’s a fall-down, blackout drunk. Has been since I was a kid. When I got the scholarship to Briar, everything was falling apart. The shop was going bankrupt. My dad was completely useless. I was going to turn the scholarship down. Stay home. Run the shop.”
You feel a sharp ache in your chest. You look at this guy — this funny, sarcastic, wildly talented guy — and realize just how much he’s been carrying underneath the jokes.
“But you didn’t,” you say.
“No,” Logan shakes his head against the pillow. “My older brother, Jeff, stepped in. He had a great job, a life he was building, but he quit. He moved back home to run the shop and keep an eye on the old man so I could come to Briar.”
Logan pauses, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “We made a deal. Jeff puts his life on hold for four years so I can play college hockey and get a degree. But the second I graduate? We swap. I go back, take over the shop, take care of our dad, and Jeff gets his life back. He gets to go free.”
The silence in the dorm room is deafening. You stare at him, processing the sheer magnitude of the sacrifice he’s making. He is willingly walking away from a multi-million dollar NHL career, from a dream he is actively living, out of a misplaced sense of duty.
“Logan ...” you breathe out, the injustice of it making your blood boil.
“It is what it is,” Logan says, offering you a tight, forced smile. “It’s fair. Jeff sacrificed for me, I sacrifice for him. End of story.”
“No,” you say, your voice suddenly hard. You push yourself entirely out of his arms, sitting back on your heels near his waist. The sheet pools around your hips, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room, but you don’t care.
Logan frowns, reaching a hand out toward you. “Y/N-”
“No, Logan, listen to me,” you interrupt, leaning over him, your eyes blazing. “You do not owe that man your life.”
Logan flinches slightly, dropping his hand. “He’s my dad.”
“I know exactly what it’s like to have a monster for a father,” you say, your voice trembling with a fierce, protective anger. “You know what my dad was. You know what he did to me, to Garrett, to our mom. Being a father is a biological fact, not a lifelong debt.”
Logan stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s not just him. It’s the shop. It’s Jeff.”
“So sell the shop!” You practically shout, mindful at the last second to keep your voice down so you don’t wake the RA next door. You lower your volume, leaning closer, your hands pressing flat against his chest. “Sell it. Let it burn to the ground. Take the NHL contract, take the signing bonus, and give half of it to Jeff to start whatever business he wants. Why do you have to go back to a dead-end town to run a failing shop for a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about either of you?”
Logan looks entirely taken aback. His eyes are wide, searching your face as if he’s looking for the punchline, but you are deadly serious.
“It’s family legacy,” Logan murmurs weakly, though the conviction in his voice is entirely gone.
“It’s an anchor,” you correct him fiercely. “Logan, you are brilliant on the ice. You are a star. You deserve to see that become a reality. You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep your father warm.”
Logan closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through his large frame. He brings a hand up to drag over his face, completely overwhelmed. He’s spent the last three years perfectly resigned to his fate, perfectly compartmentalizing his impending doom, and you have just ripped the walls completely down.
“I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I gave my word.”
“You made a bad deal,” you counter, softening your tone. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to screw your brother over. I’m saying you have other options. Better options. You just have to be brave enough to take them.”
Logan opens his eyes, looking up at you. The raw, desperate affection in his gaze makes your breath hitch. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“It’s why I’m a good center,” you smile softly. “I don’t let the play die.”
“I’ll ...” Logan swallows hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I can’t promise anything else right now, but I will think about it.”
“Promise me you’ll actually think about it,” you demand, holding his gaze. “Promise you won’t just bury this the second you leave this room.”
“I promise,” Logan says, and you can hear the sincerity ringing crystal clear in his deep voice.
The heavy, emotional tension in the air hangs between you for a moment longer. You look down at him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the faint, silver scars scattered across his collarbone from years of taking hits on the ice. He is so incredibly strong, yet he’s letting himself be completely vulnerable with you.
A fierce, possessive kind of affection swells in your chest. You want to take all the heavy burdens he’s carrying and completely erase them, even if it’s just for the rest of the night. You want to remind him exactly how good it feels to just exist in his own body, entirely for himself.
“Good,” you whisper, a slow, wicked smile curving onto your lips.
You slowly slide backward.
Logan’s breath catches in his throat as your knees drag down the sides of his hips. You catch the edge of the white duvet cover and pull it up over your head, plunging yourself into the warm, dark cocoon of the bed, right between his legs.
“Y/N,” Logan gasps, his hands instantly dropping to his sides, his fingers gripping the fitted sheet.
You ignore him, crawling further down. The heat radiating off his skin under the heavy duvet is intoxicating, mixing with his masculine scent. You settle between his thighs, the muscles in his legs instantly tensing against your ribs.
You reach out, your hands flattening against his lower stomach, feeling the sharp, defined ridges of his abs clenching under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along his hip bones, taking your time, letting your lips drag against his sensitive skin.
Logan lets out a ragged, trembling exhale above the covers. The mattress shifts as he tilts his hips up into your touch, completely at your mercy.
You trail your hands lower, your fingers wrapping around his thick, heavy length. The second your skin makes contact with him, Logan lets out a choked, desperate curse.
You lean down, flicking your tongue out to taste the salty, musky skin at the tip before taking him completely into your mouth.
The sound Logan makes is a guttural, wounded moan that vibrates straight through the mattress. You hear the rustle of the sheets above you as his hands completely let go of the bed, diving under the covers to find you. His large, calloused fingers tangle instantly into your hair, gripping the strands tightly, though he doesn’t push you down. He just holds on like he’s drowning and you are the only lifeline he has left.
You set a slow, torturous pace. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a deep, deliberate suction that makes his hips snap upward involuntarily.
You slide your hands down to cup his heavy, warm base, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there while you take him deeper into your mouth. You love the contrast of this. Out in the real world, Logan is the untouchable hockey star, the guy with the easy grin who deflects everything, the guy who carries the weight of his family’s failure on his broad shoulders.
But right here, hiding under the sheets of your dorm bed, he is completely unraveling.
You increase your pace, your mouth working rhythmically, creating a tight, wet friction that is driving him completely insane. You can feel the rapid, frantic pulse beating against your tongue. You drag your teeth lightly — just enough to tease — against the underside of his shaft, and Logan’s entire body violently arches off the mattress.
“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he begs, his grip in your hair tightening almost painfully as his hips begin to thrust up to meet your mouth.
He is losing whatever control he had left, his movements becoming erratic and desperate. You accommodate him perfectly, swallowing his harsh, rhythmic thrusts, letting him set the pace as he chases the high. The musky, intoxicating taste of him fills your mouth, the heat under the covers becoming stifling, thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
“Look at me,” Logan commands suddenly, his voice a harsh, breathless rasp.
He tugs firmly on your hair, pulling the duvet down just enough so you can see his face.
The sight of him makes your own core throb with a sharp, answering heat. Logan’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his neck arched in absolute agony. His chest is heaving, completely slick with sweat, every single muscle locked tight. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so completely that his irises are barely visible in the dim light.
He looks down at you, watching your mouth slide over him, and a dark, primal sound rips from his throat.
“You are going to kill me,” he groans, his hips snapping upward with a brutal, punishing force.
“Let me,” you dare him, your words muffled against his skin. You drop your head back down, taking him as deep as you possibly can, swallowing his moan entirely.
Logan shatters.
His body goes completely rigid, a massive shudder wracking his large frame. He cries out your name, a loud, broken sound that completely fills the small dorm room. He holds you tightly in place, his hips pinned upward as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashes through him.
You continue to use a gentle suction, milking every last drop of his climax, swallowing him completely. He tastes salty and rich, an incredibly intimate reward for completely breaking down his walls.
Slowly, the violent tremors wracking his body begin to subside. His hips drop back down against the mattress heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps for air.
You pull back slowly, licking your lips, before crawling back up his body.
Logan’s eyes are closed, a look of utter devastation and absolute peace painted across his handsome features. As you settle back onto his chest, he wraps his arms around you instantly, crushing you against his sweaty skin with a desperate, terrifying strength.
He presses a fierce, bruising kiss to the top of your head, burying his face in your hair.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Logan whispers, his voice still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax. “But I swear to God, Y/N, I am never letting you go.”
You wrap your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly, ignoring the lingering threat of Garrett, the complicated mess of his family, and the terrifying reality that you are falling entirely, deeply in love with your brother’s best friend.
“Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
***
You are officially a terrible person, a liar, and a fraud. But as Logan drags his open mouth down the sensitive column of your neck, you decide you really, truly do not care.
It has been exactly three months and twelve days since that rainy night in Logan’s truck. Three months of sneaking around, of perfectly timed lies, of stolen glances across crowded rooms while Garrett remained blissfully unaware. You’ve mastered the art of the secret relationship.
Tonight’s masterpiece? Faking a debilitating stomach bug.
Your roommate had looked at you with deep pity before heading out to dinner. You coughed weakly, clutching your stomach, and promised her you’d just sleep it off. The second the door clicked shut behind her, you were texting Logan. Ten minutes later, he was slipping through your door, locking it behind him, and dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy, hungry look in his eyes.
Now, the dorm room is suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the heavy scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and sex. The blinds are drawn tight, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner.
Logan is a heavy, solid weight pressing you deep into your mattress. He’s completely bare, his broad, violently muscled chest slick with a sheen of sweat. You are tangled beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him as close as physically possible.
“You’re beautiful,” Logan rasps, his voice a dark, jagged sound that vibrates against your collarbone.
“Stop talking,” you manage to gasp out, your hands sliding up the slick, hot skin of his back to grip his broad shoulders. “Just please, Logan.”
Logan chuckles against your skin, a rough, devastating sound. He shifts his weight, rising up slightly on his forearms to look down at you. His dark hair is completely disheveled, hanging in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of his irises entirely. The raw, predatory hunger in his gaze makes your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
He aligns himself perfectly, his hips cradled securely between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth, devastating push, he sinks completely inside you.
You cry out, the sound muffled entirely by Logan’s mouth as he swoops down to capture your lips. The kiss is deep and frantic, his tongue mimicking the slow, agonizing stretch of his body filling yours. You are stretched so perfectly, filled so completely, that a violent shiver wracks your entire frame.
He is quite literally balls-deep, the heavy slap of his hips meeting yours echoing sharply in the quiet room.
“God, Y/N,” Logan groans into your mouth, tearing his lips away to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He begins to move.
The pace he sets is punishing. There is no slow buildup tonight, no teasing restraint. It is raw, desperate, and entirely unhinged. Every thrust is impossibly deep, drawing a high, breathy moan from your throat that you can’t even try to suppress. Your nails drag down his back, leaving faint, pink crescent moons in his skin.
The mattress squeaks rhythmically under the violent force of his movements. Logan’s hands find your hips, his large, calloused fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to the bed as he dominates the space.
“Logan,” you sob, throwing your head back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m going to-”
“I know, sweetheart,” he grunts, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic as his own control begins to snap. “Come on. Let it go.”
You are completely lost to the storm. The tight, spiraling coil of heat in your lower stomach is pulling tighter and tighter with every heavy slide of his body. You arch up to meet him, matching his desperate, punishing rhythm. You are seconds away from shattering. Logan is right there with you, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body going rigid as he prepares to find his release.
And then, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of your dorm door echoes like a gunshot.
The heavy deadbolt clicks.
The door swings open.
“Hey, kiddo, Cammi told me you were dying, so I brought-”
Garrett’s voice fills the room.
Everything happens in a fraction of a millisecond.
Logan freezes entirely, his body locking up mid-thrust, still buried impossibly deep inside you. You freeze beneath him, your eyes snapping open in absolute, paralyzing horror.
Garrett stops dead in the doorway.
The plastic grocery bag in his hand — heavy with chicken noodle soup, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and a box of Saltines — slips from his fingers. It hits the linoleum floor with a sickening, wet crash. The plastic container of soup bursts open, sending hot broth splashing across the floorboards. The ginger ale bottle rolls lazily toward the edge of the rug.
For a single, agonizing second, the universe completely stops spinning.
Garrett is staring at the bed. At his best friend. At his baby sister. Tangled together in a mess of bare skin and heavy breathing.
The color drains entirely from Garrett’s face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. And then, the shock violently transforms into pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. His face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin.
“What the fuck?” Garrett roars, the sound shaking the very walls of the dorm room.
Chaos erupts.
Logan violently scrambles backward, pulling out of you so fast you gasp. He practically falls off the side of the narrow bed, desperately grabbing for his discarded sweatpants on the floor.
You scramble backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the thin white duvet up over your bare chest, your hands trembling so violently you can barely grip the fabric.
“Garrett!” You scream, your voice cracking with sheer panic.
But Garrett isn’t looking at you. He is looking at Logan.
With a guttural, animalistic snarl, Garrett lunges across the room. He clears the distance in two massive strides, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. Logan is only halfway into his sweatpants, entirely off-balance, when Garrett grabs him by the throat and slams him brutally against the cinderblock wall.
“Garrett, no!” You shriek, scrambling out from under the covers.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Garrett bellows, drawing his right fist back, preparing to shatter Logan’s jaw into a thousand pieces.
Logan doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stands there, pinned against the wall, taking it. He looks entirely resigned to his fate, his eyes locked onto Garrett’s furious face.
You don’t think. You just move.
You launch yourself off the bed, entirely uncaring that you are wearing nothing but a frantically grabbed bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around your body. You throw yourself directly between them, pressing your back flush against Logan’s chest and throwing your hands up to shove hard against Garrett’s shoulders.
“Stop it! Get away from him!” You scream, your voice tearing painfully at your throat.
Garrett’s fist stops mere inches from your face.
He freezes, staring down at you. His chest is heaving violently, his eyes completely wild. He looks down at your bare shoulders, at the white sheet clutched desperately to your chest, and then over your shoulder at Logan’s pale, terrified face.
The raw, physical betrayal hitting Garrett is palpable. It’s like watching a building collapse in real-time. He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been burned.
“Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the rage from a second ago. Now, it just sounds broken. “What ... what is this?”
You swallow a massive lump of panic, tears springing to your eyes. “Garrett, please. Just give us a second. Let us put some clothes on. Please.”
Garrett looks between the two of you, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding together. He looks nauseated. He takes another step back, kicking the empty ginger ale bottle out of his way.
“Two minutes,” Garrett bites out, his voice a terrifying, deadpan monotone. “You have two minutes. And then I am coming back in here, and if you lie to me, Logan, I am going to end your fucking life.”
Garrett turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
You let out a harsh, jagged sob, dropping your face into your hands. Your knees finally give out, and you slump down onto the edge of the mattress.
Logan is beside you in an instant. He pulls his sweatpants up, tying the drawstring with shaking fingers, before grabbing an oversized hoodie from the floor and pulling it over your head. He helps you guide your arms through the sleeves, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sheer panic radiating off him in waves.
“Hey,” Logan whispers, crouching down in front of you, gripping your knees. His face is pale, a faint red mark forming on his throat where Garrett grabbed him. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”
You drop your hands, looking at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “He hates me. He hates us.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Logan says fiercely, though his own voice is shaking. “He’s shocked. He has every right to be pissed. I broke the one rule he gave me.”
“We both broke it,” you sniffle, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from your dresser and hastily pulling them on.
Logan stands up, running both hands through his messy hair, pacing the small stretch of floor. He grabs his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “I’m not going to let him blame you. This is on me. I’m the older guy, I’m his best friend. I should have ...”
Logan cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sorry. I can’t even lie and say I regret it.”
You look up at him, your heart aching. “Me neither.”
The door handle rattles angrily.
“Time’s up,” Garrett’s voice barks from the hallway.
“Come in,” Logan says, squaring his broad shoulders, stepping deliberately in front of you as if to shield you from the blast zone.
Garrett walks back into the room. He pointedly ignores the puddle of spilled soup on the floor. He looks at Logan, and the utter disdain in his eyes makes you flinch. Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the closed door.
“Talk,” Garrett demands. “And it better be the absolute, unvarnished truth.”
Logan exhales slowly. “It didn’t start the way you think it did, G.”
“Oh, really?” Garrett spits, his tone dripping with venom. “How did it start, Logan? Did you slip into her DMs? Did you corner her after a game? Did you look at the one person in this world I told you to protect and decide you wanted to screw her instead?”
“Garrett, stop,” you say sharply, stepping out from behind Logan. You refuse to let Logan take the entire firing squad alone. “He didn’t do any of that.”
Garrett’s eyes snap to you, the betrayal flaring up again. “Then how, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend has been sleeping with my baby sister behind my back for God knows how long.”
“Since the first night of the season,” you say quietly.
Garrett’s brow furrows in confusion. “What? The first night ... you went out with your team.”
“Exactly,” Logan interjects, his voice calm, trying to de-escalate the vibrating tension in the room. “We were both there. I walked away from the guys to get a drink. I saw a girl on the dance floor. I went up to her. We ... we hooked up.”
Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. “In the club?”
“In the bathroom,” you clarify, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck, but you refuse to break eye contact with your brother. “We didn’t know who each other was, Garrett. It was dark. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t talk about schools. It was just a random hookup.”
“A random hookup,” Garrett repeats, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looks at Logan. “You didn’t know it was her?”
“I swear to God on my life, G, I had absolutely no idea,” Logan says fiercely, stepping forward, his hands held out pleadingly. “If I had known, I never would have touched her. You know me.”
“Do I?” Garrett laughs bitterly. “Because if that’s true, when did you figure it out? The diner?”
“Yes,” you answer for him. “Outside your locker room, when you introduced us. That was the first time we realized.”
Garrett stares at you both, processing the timeline. The anger in his eyes slowly, painfully shifts into a deep, profound hurt. “So, at the diner ... when I sat there, pouring my heart out to you guys. When I begged you, Logan, to treat her like a sister. To protect her. You sat there, looking me dead in the eye, having already fucked her. And you promised me.”
Logan physically recoils as if Garrett just punched him in the gut. He closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through him. “I know. I know, G. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I felt like absolute scum.”
“You are scum,” Garrett snaps.
“Garrett, that’s not fair,” you plead, taking a step toward your brother. “We tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn’t. It just ... it happened. And it kept happening. It’s not just a physical thing anymore. I care about him. A lot.”
Garrett looks at you, his protective instincts warring violently with his sense of betrayal. He sees the absolute sincerity in your eyes. He sees the way you stepped in front of Logan’s body to protect him from the punch. You aren’t just some puck bunny Logan is using. You’re in deep.
Garrett drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He looks at Logan, who is standing completely still, waiting for the verdict.
“How long?” Garrett asks, his voice entirely drained. “How long has it kept happening?”
“Since the night her car broke down,” Logan answers quietly. “Three months.”
“Three months,” Garrett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to my face for three months. Sitting in our living room, drinking my beers, playing video games, pretending nothing was going on.”
“I wanted to tell you,” Logan says earnestly. “I brought it up a hundred times, but we knew how you’d react. We knew you’d lose your mind. I didn’t want to ruin the team. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says coldly. “You managed to do both.”
“Garrett, please,” you beg, tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t cut him off. Don’t cut me off.”
Garrett looks at you, seeing the tears, and his harsh exterior finally cracks. He has spent his entire life trying to protect you from getting hurt, from crying. The fact that he is the one causing it right now, even if he feels justified, breaks him.
He walks over to you, wrapping his large arms around you and pulling you into a tight, suffocating hug. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Garrett rests his chin on the top of your head, glaring dagger at Logan over your shoulder.
“I’m not cutting you off, kiddo,” Garrett whispers into your hair. “I could never cut you off. You’re my sister.”
He pulls back slightly, keeping his hands firmly planted on your shoulders. He turns his head to look directly at Logan. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts from a broken family to a deadly serious warning.
“But you,” Garrett points a thick, accusatory finger at Logan. “Sit down.”
Logan immediately drops into the desk chair in the corner of the room, looking up at Garrett with wide, cautious eyes.
“You listen to me, John Logan, and you listen to me very carefully,” Garrett begins, his voice low, deadly, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. This is the captain speaking. This is the fiercely protective older brother who survived a monster.
Logan nods tightly. “I’m listening.”
“You and I are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about trust and friendship later,” Garrett says, his eyes boring into Logan’s. “But right now, we are talking about her.”
Garrett points to you. “You know what we went through. You know the hell our father put us through. You know how hard it is for her to trust guys, how hard it is for her to let anyone in.”
“I know,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting to you, softening entirely.
“I don’t give a shit about your daddy issues. I don’t give a shit about your family mechanic shop, or the deal you made with your brother, or how much you hate yourself for giving up the NHL,” Garrett continues, ruthlessly utilizing the deepest, darkest secrets Logan had confided in him over the years. Logan flinches at the casual weaponry of his secrets, but he takes it.
“If you make her your emotional punching bag,” Garrett snarls, taking a step closer to Logan, looming over the desk chair. “If you use her to escape your own miserable reality, and then you drop her when things get too hard ... I will not just punch you.”
Garrett leans down, his face inches from Logan’s. “I will systematically destroy your life. I will break both your legs so you can never step foot on the ice again. I will make sure you wish you had never met me. Do you understand?”
The room is completely silent, save for the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner.
Logan doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. The cocky, charming boy from the Briar team is completely gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly what it costs.
“I understand,” Logan says, his voice steady, entirely lacking the fear Garrett was trying to instill. He looks up at his best friend. “But you’re wrong about one thing, G.”
Garrett narrows his eyes. “Oh?”
“I’m not using her to escape,” Logan says fiercely, standing up from the chair. He is an inch taller than Garrett, and right now, he uses every bit of that height to stand his ground. “She is the only real thing in my life. I love her, Garrett.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You gasp, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. He has never said that to you. Not in the dark of his truck, not in the quiet of his bed. He chose to say it here, to your brother, facing down a firing squad.
Garrett stares at Logan, completely stunned. The anger deflates entirely, leaving him disarmed. He looks at Logan’s resolute face, then looks over at you, seeing the absolute awe and adoration radiating from your tear-stained eyes.
Garrett sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly incredibly exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Logan.”
“I know,” Logan agrees softly.
“And you,” Garrett points at you, though there is no heat behind it anymore. “You’re grounded.”
“I’m in college, Garrett,” you laugh, a wet, watery sound. “You can’t ground me.”
“Watch me,” Garrett mutters. He looks at the spilled soup on the floor, the puddle of chicken broth soaking into the cheap dorm rug. He groans. “I bought that soup for nothing. You aren’t even sick.”
“I have a slight headache,” you offer weakly.
Garrett rolls his eyes. He looks at Logan one last time, offering a slow, reluctant nod. It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it is an acceptance of the reality.
“Clean up this mess,” Garrett orders Logan. “And then get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least forty-eight hours.”
“Got it, Cap,” Logan says, the relief in his voice palpable.
Garrett walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks back at you, a small, tired smile on his face. “Call me tomorrow. We are having lunch. In public. Where everyone can see your hands.”
“Okay,” you nod.
Garrett leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence returns, but the suffocating tension is completely gone. Logan stares at the closed door for a long second before his knees practically give out. He leans heavily against the desk, letting out a massive, shaky breath, dragging his hands down his face.
You walk over to him slowly. You reach out, wrapping your arms around his waist from the front, resting your cheek against his chest. His heart is still racing.
Logan immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it aches.
“You love me?” You whisper against his skin, the words feeling incredibly fragile.
Logan pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, filled with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
“I love you,” Logan says, his voice completely clear. “More than hockey. More than anything. NFD.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “No Freaking Doubt.”
“Exactly,” Logan smiles, the familiar, charming smirk finally returning to his handsome face. He looks over your shoulder at the massive puddle of chicken soup on the floor. He sighs. “Now, where do you keep the paper towels?”
***
The roar of the crowd inside the TD Garden is a living, breathing entity. It vibrates through the concrete floors, rattling the expensive plastic of the seats in the lower bowl, and humming straight into your bones.
“I’m just saying,” Dean shouts, leaning over Tucker to make himself heard over the deafening noise of the arena. “That jersey is a literal crime against the sport of hockey. If the purists see you, they will drag you out of here and burn you at the stake.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” you shout back, smoothing your hands over the front of the heavy fabric.
You are wearing a custom-stitched abomination. The left half is a black and gold Boston Bruins jersey with GRA and the number 4 across the back. The right half is stitched directly down the middle, featuring GAN and the number 2. It is incredibly ugly, utterly confusing to the casual fan, and the most prized possession in your entire closet.
Tucker adjusts his glasses, looking at the jagged seam running down your spine. “It’s structurally unsound, Y/N. The tensile strength of that thread is fighting a losing battle against the heavy-weight polyester.”
“Shut up, Tucker,” you laugh, your eyes completely glued to the ice. “Just watch the game.”
It is the final game of the regular NHL season. The Bruins have already clinched their playoff spot and secured the top seed in their division. In a brilliant, strategic move to rest their battered veterans before the grueling post-season begins, the coaching staff called up their newest, youngest prospects to fill out the roster for the night.
To let the young guns show exactly what they can do.
Down on the ice, the game is tied 2-2 against the Panthers in the third period. And right in the middle of the offensive zone, weaving through professional, fully-grown NHL defensemen like they are training cones, is Logan.
Your chest swells with an overwhelming, suffocating amount of pride.
The last twelve months have been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, triumph, and sheer, stubborn willpower. You hadn’t let Logan back down that night in your dorm room. You forced him to see his own worth, and slowly, painfully, he had unraveled the heavy chains of his father’s legacy.
He had driven back home with Garrett for backup. He and his older brother had sat down and finally, honestly talked. They sold Logan & Sons to a commercial developer who wanted the land. It wasn’t a fortune, but Logan aggressively fought for Jeff to keep every single dime of the meager profit so he could start his own life. The hardest part had been their father, but with the money from the sale, they finally checked the old man into a long-term, specialized rehab facility.
For the first time in his entire life, Logan was free.
And he played like it. Free of the crushing weight of his future, Logan had absolutely dominated his senior year at Briar. He and Garrett had led the team all the way to the Frozen Four, culminating in a spectacular, nail-biting victory to win the NCAA National Championship just three weeks ago.
And then, the phone rang. Undrafted, overlooked, but undeniable — the Boston Bruins offered John Logan an Entry-Level Contract.
Now, he is here. Earning his ice time.
The puck cycles around the boards. Garrett, wearing the black and gold like he was born for it, digs the puck out of the corner with a vicious check that sends a Panthers defenseman crashing to the ice. Garrett doesn’t even look, he just knows. He fires a blind, spinning backhand pass straight across the slot.
Logan is exactly where he needs to be.
He doesn’t stop the puck. He doesn’t stickhandle. He drops to one knee and one-times the shot with the devastating, explosive power that has haunted goalies all year.
The puck goes top-shelf, completely blowing past the goaltender’s glove, pinging off the crossbar, and burying itself in the back of the net.
The goal horn absolutely shatters the air. The red light flashes. The TD Garden erupts into pure pandemonium.
You jump to your feet, screaming so loudly your throat instantly burns. Dean and Tucker are out of their seats, too, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you as the crowd completely loses its mind.
Down on the ice, Logan throws his arms in the air, a massive, blinding smile breaking across his face. Garrett is the first one to reach him, tackling his best friend into the glass. The rest of the line swarms them, a massive pile of black and gold celebrating the rookie connection.
“That’s my boyfriend!” You scream at the top of your lungs, not caring who hears you. “And my brother! Those are my boys!”
“Absolute filth!” Dean yells, high-fiving a random stranger in the row in front of you. “Did you see those hands? The Briar boys are taking over!”
The final five minutes of the game pass in a blur of frantic defense, but the Bruins hold the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the 3-2 victory, you feel tears hot and heavy in the corners of your eyes.
He did it. They both did it.
***
The tunnel underneath the TD Garden smells like millions of dollars of athletic equipment, sweat, and cheap champagne. You, Dean, and Tucker are waiting by the family and friends barricade outside the Bruins locker room.
The heavy double doors swing open, and a wave of massive, suited-up men begins to filter out.
Garrett spots you first. He is wearing a sharp, dark blue suit, his hair still damp from the showers. He looks completely exhausted, sporting a fresh cut on his chin, but he is glowing with sheer adrenaline.
“Get over here!” Garrett grins, bypassing the barricade and wrapping you in a massive, bone-crushing hug.
“You were amazing,” you laugh, squeezing him back just as fiercely. “That pass was unreal, G.”
“Hey, I just put it in his wheelhouse,” Garrett says, pulling back and ruffling your hair affectionately. “He had to do the hard part.”
Garrett turns to fist-bump Dean and Tucker, launching immediately into a breakdown of the defensive pairings.
You look past Garrett’s shoulder, and your breath completely stalls in your chest.
Logan walks out of the locker room. He is wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He looks older, sharper, completely transformed from the college boy in the messy hoodies. But when his eyes lock onto yours, the incredibly soft, reverent expression on his face is exactly the same.
He drops his duffel bag entirely. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks straight up to you, wrapping his large hands around your waist, and lifts you completely off the floor.
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne.
“You did it,” you whisper against his skin, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re in the NHL, Logan.”
Logan presses a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your head before setting you back down. He doesn’t let go of your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to the absolute monstrosity you are wearing.
A slow, highly amused smirk spreads across his face.
“Sweetheart,” Logan drawls, his voice a low, raspy rumble that instantly makes your stomach flip. “I love you with my entire heart. But that jersey is a profound tragedy. AFT. Absolute Fucking Tragedy.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “It represents my dual loyalties. I couldn’t pick just one of you for your debut.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Garrett chimes in, though his lips are twitching. “Even if my side is clearly the superior half.”
“Debatable,” Logan shoots back effortlessly. He looks down at you again, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line over your hip bone, right through the heavy fabric of the jersey. His eyes darken significantly, the adrenaline of the game bleeding seamlessly into a different, much heavier kind of hunger. “You ready to get out of here?”
You look at the tight clench of his jaw, at the raw heat burning in his eyes, and you instantly know exactly what he needs.
“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice dropping an octave. “Take me home.”
***
Logan’s new apartment in the city is a sleek, modern high-rise with massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline. But tonight, you couldn’t care less about the view.
The second the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, locking the world outside, the remaining shred of Logan’s restraint violently snaps.
He drops his keys onto the console table, grabbing the lapels of your ugly, half-and-half jersey, and pulls you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes down onto yours with a desperate, bruising force. You gasp into his mouth, your hands immediately flying up to tangle in his damp, dark hair.
The kiss is explosive. It is loaded with the pent-up tension of the last year, the sheer relief of his father’s rehab, the triumph of the National Championship, and the blinding reality of his NHL debut. Every single emotion he has been bottling up is pouring directly into you.
“Logan,” you moan against his lips, tasting the faint, lingering salt of his sweat mixed with the sharp mint of his gum.
“I need you,” he groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your core. “Right now. I need you right now.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands grip the bottom hem of the jersey, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the expensive, custom-made fabric carelessly onto the hardwood floor.
You are left wearing a small, black lace bra and your jeans. Logan’s eyes sweep over your body, completely blown wide with lust.
“My turn,” you breathe, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket.
You push it off his broad shoulders, letting it join your jersey on the floor. Your hands move frantically to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. You manage to undo three before your patience entirely runs out, and you just grip the fabric and pull. Two buttons pop off, pinging sharply against the floorboards, but neither of you cares.
You push the shirt off his arms, leaving him entirely bare from the waist up. His chest is heaving, the heavy, defined muscles of his torso rising and falling rapidly under your touch. You press your palms flat against his hot skin, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach.
Logan lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his hands dropping to the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down, sliding his large, warm hands inside the denim to grip the bare curve of your hips.
With effortless strength, he lifts you entirely off the floor.
You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind his back. Logan walks you backward through the apartment, his mouth devouring yours the entire way, until your back hits the cool plaster wall of the hallway.
He pins you there, his body a solid, immovable weight against yours. The heavy friction of his slacks grinding against the soft denim of your half-undone jeans is maddening.
“You have no idea,” Logan mutters against your neck, his lips blazing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me. You saved my life, Y/N.”
“You saved yourself,” you whisper, arching your neck to give him better access.
“No,” he counters fiercely, biting down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your center. “I was drowning. I was perfectly content to drown. And you pulled me out.”
His hands slide around to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly higher against the wall. The angle is agonizingly perfect.
“Show me,” you challenge him, your voice shaking with pure, unadulterated need. “Show me, Logan.”
His eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He sets you back down on your feet just long enough to ruthlessly strip the rest of your clothes away. You kick your jeans aside, stepping out of your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Logan makes quick work of his slacks and boxer briefs, his eyes never leaving your face.
The second he is free, he crowds you back against the wall. The sudden, intense shock of his hot, bare skin pressing flush against yours draws a loud gasp from your throat.
Logan reaches down, his calloused fingers sliding between your thighs. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He knows exactly how ready you are. He finds your center, his thumb pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot, and you completely shatter before he even truly begins.
“Logan!” You cry out, your knees buckling entirely.
He catches you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist to hold you up as the violent wave of the orgasm rips through you. You sob into his shoulder, your muscles clenching uncontrollably around nothing, desperate for the solid weight of him.
“I’ve got you,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “I’ve always got you.”
He waits for the tremors to subside before shifting his grip. He parts your thighs with his knee, aligning himself perfectly at your entrance. He looks down at you, the raw, desperate devotion in his eyes making your breath completely stall in your lungs.
“Mine,” Logan whispers, the word a fierce, undeniable claim.
“Yours,” you agree instantly.
He pushes inside you in one long, devastating thrust.
The sensation is entirely overwhelming. You throw your head back against the wall, a loud, broken moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. Logan groans deeply, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he takes a second to simply feel the incredible, suffocating tightness of your body wrapping around his.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes out, his voice shaking.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your hands sliding up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
Logan pulls back almost entirely before driving forward again, setting a slow, agonizingly deep pace. The hallway is entirely silent save for the heavy, wet slide of bodies and the ragged, desperate sound of your synchronized breathing. Every thrust is precise, deliberate, completely burying himself inside you.
The friction against the wall is intense, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his body.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan commands, his voice a harsh rasp.
You comply immediately, lifting your legs to wrap securely around his waist, locking your ankles together. The change in angle allows him to hit perfectly, impossibly deep.
The slow, torturous pace vanishes. Logan’s restraint completely snaps.
He grips your hips with bruising force, his thrusts becoming frantic, punishing, and entirely unhinged. He is completely lost in you, chasing the high, pouring every ounce of the night’s adrenaline directly into your body. You cling to him, matching his desperate rhythm, your moans bouncing off the walls of the quiet apartment.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hard, bruising kiss against your pulse point. “I’m going to-”
“Me too,” you sob out, the second climax building with terrifying, blinding speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply, pulling out, and driving forward one final, devastating time.
A harsh, jagged cry tears from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid, his muscles locking tight as he finds his release. He holds you flush against the wall, completely pinning you in place, taking the full brunt of your own explosive orgasm as it crashes over you simultaneously.
You completely melt against him, your vision literally going white around the edges.
For a long time, the only sound in the hallway is the frantic, hammering rhythm of your hearts and the ragged gasps for air. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his heavy weight supported entirely by his own legs as he holds you up against the wall.
Eventually, slowly, the reality of the apartment seeps back in.
Logan carefully lowers your legs, sliding out of you with a soft, wet sound, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist so you don’t collapse onto the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently they feel like water.
He leans his forehead against yours, looking down at you with an incredibly soft, sated expression.
“Wow,” you breathe out, letting your head loll back against the wall.
Logan chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Before you actually pass out in my hallway.”
He sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly into the massive master bedroom. The city lights of Boston filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, amber glow over the massive king-sized bed.
He sets you down on the soft sheets, pulling the heavy duvet up over your bare body before crawling into the bed beside you.
You instantly curl into his side, resting your head on his bare chest, your hand flattening over his heart. He wraps a heavy arm around you, holding you close, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your bare shoulder.
“Are you happy?” You ask quietly, looking up at him in the dim light.
Logan looks down at you. He thinks about the heavy, suffocating pressure of his dad’s failing business. He thinks about the guilt of watching Jeff put his life on hold. He thinks about the terrifying moment he almost walked away from hockey forever.
And then he thinks about the moment the puck hit the back of the net tonight. He thinks about Garrett tackling him against the glass. He thinks about you, wearing that ridiculous, beautiful half-and-half jersey, screaming his name from the stands.
“I’m more than happy,” Logan whispers, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.”
He shifts, pulling you up slightly so he can look you directly in the eyes. The cocky, sarcastic facade is completely gone. There is only John Logan, the man who finally got his life back.
“I love you, Y/N,” Logan says, his voice thick with emotion. “You gave me the courage to fight for my own life. And I swear to God, I am going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw.
“You don’t have to fight for me, Logan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m already yours.”
Logan smiles, that bright, devastatingly handsome smirk that first caught your attention in a dark, sweaty Boston bar over a year ago. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, impossibly tender kiss.
“HEA,” Logan murmurs against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You laugh softly, running your hands through his messy hair. “Happily Ever After?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan promises, pulling you tightly against his chest, completely and entirely home.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The bass in the Boston bar is loud enough to rattle the ice cubes in Logan’s glass, but it’s not enough to drown out Dean’s incessant complaining.
“I’m just saying,” Dean mutters, leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar and dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s the first weekend of the season. The energy is prime. The girls are out. And Garrett is sitting in his room icing a sprain that barely qualifies as a bruise.”
Logan smirks, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Leave him alone. The guy’s got a bruised ego more than a bruised ankle. Besides, it’s a classic case of NFP.”
Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”
“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”
“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles.
Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft.
A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free.
“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.
“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”
Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.
***
Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around.
“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”
“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm.
“Liar!”
You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free.
Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe.
And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season.
So here you are.
You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric.
Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
***
Logan freezes halfway to the bar.
He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying.
He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers.
“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself.
He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat.
You step back, and Logan steps in.
***
You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips.
Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble.
“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing.
“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”
“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”
You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”
“It’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”
“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”
“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them.
“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”
“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays.
“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”
“Puck,” you say.
Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.”
He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together.
“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him.
“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly.
“Prove it,” you challenge.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress.
The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips.
“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency.
Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock.
He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack.
The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall.
“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you.
He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck.
“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly.
“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours.
“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”
“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned.
The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening.
You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently.
Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need.
Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm.
Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch.
“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders.
Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest.
“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back.
“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”
His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him.
Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle.
Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are.
Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support.
He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair.
“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”
“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”
You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”
You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea.
“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door.
Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”
“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile.
Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole.
Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”
***
The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black.
Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend.
“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”
Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”
“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”
“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”
Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”
“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games.
The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle.
Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny.
The referee drops the puck.
You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion.
“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”
“Told you,” Garrett says smugly.
Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net.
The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass.
“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”
“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’.
“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns.
“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”
“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs.
For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing.
But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match.
“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”
The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room.
“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”
“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”
“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests.
Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”
“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”
“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”
They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath.
***
You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest.
You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here.
You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does.
“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face.
You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair.
“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”
“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight.
In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates.
“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”
“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”
“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”
You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about.
“Hey, it’s nice to-”
The words die in your throat.
Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy.
The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars.
The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis.
***
Logan freezes.
Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor.
He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own.
*No. No, no, no.*
The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep.
It’s you.
It’s Garrett’s little sister.
Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick.
“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”
Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers.
“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”
***
“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word.
John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world.
You slept with him.
You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ...
“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”
“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”
“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”
“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”
“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”
“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender.
You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”
“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him.
“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”
“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett.
“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”
“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”
“I know,” you say softly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The hallway goes completely silent.
Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic.
“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”
Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”
Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind.
You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight.
When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps.
“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door.
“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”
“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”
The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture.
“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”
You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one.
You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin.
Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom.
“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”
Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room.
His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club.
“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you.
You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat.
“Ready,” you whisper back.
Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.
***
The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head.
The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room.
“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight.
Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you.
Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door.
“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove.
Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table.
You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson.
“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks.
The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”
“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”
“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs.
“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile.
“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”
Logan swallows. Hard.
“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away.
“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”
“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”
“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”
Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell.
You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door.
Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.
“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”
You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”
“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”
“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”
“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”
“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”
Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up.
“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”
Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game.
“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”
Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.
“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”
“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you.
Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away.
“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass.
Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw.
You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth.
You dart your tongue out and lick it away.
Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster.
He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands.
“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”
You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake.
Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”
“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake.
“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”
You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration.
I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language.
Under the table, it’s a different story.
The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans.
He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks.
You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull.
It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb.
“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag.
“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”
You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”
Logan stares at him. “What?”
“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”
You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket.
“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys.
Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”
“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”
Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”
You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”
“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”
The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly.
Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her.
“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”
You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number.
Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”
“Always,” Tucker agrees.
Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”
Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact.
Y/N Graham.
“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes.
“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”
“Understood,” Dean says solemnly.
“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods.
Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits.
“Logan?” Garrett prompts.
Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly.
“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”
“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”
They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second.
As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says.
Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker.
He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain.
He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister.
He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop.
Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air.
I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.
He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett.
Fuck his life.
***
The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits.
You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park.
For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield.
“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”
You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold.
You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”
“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice.
You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle.
Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.
You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline.
You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car.
But then your thumb stops on the last name.
John Logan.
A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom.
You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space.
But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core.
“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”
There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed.
“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”
“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache.
“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”
“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”
“Understood,” you whisper.
“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”
The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.
***
True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic.
You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”
Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop.
“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck.
You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery.
“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”
“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering.
Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block.
“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”
“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out.
Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”
He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder.
You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents.
You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you.
You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.
“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next.
You step directly into his space.
“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his.
It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain.
Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks.
His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue.
The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips.
Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before.
But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you.
Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes.
“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart.
“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”
“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”
Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”
You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips.
“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”
“Logan ...”
“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”
The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man.
“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips.
“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”
You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm.
Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat.
He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut.
The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front.
Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards.
“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you.
The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved.
Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely.
“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair.
Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat.
“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat.
He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up.
Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”
You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need.
You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach.
“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”
You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside.
When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest.
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants.
“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark.
You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready.
You nod, lifting your hips to meet him.
Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust.
A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better.
Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips.
He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly.
You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper.
The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat.
You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”
“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation.
Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck.
Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle.
“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”
“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”
Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms.
“Me too,” you whisper.
Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”
“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”
⟢ PICK THREE DETAILS MAXIMUM! your reader doesn't need to know every piece of furniture. Give them the broken clock on the mantle, the smell of cigarettes embedded in the couch, the water stain on the ceiling shaped like Italy. Their brain will fill in the rest. You're not writing an insurance inventory!!!
⟢ Use the senses people forget. Everyone does sight and sound, but what about: the metallic taste of fear, the way humidity makes your clothes stick, the phantom itch of being watched, that gross feeling when you touch something unexpectedly wet. GET WEIRD WITH IT
⟢ MOTION IN YOUR DESCRIPTIONS!! (Please?) don't just tell me the curtains are blue, tell me they're "shuddering in the AC blast" or "hanging limp like they've given up." Static description is a sleep aid. Make things MOVE
⟢ Your narrator's voice should COLOR everything! A depressed character won't describe the sunset as "beautiful mauve and amber streaking across the sky," they'll think "the sun's dying again, doing its whole performance art thing with the clouds"
⟢ Stop with the mirror descriptions! :( "She looked in the mirror and saw her auburn hair and green eyes" NO. Banned. Forbidden. Find literally any other way. Have another character notice. Show through action. Slip details in naturally. The mirror thing is lazy and we all know it
⟢ Similes and metaphors: COMMIT OR DON'T DO IT! "like" is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. "Her anger was like a storm" is BORING. "Her anger rolled in with the methodical inevitability of a hurricane, and he was standing in a trailer park in Florida" now we're TALKING
Ryomen Sukuna was having the kind of day that made him want to commit a felony.
Work had been an absolute, unmitigated disaster. His clients were being brain-dead idiots, his emails had been piling up since 6:00 AM, and his boss had the audacity to drop a massive, last-minute project on his desk right as he was packing up to leave. By the time he finally unlocked the front door to your shared apartment, his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. He was exhausted, he was pissed off, and he was fully prepared to pour himself a massive glass of whiskey and not speak to a single soul for the rest of the night.
He pushed the door open, dropping his keys into the bowl by the entrance with a loud, aggressive clatter. He shrugged off his suit jacket, loosening his tie with a harsh yank.
“I’m home,” he called out, his voice a low, gravelly grumble.
He expected you to be in the kitchen, or maybe curled up on the couch watching some trashy reality TV show. He expected you to ask him how his day was, which would inevitably lead to him ranting for twenty minutes straight.
Instead, there was silence.
Sukuna frowned, his bad mood spiking just a fraction. He walked down the hallway and stepped into the living room.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table. The entire surface was completely covered in hundreds of microscopic, brightly colored plastic bricks. You were wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, your hair tied up in a messy bun that was slowly falling apart.
But the best part? The absolute most ridiculous, endearing part?
You were squinting so hard your nose was scrunched up, and the very tip of your tongue was poking out of the corner of your mouth in pure, unadulterated concentration. Your fingers, which were currently trying to snap a tiny, translucent green piece onto a microscopic brown cylinder, were trembling slightly from the effort.
You hadn’t even heard him come in. You were entirely, completely consumed by your task.
Sukuna stood there in the doorway, his suit jacket dangling from his fingers. He didn’t say a word. He just watched you.
You were a serial hobbyist. Every month, it was something new. Knitting, painting by numbers, making weird little clay frogs that currently haunted his nightstand. He usually just rolled his eyes, funded your little hyper-fixations, and let you do your thing.
But this? This tiny, intricate Lego flower shop you had apparently bought today? It had you in a chokehold.
Snap.
The tiny green piece finally clicked into place.
You let out a massive, dramatic gasp of victory, throwing your hands up in the air like you had just won the Super Bowl. “Yes! Take that, you stupid little plastic bitch!”
Sukuna let out a sudden, loud snort.
You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly knocked over a pile of pink bricks. When you saw him standing there, your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. The sheer, radiant joy on your face was blinding.
“Babe!” you squealed, scrambling up onto your knees. You carefully scooped up the tiny, completed structure in your hands and held it out toward him like it was the Holy Grail. “Baby, look! Look what I did!”
Sukuna slowly walked over, dropping his jacket onto the sofa. He looked down at your hands.
It was a tiny, incredibly detailed Lego flower shop. And sitting right in front of it was a single, slightly lopsided plastic rose that you had clearly customized.
“I made you this one,” you beamed, your chest puffing out with pride. You were practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s for your desk at work! Because you said your office is depressing! Do you like it?!”
Sukuna stared at the tiny plastic flower. Then, he looked at you.
You had a faint smudge of left over dinner on your cheek. Your oversized shirt was slipping off one shoulder. You were looking up at him with such pure, unfiltered adoration and excitement over a piece of plastic that it actually knocked the breath out of his lungs.
And just like that, it happened.
The stress of the last fourteen hours? Gone. The anger at his clients? Evaporated. The tension in his shoulders, the pounding headache behind his eyes, the overwhelming urge to burn his office building to the ground? It all just melted away, completely washed out by the sheer force of your ridiculous, beaming smile.
He didn’t just love you. That wasn’t a strong enough word anymore.
He looked at you, sitting on the floor surrounded by plastic bricks, offering him a fake flower to make his bad day better, and a single, crystal-clear thought rang through his head like a bell.
I need to marry this girl.
Not ‘I want to.’ Not ‘someday.’ Need. He needed to marry your crazy ass. He needed to lock this down permanently, because if he had to go through the rest of his miserable, stressful life without coming home to you poking your tongue out over a Lego set, he was going to lose his fucking mind.
“Sukuna?” you blinked, your smile faltering just a little when he didn’t immediately respond. You lowered your hands slightly. “Do you… not like it? I know it’s kind of dumb, but—”
“Shut up,” he breathed, his voice thick.
Before you could even process the command, he dropped to his knees right in front of you, completely ignoring the fact that he was crushing at least ten Lego pieces under his expensive suit pants.
He reached out, his large hands gently cupping your face. He didn’t even look at the flower shop. His red eyes were locked entirely on yours, burning with an intensity that made your heart stutter in your chest.
“Babe?” you whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “Are you okay? Was work bad?”
“Work was a fucking nightmare,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “But I don’t care anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the last of his stress leaving his body. “I love it, baby. It’s perfect. I’m putting it right in the middle of my desk.”
Your smile instantly returned, brighter than before. “Really?!”
“Really,” he chuckled, the sound deep and vibrating against your skin. He tilted your chin up, capturing your lips in a slow, desperate kiss. It wasn’t heated or rough; it was incredibly soft, filled with a kind of overwhelming reverence that made your toes curl.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his face inches from yours. He looked down at your lips, then back up to your eyes.
“I’m gonna marry you,” he said.
It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of absolute, undeniable fact. He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, but the weight behind his words was heavy enough to anchor a ship.
Your brain short-circuited. You sat there, frozen, the tiny Lego flower shop still clutched in your hands. “What?”
“You heard me,” he smirked, his usual arrogant confidence bleeding back into his tone. He leaned in and pressed a loud, wet kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the sensitive skin just below your ear. “I’m gonna marry your crazy ass. Put a ring on your finger so big you won’t be able to lift your hand to build these stupid little toys.”
“They’re not stupid!” you squawked, your face flushing bright red as his words finally registered. “And you can’t just drop that on me while I’m holding a Lego!”
“I just did,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, completely ruining your posture. He buried his face in your neck.
You let out a breathless, watery laugh, carefully setting the flower shop down on the table before wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. You ran your fingers through his pink hair, feeling the last of the tension bleed out of his muscles.
“Okay,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay, Ryomen.”
“Good,” he mumbled against your skin. He shifted slightly, his knee crunching against a pile of plastic. He winced. “Now, help me up. I think a fucking Lego is embedded in my kneecap.”
thanks to semester break, you find yourself at yujicho's house nearly every day. spending an abnormal amount of time with your friends never seems to get boring. always doing something stupid, poking fun at each other and bullying megumi. he likes to think he's kept hostage but you wonder aloud why he's here so often if he doesn't want to be.
you're in the kitchen, drying your hands once again.
it reminds you of a couple weeks ago when you and sukuna were in here, having that argument over his poem. safe to say, you've never really forgotten about the poem. it's at the back of your mind whenever you see him.
his mind is so closed off, you just want to get inside and explore it.
sukuna comes downstairs, changed into his work uniform.
speak of the devil.
"better start paying rent if y'all are here all the time," he announces to the group.
a flurry of, 'hi sukuna's' spread through the room.
it's a running joke in the household now. he pretends to be annoyed that you guys are always over, but you truly see how he doesn't mind it all. you wonder if it's because he's happy his brothers have a solid friend group now.
he turns to you.
you smile at him, "hey."
"uh-oh," toge sounds. his gaze is fixed on the tv—only you know what he truly means. he's definitely hinting at you and sukuna and whatever is going to occur in the following minutes.
"move," he instructs you simply.
"say please," you reply.
another one from panda, "here we go."
he's watching tv.
totally.
"why would i do that?" sukuna scoffs.
"guess i'm not moving," you shrug, leaning over the counter.
sukuna rolls his eyes.
"really?"
you fixate on the tv, ignoring him. if he wants you to move, he better ask politely.
except that's not how sukuna moves.
he comes up behind you, hands placed on either sides of your waist. you gasp audibly, straightening up and gaining the attention of your friends. your back is met with his toned chest, heart sinking to the pit of your stomach.
sukuna shifts you to the other side. he lets go of you and opens the drawer he was intending to, acting like all of that didn't just happen.
the silence that follows is incredible.
in front of everyone? really?
"what?" he asks, looking up at you. "horny or something?"
"always horny for you," you comment.
the set of groans that come from your friends make you laugh. sukuna also lets out a deep chuckle.
"did you laugh? you never laugh," you point out.
you've found a way to study his every characteristic. it's easy for you to pick them out now.
"i'm laughing at you," he corrects, grabbing his keys.
"yeah?" you ask. "still laughed."
"whatever, i'm leaving," he says, walking off.
you clear your throat and let out a dramatic moan, "sukunaaaa~ don't leaveee~!"
toge and nobara exchange laughs as megumi puts his head in his hands from sheer exhaustion.
sukuna just shakes his head at the door, "you're so annoying."
and leaves.
however, you didn't catch the grin on his face when he was walking towards his car at how funny he thought that was.
what a strange girl, sukuna thinks.
PREV | MASTERLIST | NEXT
SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
you’re in need of an oil change, and a great fuck. luckily, your ex boyfriend can do both !
ex! mechanic toji was the one who’d do your oil changes, change your tires, and your brake checks. but after the breakup, you haven’t gone to his repair shop. it wasn’t necessarily messy between the two of you, just awkward. in order to prevent a meetup, you went to a different place closer to you only to find out that they were closed.
and you were in desperate need of that oil change.
“pretty sure there’s one three miles from here” the mechanic said all while wiping off dirt and grime from his hands. you didn’t even need to ask which one he was referring to.
you lived in a small town after all.
ex! mechanic toji is surprised to see his pretty ex girlfriend pulling up with the car he had gotten her for her birthday just last year. his heartbeat picked up, thinking you finally came back to him. he let out a low whistle as you got out. how was it possible for you to have gotten even more beautiful in the short amount of time you had broken up?
“hey doll, didn’t think i’d ever see ya again.” his tall frame ducked under the doorframe, reaching to where you were standing. the size difference was obvious, something he took pride in. in bed, he’d use it to his advantage. always manhandling you around all while his cock pounded into your pussy. his favorite was having you in a filthy 69, eating you out as you worked on sucking him off.
you ignored his comment, turning to look over at your vehicle. “need an oil change.”
toji hummed. “that all?” he reached over to pop the hood, lifting it up with those big veiny arms of his. “why don’t ya go wait inside like always, yeah?”
you felt heat pooling at your tummy at the sexy view. his muscles were showed off in that dirty tank top, and fuck, did he get a back tattoo? you forced yourself to look away, making your way inside to where he had another car getting fixed.
ex! mechanic toji could feel your eyes burning onto his back. it wasn’t helping the situation he had going downstairs. the only relief he could get was pressing the bulge against your car, rubbing it in a way that wasn’t visible.
you patiently sat in the chair near his table that had all his tools. memories came rushing back of when you’d help out at times. by now, you had forgotten what the names of each tool was, but there was a time when you did.
the memory was bittersweet.
ex! mechanic toji had been yearning for you since the day you left. he understood where you were coming from. you had school to focus on, and he was busy with work. but it was hard to move on when the right side of his bed was left cold, the extra toothbrush and pads in his bathroom were gone, and his lips were clear of any lipstick stains.
“so, how’s school?” toji suddenly asked. the question surprised you, not expecting him to want to talk about the reasoning of your breakup. “um, it’s fine.“ he responded with a hum. “hey baby?” he called out, still not letting go of the habit of using pet names on you. “mind getting me an oil filter cup?” he pushed his hair back, lifting his body from under the hood of the car.
your brain didn’t process the nickname, instead trying to find the tool he had asked for. “uhhhh..” you bit your lip, trying to recall what it looked like.
ex! mechanic toji looked over to you, seeing that you were struggling. with a sigh, he went inside, grabbing it himself. “it’s this one.” you felt his warm body press against yours, making a gasp draw out of you. he raised his brow, clearly hearing the soft noise. with a sinister smirk, he pushed harder until you were fully pressed onto the desk. “ya don’t remember what i taught you?” he carefully dragged the wrench over your jawline.
he hadn’t missed the way your thighs clenched. “bet that if i move those pretty panties of yours to the side, you’ll be dripping for me.”
well, he wasn’t wrong.
ex! mechanic toji who is balls deep into you. your hole had forgotten his size, having to relearn how to adjust to the thick girth of the nine inch dick he had packing. “toji!” you moaned out.
“yeah that’s it, fucking say my name like that again. missed it.” each punishing thrust left you trembling. your skirt had long joined his work pants on the floor beneath you, collecting your spilled juices. “forgot how stupid you get when you’re on my cock.”
ex! mechanic toji’s hand carefully grabbed your hair in a ponytail, pulling it back to roughly kiss you. “open.” he demanded, spitting right onto your tongue. he let out a groan after seeing that you happily swallowed his saliva, delivering a gentle squeeze at your clit.
“fuck!” you gasped, legs starting to feel like jelly. “missed you sooo much..” toji murmured, leaving small hickeys on the crook of your neck. the squelching of your cunt echoed throughout the place. you thanked every god out there that his shop was secluded in a tiny area.
“think you can let me cum in ya?”
“please!” you begged, trying to hold on until he finished first. it’d be embarrassing if you came just a few minutes in. but in your defense it’s been a long while since you’ve gotten fucked.
his hand that was on your hair moved down to raise your shirt, exposing your breasts. his fingers quickly found your nipple, twisting and playing with it until your back arched.
ex! mechanic toji had a mirror placed on the desk, making it possible for him to watch the was his cock entered you from the front. “you gonna be able to take it all?”
“yes! yes i can!” your hands held onto his meaty thighs, leaving behind crescent like shapes from your nails. your cunt spasmed when warmth filled you up. “don’t waste a drop.” he whispered, holding you closer. toji felt his balls clench before fully relaxing, dick already softening when he pulled out. “good job, doll.”
you felt lightheaded, legs still shaky.
ex! mechanic toji who’s so close to getting on his knees, begging you to come back to him, and to let him eat you out as well.
“let’s try again.. please?” his black bangs were sticking to his forehead, heavy arms wrapped around your torso. “take me back, and i’ll let you cum.”
said i’m the love of your life (about a million times), steve harrington
steve harrington x fem!reader (7.6k words)
in which steve is trying really hard to become your boyfriend, but you keep rejecting him over and over — yet it doesn’t seem like you hate the idea of him. but that’s okay, because steve’s never been one to give up so easily.
or 3 times you reject steve and the one time you don’t.
warnings: reader is crazy oblivious, angsty with happy ending, jealousy, vecna’s curse (reader), kissing, yearning, dustin being a sap for most part, robin is lovely, slow burn, anxiety and depression, friends to lovers, shit ending
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
You sit on the comfy old couch on the Wheeler’s basement, left corner pretty much already belonging to you from the amount of time you come over. It would be weird in any other circumstance, except it’s all because of the little gremlins that you’re supposed to call teenagers that are spread out all over the room.
Dustin is sitting by the other end of the couch, munching contently on some chocolate in a way that almost makes you smile. Mike and Will are both on the floor, sitting snugly against the armchair to Dustin’s left. And Lucas lays stomach down in the middle of the basement, not paying much attention to the movie and seemingly more focused on the fashion magazine in front of him.
You’re smart enough not to question why he’s suddenly so interested in gap’s summer collection. You can assume why, as his mood is gloomier than ever due to having a silly fight with max again.
It’s not something to get worried about though, he’s a pretty sappy romantic kid and you’re sure he’ll get her back in no time.
The door opening sounds through the basement, steps following down the stairs as Steve comes into view.
He throws the bag of popcorn to the two boys by the armchair, ignoring Mike’s complaints as they land right on his face.
“A diet coke for the lady.” He hands the can to you smoothly, though your gaze stays focused on the movie.
“Mhm.” It’s enough of a thank you to him, knowing you too well to disturb your focused moment.
Fishing out the bag of peanuts from his pocket, he throws himself rather loudly to the spot on the couch beside you, smiling at your annoyed tap on his leg for him to be quiet.
Without saying a word, he opens the packet on his hands, picking out peanuts one by one and cracking the shells open before handing them to you.
“Aren’t you gonna eat some too?” You say after a moment of realizing they’re appearing on your hand way too fast for you to be sharing.
“No, i’m good.” He affirms, so gentle it makes you momentarily glance at him.
Except seems to have the same idea as you, eyes focused on your face as if he’d been staring for at least a little while. It makes you grow all hot, though you blame it on the july weather.
Shaking out a confused nod, you turn back to the tv. Refusing to ask why he’s doing this. You really don’t want to know the answer.
It’s not that Steve’s not a nice guy, he’s always been kind to you for all you know. But then again you never really interacted with him back in school.
He’s just been extra nice for the last couple of months, and you would love it. You would. Except to you he pretty much seems to be obsessing over getting someone to date. And you don’t want to be one of them, not when he’s doing it all to get over someone.
Besides, Nancy is a really nice girl and the last thing you want is to get yourself into some kind of rivalry with her. That’s not you.
While you’re distracted you don’t notice Lucas approaching Dustin, whispering something to him while pointing at the magazine from before.
“Will you two let us watch the movie? Jeese.” Steve grumps, throwing you a ‘are they serious?’ look, although you know he doesn’t really care.
“Yeah so, about that- we gotta go!” Dustin suddenly jumps up from the couch, excited in a rather suspicious way.
“What?” You frown.
“We’re so sorry but i just found like the perfect gift for Max and it’s on sale! I need to go get it before someone gets their grabby hands on it.” Lucas points to the golden necklace on the catalogue.
It is pretty, you can’t deny that.
“Ok well, you two don’t take long cause the sun’s setting soon.” It’s a bit weird to be sounding like one of their moms, but you’ve gotten used to it.
“Us four, actually.” Dustin cuts in, pointing to Mike and Will you look like they are just as confused as you.
“That must be some heavy necklace for you to need four of you to carry it.” Steve answers amusedly, as if he knows exactly what the boy is doing.
Damn them and their way of communicating. Sometimes you really believe they were separated in birth, even with the age difference.
“Dude, you seriously are so out of touch. We need an extra opinion in case there’s no necklaces left.” It’s some stupid excuse, but you’re too tired and hot to retaliate.
“Just don’t take long. Your parents will all kill us if they knew we let you out till late.” You give in easily, finding yourself to be way more accepting than Steve.
“Be back before 8 or i’ll come get you!” Steve exclaims as the teenagers start running up the stairs.
“Yes, mom!” Dustin yells sarcastically.
Steve huffs beside you, not moving even a bit even with the extra space on the couch now.
“Could’ve at least called me Dad. Mom.” He scoffs the end of the phrase out.
“Oh no, you’re definitely mom.” You giggle, more bubbling out of your chest at his faux offensed face.
“Am not!” He squeaks.
“You sure are very motherly towards them. Sound exactly like my Mrs. Wheeler scolding at them.” You poke his bicep jokingly.
He rolls his eyes, though a little smile is at the corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t for the next few seconds and you don’t wait to turn back to the tv.
“Does that mean you’re like the dad?” You freeze at his silly question.
Because he doesn’t mean for it to be silly and you don’t even have to process it to know it. He sure as hell doesn’t mean it in a ‘friendly divorced parents’ way.
“What?” You blurt, scraping your nails against the can on your hands anxiously.
He notices your demeanor, almost frowning but pulling the happy mask before his eyebrows get to pinch together.
“Like- cause i’m mom and all.” He laughs awkwardly. “We’re like their parents at the point with how much we babysit.”
“Right. Of course.” You smile tightly.
Your heart soars at the way he seems upset due to your dry tone. It almost makes you want to tell him that it’s okay, that you don’t mind it, that you wish you were actually a couple.
“I mean- i did feel like a dad with you bringing me a drink while i watch tv. You’d make a pretty good housewife.” Your eyes gleam when your comment lightens his smile.
“Look at us breaking stereotypes.” Steve muses, pretty teeth impossible not to look at when he smiles just for you.
You can only smile too, head leaning slightly back against the couch as your body feels suddenly aware that he’s close to you. Enough that your legs touch and your shoulders brush with every slight movement.
“I would make a nice housewife.” He affirms to himself, voice filled with ego.
“Yeah, don’t let it get to your pretty head.” You mock.
“You think i’m pretty?” He whispers, almost like a secret.
The air you’re about to let out catches on your throat, chest heavy in the worst best way. He’s so gorgeous - the most.
And you really want to feel it naturally, what he’s trying to give you. But you can’t. Because there’s always that little voice at the back of your head, like a string that makes you trip every time you try to go through the door that leads to him.
So you pull back, turning from his searching eyes and desperately trying to find something to say to make this less awkward.
“Oh look, Leia and Han are about to kiss for the first time.” Great. That so makes it better.
“Yeah.” Steve croaks after a moment.
It makes you want to dig into the couch, hide yourself inside the cushions until everything is okay. It makes it worse that he feels more hurt than angry at the rejection.
“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” He gets up, almost skipping steps as he goes up the stairs.
There’s a bathroom in the basement.
“Steve-“
“I’ll be right back.”
You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, feeling like a jerk and definitely lonely and weirdly not because of the empty basement. It’s for the best.
You’re tiring, he’d get tired. You’d tire him, is what you tell yourself to make it seem like a good decision.
He only comes back to tell you he’s picking the kids up, not quite looking you in the eye but acting like normal all over again. Almost as if he still wants to be overly nice to you. Still opens the car door for you. Still puts on your favorite radio station.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
“I just really have a feeling that he likes someone.” Robin rambles while organizing the mountain of tapes on their correct shelves.
“Steve?” You ask, shuddering a bit at the thought.
“Yeah, i mean- he hasn’t told me about any recent date. But then again i might have just made him think i don’t care about those.” She looks slightly apologetic as she says.
“I’m sure he doesn’t think that.” You reassure, rubbing her arm comfortably as you come closer to help sort.
Robin hums, putting on the expression she has when she’s trying to remember something.
“He did tell me about this girl. I didn’t think much of it at first but now that i’m thinking, he hasn’t mentioned anyone after that.” You try to process her words, trying to hide the way your stomach drops.
“And like he didn’t wanna reveal her identity. But he said it was someone he’s know for a long time, that he thought he finally found his person.” She goes on before adding, “‘said she’s different from other girls.” She scrunches her nose at the phrase.
“Oh yuck.” You laugh with her, forgetting the problem in question for a moment.
“So original of him, right?” Robin bumps her hip with yours.
“Please tell him to never confess to her by saying that.” You smile through it.
Then it hits you. Someone he’s known for a long time. He thinks she’s the one. Nancy.
“Actually, i was thinking you could talk to him.” She puts out, raising her eyebrows in question.
“Me?” You’re more confused than ever. Why would you need to speak to him? He can like whoever he wants to like. None of your business.
“As much as i want to find out who it is, i don’t think i’ll get it out of him. He acts all weird whenever i talk about it. And you’re his best friend, too. Maybe you could help him out.” She explains, though it seems like she’s holding back.
You’re Steve’s best friend. Did he say that? You hope he did.
It’s not a good idea that he might still be in love with Nancy. She’s got a boyfriend and they’re happy together.
“I guess that makes sense.” You agree, “Nancy would probably be upset if he tried something right now.”
“What?” Robin practically gasps.
“He seems like he wants to make a move, doesn’t he?”
“No, no, no- that’s not-“ Her eyes widen as she speaks, but the bell makes a loud noise as the store’s door opens, interrupting her mid sentence.
Steve smiles widely at you both, “I’m back!” As if you can’t see him right there.
It makes you smile a bit more, more so when he looks right at you. “You’re here. Hi.” He sounds rather excited about it.
“Yeah, Robin said i should keep you company since you’re covering for her.” You tell him.
“That’s nice of you, thank you.” He says.
“‘Course, it’s nothing.” You wave him off, sticking your hand into your pocket as you forget what to do with your hands.
“Okayyy…” Robin drags the word, leaving some kind of suggestion in the air. “That’s my cue to head out for a date with my lovely lady.” She bows dramatically.
“Yeah, okay. Brag.” Steve teases, though you see it in his smile that he loves that she’s happy.
“Bye, Rob. Have so much fun.” You receive a happy thumbs up before she’s out the door.
You smile to yourself, sorting through the tapes as you feel Steve come to stand beside you and let out a big breath before getting to work. Dramatic.
“Had fun with Buckley?” He asks, glancing at you with his soft deer eyes.
“I sure did. She’s much less boring than you.” You tease.
He brings his hand to his chest, “Oh wow, you wound me.” While giving you his best pout and it make it even harder for you to keep the friendly act going. “You totally love my company.”
“You’re okay.” You give in, refusing to look him in the eye as you know it’d crack your smile in one second. He notices.
“Did you have lunch?” He blurts randomly, as if remembering something.
“Uh- not yet, no.” You look at him amusedly.
“I brought you that sandwich you like, the one with the pretty wrapping. Cause, you know, i went there for lunch and i thought it would be nice.” He confesses nervously.
“Thanks, Steve.” You give in the urge to squeeze his bicep, your usual and mutual understanding thank you.
You let the comfortable silence fill the store, empty of customers due to it being lunch time.
Thoughts gear through your head, trying to put whatever you’re about to say in the right words so they don’t come out in a way that makes you look like a jerk.
Why couldn’t Robing be the one to speak to him? God, you feel like a mom having the conversation with her kid for the first time.
“So, there’s something i kinda need to talk to you about.” You start, words uneasy.
Steve nods slowly, as if processing. “‘Kay.” He urges you to go on.
“Robin tells me you like someone.” And fuck, you probably weren’t supposed to tell him she said that. Some good start you just picked for yourself.
“She does?” His expression seems to flicker with panic for a moment, before he practically shakes out of it and changes it into a confused one.
“Yeah, and i know it’s really none of my business but as your friend-“
“Best friend.” He corrects naturally.
“As your best friend,” The words feel nice to say, coming out too easy for the conversation you’re trying to have. “i feel like i have this duty to tell you when i think you’re gonna make a stupid decision. You know?”
Now he looks actually confused, eyebrows pinched together and thoughtless look. “Sure?”
“This to say that i understand you’re still on her,” It feels impossible to let her name out. “But i don’t think it’s a good idea to do something about it, quite unfair if i can be honest with you.”
“Wait, what?” He practically squeaks, dropping the tapes back in the cart. You try to understand why he’s avoiding it, but there’s no reason that comes to mind.
“Nancy.” You decide to be direct.
“Nancy? I’m not following, sweetheart.” The pet name rolls out his tongue easily and it leaves you in absolute despair.
“You’re thinking on making a move, are you not?” You try to have him catch up.
“No! I don’t know why Robin told you that, i really don’t. But i’m not doing anything with Nancy, there’s nothing with Nancy. Seriously.” He seems truthful enough as he speaks and you hate yourself for not fully believing him.
“But you like someone?”
He hesitates, “I do.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry for assuming, Robin didn’t actually say it was Nancy.” You give him a guilty quirk of the lips.
“That’s okay.” He reassures, sweet as always.
Steve shuffles on his feet, opening his mouth a few times as if he’s about to say something a but never seeming to muster the courage. You give him time.
“This girl-“ He cuts himself off, words coming out in a harsh breath, “she’s amazing. The most amazing girl i’ve ever met. And even though i have known her for a good while, i’ve looked at her with different eyes for the last few months.”
Your breath catches, you start to understand his words. Hate and love is what you have for them, no in between.
“She’s a breath of fresh air, although i do seem to be out of breath whenever she’s around. She’s the best with the kids, probably more caring than me. Has really good taste in music and movies - i wouldn’t have gotten this job if she didn’t make me decorate the name to every Star Wars movie.” He laughs but it seems more like relieved sigh.
You feel stuck to the ground, eyes wide and motionless. You don’t encourage him to go on, but he takes your silence.
“And most of all she makes me not care about what others think. Makes me wanna be a good person and nothing else.” He finishes, carefully leaning closer without stepping towards you.
You didn’t think this would happen like this, thrown right on your face like some splash of freezing water that leaves you freezing on the spot.
He’s lovely, his words are everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. But you’re filled with dread, because you know what’s about to come and you’re going to reject it.
“What do you say?”
It’s complicated, you’re not sure why you want to say no. You don’t fully believe him for one. It’s not fair to make him have someone who has doubts by his side.
“No.” You state, simply.
“What?” He asks, straightening up immediately and drily gulping.
You laugh, but it’s really more cause you don’t know what to say. “There’s no way you actually think we’d work.”
“Why not?” He sounds defensive, “I do think that, i think about it everyday.” His voice is more hurt than anything now.
“Steve, this is crazy. We’re best friends. No way.” You shake your head.
“Did you just hear all that i said? I don’t wanna be your best friend - at least not just that.” He exasperates, searching for your eyes when you refuse to look at him.
“Now, this was the kind of stupid decisions i was talking about a moment ago.” You scoff.
You’re trying to play it cool, but it’s like he sees right through it. He reaches for your hand, loosely enough that you can let go of it if you want.
“It’s not a stupid decision. If anything, it’s the best decision in think i’ve made in a while.” His thumb brushes your knuckles.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, eyes feeling with tears at the confrontation.
He frowns, “Tell me you don’t like me.”
“What?”
“Tell me you don’t like me back and i’ll leave you alone.” He asserts, focused on making it work.
“Steve, that’s not the point.” You say desperately, “I’m not your usual, you’re interested by this idea of me because we’re close and you want someone.”
“Wow, that’s what you think of me?” He looks truly offended now.
You purse your lips, feeling unfair for acting like this. “No, i’m sorry.”
“But we’re so different, truly different. And i don’t think there’s anything you can do right now to change my mind.” You want to reach out and pull him into a hug, but it really wouldn’t be a good idea right now.
“Sweetheart-“
You’re saved by the door opening, two clients coming in. Steve looks the most disappointed. But not angry, and that’s always a relief.
“I’m just- gonna get onto that sandwich while you take care of that.” You look apologetically at him, smiling at him to try amend the situation.
“Yeah- sure.” He rubs his temple for a second before turning away from you.
You’re certainly a jerk after that. But it’s only a few days later when he starts acting normal again, sweet as usual towards you and keeping you close as his best friend.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
A weird shiver runs across your back as you enter the abandoned house, even more when the big group turns into just you and Steve. The idea of the group being separated turns your stomach.
The flashlight on your hand doesn’t feel enough to light your path through the somber hallways, headache tingling on your temples as you try to find anything useful.
It’s not that things have been weird with Steve, which they have, but they’ve been weird with everyone. You lack the energy to try and even have a conversation with anyone. If you were to be honest, you’re not even sure why you’re here because your mind is all but up to having ideas that will actually help find Vecna.
It started a few weeks ago. The ultimate feeling of emptiness, like everything and everyone is moving and you’re stuck on the same spot. All the things happening in Hawkins don’t help your case either. Eddie being accused of being a murderer, sweet Chrissy’s death, Max almost being sentenced to that end too.
You don’t feel like you have a major thing ruining your life and making you miserable, but you feel sad even without it. And that leaves you to wallow in self pity and to think you aren’t anything but selfish. There are people who are in real danger around you and all you can think about is your unreasonable sadness.
The conversation at Radio family was a few months ago, not that you feel the need to track it. You thought you could pull yourself together after it, told yourself all you needed was time to get over it.
But all you can think about when he’s kind to you, when he brings you food, when his hand brushes your arm while he’s standing next to you — is that he actually mistakes it for real feelings for you. And the worst of it all is that you find yourself enjoying it, the idea of him loving you. Selfishly you wish he’s still confused, hoping he sometimes thinks about you at night like you think about him.
You feel his stare burn into the back of your skull as you walk slightly ahead of him, avoiding to walk beside him and having to make small talk.
The old wood board floor cracks under your shoes, filling the awkward silence that creates a barrier between the both of you. You stop in front of some type of wardrobe with glass door, pointing inside with your flashlight to get a look at what’s inside.
Steve keeps his distance, seemingly looking at the rest of the furniture in the room. “Someone sure liked bugs.” His face is scrunched when you turn to see, light pointed at a few glass jars with dead bugs inside it.
Your stomach turns at the sight, displeased but acknowledging hum ripping through your throat.
A small smile forms on his lips, “Scared?” He wiggles one of the jars, though the way he keeps it away from his body tells you he’s terrified.
In another occasion you think you would’ve made fun of him, teasing him relentlessly for being scared of dead bugs inside a jar.
“No, just gross.” You settle for answering, shrugging your shoulders without much emotion.
“Right.” He sighs, setting the jar down slowly before brushing his hands against his jeans. He stands a bit awkwardly, even more clueless than you about what to look for.
Your head aches all around, pressuring your eyes and temples.
You hear Steve hum to himself, a slight bored look as he seems to do it almost without noticing. He flicks the ruffles on a curtain with his fingers, immediately regretting it as dust spreads in the air and right on his fingers. You find yourself stifling a smile against your palm, realizing now you might have missed his antics a bit too much.
Palming his pocket, Steve pulls out a pack of gum that you know he carries around with him. You watch him awkwardly play with it after fishing one out for himself, taking a step towards you in false confidence after a second.
“Want some?” His arm reaches out to signal for you to take one, not leaving you much option but to accept it. Not that you could get yourself to anyway.
“Sure.” You reach to grab it, cursing when your fingers hit the it with too much force and it tumbles out of his hold.
Both of you bend to pick it up at the same time, but you’re the one who regrets it immediately. You don’t know if it’s because of the way his fingers graze yours or because of the hot liquid that starts running down your nose.
You flinch away immediately, head knocking against his forehead with force and making you stumble back with a pained groan.
“Fuck- i’m sorry!” He exclaims, a groan escaping his lips too as he reaches to touch his forehead with his fingers.
The hit makes your headache even stronger, eyes closed in attempt to make it go away. Although you’ve know for a while that it won’t. That’s also been going on for a few weeks, paired with nightmares that leave you sweaty and terrified to ever sleep again. It feels impossible to ever have a good dream again, not when your living life feels like a nightmare itself.
“Are you okay?” Steve’s panicked voice reaches your ears over the high stinging noise of your own head, eyes trying to get a good look at your face that you’ve turned away from him.
“‘M fine.” You try to dismiss, lifting a hand that helps nothing with keeping him away.
“Hey, don’t do that.” You know he means pulling away, grabbing you by the arm and gently pulling you to face him when you don’t necessarily go against it. “You’re bleeding.”
You’re reminded by why exactly you stood up so fast, and as if on cue the blood running from your nose touches your lips. He looks alarmed at the sight, eyes wide with worry and hands around your biceps with the most featherlight touch — you almost think you might be imagining him touching you.
“Here-“ Steve moves without thinking, stretching the fabric of his shirt sleeve so it covers his whole hand and bringing it to your nose.
His shirt will probably be stained forever, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it the least, cleaning the area around your nose like it’s his second nature to be attentive. He taps your skin with care, covered thumb brushing your lips to wipe the blood and lingering for a second too long.
Your hand rests on his arm as if it’s a natural instinct, watching the way his throat bobs when he accidentally pulls your lips open with a rather clumsy wipe and you grip his shirt lightly. “Sorry…” He mumbles, not needing to speak at a proper tone when standing so close, “for that and for hurting you.”
“Hurting me?” You throw him a confused look.
“Dunno if you remember but i hit you so hard your nose started bleeding just a second ago.” He tries to tease, smile tugging at his lips.
“I hit you.” You reason, huffing at the way he’s so sweet about it. Ready to take the blame when it’s not supposed to be his. “And-“ It was already bleeding before i hit you, is what you wish but step back from saying.
You don’t want him to think this is just like other people, the ones who get headaches and nosebleeds and visions and then get cursed and bones snapped to death. You can’t possibly be going through that — can’t believe you’re going through that.
“And it’s fine, anyway.” You settle for saying, brushing the possibilities off.
Steve hums, brows pulled into a frown that tells you he doesn’t necessarily believe you. But he doesn’t pressure you and you feel guilty for making him feel like he can’t do it just a little, like a best friend would out of worry. You’re quite sure all the pushing away and closing yourself off from him have taken a tool on making him think he can’t ask you about things.
You become too aware of how close he’s standing to you and how he takes in your features with soft eyes like he hasn’t been able to take a look at you in ages. Subconsciously, you tug his arm away and look at your feet.
He’s hit with how intimate the moment might have looked, arm dropping to his side as his mouth moves exasperatedly trying to find the right words. “I wasn’t trying anything, i swear.”
You know he wasn’t, Steve would never. Not after you told him not to, that’s not who he is. You just couldn’t handle it.
The gears in your head move as you try to keep yourself together, “Let’s just keep looking, Steve. Please.” You practically begging, eyes looking at his face for once.
“Of course.” He relents easily.
You’re taking steps away from his as soon as the words leave his mouth, flashlight on again as you suddenly find the celling so interesting. A simple excuse to have you look up and stop the tears from fully forming and falling down your face. Because why would you even cry?
The background noise of Steve’s presence suddenly disappears, you’re too embarrassed to look back and make sure he’s there.
The same shiver from earlier leads its way up your spine and forms a cold sweat. A clock ticks from the corner of the room, making your turn towards it with a gasp. That wasn’t there before.
And Steve, who was there just a moment ago, isn’t anymore. A panicked whimper pulls through your mouth, heart beating so hard against your ribcage you think it might crack a rib.
Cracking bones. You can already see it. Your own body getting the future it’s destined to have.
A hand finds your shoulder with a shake, pulling you out of what you can’t call a daze — because it feels more like a living nightmare. Steve calls your name, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You breathe in with force, ignoring the sweat that’s starting to drip down your back. “Yeah, i’m good.”
It gets harder to lie by the minute. You pretend to observe the empty corner of wall that just had a clock stuck in it.
He sighs from his spot behind you, “You can speak to me. You know that, right? Because i’m your friend, i want to be your friend.” He tries, as if he’s been holding back from speaking the whole time, “And i worry, so much it hurts. I’m sorry that i acted so impulsively before — but i’m not sorry for feeling it.” Not sorry for loving you.
“I know i can.” You nod, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make it weird, there’s just so much going on.” But you leave out everything else.
Steve waits for you to say something else, but it doesn’t come. You do your best at throwing him a warm smile, “This place just creeps me out, that’s all.”
He agrees, “That’s putting it lightly.”
You bounce slightly on your feet, not sure on what to say. It’s turned into this when you’re around him, awkward conversations and things left unsaid.
“C’mon, we should get some ice for your nose. I’m sure they’ve done enough searching for today.” He motions for the door with his head.
“Yep.” You walk ahead, once again ahead of him. It would make it harder to have his arm around your shoulder like it once was normal.
The imminent future makes it impossible to think of it as enjoyable. Him loving you means getting left without you, because your headache is stronger than ever, your nosebleeds are more intense and you think you’ve just had what all the victims had before they died — a vision.
Steve watches you refuse to walk beside him, finger coming to touch the spot on his shirt that’s stained with your blood.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
It happens fast, too fast. One moment you’re with your friends, setting up a trap with Robin while Steve and Dustin bicker on the back about something you’re too tired to pick up on. The next, just as you reach down to pick up a tool, everything feels darker.
They all look at you wrong. Even Dustin, who’s ever so sweet to you, has his eyes set on you with an uncharacteristic angry expression.
At first you believe it, as if your mind has been telling you to wait for the moment they all call you out for your bullshit. Warning you that they have every reason to turn against you.
When Steve speaks you think your heart might beat out of your chest, harsh words slicing you like a knife against your back. Yet his voice doesn’t seem his, a rough undertone and malice that isn’t Steve’s — not even when he’s mad.
You feel stupid once you realize what’s happening, recognizing the cloudy sky that erupts with red thunder that Max has told you about. So you run ignoring the calls from your friends, because you know they aren’t real.
The day that you’ve known was coming is finally here, the dread on your stomach turning into the drop of it at the knowledge of what’s going to happen next. And the worst part is that it’s only now that you feel guilty for not telling anyone. About the headaches, about the nosebleed, about the nightmares.
A droplet of sweat makes it’s way down your forehead as you move as fast as your feet allow you to, thinking about how confused everyone probably is. Because how could they have known?
You hate the choice you made of not allowing yourself to process it. You wish you would’ve told your friends how much they matter to you, how it’s not their fault that you feel miserable. You think about telling Steve that you were just so scared of exactly the situation what you’ve come to be in that you couldn’t allow yourself to love him at your fullest.
It’s not like you know why you didn’t tell them. Was it because you were scared? Or was it really just knowledge of what you were designed to go through?
The anxiety building in your chest makes it harder to breathe, slowing you down in the process.
You feel helpless and alone, trapped in a part of your mind with your worst nightmares. A vine wraps around your ankle and yanks you with force to the ground, elbows erupting with pain as soon as you hit it.
But it doesn’t compare to what you feel once you spot him, the creature that you’ve all been looking for a long time but that you wish was nowhere in sight now.
You claw at the death grip of the vines around your ankles, clumsily making an effort to regain your blood circulation as a sob escapes your mouth. Tears fall down your eyes and across your cheeks at the sight of them not budging.
He calls your name, to which you shake your head with a shaky breath and try your hardest to ignore. Even when you feel yourself slide through the ground as the vines pull you towards him.
You can’t run from what’s been planned for you. It sounds through your head like a reminder, leaving a ringing on your ears.
The last thing you want to do now is give up, not without getting to tell everyone everything you want to say. You refuse to leave like this.
And it’s like some force seems to hear you, a familiar melody sweeping through somewhere around you. It’s your favorite song, the one you’ve heard countless times on your walkman and that you take the liberty to turn up the sound of the radio when in Steve’s car.
It brings a warm feeling in contrast to the cold that surrounds you.
Distracted, the grip on your leg loosens. With a swift movement, you slide the vines off of you and scramble to your feet. This time it feels freeing when you run, towards the sound and the image of your friends.
They’re right there, so close. You can see them looking up at your floating figure, voices panicked as they call for you.
So you fight against your sore ankles until they reach their limit and you’re falling again, but this time you have arms around you as you reach the ground.
You’re breathing heavily when you come back to reality, frantically looking around to make sure you made it. Steve has his arms secured around you as he situates you between his legs with his chest pressed to your back, his voice cracking once he says your name.
“You’re okay— i’ve got you. It’s okay, baby. I promise.” His mouth is close to your ear as he speaks, reassuring you over his own worries. “I’m right here, not letting you go anywhere.”
A sob bubbles out of your throat and you grip onto the arms around you, probably a bit too tight — to which he doesn’t complain. Your chest heaves with struggle to breathe, tears clouding your vision as they fall down your face.
You feel him press a hand to your chest, “Can you take deep breaths for me?” The touch grounds you as you nod in agreement. “Come on. There you go, honey.”
His heart beats at an erratic pace against your back, you can tell he’s trying his hardest to be calm for you. “Steve.” Your voice is hoarse, fingers shakily grabbing his that are still pressed to your chest.
“Yes, ‘m right here.” His voice breaks mid sentence, tone desperate.
“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, breathing starting to feel like an easier task.
“No don’t say that,” You can picture him shaking his head even without seeing him. “Look at me.” Steve turns you in his arms, never letting go of you.
“This is not your fault, okay?” He’s cupping your face with gentle hands, eyes red and teary as his lips turn into the saddest pout you’ve seen. It almost gets you to smile.
He brushes your tears away, “Does anything hurt? Tell me, baby.” Eyes inspect at your face.
You shake your head with a sniff, wincing slightly as the cold wind hits your arms. “No.”
“Here.” He’s quick to take off his jacket, draping it around your shoulder and helping the sleeves into your arms. “All good.” His smile is forced but a good way of lightening the mood.
Not satisfied yet, Steve pulls you into his arms once again for a proper hug now. He ignores then way your knee pushes into his thigh a bit too hard, pressing you as close as possible with his nose buried in your hair. You slump your weight onto him, hands sprawled on his back as you press an impulsive but small kiss to his neck.
He sighs, “Oh my god.” The whisper comes out before he can stop it, more to himself than anything else as he finally relaxes. As if still in disbelief of the whole situation that just hit him like a truck.
You stay in his arms for a moment longer, only letting go when Robin and Dustin come back from filling the others in through the walkie.
“Thank god you’re okay.” Robin smiles with worry all over her face, pulling you into a bear hug that Dustin joins into. She drapes an arm over your shoulders as you walk to the car, sharing the worry of leaving you alone.
Steve stops you before you get on the backseat, hand to your bicep protectively. “Stay at my house?” You don’t have it in you to deny.
“We’re going too.” Dustin quips as if it’s a given.
For once, Steve doesn’t answer with a remark.
He helps you in even when you protest, pulling your seatbelt on. For the whole ride there your head rests on Robin’s shoulder, sharing occasional glances with Steve as he looks at you through the rear view mirror.
Once you arrive at his house, it’s not long before the others show up. They elaborate plans, ones that you feel too exhausted to pay attention to but try your hardest to. You notice the way they keep a close eye on you, not letting you be alone in any occasion.
And as they settle on his living room, Steve grants you some privacy as he pulls you into his bedroom. The offer of a shower is something you can’t deny, fresh clothes that belong to him awaiting for you after.
You leave the bathroom with your hair still wet, dripping on his shirt on your torso. He’s right there, laying out blankets on the floor beside the bed.
“Hey, do you feel better?” He’s worried and looking at you with wide eyes.
You shrug, “Shower felt good.”
Steve nods, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t. “I hope it’s okay that i sleep here— i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone.” He shifts awkwardly as he speaks.
“It’s okay.” You smile, slightly endeared.
It’s not that you think you’re going to get much sleep. But being alone right now is the last thing you want. You’re not even sure if you’re out of the woods yet.
Settling inside the covers of his bed, you hear him sit on the floor against the bed over the blankets. You don’t think he intends to sleep at all.
You try to sleep, you really do. But the fact that he’s right there after months of not allowing yourself to be close to him is killing you. So you move without thinking, finding yourself taking a seat beside him without saying a word.
He doesn’t budge, contemplating.
“I love you.” Steve cuts through the silence, frowning as if it pains him to.
Air gets caught in your throat, “What?”
“You told me i just needed someone. Maybe i do. But that someone is you, and i’m more sure of it now than ever.” Guilt forms in your stomach at your harsh words from before. He remembers. Word by word.
“You don’t love me, Steve.” You start with a shake of your head. “Not that way. Because it would never work.”
“Why not?” He exasperates sadly.
You don’t answer, turning your head away once you feel the tears build up.
“Stop doing that.” He’s gentle even when frustrated. “Why do you do it? You tell me you don’t want it yet i see the way it hurts you to say it.” A hand slips to your cheek, angling towards him.
“Because— you have this idea. Your whole suburban dream. I can’t give you that, it’s not me.” You brush your eye with frustration.
He gulps the lump in his throat away, “Don’t you get it? I want whatever you want. Whatever you want. I will do it. Because it wouldn’t make sense otherwise, not to me. I would do anything you want me to do, sweetheart.”
You feel tired of hiding it, the need you feel to have something with him. Tired of pretending you don’t want it as if something is holding you back from it. Your own mind, your own insecurities, your own doing.
So you don’t stop yourself this time. Your lips press to his in a long waited kiss, fingers grabbing his shirt by the chest. Steve hums in surprise but doesn’t pull away, hands coming to hold your face in a ghost gentle touch.
His heart beats fast against your hand, his nose bumping against yours when you smile against his lips.
“I love you, Steve.” You allow yourself to say.
“I know.” He references, smug smile full of affection. His face is still leaning towards yours, giving you a good look at his shiny eyes.
There’s no doubt he does too.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, “For the things i said. And for pulling away.”
“Don’t be.” He reassures. “Didn’t deserve to have you just— whenever i wanted to. I shouldn’t have expected you to just take it. I needed you to know for sure that i love you. And if that meant i had to fight and wait, i’d do it. I did. I’d do it again. I love you.”
Steve’s thumb brushes against the pulse on your neck, leaving you space to lean against him.
“You’re still my best friend.” You mumble, head slumping on his shoulder.
“Don’t want it any other way.” A kiss to your head, then a pause. “We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”
You believe him through the doubt, humming against his collarbone.
“Sleep. I’m right here, baby.” The smooch he presses on your forehead is comforting, his hands pulling you down to lay against the blankets.
You fall asleep with your ear pressed to his chest, hand laying on his stomach as he hugs you close.
Steve doesn’t sleep, eyes wide through the whole night as you rest against him.
synopsis: sukuna’s life is something that thrives in the midst of chaos—and once he sees the pretty nerd at the front of his class, he’s awestruck but sure that he’d be able to woo her with no struggle. only to be met with a girl he could only describe as the prettiest girl with thorns.
ryomen sukuna's life was always one that was full of noise, chaos and everything in between. he thrived in the mess that was frat life—the loud parties, the hookups that tasted like cheap alcohol and fruity lipgloss. being frat president came with responsibilities and a reputation that clung to sukuna's skin like the ink that dressed his body.
his notorious reputation always followed him around, not that he cared, he wore the persona like it belonged to him. he was too far in to ever leave the world that practically belonged to him.
his frat practically ran the place, filled to the brim with men that were exactly like sukuna—entitled overgrown pricks who always got what they wanted.
and there was absolutely no denying that sukuna was beautiful—over six feet of pure muscle, tattoos all over his massive arms, his blush pink hair being one of the things that stood out about him the most, always styled in a way that was messy but deliberate. his eyebrow and lip rings adoring his face, and he always had the most shit eating grin to top everything off.
sukuna orbited a domain that was so far detached from yours it was almost comical how far apart your worlds were. he lived in the midst of attention, thriving on any sort of drama he got into it, his lips sometimes bruised with all the pointless fights he got into.
you lived your life in everything sukuna would deem to be, quite frankly put, insanely boring. but you knew exactly what you wanted. and had your entire life planned before you.
you were sharp, straight forward, the biggest nerd any of your friends knew, most importantly you had absolutely no tolerance for people messing up absolutely anything in your insanely curated life.
your books were always aligned to perfection, you always sat at the very front of the class, your pens all matching your bag, your silly keychains crowding your bad almost comically. you always kept to yourself, people ruin things after all—they're loud invasive, some of them likened to bascterially resistant pests that you simply cannot destroy whatsoever.
so there the two of you were, two people universes apart, perfectly content in your own niches that it just made sense. but it wasn't like you were unaware of sukuna's existence. its be impossible if you were—your friends always finding out whatever mess he seems to have gotten himself to every week. you found him entertaining the same way you sometimes indulged in reality tv. it's fun to watch but you'd never touch it with a ten foot pole.
—
"what the fuck man you look like you got run over." toji says, eyeing up sukuna and his absolute mess of an outfit, his hair disheleved, his eyebags heavier than they usually are, flopping his entire body in the seat next to toji's.
"shut yer mouth toji." he almost groans, hands running down his face. he felt like shit. and he swore he could feel his head pounding in his skull, and lord he doesn't even know why he decided to show up to this stupid class anyway. but gods since he was here anyway might as well get it over with.
the class had barely begun before it started to feel like a drag, the professor spouting some nonsense that sukuna could barely comprehend before he heard the sweetest voice answer a question he was barely paying attention to.
his eyes immediately found you—and he swore he felt his breath catch in his throat momentarily. you were gorgeous, your hair done up, your glasses resting on your nose, your collared shirt hugged your body just right, your slightly tinted glossed lips almost shimmering in the classroom's blinding lights.
"yo, toji who's that girl?" he whisper shouts, nudging his friend in his ribs until he answered him.
toji barely registers it before he sees sukuna gaze fixed directly on your form.
"her name's uhh y/n or something. massive nerd, really knows what she's doing, most people are deathly afraid of her though" he says barely paying him any mind. because just had sukuna had his reputation, you had curated yours.
it came from the way you'd dismiss most people that ever dared to waste a sliver of your time, always flipping your perfect hair, having your headphones constantly in your ears blasting a song loud enough to rupture your eardrums to make sure people stayed away from you by all means. the way your eyes would roll to the back of your head when something even mildly infuriated you, just everything about you down to the sometimes bold makeup you'd sport, it just always turned you into someone that was never to be fucked with.
"scared of her, really?" it almost made him want to keep over laughing because well, you were adorable. there was no reason that any reasonable person would be afraid of you of all people, right?
toji snickered next to him. because god, if only he knew.
—
the class was dismissed after what felt like an era and then some, the entire classroom hurrying their way out.
right before you saunter your way out of the room, you can hear sukuna call out your name. and it has you stopping dead in your tracks.
"y/n ! wait up-"
you see the gigantic man run from the very edge of the class towards you and you let out the deepest sigh, because nothing he has to say could possibly be worth your time. you wanted to get back home, tuck yourself into your bed and binge the leftover tub of ice cream you had sitting in your fridge.
"and what could possibly want from me, ryomen sukuna, was it?" you shot right back at him, turning on your heel to stare right up at the man, your eyes narrowing while you committed his form to memory with the utmost scrutiny.
your response had sukuna nearly speechless, because he was used to people raving in his presence not eyeing him like whatever scum you would find at the back of your shoes.
"I—"
"well you didn't come all the way out here to talk to me, if you had nothing to say, correct?"
you were always quick with your words, or so you'd been told, every surefire response always sitting at the edge of your tongue like poison, it always had people on edge.
"I was going to ask you for your number, pretty." he managed to whisper out, his hand moving to scratch the back of his neck because he could feel the blood rushing straight into his head. this felt…so out of character—he's never let anyone address him like that before, so why should you be any different? people are always on edge around him, but something about the way you were looking at him as if you could pick his soul apart if he played all his cards wrong had him sweating under the stupid sweatshirt he was sporting.
"hmm, i'll think about it, sukuna." gods, even the way you said his name made him want to shrink into a corner, and a part of him went on a spiral as to why the fuck he thought it was so attractive.
and he had his feet firmly planted on the ground while he watched you leave, your hips swaying in the slightest, your hair swishing as you walked away from him.
this was only the beginning of what could only be described as the worlds worst obsession.
—
sukuna attend the next lecture too, hell bent on at least getting your number. still seated in the back of the class, eyes you while your eyes stay on the board, your expression deadly focused while you jot down your notes it has sukuna blushing like a teenager with a pathetic crush.
he's almost ashamed to admit that he spent a good portion of the next week trying to stalk you. finding all your socials, scrolling down your accounts to memorise each of your silly and perfectly curated pictures to memory, usually of a cute cafe or a hangout with your little friend group, almost the same sugary sweet drink in your hands in each one of them.
some of those pictures of you in cute clothes, your makeup done to perfection while you posed infront of a mirror, your hair framing your face so prettily, a part of his brain wanted to put you in his jacket, well, if you didn't terrify him that is.
sukuna didn't do romance, he didn't do relationships. and he for one, did not have a clue on how to charm a girl that wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.
all he could do was gawk and stare, until the class inevitably ended and he was mentally preparing himself to try to talk to you again.
"she got you good, huh?" toji laughs from behind him, making him almost jump into the air.
"you're an ass fushiguro."
"yeah, yeah, you love me."
sukuna could feel his head clouding before catching up to you again. in the worst and arguably best way possible, you made him feel like an idiot.
"y/n!"
"oh it's you again. i thought you'd give up after the first try sukuna." you smirked, your expression painfully smug while you looked at him.
"well, i was surely not gonna give up that easily, y'know?"
"it's called being desperate."
"i'd like to call it persistence, really." he sounded a lot more confident than he felt, his palms almost sweating and shaking by the mere thought of you. it was pathetic, really. it's a shame you were attracted to pathetic men.
"can i at least walk you out of the class?"
"do as you wish." you snap, walking away, while he catches up to you like a lost puppy outside of the class.
the sight was so odd that you could practically hear the whispers from the people around you, and you mentally sighed. but it's not like you weren't a fan of drama either. it was just funny how quick people jumped to conclusions.
"is that—sukuna?"
"y/n, i thought she hated talking to people, and what's she doing with him."
conversation was practically buzzing and bouncing off the walls while sukuna followed you closely to the university's exit.
"well, that was..well whatever, i'll be on my way." you say before turning away, until he catches up to you again.
"wait! you always head to the cafe from here after class right?" shoot. he forgot that he technically wasn't supposed to know that.
"are you stalking me, ryo?" his brain was so quick to panick he barely registered the nickname before you continued.
"don't get your panties in a twist, i think it's cute." cute? well, yeah he could work with that for now. cute was okay, cute was good. and it definitely didn't have his heart beating uneven rhythms in his chest.
he walked you to the stupid cafe, trying his best to make small talk, but the more he tried to get to know you, the more intimidating you were. and gods, it was just so, so hot, it was killing him.
you rambled on about how you've always had a fascination with physics which is why you took the class, how you forced yourself to be good at it, because there was a time you sucked at the godforsaken subject so badly that it was embarrassing. and sukuna was nodding along taking mental notes before you joined your friends and waved him off.
yuki was immediately, looping her arms in yours,
"sukuna, really? i thought you had better taste, baby."
"well—whatever." is all you had to say for yourself before you ordered your stupidly overpriced coffee and headed home.
—
the next few weeks is just a culmination of sukuna shadowing you like he's a man on a mission.
he wants to know what you like, and moreover he wants to impress you. to the point that all his fraternity brothers hear about in parties is the way you smiled at him for a sliver of a second before scoffing again and they were almost as tired as you were. but a small part of them—toji, choso, gojo, who usually accompanied his drunk ass at parties were rooting for him. because they'd never thought they'd see the day where sukuna would be grovelling at his feet for a girl to look in his direction.
and when he's intoxicated, underneath overwhelmingly bright lights, all he can think about is how you would probably slap him across the face to sober him up. and that thought has him tighten around his pants, embarrassingly so, because the mere idea of you laying your hands on him has him painfully hard.
he can't even look in another girl's direction anymore without somehow thinking of you, the last time a girl tried to hit on him all he could think about was how much you'd love the bows she was wearing in her hair and just how cute they'd look on you.
and before he knows it he's back at his apartment, staring at pictures of you, his hands moving lower and lower until he's fisting his cock, thinking about the way you just roll your eyes, the way you huff when he says something stupid, the way you have him just wrapped around your pretty fingers, the mere idea of it all has him cumming embarrassingly fast, his abs coated in the prettiest sheen of sweat and cum while he groans into his pillows.
sukuna had started falling dangerously fast. but he absolutely did not need nor want to be saved.
—
"well do you ever plan on giving me your number?"
"mm maybe i will."
and that just immediately stuns him to silence. with most of his attempts at teasing, he'd already come to terms with the fact that you'd disagree to most things. so aftet all his begging and piss poor attempts to impress you, had he finally won?
"it's not like you can hold yourself in a conversation with me without sweating. i highly doubt you can text me without thinking thrice about the text, ryomen."
oh. well you were right, like you were almost always, he had no idea what to do with himself—eventually you dragged his phone toward you, inputting your contant with a little nickname and a bunch of pink hearts. well if you'd finally given him your contact, he had to mean at least something (look at this LOSER omfg), so he might as well use this opportunity to the fullest.
your phone would now always be full of stupid memes that sukuna would send to you trying to get you to laugh, even a little.
@//ryo: sooo whatcha doing?
@//y/n: there has got to be better ways to start conversations than that, ryo, try harder.
and this is the first time the stupid nickname you've been calling him finally registers in his brain, the blood rushing to his cheeks before he buries his face into his pillow. fuck, he was losing it. you had managed to nudge yourself into every crevice of his life that he could no longer imagine a singular day where you weren't around him to make fun of him.
—
the next week, he finds a way to be seated next to you in class, front and center, toji finds a way to tease him endlessly about it after, but the way you smile when he actually pays attention during the lecture while taking down notes has him riding that high for the rest of the day.
"you should just ask her out, y'know, this is getting out of hand." gojo says to him during a house party, bending over the pool table while looking back at sukuna.
"are you insane she'll kill me."
"there's NO way she's that scary dude." choso says while huffing out a puff of smoke from the worn out couch in the middle of the room.
"she barely likes me as is, if i pull that she'd kill me."
"and you'd be into that, win-win, right?" toji chimes in.
"you guys all suck." is all he says before finding a corner in the room to try to text you.
@//ryo: i'm so bored here, n/n get me out.
@//y/n: i never thought i'd see the day where you bore yourself out at a party, congratulations.
gods, it was almost just as nerve wracking texting you as it was to talk to you he just didn't understand it. everything about you always had him on edge. and he adored it to bits.
—
the next time he shows up to class he comes prepared. armed with your favourite drink (courtesy of the doomscrolling he did on your account), his stationary now matching yours, while he slowly sits down next to you again.
"what's this, ryo?"
"oh it's that drink you always like—"
"you know what drink i order?"
"no it's just- i'm- i just like remembering stuff about you, okay?"
okay. not the response you were expecting. you were hoping you could tease him into oblivion but the stupid things that sukuna said when he was put on the sport had your heart beating the same dangerous rhythm that his was. but you didn't want to let him in just yet. there's no person who ever made it this far in actually trying to figure you out. and you didn't know what to do with it except wanting to crawl under the ground and live there forever.
you slowly took the drink from him, whispering the sweetest little thank you before drinking it. and sukuna swore he could see stars. he was making progress with you. and by god, he had never felt more accomplished in his life before. because your edges seem to finally soften, even if it were only in the slightest.
—
you sat in your room, your body slack, a disgusting amount of sweat covering you from head to toe as you lay in your bed. you almost never got sick and without fail, every single time that you did you felt like you were being punished by the heavenly principles for something.
your body felt limp, before you continued to rot in your sheets, too tired to get up and shower and definitely too tired to show up to class.
—
sukuna showed up to the lecture like he always does, his eyes scanning the room to find his way next to your seat, only to find out you were weren't there. it wasn't unheard of for someone to be late—but not you, never you, and almost immediately his mind started finding the worst possible conclusion, what if you got kidnapped? what if you were finally so sick of him you left the place? wait no none if that made sense, he ultimately decided on texting you before he went down another embarrassing spiral about how you surely hated him.
@//ryo: y/n where are you class' starting yknow
@//y/n: sorry sukuna im sick :p im trapped in my dorms for today
oh. oh you were just sick. not the end of the world, right? but knowing you, you'd had to have been miserable to not show up for the entirety of the day, his heartbeat dropped straight to his stomach before he continued to type—
@//ryo: what's your dorm number?
@//y/n: r u gonna show up to my room like a knight in shining armour? its xxx.
he could feel his cheeks heat up, this was the most progress he'd made in so long, he barely noticed when toji was practically breathing down his neck and staring at his texts.
"you're actually talking to her huh im surprised."
"the fuck is that supposed to mean."
"you dont linger around someone for this long, sukuna, let alone someone who's shot you down so many times. maybe it's character development"
"she's just..i don't know, different, i guess? she isn't terrified of me, and she has that way of looking at a person that's terrifyingly alluring."
"a couple weeks of talking to this girl and she's turned you into fucking shakespeare, i'm happy for you man." he says before patting him on the back and taking his seat next to him.
—
the very second the class was dismissed, sukuna ran out like a man on a mission. he obviously couldn't get you the same coffee you always drink, that'd surely make you a lot sicker than you already were.
he remembers you vaguely mentioning that you liked soup, so he made his way to this place he always went to when he was hungover before a class, finding a soup that'd be spicy enough for your almost stupidly high spice tolerance, and stopping by a pharmacy to get you some medicine before heading to your dorm rooms in a hurry.
he slowly knocks at your door, hoping to god you gave him the right room number for the sake of his own sanity, and when the door creaks open, he's met with the sight of you, all huddled up in the hoodie that's three sizes too big, you eyes puffy, and your face entirely flushed, it made him want to roll you up into a ball and gnaw on you like candy.
he could hear your little sniffles, making his way into your room, setting down the bag of stuff he had managed to collect before he made his way inside.
"i didn't think you'd actually come, y'know."
"of course i did are you kidding me? look at you, you should be glad i showed up."
"whatever would i have done without you, my saviour" you rolled your eyes at him, trying your best to not let yourself slip. but you really were glad that he was here. it meant that he cared. that he wasn't just doing this with some form of underhanded motive in mind. it meant that it wasn't the same sukuna you first got to know. the one standing before you was softer, shyer, so disconnected from all the stories you'd heard of him and it scared you.
you show him the way around your kitchen, your brain still foggy from the near dangerous amount of cough syrup you'd downed before he made it to your place.
"your roommate isn't here, is she?"
"yeah she has work to get done, and i didn't want her to get sick." you sniffle almost pathetically.
"right, right." he said before moving around plating the soup into the pastel pink bowls you had in your kitchen, right before moving before you, slowly supporting your back to stop you from keeling over in pain.
"god, look at you, you can barely stand up straight."
"well, carry me around instead of kicking me when i'm already down, won't you?"
sukuna is stunned, well not for long before his hand moves to the back of your knees, the other supporting your back, carrying you back to your room bridal style. normally you'd have some smart retort, under other conditions you would've thrown a hissy fit, but now you were too tired to say anything, and having him carry you with near zero effort to your room had you weak in your knees.
he wastes no time in bringing the soup back to your room, dragging a seat close to your bedside, sitting down before he brings a spoon to his lips before blowing on it to make sure it wasn't too hot, before moving the spoon to your lips.
the cough syrup must've replaced the last brain cell you had left because you barely put up a fight before wrapping your lips around the spoon.
sukuna's shocked that you almost instantly comply, not before you shoot him the same look you gave him when you first met. you didn't have it in you to pick a fight, not when he was being this..nice. it made you all fuzzy and feel funny, and before you could find the rational part of your brain to try to stop you—
"ryo, why are you doing this?" you ask while he sets the bowl aside, while you sink into your hoodie, your voice barely a whisper nothing like the sharp confidence you wore while talking to absolutely anyone.
"what do you mean?" he shoots back, almost offended by the question.
"like..this, taking care of me, constantly bugging me with stupid shit, remembering the things i like, it's all so strange. people orbit you, sukuna. they'd worship the very ground you walk on. so, why me? is it so you can prove a point?"
sukuna was almost taken aback. that was probably the rawest confession he'd ever heard from you, all your walls cracking right before him right when you withdraw in on yourself, sinking into the plush mattress while trying to look everywhere but him.
"because you actually look at me past the stupid frat boy persona, y/n. you look at me as if you're picking me apart, you actually question the shit i do instead of just letting me get away with everything. you say things as it is, and i just really admire that. for what it's worth i'm not trying to prove a stupid point, if i was, i wouldn't go this far to change for you, right?
the moment he went on this little tangent, it did make you realise, he had changed essentially everything about himself to make sure he wasn't the same douche that he used to be. the whispers in the hallways thinned down, he got into lesser fights, and for the first time in all his years of college sukuna's name wasn't being talked about in some sorority girls' friend group on how he said he's call but never did.
it'd been subtle, well to you at least, until the person that was sitting by the side of your bed wasn't the same sukuna anymore. he'd changed. for you.
the both of you sat in that heavy silence, intelligible feelings bubbling to the surface with this careful game you'd been playing around each other. sukuna trying not to push you too far and you teasing him until he does.
"i—gods i want to ask you out y/n. this is killing me, but i'm not gonna do it here, you deserve something a lot more romantic, just let me down gently if you're gonna reject me, alright?"
you slowly nod, and to sukuna's shock,
"i think i'd like that. a lot, actually. just don't trip over your own feet."
he was almost ecstatic, jumping straight into you arms, wrapping his biceps around you, enveloping you in his warmth, crushing you underneath his weight while you slowly pat him on the back.
"mmph sukuna— youre heavy !"
" 'm sorry i'm not getting off of you just yet."
"you gigantic loser oh my fucking god—"
"aaaand she's back."
and before you know it the two of you are giggling in your bed, still crushed until sukuna's weight, while he has his face in the crook of your neck while you're comfortably lulled to sleep under his weight, the two of you forgetting everything else for a moment.
it felt like two galaxies collided, two disparaging universes, and two equally menacing people falling into each other's embrace as if they always belonged in each other's arms. and maybe letting your walls crack just the tiniest bit wasn't the worst thing in the world. because being in his arms wasn't difficult. not that you'd accept it anytime soon.
and sukuna, mr. frat president, had never had someone lodge themselves in his heart so permanently, so quickly, he just couldn't stop himself from falling. it felt like damnation and it felt like grace all at once. and he promised himself that he'd only get better for you.
—
so…tis a reupload.
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
a week later, you're walking home. you were at the library, getting some extra hours in the ambience, so you could somewhat finish the first draft of an assignment. uni's been kicking your ass recently which naturally meant you saw your friends less and in extension, spent little time at yujicho's house.
you'd see them at campus sometimes and if yuji and you finished class at the same time, he'd drop you home. that was about it.
as for sukuna...
well, you haven't seen him since the scuffle. he hasn't responded to your text either.
it didn't hurt you. you expected it. but you knew you had to clear your name in case your intentions were twisted. communication is better than nothing. at least you were able to convey your side of things.
it's two a.m, you're tired and have to sleep asap before you go to your classes tomorrow. honestly, you can't deal with bullshit right now.
bullshit has a way of following you though.
as you're walking down the pavement, a bunch of guys are gathered by the side. they seem similar to your age. nevertheless, men huddled around at night meant bad news.
you were about to cross the road to avoid them.
too late.
"hey, miss!"
don't look, don't look—
"oi, miss, don't do that to us! you know we're talking to you!"
cars speed down the road, giving you no access to the crossing.
they're walking over to you.
it's hard to see, but there has to be about five of them. of course, you're immediately terrified.
the pedestrian light turns green and you're ready to run. just as you're about to step on the road, a maroon car bolts down the road.
you don't notice who's it is, having nearly lost your life.
you cross the road.
unfortunately, those guys are walking behind you. taunting you, trying to get your attention and laughing like dickheads.
a honk captures all your attention.
the maroon car from earlier is coming towards you. you feel all your worry disappear in an instant as soon as it pulls up next to you. he rolls down the passenger window. he doesn't have a chance to say anything because those guys are already heading the other way.
"fuck, it's sukuna!"
"guys, run."
"we can't get into this."
the guys run off into the distance.
you laugh, watching them, "pull up your pants, assholes! they're dragging on the ground!"
sukuna actually chuckles at your remark.
you turn back to him, "thanks."
he's staring at your face. blank, yet intimidating as ever. then, "what are you waiting for, dumbass? get in."
you cross your arms, "aren't you still mad at me?"
"i'm not gonna ask again," he says, facing the front.
"damn, okay."
girl, you flew into that car.
he starts driving, "put your address in the gps."
you play around on the gps, entering your address. ten minute ride. okay. you can do this. make conversation—do what you're the best at.
"you didn't have to do that," you say.
"unfortunately you're my brother's friend. i have a responsibility for you whether i like it or not," he answers.
you didn't expect that.
you're riddled with surprise in the passenger seat for a few moments. until your unresolved issue comes to mind.
"are we gonna address it?" you ask.
"no."
"you're being difficult."
"yeah."
yeah, no.
"stop the car."
he scoffs, "no."
"stop the car or let's talk about it like adults," you say in all seriousness.
it seems as if you keep puzzling sukuna because it takes him a while to speak, "you got a mouth on you, you know that? gotta put it to work."
"nah, you're not gonna play with me. i'm being serious right now," you reply.
you're also pissed.
you have every right to be.
"fine," sukuna finally sighs. then, it comes, what you've been waiting to hear all this while, "my bad, shouldn't have yelled at you and put you down like that."
"thank you."
"happy?" he grunts.
"very. wasn't so hard, was it?" you say.
"it's not going to happen again."
"yeah, you're not gonna talk to me like that again," you answer.
"i mean, apologising. but whatever makes your delusional ass happy."
"right. you're so mad all the time," you tell him. "what's with that?"
"just how i am."
"hm, different from the poem you wrote," you say, rubbing your chin.
his expression falters a little. he grips the steering wheel slightly harder, almost unnoticeable but you notice the increase in tension, "don't."
"i didn't know you could feel those emotions."
"stop."
"seriously, your writing is beautiful."
sukuna sighs, rubbing his temples as if to evade frustration.
you continue, "stop being mad all the time."
"you always make me angry," he answers lowly. "just shut up."
"aww," you tease, facing your body completely to him. he doesn't spare you a glance. "i can make you feel something. how about...other things?
he slams on the brakes, "get out."
your apartment complex stands idly in the dark, inviting you to sleep. you smile at sukuna, "thanks. and, i appreciate your apology."
no answer.
you digress, thinking that's all you're gonna get for tonight. it's plenty coming from a guy like sukuna.
you get out of the car, start walking to the gate of your complex.
a honk makes you jump.
you look over at him.
the passenger window is rolled down.
he's smirking at you, one hand on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers on it.
you clench at the very sight.
"turn around for me," he instructs you.
you do it instinctively, thinking nothing of it.
you peer over your shoulder. sukuna's eyes trail down your figure, stopping at your ass, "yeah, think you could make me feel more than anger, sweet ass."
"what the fuck—"
sukuna drives off, leaving you wordless.
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SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
steve’s calloused hands were harsh against your skin as they pressed and squeezed along your body, forcing your back into a deeper arch and bruising your waist. the silk pillow cases muffled every sound that came from your mouth, the moan when his tip hit your cervix, and the gasp when he slipped a finger inside your ass. your knees began to shake as his pace picked up, hips hitting your ass so hard it almost felt like you were getting spanked. “fuck princess, feel y’squeezin me, you close?” he grunts, groping your ass almost pervertedly. “yes—so close please,” you whine, fucking yourself onto him. your hips match his as he fucked into you harder, both of you chasing orgasms desperately. your sweaty bodies clashed and mashed, and the headboard shook from the force. his palms left your ass sore from repeated smacks as if he were punishing you. his moans make your breath catch in your throat, the loudness making you clench. “fuck m’ comin’ gonna fill this pussy to the brim,” he groans, sloppily finishing you off. your mouth fell open to speak, but words never formed; all you could do was moan. your orgasm hit you like a truck, your body completely going numb in his hold. he follows shortly after, breaking like a dam, spilling deep and messily inside you, gripping your waist for dear life so he wouldn’t collapse.
SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
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